A Fistful of Horror - Tales Of Terror From The Old West (7 page)

“What? Hey…” The face disappeared and footfalls staggered through the dirt.

Hubert, confused, in discomfort, tied up and minus a tooth thought, “Did he say I owe him a life?” The familiar sound of flinging dirt reached his ears.

“Hey Mister! What uh, what are you doing?”

The yelling hurt his head and his fear pained him more. Fear the bearded stranger was digging a hole for him.

The dirt whistled on.

“I’M NOT GERROLD!”

Hubert pushed his heels into the sand for traction to get up and walk away. If he could get his hands in front of him he may even be able to ride a horse.

He turned over, his face pressed against the hard packed dirt. Pain tears squeezed out and his other eye came unstuck. He opened it, a surprised bloody grin stretching his lips. One at a time he pulled his knees into his stomach, gathered his strength and got one leg up underneath him. He paused, listened and held his breath when he realized the digging had stopped. A hand fell on his shoulder.

“You ain’t going nowheres Gerrold.”

Hubert was yanked onto his back. His leg was still bent underneath him and his knee dislocated with a pop. Hubert screamed. He forgot all about his head. He was being dragged over the ground to where the man had been digging. Hubert imagined dropping into a hole and looking up from his grave while the bearded man towered over him, backlit by the stars in the sky. Then the dirt would hit his face and the hole would fill. He wondered how long it would take for him to suffocate. Would he open his mouth to breathe only to have the earth spill into his mouth and fill his throat? He prayed.

The bearded man released him and walked around to his feet. When he yanked the boot from the leg with the injured knee, Hubert shrieked. After straightening Hubert’s legs, the man looped a rope around the ankles and behind the heels and lashed them together. He did it at a snail’s pace, with drunken hands, but Hubert had to admit, it was secure. The man rolled the rest of the rope and walked off with it, out of sight, into the darkness.

When the man returned, he was leading a horse. The man looked up and threw the rope into the air, aiming for an overhanging branch. He missed.

“Hey Mister?” Hubert’s voice quavered. “Whatever it is you’re doing, you got the wrong guy. I’m not Gerrold.”

The man tossed the rope again, missed and swore.

“I’m Hubert. I’m just a ranch hand for Mr. O’Hanlon.”

“You’re Gerrold. I knows the man who killed me own brother. Your lies are no good here.” The man gathered the rope again for another attempt.

“I’m just a cowpoke mister. I ain’t never killed anyone afore.”

The man tossed the rope again. “You killed my brother. Now it’s time to pay.”

“Who are you? I don’t even know who you are. I’m telling you, you got the wrong guy!”

The rope made it over the branch and the man stumbled back, looking at it, head cocked quizzically. Then in one swift motion a gun appeared in his hand, pointed at Hubert.

“I’m Seamus Milligan. You killed my brother Remus. You cut his throat when he was sleeping.”

Hubert stared at the Colt Peacemaker revolver in Seamus’ hand. Hubert knew of the Milligan brothers. Fiercely loyal to each other and dangerous to everyone else. Notorious drunks and mean spirited, it was rumoured they had killed over forty people. They were goons for hire. They buried the problems of those who could pay. They also claim jumped out in California, Deadwood and any other new towns sprouting overnight and law and order had yet to be established. Hubert had heard they tossed one guy down a ravine next to the mine he had been working on. He pleaded for help for days, taking a long time to die, while the Milligan brothers worked the mine for their own ends. They’d leave when the law or lynch mobs had had enough of them. Hubert had learned Remus had been killed and he would be kidding himself if he didn’t admit he had been happy at the news.

“Mister…I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve been working for Mr. O’Hanlon. All I do is rustle his cows. That’s all.”

The gun disappeared. Seamus tied the overhanging end of the rope to his horse’s saddle. He slapped the horse’s rump and the horse trotted forward. Hubert slid through the dirt, over wood and rocks and into the air. The rope pulled on his knee, separating the inflamed joint and he keened through gritted teeth.

Seamus slapped Hubert in the head. Hubert cried out.

“You done knocked over my kindling Gerrold!”

After the agony subsided enough for him to open his eyes, Hubert froze when Seamus bent to stack wood like a teepee in a hole. Seamus was behind him a bit so Hubert had to crane his neck back to see. He could only do it for brief periods but enough to see the hole Seamus had been digging was for a fire pit. A large one.

Seamus turned to grab Hubert’s hair, cranking his head so he could peer at him. Hubert’s scalp blazed, his nostrils flared from the whiskey stench, his knee screeched at him and even though the suffering surpassed anything he had ever experienced before, he still wanted to live. Through tears and a blood filled mouth he plead, “Please Mr. Milligan. I’m not Gerrold. I’m just a cowpoke. I rustle cows and drink mescal. Sometimes whiskey. Please let me go. Please.”

Slurred deliberate words left Seamus’ mouth. “You know what cracklin’ is Gerrold? When a pig is roasted over a fire, its skin burns and cracks open. The skin gets hard and stays oily. It’s the best part. Me an’ Remus used to fight over it ’fore ya killed him. That’s what you’re gonna be Gerrold. Cracklin’. Cuz you ain’t nothing but a cowardly pig.”

“I’M NOT GERROLD!”

Seamus turned to the fire pit. Within seconds the fire burned and grew. Hubert wasn’t over the fire. He was positioned just to its side. So he wouldn’t suffocate on the smoke. Seamus wanted him to roast. The fire grew brighter, reflecting from Seamus’ black eyes. The fire grew, Seamus tipped a whiskey bottle to his mouth and Hubert roasted. Hubert howled. When blisters formed and popped on his face he wailed. He never knew a body could scream for so long. On the other side of the fire, Seamus drank whiskey and savoured every drop. Between mouthfuls, he would inhale, appreciating the aroma and remarking to himself how much a burning man smelt like roast pork.

***

Whiskey hangovers were the worst. Seamus cracked an eye open for a split second. The sun shone too bright for such a headache. He rested, tried to lubricate his dry mouth by sucking on his cheeks and rolled onto his stomach. He put his hat back on and opened his eyes again. Seamus squinted against the sun’s glare on the hard packed dirt. With a groan, he reached into his bedroll for his whiskey bottle. Reaching fingers grasped the bottle and even though Seamus could tell it was empty from the weight, he still held it to his lips, hoping for a little drop. The bottle was drier than a desert. The burnt corpse situated on the ground distracted him from his plight. After Gerrold had stopped screaming he let him down. He was still alive, shallow breaths escaping through a burnt hole in his face Seamus suspected was his mouth. Dead now, Seamus squinted at him hard, chuckling. It wasn’t Gerrold. Gerrold was a big man, well over six feet and a solid mixture of fat and muscle. The corpse on the ground was nigh on five foot ten and skinnier than a starving whore.

Oh well, he thought to himself. He counted on his fingers how many times he got the wrong man and stopped at six. The dead man on the ground might have been seven. Seamus wasn’t too sure. He always picked the Gerrolds when he was drunk. He would get the right one some day he knew. In the meantime, he sure was having a helluva time.

After breakfast of cured ham washed down with water, Seamus dragged the corpse into the trees where the soil was softer and kicked dirt over it. He was in a barren place. He had picked it for that reason. No trails crossed his path and the army had pushed the Indians out of this area over a year ago. He was the second Gerrold he’d killed in this spot. It was a good place and he would use it again when he found the next Gerrold.

Seamus got on his horse, sucked back water from a leather bladder he got from an Indian years ago and made his way to Abilene. It was the closest place to him and even though the town marshal, Tom Smith, hated him and kept an annoyingly close eye on him, he needed a sup of whiskey. The thirst was on him bad and he didn’t want to get sick again. Maybe he would get himself a whore too, he mused. He just needed money. He could lay up on one of the lesser known trails into Abilene. Pick off someone on their way in, take their money and bury ’em out there. Well, he had enough for a bottle of whiskey. He’d grab a bottle first and then think about how to get more funds.

***

Ira Henry’s legs, buttocks and back told him he had had enough saddle for the day. He was glad when the sight of Abilene grew closer with each clop of his horse’s hooves. The sun was fading under the horizon. The sky was a lurid red and the plump clouds were as purple as a plum. A beautiful sight at the end of a long day. He had been pushing the herd for over two weeks to get to the stockyards here in Abilene for sale. He and four others had ridden with two hundred head of well fed cattle and he knew he would make a tidy profit from the venture. He estimated he would have enough to finally ask Lily Maddock to marry him. A dreamy smiled appeared just thinking about her. Red hair that blazed when the sun hit it just right, a generous smattering of freckles on her nose and brown eyes deep enough to drown in. He’d been courting her for almost six months but feared not being able to provide for her. All that would change if they could get a good price on the cattle.

Ira and his four friends bought good grazing land just over four years ago. They all slept in the same room of a hastily built shack and did their best to raise a good head of cattle. They called themselves the Ranch Five and branded all their cattle with the number five in a circle. He was proud of their brand and his friends. They had been building and selling their herd and had come out ahead twice so far. Ira was hoping to do so again this year. If he did, he would build a house on a part of their land, far enough from the others for privacy but close enough to visit and ask Lily to marry him.

They reached the outskirts of Abilene just after dark, corralled their herd on the outskirts and set up camp. Abilene was edged with miles of vast plains under a limitless sky and cored with torch lights of the town streets and woodsmoke pumping out of chimneys from wooden homes. To the tune of cows lowing in the fields, Ira scarfed down a quick snack of bacon and hard baked bread with his friends around the fire and left them to head into town. Ever since the railroad started creeping out west, Abilene became known as a cattle town and it flourished. Every time Ira made a trip here he was amazed at the changes. Ira liked to see the progress, to see the new faces and to be around industrious people like himself. He decided to head to the bar and sip on some whiskey and just listen to the talk.

The bar was nothing more than a wooden shack of questionable quality with new wood clashing with the old demarcating additions to the bar. Dust-covered men leaned against the bar and card players and whiskey drinkers filled the tables. Working women floated around the tables with salacious smiles and swaying hips. They laughed at unfunny jokes and lightly touched every man they spoke to. The air was redolent of cigar smoke and unwashed, sweaty men. Ira grinned at the activity and made his way over to the bar. They didn’t have any beer so he ordered two shots of whiskey. He threw back the first one, tried not to grimace with so many watching, failed, and then held the other one to sip while surveying the room and listening. It would be his last drink tonight so he would make it last. Enjoying the bitter taste and the hot burn as the whiskey settled in his stomach Ira examined the room. He enjoyed the flow and movements of everyone having a good time. Most seemed happy. Only a morose few stared into their drinks, hoping for an answer to whatever question rattled in their head. After a time, Ira noticed a man seated by himself in a corner. The man’s hat was pulled low over his eyes but Ira was sure the man was watching him. His bearded mouth moved, a slash in the hair around his mouth and he gripped a whiskey bottle in his left hand. Ira got a bad feeling about that man. Rage emanated from the man, like an aura and it was directed at him. Uneasy, Ira averted his gaze. Instead, he started to pay attention to a card game where two players tried to intimidate each other with drunken stares. Ira made a conscious effort not to search out the man. Before Ira finished his whiskey he glanced up, couldn’t help himself and prepared himself for the angry stare of the bearded man only to realize he was gone. Ira scrutinized the room, expecting the man to be coming towards him, whiskey bottle in one hand and a gun in the other but the man was nowhere around. He must have left. Ira exhaled a breath he didn’t know he had been holding, sipped his whiskey and soon forgot about the bearded man. A working woman smiled and winked at him and he blushed brighter than a sunrise while politely tipping his hat.

After he finished his whiskey, he nodded at the bartender and left. He started to walk back towards the camp thinking about how nice the fresh air smelt compared to the inside of the bar. The dark road out to the camp was devoid of people. The moon stayed behind dark clouds. Ira knew where he was going though and, after a short time, an orange flickering light broke the gloom. He could hear the cows lowing to each other and he thought the sound was mighty fine. He walked towards his friends’ campfire. He didn’t notice the man stretched out on the ground, in a small depression, waiting for him. When he walked past, the man stood up.