The Lon Williams Weird Western Megapack. Lon Williams

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      Winters left. Lilloughby finished his drink and put down his glass. “No, sir, Doc, I accept no charity. As for Lee Winters, I could buy him out and have money left; I took his offering to please him—that’s all.”

      Bogie leisurely dried a glass. “Spicewood, you are, indeed, a born-and-bred man of quality. I’d say, too, that when you’ve become a fossil on time’s whitening shore, men will look at you and say, Here was a gentleman.”

      “You needn’t try to be funny, Doc Bogannon. Someday, when I’ve left this dried-up stink of a town, you’ll be proud you knowed me.”

      Doc’s comeback was interrupted. His saloon’s batwing doors squeaked, and a customer entered. And here was a character, if ever was, thought Bogie. He’d been in before. Piper Crane, he’d said his name was—a man in shiny black boots, ivory colored trousers, dirty white vest, cutaway blue coat and cocked hat, of medium height, slender, erect.

      Piper Crane removed his hat, swept it low, and restored it to his long-haired, noble head. “Greetings, gentlemen.” He advanced, paused, and bowed toward Spicewood Lilloughby. “Distinguished friend, join me in a drink, as a favor to your humble servant.”

      Lilloughby squared his thin shoulders. “I’m proud to do you a favor, since you put it nice.”

      Piper Crane banged down a coin. “Two glasses, Bogannon, and a bottle of wine; we’ll repair to a corner of your Elysian palace and drink at leisure.”

      At a table, Piper filled their glasses. When they had drunk generously, he leaned toward Lilloughby. He had a small tube, in shape like an astronomer’s telescope.

      “Sir Lilloughby, I had a reason for removing ourselves a distance; I would reveal a secret. Hold this toward a light and look into its wondrous depths.”

      Fingers a-tremble, Lilloughby seized what was only a toy spectroscope. But what he saw within it was a wonderland of entrancing, dream-inspiring colors.

      “Never was nothing like this,” he murmured, enchanted. “Never! Never!”

      “Right, Sir Lilloughby. Never in your world, but in mine—yes. Through this magic glass, you have a glimpse of your golden future.”

      “Never was nothing like this—never!”

      “Ah, Lilloughby, you are a kindred spirit. I have two horses, saddled and waiting. Come; I’ll show you my kingdom of jewels and gold.”

      Gently he removed Lilloughby’s fingers and pocketed his magic glass.

      Lilloughby ambled after him, murmuring, “Never was nothing like this.”

      Outside, Piper Crane did not stop. Back of Bogie’s they found two horses, mounted promptly, and rode south to Alkali Flat, then southwestward.

      “You,” said Piper, “are destined for great things; your hour draws near.”

      After a few miles he began to play a flute, and a voice called ghostily, “Ahoy, there! Who goes?”

      “Friends of mighty King Solomon, O Mysterious One.”

      Out of starlit gloom a stranger came riding.

      “Ah, so you have found another messenger for King Solomon!”

      This stranger was bareheaded, stocky, a horseman of excellence, wearing a dark cloak that fluttered back as he rode. He swung alongside Lilloughby. “Piper Crane, who is this?”

      “He is Spicewood Lilloughby, great miser of Forlorn Gap, who never allows his wealth out of his sight. Lilloughby, meet Bugler Horn, servant of our mighty king.”

      Lilloughby tried to swallow. His throat, dry, had a lump in it.

      “I’m going back; you fellers is crazy,” he managed to say.

      Bugler Horn thrust a six-gun into Lilloughby’s ribs.

      “You can’t go back,” he said. “No man departs until he has seen King Solomon—Solomon on his throne.”

      Piper put another gun against Lilloughby’s other side.

      “King Solomon has need of you. He’s sending messengers to all of history’s mighty conquerors; like Moses before him, he sends them two and two. One messenger is ready to depart; you are to join him.”

      “Now, look here, you fools,” cried Lilloughby, “Solomon’s dead, and you’re crazy; put up them guns.”

      While 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 СКАЧАТЬ