by Lon Williams
Winters stared at her. Though he could hear her voice but remotely, he heard ten thousand voices. They sang of gardens, of rippling streams, of lands of beauty, ease and endless pleasure. She held up her cup, and Winters reached down to take it.
“No!” Captain Argo shouted. He struck her cup with his sword, caused its wine to spill.
Winters stared at a spot near his horse’s right front foot, where her wine had been swallowed by earth and sand. Out of that spot came a mist that twisted and spiraled up to his nostrils. Once more Argo intervened with violence; he snatched Winters’ hat and thrust it over his face, so that Winters could neither see nor breathe.
His body convulsed. Transformation had laid its hold upon him; but a power beyond his comprehension cast it off. Released from his spell, his face uncovered, he saw an awesome, pitiable sight. Those lovely sirens had gone. Most of them had disappeared into that misty realm from which they had come.
But a few were still in sight. They, too, were moving away. But their progress was slower, for after each of them trotted a swine.
Winters sighed and glanced at Argo, who was removing wool from his ears. Winters uncorked his own ears. “Looks like I owe you something there, Captain.”
Argo was more at ease now. “There are always a few weaklings, Winters. I choose my men well, and grateful am I that most of them have proved their worth. As you saw, a few failed and will never be men again.”
* * * *
With trickery proved futile, business got underway. Customers formed hundreds of lines and advanced briskly with salt containers.
But ahead of them galloped a young purple-clad man with something like a crown on his head. Accompanied by a mounted escort, he rode up to Parmenter’s stand, dismounted and stepped up beside Parmenter.
“Who’s he?” said Winters.
“He,” said Argo, “is Prince Azzir-izzir. He is here to collect tribute for Great King Cyrus of Susa, King of Kings. It was of him I was thinking when I cautioned you against diplomatic errors. Look!” Argo nodded toward those who had come to buy salt. They had all prostrated themselves in obeisance to Prince Azzir-izzir.
Winters was puzzled. He said sternly, “How come you do not likewise bow down, you and your men and Parmenter’s teamsters?”
Argo lifted his chin haughtily. “We are Greeks, sir; we bow to no man, but only to our gods.”
“Good for you,” said Winters. “I’ve heard about you proud ancient Greeks.”
“Ancient!” exclaimed Argo. “What could you mean by that?”
Winters squeezed his chin; now, just what could he have meant by that? “I’m afraid I let my tongue slip there,” he said.
“Yes, I’m afraid you did,” said Argo. “We Greeks do not regard ourselves as ancient.” He gave Winters a puzzled look and turned away.
This was quite a show, thought Winters. Never had he seen so many people, nor so many different kinds of people, nor a sale of so much salt. A supply he had thought inexhaustible dwindled away until hundreds of wagons were empty.
Then there lingered stragglers who had bought no salt. They came forward reluctantly—men with their wives, or daughters. Those they exchanged for salt.
Winters blinked, finding this hard to believe. Then a man on a crutch stood below Parmenter’s platform. He was about forty years of age, fairer than most, but sadder, too, than most. His left foot was gone; so was his right hand. Beside him stood a young woman of rare humility and physical charm.
This son of misfortune looked up beseechingly. “Sir, I have no money. But I must have salt for my wife and children.”
Parmenter said coldly, “What have you to exchange for salt?”
There were seconds of hesitation and great sadness. Then, “I have my daughter. You should not take her, though. She has a lover who would provide well for her, and she is my favorite child. Please, sir. You have great wealth, and I have so little.” He glanced down. “This foot and this hand were cut off by order of Great King Cyrus, may he reign forever, so it is small work I can do anymore. Please, sir.”
Prince Azzir-izzir had an appreciative and covetous eye. He said to this beggar’s daughter, “What is your name, my beauty?”
She looked up fearfully. “I am Veeda. My unfortunate father’s name is Unuk. What he has spoken is true; we are very poor.”
Azzir-izzir nodded to Parmenter. “Take her. And when you have taken her, I shall demand her as a tax upon your princely profits; she shall be my slave.”
“It is well,” said Parmenter.
Winters had stared in unbelief and anger. He rode out and faced Parmenter. “Here,” he said, and tossed a double-eagle into Parmenter’s hands. “Take that for salt, and let this lady return home with her father.”
Parmenter stared at this strange piece of gold. His eyes widened. “But this is more gold—” He stopped. “With this I could buy fifty maids more fair.”
Prince Azzir-izzir was scowling darkly at Winters. “Who is this knave who would oppose my will?”
“I am Lee Winters, and I think you’re a dirty scoundrel.”
“Ah!” said Azzir-izzir. “What a pleasure this is going to be!”
Captain Argo snapped sharply, “Winters, I warned you; yet you have committed an unforgivable blunder. I shall have to surrender you to Prince Azzir-izzir, who no doubt will be pleased to torture you to death.”
* * * *
Azzir-Izzir unslung a magnificent bow from his shoulder and sprang down. He walked away fifty paces and took position, facing Winters. Horsemen who had attended him as bodyguard formed a semicircle at his back. “Dismount, knave,” he said to Winters, “and I shall pierce your heart with an arrow. That, you will agree, is preferable to torture.”
Winters swung down and stepped forward several feet from Argo. He heard a small cry of fear, and when he turned to look, Veeda, daughter of Unuk, ran to him and put her arms around his neck. “O brave one, I have brought this evil upon you. Forgive me.”
Winters removed her arms and pushed her gently away. “Don’t worry about me, lady. Azzir-izzir ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
She stared at him in amazement. “O one so brave, and all for me!” Quickly she removed a thin gold chain from about her neck and pressed it into his left hand. Attached to it was a small ruby. “If you escape, give this to someone you love, and she will always be beautiful.”
“No,” he said. He offered to give it back. “You don’t owe me anything.”
She refused to take it, but backed away and ran to her father.
“He has no weapon, O Prince,” shouted Captain Argo. “Give him a bow and arrows.”
“Arm mine enemy!” Azzir-izzir retorted scornfully. “Do not make me out a fool, Captain.”
“Winters,” said Argo, “you deserve to die, as you certainly will. Your death, however, will be unimportant. But if you should perchance draw royal blood, blame for it would be upon us Greeks. That would be critical, indeed; it would mean war between East and West.”
“You should welcome that,” said Winters. “That is a war you are going to win.”
“Winters, in addition to being foolhardy, you are an upstart and a blasphemer,” said Argo. “But face your enemy, for you are about to be killed.” Winters tensed his fingers above his six-gun and faced Azzir-izzir. His adversary smiled coldly and cruelly fixed an arrow to his bowstring. Then, with lightning swiftness, he lifted, drew and let fly. But Winters had stepped right and brought up his gun. It flamed and thundered, and Azzir-izzir tensed, looked surprised, and crumpled forward onto his face.
Cries of consternation rose. Guards of their royal master spurred toward Winters, spears lowered to impale him. Then other cries rose, and Captain Argo and his men intervened and cut them down.
Parmenter raised his trumpet and blew retreat. Within seconds his wagons were rolling away. They gained speed rapidly, and there were clouds of dust and roaring thunders of hoofs and wheels.
Argo’s cavalry lined up to follow as a rear guard. Capta
in Argo pulled alongside as Winters remounted. He raised his hand in salute. “Sir, you speak with thunder from Zeus. This event will become a legend and a brave example for us Greeks to follow. But we must now depart, for when it is spread abroad that a royal prince has been slain, a mighty army will pursue us. Farewell.”
“So long, Captain, and good luck.”
Winters watched them ride away, their plumes rising and falling in colored magnificence. He thought, What glorious history awaits them!
* * * *
In Forlorn Gap, a few windows still glowed with lamplight. Many houses had no windows, but only gaping squares where windows had been. There was one spot, however, where lights in this semi-ghost-town burned brightly. Winters headed for that light.
In Doc Bogannon’s saloon, only drinking place left in town, its big handsome owner announced to late-comers, “Sorry, friends, but it’s midnight; time to close.”
Lingering customers got up and left. Bogannon put away his last glass and had reached up to extinguish his bar lamp, when his batwings swung in.
“Winters!”
Winters, looking pale and moving unsteadily, strode up and planked down a coin.
“Wine, Doc.”
Bogannon stared at him. “Winters, you’re as pale as a bed sheet. Now I know you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Doc,” said Winters, “you don’t know nothin’. I ain’t seen no ghost, and I hope I never do see one.”
“Have a chair, Winters, and we’ll take our nightcaps together. You look like you’re about to fall apart.”
Winters went to a table and was joined at once by Bogannon. Bogie poured two glasses of wine and sat opposite Winters.
Winters drank slowly, put down his glass and backhanded his mustache. He opened his left hand then, and let something fall. It lay between his glass and Bogie’s, a slender chain that shone like fire and a ruby as startlingly red as freshly-spilled blood.
“How do you like that, Doc?”
Bogie picked it up, but instantly he dropped it. “Winters!” be exclaimed. “It gave me a shock.”
Winters picked it up and held it affectionately. “It’s got magic in it, Doc. Whoever wears that will always be beautiful.”
Doc stared at him. “You sound peculiar, Winters; you must’ve had an experience. Where did you get that thing, anyhow?”
Winters emptied his glass and held it for a refill. “Doc,” be said slowly, half-dreamily, “you wouldn’t believe me if I told you. I scarce believe it myself. And wouldn’t—but there it is.”
THE HONEY JUG
Real Western Stories, October 1955
Deputy Marshal Lee Winters rode unsteadily northeastward from Cow Creek toward Forlorn Gap and home. He hoped, during lucid moments, to reach and cross Alkali Flat before dark. Otherwise, ghostly conspirators lurking in or near that haunted region would almost certainly require of him some weird and exacting tribute. At Willing Dannery’s saloon in Cow Creek he’d had a shootout with badman Olney Pemberton, latest on his list of wanted monkeys. Luck had been with him again in that he, and not Pemberton, walked away from that noisy, bloody scene.
But a grazing bullet had addled his brain; as a result his disturbed mind wandered. He passed into unfamiliar scenes, lost track of time. He rode in Lowbow Canyon two miles from Alkali Flat as one who struggled vainly with hazy, somnambulistic dreams; home seemed but a fleeting pleasure he had experienced in some former life.
Then suddenly his mind either returned completely, or entered a realm of bright and vivid fantasy. What he saw, he saw clearly; what he heard, he heard distinctly. Not that he derived comfort from this transition; not that he felt any nearer home. Indeed, he was possessed of an ominous feeling that he would never see that comforting place again.
Clattering cliff-to-cliff echoes he had heard all afternoon abruptly became thunderous, as from a rumbling storm. His great horse Cannon Ball jolted to a stop. Only under determined pressure did he inch past a jutting cliff and hold himself at uneasy moorings beyond.
There a little man with whiskers and a pickax looked up at Lee and blinked small eyes. “Howdy, Winters.”
Winters stared in tense surprise. He’d come upon men like this before, queer prospectors he didn’t know, but who mysteriously knew him.
Experience warned that such might not have been gold-hunters at all, but ghostly imposters put in his path by unearthly tricksters.
“Howdy,” he responded sweatily. “Was it you making all that thunder?”
“Not all of it, Winters, but I did make some. Well now, Wirley Wingo is not one to brag. Truth is, this cliff is hollow. When I wham it with my pick, it does give out thunder; I’ll show you what I mean.”
Wingo whammed with his pick at a grayish streak that resembled gold-bearing quartz. Immediately afterwards rumbles shook mountain walls and echoed thunderously.
“Say now,” clipped Winters, scared and angry, “you can hold off with that thunder-maker, if you don’t mind. My horse don’t like it.”
Wingo dropped his pick and sat upon a stone. A smirk of amusement caused his whiskers to writhe and tremble. “Anything to oblige a friend,” he remarked and casually took a pipe from his pocket. “Don’t mind if I smoke a whiff, do you? I reckon no harm can come of that, though I do say you never can tell.”
“Smoke as you please,” said Winters. “It can’t bother me when I’m gone, which is right now.” He kneed his horse vigorously. But at that instant Wirley Wingo, through an orifice in his whiskers, blew smoke that extended and swelled into a dark mist ahead of Cannon Ball. Winters shouted angrily, “What are you trying to do, Wingo?”
Wirley exhaled again. This time a cloud completely concealed him and his surroundings in midnight blackness. His voice drifted up to Lee. “This is strange country, Winters. Every time I smoke my pipe, I have to call it a day and go to bed, it’s that dark.”
Winters was scared stiff. He demanded frantically, “Who are you anyhow, a ghost?”
“You might say that,” replied Wingo’s voice. “As to how much truth is in it, I wouldn’t know. I can recollect when I was an ordinary prospector, humping around these canyons in search of heavy rocks and things that glittered, eating three meals a day, and bedding down dog-tired at sunset. But something happened when I wandered into this spooky place. Seems maybe I passed into another world. I couldn’t say whether I’m a ghost or not, Winters, but they’re here. Seems like they’re under these mountains, especially at night.”
Winters felt sweat streak down his face. He sleeved his forehead, and eyes became terror-stricken when he realized he couldn’t even see his own hand. Cannon Ball trembled, too; otherwise Winters couldn’t have been sure his horse was still under him.
“If you will stop that smoking,” he shouted, “maybe I can get out of here.”
A voice replied, seemingly now from a great distance, “Of course, Winters. A few whiffs was all I wanted, anyhow.” A little later that voice added, “Why don’t you go ahead, Winters? Are you waiting for something?”
That was it exactly. Winters assumed his horse was as shrouded in night as he, so that there was nothing to be done, except wait.
Then a new sensation chilled him. It was one of motion. Not that he or his horse exerted physical effort; it was a feeling of being carried by invisible hands into timeless space. How long and how far they traveled, he could not know. Nor could he be sure they had moved at all. It could have been a loss of moorings, a mere drifting without passage to any place.
* * * *
Gradually light reappeared. Then he knew he had moved. He was still on his horse in Lowbow Canyon, but here were higher, smoother walls, and underfoot were hard-packed gravel and sand that formed a smooth, but untraveled wilderness highway.
Darkness had diluted itself into a haze, one that resembled moonlit mist. Unseen by Winters, another rider had appeared, so silently as to suggest that he was a residue from evaporating gloom. He sat upon a magnificent black horse, a man of handsome face and excellen
t proportions. But in his countenance hung such a sad longing as Winters had never before seen in any living creature.
“Winters,” this stranger said mournfully, “you are here not by chance, but by design. Intrusion into your private affairs might well provoke your hostility, could it not be explained as born of urgent and momentous crisis.”
Winters was attacked by dry swallows. “You mean you tricked me into this?”
“It would touch nearer to sublime truth if we said that you have been chosen as an instrumentality of great deliverance.”
This was like calling six a half-dozen; either way it meant trouble. This stranger was not directly in his path, yet his purposeful presence was as fixed as stone. Though unarmed, he commanded attention and respect.
Winters trembled and stammered, “Who—who are you?”
“I am Hernan Alphonse de Estra Mogord, general of Castile, who rendered good service to Her Spanish Majesty in liberating her land from conquering Moors.”
“That was a long time ago,” said Winters.
“You know history, then?”
Winters was puzzled that he should have spoken as one who knew historical facts. Then, as something dreamed, he remembered that he had a wife called Myra; that Myra was a reader of history; that she had read aloud to him of many events and peoples. “Yes,” said Winters, between anger and fear, “I know enough to know you’re a fake. It’s been hundreds of years since Spain was freed of Moslems. What are you trying to do, Mogord?”
Any suspicion he entertained of having been trifled with vanished slowly with an awesome change in their environment. Faint whisperings emanated from somewhere beyond his power to localize. What was spoken, though indistinguishable as words, carried impressions of extreme urgency. Something opaque yet invisible spread as a dark canopy across mountaintops. Then canyon walls grew translucent and diffused an eerie light of their own.
Mogord said, “You heard voices, Winters?”
“You said it, Mogord.” Like a frightened animal, Winters yielded to his primitive instinct of flight. He touched spurs to Cannon Ball and tensed for instant response. But Cannon Ball, held by mysterious forces, remained unmoved.
