The Lon Williams Weird Western Megapack. Lon Williams
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hadn’t heard, I’m Doc Bogannon. Now then, I’d be obliged if you’d just haul off and tell me your name, what your trouble is, and whether it’s something I can do to help out.”
Eyebrows went up and remained so for many seconds. “My name? According to most reliable sources, it is Horner—Scoby Grimstead Horner. I wouldn’t vouch for it absolutely, but according to my information and belief, that’s it.”
“That ought to satisfy most people,” Bogie commented gently. “It’s not customary around here to demand birth certificates. Indeed, it’s a question how many men pass under their true colors. More than a few, I’d say, are known otherwise than they were christened. You inward or outwards bound?”
“Depends on your point of view,” Horner replied, eyebrows lowering slightly. “When I began my journey, I was undoubtedly outward bound. With respect to Forlorn Gap, I was until now inward bound.”
Bogie nodded in appreciation. “As matters now stand, you’re a voyager in horse latitudes.”
“Horse latitudes? Never heard of ’em.”
“It’s a manner of speaking,” said Bogie, arms folded across his chest. “It means that possibly you’re stranded, doldrum-struck, or just plain undecided.”
It was Horner’s turn to nod appreciation. “That’s it. I’m undecided! You see, only recently, due to my grandfather’s generosity, I’ve come into considerable money. My grandfather always said that if you have money, make it work for you; invest it, put it to interest, for money makes money. Well, when my grandfather willed me this money, I says to m’self, I says, ‘Scoby, put it to work.’ And what better place, I asked myself, is there to put money to work than where there’s gold? It took me a long time to make up my mind, but when I did make it up, I started—I moved. And here I am in Forlorn Gap.”
Doc Bogannon wrinkled his big forehead and scratched a corner of it. “Seems to me you quit moving a mite too soon. Gold-mining has sort of petered out in these parts.”
Horner twisted slightly in his chair and looked at Doc understandingly. “That’s just it. This is not where I meant to stop. However, my gallant horse cantered into this town at a time when I was completely undecided.”
“About what?”
“Well, about whether I should go to Elkhorn Pass or to Pangborn Gulch. Since I could not make up my mind, I stopped here to remain until I could reach a decision. I understand there’s gold at both places; men getting rich, mining companies being organized, everybody alive with enthusiasm and a rushing boom of good times. But which one shall I go to?”
Bogie shook his head. “Quite a question. Why not toss a coin?”
“And leave it to chance? I was never one to do that.”
Doc’s batwings squeaked on their hinges and Deputy Marshal Lee Winters strode in. He was a six-foot, lean, weather-beaten veteran who took in everything at a glance. “A drink, Doc.”
“Whiskey or wine?”
“Wine. I’m getting off of whiskey.”
Bogie poured a glass of wine. “That’s strange news. Been seeing ghosts, I suppose.”
Winters sipped wine. “Now, Doc, you know there ain’t no such things as ghosts. They just exist in men’s minds; you’ve always said so.”
“And I say it again,” declared Bogie.
Winters turned slowly and stared at the gopher-like character at a table. “Friend of yours, Doc?”
“Oh, yes,” said Bogie. “Horner’s his name. At least every presumption points in that direction. Mr. Horner, this is my friend, Deputy Marshal Winters.”
Horner’s eyebrows went up. Otherwise he did not move.
“Horner?” said Winters. “I’ve heard of him. My ma always called him little Jack. Way I heard it, he sat in a corner a heap. Would you have a drink with me, Mr. Horner?”
Scoby Horner considered it. “Maybe I would, and maybe I wouldn’t.”
That struck Winters as slightly peevish. It was slightly irritating, too. “Now, sir, I consider that remark right enlightenin’.” He put down his empty glass and laid a coin beside it.
Three strangers drifted in and took a table some distance back. They looked tough, but as far as Winters could see, none of them bore a “wanted” face. They carried heavy armament, but so did all men thereabouts. One of them signaled for liquor.
“Any news, Doc?” Winters asked as Doc loaded a tray.
“Nothing new,” said Doc. He glanced at Little Jack Horner, considered whether he was sufficiently unusual to be further pressed upon Winters, but shook his head. “No, Winters, nothing new.”
Winters told him goodnight and went out.
* * * *
Doc Bogannon delivered his tray of drinks and returned to tidy up before closing time. He turned as his batwings swung inward and a stranger walked confidently in.
And here was a character, if ever was, thought Doc. He was dressed like something out of a bandbox—black suit and boots, black silk hat, stiff-bosom white shirt, collar with wings turned down and snugged with a black bowtie. His hair was black and long, with burnsides that ran down on a level with his smooth, slightly puckered lips. His dark eyes had a luster like polished agate. “Good evening, sirs,” he said airily.
A jaunty voice came back from Bogie’s direction. “Good evening, Professor Boro; glad to see you.”
This airy newcomer glanced down at Scoby Horner. “And how are you, my excellent friend?” Scoby’s eyebrows arched. He replied noncommittally, “That would be hard to say.” Professor Boro laid an elbow on Doc’s shiny bar. He smiled at Doc. “It’s quite apparent that my diminutive friend here is in some sort of distress. Fortunately, it is a part of my mission in life to minister to troubled spirits. Let me have two glasses and a bottle of wine.”
Doc set them up and took Boro’s money. A voice fell gently from Bogie’s lips, “You’re a noble person, Professor Boro; we need more like you.” Doc rubbed a hand across his mouth. He didn’t quite get it. Maybe he ought to go and talk things over with Deputy Winters, a man who’d had experience with spooks. These ghosts that made a man talk, whether or no, had him stumped.
Professor Boro, bottle under his left arm and both glasses in his left hand, extended his right to Little Jack Horner. “My friend, let’s talk it over.” As Horner hesitated, he pulled gently. That was sufficient.
They sat at an isolated table and drank wine. “Now,” said Boro, “what is your problem?”
Horner, appreciative of Boro’s persuasive friendliness, confided in his benefactor. “I’m stranded, languishing in horse latitudes, so to speak.”
“You mean you can’t make up your mind about something?”
“That’s it.” Horner told his generous and honest friend all about it; of his rich and wise grandfather, of his own good fortune, of his journey, and of his present indecision. “And now,” he added sadly, “with ten thousand dollars in my pocket and a determination to invest it, I can’t decide which mining town to go to.”
Boro had put a hand over his mouth. He coughed gently. “You are right in seeking investments. And you actually have ten thousand dollars—on your person?”
“I do. I considered putting it in a bank, but could never make up my mind to do so.”
Boro leaned forward and became confidential. “I confess to a similar fault, only I carry slightly more than you do; namely, fifty thousand.”
Horner’s eyebrows arched. “That’s a lot of money.”
Professor Boro looked disconsolate. “But not enough.” He glanced warily