by Lon Williams
But that glance gave him an idea. He had seen a rim of moon protruding over a mountain edge. “Uh,” he said, chuckling dryly. “Me have big wish. Always since small boy, wish to see-um man in moon.”
He squatted and put his mouth to Roasted Bear’s vacated smoke stem. He drew and emitted a few puffs. Once more a dark cloud enclosed them. To his astonishment, a strange man emerged from that cloud and smiled down at Winters.
“Howdy,” he said in a most friendly voice. “You sent for me, Winters. Why?”
Winters stared. Here was a critter with a face as round as a dinner plate and as shiny as a new silver dollar. “Be-confound! Who are you?”
“Me?” exclaimed his visitor. “Why, I am your moon man. My name is Lunie Tickie.” Lunie Tickie glanced around to see who else was present. In profile he was quite dish-faced. At sight of Indians, his mouth drew downward in distaste. “Never liked Indians,” he said.
Winters got up. “Well!” he exclaimed. “That’s splendid. Never liked Injuns myself.”
“Well!” exclaimed Tickie. “That’s splendid. Here, let me give you a present.” He extended his right hand and when Winters turned his own left palm upward Tickie dropped a large and amazingly beautiful emerald into it. “Plenty of those where I came from, Winters.”
“My!” exclaimed Winters. “Thanks a thousand times.”
“Think nothing of it, Winters. I always give favors to my friends.” Lunie Tickie glanced around again. His eyes rested briefly on Wolf Dog. “Winters, once upon a time there was an Indian who resembled neither a wolf nor a dog. His tribe, therefore, named him Cat.”
Winters clapped a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing out loud. But he chuckled so heartily that his body shook anyhow.
“Now, look here, Winters,” said Tickie, “I don’t like to be laughed at.”
Winters tightened his face. “Tickie, I wasn’t laughing at you. I was laughing at your joke.”
“I was not telling a joke, Winters, and I don’t like to be laughed at. You can give me back that present I just now gave you.”
“All right, Tick.” Winters opened his left hand. There was that marvelous emerald, essence of green pastures, green seas and green of rainbows. He sure hated to part with it, but he handed it back. “There you are. Injun giver!”
“Don’t call me an Indian giver, Winters. Indians talk about many moons. Anybody ought to know there’s only one moon. But all Indians think they see a different moon.”
Winters covered his face with both hands and when he’d removed them he still had to keep a tight face. “Tickie, I agree with you. Injuns ain’t got no sense and never did have none.” Tickie’s round face glistened with pleasure. “Really, Winters? You do agree with me?”
“I certainly do.”
“Here!” said Tickie. “Hold out your hand.” Winters extended his hand and once more had his marvelous emerald. “Thanks, Tickie.”
Tickie glanced around again, and once more he had that funny dish-face. Winters tried not to laugh, but he snorted anyhow.
Tickie stuck out his hand. “Give me back my present, Winters.”
Once more it was gone. “Injun giver!”
Lunie Tickie glanced around again. “What are these sons of woe and misery doing here, Winters?”
“Having heap big dreams,” said Winters. “But it seems Wolf Dog and Whirlwind Horse can’t make up their minds.”
“Mine made up,” growled Wolf Dog.
“What he calls his mind,” Winters said to Tickie.
“Right,” said Tickie, again pleased. “Here, Winters, is your present.”
Once more Winters had his prized emerald. He dropped it into his left-hand pocket. He didn’t say thanks, because Wolf Dog had leaned toward his smoke stem.
“Me make wish,” said Wolf Dog. “Me like see palefaces all killed. Like see Indian wigwams on Great Plains. Me like see buffalo—plenty buffalo.” Winters interrupted scornfully. “You’re wishing for too much, Chief Dog.” He indicated with a thumb. “No room in your little cove to hide all that. Better wish for something you can deliver.”
“Ugh!” grunted Dog. “Then me wish for wagon of palefaces—white man, white squaw, white papooses. Me kill-um. Me scalp-um.”
He put his mouth to his smoke stem then and began to draw and puff. Soon they were enclosed in a cloud. Then from outside their encircling gloom a wagon drawn by two horses appeared. In its seat sat a man and his wife. Behind them, on sacks and articles of furniture, were five children.
“Ye-hoo!” yelled Wolf Dog. He sprang up, tommyhawk in hand, and charged.
Woman and children screamed.
Winters slammed his hand down for his six-gun. In that same instant, his left hand slapped Lunie Tickie aside to get him out of his line of fire. “Wolf Dog!” he yelled. “Don’t touch them!”
When Wolf Dog drew back to hurl his tommyhawk, Winters’ fingers closed on his six-gun. But before he could draw, Lunie Tickie, who had gone into a rage at being shoved aside, kicked Winters’ feet from under him.
“Nobody pushes me around, Winters.”
* * * *
Lying on his back, Winters saw Wolf Dog hurl his tommyhawk—and miss. His adversary was hurrying to bring an old-fashioned rifle to bear on Dog. He fired, and missed.
Winters glared at Tickie. “So you’re taking up for a redskin, are you?”
Tickie looked surprised. “Why, no, Winters, of course not. Here, let me help you up. I didn’t realize—”
Dog had reached up for a small paleface girl. In lieu of tommyhawk, he had a long knife now.
Winters got to his feet, but once more Tickie was in his way. Winters gave him another shove, and once more Tickie kicked his feet from under him.
“Don’t shove me, Winters. I don’t like to be shoved.”
This was getting to be intolerable.
Winters got to his knees. His eye narrowed at Tickie. “Moon man, you’ve kicked me once too many. You Injun-lovin’ so-and-so, I’m—”
A scream interrupted his threat. Wolf Dog’s fingers had tangled themselves in a child’s golden curls.
Tickie saw what was about to happen. “Oh, Winters, I’m so terribly sorry. Here, I’ll help you up. That awful Dog must be stopped.”
Winters slapped Tickie’s helping hand aside. “Out of my way, you stupid ape.” Before Winters could get into action, Dog’s head had received a whack from a clubbed rifle. Dog let go his hold, and in an instant horses, wagon and paleface family were speeding away.
Chief Dog rubbed his head and staggered about for a while. Then he spied Winters, just then getting to his feet. “Ye-hoo!” he yelled. He came at Winters, knife poised and eyes gleaming. “Me no like-um Winters. Me kill-um. Me scalp-um. Ye-hoo!”
Winters took his time, brought up his gun, cocked it and took dead aim. But once more his feet flew from under him and he landed on his back.
“Don’t smack my hand, Winters,” screamed Tickie. “I don’t like to have my hand smacked.”
Winters had no time for Tickie. Wolf Dog had leaped. He made a descending patch against sky and stars. “Ye-hoo!”
Luckily Winters had not lost his six-gun. He triggered at that descending patch. It tensed, jerked and writhed in midair and fell upon Winters as a dead weight.
Grimly Winters extricated himself. Tight-lipped but raging inwardly, he got up and cocked his gun again. All he wanted then was one free-handed second in which to shoot himself a round-faced, meddlesome moon man. That done, he’d be satisfied, though he might not have another second on earth.
But his angry, roving eye caught but a glimpse of Tickie’s darting form as it disappeared beyond a cliff protrusion. Tickie was making himself scarce.
There were other glimpses of him as he leaped upward, swung himself up to ledge and cranny, at last to reach a sky-high summit, where his round face edged out from a precipice and shone brightly down on Winters.
Frustrated because his tormenter was out of range, Winters holstered his gun. It w
as time he was getting home anyhow.
Once more he was turning to his waiting horse, when a voice grunted.
“Ho”
He faced about. “Yeah?”
One Indian chief remained to make his wish. Whirlwind Horse Arrow Bow Buffalo Killer lifted a warning hand. “Winters not go yet. Too many buffalo. Buffalo stampede and Winters getum run over. Me now make wish.”
* * * *
Chief horse crawled forward and put fresh fuel on his fire. He sank back as smoke began to rise and put his mouth to his smoke stem. His eyebrows arched and his face went through a medley of contortions. Winters looked here and there, tried to catch onto what these magic-makers were doing. He expected to see a secret door open somewhere and a buffalo or two come lumbering out. But all he saw were cliff walls, dead Chief Dog, sleeping Chief Roasted Bear, and a teepee with flap closed.
Chief Horse said, “Me make heap big wish. Me wish for fine buffalo horse. Good bow. Plenty arrows. And plenty buffalo. Buffalo like waves of grass. Buffalo that cover whole earth. Plenty buffalo.”
He must’ve meant it, thought Winters. He sucked so hard on his smoke stem that his cheeks became sink-holes. And when he emitted smoke it whirled and spread like a tornado whooping across East Texas. Everything became so obscured by smoke that Winters could not see his horse, although he held Cannon Ball’s bridle reins.
At first there was only smoke. But after a while earth vibrations began, attended by a great rumbling. When smoke began to clear away, a tough, sure-footed Indian pony came trotting up. Fastened to its saddle were bow and quiver filled with arrows.
“Wa-hoo!” yelled Whirlwind Horse. He sprang to his feet. Age and ugliness were cast off, as a moth might have cast off its cocoon. Chief Horse emerged as a magnificent redskin, young and strong and proud. He leaped astride his pony. Bow in hand, he whipped up an arrow and fitted it in place. “Wa-hoo!”
Then there was a sight. Smoke from Chief Horse’s pipe had spread as a fog across Alkali Flat. As it lifted and thinned and moonlight sifted through it, cause of that earth-tremor and rumble was revealed. A countless herd of buffalo moved southwestward. They were going at a run. Some passed so close to Winters that he smelled them and saw their gleaming eyes.
In a jiffy mighty Whirlwind Horse was among them, yelling and shooting, slaying right and left. Winters lost track of time, hence had no estimate of how long it took for that tremendous tidal wave of thunder and darkness to roll by. But he realized it was over when he found himself wiping his wet forehead with his bandanna. He took a parting glance at Roasted Bear and Wolf Dog, mounted Cannon Ball, and headed homeward.
He had gone two or three miles when he came suddenly upon a lone Indian again. This one was almost naked. He smoked a pipe and fanned himself with his war bonnet.
“How!” he said humidly as Winters jerked to a halt.
“How yourself,” Winters responded belligerently.
“You great deputy marshal. You Lee Winters.”
“I am Lee Winters, and I’m a deputy marshal. Goodnight.”
“Ho! Indian have feelings hurt. Me great Indian chief. Me great chief Heap Mighty Hot.”
“What do you want?” Winters demanded angrily.
Mighty Hot held out his pipe. “Smoke-um peace pipe”
“Smoke-um yourself,” said Winters curtly. “I don’t want no more truck with peace pipes.” He kneed his horse, and Cannon Ball moved on. Winters glanced back once and saw a stalwart Indian fanning himself and smoking a pipe. Seconds later he looked again. This time Alkali Flat stretched away southward, silent and bare.
* * * *
In Forlorn Gap most lights had gone out. There were many deserted houses in which no lights had glowed for many moons. An outside light at Goodlett Hotel still burned, as did those in Forlorn Gap’s only saloon.
Saloon owner and barkeep, Doc Bogannon had waited on his last customer and tidied up for closing. It was midnight. He had reached up to extinguish his bar light when his batwings swung in, and a lean, swarthy man of middle age and a dark mustache strode in.
“Winters!” exclaimed Bogannon.
Winters moved to a table and sank onto a chair. “Wine, Doc, and two glasses.”
“Wine coming up, Winters,” responded Bogannon. Bogie was large, with broad shoulders, large head, noble countenance, and thick black hair. He had been born to be a statesman, but for reasons of his own was content to live with a half-breed Shoshone wife and operate a saloon apparently as his sole means of support.
He hurried around with two glasses and a bottle of red wine. His alert, searching eyes alternately glanced at gurgling liquid and at his guest.
“You’ve seen a ghost, Winters. You have that look.”
Winters lifted his glass, drank it empty and backhanded his mustache. “Doc, I wouldn’t recognize a ghost if I saw one.” Yet that he had that look he didn’t doubt. He certainly had been through an experience, but if he tried to give Bogannon an account of it, Doc would merely think he was crazy.
“You don’t believe in ghosts, do you, Winters?” Bogie asked, as he refilled Lee’s glass.
Winters had an uneasy feeling suddenly. It was that sort of feeling a man had when he remembered something which had seemed real at one time, yet which reason told him could only have been fanciful. Still, when he thrust his left hand into his trousers pocket, he was mildly shocked to realize there was more than fancy to what he remembered.
He brought out his hand and opened it, palm up. Upon it lay an emerald, an oblong octagon, its length about one and one-half inches, its width about an inch.
He picked it up with his right hand and laid it before Bogannon, where it sparkled like a pale-green diamond. “What do you think of that, Doc?”
Bogie stared at it, started to pick it up, but his fingers touched only bare table. “Winters! It moved.”
Winters leaned forward and stared at it. It surely sparkled as if it might have had a dancing light in it, but he couldn’t see anything about it which should have given it locomotion. He touched it, picked it up, laid it down again.
“Just your imagination, Doc.”
Bogie reached for it, once more touched only bare table. He stared, horrified. “Winters, I tell you it moved.”
Winters picked it up and held it in his left hand. “Oh, well, if you want to make a joke of it, we’ll just forget about it.”
“It’s no joke,” Bogie declared stoutly. “It’s magic. What I want to know is, where did you get it?”
Lee drank his second glass of wine and got up. He dropped a coin to pay for his drinks. “Doc, you won’t believe me when I tell you. But a feller gave it to me. His name was Tickie—Lunie Tickie.”
Bogie got up and put away his bottle and glasses. “I might’ve known I’d get some facetious explanation. But it’s all right, Winters. No hard feelings.”
“Thanks, Doc,” Winters said with a grin. “Thanks, and goodnight.”
THE CUCKOO’S NEST
Real Western Stories, April 1956
Deputy Marshall Lee Winters reined his horse Cannon Ball onto a shoulder of Brazerville Road and stopped. Behind him a stagecoach had emerged from Enloe Pass and begun descent of Walden’s Ridge. Its driver yelled and whipped his four horses into a run. Winters made a quarter-turn to watch this foolhardy spectacle. Clatter of hoofs was accompanied by discordant singing:
“Boot, saddle, to horse and away!
Rescue my castle before the hot day
Brightens to blue from its silvery gray.
Boot, saddle, to horse and away.”
Speeding horses and swaying coach rounded a turn. Their driver and passengers spotted Winters and shouted greetings as they swept past. “Hooray! Hooray! Boot, saddle, to horse and away. Howdy there, stranger, and fare thee well.”
Winters stared, fascinated. There went a gilded coach of men out of storybooks—dudes in buttons and bows; plumed hats; shirts with ruffles and lace. Shades of King Charles and Oliver Cromwell! Winters’ wife, Myra, had
a book on English history; those monkeys were right out of its middle.
They sped on. Their coach rocked; their driver whooped and swung his long whip. At a left turn, coach wheels skidded, and to Winters it seemed certain there’d be an over-cliff plunge. But they made it. Farther down they swept into view again. On their left a cliff towered high; on their right a precipice fell to shadowed depths.
At their next turn, one where no driver in his right mind would have exceeded a trot, horses leaned inward and swept on at a dead run. Coach wheels skidded and must have come within inches of disaster; but once more speeding horses, already safely around, saved their vehicle and carried it on out of sight.
Winters breathed freely again. Such conduct as he had witnessed could be explained only upon supposition that those masquerading Cavaliers and Roundheads were a bunch of cuckoos.
So now he had a new worry. If those fugitives from history designed to stop in Forlorn Gap, he hoped they’d change their minds, if any, and drive on to Kingdom-come. For him, cuckoos had always spelled trouble. He’d had about enough of trouble, too; in Brazerville he’d intended to resign. But, as usual, Marshall Hugo Landers had talked him out of it—for a little while yet.
He had a side trip to what had once been Monte Gaut’s ranch on Cracked Kettle Creek shortcut, where a black-bearded stage robber named Brogan was believed to be in hiding. This turned out to be a vain trip, for Blackbeard had already been slaughtered by parties unknown and left to rot in an old corral. Time thus wasted brought night, a ride through mountain gorges, alternate spells of sweat and chills, and increasing thirst for a stimulating drink.
* * * *
In Forlorn Gap, Doc Bogannon’s saloon had reached its early-evening peak of patronage. This semi-ghost town was a stopover place for men who disliked to encounter perils of night travel. It was also a sifting-out place for outcasts of Pangborn Gulch, Elkhorn Pass, and smaller gold camps crammed into scores of gulches in Forlorn Gap’s mountainous hinterlands. Then, too, there were tides of incredibles that flowed westward, drawn not particularly by gold fever but pulled into its wake and wash of madness nevertheless. Of these, fate cast many ashore in Doc Bogannon’s weird and ghostly town and incidentally brought them as customers to his saloon.
