A Fistful of Horror - Tales Of Terror From The Old West (10 page)

“Well, go on,” Earl said. He was feeling eager to get the whole thing over with so he could wash up and hit the hay for the night.

“Okay,” he said as he stepped around and took the first step into the angry looking cellar maw, “but you keep that light close. I don’t want to slip and break my neck.”

“Go on, I’m right behind you,” he said. As Clarence descended the stairs, he stared at the back of his head, trying to figure out just where to hit him to be sure to knock him out. When Clarence had descended to where his head was level with his waist, he straightened his hand to let the small club slide down into his grip. Only, his hand was too sweaty and it slipped from his fingers and tumbled down the stairs. With each tumble of the bludgeon, his heart pounded in his chest and thrummed in his ears. Time seemed to have slowed to a snail’s pace, and, as Clarence turned towards him, cask in hand, he caught a glimmer of accusation in his eyes. The understanding in them burned in the light of the lamp. It was then that he pushed him.

***

Earl’s hands shook as he washed his face. When he closed his eyes, he could still see the shock in Clarence’s eyes when he pushed him. He could still see his feet flying out from under him and the cask bouncing down after him. He’d heard a loud crash at the bottom and then nothing. No screams. No moans. Somewhere at the bottom, beyond the feeble light, all was musty, broken silence and hunger. The hunger was a corrupt smell. The air was thick with it and it made his stomach lurch. He’d shut the door in a daze and slid some small wine casks over it for good measure. He’d doubted that Clarence would make it back up the stairs to freedom, but he wasn’t taking any chances either.

He put on his night shirt, crawled into bed, and extinguished the lamp. It was cold and he was bone weary. It was times like these that he missed Alice the most. She blew into his life almost as fast as she left it, and, even though she’d only stayed a short while, a part of him genuinely loved her. She was a whore from the east coast hoping to strike it rich making the beast with two backs with prospectors. All it ever got her was a hard time with desperate, filthy men and a stack of worthless IOUs. Free rolls in the sack was part of their arrangement, but she didn’t have to sleep in his bed. But she did. Every night since the first, she did.

Earl fell asleep curled up next to the extra pillow, and dreamt of her soft skin, the curvature of her breasts, and the hard peaks of her nipples.

***

Earl awoke to something cold and hard pressed against his temple, and an earthen smelling hand clamped firmly over his mouth.

“Shhhh, I’m going to let go of your mouth and you’re not going to make a sound. Understand?”

“Mmmmmfff, hmnffff,” he affirmed against the foul smelling hand.

“Good.”

The hand left his face and a match was struck. Out of his peripheral vision he saw a face covered in blood and grime. Along with the dancing shadows the flame produced, the effect made him think of what a demon would look like standing amongst the flames of hell. But demons didn’t carry guns, and demons didn’t sound, or smell like, Clarence.

“Howdy, Earl!” he said as he lit the bedside lamp. “So nice to see you again! Make some room for an old friend,” he said as he took a seat on the bed beside him. “You know, that was a pretty nasty little spill I had there. Whew! I thought I was a goner. You know, that knocked me out cold? That wasn’t very nice, Earl. It wasn’t nice at all.”

“C-C-Clarence, I’m sor…”

“Didn’t I tell you not to speak?” He cocked the gun and pressed it into his cheek. “Don’t make me have to tell you again, Earl. Okay?”

Earl nodded.

“Good. I’m almost ashamed to admit that I’m not here on a social visit,” he said, resting the gun in his lap. “I’m here on official business, I’m afraid. You see, I met your friend in the cellar. He told me all about you and your arrangement. Told me how you weren’t all that good about holding up your end of the bargain. How he had to sneak up here one night and steal that filthy whore straight from your bed while you slept…”

Earl groaned and buried his face in his hands.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t know? Come on. Deep down inside, you knew. Ha! You knew alright! And you still kept him starving in that damned cellar! Well, you know what, Earl…” he said as he pulled his hands from his face, “me and him are just alike. That’s right. We both get thirsty, we both have needs. I promised to never let him go hungry again, and he promised me the bar, Earl. Your bar. You can talk now, if you like.”

“I-I-I’m s-so sorry, Clarence. I’m sorry. Please…”

“Earl, just because I say you can talk doesn’t mean I need you to blow smoke up my ass. Stop apologizing for something that clearly was no accident.” He sighed and began tapping the revolver in his lap. “You know, on second thought, don’t talk. All I need you to do is sign the deed to this place, and, as far as I’m concerned, you get to leave this place alive. Here,” he said, placing the deed and pen on his chest, “sign.”

Earl grabbed the pen, thought about ramming it into Clarence’s throat, but an agonizing pressure exploded behind his eyes, leaving one singular impression: SIGN. His shaking fingers scrambled to open the document and he scrawled his name as fast as he could. When he was done, the pain was gone. It left him panting and crying into his pillow.

“Thanks, Earl. That’s mighty generous of you. I do believe you and I are even.” He stood up, folded the deed, and shoved it in his front pocket as he made his way to the door. “It’s been a pleasure. A pleasure indeed.”

“So, you’re not going to kill me?” he said as he sat up in the bed.

Clarence stood in the doorway. One hand rested on the doorknob and the other, the gun hand, rested on the frame. “No…I don’t see where that would be profitable. I’m a business man now. There’s just too much risk in crime. Besides, I have to go see to my inventory. Can’t do that and hide a crime before first light anyway.” He looked over his shoulder, straight into Earl’s eyes, and gave a hellish, red-faced grin. “Of course, I can’t speak for our mutual friend. I do believe he’s still hungry and you owe him a meal.”

Earl heard the lock click after he shut the door. The lamp began to flicker as a form made its way out of the shadows. The air grew cold and heavy with the coppery smell of blood and the musk of ancient dirt and sweat. As the light went out, and he felt the things foul, pale hand touch his flesh, he was left with one last mindless, insatiable impression…the joy of the glutton.

DEAD MAN WALKING

Allen Jacoby

It was high noon and the dry, cracked ground of the desert soaked up the spilt blood with unnatural avarice, the air coughing up dust with a death rattle. Christopher Cain stood in the middle of town, a noose around his neck and blood on his hands. The pistols fell from his sweaty palms and crunched into the dirt and his boots made tracks in the mud and the blood as he stepped over body after body. Every last one of them, dead or dying, and not a scratch on him.

Confidence Man.

Killer.

Survivor.

The sun beat down on Cain and his affront with judgment, but he just grinned. He dusted himself off, unceremoniously removed a thick jacket from one of the corpses, and started walking. And when the remaining women and children started screaming, he didn't look back.

***

Cain had made his way to Fulton Hollow on cons, some elaborate, some little more than petty thievery. He had started out this particular streak in Texas, riding the rails more or less illegally until Santa Fe, where he had made use of the classic “missionary conspiracy” con to get himself a ticket to Tucson. It was one of the oldest tricks in the book; back in Medieval England, highwaymen often dressed as monks or abbots and tricked aristocrats to give them transportation from village to village. Of course, back then, the highwaymen would conclude the journey by slicing up the aristocrats and taking their gold. Chris Cain preferred less cutthroat methods, most of the time.

In the station at Santa Fe, he jimmied the lock in the conductors’ locker room, grabbed a brown jacket, matching pants and a shaving kit. He made his way to the public facilities, shaved the beard from his face and used the cream in the kit to slick back his untamed hair. He changed into his crisp new clothes and dumped the old ones, along with the bag and shaving cream (he kept the razor, though), into a broom closet. From there he crossed the street into the Santa Fe First Congregational Church, pretended to pray in silence for 5 minutes and absconded with a Bible and a tithing bin. The minister was ne’er the wiser as the grifter completed his costume and returned, a new man, to the Santa Fe station. From there, it was hardly work at all. Just acting.

“You sir!” Cain called out to a passing businessman, shaking the Bible in one hand, his other gripped firmly over his heart. He shook the heavy book at the businessman and then gestured to the tithing bin at his feet.

“All throughout this great territory, little Hopi Indian children are starving, sir! Not just for the bounty of this world, but for the bounty of the spirit!”

His voice grew louder. Other passengers began to drift over.

“Yes sir! Yes ma’am! All of God’s children have to eat, and it is our duty, out of charity, to feed them! To feed their stomachs with good food and to feed their ears with the good Word! Ain’t that right people?”

He scanned the crowd and nodded solemnly at several of the other passengers. There was a railroad bull a few yards away, glancing at the growing crowd suspiciously, but he didn’t show signs of coming over to investigate. Yet. Chris thought it best if he wrapped this one up quickly.

“Bless you kind folks, I know times are hard, but for some, times are harder! For some have not even the comfort of the Lord’s Word to quiet their gnawing hunger. So, if you can find it in your hearts to make some small pittance of a donation for the Hopi Children's Fund,” he bestowed the tithing bucket on the nearest crowd member, “I know the Lord will smile upon you, and bless you, as you have blessed them.”

Times were hard. Cain had performed this same con on the East Coast and made dollars, but here, he only heard the occasional clink of a penny or a nickel in the tithing bucket and, by the time it was returned to him, he hardly had enough for a ticket to Tucson, let alone any sort of profit. But still, beggars can’t be choosers, and the railroad bull was on his way over.

Cain took the tithing bucket and made the money disappear into his pockets, bowing graciously to the other passengers and even shaking a few hands. He manoeuvred past the crowd, out of the bull’s view and around a parked train, passing back a few words of thanks.

He made his way back to the conductor’s room, which was still unlocked from his first venture and exchanged the brown clothes for black ones, making sure to place the brown pants in their original locker and the brown jacket in the new one. Covering tracks, framing others, all in a day’s work for a professional of his calibre.

Five minutes later, Cain had purchased a seat on the train to Tucson and was on board comfortably. He had mussed up his hair considerably in the train’s powder room and splashed some dust his face outside and the change was remarkable. No one recognized him, not even the woman one row away, who had placed a nickel in his tithing bin. Which reminded him…he tucked the bin in the overhead compartment for the seat across from him, but kept the Bible in his lap. The whole con had only taken an afternoon and, just like that, the train started belching smoke and he was on his way to a brand new territory, with brand new marks and no consequences.

When he got off the train at Tucson, he left the Bible on his seat.

***

Tucson didn’t leave him time for a con; it was night time and, although he doubted there was any word on the wire searching for a man of his description, he didn’t want to take any chances staying there. The last coach west was leaving in half an hour and he didn’t have any time to waste.

Cain made his way up Tucson’s main thoroughfare, eyes flitting back and forth. He knew what he was looking for, and he spotted it: a middle-aged woman, well dressed, hanging away from her group. He watched carefully. She looked bored; the man she was with was much older than she was and the others standing in front of the saloon were chatting amiably and hanging on his every word. She made her way off of the boardwalk and stood by herself, half in the light from the saloon’s lamps, half in shadow. Chris slid through the shadowy street and was on her in an instant. His hand slipped over her mouth and his stolen razor made its way to her throat. He pulled her into the darkness of the alley.

Her eyes were engorged with fear and he could tell she was trying to scream, so he pressed the razor a little tighter. A little bead of blood dripped from where the edge bit too hard, and she squeezed her eyes shut.

“Shh,” he shushed her. “Shh. Shh. Shh. Just don’t say a word and I won’t have to hurt you.”

He pressed her hard against the wall of the saloon and tentatively withdrew his hand from her mouth. She didn’t make a sound, but her eyes were still closed tight. Her lips quivered.

“Now listen, I ain’t gonna hurt you and I ain’t gonna do anything unsavoury. You just hand over all your cash and we’ll be set. You kin?”