A Fistful of Horror - Tales Of Terror From The Old West (28 page)

He looked up from his drink as the battered saloon doors swung open on squealing hinges, drawing every eye in the dimly lit room. Early evening air gusted in to dilute the atmosphere of stale sweat, tobacco and sour whiskey, and caused the hanging pall of cigar smoke to swirl up amongst the high rafters.

Sitting at a rough-hewn table, two grizzled gold miners, all dust, cheap bourbon and unfulfilled dreams, paused mid-game with cards held motionless in calloused hands. They squinted over towards the doors with rheumy eyes as all conversation died off.

Tiny dust devils swirled across the floor as a man entered, the saloon doors screeching and flapping closed behind him. He stood for a moment, brushing dust off the black leather overcoat and Stetson hat. A pale hand removed his Stetson and long black hair, suddenly freed, spilled out around his shoulders. He surveyed the room through the cobalt clouds of cigar smoke. With expressionless eyes the stranger took in the stained tables and the cracked, peeling walls. It had been a music hall once, back in the boom times when expectations were running high and both gold and girls were plentiful.

The stranger’s eyes swept over Pastor John and he felt a chill travel up his spine. His mouth was suddenly dry and he found himself automatically sipping at his whiskey. He had to force himself to lower the drink.

Nat, the barman, finished drying the dented tin cup in his hand and slid it onto the shelf behind him. He dropped the dirty rag down behind the counter, then spat tobacco juice into the spittoon on the floor. Wincing, he pushed a loose tooth back into its socket with one greasy finger.

The stranger’s face was as smooth as a baby’s butt, Pastor John thought, scratching at his unkempt beard.

The stranger ignored the dozen or so locals eyeballing him and strolled over to the bar, ornate silver spurs chiming with each step. With a whisper of soft black leather, the newcomer swung a leg over the high stool in front of the bar.

“Howdy pardner” the stranger said to Nat, hints of everywhere and nowhere on his tongue. The man frowned and shook his head. “I don’t quite blend in it seems. Sadly I don’t do accents at all well. It’s a shame but we just can’t be good at everything now, can we, Nathaniel?”

Chatter resumed in the background as people began to lose interest and started drinking, smoking and gambling again. Pastor John watched, nursing his drink. He wasn’t good for much else these days.

Nat frowned as he studied the man. “It’s Nat; an’ I ain’t rightly sure I know you, Sir. We met before? I ain’t sure I know any big city men like yerself.”

The stranger smiled and held up a manicured finger. “Well, Nathaniel, I certainly do know you, at least by reputation. Now give me a stiff one barkeep – whatever those fine fellows are drinking.” He waved a hand in the general direction of a table occupied by a couple of poor ranchers in homespun patched clothing.

Stretching over towards his lone bottle of genuine Scotch whisky, Nat hesitated and then picked up the unmarked brown bottle of rotgut moonshine next to it.

Pastor John was surprised. From Nat’s expression it seemed like he had the strangest feeling that he’d better not cheat the big city man and charge him for expensive liquor from Scotchland, but couldn’t quite place why – the man looked rich and was probably already coming down with sunstroke in that crazy black getup anyway. It wasn’t like Nat to turn down easy money.

Nat clattered down a small whiskey glass and slopped the moonshine in its general direction.

No big city men came through these parts if they could avoid it. That suited Pastor John just fine. He sighed as memories of his preaching days surfaced; he had been through many a city full of sin back then. He had once been a fire and brimstone preacher. The world had been black and white, good and bad, God and the devil. That was before the consumption came. Before God took his entire family.

The stranger picked up the wet glass and held it up, studying the colour of the liquor. He sniffed at it before placing it back down on the bar. With a sparking flick of two fingers above it, a small blue flame flickered into life across the surface of the moonshine. He smiled and nodded knowingly. Pastor John had once seen a drunken old stage-show conjurer in Sacramento do the same trick to check the quality of cheap alcohol.

Raising his glass up, the stranger smiled across the bar at Nat. “Lead burns red and makes you dead.”

Pastor John knew that some moonshine stills used cheap lead pipes. He hadn’t reckoned on this big city man knowing how to test for tainted moonshine though.

The stranger chucked the flaming rotgut moonshine back into his throat. A small puff of smoke escaped his lips as he swallowed. The harsh alcohol must have burned a trail down his throat, because a fit of coughing doubled him over the bar, his chest heaving with each hacking cough. When the fit subsided he finally lifted his head and cleared his throat.

Nat gave a soft, low whistle. “Ain’t that as hot as a whore house on nickel night?”

“It is. Truly this is a foul and unique drink.” The stranger said in a wheezing voice. He tapped the empty glass with one finger. “Who makes this stuff?”

“That be ol’ Jack Johnson,” Nat replied. “Johnson farm is south o’ town.”

“Pour me another, Nathaniel. I might just have to offer him a job when he is done with the farm.”

With a grunt Nat poured more whiskey into the glass. “Take care, Mister; that there is some strong liquor. Y’all be full as a tick in no time. ol’ Jack ain’t gonna leave his farm ‘less it’s boots first.”

The stranger simply smiled and sipped at the dirty brown liquor. “Quiet in this town.”

“You got that right, mister. Wish there was a bit o’ excitement from time to time but this here is a mining town. Hard work and hard drinkin’ is about all we do.”

“Maybe you’ll get that wish, Nathaniel,” the stranger said, grinning. “I’m sure you get all sorts of troublemakers from time to time.” His eyes rose to meet Pastor John’s and he quickly looked away in case the stranger took offence. He didn’t want any trouble.

The saloon doors slammed open and the outlaw Black Jack Wilson sauntered in with three dust-streaked members of his gang strutting and glaring behind him.

Pastor John grimaced. He could see Nat cursing under his breath; they both just wanted to be left alone. Mayhap this time they wouldn’t tear up the place.

Nat sighed and picked up the bottle of Scotch.

Black Jack looked the worse for wear. His sun-browned, pockmarked face was streaked with dust and sweat beneath the stubble and the frayed Stetson. A cigar glowed as he inhaled through yellow teeth. Hairy hands caressed the hilts of the twin colts in their hip holsters. His eyes scoured the room, daring anybody to meet his gaze. Folk hunkered down and stared into their drinks.

Black Jack nodded towards a table occupied by two old timers. His gang hauled them from their seats and flung them aside. He sat down and leaned back, thumping his boots down onto the table as the old timers tottered over to another.

There was once a time where Pastor John would have stood up and confronted him. That sort of blind courage had long since fled.

Nat rushed over with the scotch and a handful of glasses. “We ain’t wantin’ no trouble here, Black Jack. Whisky is on me. Just don’t go tearin’ up the place.”

Pastor John winced; Nat must have been distracted by the stranger. He could feel the explosion coming. The chair clattered to the floor as Black Jack slowly rose to his feet. The room fell silent.

Nat swallowed and held his breath. The outlaw leaned in close and ground the cigar out on Nat’s chest. The muffled moan of pain he let slip seemed to goad the outlaw on. He poked a finger into the barman’s chest, right into the burn and began pushing him backwards towards the bar.

“You know-nothin’ piece o’ horse shit!” Black Jack bawled, spittle flying as his rancid breath washed over Nat’s face. “You wantin’ a wooden box like that redneck feller last week?”

He lifted a meaty hand and cuffed Nat to the ground. “Ain’t nobody tells Black Jack what to do. You takin’ me for a god-darned fool?”

Nat slid back across the dusty floor, cringing.

The outlaw stared into his eyes, sneering down at him and began stepping forward. “I’m gonna hav’ ta-”

Just as his boot came down a whiskey glass rolled under it. His foot slipped and he pitched face-first down onto the filthy floor.

Nat looked up in shock to see the stranger winking at him.

That crazy stranger is a deader, Pastor John thought, as Nat crawled out of the way.

The stranger wagged a finger at Nat. “Tsk, tsk, Nathanial. That was not very subtle of you. Diplomacy is the art of saying ‘Nice doggie’ until you can find a rock.”

The click of guns being cocked echoed throughout the room as the gang aimed at the stranger. Nobody moved to help Black Jack up. The locals held themselves still, not wanting to attract any attention. They kept their heads down and Pastor John couldn’t blame them.

“I’ll be your rock today,” the stranger continued. “Ten years back you took in a homeless young girl, fed her, clothed her and gave her money to make her way to Salt Lake City. You didn’t have much yourself, Nathaniel. That girl became a nurse and she helps the homeless out there. She saves lives. It’s an unfair world but sometimes I reckon one good turn deserves another.”

Nat’s jaw hung open.

Pastor John straightened in his seat. Nat had done something like that? Nat, the owner of this town’s pit of sin and debauchery? Come to think of it, when was the last time he’d been asked to pay his bar tab…

Black Jack clambered back to his feet and slowly wiped the blood away from his lip with his sleeve. He lifted his other hand up and the guns lowered. “Hang fire. This here pretty boy is mine. I’m gonna have me a hog-killin’ time.”

“Pretty boy?” the stranger said with a wry smile. “I’m glad that you think so, but I’m not that way inclined today, friend.”

The outlaw’s eyes went wide and his jaw snapped shut. A vein throbbed in his forehead. He charged forward and his fist surged towards the stranger’s face. The man leaned left, grabbing the outlaw’s fist as it flashed past his head. He twisted and pulled. Black Jack overbalanced, slammed head first into the bar and bounced backwards to crash to the floor. He lay dazed and moaning, blinking up at the high ceiling. The gang backed off. They knew better that to get in Black Jack’s way. The outlaw hauled himself upright, face growing red.

The stranger sighed. “There are three kinds of men: the ones that learn by reading; the few who learn by observation; and the rest, who have to stick their hand in the fire. Guess which you are?”

He ignored the gang and walked across to stand looking down at Nat. “Would you like these fools gone, Nathaniel? All you have to do is to make a wish. Just one little wish.”

Black Jack drew his guns, spitting blood and teeth to the floor. His hands shook, white knuckled around the hilts of his pistols.

They were going to tear up the saloon again and Nat was in for a beating…or worse. Nat screwed his eyes up and seemed to be wishing for it all to stop…

…and then Pastor John tried to ignore the blood-curdling screams as four grown men cried out in terror and agony.

He ran.

***

Pastor John staggered across the dusty trail, pausing to dry-retch. His stomach was empty, its contents already thrown up, hours ago it seemed. He didn’t have any water, didn’t have a plan. He just had to get away. The Devil had come to town. He half-laughed, half-sobbed. There was once a time when he would have stood up, bible held before him and rebuked the Devil, in the name of the Lord!

What could one old Preacher Man who had lost his faith possibly do against the Devil?

He stumbled to his knees in the dirt. Kneeling there in a daze, he was dimly aware of a horse drawing up. Dimly aware of himself babbling on about Black Jack and the Devil. The rider wanted to take him back to town. He panicked and tried to run but something slammed into his head and he slid into darkness.

***

Pastor John groaned as the horse stopped. He opened his eyes to see the familiar faded wooden sign outside the Last Chance Saloon. He felt the blood drain from his face.

“Evenin’ Marshal Evans,” the deputy said as the U.S. Marshal reined in his horse. Evans handed him the reins and slid Pastor John off the saddle and into his hands.

Pastor John staggered, trying to find his feet. He was shaking and found that he couldn’t stop.

Marshal Evans nodded to the three other waiting men. They nodded back grimly. Men of few words; Evans seemed to like that. He retrieved a Winchester rifle from his saddle holster and quickly checked that it was loaded. The three other deputies looked on, chewing tobacco as they carefully fed bullets into their own rifles.

“They in there, Hank?” Evans growled.

“I reckon so,” his deputy replied while tethering the horse up. “Folks say Black Jack’s in there causin’ a ruckus.”

Evans spat onto the thirsty earth at his feet. “This crazy old drunkard here says Black Jack and some other feller had a bit of a fight inside. Well he ain’t going to skedaddle away this time. Nobody kills one of my men. Nobody!”