by Lon Williams
Winters felt its wondrous heaviness. At first he thought to toss it back to its miserly giver. Then he remembered somebody who might appreciate it. “Thanks, Tilyou. You’re mighty generous.”
He dropped his second double-eagle into his pocket and lifted Cannon Ball’s reins. He immediately drew back.
What appeared to be a riderless horse approached and stopped a few feet away. Its saddle tilted, as it might have done had a rider dismounted.
A voice said, “Get down, Winters. You ain’t leaving yet.”
Winters looked down at Tilyou, thinking he might have spoken. But Tilyou was staring in terror, not at anything in particular.
“Who are you?” demanded Winters, scared spitless.
“Wouldn’t you like to know! But I said get down. If you don’t…”
Winters hesitated. He heard a gunhammer clicking back. He thought of gigging Cannon Ball and trying to run. Upon second thought, he swung down. “I can’t argue with what I can’t see. What are you, and where are you?”
“I was what you so carelessly called your wanted monkey,” came answer. “That’s all past, Winters, I’ve come back to get you. After that, I’ll be claiming more gold than I’ve ever before seen in one pile.”
“No!” screamed Tilyou. He drew a bag of gold into his arms and hugged it close. “You can’t have it. Winters, it’s him. It’s Squint-eye Morgan. He was here. Rundum sharpened his power to hide and disappear. He—he’s invisible, Winters. But it’s Morgan. I know his voice.”
“Sure, I’m Morgan,” responded Morgan gloatingly. “And you can’t see me. Maybe I sound like I’m over there by my horse, but I’m not there. Sounding in one place and being in another is part of my new power.” He laughed coarsely. “Winters, you look scared. You’re supposed to be mighty fast with your gun; why don’t you shoot?”
“I don’t deceive my looks,” said Winters. “As for my being fast or slow, I make no claims. But I’ll say this: You’ve sure got a trick now that ought to take you places.”
“It will, Winters. But it’s going to take you places first. And then…”
“No!” screamed Tilyou. “You can’t have my gold.”
Winters felt sweat trickling down on his forehead. Three dead men lay close by. A campfire smoldered, too. An occasional spark popped free and spread faint light all around. Winters accepted invisibility as something Rundum’s magic might bestow upon its patron. Yet invisibility did not mean non-existence. Even an invisible object could not be transparent, yet have substance.
Cautiously Winters sought a shadow, a flicker of movement.
At last on a distant canyon face he saw it—a tall shadow, human in outline. A small blaze had flared up. Morgan’s invisible body outlined itself, gun in hand, feet spread apart for quick action. In that flare of light, a pattern of legs was cast against darkness, earth and towering stone.
Winters knew then where Squint-eye stood, saw movement of shadow that warned of approaching death. Such peril was not new. Winters’ muscles through bitter, deadly experience had acquired power that transcended thought for speed. His sixgun roared; an invisible body fell. Then, as death intervened, that quality of invisibility which had attached itself to life slowly detached itself, and Squint-eye Morgan lay as starkly visible as any dead man Winters had ever seen.
Once more Winters mounted his horse. He heard Tilyou murmur something about another double-eagle, but he kneed Cannon Ball and did not look back.
* * * *
In Forlorn Gap, where winds blew through many empty houses, one place was alive and bright. This was Doc Bogannon’s saloon, only place of its kind in town. Bogannon, owner and operator, man of mystery, philosopher who looked upon all men with charity and kindly understanding, engaged his hands busily with drying and polishing glasses. His last customer had just departed when his batwings swung inward.
“Winters!” he exclaimed. “Come in, Winters.”
Winters moved unsteadily to a table. “Wine, Doc. Two glasses.”
“Wine it is, Winters.” Bogie hurried around. “Winters, you look whipped. Seen ghosts or something?”
“Yeah, Doc, something.”
Bogie filled Lee’s glass. Winters promptly drained it and held it for more. He drank more leisurely then. When Bogie had emptied his own glass, Winters reached for a coin and came up with a double-eagle. He laid it in front of Bogie, who stared at it.
“What’s that for, Winters?”
“Doc,” said Winters, skeptical of his own generosity, “that’s something for you. Present.”
Bogie eyed it suspiciously. “I don’t know about your presents, Winters.”
“What do you mean, Doc? Ain’t my presents good enough for you?”
“You know I don’t mean that,” said Bogie. “I just mean that your presents are spooked. They don’t like me.” He stared some more, then his courage asserted itself. But no sooner had he picked up Winters’ present than he shook it out of his hand as if it were biting him. It bounced and spun crazily.
Winters’ eyebrows went up. “What’s wrong, Doc?”
Bogannon was suddenly resentful. “Now, see here, Winters. I appreciate a joke, but everything has its limit.”
Winters picked up his double-eagle. It did, indeed, impart spooky sensations. “Sorry, Doc,” Winters said nervously. “Sure didn’t mean you no harm.”
Bogie wiped his face. “It’s all right, Winters. Just happens I’m beginning to think about ghosts. Maybe there are ghosts, after all.”
“Don’t give ’em a thought, Doc,” advised Winters. “There ain’t no such things as ghosts; they exist only in people’s minds. Good-night.”
Table of Contents
COPYRIGHT INFO
A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER
THE MEGAPACK SERIES
KING SOLOMON’S THRONE
FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH
SATAN’S WOOL-MERCHANT
MASTER OF INDECISION
A DESERT HIPPOCRATES
THE HAUNTED TOWN
PHANTOM CARGO
WIZARD OF FORLORN GAP
A PORTION TO SEVEN
MARK OF THE WAMPUS CAT
GOLDEN CITY
LONG LIVE THE KING
LANTERN IN THE SKY
THE SALT WAGONS
THE HONEY JUG
TRAIL OF PAINTED ROCKS
THE CUCKOO’S NEST
THE WATER CARRIERS
THE STRANGE PIPER
MEN BURNING BRUSH
THE BANSHEE SINGER
THE DANCING TREES
THE DEADLY SLOWPOKE
THE THREE FATES
THE MAGIC GRINDSTONE
