The Evileye Reader

The Evileye Reader is intended to help you find memorable fiction that lives up to the traditions of its genre, while also having literary merit.

Evileye Books publishes horror, crime and supernatural fiction. But we do it with a literary—not a hack-slash, B-movie—bent. We do our best to blend the editorial rigor of the literary tradition with the hair-raising, spine-tingling, grab-you-by-the-throat kind of storytelling of the best of genre fiction, and a good measure of old-fashioned, artisanal dedication to book design to bring you stories that entertain, but also resonate over time.

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Coming in October

“After the War Between the States, a new era of lawlessness and brutality spread across the West like a plague. Amidst this evil, a legend was born. An undead avenger clawed his way from the grave to dispense justice to those who preyed on the helpless. This is the story of the greatest lawman who ever lived twice. This is the legend of The Dead Sheriff.”

 

—The Dead Sheriff’s Crusade, or The Lawman Who Rose from the Dead by Richard O’Malley; Beacon Press; Boston, Mass; 1885.

 

Chapter One

 

             Martin Dugar loved the smell of roasting, human flesh.

            Such pleasure wasn’t normal. He was well aware of that. But Dugar wasn’t what other folks would call normal, either. And he stopped worrying about that a long time ago.

            The first time he smelled a man on fire was back at the Battle of Gloietta Pass. The poor cuss was Edsel Bullock, a skinny feller from nearby Sante Fe. Edsel, like Dugar, had signed up with the Rebs for the usual reason: free meals and a rifle you could keep after the war was over. Not many of them took the fight seriously. Hell, what did Dugar know of politics? He never owned a slave.

            The War became all too real the moment they were fired upon by the Yankees.

            Dugar and Edsel were crouched behind a green hillock, frozen by the sound of exploding shells and the smell of gunpowder, like brimstone mixed with blood and bowels.

            “I didn’t sign up for this, Hoss,” Edsel said, as he stood and turned to run. A man in a blue uniform appeared on the top of the rise, and he fired his pistol not six feet from Edsel’s back. The bullet burst through Edsel’s chest, taking a chunk of his heart with it. The powder flash from the Yankee’s gun set Edsel’s ragged old coat ablaze.

            Dugar and the Yank both watched Edsel burn. The Yankee looked mystified, frozen.

            Dugar rammed his bayonet into the Yank’s belly. And then, because he enjoyed it so much the first time, he did it again and again. As the Yank slid off the bayonet for the final time, his blood and purple intestines pooling beneath him, Dugar saw the mighty Union army advancing, and the corpses of the 5th Texas Mounted Rifles spread before them.

            Dugar ran from the battlefield. He never looked back. Nor did he ever forget the smell of poor old Edsel roasting in the grass.

            Ever since, he’d made his living on the wrong side of law. Or what laughingly passed for the law in parts of the West.

            Dugar didn’t have to burn people in his line of work. He did it because he enjoyed it. Simple as that.

            Like today, for instance.

            Dugar and his boys had been casing the depot in Muddy Creek, Texas, for a couple of weeks. If Muddy Creek wasn’t the asshole of the world, then it was in that space between the asshole and the ball sack. It was little more than a depot, a mercantile, a couple of bars, a hotel and a church.

            And a bank.

            It wasn’t anything to crow about—barely the size of a couple of privies. It’d get laughed out of a real city like Dallas, or even Damnation, two towns to the West. But it was still a bank.  Still, not too many bank robbers were gonna mess with a small-t--time outfit like the bank in Muddy Creek. There wasn’t enough cash. Unless you hit the bank on the day the money train pulled in.

            But Dugar didn’t plan to rob the bank, at all. No sir. Too much could go wrong once you were inside the cramped space.

            Dugar was going to rob the wagon that transferred the cash from the train to the bank.

            He’d already watched the transfer once, last Wednesday around nine in the morning, from a comfortable spot in the shade from the front porch of the hotel. The boxes were off-loaded to a small wagon pulled by an ancient mule so wobbly, it was a marvel it could haul anything more than its sorry ass. An old-timer drove the wagon while some kid—probably the old man’s grandson— slouched half-asleep in the back, cradling a Winchester over his belly. They drove the wagon the three blocks to the bank, where the fat manager with the jiggling tits underneath his dingy white shirt let them in the back door. That was the way things had been done the whole time Dugar had been watching, and near as he could tell, for as long as there had been a bank in this town. The bank manager wouldn’t be a problem, neither would the old man and his slacker grandson.

            In fact, Muddy Creek didn’t have much in the way of lawmen. A marshal was assigned to the town and six other small communities over an area of roughly eight hundred square miles. He was lucky if he made it to town once a month. There was a part-time deputy, who was also the town barber. He was short and soft, and as fat as the bank manager, even though he smelled worse under the armpits, to the dismay of his customers sitting in his barber chair. He wouldn’t be a problem either.

            Dugar decided that after he and his boys stole the money boxes, he was going to set the wagon and the boy on fire. Just the thought of it made him lick his lips. He felt a tingle in his groin.

            But there would be time to savor the feeling later. Dugar needed to check on his gang. The first few nights he’d put them all up at the hotel. After they got too rowdy, Dugar made them camp in the desert outside of town. It wouldn’t do for them to get made before the heist. Dugar stayed in town. He could put on manners and blend in if he wanted to. The problem was, he didn’t often want to. Sometimes the urge to hurt, to pour the flame to somebody, was too much.

            Tomorrow. Just one more day. Then the job would be over. Dugar could do what needed to be done. Get the money. Torch the boy. Maybe the old man, too. He’d never burned a geezer, and he didn’t imagine the odor would be nearly as sweet. Still, he found he was willing to try.

            After a breakfast of biscuits and ham in the hotel restaurant, Dugar mounted up and rode the five miles to the camp his boys had set up.  The terrain was harsh, rocky ground and sparse brush under a brutal sun, making Dugar doubly thankful he stayed at the hotel.

            As he got close enough to make out his three men, he realized—not for the first time—what a ragged bunch of coyotes he’d teamed up with.

            Big, stout Tommy Fincham sat on a big rock, fanning himself with his hat. His filthy shirt was ringed with sweat stains. Damned fool wasn’t smart enough to find some shade. Huevos, short and round, squatted next to Fincham gnawing on what looked like the haunches of a rabbit. Whatever the critter had been, it was sure scrawny. From this distance it looked raw. That didn’t surprise Dugar. Huevos was one crazy Mexican. He didn’t talk much, but he once told Dugar that his name meant “balls”. It was a fitting name. You needed balls as big as wagon wheels if you were going to ride with Martin Dugar.

            And none of his men had a bigger set than Pat Kirby. Pat was a skinny little fuck. Looked like somebody who’d work in a bank. Or maybe a preacher from some quiet little place back east. He was barely five feet tall and couldn’t weigh no more than a hunnert twenty sopping wet. But he was the meanest, toughest hombre Dugar had ever met. Plumb loco. Pat made Huevos seem normal. Once, back in the Arizona territory, some ranch hand in a bar had bumped into Pat and spilled the little man’s beer. Pat smiled real polite-like and ordered another drink. Later, the ranch hand went upstairs with a whore. Pat gave them time to get started, then slipped up to the room. The ranch hand was on top of that whore, just pumping away, when Pat slid his hunting knife into the man’s spine. That ranch hand froze up like a statue. He couldn’t move or even make a sound. The whore didn’t even realize it. She was still wiggling her ass and moaning like she was enjoying it. All that stopped when Pat rolled the ranch hand off of her. He used the same knife to slit the whore’s throat while the paralyzed man was forced to watch. Pat then cut out the whore’s heart and forced it all into the ranch hand’s mouth until the man choked to death on the blood and gristle. Dugar was the one who dragged Pat out of there before the law showed up.

            He was glad Pat was on his side.

            When Dugar led his horse into the camp, Pat Kirby was throwing his knives at a crude target he’d carved into a cactus. Despite the heat, Pat looked as cool as winter’s day.

            “Hey, boss,” he said. “Ain’t it about time?”

            “Tomorrow, Pat. Just like I told you.”

            Pat threw another knife into the center of the target.

            Fincham stood up from the rock and wiped a sleeve across his sweaty forehead. Huevos tossed away the bone of whatever he’d been eating.

            “You two ready to make a little cash?” Dugar said.

            “Si,” Huevos said.

            “Shore,” Fincham said. “The sooner we finish, the sooner we can light outta here.”

            “Look, I know you boys wanted to stay in town, but—”

            “It ain’t that, Marty,” Fincham said. He looked down at the ground. “It’s just, well, we heard . . .”

            “What?”

            “He heard a fairy tale, is what he heard,” Pat Kirby said. His back was turned to them as he plucked three knives from the cactus.

            “The Dead Sheriff ain’t no goddamn fairy tale,” Fincham said.

            The Dead Sheriff.

            Dugar swallowed hard, before forcing a smile onto his face.

            “The Dead Sheriff ain’t real, Tommy. That’s just a story they tell to scare kids and Mexicans. Uh, no offense, Huevos.”

            Huevos didn’t reply. He just stared at Dugar. The Mexican was scared, too.

            “Now where did you hear this big news?” Dugar said. He finished his sentence with a little laugh.

            “From an old man and his two daughters,” Pat said. The little man packed his knives away, one in each boot and a third in the sheath he wore on his leather belt. “They passed through here around supper time last night. They wanted to know if we wanted to break bread with ‘em. So we had some nice food and conversation.”

            “They came from El Paso, and they seen The Dead Sheriff gun down Billy Pecos right in broad daylight. Said he stunk like high heaven and had bits of him fallin’ off. The Dead Sheriff, I mean, not Pecos. Said he was so fast with the gun that his dead hand was just a blur, like the devil hisself was pullin’ the trigger.”

            Dugar felt a chill travel from his scalp to his nut sack. Like everybody else, he’d been hearing tales of this dead lawman for at least a year. Too many stories for it to all be made up, even if that’s what he wanted his boys to believe. Dugar didn’t believe the lawman was really dead. That was impossible. He was wearin’ some kind of paint on his face or something. Still, The Dead Sheriff had a good rep for nailing outlaws. Billy Pecos was a tough hombre.

            And there was something else nagging at Dugar’s thoughts . . .

            “Hold on. This old feller and his girls, they ask what you were doin’ out here?” The last thing he needed was some suspicious old-timer flapping his gums back in Muddy Creek, raisin’ an alarm and fuckin’ up Dugar’s brilliant plan.

            Fincham and Huevos looked at each other and smiled, the specter of The Dead Sheriff momentarily forgotten.

            “Over here, boss,” Pat said. He walked toward a slight rise in the desert floor. When he reached Pat’s side, Dugar saw a small gully, filled with brown scrub brush.

            And three corpses.

            “Had to shut ‘em up, boss,” Pat said. “Couldn’t let ‘em tell anybody about us.”

            The old man must have been shot thirty times. He was full of holes. The two girls had been cute things. Maybe they were twins. The looked like they were barely in their teens. Their throats had been cut and their dresses were shoved up past their waists.

            “Uh, Pat, them girls ain’t wearin’ underpants,” Dugar said.

            Behind him, Fincham and Huevos laughed.

            “Tommy and Huevos were a little bored,” Pat said.

            The other two men guffawed.

            “Did they relieve their, ah, boredom before or after them girls were dead?”

            “Little of both, as I recollect.”

            Pat had no expression on his face, just like the night he cut out the whore’s heart and choked the ranch hand with it.

            Fincham and Huevos laughed some more. Dugar shrugged. It was better than hearing them whine about The Dead Sheriff.

            “Okay, boys,” he said. “Live it up today. Tomorrow, you’re back at work.”

            Dugar returned to his mount. He removed two whiskey bottles from his saddlebags. He handed them both to Pat.

            “Here’s a little treat for tonight,” Dugar said. “You show up behind my hotel just before dawn. We’ll be rich men before noon.”

            Fincham and Huevos whooped and hollered. Pat just nodded.

            Dugar climbed back in the saddle and headed for town. He wasn’t thinking of a bounty hunter who pretended to be a dead man. Dugar was imagining what it would have been like to set those two girls on fire while they were still alive. His cock twitched and hardened in his pants.

 

***

 

            They were in place well before the train pulled into the little station.

            Dugar had treated his three men to a fancy breakfast in the hotel restaurant. Or at least as fancy as it got in Muddy Creek. While the others ate and jabbered—mostly Fincham and Huevos—Dugar reviewed the plan in his head. He couldn’t see any problems at all. He was a smart and patient man. In a short time, he would be a rich one as well.

            Everybody knew their places. Pat sat on a bench in front of the depot until the train arrived and the old man and the kid showed up to load the wagon. As the mule hauled the wagon and its payload away from the station, Pat stood up, stretched and meandered along behind it, just a restless man enjoying a sunny morning in Shitsville, Texas. Fincham and Huevos were stationed behind the bank, just inside a big empty barn that once held a livery stable. Now it housed their horses, one of which was hitched up to a small, light buckboard. Perfect for holding a cash box.

            Dugar watched the money transfer from his familiar perch in a big rocking chair on the front porch of the hotel. After the wagon passed by the hotel, Dugar stood and brushed dust from his suit. He stepped from the porch and followed the wooden sidewalk in the general direction of the bank. He didn’t have to hurry. Fincham and Huevos knew what to do. Besides, he made sure they stashed a bucket full of kerosene in the old livery stable. After they had the money, Dugar would indulge in a few minutes of pleasure while his boys transferred the money to the buckboard. Then they would hit the trail, rich men all. Of course, Dugar would be richer than the others.

            The sidewalk was solidly built. It had just a little give, and he liked the sound it made when his boots hit it. Dugar whistled a happy tune. Things were going extremely well.

            Muddy Creek was alive with the typical sounds a small town makes: the murmur of conversation, the buzzing of flies, the steps of horses and humans, the peculiar squeak of one wheel of the wagon as it slowly made its way to the bank.

            Then a voice cut through all of that.

            “Martin Dugar. Prepare to pay for your crimes!”

            Despite the heat of the morning, Dugar’s body was instantly chilled. The voice was unlike anything he had ever heard. Deep and sepulchral, it seemed to surround him, coming from everywhere at once. But Dugar knew that couldn’t be true. He knew where it came from. Something that sounded like it could only be born from Hell.

            Dugar was a practical man. He had never believed any of that Bible stuff his mama tried to teach him when he was a child, right up until the day she was silenced by a bullet during one of his father’s drunken rages. Now, as a hardened adult, his mother’s teachings rushed back into his mind, called forth by that voice.

            He slowly turned. He didn’t know what to expect. It wouldn’t have surprised him to see Edsel Bullock, the forgotten war casualty from Sante Fe, standing there in the street, his body still burning from the Yankee’s gunshot.

            What he saw was much worse.

            A corpse stood in the center of Muddy Creek’s dusty main street.

            This wasn’t a man in theatrical makeup. This wasn’t an actor or a crazy vigilante. The man in the street had been dead for a while.

            When alive, the man would have been around six feet tall. His hair had been brown. Now it was caked with dust, and much of it was missing. There was a gash on his right temple that was at least two inches wide. The edges of the cut were a dark gray, almost black. White bone shone from beneath the wound. There was no way to tell what color the man’s eyes had been. They were white ovals now, with a slight yellowish cast. His mouth hung open, revealing yellow teeth and a black tongue.

            The dead man’s shirt was old and frayed, and full of bullet holes. Some of the holes had rings around them, as if a little blood had leaked from the corpse. The pants were the color of mud, and the only remarkable thing about the boots was that one of them was planted in a pile of horse shit. Even from twenty-five feet away, Dugar could smell the dead man, like a mixture of rot and sweat and disease.

            Despite the tide of panic swelling and burning through his body, Dugar remained still. Watching. Waiting. He noted the fancy leather gun belt the dead man wore and the twin Colt peacemakers in the holsters. Unlike the corpse, the gun belt and pistols were , even polished.

            Dugar was conscious of the weight of his own weapon in its holster, a Smith & Wesson Schofield that he had taken off a drunken man he shot for fun a few years back in New Mexico. eHe felt his fingers drift to the gun’s grip before he pulled back. The dead’s man blank eyes never looked away.

            “You . . .” Dugar cleared his throat. “You got the wrong feller.” His voice came out weak and girlish. He hoped none of his men could hear it. But not as much as he hoped he’d make it through this day alive.

            The Dead Sheriff did not reply.

            “Listen, Mister,” Dugar began, before he bit back a bark of laughter. Mister? Well, how did you address a walking dead man? Your Eminent Corpseness? Honored Departed-But-Too-Goddamn-Mean-To-Stay-In-your-Grave?

            Dugar swallowed. The street sounds had died away. No one was talking. To Dugar, it seemed that even the flies had stopped buzzing, except for the few now circling the corpse’s face. Dugar couldn’t look away from those dead white eyes, even though he knew the town was watching and waiting. He couldn’t get past the fact that the legend was true, that a walking corpse had tracked him down and stood before him calling him out—a dead man! Dugar had seen some strange things in his life, but how could this be possible? With a swallow, he tried to shove the acrid panic back down his throat.

            He quickly considered his options. He could stay and shoot it out. Question was: could he shoot faster than a corpse? Dugar looked the dead man up and down, surveying all the holes in on his rotting body, and he—it—was still standing. Shooting him up might not be the best option. Besides, Dugar preferred to shoot from behind his opponent.

            Dugar could run. He had put on a few pounds since his youth, but he was still fast on his feet. The question was: could he find some shelter before the dead man shot him?

            The Dead Sheriff was stiff. Waiting.

Dugar had to decide. Act.

            Hold on a minute.

            Dugar heard that scary voice, then the dead guy was in the street when he turned around. But the dead guy had never moved. Maybe it was all some kind of prank, a joke. Dugar didn’t understand it, yet it made a hell of a lot more sense than some deceased lawman riding across the West to track down outlaws. Shit like that just didn’t happen. It ain’t real. It can’t be.

            Dugar smiled and dropped his hand to his gun.

            Then, the Dead Sheriff’s Colt was pointing at Dugar. Just like that. There was barely a hint of movement. One instant the corpse’s hand was empty, the next it was full of steel. And the dead man would have shot Dugar, if not for what happened next.

            A scream echoed through the street. The Dead Sheriff’s head swiveled toward the noise and Dugar could swear the dead guy’s neck creaked like rusty door hinges. Dugar followed the dead man’s gaze down the steet.

            The screamer was Pat Kirby. The slight man was carrying a shotgun that was almost as long as he was. It had been leaning inside the big open door of the abandoned livery, waiting for Pat to grab it up when it was time to relieve the wagon of its payload. Pat must have run back there and snatched it when The Dead Sheriff appeared. He was running at an angle to the dead man. As fast as the corpse was, it couldn’t adjust its aim before Pat pulled the trigger. The blast knocked The Dead Sheriff off his feet and carried him nearly six feet across the dusty street. The dead man landed in the dirt and didn’t move. His dead hand still clenched the Colt. Smoke rolled out of a big hole in his chest.

            “Goddamn,” Dugar said.

            Pat stood on the other side of the corpse. He met Dugar’s gaze, and said, “What the hell, boss?”

            “I don’t know. Why don’t you blow another chunk out of him, just in case?”

            “Ya think?”

            Dugar shrugged. “Hard to aim a gun without a fuckin’ head.”

            Pat broke open the shotgun and dumped the spent shell. He withdrew a fresh one from his pocket, slid it into the breech and shut the action. He stepped carefully over to the corpse. He lifted the shotgun to his shoulder. It looked like a cannon next to his small frame. He aimed at the head.

            “Shit! Shit!”

            An Injun ran around the corner of the mercantile, yelling. He was dressed in buckskins, and his long black hair streamed behind him. Dugar saw he was young, maybe still a teenager. Not that it mattered. There was a bank to rob.

            When the Injun showed up, Pat hesitated.

            “Finish it up,” Dugar said.

            The Injun stopped. He made a gesture with his hand, and Dugar thought he saw a flash, like sunlight dancing off a piece of glass.

            The Dead Sheriff lifted his gun and shot Pat in the forehead.

            The back of Pat’s head exploded. He dropped the shotgun and staggered back a few steps, then folded in on himself, and fell to the street like a bloody sack.

            The Dead Sheriff sat up. The big Colt was pointed at Dugar. Dugar could see the door of the barbershop across the street through the hole in the dead man’s chest. The fat barber (and part-time deputy) was watching, peeking out behind an old man sitting in a chair.

            Dugar looked at the Injun. The young boy’s lips seemed to be moving, whispering. A second later, The Dead Sheriff spoke.

            “Justice cannot be cheated, Martin Dugar.” The jaw still hung open. The lips didn’t move as the voice boomed out of the mouth.

            Dugar wanted to run away. He needed to be far away from this madness. What was happening here wasn’t right. He wasn’t a bad man. A little dishonest, maybe, but he didn’t deserve this.

            But his feet wouldn’t move.

            It would be okay, though. Fincham and Huevos would show up any second. They would blow this monster to pieces, and that Injun, too. He had something to do with what was happening, even though Dugar would be damned if he knew what it was. Yes sir, Fincham and Huevos were surely on their way. They’d split the money three ways and that meant more time living’ the high life before they had to pull another job. All they had to do was get rid of this little problem.

            This little dead problem.

            Dugar looked at the Injun. He was smiling back. He raised his hand and pointed his finger at Dugar like it was a gun. Dugar saw the little flash of light again. The Injun whispered.

            The Dead Sheriff raised his Colt, and out of his mouth came the underworld echo of the word, “Asshole.” Then it pulled the trigger.

            Martin Dugar felt a searing blast of cold, as if he had been stabbed with an icicle, then blackness rushed into the wound and it spread until he was filled with it. The world faded away, and he regretted that he never got to burn the boy on the wagon and the old man.

            Fincham and Huevos  never showed.

***

 

            The fat barber was named Aloysius Riordan Slocum. Most people called him Al. He watched the shootout from his barbershop. He felt it was the prudent thing to do. There wasn’t much call for deputy work in Muddy Creek and the stipend he was paid went toward a nice meal out now and then or a trip to Sante Fe with his wife. Al didn’t wear a gun or a badge unless he had to. After the dead feller shot the two men down, Al opened a drawer behind the barber chair and retrieved tthe badge. He pinned it on his vest. Then he strapped a holster and a six-shooter around his ample waist. He had to use the last hole on the gun belt. He couldn’t remember if the gun was loaded. He got his hat from the hat rack and headed for the door before he realized he still wore his barber’s apron. He untied it and tossed it to Pappy Rayburn, who was in the chair, his face still covered with shaving cream. The gunfight had interrupted the shave.

            “Pappy, if I don’t come back, tell Matilda I love her,” Al said.

            “If you don’t come back, does she know how to shave a man?” The old-timer said.

            When Al got to the street, the Indian was helping the dead man to his feet. Like most people, Al Slocum had heard of The Dead Sheriff. And like most people, he hadn’t believed the stories.

            He was a believer now. That little man blew a hole in the dead feller’s chest and then the dead man killed both the shooter and his friend. It was magic or divine justice or the devil’s work. Al didn’t know which. He didn’t really care. He just wanted to help The Dead Sheriff wrap up his business in Muddy Creek so Al could get back to haircuts and shaves, and collect checks that let him take Matilda to Sante Fe, where she always became quite romantic.

            When he reached the middle of the street, the Indian had his finger in the big hole in the center of The Dead Sheriff’s chest.

            “Goddamn it,” the Indian mumbled. “I don’t know if I can fix this.”

            “Ex-excuse me,” Al said.

            The Indian whirled on him, his face clouded with surprise, then anger.

            Al ignored him.

            The Dead Sheriff stared vacantly down the street. His mouth hung open, and the smell that wafted from his body was like spoiled meat.

            “Mister, uh, Dead Sheriff. Sir,” Al said. “I’m not really sure what happened here, but . . .”

            “Talk to the Indian.” The dead man’s mouth didn’t move when he spoke. Al tried not to act surprised. He had never heard a dead man speak before. Maybe the mouth wasn’t supposed to move.

            “Well, sir, as one lawman to another, I’d rather–”

            “Talk to the Indian.”

            “Uh, if you insist.” Al turned to face the Indian, who stood holding a wanted poster. Al took it. The picture was a pretty fair drawing of the second man The Dead Sheriff had shot. His name was Martin Dugar and he was wanted for murder and robbery. A five hundred dollar reward on his head, dead or alive.

            “You marshal?” the Indian said.

            “Yeah. I mean, Deputy Marshall. The name is Slocum.”

            The Indian just stared at him.

            Up close, the Indian was younger than he looked. Maybe eighteen or nineteen.

            “You work with The Dead Sheriff, huh? Kind of like his helper? What’s your name?”

            “Cheveyo,” the Indian said.

            “Okay. Cheveyo, I assume you’ll be wanting this reward?”

            The Indian nodded.

            “Right. Well, the Marshall has to approve it, and he’ll be here in about two weeks, I reckon. I’ll get some boys to move the dead fellers until–”

            He heard the cocking of a pistol hammer. The Dead Sheriff had drawn both of the big Colts.

            “Dead Sheriff want money now,” the Indian said. “We do job, we get paid.”

            Al trembled, and the ripple reached his ample stomach, which swished around with the motion of a giant waterskin.

            “Now gentlemen, you have to understand my position. There’s paperwork and requisition forms and . . .”

            “Pay the Indian,” The Dead Sheriff said.

            Al cleared his throat. “There, ah, are some discretionary funds. I suppose I could get the rest from my savings until the Marshall gets back.”

            “Good. Pay now,” the Indian said.

            “S-sure.”

            The Dead Sheriff holstered his Colts.

            “I’ll be back in a minute,” Al said. He crossed the street to the barbershop. As he walked, he wondered if he had imagined that the Indian spoke pretty good English.

Coming in October