The Lon Williams Weird Western Megapack. Lon Williams
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Piper held their captive’s attention, Bugler slipped a derringer from beneath Lilloughby’s coat. Lilloughby slapped for it too late.
“A guest,” said Bugler, “is not permitted armed in Solomon’s presence. He must come humble and submissive.”
Lilloughby’s brain was hazy with wine, but he didn’t like what was happening. If that danged marshal would only show up, Lilloughby could do him a real favor. But Winters was never around when a feller got into a jam.
Spicey resolved to help himself and suddenly heeled his horse. All he got for it was an aggravating disappointment. Piper had seized his bridle.
“For you, Sir Lilloughby,” Piper said, “there is no escape.”
* * * *
Thirty minutes later, they rode into King Solomon’s august presence. He was sitting on a rock, jagged mountainsides at his back, Alkali Flat at his feet. A lantern burned on a nearby ledge, and Solomon waited not with golden scepter, but with a bow and arrow across his lap. He was a large man, wearing a crown cut from gilded paper, a purple robe, and sandals. Below and to his right a corpse lay flat, its feet extended eastward.
Piper and Bugler dismounted and pulled Lilloughby off. Piper bowed.
“A messenger, O Wise One,” he said.
King Solomon nodded. “Excellent.” He stared at Lilloughby, gripped his bow and laid arrow to string. “This mortal looks unpromising, but my arrow, probing his heart, will free him of his clumsy, unprepossessing body. He will then travel fast and far.” He nodded to Piper and Bugler. “Sing to him, that he may know his mission.”
Joined here and there by King Solomon himself, they sang instructions for a strange journey. Lilloughby was told to travel eastward. Of Sennacherib, King Solomon demanded an army of Assyrians, a half-million. Of Genghis Khan, five million. Of Tamerlane, Attila, Alexander, Xerxes Sargon, Ramses—other millions. They were commanded to rendezvous at Armageddon.
Lilloughby was frightened, flattered, and enchanted. He could neither move nor speak. Vaguely he remembered a tough, sarcastic deputy marshal he’d despised. Now he despised him more than ever—because he wasn’t there to let Lilloughby make him a rescuing hero. Danged lout!
Singing continued, crazy and grand, and then on a sustained high note King Solomon lifted bow and arrow. With a mighty arm he drew back, and his bowstring twanged.
* * * *
Deputy Winters was awake. He had married himself a widow, a mining claim, and a neat cottage with a half-story bedroom upstairs. He had ample reasons for wanting to stay healthy, but he was worried. Through an open window alkaline wind blew in. He’d heard far-off singing; his forehead was damp and cold. He told himself that, of course, he’d heard nothing, that he was merely nervous from that shootout at Rocky Point, a victim of upset imagination.
But then he heard a scream—another death scream. Afterwards there was silence, except for wind whispers.
* * * *
Life in Forlorn Gap was uneventful for a few days. No message came for Winters from Brazerville, none from Pangborn Gulch. Stagecoaches arrived on schedule, some leaving passengers, others picking them up. Horsebackers arrived. Latecomers put up overnight in Forlorn Gap. Others stopped only long enough for a drink at Bogie’s.
Thursday evening, a different sort of stranger hit town. He hitched at Bogie’s and strode in, just as Deputy Winters was about to leave. This stranger was young, as tall as Winters’ six feet, mean looking, and wearing silver-plated six-guns.
He stopped, feet well apart, hands alert, fingers itching. “Well, if it ain’t a deputy marshal!” His thick lips spread into a crooked, contemptuous smile. “You know, I’m always glad to see a deputy marshal. But do you know what kind I like best? Dead ’uns. Now, deputy marshal, being friendly, I’m Courtney Latimer, Court for short, also knowed as Latigo. A few unfortunate gents would’ve knowed me as Lightning Latimer—if they’d lived. I reckon you’re Deputy Lee Winters.”
Winters eyed him speculatively. Here was a fancy dude, as near an unadulterated smart alec as he’d ever seen. If he wasn’t a cold-blooded killer, he was sure headed right for one.
“Yes, Latimer, my name’s Winters.”
“Hear you’re right fast with a gun, Winters.” Winters shook his head. “False report, son; have a drink.”
“Thanks, but I buy my own. And don’t call me son; I figure I’m full-grown.”
Winters turned his back and looked to see who else was present. Three men were at separate tables, one a queer-looking bozo wearing a red cloak and staring forward through heavy black eyebrows.
Winters glanced at Bogie. “Doc, who’s that crazy-lookin’ eyebrow-peeper?”
Bogie picked out. “That? Oh, that’s Bugler Horn, mining prospector and engineer, so he says.” Winters grunted. “Looks like an off-brand nut to me.” He turned and put down a coin. “Guess I’ll turn in early, Doc; goodnight.”
He brushed with calculated indifference past snarling Court Latimer and ran through a stack of reward posters. One of them gave him a start. A likeness of Court Latimer stared at him insolently.
Bogie poured Latimer a drink. “Winters ever crossed you?”
“Luckily for him, no.”
Bugler Horn rose from his table and came forward, a red cloak flowing down his back. He was a queer-looking bozo, his head large and bushy with black hair, a gleam in his eye, armed with dagger and six-gun.
He eased in close to Latimer. “Brave friend, I’m Bugler Horn. A man like you could be useful to me.”
He nodded, and Latimer, after an appraisal, followed him to a table.
A moment later Doc Bogannon saw them examining an object that looked like a small wooden box. Other customers drifted in, drank, and drifted out.
Then Bogie’s batwings crashed back with violence and Deputy Winters leaped in, six-gun at hip level. “Latimer!”
Bogie stared at Winters, then looked for Court Latimer. “Afraid he’s gone, Winters. Must’ve left with Bugler Horn.”
“He’s a murderer, Doc. A bounty on him to boot.”
* * * *
Winters left abruptly. An hour before midnight he was back. “That Latimer polecat’s vanished. Must’ve been just a spook, Doc; any message?”
“No message. So let’s have a nightcap and call it a day.”
Doc’s batwings squeaked inward. “Make it three, gentlemen.”
Both pivoted instantly, Winters with drawn gun. “Ah,” said Bogie, “it’s Piper Crane.”
Winters had not seen this character before. In his cocked hat and cutaway, Piper Crane looked like a history-book picture, George Washington era. A silver-plated six-gun was his only modern touch. At sight of that gun, Winters tensed inwardly. Court Latimer had carried two exactly like it.
At a table Bogie poured wine for all of them. “Winters, a new citizen. Piper Crane. Mineral prospector, I believe.”
“Correct,” said Piper, “and I’ve made a great discovery.” He brought from under his arm a six-inch cubical box, one of its wooden sides displaced largely by glass. He put it down before Winters.
Doc Bogannon had seen it before, then in possession of Bugler Horn; now, Piper Crane had it. Here was something pretty danged odd.
Winters picked it up and peered into it, holding it where lamplight could penetrate it. A strange, fascinating sight met his eyes. By arrangement of mirrors, an illusion of depth had been created. In nothing more than a six-inch box, Winters peered into limitless distance. To one side of center was fastened an egg-sized red stone. Hidden by mirrors set at angles were specimens of goldstone,