by Carl Hose
As he neared the saloon, which should have been alive with loud-mouthed drunks and loose party girls, he dismounted and drew his Peacemaker.
A nearly-nude female stumbled out of the saloon. Jeremiah gawked at her, suddenly forgetting why it was he was standing in the middle of the street with his gun in his hand. Standing in front of him, tempting as all hell, was the second thing he wouldn’t pass up for any reason.
Jeremiah recognized the woman as Annabelle Wellington, known simply as Annie when she was shaking her wares and plying her trade on Saturday night.
“Annie, what in God’s name—”
She walked over to the sheriff, not the least bit ashamed of her naked breasts. Jeremiah stood stock still, half confused by her behavior, half ready to fuck her right here in the street, trouble be damned.
Annie lifted her breasts and squeezed them in her hands, twisting and pulling her erect nipples.
Jeremiah was already horny as a cactus, and Annie playing with her tits sure as hell didn’t help matters. He slipped his gun back in his holster and grabbed her tits, kneading the soft flesh and thumbing her hard nipples.
He felt her tits moving beneath his palms, and when he looked at her face, he could see something was moving beneath her pale, creamy skin. He heard the sound of her bones cracking, saw them shifting and reforming. Her arms twisted and began to elongate, stretching into something else—something definitely not human. Her face distorted and seemed like it was melting away, then razor-like incisors grew in her mouth as a snout formed. Course black hair began to cover what had once been smooth, supple female flesh.
Jeremiah stumbled backward, groping at his holster. Its transformation complete now, the demon coyote attacked, swiping one huge paw at Jeremiah, ripping through his shirt and leaving a bloody gash in his chest.
“Dezba,” came the booming voice of Manaba, who stepped from the darkness forged between the general store and the livery.
The Indian wore a headdress of flame-red feathers, adorned with horse hairs. Layers of tanned hides covered his body, and heavy strings of colorful beads were draped across his chest. At his side, lashed to his left arm, was a shield fashioned from bone, wood, and animal hides. In his right hand he held a tomahawk.
Dezba, still in coyote form, faced Manaba, snarling and foaming.
Manaba advanced on the demon skinwalker.
“You have danced with evil, my brother . . .”
Dezba continued snarling and snapping, thick saliva whipping from his mouth. Manaba held his ground, showing no fear of the beast.
“I have come to finish this,” Manaba said, speaking in a tone that suggested he was talking with someone who might be reasoned with.
The coyote crouched and then sprang, throwing itself at Manaba.
A gunshot erupted. The bullet struck the coyote in its side. It fell to the ground, stumbled to regain its balance, and turned on Jeremiah, who had his pistol sighted in on the beast for another shot.
The skinwalker attacked.
Jeremiah rolled sideways. The coyote landed beside him and turned quickly, its jaws snapping. Before Jeremiah could aim again, the skinwalker caught his wrist and bit down with crushing force, causing Jeremiah to let go of his gun.
The coyote swung back around to face Manaba. The brothers locked eyes for a long moment, man against beast, and then the coyote took off at a full run, lunging with force at Manaba.
Manaba stepped aside and swung the tomahawk, grazing the coyote’s side as the beast sailed past him. The coyote’s blood dripped from the sharp edge of the tomahawk blade. Manaba brought it high over his head and gripped the handle in a two-fisted hold. He planted his feet firm and waited for another attack.
The coyote lunged again. Manaba brought the tomahawk down in a slashing arc that caught the creature at the back of its neck. The heavy blade sliced through flesh and bone. The coyote’s head and body separated, slamming into the ground like sacks of dirt.
Manaba stepped over the decapitated corpse and knelt beside the head, which had already taken on the form of Dezba.
“You were once a proud warrior, my brother,” Manaba said. “You should not have given in to evil. You should not have forsaken peace. You should have let go of the greed, for greed eventually turns you into something beyond human. . . .”
Jeremiah lay on the ground not far away, a bandana wrapped around his damaged wrist. Manaba went to him and took a pouch from his waist. The pouch held a magic powder. Manaba sprinkled some into the palm of his hand and spread it over the sheriff’s wound.
“Stupidity has cost you many lives,” Manaba said to Jeremiah. “You will heal, and perhaps one day you will even learn to listen.”
Manaba rose and gathered the remains of the skinwalker. He tucked Dezba’s head under one arm, slung Dezba’s body over his shoulder, and headed back to where his people awaited his return. . . .
Hang ’Em High
Willie Boy McGee thought sure he had to be crazy to set foot in a town with a name like Hang ’Em High, what with his penchant for trouble and all, but what else could he do? He’d been riding for three days, and if he didn’t get some decent food and whiskey soon, likely as not somebody would up and find his bones scattered all over the prairie.
He felt eyes all over him as he made his way down the dusty main thoroughfare. These folks could smell trouble a mile away, no doubt about it, and most of them were already fitting him with a noose. Willie Boy damn near had second thoughts about making himself to home, but the hunger and thirst he felt was all the encouragement he needed to keep him going.
A saloon sat across the street at the far end of town, right along with all the whorehouses and gambling joints, and that was where Willie Boy belonged. He dismounted, tethered his horse, and went inside.
The saloon was crowded and smoky. Piano music filled the room in a honky tonk pattern, someone played a banjo right along with it, and a couple of bar whores danced for card-playing men who didn’t seem the least bit interested.
Willie Boy sidled up to the bar. “Hey, barkeep, gimme a hard shot,” he said.
The barkeep gave Willie Boy a sour look, reached under the bar, and came up with a glass and a bottle. He was about to pour when Willie Boy stopped him.
“On second thought, bring the whole damn bottle,” he said.
The barkeep set the bottle and glass in front of Willie with a thunk and went back to his business, which, near as Willie Boy could tell, didn’t amount to nothing more than polishing a few glasses and giving unfriendly looks to his patrons.
Willie Boy filled his glass and threw back the drink. He turned around to watch one of the women dance her way over to him. He patted her ass through her dress. She gave him a flirty wink. The name of the town might have given Willie Boy the heebie jeebies at first, but he was feeling a whole lot better about it now.
He took another gulp of whiskey and dug in his pockets, pulling out a few crumpled bills, which he held out to the woman, jerking his head in the direction of the stairs. Willie Boy was accustomed to joints like this, and he knew full well what sort of rooms were upstairs.
She took his money and headed off. Willie Boy followed her. The sounds of the saloon grew muted as they climbed to the second floor and went into one of the rooms where business was conducted.
“You sure are a pretty one,” Willie Boy said.
She smiled and took off her clothes. Willie’s eyes grew wide at the sight of her firm, pale breasts, pink nipples, slim waist, and the thick tangle of dark blonde curls on her womanly mound. Food and whiskey wasn’t the only things he’d been deprived of, and after Willie Boy pumped the well the first time around, he went back for a second round, then he helped himself to a third.
It was more than two hours later when Willie Boy stumbled out of the bar. He felt good. The whiskey and women part of his needs were satisfied. Now all he needed was a good meal and he could be on his—
“Where the hell’s my goddamn horse?” he asked, dumbfounded
Willie Boy looked left and right. He walked to the spot where his horse had been tethered, as if standing there would make the animal reappear. “Where’s my goddamn horse?” he said again, this time raising his voice so everybody on the main street could hear him.
Two drunks stumbled out of the saloon. One of them bumped Willie Boy.
“My goddamn horse is done been took,” Willie Boy hollered at the drunk.
“I didn’t take ’er,” the drunk slurred.
Willie Boy huffed and took off walking, heading back down to the main section of town. Strange, he noticed as he stomped right down the middle of the street, but there was nary a horse in sight.
He found a plump sweaty man working at the livery, standing next to a fire, beating hot metal into the shape of a horseshoe, which didn’t make a whole lot of sense to Willie, seeing as how there weren’t hide nor hair of a horse anywhere in the barn either.
“You ain’t got no horses?” Willie Boy asked, perplexed.
The blacksmith shook his head as he continued forming the horseshoe. “Ain’t a horse in town,” he said, all casual like.
“I had me a horse,” Willie Boy said. “I rode in on one, and now the dang thing ain’t nowheres to be found, and it’s startin’ to piss me off.”
The blacksmith shrugged.
“You ain’t seen my horse?”
The blacksmith shook his head.
“And you ain’t got a horse I can buy?”
The blacksmith gave Willie Boy a look that made him feel halfway to ignorant. Willie Boy didn’t know what else to say, so he turned and high-tailed it out of there, making a straight line for the sheriff. Surely there was something the law could do about a situation like this.
The sheriff was a bald man with more gut than anything. His head looked too small for his body, and he had eyes like a ferret. He was sitting behind his desk, lazy as all get out, and he looked agitated when he saw Willie.
“My goddamn horse done got took, Sheriff,” Willie Boy said. “You aim to do somethin’ about that?”
The sheriff leaned back in his chair, laced his hands on top of his round belly, and shook his head slowly.
“No?” Willie Boy said with disbelief. “You got a horse thief runnin’ around and you ain’t gonna do nothin’?” Willie Boy took off his hat and scratched the back of his head in frustration. “Well, then, just suppose I take the law into my own hands? Huh? How would that be, Sheriff?”
The sheriff shrugged his shoulders and took a thin brown smoke from his shirt pocket. He stuck it in his mouth and chewed on it without lighting up.
Willie Boy just shook his head in astonishment and stormed out. If he had stayed around, he might have throttled the lawman, and the last thing he needed was to be locked up in a cell for the night.
Outside the sheriff’s office, Willie Boy glared at everybody he saw. They all looked like horse thieves to him, men, women, and children alike. He made his way down the street and into Sam’s Sundry, taking off his hat to wipe his brow as he examined the cluttered store.
“Help you?” the round-faced man behind the counter asked.
“Not unless you got a horse,” Willie Boy said.
“Pardon?”
“Just never you mind,” Willie Boy said. “I’m hungry. You got anything to put a dent in my belly?”
“Matter of fact, I have something I think you’ll enjoy.” The store clerk unscrewed a glass jar on the counter and offered it to Willie Boy. “I make the best dried meat west of the Mississippi.”
“Jerky?” Willie Boy said, wrinkling his nose. “I’ve ’bout had my fill of jerky. I need somethin’ good and hot. There somethin’ in here that comes close to that?”
“You’re new in town,” the clerk noted, a look of interest coming over his face.
“And soon to be on my way out if I can figger out where my horse went,” Willie Boy confirmed.
“Missing a horse, are you?” The clerk scratched his chin and thought a moment, then he said, “I’ll make you a deal. You try my jerky and tell me what you think of it, then we’ll ride out to my farm for a hot meal. You can get a good night’s rest and ride out in the morning, on a horse I’ll be happy to furnish you free of charge.”
Willie Boy narrowed his eyes at the man. “You wanna tell me why you’d do all that for a stranger?” he asked.
“Because, my boy, I make the best jerky west of the Mississippi, and the way I see it, you look like a man who moves around a lot. It seems good business to get you all fired up about my jerky, don’t it? You’re likely to spread the word.”
Willie Boy thought about it. It made sense to him, and besides, it was the best offer he’d had since his horse went missing. “Alright,” he said, “I’ll try the damn jerky, but only ’cause I need me a horse. I ain’t stickin’ around this godforsaken town a day longer ’n I have to.”
The clerk took a big piece of greasy meat from the jar and handed it to Willie Boy, watching carefully as Willie Boy took a bite. He didn’t seem the least bit surprised when a big smile spread over Willie Boy’s face.
“Did I speak the truth?” the clerk said. “Isn’t it the best you ever had?”
Willie Boy nodded enthusiastically. “I’ll be damned, this is about as good as anything I ever ate,” he said.
He tore off another piece, chewed, and swallowed in a hard gulp.
“It’s closing time,” the clerk said. “I’ll lock up. We’ll be on our way.”
While the clerk went about securing the store, Willie Boy finished his jerky and helped himself to another piece. He thought sure he’d had his fill of dry meat on the trail, but damn him if he couldn’t eat this stuff all night.
“Name’s Franklin,” the clerk said. “My horse and buggy are out back.”
“Sign says Sam’s Sundry.”
“Sam sounds better than Franklin, don’t you think?”
“I reckon,” Willie Boy said, following Franklin out of the store.
Willie Boy was more than a little relieved when they were on the skinny dirt road leading out of town, heading west. Willie Boy hated the bumpy ride, but he’d stomach it for a free meal, a horse, and more of that jerky. He had to admit, it really was the best jerky west of the Mississippi. Hell, it was the best he’d tasted anywhere, come to that. He figured he’d talk the dumb-ass clerk into loading him up with some jerky by convincing him it would be good for business.
It was near dark when they finally arrived at a little white house west of town. Franklin started a fire and made coffee. He fixed up a pot of hot stew and served it with hard biscuits. Willie Boy dug in. His stomach rumbled as it worked to digest the grub.
“Get a good night’s rest,” Franklin said when dinner was finished, “You can set off in the morning with a fresh horse and plenty of jerky.”
“’Preciate the hospitality,” Willie Boy said in between bites.
Franklin showed Willie Boy to a back room furnished with nothing more than a small bed and a little table. After long nights riding the trail, Willie was more than grateful for the comfort. He shucked down to his red long johns and climbed into bed, and before he could count five, he was out cold, with visions of the sweet whore at the saloon shaking her titties in his face.
Something woke him not long after. He wasn’t sure, but he reckoned it was a scream. He got up and stumbled over to look out the window. It was dark as a tit in a well out there. He bobbed and weaved, trying to see through the pitch black.
Another sound came to him then. A dull sort of pounding. He made his way through the dark, unfamiliar house, out to the front porch. Pale moonlight cast shadow and light patterns over everything. Willie could hear the pounding a little louder now, though he had a hard time figuring out what direction it was coming from. He cocked his ear to locate its direction, then stepped off the porch and followed the noise around to the side of the house. There was a barn out yonder, yellow-orange light flickering inside. The pounding came from there, no doubt about it.
Willie Boy made for the barn. What in hell is somebody doing out this time of night? Willie thought. He decided to check it out, and while he was at it, maybe get a look at the horse he’d be riding out on in the morning. He hoped it was a good one. Beggars couldn’t be too choosy, but—
Willie Boy’s lights went out as soon as he entered the barn. When he came to, he saw Franklin looming over him, aiming a Spencer rifle dead between his eyes.
The man who made the best jerky west of the Mississippi was grinning from ear to ear. “I’m sorry you walked in on this before I was ready for you,” Franklin said, waving one hand around the barn to indicate what he’d been up to.
Willie Boy made a half-hearted effort to stand. His head throbbed and his eyes felt like they were crossed and stuck that way. He shook it off and was able to make out the shape of a table beyond Franklin, and something on the table that looked like a lump of—
“Holy God,” Willie Boy said, suddenly hit with the sick realization that what he saw on the table was a human corpse skinned right to the bone.
The missing strips of flesh were laying off to one side, slapped in haphazard stacks and still dripping with blood and fat strings.
“You’re plum outta your gourd, fella,” Willie Boy said.
His stomach lurched and he swallowed hard to keep down the vile worming its way up his throat.
“Found myself a decent business, my friend. Horse and human meat blended and spiced just right. I make the best jerky there is.”
Willie rose slowly to his feet. “I’m gettin’ my ass—”
Thwack.
The butt of the rifle caught Willie Boy in the forehead. His knees buckled and he collapsed. His vision went blurry. He fought to stay conscious. Did his very best, in fact, but he was fading fast. He caught a glimpse of Franklin before he went out. The man was grinning and sharpening knives.
Knives with long blades.
Willie Boy was about to become legend.
He was about to become some of the best jerky west of the Mississippi.
