by Lon Williams
“Yes, they dig up people, too. Especially in Egypt. You’d be surprised at how well preserved those dead people are. Why, in Egypt they’ve found mummies, that is, preserved bodies, so lifelike after five thousand years that people of their time, if living now, would recognize them.”
“Yeah, I begin to remember now. Years ago I heard a man named McKenzie down in Amarillo tell about mummies he saw. Why, McKenzie said, some of them mummies was so real and natural looking, if you’d give ’em whiskey they could’ve set up and talked.”
“Now, Lee,” Myra chided good-naturedly, “you’re being facetious. But where did you see an archaeologist?”
“It wasn’t just one; it was three. I saw ’em in Ghost Valley. They had a pit dug in an old Injun mound. One of them knows what’s what; another, where’s where. Sir George Yonderlook knows when’s when, and when he says when you’d better watch out.”
Myra was thrilled. “Lee, I think you’re only teasing. But if there are famous people so close as that, we ought to invite them in for a visit.”
Winters took a final look at his badge and pinned it on his vest. “Good idea. Might have ’em for supper. There’s something I’d like to know first.”
“Know?”
“Yeah,” he said, and looked worried. “I’d like to know what was in that box.”
“Box?”
“It was a long box, sort of like a coffin.”
“Coffin!”
“And they carried it like it was heavy. Not away from that mound, but right on over its skyline and down to a pit they’d dug. Do archaeologists sometimes put bodies in them old tombs, or do they always only take ’em out?”
“Horrors! They only take them out.” After a thoughtful silence, Winters gave his wife a sidewise look. “Still want to get acquainted with ’em?”
Myra studied a moment. “Yes,” she said wistfully. “I’m sure I’d like to meet them.”
Winters could sort of understand Myra’s feelings. Those fellows really were interesting vultures. Nevertheless, he hoped they’d never be seen again in his bailiwick. He’d hate to shoot ’em, but he might have to. Once he’d seen a white crow. Had a chance to bust its feathers with a shotgun, too. But he’d let it go. In his opinion, such oddities had a spicy effect on life. If everybody looked and acted alike and were all of one moral pattern, existence would get mighty dull. Besides, he told himself, it ain’t every day you meet a bozo who knows what’s what.
* * * *
Indirectly, because of a reward poster from Marshal Hugo Landers, he got interested in those archaeologists again.
He took his poster to Doc Bogannon and laid it on Bogie’s bar. “Know that feller?”
Bogie studied it. “Well, now, I see so many strangers, ranging from tree-swinging monkeys on up to college professors, it’s hard to remember all of them.”
“This one was sort of special,” said Winters. “Redheaded. As freckled as a guinea hen’s egg. Carried two guns. Name was Bartemus Gosling. Said he despised deputy marshals.”
“Ah!” Bogie exclaimed. “Now I remember. Wanted me to open a charge account for his drinks. He also kicked over my tables.”
“He also murdered a couple of travelers near Brazerville, and he’s wanted in Missouri for horse-stealing.”
Bogie remembered something vital at last. “Now I’ve got it. That same evening when you met this Gosling, three rather mysterious and singular looking strangers came here to imbibe a bit for their stomachs’ sakes”
“Monkeys who knowed what’s what?”
“And where’s where?”
“And when’s when?”
Bogie nodded and wrinkled his forehead. “Sir Eddie, Sir Freddie and Sir George. I have it now. They took your man Gosling away with them. What they did with him, I wouldn’t know. Speculation as to his fate is something my mind dislikes to dwell upon.”
“When have you seen those three loonies?”
“Last evening. They’ve become regular customers.” Bogie smiled ailingly. “They even invited me to visit them. It seems they are doing research work of some sort hereabouts.”
“Yeah,” said Winters dryly. “They’re archaeologists.”
A day of hard riding brought him back that night, tired and thirsty. When again he stood by Bogie’s bar for his nip of wine, Bogie leaned close.
“They’re here, Winters.”
“Who’s here?” Winters asked.
Bogie answered cautiously, “Eddie, Freddie and George. Oh-oh, wait a minute. Here comes somebody else.”
A handsome dark-haired stranger of about forty approached, looking down his nose at things in general. Winters noted his diamond shirt studs, figured they were as big as buckshot and that their owner was a rich Easterner.
“Gentlemen,” this prosperous looking newcomer said on a sarcastic note, and threw a contemptuous glance at Bogannon.
Bogie nodded graciously. “Pleasure has so far eluded us, I fear. I am Doc Bogannon. My good friend here is Deputy Marshal Lee Winters.”
“I should be delighted,” responded their visitor, though his tone proclaimed that he was not delighted at all. “If it matters, I am Rockford Covington. You’d probably refer to me privately as an Eastern plutocrat. I’m much more than that, however. I’m a famous globe-trotter, explorer, adventurer, and commentator on human affairs.”
“Indeed,” said Bogie. “You look all that you say you are. Would you have a drink?”
“Not just now, sir,” said Covington. “Presently I am interested in your, what you call, lawman. I’ve read about Western lawmen and what a virulent breed they’re supposed to be. I must say, however, I didn’t expect to find one looking so insignificant and scrawny. Now, if Deputy Winters were only as bright and shining as his badge, I should not return East so disillusioned.”
* * * *
Winters turned his back on Bogie’s bar and hoisted his elbows. He was sorry he’d done so much badge-polishing, but be-confound if a man could please everybody.
“Rocky,” he drawled, “do you know what it is that makes a man look scrawny?”
“I’d be delighted to learn,” Covington responded loftily.
“Well, sir, it’s this here Western wind and sun. We’ve got whole passels of Easterners out here, so dried up and shrunk they crawl around on their bellies. We call them horned toads.”
Covington’s mouth lifted at one corner. “Charming!” he declared with dry sarcasm. “Bogannon, serve this yokel a drink at my expense.”
“I’m obliged,” said Winters, “but I’d be pleased to buy you one.”
“It’s quite presumptuous of you to think I’d let you,” said Covington. He shifted his attention. “Just now my interest is in characters. Really, I came West to escape boredom for a while. Frankly, however, I find your country excruciatingly drab, dirty, and unexciting. Elkhorn Pass and Pangborn Gulch are great stinks, and this deserted village of yours is no more exciting than a dead cat. Not one what you call shoot-out have I witnessed since my arrival five days ago. I’d see more of interest on New York’s Bowery any hour, any day or night.”
Bogie spread his long-fingered hands, palms up. “We Westerners have been shamelessly maligned by Eastern scandal-mongers. There’s no more civilized spot on earth than here. Right, Winters?”
“Right,” said Winters. “If you’ll excuse me now, I’ll run along home. Got to eat my porridge and then hold my wife’s yarn while she knits. Good-night, gentlemen.”
* * * *
Two evenings later, Winters rode homeward by moonlight from Elkhorn Pass, where a wild-eyed gunman named Branton had resisted arrest. That was a shoot-out Rocky Covington would have enjoyed—badman and a deputy marshal walking toward each other down a dusty street, drama in pure Western style.
At a noise Winters pulled up and cased his horse into a cove. What sounded like a mad runaway approached from toward Forlorn Gap. In almost no time a hack drawn by two black horses whirled past. Two men occupied its only seat. A third sat behind them
on a long box. They leaned forward, bounced and held onto their hats.
Once more Winters wanted to know what was in that box. This time it was an angry, compelling desire. He brought Cannon Ball around and pursued. A mile up Elkhorn Road there was an old trail that ran southward into Terre des Revenantes. Team and hack swept and skidded into this trail and plunged onward.
Down in Ghost Valley they stopped by their Indian mound. Before Winters got within hailing distance, they had unloaded and with their box marched up, over, and down out of sight. He swung left, took roundings and came upon them by an open pit, where they had put their box down.
He caught them by surprise, dismounted, lifted his sixgun, and aimed at hip-level. “Now, you buzzards, what have you got in that box? This time I’m your man that knows what’s what, and when.”
Those sepulchral characters eyed one another.
“What!” snapped one.
“Where!” said another.
Winters cocked his gun. “Hold right there, unless you want to die.”
Yonderlook’s lips moved, but no sound came out. He stared at Winters’ gun, which carried especial menace for him.
Winters nodded at Yonderlook’s companions. “Open your box.”
Sir Frederick and Sir Edward bent to obey, but hesitated as groans sounded creepily. Sir George lent encouragement. “When’s when is not yet, my knightly friends. Do as Officer Winters has bidden.”
They obeyed.
Premonition had already told Winters that somebody alive was in their coffinlike contraption. He told himself that he needed but one guess as to who it was. Doc Bogannon would have said, Irony takes care of snobs and braggarts.
When their box lid had been thrown back, a moonlit figure groaned to a sitting position.
“Well!” exclaimed Winters. “Am I surprised! Is it really you, Covington?”
Rocky was bound hand and foot and had a gag in his mouth. He tried to get to his feet but failed. His effort to talk was in vain. Winters obliged by jerking off Rocky’s gag.
“It’s about time,” Covington cried furiously. “Winters, what kind of law and order are you upholding in this heathenish country? Make yourself useful and get these ropes off my arms and legs. A fine officer you are!”
Yonderlook’s voice rumbled deeply, “Officer Winters, would you be pleased to have me proclaim that it is now When’s when?”
“Just hold your rope tight, while I give it some study,” Winters replied. “Seems I remember some smart remarks about my badge made by you fellers, including Rocky Covington.”
“Winters,” Covington seethed, “if you don’t get these ropes off me, I’ll report you to proper authorities and have you fired. You’re as great a disgrace as this dried-up country you live in. Now that I think back a little, I’m satisfied you’ve been part and parcel of this dirty, lowdown prank that’s been played on me.” Rocky bounced and twisted, but was unable to get up. “Winters, trifling excuse for a human being though you are, release me. Delay another second, and it will cost you your job.”
Winters drew a hand across his mustache. “You’ve just made me think of a problem, Rocky. I’ve got these three unofficial undertakers that’s to be took care of. Only way I can get them to town is in their hack. Now, seeing as there ain’t no extra horse for you to ride, I reckon you can go back like you come.”
“Winters!” screamed Covington. Winters also screamed. “Yonderlook, it’s When’s when. Slam that lid shut and haul this braggart back to town, same as how you fetched him here.”
While Covington screamed and threatened, Yonderlook and his brethren battened him down, hoisted his prison and carried it up, over and down to their waiting team and vehicle. Winters, on Cannon Ball, followed.
In seconds they were off on a wild ride, Sir Frederick and Sir George up front, Sir Edward seated on Rocky’s long box. They reached Elkhorn Road and headed east.
Winters, riding at a lope behind them, gigged up close and yelled, “What’s wrong with your royal highnesses? Can’t you go any faster?”
“Aye,” Yonderlook shouted back, “wind was never faster than we can go. Hi-yee!” Lashing whip and slapping lines set up a hurricane of clattering hoofs and rumbling, bouncing wheels.
Winters pulled his hat down tight and pursued. Those blacks up ahead were tornadoes when it came to speed, and Cannon Ball had to stretch out. “Faster!” Winters yelled. Then he said to himself, Most likely tomorrow I’ll be ashamed of this, but right now I’m enjoying it a sight.
THE MAGIC GRINDSTONE
Real Western Stories, October, 1958
Deputy Marshal Lee Winters, after a wanted monkey named Squint-eye Morgan, had lost his way at dusk in towering rough country southeast of Forlorn Gap. When he halted his horse Cannon Ball, he realized—too late—that he had ridden into a fearsome region theretofore known to him mainly by rumor and legend. It was Bellows Canyon, a ghostly place where winds blew in gusts, like air from a bellows, and with great wheezing sputters and roars. Lately, getting home had become his greatest problem, as if fateful spirits had conspired against him. Certainly he would not get out of this situation without trouble.
He grabbed his hat to keep it from flying away. Rising gusts had swelled to hurricane proportions. Earth and canyon walls vibrated; and rocks, dislodged from great heights, came down with tremendous crashing sounds. He would have turned and retraced his course, but a reversal of wind-direction made him hesitate then resolve to go on. Anyhow, this way was home.
He had gone a tortuous mile or so, when Cannon Ball, rounding a curve, stood on his hind legs. This was an old, infuriating habit he had, and Winters angrily sawed his bit when he had put his hoofs down again. Yards beyond, they came upon an explanation of Cannon Ball’s fright.
A bearded little man was down on hands and knees before a smoking, reluctant fire. He puckered his hairy mouth and blew. Winters grabbed his hat, for once more there was a hurricane.
“Hey!” Winters yelled. “That’s no way to make a fire burn. You’re blowing too hard.”
Gopher-like eyes blinked up. “Why, howdy, Winters. What are you doing here?”
“Now, let me ask one,” said Winters. “How come you know me, when I don’t know you from Adamineezer?”
“Oh, we all know you, Winters. I’m Cain Snuffer, better knowed as Lampwick or plain Lamp Snuffer. I prospect hereabouts. But right now I’m wrestling with this fire so’s to make coffee. Light, and lend a hand.”
Winters disregarded intuitive warnings, swung down and dropped Cannon Ball’s reins. “What you need, Lampwick, is some shavings.”
Snuffer got up. “Don’t I know that!” He eyed Winters with mixed hope and distrust, ready to fly into a tirade. “Winters, why ain’t you got no whittlin’-stick in your saddlebags?”
Winters gave him eye for eye. “It happens I have; why don’t you carry your own whittlin’-stick?”
Snuffer folded his arms across his chest and lifted his chin haughtily. “Sir, I carried a whittlin’-stick regular, but I whittled it up.”
“Naturally,” said Winters. “If you whittled long enough, you could whittle up a wagon wheel.”
“Now, that’s neither here nor there, Winters,” said Snuffer. “If you’ve got a whittlin’-stick trot it out, so’s I can get this fire going.”
“Since you ask it so nice,” said Winters, “I’ll oblige you. That is, for coffee.” He took a short pine stick from his warbags. “There, Snuffer. If you’ve got a knife fit to call such, you can get shavings from that.”
Snuffer snatched it. “If you’ve got a knife, he says. Winters, you ain’t seen no knife till you’ve seen mine.” Snuffer produced a folding knife, thumb-nailed it open and poised its blade over Winters’ whittlin’-stick. To Lee’s amazement, curls flew off like snowflakes. His whittlin’-stick disappeared and Snuffer stood knee-deep in shavings.
“Be-confound!” exclaimed Winters. “Beats anything I ever saw.”
Snuffer eyed him disdainfully. “If you’ve got a
knife, he says. Winters, this knife is so sharp that when a shaving gets one good look, it don’t wait to be shaved; it just curls itself up and away it flies.”
“That I can see,” said Winters. “But what puzzles me is, how did you get your knife so sharp?”
“Ah,” said Snuffer, “that’s another story.” He dropped to his knees and in no time had a roaring blaze. “Set down, Winters, and first thing you know we’ll have coffee.”
Winters sat down and watched Snuffer prepare coffee and bacon. “About that knife, Snuffer?”
“Oh,” said Snuffer, “that’s right. You wanted to know how I got it so sharp, didn’t you? Well, I’ll tell you.”
He halted there. A voice had sounded a short distance away. An Indian and his woman came within their circle of light. “Now who?” asked Winters.
“That’s Cozy Bear and his young squaw,” said Snuffer. “Her name’s Silent Little Prairie Dog.”
“Humph!” Winters grunted. “Nothing silent about her.”
Silent Little Prairie Dog was talking to her husband. “You heap big lazy no-good Bannock no-good lazy heap big Injun call self Cozy Bear that not cozy and squaw not cozy but cold all winter and move about all summer and heap big lazy no-good Bannock go ’round with him head bent over and no buffalo meat in stomach and Silent Little Prairie Dog no buffalo meat in stomach because Cozy Bear heap big lazy no-good…”
That continued without let-up, and Cozy Bear and Silent Little Prairie Dog disappeared around a curve.
Snuffer removed his skillet of bacon and his coffee pot. He gave Winters bacon on cold hoecake and poured drinks.
Winters ate heartily.
“There’s quite a story about Cozy Bear,” Snuffer said between gulps of coffee and chomps of bread and bacon. “Cozy Bear got lonesome, living in his tepee with Silent Little Prairie Dog. It was because she never talked none. So, one day Cozy Bear decided to have her tongue sharpened.”
“Sharpened her tongue, did he?” said Winters sarcastically. “And just how did he do that?”
Snuffer replied impatiently, “How do you reckon he done it? Why, same as how I sharpened my knife. He done it with Twining Bowstring’s magic grindstone name of Rundum. Ain’t you never hear tell of Grindstone Rundum?”
