He pulled up alongside the ruts made by Kennedy's body being dragged away.
“All right, Charlie, what's this all about?” Allison peered into the sack.
“How the Hell should I know? I've been here with you the whole time. Unless...yes! Rosa! I told you she was a witch! I bet she done dragged off my body to use in one of her spells,” said Kennedy.
“You'd best have some way of finding out where your body is and how close we are to it. I'm getting a mite perturbed and would just as soon leave you to the coyotes and go have myself a drink than spend any more time wandering around in the dark like a damned ‘possum,” said Allison.
“I only have a vague sense. I think it might be this way,” said Kennedy as he jiggled in the sack toward the south. “Yes, I can feel it. But hurry, I got a bad feeling she is doing something evil.”
Allison sighed in disgust and spurred his horse onward. He’d ridden about an hour and had about convinced himself it was folly, when something changed in the air. At about half a mile towards a dense tree line, it seemed the whispering in his mind was growing louder and the hair on his neck beginning to rise. Perhaps it was the same strange force drawing Kennedy.
“We're almost there,” said the severed head.
The whispers grew and more shadows darted crazily just out of sight. No matter how fast Clay turned his head, he always missed what it was. His horse began to spook. It began crowhopping from side to side and finally stopping, refusing to go any further. He dismounted and took the sack, hefted it over his shoulder like Saint Nicolas and kept walking south. Kennedy's head began to jiggle excitedly.
“All right, Head,” Allison said “it looks like we've got to hoof it from here. Let me remind you again, if you're somehow leading me on like a fool I will make you very sorry you were ever born. Or spawned. Or however devils like you come to be.”
“You mean you haven't already? Ow!” yelled Kennedy as Allison 'accidentally' switched shoulders to carry him and bumped the head against a particularly rough tree. Moaning he continued, “All right. I understand.”
The wind picked up, swirling eddies in the dust around Allison's boots. For the first time in his life, Allison seriously considered he might be dealing with spirits not of an alcoholic nature. And speaking of, he sure could use a good stiff drink right about then. As soon as this was over, he would walk into Henri's and drink until he ran out of money or passed out. The wind picked up and the night became even darker. Allison came over a ridge and stood at the top of the rise looking down on a circular clearing surrounded by small trees. In the center was freshly dug earth with a suspiciously large man-shaped lump.
“It's here! It's here!” Kennedy's head bucked and wiggled in the sack, which suddenly caused it to split. The head hit the ground with a thud. The head began to drag along with a side-winding motion using its tongue and natural momentum to roll.
Allison gaped at Kennedy's hasty departure. “See here, you ornery cuss! Don't you try to get out of showing me where your treasure is hid!”
The head entered the circle of scrub brush and the greenery burst into flame like torches made by Mother Nature herself. Allison flinched and nearly wet himself, something he hadn't done while sober since he was a tiny lad.
“Here, Clay! Dig here. Hurry if you want the treasure!” Kennedy rasped, his tongue coated with drying dirt.
As Clay walked into the circle, a dark swarm descended, as if a dense cloud of flies. The blackness raced around the circle, round and past Allison almost seemed to try to push him away from the treasure. He dropped to his knees and began to dig in the loose soil with his hands.
Allison found a gold nugget the size of an aggie marble. Then a cold hand emerged from the dirt and snapped tight on Allison's throat and stopped him in mid-shriek. He toppled backward, trying to get away. This succeeded in pulling the rest of Kennedy's deceased yet animated corpse out of the ground.
The black swarm descended nearby. The buzzing quieted and the mass coalesced into a figure. It was Rosa, Kennedy's half-Ute wife, she of the tear stained cheeks and the undying but never displayed gratitude.
“I told you she was a witch!” screamed Kennedy's head.
“At least I am not a demon who kills for sport. A demon who kills for gold. A demon who devours its own young!” spat Rosa.
“Well, let me just tell you, Mr. Allison,” said Kennedy as his body grasped his head from the ground and put it back in its proper place. As the severed parts touch, an unholy light fused them together. “The boy tasted the best.”
Kennedy stood up and stretched his battered body, twisting the flesh to change into a new shape of his own, a horrible amalgam of man and demon, lizard and snake. His evil smile widened, splitting the frail human skin of his cheeks as the outgrowing rows of jagged teeth stretched back, impossibly, to nearly the back of his head. He leaned in close to Allison and whispered in his ear on fetid breath “Yesss.... the boy tasted best!”
Clay wet himself, but he never admitted it to any man.
“Senor!” Rosa yelled wildly, vying for Allison's attention with his shock. “The blood of the victims cries out for vengeance. Use their power!” Rosa shouted. “We can kill him but you have to get the gold!”
Allison, being fond of his hide, snapped out of his daze. He looked at the gold nugget which began to melt in his hand, like warm butter, changing from shiny gold to blood red in color. As much as he hated giving it up, Allison saw no other choice. He threw the bloody nugget at Kennedy and began to scrabble around for more and more. Each time he found something, a nugget, coin or watch, it changed in his hands from gold to blood.
Each object stuck to Kennedy like tar, then ran over its skin like a living thing. Kennedy began to scream and tried to remove the red substance like he’d been splashed with Hellfire itself. Allison kept digging, scrambling for all he could find. Finally, he threw the last of it, a silver framed picture of a little girl. This struck the demon squarely in the face, the frame became a melted blood colored patch, forming a seal over the slitted eyes and terrible mouth.
The thing which called itself Charlie Kennedy fell and lay rolling on the ground in agony.
Rosa turned to Allison. “You are almost as bad as him. But leave the circle now and you may survive a while longer. Leave now!”
Allison quickly complied, falling over himself as he rushed away. Rosa, staying within the inner ring proceeded to spread something from a sack which looked like rock salt all around the outer edge. She stood next to Kennedy’s struggling, prone form. “I must make this right,” she said softly.
The night darkened suddenly as the flaming brush began to burn a cold black fire. This blinded Allison momentarily as he tried to focus on what was now happening before him. Moaning came from inside the circle. The demon Kennedy cursed Rosa as best as it could and Rosa chanted back at the demon in what sounded like her own native Ute at first, then languages unrecognized by Allison. The bloody gold covering the demon’s body began to pulsate.
“Justice!” Rosa screamed at Kennedy. “The spirits are having their revenge. You spilled their blood for their gold, it is fitting.”
Allison watched as she took more of the substance from the bag and began to pour it over the demon. The bloody gold faded along with the flesh of the demon. The corpse began to whither until there was nothing left but a dried husk, a paper thin skin like a dead locust wing.
Rosa was soon surrounded by ghostly forms, more than Allison could count. She took a second sack out of her pocket and scattered what looked like yellow cornmeal around and tossed it into the air. The spirits glided through the meal, dove and flitted like happy birds on a fine spring day.
“Go in peace,” she said.
Alison stared as the spirits fluttered then winked out until only one remained, a small boy. The boy smiled at Rosa, sad and sweet. The flames turned red and warm again and fought back the chill night and the darkness.
Rosa called out “Señor Allison. Go now, and don't look ba
ck.”
Allison walked towards the edge of the clearing where his horse waited, but he could not help but watch as Rosa went to her son. She took out one last thing from her pocket, a small bottle. She doused herself with the contents then walked into the fire and burst into flame.
Rosa, engulfed in flame, danced on the demon's husk corpse, measured steps as she sang softly. She kicked and danced and the dry mummified corpse became an inferno. She kicked the ashes and cinders to scatter in the wind and vanish like fireflies. She seemed to feel no pain. On the contrary, it seemed a joyful dance. When the corpse was nothing but a memory, her spirit son came into her arms and they embraced, flying apart in cinders and floating into the night sky.
Allison was stunned, yet exhilarated. They would say he was a madman back in Elizabethtown if he told the story of what had occurred this night.
He caught up with his horse and pulled the emergency bottle of whisky from his saddlebag. He took a long swallow, then mounted and turned north toward Lambert's saloon. Before he was halfway there he began stripping off his clothes.
“Camptown ladies sing dis song, doo-dah, doo-dah...” he sang, then Allison screamed at the moon hanging over the hills of Cimarron “Call me a liar you son’s of bitches! But you had better be ready to die!”
“Believe it or not, Most of this story is true. A couple of years back I was sipping on a much needed beer in Cimarron, NM at the saloon in the historic St. James Hotel when the barkeep related the story of Clay Allison's act of decapitation. We had decided to stop for a spell during a 3,000 mile motorcycle run. Now, whether that head talked or not is a matter of conjecture, or maybe a matter of how many beers you consume. But the bloody events of that night are still talked about to this day. Being the opportunistic writer I am, I figured I would team up with the lovely and talented Ms. Dean to tell the tale in our own way.” When Bill isn’t writing stories about mostly dead things, he is out on that motorcycle looking for more ideas.
“Bill and I share many things- beer, a love of spooky things and a brain. Granted, not everyone shares well, but we have it down to a science- mad science, that is. When he told me the Gentleman gunslinger story the enthusiasm rolled out and didn't stop until the end of the story you see before you. Keep your salt handy!” Sherri is a writer and illustrator, costumer and active member of genre fandom.
Decently and Quietly Dead
by
Matthew Baugh
“Dave Mather!”
The sheriff’s hand darted for the gun on his desk, but I was faster. He looked into the barrel of my .44 and decided that it wasn’t worth it. I took his gun and backed up a few steps.
There’s a reason I don’t come to Arkansas when I can help it. Some years ago, I was involved in a group of cattle rustlers along with Dirty Dave Rudabaugh and Milton Yarbrough. One night, Milt got it in his head to rob the home of a well to do rancher. The man came home unexpectedly and Milt panicked and shot a few holes in him. The three of us lit out for Texas after that. I hadn’t been back since.
“You’ve got some sand coming into my office like this,” the lawman said.
“Didn't think there’d be anyone who remembered that old wanted poster,” I replied.
“What do you want?”
I pulled a letter out of my coat pocket and tossed it to him.
The sheriff opened the note and read it. He was a medium sized man with a lot of swagger and a moustache that would have put Wyatt Earp’s to shame. Like a lot of lawmen I've known, he was trying too hard to prove how tough he was. I wear hair on my lip, too, but I'm not looking to prove anything to anyone. There are enough fights in my life that I can't avoid, there's no sense looking for more.
He looked up from the paper with a puzzled expression. “This says that you’ve been given a limited amnesty by Judge Isaac Parker and you’re one of his special deputies.”
I nodded and opened my coat to show him the federal badge I had pinned there. It felt funny to wear such a thing, given my past, but I did enjoy watching the sheriff’s expression change.
“I don’t know what this is about Mather,” he said, “but the Hanging Judge’s word carries a lot of sway in these parts. Why are you here?”
“I’m looking for a fugitive,” I replied. “He’s named Roger McMasters. Judge Parker convicted him of robbery, rape and murder up in the Indian Territory, but he managed to get away. The Judge heard that there was a man here in Bitter Water who might be McMasters. He sent me to check on it.”
The Sheriff nodded. “My name’s Rufus Teague,” he said and offered his hand. I shook it.
“I never heard of anyone escaping from Fort Smith,” Teague said. “How did he do it?”
“I was told that they hanged him,” I replied. “The doctor certified him dead. The undertaker was fitting a casket for him when he sat up. Scared the man half to death. McMasters rode off before anyone knew what was happening.”
“A dead man got up and left?” The Sheriff chuckled, but stopped when he looked me in the eye. “Are you serious?” he asked.
I was, but I couldn't think of anything to say that he would believe. For that matter, I didn't particularly care if he believed me, so long as he stayed out of my way.
“You say you think he’s in Bitter Water?” the sheriff asked.
“A drummer came to Fort Smith a couple of weeks ago. He said he recognized McMasters. Claimed that he'd set himself up here as a preacher, calling himself Brother Jehoiakim.”
“I know Jehoiakim,” Teague said, scowling. “He’s started some sort of church. Claims that he can do miracles and that he came back from the dead once.” He paused to rub his moustache in thought. “Do you reckon he's talking about what happened at Fort Smith?”
“Sounds like it.”
“But he couldn't really have done that...” He let the words trail off.
“Judge Parker's got the best hangman there is,” I said. “Do you think he could be wrong?”
Teague turned to his gun rack and rested his hands on a shotgun.
“That's crazy talk!” He put anger into his voice, but I could hear the fear it covered up. I couldn't blame him. If McMasters was anything like he seemed, I wasn't eager to face him either.
“What kind of miracles do they say he's done?” I asked.
“He handles rattlesnakes,” the lawman replied, “They say the bites don’t do anything to him. He lets people cut him with knives, then miraculously heals the wounds. Once, he supposedly had himself crucified, with railroad spikes driven through his hands and feet. When they pulled the spikes out, the wounds closed up, just like that.
“I even heard that he drinks their blood, then gives them his blood and little bits of his flesh when they worship, like a priest handing out communion. I always figured he was a smooth talker with some sideshow tricks, but there’s some people who think he’s the Second Coming. Then there's some who believe what Father Robles says, that he's the Anti-Christ.”
He looked to me, as if I could tell him more. I couldn't. I’d faced men before who'd made pacts with dark powers, but never anything like this. I didn't know if I could fight him, but it was that or prison.
“I’m going after him,” I said. “You’ve got jurisdiction here, so I'll back your play if you want to come. If you stand aside, I'm fine with taking him by myself.”
He scowled at me. “I don’t like it when a man lets on he thinks I’m a coward.”
“I don’t think anything, sheriff,” I said. “I’m just letting you know my intentions.”
He took down the shotgun and fished out a box of shells from his desk.
“How did you get this job, Mather?”
“I didn’t ask for it.”
He nodded. “Judge Parker would be a hard man to say no to. But why’d he pick you?”
“Did you ever hear of Cotton Mather?”
Teague thought about it for a moment. “Preacher man wasn’t he? Back in the old Salem Witch Trial days?”
“My ancesto
r,” I said. “I'm sort of in the same business. When the judge learned about that, he decided I was the right man for the job.”
What I told Teague was true, as far as it went, but it hadn't been so simple. I'd prefer not to be about my ancestor's business, but there hadn't been much choice. I’d been in the Indian Territory when a couple of the judge’s marshals had recognized me. Dave Bliss and One-Eyed Cogburn caught me in a vulnerable moment with a sporting woman. I wasn’t going to fight a hard pair like that without my pistols, so I surrendered.
When I heard of McMasters’ escape, I offered my services to the judge, providing he’d drop the old charges of robbery and murder. It took some convincing, but when I showed him the book old Cotton had left me as a legacy he seemed impressed.
“It seems your ancestor faced some fierce and unholy powers, Mr. Mather,” he said. “I confess I always believed that the Salem Trials were a superstitious miscarriage of justice. It is disconcerting to read that there is some measure of truth in the accusations.”
“Before his death, Cotton wrote that most of the people tried as witches were innocent,” I replied. “But some did make pacts with dark powers.”
“My recent experience with McMasters suggests to me that I should take this seriously, if for no other reason than the fact that it has allowed this criminal to escape my justice.”
The judge was a prim man with a neatly trimmed little beard and an icy gaze. He scanned me carefully before speaking again.
Six Guns Straight From Hell - Tales Of Horror And Dark Fantasy From The Weird Weird West Page 4
