The Lon Williams Weird Western Megapack. Lon Williams

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СКАЧАТЬ about it. I heerd ’im goin’ on, I want my head, I want my head.”

      Tall Mitch Tomlinson stepped forward and spat tobacco juice. “They’re both right, Winters. There was two of ’em. That one as had no head was chasin’ t’other’n. Both was ridin’ like all forty, and him as had no head was wailin’, I want my head, I want my head.”

      Winters didn’t know whether to laugh or cuss. He decided to cuss, but he did it silently.

      Next day they were there again. Again they stopped Winters.

      Moss Tyner once more led off. “Know something, Winters? I’ve always heerd it said there’s a medicine for every ill and a worm for every fruit. Well, what do you suppose has showed up now?”

      Winters shifted sideways in his saddle. “Gents, I wouldn’t know.”

      “A charm-merchant, by gum!”

      “No!”

      “Not only that, he’s sold Tip Hogan’s wife one of them charms. It’s a little wooden man with a round bottom. So long as he’s settin’ upright, no harm can come to you. He’s got a magic liquid in him that makes him set up. This charm merchant says this little feller will need a refill in about a week. That’s when he’s comin’ ’round again.”

      “How about them night-prowlers, man with no head and man with two heads?” asked Winters.

      “Oh, they’re still ridin’. They go down Whaley Gulch road every night at exactly one hour after midnight. Two of ’em, sure enough.”

      “What does this charm merchant get for his little wooden man that sets up?” asked Winters.

      Tip Hogan was pulled forward. Hogan looked cowed and worried.

      “Speak up, Hogan,” said Moss Tyner.

      “Winters, it was fifty dollars.”

      Winters lifted his dark eyebrows in surprise.

      “And a refill is five dollars,” Hogan added.

      Winters was furious. “How many has he sold?”

      “A good many.”

      “Another thing,” said tall Mitch Tomlinson. “Mag Hickerson ordered him out of her house, and that night she saw a wolf looking in at her window. She swore that wolf had fire in his eyes and flame spouting from his mouth.”

      “And next day she bought a little man?” Winters asked.

      “Next day she bought a little man,” said Tomlinson.

      * * * *

      Winters was out of town for a few days. Before leaving, he’d presented his wife a new sixgun he’d taken off a wanted monkey and taught her how to use it. Upon his return he hitched at Goodlett’s, instead of Bogannon’s. It was an hour before midnight when he dropped in at Bogie’s for a drink.

      Business had been good, but Bogie was not happy.

      “Winters!” It was a kind of glad shout.

      Winters moved up and ordered a glass of wine. “Any news, Doc?”

      Doc stooped behind his bar as if looking for something. “There’s trouble brewing, Winters. People are scared to death. Three families have moved away already. Another dead man has been found, his throat slashed by wolf fangs.”

      Winters turned his back on Bogie and sipped wine. What looked like 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,” СКАЧАТЬ