Joe Lansdale: Dead in the West

Dead in the West © 1986 by Joe R. Lansdale

DEDICATION

The original version of this book appeared in ELDRITCH TALES #10-13. It was a tribute to the pulps. Especially WEIRD TALES. This considerably revised version is a tribute not only to the pulps, but to comics like those in the infamous EC line and JONAH HEX (the early ones), and perhaps most of all, B-brand horror movies like: CURSE OF THE UNDEAD, BILLY THE KID VERSUS DRACULA, JESSE JAMES MEETS FRANKENSTEIN'S

DAUGHTER, and the like.

The first version of DEAD IN THE WEST was dedicated to Al Manachino. This version is for my brother, John Lansdale, who made many suggestions I followed, and some, if he'll forgive me, I did not.

So, this is your book, John. I hope you like it.

The hour hath come to part with this body composed of

flesh and blood;

May I know the body to be impermanent and illusory.

— Tibetan Book of the Dead

And we were not able to detain Lazarus, but he gave himself a shake, and with all the signs of malice, he immediately went away from us; and the very earth, in which the dead body of Lazarus was lodged, presently turn him out alive.

— Nicodemus 15:18 (A Lost Book of the Bible)

From ghoulies and ghosties

And long-legged beasties

And things that go bump in the night,

Good Lord, deliver us.

—Old Scottish Invocation

Night. A narrow, tree-lined stage trail bends to the left around a clutch of dark pines.

Moonlight, occasionally blocked by rolling clouds. A voice in the distance, gradually becomes audible.

"You goddamned, lily-livered, wind-breaking, long-eared excuses for mules. Git on, you contrary assholes."

…

A stagecoach came barreling around the bend, the lanterns on either side of the driver's seat swaying like monstrous fireflies. It gradually began to slow, amid much cussing, and finally it was brought to a stop alongside the road near the East Texas pines.

The driver, Bill Nolan, turned to look with his one good eye at his shotgunner, Jake Wilson. Nolan wore a patch over the eye an Indian arrow had put out.

"Well, hurry for Christsakes " Nolan said. "We're late."

"I didn't make the wheel come off."

"You weren't much help putting it back on either.... Will you get down and pee already?"

Jake dropped to the ground and started for the woods.

"Hey" Nolan yelled. "Why you got to go so far?"

"Ladies present."

"You don't have to piss in the coach, you goddamned idiot."

Jake disappeared into the woods.

A dapper young man stuck his head out of the coach window on the right side.

"Hey," said the young man. "Mind your mouth, mister. There are ladies present."

Nolan leaned over, looked back and down at the young man. "I keep hearing that," Nolan said. "Let me tell you something, Mr. Tin Horn Gambler. The lady sitting next to you there, Lulu McGill, would suck and blow your asshole for four bits."

The gambler's mouth fell open, but before he could reply, a feminine hand jerked him back, and Lulu's attractive red head appeared.

"Goddamn you, Bill Nolan," Lulu said. "I ain't never done the like for no four bits, and you know it. Right now, I'm a lady."

"You don't say."

Lulu was pulled from view, and the gambler's head replaced hers. "She's not the only woman on this stage," the gambler said.

From inside the coach came Lulu's shrill voice. "You saying I ain't a lady now, asshole?"

"And there's a young girl," the gambler continued. "If she weren't asleep, mister, you'd already have me to deal with. Hear?"

Nolan's right hand dipped quickly, and when it reappeared, it held an ancient Walker Colt. He pointed it at the gambler.

"I hear you," Nolan said softly. "But whisper, will you? I'd hate for the little girl to wake up and you to have to try and be a hero. I'd have to blow your stupid head down the road a piece, and we wouldn't want that, would we? Now get back inside there and shut up!"

The gambler's head moved quickly out of sight.

Inside the coach, the gambler picked his derby from the seat beside him and put it on at a less jaunty angle than usual.

Across from him, the attractive brunette, Millie Johnson, stared at him. The little girl, Mignon, lay asleep in her lap. Beside him, Lulu practically fumed.

He chanced a glance at her. Her temper had reddened her face to match her hair.

"Ain't you the top dog," Lulu said.

The gambler looked at the stage floor.

…

Nolan put the Colt away and put a cigar in his face. He took out his turnip watch and popped it open. He struck a match and looked at the time. With a sigh, he put the watch away and looked in the direction Jake had taken.

There was no sign of him.

"Why couldn't he piss in the wind like a real man," Nolan mumbled.

He lit his cigar.

…

Jake shook the dew off his lily, began buttoning up.

As he turned to start back to the coach, he saw a rope dangling from a nearby tree. He had not noticed it before, but now with the moon out, he could see it clearly. He went over and touched it, tugged on it.

It was a hangman's noose, and well tied. Someone had dangled, and from the looks of the blood on the noose-dried but not ancient—not too long ago. Maybe yesterday, or even last night.

He slid his hand along the noose and was rewarded with a slight rope burn.

"Owwwwww."

He put the wound to his mouth and sucked.

As he turned from the rope, a large spiderlike creature scuttled from an overhead limb down the rope to where Jake's blood mixed with the hemp. The spider-thing lapped the fresh blood.

The creature changed. Became larger, dropped from the rope, curled on the ground, and changed more. When the transformation was complete, it moved quickly into the woods.

Jake never heard or noticed. He walked until he was almost to the road, and just as he was about to break out of the woods into the clearing, a shape rose up in front of him. A man-shape.

Jake opened his mouth to scream, but he never got the chance.

…

Nolan yawned.

Damn. He was getting sleepy. Real sleepy.

He tossed the dead cigar butt away.

He got a fresh cigar and a match. He pulled out his turnip watch, struck the match, and held it close to the watch face to check the time.

A huge, long-nailed hand reached over his, snuffing the flame, crushing the watch and Nolan's fingers in one motion. The sound of watch and fingers breaking was very loud.

But not as loud as Nolan's scream, brief as it was.

The passengers came next.

Later, in the deepest part of night, a time when the moon had finally been concealed by the dark clouds and the stars were as dull as blind eyes, the long overdue stage from Silverton rolled into Mud Creek, a dark poncho-swathed driver with pulled-down hat at the lines.

No passengers stepped from the stage. There were no friends or relatives there to meet them. No one was aware, except for the driver, of its arrival. It had been given up for the day a good time back.

The horses snorted and rolled their eyes with fright. The driver set the rusty brake and tied off the lines, alighting to the ground gentle as dust.

The man walked to the back of the stage and threw up the cargo flap. A long crate stuck out at an awkward angle. He pulled it free, lifting it to his shoulder. Then, as if the crate were no more than a stick of stove wood, he ran down the middle of the street toward the livery, his boots throwing up little, short-lived dust devils behind him.