by Carl Hose
By morning, all was quiet again. The few bone fragments left over from Buck Tyler lay scattered about the floor of the mine, along with the nuggets he’d stuck in his pockets. One of the fat, greasy creatures took a nugget in its mouth and slithered up to the entrance of the mine. The slug slithered outside long enough to leave the gold nugget in view, then it disappeared into the mine again, waiting for another fool in search of gold . . .
End of the Line for the One-O-Nine
Garrett McCoy paused a moment to take in the sight of Dry Gulch. He nudged his gelding and headed down the main street of the bustling little town, keeping his eyes peeled for the train depot. He was a little late but expected Roy and Pete would still be waiting for him.
He found the train station at the north end of town. A short, fat man sat behind the ticket counter. Two women sat on a bench along one wall, luggage at their feet, waiting for the next train.
Garrett lit a smoke and went to the ticket counter. “Lookin’ for a couple friends,” he said to the ticket agent.
The man looked up from his newspaper. “Help ya if I can,” he drawled.
“One is a tall sorta fella with a beard and mustache, the other’s a little guy with big ears. You seen ’em?”
“I seen ’em,” the ticket man said. “Lit out of here ’bout half an hour ago, headin’ east, I make it. Askin’ about the One-O-Nine.”
“Why east, you reckon?” Garrett asked, though he had a pretty good idea.
“The One-O-Nine comes through the tunnel there. Made your friends real happy to know it. Up to no good, I figure. Told the sheriff, but he don’t care none. Says the One-O-Nine is gov’ment property, ain’t none of his concern.”
“’Preciate the help, fella,” Garrett said. He headed outside, tipping his hat at the ladies as he went. The women were flattered and went into a fit of giggling.
Outside, Garrett unhitched his gelding and climbed into the saddle. He pointed the horse east and nudged him in the flanks. Those two idiots weren’t about to bilk him out of his share of government gold. He’d shoot them and leave them for buzzard bait before that happened.
Nobody ripped off Garrett McCoy.
* * *
“Let me get this straight,” Pete said, leaning up to look over the edge of the bluff. “When the train comes outta the tunnel, we jump off here and land on it?”
“When I give the word, not before,” Roy said. “Dumb as you are, you’ll jump at the wrong time and get yerself kilt.”
Pete settled back, scratched his ass, and said, “You got a smoke?”
Roy dug out two smokes and handed one to Pete. They lit up. “I think we made a good decision to cut McCoy outta the picture,” Pete said.
“We didn’t cut ’im out, I did,” Roy said. “I got too much invested in this thing to share the pie with some show off like McCoy. Hell, I’m the one did all the settin’ up. How many days you figger I spent in Dry Gulch just gatherin’ up information to pull this off?” He scoffed. “No, I ain’t sharin’ with a no-account like McCoy, and you’re damn lucky I’m sharin’ with you. If you wasn’t my flesh ’n’ blood, I’d cut you out just the same.”
“I ’preciate it, Roy. I surely do,” Pete said.
“Then shut yer trap and look for the train, would ya?”
Silence hung between the two for several minutes. Finally they heard it, the whistle of a train in the distance. Roy checked his rifle. Pete followed suit. The train’s whistle grew louder.
“Remember, don’t do nothin’ ’til I give the word,” Roy said.
The train was in the tunnel below them now. Roy edged up and looked over the bluff. He saw the steam engine come out of the tunnel, followed by two box cars and a baggage car.
“Now,” Roy yelled over the clackity-clack of the train’s wheels.
He threw himself over the edge. Pete was right behind him. They hit the tracks one right after the other, their knees buckling under the impact.
Roy landed on his shoulder and lost most of his breath, but he managed to roll. Pete wasn’t so lucky. His legs twisted at obscene angles, with bone fragments peeking through the ripped flesh.
“Where’d it go?” Pete screamed, groping at his torn-up legs. “Jesus, I waited like ya said. I waited like ya told me, but there wasn’t no train.” He was bawling and blubbering like a baby now. “Oh shit, my legs, Roy, I can’t feel my legs.”
Roy’s shoulder felt like it was dislocated, but he was alive, and that was something. He used his good arm to push himself up. “Hold on, I’m—”
Then the train whistle drowned out Roy’s voice. The two men saw it coming from the mouth of the tunnel again, barreling straight for them . . .
* * *
. . . Garrett heard the train whistle as he slid from his saddle. He looked over the bluff and saw what looked like scattered raw meat. He looked up in time to see the tail end of the One-O-Nine. He recognized it by its government markings. Before he had a chance to think about what might have gone wrong, the One-O-Nine disappeared into thin air, even though Garrett could still hear its whistle blowing and its wheels clanging against the rails.
He worked his way down a sharp slope that came out at the mouth of the tunnel, then he crossed to the tracks and knelt to investigate some of the flesh and bone mess he found. Closer inspection revealed a shredded finger or two, a bunch of bloody teeth, and what looked to him like a man’s most prized possession.
“I’ll be damned,” he mumbled out loud.
Only one thing Garrett could do now and that was ride back to Dry Gulch. The One-O-Nine was long gone. The government gold was lost. He knew it just as sure as he knew he could shine a monkey’s ass in May.
He mounted up and headed for Dry Gulch, cussing himself the whole way for hooking up with those two fools. Roy had been the one to get the information on the gold shipment, but it was Garrett’s planning that made the whole thing possible. He should’ve cut those two out long ago. He didn’t much care they were dead now, but losing the loot hurt like hell.
He made plans on his way back to town. He could hit the bank in Dry Gulch. It was a small town. No way a bank job was going to make up for the lost gold, but it was better than walking away empty handed.
He drew his gelding to an abrupt halt at the town limits of Dry Gulch. His eyes had to be playing tricks on him. There was nothing left here but a ghost town. He nudged his gelding down what had once been the main street. Not much of it left now. A few burned-out dilapidated buildings and not a person in sight.
The train station he’d just left less than forty-five minutes ago was in the same state of disrepair as the rest of Dry Gulch. Garrett hitched his gelding and went inside. Dust particles floated on the last streams of daylight that filtered in through slatted windows. The planks of wood squeaked and buckled under Garrett’s feet as he moved across the floor.
An aged newspaper lay on the ticket counter. Its headline read: WOULD-BE OUTLAWS BUMBLE TRAIN HOLDUP. Garrett scanned the article, which stated that two outlaws had misjudged and jumped in front of the One-O-Nine in an apparent holdup attempt of a government train carrying a cargo of gold. The attempted hold-up would have been the third in the same area in a two-month period, and one of a hundred such incidents that year. The article also stated that the One-O-Nine had jumped rail, and that the United States Government would no longer use the route running through Dry Gulch.
A second newspaper, dated one month later, lay on the floor at Garrett’s feet. He picked it up and read the headline: DRY GULCH DRIES UP. The article cited the government’s decision to abandon the route running through Dry Gulch as the reason a number of other train lines chose to forgo the Dry Gulch route, which in turn created an unstable economy and forced Dry Gulch residents to abandon the once-thriving town.
“You still lookin’ for your friends?”
The voice startled Garrett. He turned and saw the fat ticket agent standing just inside the doorway, giving Garrett a curious look.
“What the h
ell’s goin’ on here?” Garrett asked.
“You don’t know?” the ticket agent asked.
“If I knew, I sure as hell wouldn’t ask you, now would I?”
“You’re dead,” the ticket agent informed Garrett.
“Dead? What the hell are you talkin’ about?”
“The sheriff got ya. He found out about your plan, tried to stop ya before you got to the train, but you went for your gun. He beat ya to it, though. Always was a fast one with them six-shooters.”
“I never made it to the train?”
“Nope, you never did,” the ticket agent said. “Never made it outta Dry Gulch. No worry, though. Your friends didn’t get the loot either.” The ticket agent indicated the newspaper with a slight nod. “Guess you already know that, though. They jumped right in front of the train, and not too much further down, the One-O-Nine jumped track and went over the edge of the mountain.”
“How long ago?”
“Been two years now,” the ticket agent said. “You gotta let it go, Garrett McCoy. Two years ago was the end of the line for the One-O-Nine, and now it’s time you took your place beside her.”
“What about the gold?” Garrett asked.
“Gov’ment never did recover it all, I don’t guess. Not that it matters none to you—or me, for that matter. We’re both dead. It’s time to go.”
Garrett blinked and the ticket agent was gone. He held his hands in front of his face and watched as they began to shimmer and fade.
“This ain’t happenin’,” he said. “I want my gold. I didn’t come all this way to ride off with nothin’.”
Somewhere in the distance the One-O-Nine blew her whistle.
Garrett’s arms became transparent and then vanished. The rest of him started thinning and fading away, and as Garrett left this world behind, the One-O-Nine’s whistle vanished with him. . . .
Little Town of Aleone
Aleone was a bustling town in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nothing but hills and gold mines. Frank Talbott rode into town early one afternoon. He left his horse at the livery, draped his saddlebags over his shoulder, and carried his Winchester loose at his side as he headed for the café.
The place was crowded. Frank took a table with a good view of the street. It was a habit he’d grown accustomed to in his travels.
The pretty young brunette who took his order was none too friendly. Her smile was forced and her manner was tense. It didn’t much matter to Frank, though. Small talk wasn’t his priority. After seven days on the trail eating dried beef and hard biscuits, all he cared about was a thick steak, fried potatoes, and coffee.
He ate his meal slowly, savoring each bite, laid his money on the table, then rolled a smoke. He finished his smoke with a second cup of coffee at a leisurely pace, then grabbed his things and headed over to the hotel to book a room.
The short, fat clerk behind the check-in desk barely glanced at Frank.
“Like a room facin’ the street,” Frank said.
He laid money on the counter. The clerk took it, returned some change, and said, “Second floor, first door on the right.”
Frank settled into his room, had another smoke, then made a trip to the saloon to quench his thirst. He found the place nearly deserted. Two old coots sat playing cards at a corner table, a pudgy man was playing piano, and the barkeep was polishing glasses behind the counter.
Frank ordered a shot of rye, threw it back, and paid for a second. He glanced back at the old timers playing cards and saw that they were watching him. He shrugged it off and enjoyed his second rye. People watching him was something Frank was used to. He stirred an uncertain edge in people wherever he went.
One of the old coots playing cards came over and sat on the stool beside Frank. Though Frank continued drinking his whiskey casually, he was aware of the close proximity of the old man, and not real happy about it.
“They’s beings from another planet here,” the old coot said.
Frank gave him a level look. “That a fact?” he asked in as conversational a manner as he could muster under the circumstance.
“They’s out in the mines and under the ground, and they got us workin’ to supply ’em with gold so’s they can use it for a power source,” the old coot pressed on.
“Sounds like a raw deal all the way around,” Frank replied, motioning the barkeep to bring the bottle back around.
“Don’t listen to ol’ Jed,” the barkeep said. “He drinks too much and don’t know what he’s talkin’ about.”
“You know that ain’t true,” Jed said. He turned on his stool and called over to the old man he’d been playing cards with. “Tell ’im about the space critters, Hank, will ya, so’s I ain’t lookin’ like a dang fool.”
“True enough,” Hank said, scratching his chin, still looking at his cards. “They came down from the sky coupla weeks ago.”
“You’re both out of your minds,” the barkeep said.
Frank threw back his last round of rye, set the glass down hard, and said, “I’ll leave the three of ya to hash this out. I need a nap.”
He was just about to leave when he saw the prettiest thing come out of the back room. She was blonde, with the palest blue eyes and the best smile he’d seen on a woman in a long time. She was doing her best to carry a wooden crate of whiskey bottles.
“Let me help ya with that,” Frank said, hurrying to relieve her of the crate.
They exchanged a quick look, then Frank carried the crate full of whiskey to the counter and set it down.
“Thanks, mister,” she said. “You just get here?”
“I did,” Frank said. “Name’s Frank Talbott.”
“I’m Mary.”
“Mary’s my daughter,” the barkeep put in.
Frank ignored him. “Good to meet you, ma’am.”
He tipped his hat and left the saloon.
Mary watched him go, unable to resist a slight smile. What she saw was a good-looking stranger who might have what it took to be the town’s saving grace.
The barkeep saw the smile on his daughter’s face and recognized it for what it was. “You be careful,” he said to her.
“Don’t you worry about me, Daddy,” she said. “I can take care of myself.”
* * *
Frank heard movement outside his door. He drew his Colt and opened the door quickly, set for a confrontation.
Mary fell into the room. Frank caught her before she hit the floor, swinging her around to face him. “What are ya doin’ creepin’ around?” he asked.
“I wasn’t creeping,” she said.
“Well, you weren’t knockin’.”
“I wasn’t sure you were awake.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“It’s okay. I got my rest.”
“I need your help,” she told him.
“My help? With what?”
He holstered his gun.
“There are things going on in this town,” she began, choosing her words carefully. “Things that ain’t right. What I mean to say is, we have visitors here from another world.”
Frank lit a cigarillo.
“You smokin’ the same wacky weed as the old coots?”
“I know it’s hard to believe,” she said, “but it’s true.”
“Your daddy don’t think so,” Frank said.
“My daddy is afraid of what will happen if we cause trouble,” she said. “Everybody is. Nobody will do anything. They’re all afraid.”
Frank drew smoke from his cigarillo, inhaled deeply, and let the smoke go as he thought over what she was telling him. “And where might I find these beings from another world?” he finally asked.
“Well, there are two that stand guard outside one of the mines south of here. Those are all I’ve ever seen, but then there’s something underground. Some kind of beast with tentacles. It comes up every so often to feed.”
“And just what in the hell does an alien
being feed on?”
“Us. . . .”
* * *
Frank crossed the street to the livery. The stout Irishman who’d taken charge of his horse earlier was stacking hay bales.
“Need to speak with you,” Frank said.
Timothy O’Grady turned away from his work and wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of one large hand. “How can I help you?”
“Mary tells me you got visitors in town . . .”
“That’s right.”
“She thinks I can help with the problem.”
“Best of luck to ya,” O’Grady said.
“I was hopin’ I could get your help,” Frank said.
“Won’t do any good.”
“You’ll sit here and watch people die. . .”
“Mister, let me tell you somethin’,” O’Grady said. “I tried, and when I did, I lost my wife for the trouble. That thing came out of the ground and swallowed her.”
“My condolences,” Frank said. Much as he could use the help, he could see the Irishman’s point of view.
O’Grady smiled weakly. “I’m sorry, really. I wish I could help.”
“It’s all right,” Frank said, laying a hand on the big man’s shoulder.
* * *
Frank slid from the saddle of his horse and peered around the side of the mine. Two of the creatures stood post, tall, scaly, with mottled green skin and no eyes. Each possessed two pair of tentacles. Their legs were short, with clawed feet. Damned ugly was Frank’s take on them.
He drew his Colt and stepped around the side of the mine, placing himself in direct line of the creatures’ sights.
He sighted in on one of the ugly critters and fired a round. The bullet struck the thing, but it kept coming. Frank fired two more shots, this time knocking the slimy green thing on its ass.
The second one almost made it to Frank. Its tentacles whipped toward him. Frank ducked one as it swished over his head. He came up quickly and emptied his gun. The alien staggered backward and landed beside its buddy.
