by Lon Williams
“You may not leave yet,” said Mogord. There was no arrogance in his manner, but only a quality of entreaty and quiet authority. “You have done much good work in your time,” he continued. “You have stood often against evil men; hands that shaped human destiny gave you victory. Yet all your past achievements are as nothing beside what you are about to be asked to do.”
In tight places Lee’s temperament was opposed to argument. His sixgun had been his spokesman. He gripped its handle. “I’ve had my run-ins with odd characters, Mogord, and I’ve had enough of ’em. If you try to stop me—”
His voice died. Cliffs that had been only translucent, became transparent, like walls of clearest glass. Beyond them he saw a countless host of people, all on horseback or in wagons.
“These you see are awaiting deliverance, Winters,” said Mogord. “You have been a fighting man so long, you think only in terms of combat and death. It is not here sought to provoke you to violence or to do you harm. Ours is an attitude of helpless supplication; we beg you to save us.”
“Save you from what?” asked Winters, his voice barely squeaking out its words.
“From Sheol.”
“Sheol!”
“You have revealed your knowledge of history,” said Mogord. “Certainly you have heard of that abode of shades called Sheol.”
Of course he had heard of Sheol. Who hadn’t? Lost souls went to Sheol. “You mean—” Winters tried to ask if those he saw were in Sheol, but his voice failed and died amid thoughts of horror.
“Yes, Winters,” said Mogord. “I divined your question. Truly, these you see are prisoners in Sheol. They are only a few of its innumerable host, of course. But this remnant had hope, aided by a few magic charms given to them by kind and sorrowing divinities. Men, women and children of all ages of time and history have fallen upon such wretched misfortune as this. How they came to Sheol is without answer. In this abode of shades they are faced with darkness and everlasting punishment. They do not remember much that has gone before; they live in ceaseless contemplation of eternity. Hence, their abode of shades is also a place of forgetfulness. But in these imprisoned souls hope has not completely died.
“Yes, Winters, even in Sheol hope lives, though ever so forlorn.”
What Mogord said had its confirmation in those faces Winters saw in their vast prison. They were faces without smiles, without joy. Yet in their immeasurable sadness there was a painful longing that had hope of final deliverance as its deep fountain.
“What is keeping them?” asked Winters. “Why don’t they come on out of there?”
“Alas!” said Mogord with a sigh, “they cannot escape unassisted.”
“Then why don’t you assist them?”
“How can I when I, too, am a prisoner in Sheol?”
“But you—” Winters gasped as darkness swept between him and Mogord. He saw only a wall of stone; for a moment he was alone in limitless silence.
But then transparency returned, and he realized that Mogord, too, was a prisoner behind that barrier.
“Will you help us, Winters?” Mogord pleaded. “What will happen to you, if I don’t?”
“It will become known that we tried to escape. When we are found, we will be cast into Apollyon’s bottomless pit. Then, indeed, will hope be dead. Then, indeed, shall we be punished in torment forever.”
“If I try to help you and fail, what will happen to me?”
“You, too, will sink into Abaddon.”
Winters looked down at his horse, at Lowbow Canyon whose smooth floor wound away eastward. Cannon Ball had been caught in a spell, but now he seemed to be coming out of it. With a touch of spurs, he would lunge into a rearing run, and they would soon be out of this eerie place. In Lee’s opinion, this was some kind of black magic, concocted for his destruction. Safety, if anywhere, was in flight.
* * * *
He stole what he’d intended for a final glance at Mogord. To his surprise, others had come forward. They seemed very close, yet strangely distant. Among those in front was a beautiful woman. She could have been this own wife, Myra Winters, so like Myra was she in her young, sweet, affectionate beauty. If she were, indeed, Myra, he would no longer think of flight. Even his fear of Abaddon and Apollyon’s bottomless pit would not deter him.
Her lips moved. “Oh, Lee, won’t you help us? We cannot come to you, but you can come to us. A barrier separates us, but it will yield to you. At that moment when we have contact with something mortal, a gate will open for us; through that gate we shall flee. But even then, you must ride before us. We will not make our escape irrevocable until you have led us to some great river, or to a desert place. Apollyon will follow us through this same gate of our escape. Hence, we must cross a second barrier, one where we shall take on attributes of mortals, a condition Apollyon would shun, as he would shun his own torments.”
Winters stared as one caught in a mesh of enchantment. “Myra! Are you Myra?”
“I am almost your beloved. I am Ernesta Barcelena. As you love your beautiful Myra, love also me and these my comrades.”
It was a queer feeling he had then. Ernesta Barcelena was like his own beloved. She was mounted on a magnificent white horse; she held herself with Myra’s grace and assurance. She had in her eyes a look he had seen in Myra’s when she was daydreaming of some cherished hope. He forgot himself, forgot his danger.
“For Myra’s sake,” he said.
He kneed his horse gently. Cannon Ball advanced slowly, skittishly. Ernesta advanced, too, and extended a hand. Winters lifted his left hand to hers and was aware that tremendous forces pulled away whatever it was that had separated them. Their hands touched, and instantly she rode out beside him. There was a great movement then of horses and wagons, and a dull rumble set in.
Winters saw Mogord lift a hand and wave a signal for advance.
“You must guide us, Lee,” said Ernesta. “Do you know of a river?”
He knew of a river—down in Trinity Valley, in Texas. But that was far away. “There’s no river of consequence hereabouts,” he answered.
“A desert, then?”
“Yes,” he said; “it’s not so whopping big, but it’s a desert.”
“Then ride with all possible speed.”
They had been moving at a canter. Those behind were beginning to press closely upon them. An awful eagerness had come into their faces, so powerful that it had a voice of its own. It was urging them to hurry—hurry.
“If riding’s what you want,” said Winters, “you can get it.” He touched with spurs, and Cannon Ball leaped and lunged. Within seconds his hoofs were pounding. Winters had expected Ernesta’s white steed to be outdistanced, but to his surprise Ernesta kept at his side. Also, those who followed kept pace.
* * * *
Lowbow Canyon was full of sound. At one moment, it reminded him of terrific wind; at another, continuous thunder. Cannon Ball ran as he had never run before, but run as he might he was persistently crowded by those who followed.
Ernesta kept beside him. “If we could only go a little faster,” she said anxiously.
“What’s your hurry?” said Winters. “Seems to me we’re making good time.”
“Yes, yes, I’m sure of that,” said she. “Yet now that a gate is open out of Sheol, air of freedom will enter that gloomy place. There will be commotion and wrath. Apollyon and his host of warriors will discover that we have fled; he will pursue. Oh, can’t we go just a little faster?”
Winters leaned forward. Already Cannon Ball was leaping like a panther. “Come on, horse,” said Winters. “Get some speed in them long legs. Hi-yah!”
Cannon Ball responded with new fury. Winters, whipped and scared by rushing wind, entangled his fingers in Cannon Ball’s mane.
“This is better,” said Ernesta. She kept easily at his side. Winters could see white flashes of her horsed legs as he swept on beside Cannon Ball.
Lowbow Canyon was full of turns and curves. Each sweep around them was a miracle; at mome
nts Cannon Ball seemed to glide on his side. Lee dared not look back, lest he see wagons being hurled into masses of wreckage. How could they possibly have made those awful curves?
But there was no let-up. Wagons and riders continued to press closely. At moments Winters could feel spouting hot breaths upon his back.
Then Lowbow grew wider; Alkali Flat spread itself before them.
Ernesta drew close to Winters. “Turn aside at once, or you will be trampled.”
That warning struck him oddly. She was intimating that Cannon Ball was no horse at all. When he disregarded her warning and would have kept going ahead, she reached down, seized Cannon Ball’s bridle rein and forced him aside.
Lee got her meaning then. Its significance struck him full on, as horses and wagons swept by at a speed expressive of terrible haste. Nobody— not even Mogord—looked in his direction. Every face, wind-swept and pale, was fixed straight ahead. As they emerged from Lowbow, those faces grew brighter. What existence would be like beyond Alkali Flat, Winters could not know. But he surmised there would be freedom. That was what those fleeing souls sought—freedom from their former abode of shades—freedom everlasting from Sheol.
Despite all wonder, Winters grew aware that Ernesta was still near. “Why don’t you ride with them?” he asked, puzzled.
“I shall do so in due time.”
“What are you waiting for?”
“I am not ungrateful, Lee.”
“You mean I might need help, or something?”
“You will need help, as you have never needed it before.”
“How come?”
“Apollyon will not leave your courage unchallenged. You have defied his authority, flouted his power of eternal punishment, rescued from his grasp these tens of thousands whom he has looked upon for centuries with an especial relish, contriving, because of their goodness and excellence of mind and spirit, tortures more cruel than any reserved for ordinary shades.”
* * * *
Winters could hardly hear her words, for there was that tremendous flight of lost souls, still pouring out of Lowbow Canyon. So fast was movement now that he saw only blurs. It was like a great wind laden with dust and white, shapeless things.
At last its passage was complete, and what had been a continuous roar and rush of movement became far away music. Eastward beyond Alkali Flat mountains were wondrously aglow.
Moments later new sounds broke upon them. Winters tossed inquiring eyes at Ernesta. “What’s that?”
Ernesta Barcelena stared with parted lips. What hint of color had existed in her face, melted away. “Apollyon, lord of Abaddon, angel of its bottomless pit, relentless avenger, designer of ultimate and unending cruelty. Apollyon!”
“Are you talking to yourself, or to me?” Winters demanded nervously.
“To both,” she replied, her lips atremble. “Apollyon and his warriors are pursuing.”
What they heard had paralyzing effect on their horses. Cannon Ball quivered, but his feet were immobile. Out of Lowbow Canyon poured earthshaking roars that grew louder and more terrifying with each second.
“What’s that noise?” asked Winters tightly. “Lions,” Ernesta told him weakly. “Those who approach so terribly do not ride horses. They ride great, roaring lions, fiercer than any seen by mortals.”
Winters tightened Cannon Ball’s reins. “Let’s get out of here.”
“We cannot.”
“Why?”
“Don’t you see? Your horse does not respond; he is scared helpless, as is mine. But do not despair. Apollyon will not enter this desert. In our worlds, there are lines of demarcation between that which is mortal and that which is immortal. Lowbow Canyon is border country, possessing attributes of this we are in and that from which my friends and I have just fled. Apollyon would lose immortality, if he left that border country. But he has warriors who obey his commands.”
Winters could no longer hear her voice. It was overwhelmed in that tornadic fury of sound that poured out of Lowbow. It was rendered impotent and unimportant by materializing forms—riders upon speeding lions. They swept around a curve in Lowbow Canyon and crowded to a halt against Alkali Flat’s magic barrier. There they milled in mad, growling frustration. Those riders were formed like men, each in what appeared to be skin-tight armor of shining brass and helmets of like material.
One of especial magnificence rode back and forth, flourished a sword from which flames darted. “Where is my bravest warrior?” he shouted angrily. When none responded, he screamed, “Pichon!”
A warrior of particular ugliness and ferocity rode forward. “Here, master.”
“You will ride forth, destroy that creature who calls himself man, and fetch me that maiden.”
“Yes, master.”
“Oh, Winters!” sobbed Ernesta. “Now, indeed, are you in peril. But there is one slim hope. Though terrible as that Pichon is, he cannot approach you without losing his attributes of immortality for a while. Once his lion sets foot upon this lonely desert, both he and his rider will be mortal. You, a man, will be confronted by a man and a lion. Pichon is armed with bow and arrows and a sword. See, he is even now fitting an arrow to his bowstring. You, alas, will be at great disadvantage, for you have no weapon that I can see.”
Winters gripped his sixgun. “I have a weapon.”
“Then direct your weapon against Pichon’s steed. First kill him; your chances against Pichon will then be vastly improved.”
Cannon Ball stood diagonally across that course Pichon would likely follow. Winters drew his gun and cocked it. Though sweat poured down his face, his hand was steady. “Let ’em come,” he muttered. “Do not discharge your weapon until Pichon has entered our desert and become mortal.”
Pichon put his lion into position for a charge. He drew back on his bowstring several times to test its strength and resilience. Suddenly he yelled, “Go!”
His steed crouched, put his mouth to earth and roared with such jarring force that dust spewed up from Alkali Flat’s, hard earth. Then he leaped forward. Half a second later an arrow hissed past Winters’ left ear.
Winters remembered Ernesta’s advice. He waited until his enemy had charged deeply across Alkali’s barrier. Then his gun spouted fire and smoke—and lead. Pichon’s steed leaped high with a coarse scream of agony. He fell and struggled to rise. During that moment of delay, Pichon jerked and clutched at his chest. A weapon that spoke with fire and lead was too much for his mortal heart. A third bullet ripped into skull-bone, and Pichon’s lion tumbled onto his side, dead beside his dead master.
“Oh, wonder of wonders!” breathed Ernesta. “You have triumphed.”
Winters reloaded his sixgun in readiness for Apollyon’s next warrior.
Apollyon rode back and forth in raving uncertainty. His warriors shrank away from him. In their eyes was more than fear; there stirred unuttered thoughts that Apollyon himself should challenge that upstart who had killed one of his bravest. Apollyon appeared to consider doing just that. Yet even Winters could understand that this prince of devils had too much to lose, and so little to gain, by even a momentary relinquishment of immortality.
“Back to your hell of hells!” Apollyon screamed at last. He waved his sword as if to strike them down.
They fled, then; their lions were humbled. Fall of their padded feet upon sand and gravel-packed earth produced only loud whispers. Soon they were gone, dead Pichon abandoned.
Lee holstered his gun. “That’s done,” he said.
“Yes, O Brave One,” sighed Ernesta, “thanks to you. Now, shall we ride together?”
Their horses responded to touch, and they swung away eastward.
Winters’ gaze fixed itself upon mountaintops far away, where still lingered that golden glow he had so recently seen. “I reckon your friends have already got their campfires going,” he remarked to Ernesta.
She drew closer. “What you see is not from campfires, Lee. It is a halo, or light of glory. Perhaps you shall see it again—many times, i
t may be—when you ride across this desert alone at night. And when you do, perhaps you will think of me.” Winters was conscious of exquisite longing. “I reckon I’ll be thinking a heap of you. Any chance I’ll see you again?”
“No, Lee, I’m afraid not.” She drew even closer. “But I shall not leave you unrewarded.” From somewhere about her trappings she produced an object about as large as his fist and of familiar shape. To it was attached a thin chain of gold. “This I give you,” she said softly. Her words were attended by a quick grasp of his left hand, an equally quick passing of her gift in a chain-loop over her wrist.
“But you don’t owe me anything,” he protested. “Way I figure, you saved my hide from being cut up by Pichon’s lion.”
“You will keep it, nevertheless.”
“If you say so. But what is it?”
Ernesta’s voice was gentle, almost wistful. “It is a honey jug. Sealed within is magic—a sweetness compounded of gratitude, love, and a supernatural power for your defense in time of great need. Its stopper is made of glass. Only you can break its seal. Guard it well. And remember me, as I shall remember you.”
She drew away then. In a moment Winters saw only a nebula of light, which moved ahead of him and at last merged with that halo-glow which she had called light of glory.
He was left riding alone on desolate, ghostly Alkali Flat. His sense of aloneness was intensified by a feeling of sickness and especially of a painful throb in his head. He remembered now that he had been involved in a deadly shoot-out in Cow Creek, that he had received a head wound, that under his hat was dried blood. He remembered that he had left Cow Creek m early afternoon and expected to reach Forlorn Gap before night.
But now it was night. Somewhere he had lost time. Those weird, haunting sounds that rose out of Alkali Flat’s desert reaches at night had begun their usual nocturnal chants. Luckily a moon was up, almost full, and he could see his way clearly. Mysteriously, Cannon Ball was sweaty and seemed tired; he moved at a canter which brought his rider late into Forlorn Gap.
