The Lon Williams Weird Western Megapack. Lon Williams
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saw them leave together. Being busy with a bar customer, he thought nothing of it, though afterwards he wondered if at last Little Jack Horner had made up his mind.
* * * *
Horner himself wasn’t sure. As he and Professor Boro rode toward Elkhorn Pass by moonlight, he had a most queer feeling. Possibly he’d drunk too much wine; he wasn’t habitually a drinker at all. But his queer feeling concerned Professor Boro. He was thinking of Boro not as a man, but as Old Scratch, dressed up as a man. He’d heard of things like that.
Then, when they were passing close to a cliff, Horner heard a short, toneless voice. “Going somewhere, strangers?”
Boro pulled his horse up sharply. “Did you hear something, Horner?”
“I most certainly did. A voice came right out of that cliff.”
“Extraordinary,” murmured Boro. “We’d better circle around this spot.”
Horner heard it again. “Yes, circle around. A good idea.”
Boro reined in close to Horner, who’d stopped just ahead. “Did you hear it again?”
“Most certainly did. What is more, I’m heading back; I’ve changed my mind.”
But he had a new strange feeling suddenly, a feeling of something hard against his back. Professor Boro was crowding him. “You’re riding into that small cove of pines by yon cliff, friend Horner. We were going into business together; remember? Not that I need a partner exactly; what I need is money.” Hidden by cove and pines, he nudged Horner’s back. “Hand it over, Mr. Horner.” Little Jack said over his shoulder, “But you have fifty thousand; isn’t that enough?”
“It would be, if I had it. As matters stand, I have nothing.”
“As matters stand, you will still have nothing.”
“What are you saying, Horner?”
“My yarn about having ten thousand was merely to catch crooks who fish for suckers; I’m practically penniless.”
Boro’s voice and manner were ferocious. “Then why did you ride with me?”
Horner’s voice disclosed an unsuspected ferocity of his own. “To get your fifty thousand.” His actions were as quick as his words. His horse leaped against that of Boro, a six-gun appeared in his hand, and cove and pines filled with gun-roar and acrid black smoke.
* * * *
Deputy Lee Winters regarded himself as a lucky man. For one thing, he’d married a beautiful widow, and she’d turned out to be a gentle, loving wife. He’d received as a dowry a mining claim which her deceased husband had owned, also a nice cottage with an upstairs half-story bedroom where they slept. That way they could lock their downstairs shutters and, upstairs, sleep with open windows.
Winters was not asleep. A wind-shift brought a breeze from straight west; mountain air, clean, health-giving. Nights when it came across Alkali Flat, it carried stinging dust and ghostly voices. But tonight, as if funneled down from Elkhorn Pass, it carried a sound more deadly, though less ethereal, than when it swept across Alkali Flat. Winters heard gunshots, two that came almost as one, then three that were spaced with slow, deliberate evenness. Out of that sequence he spelled a fight; one man dead, a single survivor, angry and cruel, doing murder when he could have shown mercy.
Next morning a stagecoach from Brazerville brought Winters a fresh supply of posters—pictures of wanted monkeys who might turn up one place as well as another. Some he hoped would turn up elsewhere than Forlorn Gap. Vicious killers, they were, gun-slicks and fast riders. A letter from, Marshal Hugo Landers was more in point, though not exactly to his liking. It read: Wells-Fargo has reported a number of mysterious killings on its northern route out of Pangborn Gulch. That’s not in your bailiwick, of course, but better keep your eye peeled. These sneak murderers have a way of shifting about. Nuts usually, for that reason hard to size up. Yours truly, Hugo Landers.
Winters spread them on his office table, a long line of posters, about as mean looking a bunch of no-goods as he’d seen in years. Then one of them gave him a start; he would have sworn it jumped at him. It was a picture of a middle-aged dude with dark wavy hair, sideburns, large, expressive eyes, and thin, slightly puckered lips. Its subtitle read: Chaney Few, alias Dr. Goodpasture, alias Professor Boro. Six-feet-two. One hundred eighty pounds. Circus performer, magician, ventriloquist.
Ventriloquist! It was that word that gave Winters a chill. He hadn’t seen this Chaney Few, alias Dr. Goodpasture, but he’d heard him—he’d heard his voice coming out of a cliff.
Winters put away his posters and sleeved his face of cold sweat. He’d made tracks for Forlorn Gap, and that was why he had circulation right then, instead of rigor mortis.
But he had to make a trip to Midway Junction, on Brazerville Road. Because his trip resulted in an arrest and delivery of a prisoner to Brazerville, Winters was gone two days.
* * * *
His return was late, almost midnight, and time for a nightcap with Doc Bogannon.
“Winters!” Bogie exclaimed, when his batwings swung in. “I was just about to close up. Sit down, and we’ll have a nightcap on me.”
“And that will be a genuine pleasure,” said Winters, although he was not conscious of his having said it, and it was hardly his manner of speaking.
Another voice said airily, “Good evening, gentlemen. May I join you?”
Doc Bogannon stared at his newest customer. “Professor Boro, as I live! Join us, by all means.” He hurried around with a wine bottle and three glasses. “Deputy Winters, meet my friend Professor Boro.”
Winters had sat down. He didn’t get up, and he didn’t shake hands. “Boro, eh? When did you become a friend to Professor Boro?”
Doc put down his bottle and glasses. “It’s a manner of speaking. I look upon all customers as friends.” Doc’s mouth opened and his eyes bugged. It was queer, how words dropped from his lips when he wasn’t even thinking about them.
Boro slid easily into a chair. “An excellent philosophy, friend Bogannon. It is apparent from your noble form and stature that you are of excellent birth. Why you are here in this near-ghost town of Forlorn Gap is, of course, your own affair, but you could have been a senator, judge, cabinet member, ambassador. We are all creatures of circumstances, however, and one man should be slow to condemn another.”
“That’s right.” Winters didn’t know he was going to say that, and his words didn’t leave much taste in his mouth.
Doc Bogannon filled their glasses. “Any luck on your latest trip, Winters?”
Winters sipped his drink. In an offhand manner he said, “Fair. Collected three months back pay, and two hundred dollars reward on that monkey I picked up at Midway Junction.”
Professor Boro’s face was a smiling mask. “I’d call that excellent luck. I’ve heard it hinted, Winters, that you have a golden touch, also that you lead a charmed life.”
Winters leaned forward with sudden interest. “Really now! Imagine!”
“Winters leads a haunted life,” said Bogie. “Maybe that’s what you mean, Professor, by charmed life.”
“Not at all. I mean that Winters missed his calling; he should have gone into business. He has a gift of acquiring wealth; his touch would have been a gift of magic to any enterprise.”
Winters leaned back and glanced about. “Looking for something, Winters?” asked Doc. “Yeah. That gopher who was here a few nights ago—Little Jack Horner. What’s become of him?” Bogie looked at Boro. “Ah, I remember now. He went away with you, didn’t he, Professor?”
Boro assumed an air of pride. “He certainly did. Greatest thing he ever did, too. I might add, since it is virtually a consummated fact, a small group of moneyed