sixgun, its business end two feet from his forehead. A man he soon recognized as Cris Moxley stood behind it, and beside Moxley crouched a ragged bum named Hollywell Dew.
“Take his gun, Holly.”
“You skunks’ll take nothing.”
Toler grabbed for his sixgun, but Hollywell Dew leaped upon him like a panther on a yearling, and steel claws bit into Toler’s throat.
* * * *
Deputy Winters had dozed, but a terrible dream roused him. Moonlight fell upon his bed. He sat up quietly and stared down at his wife, Myra Winters. Her beautiful face was motionless in sleep. She wasn’t a werewolf at all, though he’d dreamed she was.
Winters lay back down and considered himself a lucky man. He’d married a charming widow whose late husband had endowed her with a mining claim and a comfortable, neat cottage. Winters and Myra slept in a half-story room upstairs, where they could have their windows open and not be afraid of possible intruders. Open windows allowed night winds to enter with their freshness and their music.
But they brought strange sounds, too, eerie cries from Alkali Flat, running hoofbeats, roar of distant guns, sometimes human death scream. That same southeast wind which had dogged him and Cannon Ball on their long ride from Brazerville was still blowing. And now it brought a chilling sound—a scream of human terror, dying away to agony, then stillness.
Myra slept on peacefully, but Winters could not then sleep. He wondered how many of Forlorn Gap’s fifty-odd citizens were asleep, which one of them had suddenly died. Forlorn Gap, he reflected darkly, was a mysterious, ill-fated spot, a cross-roads town where evil elements sifted out of passing throngs. He never could anticipate what queer sort of varmint would show up next, but of one thing he could be sure—there was an inexhaustible supply.
Next morning after breakfast Winters caught up his horse from his corral feed-rack and pasture. He was thinking, while hay fragrance was strong in his nostrils, that it was about time for him and Myra to settle in one of those secluded, spring-watered valleys west of Forlorn Gap and begin to raise stock and a family. Being a deputy marshal brought him good money, what with salary and rewards for wanted monkeys, but it brought danger, too. What troubled him most, however, was hidden danger, that kind which prowled at night and assumed strange shapes.
But he was still mad from that fright he’d got at Bill Avis’ shack, and his first self-assigned job was to ride down there and investigate. When he’d investigated, he rode back and hitched at Bogannon’s.
“Mornin’, Winters,” said Bogie. He’d been alone, forenoon being his idle time.
Winters slouched into a chair. “Doc, we got a dead man on our hands.”
Bogie sat opposite him. “No! A stranger?”
“One of our hot-headed fellow-citizens. Kehoe Toler. He’s down in Bill Avis’ old shack. You won’t believe what I’m about to tell you, Doc, but as I rode past last night I saw a wolf’s head there, framed in a window, its mouth and eyes gleaming fire. Cannon Ball and I had but a single thought; that was to get away from there, and pronto.” Bogie had his eyebrows up. “But what’s that got to do with Toler?”
“Toler’s throat is marked by prints of wolf teeth.”
Bogie swallowed. Sweat popped on his face and stood in beads. “Now I know why you mentioned werewolves last night. You did see one.”
“But of course it wasn’t a werewolf, Doc. There ain’t no such thing.” Winters got up, whipped out his sixgun and twirled it on his trigger finger. He shoved it back into its holster. “Well, Doc, I don’t mind telling you, I’m scared. I don’t want no truck with werewolves, nor anything else that ain’t human.”
* * * *
Word got around that Forlorn Gap was haunted. But here was a new kind of ghost infestation. Traditionally, ghosts merely scared people; Forlorn Gap’s variety killed people. Deputy Winters had regarded gold-diggers as a pretty tough lot, but they laid off from their diggings. He ran into a cluster of them in front of Pepper Neal’s store.
They stopped Winters, who was riding Cannon Ball and headed for his office.
Their spokesman, big Moss Tyner, shook his shaggy head. “Look here, Winters, this town’s comin’ to a bad end. It’s haunted. Last night with my own eyes I seed a man ridin’ by moonlight, and he didn’t have no head.”
Another miner butted in. “You’re wrong there, Tyner. He had two heads.”
“That’s right, Tyner,” declared another. “I seed him myself. He had two heads, sure as I’m breathin’.”
Another sided Tyner. “He didn’t have no head, Winters. They can’t fool me, ’cause I seen him plain as day.”
“That’s right, Winters. More’n that, he was mournin’ about it. I heerd ’im goin’ on, I want my head, I want my head.”
Tall Mitch Tomlinson stepped forward and spat tobacco juice. “They’re both right, Winters. There was two of ’em. That one as had no head was chasin’ t’other’n. Both was ridin’ like all forty, and him as had no head was wailin’, I want my head, I want my head.”
Winters didn’t know whether to laugh or cuss. He decided to cuss, but he did it silently.
Next day they were there again. Again they stopped Winters.
Moss Tyner once more led off. “Know something, Winters? I’ve always heerd it said there’s a medicine for every ill and a worm for every fruit. Well, what do you suppose has showed up now?”
Winters shifted sideways in his saddle. “Gents, I wouldn’t know.”
“A charm-merchant, by gum!”
“No!”
“Not only that, he’s sold Tip Hogan’s wife one of them charms. It’s a little wooden man with a round bottom. So long as he’s settin’ upright, no harm can come to you. He’s got a magic liquid in him that makes him set up. This charm merchant says this little feller will need a refill in about a week. That’s when he’s comin’ ’round again.”
“How about them night-prowlers, man with no head and man with two heads?” asked Winters.
“Oh, they’re still ridin’. They go down Whaley Gulch road every night at exactly one hour after midnight. Two of ’em, sure enough.”
“What does this charm merchant get for his little wooden man that sets up?” asked Winters.
Tip Hogan was pulled forward. Hogan looked cowed and worried.
“Speak up, Hogan,” said Moss Tyner.
“Winters, it was fifty dollars.”
Winters lifted his dark eyebrows in surprise.
“And a refill is five dollars,” Hogan added.
Winters was furious. “How many has he sold?”
“A good many.”
“Another thing,” said tall Mitch Tomlinson. “Mag Hickerson ordered him out of her house, and that night she saw a wolf looking in at her window. She swore that wolf had fire in his eyes and flame spouting from his mouth.”
“And next day she bought a little man?” Winters asked.
“Next day she bought a little man,” said Tomlinson.
* * * *
Winters was out of town for a few days. Before leaving, he’d presented his wife a new sixgun he’d taken off a wanted monkey and taught her how to use it. Upon his return he hitched at Goodlett’s, instead of Bogannon’s. It was an hour before midnight when he dropped in at Bogie’s for a drink.
Business had been good, but Bogie was not happy.
“Winters!” It was a kind of glad shout.