Six Guns Straight From Hell - Tales Of Horror And Dark Fantasy From The Weird Weird West (24 page)

“
I know all about it, Sheriff.”

“
Well, I listened to everything he had to say. It seems you’ve managed to ruffle his feathers good, and he’s usually a peaceable type. He came with his ranch hand – the one you were supposed to have set right, according to him. Well, I looked him over careful-like, and it seems to me there’s a case to answer when all is said and done. It seems to me that his ranch hand is defective, which is contrary to what Jake was promised: again, according to what he says. Now, I know there’s usually two sides to every story, so I’d like to hear your side now.”

“
Sheriff, there just isn’t that much to say. We entered a business transaction, and he hasn’t followed the stipulations.”

“
Jake says that you misled him and didn’t fulfill your end of the agreement. What do you say to that?”

“
Sheriff, what Jake Hostler says and what reality is are two different things.”

“
Nonetheless, it’s my duty to investigate this and decide if he’s got a legitimate claim or not; so I’m going to have to ask you to let me have a look at that contract he’s been referring to.”

“
Here it is,” said the proprietor, pulling the contract out of a file in the filing cabinet and setting it down on his desk for the sheriff to see. “It’s a standard contract. It’s been notarized and meets all the legal requirements.”

The sheriff stepped forward to the desk to have a look.

“
You like to sit down, Sheriff?”

The sheriff shook his head and began to read while standing.

“
It’s all there, Sheriff. You’re welcome to read through the fine print. You can see under article 8, paragraph 2, where it says that a client has to give it at least seven working days before a refund will even be considered. Well, it’s only been four days now.”

After a couple minutes, the lawman looked up again. “You have any sort of permit to operate this kind of business?” asked the sheriff.

“
Now just what am I supposed to say to that, Sheriff?” said the proprietor, suddenly animated. “You expect me to say I’ve got some sort of certified diploma from London and full accreditation from New York that qualifies me to carry out my business throughout the states and territories of these United States and beyond? You expect to see my high-toned diplomas in shiny gilded frames all aligned in a neat row on these here walls,” said Mr. Potbury with a gesturing hand.

The sheriff’s eyes instinctively followed the direction indicated on the wall before he realized that there was nothing to see.

“
No, sir,” continued the proprietor; “I ‘studied’ under my old man and my old grand pappy when I was just a young’un. That’s how I learned.”

“
I don’t doubt that you did, Mr. Potbury.” The sheriff reflected for a moment. “You’ve been in business how long now?”

“
One year, one month and about another half-month, not counting days I was off,” replied Mr. Potbury quickly as if he always kept a running count in his head. “The most time I took off was the two weeks I was sick. It was just four days ago I reopened for business. I probably rushed back sooner than I should have.”

“
You the one who raised Nat McGrue a few months back?” asked the sheriff.

“
Since I’m the only one capable of it in these parts, I don’t think it could’ve been anyone
but
me,” replied Mr Potbury. “Why do you ask anyway? There been any complaints?”

“
Nope. But he gave me a mighty strange look the other day when I passed him.”

“
Don’t worry about that. Everybody gets looked at the same way by him. He can’t help it, and it’s nothing personal.”

“
But he sure does look peculiar when he’s out walking. In my line of work, a peculiar person might turn out to be a dangerous person. I’ve already had my deputy warn him that we’ll be quick to take measures if he starts to disturb the peace.”

“
Disturb the peace? Nat McGrue’s as quiet and harmless as a porterhouse steak.”

“
Well, the same can’t be said for Jake Hostler’s ranch hand. As soon as he loses sight of Jake, he begins to howl and whine like a wounded prairie dog. I heard it myself when I tried to close my office door to him.”

“
Oh, well, that’ll soon pass when he finally comes to himself.”

“
Just the same, I think I’d like to have a complete list of everyone you raised in the last year so I’ll know who they are. This way I can keep an eye on them.”

“
I really would advise against it, Sheriff. Don’t you think they have a right to their privacy, same as everybody else who’s living?”

The sheriff looked sternly at Mr. Potbury. “I’d appreciate your full cooperation in this, Mr. Potbury. I still might decide in favor of Hostler and ask you to refund his money, contract or no contract.”

“
You got a mind to shut me down, Sheriff?”

“
I don’t know, but now that you mention it, it might just be a possibility.”

“
Then I’m sorry I did mention it.”

“
Well, I hope it doesn’t come to that, but if I get your cooperation, then that’d be something in your favor. Now – will you identify the people you’ve raised or won’t you?”

“
All right. It’s your time to waste, Sheriff. I think you’ll find them all just as law-abiding as everybody else—and probably more so.”

Having said this, the proprietor checked through all his case files and wrote out the name of every person that he’d raised in the last year, along with the date next to each name. After he’d finished, he handed the list to the sheriff.

“
That’s quite a list you’ve got here,” said the sheriff as he looked it over. “I – just a minute. This some kind of joke, Potbury?”

“
How’s that, Sheriff?”

“
This list -- toward the end. It’s got your name on it.”

“
Now, Sheriff, I wouldn’t be much of a necromancer if I couldn’t raise myself, now would I?”

The revelation took time to sink in. For a full silent minute the lawman stared at the proprietor, whose eyes seemed to glisten along the lower edges. Suddenly one of them winked. The proprietor, standing across the desk, smiled. Now that the truth was revealed to him, the sheriff saw how pale – how very cadaverous -- the proprietor’s skin was, and he wondered how he hadn’t noticed it sooner.

The sheriff didn’t straight away answer. He just leaned back slightly as if to better take it all in. Then he pushed back his hat and scratched his forehead.

“
But how--” began the sheriff. “How did you raise yourself?”

“
That’s a professional secret, Sheriff, and one I intend to hold on to,” said the dead man with another wink.

“
Well,” replied the sheriff, who suddenly felt unnerved as he realized he was speaking to a man who was dead and, by rights, should be a half dozen feet under ground. “Seein’ as nobody’s been hurt –”

“
And I aim to keep it that way, sir.”

“
Well – as long as you stay within the law and I don’t hear any complaints – from the living or the dead,” he put in – “I don’t see why you can’t be free to carry on with your practise. And as for Jake Hostler – I reckon he’ll just have to wait a few more days.”

“
Sheriff, I always did have you pegged for someone who was fair-minded and could see the sense in things.”

The necromancer put out his hand across the table for the sheriff to shake.

At sight of the hand being extended, the lawman felt a momentary shudder go through his body. As if suddenly anxious for his hands to be busy elsewhere, the sheriff reached up to reverse the hatband in his hat.

Normally the sheriff was a man who had a lot of conversation in him and, seemingly, all the time in the world to convey it, but on this occasion he suddenly recollected some urgent business he had on the other side of town.

Having made his excuses, the sheriff tipped his hat and hurried out the door.

Without looking back, the lawman headed quickly down the street before turning sharply into a nearby doorway. Watching him from the covered sidewalk of his office was Mr. Potbury, who noted that the sheriff’s urgent business apparently took him to the counter of the Gold Label Saloon, despite the early hour. Smiling, Mr. Potbury went back into his office and continued with his day’s work

Henrik Ramsager is the former editor of a small-press humor publication set in the Victorian age. He has also written several dozen historical articles related to, for example, pirates, ancient civilizations and early explorers. Most of his fictional work invariably takes place in the 19th century. However, in a recent bid to get out of the 19th century,-or at least to see if it can be done, he has written a number of stories set in the far earlier age of the Vikings and also the far, far, really far earlier age of the Neanderthal. One of his stories has recently appeared in
Tales of the Talisman
, with another due to appear in an upcoming issue.

Mr. Ramsager apologizes in advance for the absence of people being gunned down in "The Enterprising Necromancer," but can assure concerned readers that several quite dead--as in stone-cold dead--people feature prominently in this story. And for anyone who has ever pondered the question of how one might go about returning a resurrected corpse who is defective, this story makes a serious attempt to address this issue.

Snake Oil

by

Jennifer Campbell-Hicks

He was the Rattlesnake King, or so proclaimed the blood-red letters on the dirigible he set down on Main Street between the saloon and Puckett’s Feed-and-Farm store.

Steam hissed out valves. Horses reared at hitching posts, while folks left the relative cool of stores and overhangs to hurry out into the dust cloud kicked up by the landing.

Inside Puckett’s, old Buddy set back on his haunches and growled. Ben stopped filling flour sacks to scratch behind the dog’s ears, laid back against his skull. “What’s wrong, boy?”

Buddy barked at the door.

“
Hush that dog, will you.” Father’s stern command came from the back. “I won’t have him scaring off customers.”

“
OK.” Ben untied his apron. “I’m going out for a minute.”

Gawkers filled the street. Ben, short for his age, jumped to see over them. When that did not work, he clambered atop a barrel and gaped.

An airship. A
real
airship. He had never been to a port, despite futile entreaties to join Father on a trip to Denver so he could see the one there, which meant Ben had never seen a dirigible – only sketches in dime novels. Now it seemed one had flown from the pages and right into Severance, even if it was a pittance beside the grander ships that carried passengers all the way from New York to California.

More steam hissed from engines. A hatch opened, and there stood a man who could have stepped from the dime novels himself: all fancied up in a suit with a bow tie and shiny black boots, and mustaches curled into handlebars. He lifted his gold-rimmed goggles and set them atop his hat.

“
Fine people of the great state of Colorado,” the man called out in a deep voice like gravel. “I am Clark Stanley, and I have an offer that will change your lives.”

Stanley’s accent marked him as a Texan. Ben expected folks would leave because of that. Outsiders weren’t trusted beyond a quick stop at the saloon, the church or the Feed-and-Farm before they moved on. But no one left. Instead, the crowd grew larger.

“
You are the backbone of the West,” Stanley went on in a gravelly cadence. “Farmers and ranchers, pioneers who will lead this great nation into the 20th century. But the work is hard. Yes, Sir. Hard on the body and the soul, and I have what you’ve been waiting for.” He held up a bottle with a brown paper label. “Clark Stanley’s Snake Oil Elixir, made with authentic Chinese snake oil, a guaranteed cure for ailments of all sorts.”

“
What ailments?” asked a man.

“
A fine question, Sir. I have your answer right here.” He put on spectacles and read the label. “Snake Oil Elixir will cure rheumatism, neuralgia, sciatica, lame back, contracted muscles, sprains, swellings …”

Ben listened. In fact, he listened so hard he almost missed the shove to his legs from behind. He flailed but caught himself before he fell from his already unsteady perch atop the barrel.

“
Move it, runt. That’s my spot.”

He tore his eyes from the airship and looked down to see Tommy Blackburn. Tommy had gotten strong doing men’s work on his father’s ranch. He was 16, four years older than Ben with chin hairs to prove it, but he was still a horse’s ass.

“
Stuff it, Tommy. I got here first. Find your own barrel.”

Tommy cracked his knuckles. “This
is
my barrel.”

Ben knew he was supposed to stand down. Instead, he said, “What are you gonna do? Beat me up in front of everyone?”

Tommy balled his fists to do just that. Ben knew better. Father said the Blackburns owned half the land and water rights in the county but always wanted more, and Ben figured no one would sell if Horace Blackburn’s sons pummeled the town’s kids for no good reason. Folks in Severance looked out for one another because no one else would.

Still, Tommy had pushed the issue too far to just walk away. Ben scrunched up his face, ready for a token black eye.

None came.

He peeked out. Someone had come up behind Tommy and grabbed his punching arm. When Ben saw whom, he unwound in relief, then thought better of it and scowled. “I can take care of myself.”

Andy grinned. “You’re doing a great job, little brother.” He hand tightened around Tommy’s bicep, and Tommy winced. That was Andy: strong as a bull. Ben both admired and resented him for it. “I think you should leave, Blackburn.”

“
Ow! You’re breaking my arm! I’m gonna tell my Pa.”

“
Good idea,” Andy said. “Go do that. Now.”

Tommy stumbled off, cradling his arm.

Smug in his victory, Andy lounged against the barrel and smirked. “What an ass.”

“
He’s gonna come back with his friends.”

“
No, he won’t. He talks big, but it’s nothing. Just air,” Andy said, but Ben had ceased paying attention. “Father sent me to fetch you. His exact words were, ‘You find your no good brother and get back here before I make you both sorry you were ever born.’ That’s
not
nothing, by the way.”

“
Shh. I want to listen to the dirigible man.”

“
Buddy went nuts. He got into the flour you left on the floor and tracked it all over the store.”

“
Shit.”

“
Yeah.”

“
That’s not like him, you know,” Ben said. “Dogs can sense better than people when something’s wrong. I read that once.”

“
He doesn’t like the commotion, is all. Come on.”

Andy reached out to help Ben down, but Ben didn’t go.

“
I promise I’ll clean it up, but could you pretend to look for me a little longer? I want to watch –” He trailed off at Andy’s frown. “Please, Andy? It’s a
real
airship, and he’s got this snake oil stuff. I’ll do your chores tomorrow.”

“
Uh-uh. Do them for the whole week.”

“
Come on. A whole week?” But Andy raised an eyebrow, and Ben knew his brother had him against the rails. “OK, deal.”

“
Great. I’ll look for you on the other side of the street. Should take awhile, through this crowd.” He winked. “Besides, I see Emma Pullman in front of the saloon.”

Andy left, and with no sign of Tommy or his boys, Ben could again give full attention to the dirigible. It had stopped blowing steam but not before muddying the dirt beneath the valves, and a propeller spun lazily in the wind.

Ben bet inside the light deck was even better, that it had all manner of levers and dials and buttons, and when you used them in the right order, the ship would lift off. The townsfolk would get smaller and smaller until they shrunk into ants, and you could fly with the birds or into the clouds.

Out in the street, folks mobbed Stanley, eager to exchange their money for the miracle cure-all. The stuff was going fast, but Stanley assured the crowd: “Don’t worry, folks, don’t worry. There’s plenty for everyone.”

In his own pocket, Ben found only lint and couple rusty nails. Not that he minded. He didn’t want a bottle of Clark Stanley’s one-of-a-kind Snake Oil Elixir. No, what Ben wanted was a ride in the dirigible.

That night, while Mother cleared away the dinner plates, Andy asked whether he could buy the elixir.

“
Absolutely not,” Father said. He took his pipe from his pocket and tapped it clean on the rough wood table. “Under no circumstance will anyone in this family buy a drop of what that man is selling.”

Light from gas lamps flickered across Father’s stern face, accentuating lines around his eyes and mouth, turning him from merely intimidating to downright scary. Ben sat across from Andy. He slipped chicken scraps under the table to Buddy and tried to make himself invisible. It was a talent he had; being so small, people often overlooked him.

“
The elixir works,” Andy said. “Mrs. Hopper came into the store after she drank just one spoonful, and she was walking without a cane for the first time in years. Imagine what it could do for a healthy person. How much stronger I’d be.”

Father stuffed tobacco into his pipe, struck a match and set it alight. “No.”

“
But, Father -”

“
Enough, boy. My word is final.”

Andy slumped. “Yes, Sir.”

The lines around Father’s mouth softened. “I don’t trust that Clark Stanley. He doesn’t know us or how we live. Besides, there’s been bad news this week. Cowboys rode in by way of Tinmath and Caldwell, and they say everyone’s gone. Not a soul left in town or on the farms or the ranches.”

Ben looked up. “What?”

“
Where did they go?” Andy said.

Mother wiped her hands on her apron and joined them at the table. “The river doesn’t run through there. If the creeks dried up, and with no rain.”

Father shook his head. Pipe smoke rose to the rafters to swirl around bundles of lavender and mint Mother had tacked there to dry. “It wasn’t an orderly leaving. The livestock is still there, and all their belongings. Clothes, tools, food. In some cases, dinner was left uneaten on tables.”

Ben shivered and told himself it was a night breeze, come through the window, that raised the bumps on his arms. He scratched Buddy, and a warm, rough tongue licked his palm.

“
Maybe it was Indians,” Andy said anxiously.

“
Indians would have taken the horses.”

“
You think Clark Stanley did it?”

“
I don’t know,” Father said. “What I do know is with Tinmath and Caldwell abandoned, Severance is the only town for 25 miles in any direction. Something bad is happening out there. We need to look out for one another and treat any outsider with caution.” He puffed, and smoke coiled snakelike around his head. “There will be no elixir in this house.”

Midnight. Crickets chirped, punctuated by the distant, tuneless call of a coyote. Closer by, the dirigible creaked, and its loose ends of rope snapped in the wind.

Ben slipped from the bed he shared with Andy and went to the window of their bedroom above the store. In the street was Clark Stanley’s marvelous airship, portholes dark, standing sentry over the town.

Buddy padded over and nudged at Ben’s hand.

“
I don’t have any chicken,” Ben said.

Buddy thumped his tail on the floorboards.

In the bed, Andy groaned and rolled over. “Your mutt has a tail like a crowbar.”

“
Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“
I wasn’t asleep.” His arms went up in a luxurious stretch, then back behind his head as he settled onto his pillow. “I guess it’s not a night for sleeping.”

“
Guess not.” Ben gave a weak smile. He was glad Andy was awake. Maybe some talk would stop his mind from racing. “I wish Father hadn’t told us about Tinmath and Caldwell. What do you think happened?”

“
Indians.”

“
Father said -”

“
I know what Father said, but I think the Indians left the horses and such behind because they wanted to fool everyone into thinking it was something else, to scare us out of town. They made it look like ghosts.”

Ben shivered. “Maybe it was ghosts. Or monsters.”

“
No such thing.” Andy said. “Can you keep a secret?”

A secret. Oh, boy, could he ever. Ben took a flying leap onto the bed and leaned in conspiratorially. “You kissed Emma Pullman today, didn’t you?”

“
No. I mean, yeah, I did.” He could not help but smile. “But that’s not the secret. You’ve got to promise not to tell anyone, especially not Father.”

“
I promise.” Ben burned with curiosity. Neither of them were saints, but they knew the stupidity of going against Father. They had both felt his paddle more than once.

Andy rolled off the bed, knelt and ran his hands over the floorboards. He worked his fingers around a loose one, lifted it and reached into the hole. What he came out with made Ben stare: a bottle with a brown paper label.