Six Guns Straight From Hell - Tales Of Horror And Dark Fantasy From The Weird Weird West (5 page)

“
Go in peace,” she said.

Alison stared as the spirits fluttered then winked out until only one remained, a small boy. The boy smiled at Rosa, sad and sweet. The flames turned red and warm again and fought back the chill night and the darkness.

Rosa called out “Señor Allison. Go now, and don't look back.”

Allison walked towards the edge of the clearing where his horse waited, but he could not help but watch as Rosa went to her son. She took out one last thing from her pocket, a small bottle. She doused herself with the contents then walked into the fire and burst into flame.

Rosa, engulfed in flame, danced on the demon's husk corpse, measured steps as she sang softly. She kicked and danced and the dry mummified corpse became an inferno. She kicked the ashes and cinders to scatter in the wind and vanish like fireflies. She seemed to feel no pain. On the contrary, it seemed a joyful dance. When the corpse was nothing but a memory, her spirit son came into her arms and they embraced, flying apart in cinders and floating into the night sky.

Allison was stunned, yet exhilarated. They would say he was a madman back in Elizabethtown if he told the story of what had occurred this night.

He caught up with his horse and pulled the emergency bottle of whisky from his saddlebag. He took a long swallow, then mounted and turned north toward Lambert's saloon. Before he was halfway there he began stripping off his clothes.

“
Camptown ladies sing dis song, doo-dah, doo-dah...” he sang, then Allison screamed at the moon hanging over the hills of Cimarron “Call me a liar you son’s of bitches! But you had better be ready to die!”

“
Believe it or not, Most of this story is true. A couple of years back I was sipping on a much needed beer in Cimarron, NM at the saloon in the historic St. James Hotel when the barkeep related the story of Clay Allison's act of decapitation. We had decided to stop for a spell during a 3,000 mile motorcycle run. Now, whether that head talked or not is a matter of conjecture, or maybe a matter of how many beers you consume. But the bloody events of that night are still talked about to this day. Being the opportunistic writer I am, I figured I would team up with the lovely and talented Ms. Dean to tell the tale in our own way.” When Bill isn’t writing stories about mostly dead things, he is out on that motorcycle looking for more ideas.

“
Bill and I share many things- beer, a love of spooky things and a brain. Granted, not everyone shares well, but we have it down to a science- mad science, that is. When he told me the Gentleman gunslinger story the enthusiasm rolled out and didn't stop until the end of the story you see before you. Keep your salt handy!” Sherri is a writer and illustrator, costumer and active member of genre fandom
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Decently and Quietly Dead

by

Matthew Baugh

“
Dave Mather!”

The sheriff’s hand darted for the gun on his desk, but I was faster. He looked into the barrel of my .44 and decided that it wasn’t worth it. I took his gun and backed up a few steps.

There’s a reason I don’t come to Arkansas when I can help it. Some years ago, I was involved in a group of cattle rustlers along with Dirty Dave Rudabaugh and Milton Yarbrough. One night, Milt got it in his head to rob the home of a well to do rancher. The man came home unexpectedly and Milt panicked and shot a few holes in him. The three of us lit out for Texas after that. I hadn’t been back since.

“
You’ve got some sand coming into my office like this,” the lawman said.

“
Didn't think there’d be anyone who remembered that old wanted poster,” I replied.

“
What do you want?”

I pulled a letter out of my coat pocket and tossed it to him.

The sheriff opened the note and read it. He was a medium sized man with a lot of swagger and a moustache that would have put Wyatt Earp’s to shame. Like a lot of lawmen I've known, he was trying too hard to prove how tough he was. I wear hair on my lip, too, but I'm not looking to prove anything to anyone. There are enough fights in my life that I can't avoid, there's no sense looking for more.

He looked up from the paper with a puzzled expression. “This says that you’ve been given a limited amnesty by Judge Isaac Parker and you’re one of his special deputies.”

I nodded and opened my coat to show him the federal badge I had pinned there. It felt funny to wear such a thing, given my past, but I did enjoy watching the sheriff’s expression change.

“
I don’t know what this is about Mather,” he said, “but the Hanging Judge’s word carries a lot of sway in these parts. Why are you here?”

“
I’m looking for a fugitive,” I replied. “He’s named Roger McMasters. Judge Parker convicted him of robbery, rape and murder up in the Indian Territory, but he managed to get away. The Judge heard that there was a man here in Bitter Water who might be McMasters. He sent me to check on it.”

The Sheriff nodded. “My name’s Rufus Teague,” he said and offered his hand. I shook it.

“
I never heard of anyone escaping from Fort Smith,” Teague said. “How did he do it?”

“
I was told that they hanged him,” I replied. “The doctor certified him dead. The undertaker was fitting a casket for him when he sat up. Scared the man half to death. McMasters rode off before anyone knew what was happening.”

“
A dead man got up and left?” The Sheriff chuckled, but stopped when he looked me in the eye. “Are you serious?” he asked.

I was, but I couldn't think of anything to say that he would believe. For that matter, I didn't particularly care if he believed me, so long as he stayed out of my way.

“
You say you think he’s in Bitter Water?” the sheriff asked.

“
A drummer came to Fort Smith a couple of weeks ago. He said he recognized McMasters. Claimed that he'd set himself up here as a preacher, calling himself Brother Jehoiakim.”

“
I know Jehoiakim,” Teague said, scowling. “He’s started some sort of church. Claims that he can do miracles and that he came back from the dead once.” He paused to rub his moustache in thought. “Do you reckon he's talking about what happened at Fort Smith?”

“
Sounds like it.”

“
But he couldn't really have done that...” He let the words trail off.

“
Judge Parker's got the best hangman there is,” I said. “Do you think he could be wrong?”

Teague turned to his gun rack and rested his hands on a shotgun.

“
That's crazy talk!” He put anger into his voice, but I could hear the fear it covered up. I couldn't blame him. If McMasters was anything like he seemed, I wasn't eager to face him either.

“
What kind of miracles do they say he's done?” I asked.

“
He handles rattlesnakes,” the lawman replied, “They say the bites don’t do anything to him. He lets people cut him with knives, then miraculously heals the wounds. Once, he supposedly had himself crucified, with railroad spikes driven through his hands and feet. When they pulled the spikes out, the wounds closed up, just like that.

“
I even heard that he drinks their blood, then gives them his blood and little bits of his flesh when they worship, like a priest handing out communion. I always figured he was a smooth talker with some sideshow tricks, but there’s some people who think he’s the Second Coming. Then there's some who believe what Father Robles says, that he's the Anti-Christ.”

He looked to me, as if I could tell him more. I couldn't. I’d faced men before who'd made pacts with dark powers, but never anything like this. I didn't know if I could fight him, but it was that or prison.

“
I’m going after him,” I said. “You’ve got jurisdiction here, so I'll back your play if you want to come. If you stand aside, I'm fine with taking him by myself.”

He scowled at me. “I don’t like it when a man lets on he thinks I’m a coward.”

“
I don’t think anything, sheriff,” I said. “I’m just letting you know my intentions.”

He took down the shotgun and fished out a box of shells from his desk.

“
How did you get this job, Mather?”

“
I didn’t ask for it.”

He nodded. “Judge Parker would be a hard man to say no to. But why’d he pick you?”

“
Did you ever hear of Cotton Mather?”

Teague thought about it for a moment. “Preacher man wasn’t he? Back in the old Salem Witch Trial days?”

“
My ancestor,” I said. “I'm sort of in the same business. When the judge learned about that, he decided I was the right man for the job.”

What I told Teague was true, as far as it went, but it hadn't been so simple. I'd prefer not to be about my ancestor's business, but there hadn't been much choice. I’d been in the Indian Territory when a couple of the judge’s marshals had recognized me. Dave Bliss and One-Eyed Cogburn caught me in a vulnerable moment with a sporting woman. I wasn’t going to fight a hard pair like that without my pistols, so I surrendered.

When I heard of McMasters’ escape, I offered my services to the judge, providing he’d drop the old charges of robbery and murder. It took some convincing, but when I showed him the book old Cotton had left me as a legacy he seemed impressed.

“
It seems your ancestor faced some fierce and unholy powers, Mr. Mather,” he said. “I confess I always believed that the Salem Trials were a superstitious miscarriage of justice. It is disconcerting to read that there is some measure of truth in the accusations.”

“
Before his death, Cotton wrote that most of the people tried as witches were innocent,” I replied. “But some did make pacts with dark powers.”

“
My recent experience with McMasters suggests to me that I should take this seriously, if for no other reason than the fact that it has allowed this criminal to escape my justice.”

The judge was a prim man with a neatly trimmed little beard and an icy gaze. He scanned me carefully before speaking again.

“
Can you bring in McMasters?” he asked.

I nodded, though I was in no way certain.

“
If you can, I am prepared to overturn your conviction and see that all old charges against you in this jurisdiction are expunged.”

“
Just what do you want me to do with him?”

“
I want him!” Parker said. “It’s not a matter of dead or alive, Mr. Mather. The man’s already legally dead, so you can’t murder him, not strictly speaking. I want you to make certain that he’s decently and quietly dead when you bring him in.”

“
You know how to fight a man like Jehoiakim?” Sheriff Teague asked.

“
What you told me about him drinking blood sounds like a creature Cotton wrote about,” I replied. If Jehoiakim is the same, sunlight or a holy symbol, like a cross, will hurt him. Then there's this.” I pulled a cartridge out of my belt and passed it to him.

“
A silver bullet?”

“
According to my ancestor, they’re what’s needed to kill a witch, a giant, or someone leading a charmed life.”

“
I heard of a man who uses silver bullets,” Teague said. “Supposed to be a reminder of the cost of human life.”

I shrugged. That sounded noble-minded, but impractical. My philosophy was to shoot without hesitation when I had to. I’d had cause to regret my actions a few times, but I was still alive.

“
You have enough of those bullets for me?” Teague asked.

“
You’re coming?”

He nodded. “I'll meet you in half an hour. I just hope that Jehoiakim is this man you’re looking for,” he said. “I would dearly love to be rid of him.”

Sheriff Teague joined me at the stables with a shotgun in his hand and a rosary around his neck. “Never hurts to be careful,” he said with a grim smile. “I packed my shells with silver dimes instead of shot.”

Brother Jehoiakim’s church was an old homestead about five miles south of town. It sat empty for several years since a Comanchero raid that took the lives of the entire family. Brother Jehoiakim had taken up an informal residence there and some of his followers had joined him to form a sort of miniature community. Teague had heard rumours of blasphemous rituals but didn't have any real evidence of crimes.

It was dark by the time we reached the spread, but the moon was only several days away from full so we had no difficulty finding our way. As we rode up we saw figures gathered around a bonfire near the barn. A sonorous chanting came from the assembly. I didn't recognize any of the words, but the sound of them made me feel cold inside.

The voices died as we rode up and the preacher laid aside the large book he had been reading from. There were about thirty worshippers. They mostly seemed like down-on-their-luck farmers, but there were a few who had the look of townies as well. The people dressed in simple white garments made from bed sheets. They reminded me of the robes the night-riders used to wear after the war.

Brother Jehoiakim’s robe was made of crimson cloth, and painted in silver with strange symbols. The book was bound in a shaggy animal hide of some sort. He was as near as tall as me, which is to say well above average, and had a handsome face with dark hair and bright blue eyes, all of which matched Judge Parker's description.

“
Sheriff, welcome,” he said with a warm smile. “Have you come to join our fellowship?”

“
We’ve come to arrest you Jehoiakim,” Teague said.

A murmur passed through the assembly, but the preacher calmed it with a gesture. The smile never left his face.

“
This man is a marshal.” Teague nodded at me. “He says that you’re a convicted criminal named McMasters and he’s here with a warrant for you.”

Jehoiakim’s smile broadened into a grin. “I must confess sheriff, your friend is correct. I was born into this small world as Roger McMasters, and I did all of the terrible things that he claims.”

“
That’s all I need,” I said, drawing a pistol. “You’re coming with me.”

“
I don’t think so.” Jehoiakim replied. His voice was as smooth as fine whiskey. “You can’t arrest a man who has already served his sentence.”

“
What does he mean?” Teague asked.

“
I was sentenced to be hanged by the neck until dead,” the preacher replied. “I has hanged by the neck until I was dead, then the One Beyond gave me back my life. I was reborn a new man. That paper is for the man who died on the gallows. It has nothing to do with me.”

“
You just come along with us Jehoiakim,” Teague said, “I’ll hold you in my jail till the circuit judge comes through in a week. He can decide if the warrant’s any good.”

“
I’m afraid that won’t do,” Jehoikim answered. “The One Beyond has need of me for the ceremony of the Great Opening. You can wait and watch if you like. Perhaps I will come with you when it is over.”

I heard Teague swear an oath. “The people of this town have had enough of your blasphemy!” he shouted. “I know these folks and I’ve stood by for too long while you’ve corrupted them.”

I could tell what was coming, but I wasn’t fast enough to stop it. As I turned towards Teague, the shotgun went off, tearing a dozen holes in the front of the preacher’s red robe.