The Lon Williams Weird Western Megapack. Lon Williams

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СКАЧАТЬ 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, quartz crystals, emeralds, and rubies. Images included, Winters saw countless jewels, countless streamers of gold and scarlet.

      His fingers gripped tightly. “It’s amazing!”

      “That red object you see is cinnabar,” Piper commented practically. “I have discovered a cave full of it, along with many precious stones. To me alone, it means nothing. To Winters and me, it could mean fabulous fortune. Officer Winters, if you cared to ride with me, I’d show you my great secret.”

      Bogie was alarmed. Bugler and Latimer had examined this same mysterious box. What had become of them?

      “It’s late, Winters,” said Bogie.

      Piper Crane turned upon Bogie dark-blue eyes, full of mystery and magnanimous pity. “Opportunity knocks without reference to hours. Winters, fortunately, is a practical man, as well as a man of vision.”

      Winters gave Bogie a glimpse into Piper’s box, but held onto it. “I’d like to own this, Crane; will you sell it?”

      Piper rose. “Come with me, and I’ll make you a present of it.”

      He bent and took his box, and Bogie had a close view of his silver-plated gun. A shudder swept him; that gun had belonged to Court Latimer.

      He laid a hand on Winters’ arm. “Wait till tomorrow, Winters; a cinnabar cave can’t run off.”

      “No time like now,” snapped Winters. “How far is it, Crane?”

      “A thirty-minute ride. You can be back by midnight.”

      “Winters!” said Doc, sharply. “For your own safety, put this thing off.”

      Winters brushed Bogie’s hand away. “Tend to your own affairs, Doc. I’m tired of being a deputy marshal; this is my great chance. On your way, Crane.”

      Doc СКАЧАТЬ