The Lon Williams Weird Western Megapack. Lon Williams

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      “Glorious thought!” exclaimed Cappy. “Imagine being eternally young, and never wasting time in sleep! Brother, I would drink of this fountain.”

      “Drink of it you shall,” said Delozier. He rose, pocketed his bottle of elixir, and indicated by a nod that Caplinger should follow him.

      They went out together, each erect and proud, comrades in an exalted brotherhood. Outside, Delozier stopped and put a strong arm about his new friend’s shoulders. “Sleepless friend, this life of yours, mortal in its nature, is about to become immortal; we shall ride together, and you’ll agree with me there have been few rides like it in all this world.”

      “You overwhelm me with blandishment,” said Caplinger, “but luck plays me false already; I have no horse.”

      Delozier was stumped for a moment only. “Ah, I shall furnish you a horse. It is one a friend entrusted to my care.”

      At Bogie’s hitch-rail were two, a light bay and one of ivory.

      “This shall be yours,” Delozier said. “A palomino for a special friend; he is a most intelligent animal, too, and to ride him is to drift into dreamland.”

      They mounted and rode southward. Soon they were on Alkali Flat, riding easily, their faces caressed by warm, alkaline wind. Two miles from Forlorn Gap Delozier reined to a walk. Caplinger’s horse slowed in harmony.

      Caplinger cast his face upward. Moonlight twinkled in his eyes. “I feel a presence, such as I’ve never felt before. It is as if immortality was about to envelop me. What a glorious thing—to be always young!”

      “What a glorious thing,” murmured Delozier, “to be always asleep.”

      “But I never sleep,” declared Caplinger uneasily.

      “You will, however,” said Delozier. “It is not good to go without sleep.”

      “No man knows better than I what a good—”

      Caplinger’s protest went unfinished. From his right a tinkling melody intervened.

      Delozier shouted mockingly, “Watch him, Caplinger!”

      His evil warning was too late. Cappy’s palomino reared suddenly. His rider was spilled backward. Cappy landed with a whoomp! and rolled, groaning, onto an elbow. It was then he saw immortality’s dread approach. A huge bear, growling, teeth-flashing, rushed toward him.

      Cappy struggled to his knees. “Delozier!” Delozier and both horses had proceeded onward a considerable distance and stopped.

      “Delozier,” Cappy screamed, “you have betrayed me. You—”

      * * * *

      Deputy Winters had gone home, had supper with his good-looking wife and gone to bed. He was not so tired as he was disturbed and nervous. A warm, alkali-tanging wind blew into his upstairs half-story bedroom; it brought no sounds, such as he’d heard on other nights—eerie cries of desert owls, coyote-calls, wolf-howls—but after a time a faint tinkle of music flitted in.

      Winters leaped out of bed, leaned from his window and listened. Instantly a scream came out of Alkali Flat, another, then a final one that rose to a screeching crescendo and abrupt end.

      Winters drew himself in and sleeved his face. One thing was certain; he wanted no truck with Alkali Flat.

      * * * *

      Two days later he was in his office when he heard that music again. He stepped out in time to see his horse Cannon Ball rear and try to walk off on his hind feet. Only a sturdy hitch-post and a strong bridle prevented his departure for open spaces.

      “Whoa, horse,” Winters shouted. He leaped down and talked Cannon Ball into being less violent, though he could not talk fear and trembling out of him. Cannon Ball stared down Forlorn Gap’s dusty street, snorted, and beat with his front hoofs.

      No wonder, thought Winters. Coming slowly toward them was a short, thick-necked man in red trousers, red shirt and round, beakless, gold-braided red cap. Suspended by a strap around his neck was a box-like contraption with a crank that gave out a tinkling torrent. Beside him on a pole leash, and muzzled, ambled a monstrous brown bear. So, thought Winters, that was what scared my horse’s daylights out and caused him almost to dump me onto Alkali Flat.

      A few citizens appeared and stared at this strange sight. Bear, man and music stopped in mid-street.

      Shorty shouted hoarsely, “People like to see bear dance?”

      There was no answer.

      A big, handsome, bareheaded gent strode up to Winters. “Officer Winters, I believe; I’m Kirk Delozier, presently a guest at Goodlett Hotel.” Winters made no offer to shake hands; he didn’t like to shake with a man he might have to shoot before sundown. Moreover, this gent was too conceited for warm appeal to a man of rawhide, bones and gunpowder.

      “Any connection with that music maker?” asked Winters.

      Delozier’s eyes filled with humor. “No, but you’ve got to admit he has something. To conquer and control a bear like that requires courage. It happens I’ve seen him before: Trigg Humbolt, as I remember. Saw him recently in Brazerville.”

      Winters looked his man over coolly. Delozier was tall and muscular, handsome, friendly and, less to Winters’ liking, a mite condescending. “Have I seen you somewhere before?”

      Delozier’s head, lowered slightly. Smiling eyes looked out at Winters under heavy eyebrows. “It is entirely possible; you see, I’ve been around a long, long time, one, place and another. But come, my friend; let’s see what a trained bear can do.”

      Winters patted Cannon Ball’s neck reassuringly, gave his gun-belt a hitch and accompanied Delozier.

      Spectators kept their distance, but Delozier approached Trigg Humbolt without hesitation. “How much money must you have, my friend?”

      “To make bear dance—five dollars.”

      “That,” said Delozier, “should be easy.” He drew money from his pocket. “Here’s half of it. I shall see how generous these citizens are.” He made a round, collecting coins.

      Before Winters, he exhibited a smile of good-fellowship. Winters laid a half-dollar in his palm. Delozier’s smile persisted. “That makes it, good people, with some to spare.” He returned to Humbolt. “There, accomplished friend. Now show us what your bear can do.”

      * * * *

      Winters was more interested in Humbolt than in Humbolt’s bear. Here was a mean-looking bozo, surly, thick-lipped, pale-eyed. If he wasn’t a wanted baboon, it was because he’d covered his tracks and his crimes. Winters knew a killer when he saw one, especially when he was more brute than human. But he had to admit that Humbolt knew his bear.

      “Round!” Humbolt yelled in a quick, hard voice. Jerking his leash tight, bruin circled his master, tearing around and around at high speed. He was more than a big bear; he was fat and heavy, certainly a well-fed critter. Dust trailed after his digging paws. “Ho!” his master yelled, and bruin stopped. “Walk!” At that command he rose on his hind feet СКАЧАТЬ