Six Guns Straight From Hell - Tales Of Horror And Dark Fantasy From The Weird Weird West

© 2010 Science Fiction Trails Publishing

PO Box 8191

Avon, Colorado 81620

http://www.sciencefictiontrails.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without the express written consent of the publisher. excepting brief quotes used for review purposes.

The stories contained herein are works of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The only exception is some stories may contain brief casual references to historical figures from the Old West era.

Manufactured in the United States of America

Cover Design by Laura Givens

Contents

Introduction

Chin Song Ping and the Fifty-Three Thieves

Laura Givens

Clay Allison and the Haunted Head

Bill D. Allen & Sherri Dean

Decently and Quietly Dead

Matthew Baugh

Trouble Huntin’

Bill Craig

On the Road to Bodie

Lyn McConchie

Spook

John Howard

Bleeding the Bank Dry

David Boop

A Specter in the Light

David Lee Summers

As Ye Sow

Renee James

Night Bird

Don Hornbostel

Smile

Kit Volker

Ghost Dancers

Sam Kepfield

Justice

Nicole Givens Kurtz

The Man from Turkey Creek Canyon

Lee Clark Zumpe

The Last Defenders

Carol Hightshoe

Long Night in Little China

Joel Jenkins

The Enterprising Necromancer

Henrik Ramsager

Snake Oil

Jennifer Campbell-Hicks

The Murders Over In Weirdunkal

James Patrick Cobb

Grumpy Gaines, Texas Ranger

David B. Riley

Introduction

Howdy. When I talk about Weird Westerns, I often use the phrase “These ain’t your pappy’s western stories.” Actually, that may not be entirely true.
The Weird Western genre has been around
for quite a while now. I also used to call these type of stories, “The greatest genre nobody ever heard of.” The actuality is Pappy may well have read something like this and Pappy may have heard of them. I’ve been editing, publishing and writing in this area for more years than I care to admit.
Over that time, I’ve seen all sorts of things passed off as weird western. I think the genre has changed a bit as the years have gone by. And, perhaps, people have worried too much about labels.

One of the tests of literature is the test of time. The weird western story has shown it has legs and will be around for a long time to come. People like stories about vampires and ghosts and things that go bump in the night. When the Wild West lawmen, the cowboys and the cavalry soldiers take on these entities, they do so with their nineteenth century mindsets and abilities. So, these stories take us back to a simpler time, yet the tension and danger of any horror tale remains. I think their great lure is their unpredictability. It’s like taking a horror tale and making it into a new painting by using the canvas of the Wild West frontier.

Even though many of us love these stories, there has been a tendency with some writers and publishers to simply crank out one wretched work after another. There have been plenty of collections that bear the Weird Western label and offer little more that one cookie cutter dark zombie tale followed by another just like it with lots of shooting in some generic western town, then two or three survivors are faced with the choice of rebuilding or moving on.

So, that’s the paradox of the Weird Western story. Some of the most expertly crafted and exciting tales I’ve ever read came out of this genre. Yet, at the same time, some of the most dreadful and poorly written crap I’ve seen has also born the Weird Western label.

In putting together this collection, Laura and I wanted to challenge the contributors to come up with fresh approaches to the genre and we set out to select only the best. Our readers will judge if we succeeded.

David B. Riley

Introduction II: Revenge of the

Weird Western

When you think about it, all westerns are weird. Life during that period bore little resemblance to the movies, TV shows and stories that we’ve come to think of as westerns. Of course the same applies to the worlds of cops, doctors, samurai and lawyers. We recognize the genre shorthand that drops us into familiar worlds that don’t actually exist, and we go along for the ride. But, when you smash up a couple of familiar genres, well then, something cool happens and you aren’t quite so sure where it’ll take you.

That’s our aim here, High Noon at the stroke of midnight.

The horror genre has been getting a big overhaul during the past couple of decades, where once there were castles, now the monsters live in condos. So why shouldn’t they find a home on the range? The same historical time period that gave the world its first taste of literary vampires and monsters also gave birth to the fictional adventures of Wild Bill and Billy the Kid. I don’t think that’s a coincidence, I think they were made for each other. Now, this is hardly the first attempt to set these two crazy kids up on a blind date, but this time we’re sending along some really top notch authors to chaperone the event.

So saddle up and have yourself a good howl at that big ol’ moon because you never know what’s over that next ridge.

Laura Givens

Chin Song Ping and the

Fifty-Three Thieves

by

Laura Givens

As near as he could figure, Ping had fallen into one of the levels of hell. The sun overhead stripped all color from the barren landscape and the mind-squelching heat seemed to come from below and above equally. There was no relief in sight and the horizon seemed to stretch further than he would have thought imaginable only a year before. This level of hell had a name, and the name was Arizona.

He wasn’t terribly surprised at being in hell, his mother had always said it was where he would wind up, but he did resent having to walk through it while leading a magnificent white stallion which refused to be ridden today. For the eighth time that day, he stopped and bowed to the stallion, “Great and honorable steed,” he said as he bowed to the horse, “I realize you are far too noble to be ridden by a scoundrel such as my humble self, but we may move out of this place much faster on your four feet than on our six collective feet.” He bowed lower and added, “Please?” Ping then clambered onto the saddle secured to the broad, strong white back of the animal and did all the “Giddyup” things he had seen white riders do, to no avail. For the eighth time, he slid to the ground thinking that the problem was speaking Chinese to an American horse. He was naturally good with languages and understood the language well enough, but the best he could manage to remember right then was, “Horse, go now, please!” and that had just seemed to irritate the animal. So, he walked, heading southeast for no particular reason other than that it was away from the railroad.

It had begun a year ago with his latest career choice, after being an acrobat had ended so badly (following private instruction in contortion, from the wife of the head acrobat). He decided that women and his handsome face were a formula for failure. So he became a gambler, which was a very male oriented profession indeed. After an early run of good luck, he had the bad luck of continuing his winning streak in a game of chance with several brothers in the local Tong. After an upturned table, an escape through a window, and a daring chase across the city’s rooftops, he had blended in with a group of men gathered at the docks. He subsequently found himself herded onto a ship headed for America. He was to become a railroad worker. He wasn’t sure what exactly that meant, but it was a career he had not tried before.

Being a Chinese worker for the Central Pacific Railway was back-breaking, demeaning and boring work, so he took to gambling again most nights, just to keep his skills fresh. At first, he gambled only with other Chinese, but they had very little money. So, as soon as he learned enough English,, he sat in on poker games with the Americans. It was another bad career move. Drawing four aces to Chauncey O’Donnell’s three kings had put him on the work-gang foreman’s permanent bad side, so much so that Ping had found himself in the basket three days later, when blasting into a hillside was required.

A unique method of planting explosives had been developed by the Central Pacific; you lowered a Chinese worker over the cliff side in a basket to set the explosive and light the fuse and then hauled him up as quickly as possible. Often, the man even survived. Ping kept his eyes closed during the descent and quickly planted the charge and lit the fuse. He screamed to be pulled up and was raised a couple of yards before his ascent abruptly ended. He hollered frantically and looked up to see the smiling face of Mr. Chauncey O’Donnell. Stunned, Ping reached downward to snatch the fuse, but he was too far away. With laughter wafting down from above, he started his basket swinging while keeping a close eye on the sizzling fuse. When it reached its last sputter he leaped from the basket at its highest arc, tucking into a ball and rolling with the blast as it sent him high into the air. When he felt himself start his downward plummet he went spread eagle in an attempt to impede his fall and managed to land square onto the head engineer’s large, snowy white tent. Extricating himself from yards and yards of canvas and cursing white men, Ping sensed that this might be the time for yet another career shift, perhaps horse thief. He grabbed a large water skin hanging off a post and jumped onto the onto the engineer’s beautiful, white stallion which took off like a shot. Random gunfire and angry yells receded as he urged his stolen steed in the direction that he had seen whites point towards and call Arizona.

Deep in a cavern, in the mountains south of Tucson, danced a man with sly features and ancient eyes set deeply in a young man’s face. He danced, not any particular step known to the feet of man, but a mad dervish of joy and self congratulation. And he giggled at his own cleverness as he danced. Behind him were seven cages of a size and strength to hold a human being, and they were empty except for the two in the middle. A young woman sat in despair in each of those cages, one black, the other oriental. Though clothed in elegant attire, all hope had fled their expressions and tracks of tears, long spilled, streaked their lovely cheeks. To the side of the cells was a natural hot spring, large enough to bathe in, that bubbled and spat with sulfurous odors and an unnatural glow from deep within. Louise, the young black woman, spit vehemently at the pool.

The sly featured man stopped in mid gyration and ran to Louise’s prison. “Don’t pout so, my African beauty.” He purred, “Your time will come. Today our Celestial princess shall be the star attraction.” He nodded toward the other cage, “A pity she refused the opium, though.” The other girl whimpered slightly. “I hope you aren’t so foolish when your time comes. I do so hate to see a dumb animal suffer.” With that, he jumped across the bubbling stone cauldron and shouted, “So much to do, our guests will arrive any moment now!”

At least it wasn’t flat. After a night’s march further, Ping had finally come to the boulders scattered around the foothills of a mountain range which stretched to the north. Ahead, he saw a cloud of dust approaching from the east and was unsure of what course of action he should take. In desperation, he thought to consult his traveling companion. “Great and honorable steed,” he bowed, “there are many men coming our way. They may be our salvation, or they may be our doom.” The horse nodded his head. “They come from the wrong direction to be those who might chase us, but there is the mystery of the telegraph which could have foretold our coming. They might also be those known as Apaches who, I am told, have no sense of humor in these matters. Of course,” he wrinkled his brow, “any random band of white men might also find distraction in disposing of me and acquiring you.” The horse lowered his head and shook it distractedly. “Yes, you are wise, oh noble one. Let’s hide!”

Soon he and the horse were safely behind a large boulder with enough brush that Ping could peer out without fear of being seen. The dust cloud soon became a large group of hard looking Americans led by three men with dangerous expressions and red sashes about their waists. When they came to a rock face in the hill, they all sat for a moment to let the dust settle, then the three leaders began to wail loudly, sounding like wolves or coyotes on a moonlit night. The ground beneath Ping started to rumble as the Rock face pivoted upwards with a frightening majesty which froze most of the riders and frightened their horses. When the way was completely open, the men with sashes began swearing at the rest, gesturing wildly to move them all into the cave. Once the rest of the group had vanished into the hillside, the three whooped and shot off their pistols, then galloped after the others.

As the stone slid slowly back into place, Ping sat wide-eyed and slack jawed for a few heartbeats. America was such a strange place, and Arizona doubly so, but as odd as what he had just seen was, what he smelled was opportunity. He bowed briefly to his steed and said, “Stay!” Ping ran around the boulder, legs pumping in a way that might have prolonged his short career as a messenger many years ago. With not a second to spare, he dove for the diminishing opening, again tucking into a roll, which carried him into the dark interior which, Ping belatedly admitted to himself, had all the makings of a fine tomb.

Staying in a crouch as his eyesight adjusted to the gloom, he could see that he was alone. But somewhere, further down in the Earth’s bowels, came a grumbling of loud, masculine conversation and a faint reddish glow that made his surroundings even more surreal. The smell of opportunity had been replaced with the unpleasant whiff of sulfur. He glanced back at the now closed stone wall before taking a deep breath and moving forward in a cautious, but determined, trot.

It wasn’t a straight course and several times he thought he was surely lost, but then a snatch of conversation would steer him back into the correct path. On his last wrong turn he found himself tumbling into a large chamber about six feet lower than the passage way. As he dusted himself off and made sure all his bones were sufficiently intact, he noticed that the room was filled with stacks of paper and piles of things that sparkled or glowed with a warm luster. Gold, jewels, American money. He lost no time in stripping off his shirt and filling it as full as he could before tying it into a bundle. Smiling broadly, he was about to make a hasty retreat when, through a hole set into the wall, he heard a woman cry out in fear and anguish. He stood for a second, looking at the ceiling, reciting to himself all the reasons he should just keep going. Then there was another scream followed by a woman’s voice pleading loudly, in Chinese, for help. This was followed with coarse laughter. Okay, one look wouldn’t hurt, so he dropped his loot and scrambled into the hole. A series of twists and turns brought him to a lighted opening in a wall that overlooked seven cages.

The sly-faced man stood on a platform, resplendent in a crimson robe, dangling a young woman over a steaming water-filled pit as his audience of desperate looking men whistled and cheered. Both her bound hands were bound and held high by only his strong right hand and every few seconds he would dip her low enough for the water to scald her feet, causing her to scream and the men to howl their approval. “I am Moses Castle and, like that Moses long ago, I will deliver you into the Promised Land!” he shouted, and the crowd went wild. “You have been chosen to carry out my law in this land, and my law is chaos and violence! You will do this, not for my pleasure but because it is your pleasure.” More cheers and hooted laughter. “You fifty men will wear the red sashes that will make you my Cowboys and you will be invincible from this day forward. That invincibility does not come cheaply though, it requires sacrifice,” Moses frowned, then threw his head back in a loud laugh, “Not a sacrifice by you though, but
for
you.” He then turned to the young woman whose life he held in his hand and said soothingly, in flawless Chinese, “A shame to waste one so lovely on such a pack of mangy curs, but it’s for such a worthy cause.” Suddenly, a long, gleaming knife appeared in his left hand and with a movement as quick and sly as his features, he cut the woman’s Celestial throat and let her drop into the pit below. The water splashed over the sides in a hissing tide of deepest red as she sunk into her bubbling grave. A bright red light erupted from water ‘s depths and cast Moses’ shadow in stark relief on the wall to his left, not a human shadow, but that of some great dog, howling at an unseen moon. To his right and from above came Ping’s anguished cry of anger and frustration.

That might have been Ping’s undoing, except that he was mostly drowned out by the general pandemonium which now reigned on the cavern floor. The only person who seemed to have heard him was a young woman still trapped in the cage below him. Her head snapped up towards Ping and their eyes locked. They were the most wonderful eyes Ping had ever beheld, dark and gleaming with sudden hope. She was darker than any woman he had ever known and the red luminosity from the pit gave her an aura of sensuality he had never imagined. He fell in love immediately, though some small, often ignored, part of him winced, “Not again.” He put his finger to his lips and motioned that she shouldn’t look at him, but his eyes made unsubstantiated promises of rescue. He mouthed his name, “Ping.” And she returned, “Louise.” As the commotion in the audience died down, Moses produced an armload of virgin white strips of heavy linen. He carefully dipped each one into the bloody pool until it came out soaked and dripping red, like a bandage used once too often. He handed these to the three men who already wore such sashes and they approached each member of the crowd in turn. At each new candidate, a soaking red sash was wrung over the man’s head, then tied around his waist with the murmured word, ”Brother.”

After each man had been so anointed, Moses ascended his platform and let out a mournful wail to recapture their attention. ”Boys,” he drawled in a decidedly less formal tone, “You’re Cowboys now and that means you step aside for no man. If you want it, you take it! No one can hurt you now. You can laugh at bullets and eat knives for breakfast as long as you wear those sashes.” Several men looked down at their waists with dubious expressions. “Oh ye of little faith!” he shouted with glee and, pulling a Colt .45 from his robe, shot the man nearest to him. The man looked frantically at his chest for a hole but there was none, so he joined Moses in a good laugh. Soon men were shooting each other and generally having themselves a good old time. The walls echoed with thunder and mad laughter. After a while, Moses set his sly features into a mirthless grimace and howled once more for silence. “With you fifty men we are now three hundred strong and we will keep growing until we’re are a God-damned army! Now get the hell out of here and don’t let me be hearing anything good about you. You got that?!” Everyone stampeded out of the large cavern into another that held their horses, laughing and punching each other’s shoulders as Moses turned to Louise, sitting wide eyed in her lonely cell. “Cry havoc, my dear for I have just unleashed the dogs of war.”

When the shooting had started, Ping begun crawling backward as fast as he could until he fell back into the treasure chamber, this time landing on his feet. He grabbed his improvised sack and was almost out the door when he spied a roll of rich silk leaning against a wall. In a flash of inspiration, he grabbed the richly woven bolt of cloth and jumped back up into the main corridor. Sprinting back the way he had entered, trying desperately to remember all the correct turns, he soon came to the dead end that marked the cave’s entrance. Spinning around like a top, he saw a dark alcove that he had somehow missed before and lunged into its scant protection. With his back pressed into the cold stone and his stolen booty at his feet, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply, willing himself to be as insignificant as possible. After what seemed an eternity, he heard the rumble of hooves and he squeezed his eyes shut even tighter. As the sound was almost on him, he heard fifty-three voices raised high in a howl of sheer, murderous delight and he felt the stone tremble against his bare back. The thunder of hooves mixed with mad howls and grinding stone and Ping thought sure he might soil his only pair of pants, in a most unbecoming manner, at any moment. The noise eventually died down until there was only stone on stone. He thought it wise to risk opening one eye and saw that the door was more than half closed. He ran and flung his burdens ahead of his own tumbling body, escaping much as he had entered. He picked himself up and saw the herd of retreating men turn into a wave of dust, riding hard for some luckless destination. He dragged his spoils toward the large boulder at his right and was pleasantly surprised when he rounded its side to see that the white stallion was still there. After a moment, he dropped to the ground and kissed the horse’s feet. He looked into the animal’s soulful eyes, then at its swishing tail. He bowed till his forehead touched the ground. “Oh noble one, please forgive me for what I am about to do, but I do it in the name of true love.” The stallion merely shook his lowered head.