The Lon Williams Weird Western Megapack. Lon Williams
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a gunfight a-making caught his attention. He swallowed his wine and moved quickly to investigate.
“What’s going on here?” He recognized Cris Moxley. A big-faced tramp with a waving sixgun he did not recognize.
Moxley had assumed a peacemaker’s role. “These two gold-diggers took exception to a bit a charity, that’s all. Holly Dew here, a poor, bumble beggar, merely asked these gentlemen for alms.”
“At gun-point,” growled a miner. He and his companion had shoved back their chairs, and stood up.
“Purely a misunderstanding,” said Moxley. He sat down. “Here; I’ll give you men a chance to win your money back.” He put down a twenty-dollar bill and explained his game of snatch.
Winters shoved around to an opposite chair. “I’ll take you up on that.” He glanced up. “How much did you suckers donate to this poor, humble beggar?”
“Twenty apiece, by gonnies!” one of them answered. “And do you think we’d of give that much out of our boundin’ goodness? No, by gonnies! He had a gun on us.”
“Never mind that,” snapped Winters.
Doc Bogannon shoved in behind Winters. This game was not new to him; he’d seen it going on for a week.
“Winters!”
“Don’t bother me, Doc. Stand back. Everybody stand back; I need room.” Winters had his chair well back. He leaned forward, chin on his right hand. Holly Dew was on his right, hand raised, ready to snap his finger. Winters had put down his twenty.
Men held their breaths, and Holly snapped. Winters’ hand smacked quick and hard, but it hit bare table. It was Moxley’s hand that took away two crumpled bills.
A miner shouted, “He blowed ’em. Dew blowed ’em. I seed ’em shift.”
“Never mind!” clipped Winters. “We’ll try again, this time with gold money. He laid down a double-eagle. “Match it, Moxley.”
“That wasn’t my proposition,” said Moxley. He slid his chair back.
“Then he did blow,” said Winters. Hollywell Dew eased his chair back. “That, of course, is a lie.”
“Of course,” said Moxley.
Winters sprang sideways, his sixgun roared twice. Dew and Moxley sat rigid for half a second, then they slumped, each with a bullet hole in his head. Their guns, unfired, slid from their hands.
Winters stood erect and holstered his hot gun. He sleeved sweat from his face. “There’s your night-riders. Two-head Moxley and No-head Hollyhawk”
Doc Bogannon took out a bandanna and wiped his damp face. “What do you mean, Winters?”
“Hold everything and I’ll show you.” Winters went out and returned at once with a big suitcase. “I got this from their room at Goodlett Hotel.” He opened it before their popping eyes.
What they saw was as queer an assortment of articles as they’d ever laid eyes on. It began with a big wolf’s head, mounted on a short stick. Inside was a short candle, its wick black. Next were two black robes that enclosed shoulder-shaped boxes, one square on top, one with two wax heads. There were false faces, too, a couple of Indian scalps, an assortment of beards, mustaches and bottles. There was a pair of iron claws, hinged to fit a man’s hand. There was even a hairy headgear with a pair of short horns.
“Old Scratch himself,” said a gold-digger. He looked at his buddy.
His buddy looked at him. “That charm merchant!”
“Yeah. Wonder if he’s still around?” Winters was busy with repacking his suitcase. He appeared not to notice as two bearded gold-diggers eased out through Bogie’s batwings.
Bogie went for glasses and a bottle of wine. “Winters, it’s time for our usual night cap. In a mood for one?”
Winters moved to another table. “Never was more so, Doc.”
Bogie returned with two glasses and a bottle. He poured, then sat down. As he drank he thought of something. It was such a startling thought that it almost strangled him.
He coughed and gagged. At length he put down his glass and blew his nose.
“Winters! They’ll hang that charm merchant!”
“Yeah?” Winters drank leisurely, his face impassive.
“Well, Winters, aren’t you going to do anything about it?”
Winters set his glass down hard. “Now, you look here, Doc. You ought to know me better than that. You ought to know I don’t go around stickin’ my nose in other people’s business.”
Bogie took up his glass again. “That’s right, Winters; you never bothered anybody in your life.”
Winters passed his glass. “Besides, if a charm merchant can’t take care of hisself, what could he expect of me? I ain’t got no charms to pass around. Go head, Doc; fill ’er up.”
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