Pettigrew drew McGuffy’s arm under his own. “Your remarks, McGuffy, about sunsets and sweeping clouds, were divine. With your reasonable cooperation, I shall show you how to ride upon a cloud and live forever in sunset glory. You, I happen to know, have much money on your person, but it means nothing to you; it is only a part of that mundane imperfection which has brought you disillusionment, unfitted you for life among creatures of blemish and sordid aims. Stars should be your companions, your abode a realm of untarnished blue.”
Night-wind brushed McGuffy’s warm cheeks and cooled them. Fascination slowly yielded to his acquired fixation of fault-finding. As Pettigrew’s oily tongue raced along, McGuffy began to think of his companion as a windbag who was not to be trusted. Uneasiness increased when he realized they were passing along an unlighted street—now and then in moonlight, but mostly in shadow. Of Bogannon’s saloon, they’d passed out of sight; Goodlett’s porch lamp grew dim.
Suddenly McGuffy stopped, pulled against Pettigrew’s clamping arm. “All this rosy palaver is missing its objective, whatever it is. Something warns me that I should go back; so…goodnight.”
McGuffy gave his arm a jerk.
But Pettigrew held it tight. “Now, now, sir. Of course I would not deny your wish to do as you please, but do allow me to release you like a gentleman.” He relaxed his hold, and McGuffy sighed. But something had moved behind them; something tapped McGuffy’s head, not crushingly, but hard enough to weaken his knees.
He had a sinking sensation, then one of being carried into a building and down a stairway. He regained full consciousness in a lighted cellar, but only to find himself unclothed and strapped securely on his back on a long, narrow workbench. He tried to speak, but discovered he could not; he’d been gagged. He turned his head sideways and saw Professor Pettigrew seated on a tall, sturdy wooden stool.
Pettigrew’s flabby lips moved loosely. “You should not have trusted me at all, McGuffy; else, you should have trusted me more.” His voice was low, but minus its former rich melody. Pettigrew glanced up and nodded.
McGuffy’s eyes followed that glance. What he saw filled him with horror. It hardly looked human—but it had to be, of course. He was a man with long legs, short torso, huge lumpy shoulders, and a small round head stuck down between them. He stood by and blinked at McGuffy.
McGuffy tried to scream. “Help!” he squeaked. Futility of that squeak appalled him truly; he broke into a cold sweat.
“Meet my efficient friend, Wheezy Mainrod,” said Pettigrew. “Mainrod is a true artist; his specialty is carving. Many a carcass has yielded to his manipulating, slicing touch. You complain, McGuffy, of universal imperfection. Well, here is an artist who is perfect; ordinarily he makes his operations painless by a quick throat-slice, but at my request he will proceed contrarily in your case. You will suffer, naturally, but ample compensation will be yours in observing a flawless artist at his work. Proceed, Mainrod.”
Wheezy Mainrod moved around to McGuffy’s feet. He caught a toe between thumb and index finger of his left hand. In his right he held a long knife, its blade a-glitter with sharpness. “Now, me,” he wheezed, “I likes to start with little pieces, and work from there.”
“Your pleasure is mine,” responded Professor Pettigrew. He pulled a bloody canvas bag from a wall hook and tossed it at Mainrod’s feet. “Put that by your workbench; it will avoid double work.” McGuffy felt sick, felt himself drifting away into a mixed state of dream and fantasy. Mercy’s gentle hand thus soothed his brow, closed his eyes against another horror that was about to pass by night in Forlorn Gap. Darkness drew its benign veil…
* * * *
Deputy-Marshal Lee Winters had gone to bed, but he was not asleep. Beside him lay his beautiful wife Myra, her gentle face kissed by moonbeams. Her breathing was even, slow, untroubled. When on long, lonely rides he’d taken to count his blessings, he’d thought first of her. Visions of a peaceful life lured him then—a quiet spot in some un-preempted valley, where he could raise cattle, horses, food, and a family. But somewhere he’d heard, or read, a doleful, fatalistic declaration: There is a destiny that shapes our end. Despite that lure of a peaceful life, he would go on, he knew, until a destiny greater than his own volition had shaped his end. It made his skin damp to think of what that end might be.
After his encounter with Wheezy Mainrod on Pangborn Road, Lee hadn’t ridden directly home. He’d spent several hours in his office, going through reward posters—scrutinizing pictures of wanted monkeys; giving long study to occasional baboons whom creation had designed for great things but in whose assembly a few screws had been omitted. Run-of-mine gunmen he knew how to meet; it was primarily a matter of being first to draw and trigger. But these geniuses scared him. They lived in two worlds, one of which he was not privileged to enter. Into that exclusive realm, they retired for inspiration, to conceive dark deeds, to emerge with cunningly-wrought schemes which they concealed underneath a cloak of apparent sanity. More than likely, Winters feared, it was one of those two-world apes who’d eventually shape his end. Thinking of it made him weak and angry.
Mail from Brazerville next morning sent him on a two-day, grim chase of a grizzled varmint who’d shot up and robbed a merchant at Rocky Point. Tense and stubborn, tormented by a bullet scratch along his left side, Winters rode back at night across Alkali Flat. He almost wished some ghost would tackle him; he was that thoroughly in a killing mood. Possibly his mood diffused itself across Alkali. At any rate, nothing more than eerie sounds molested him.
“Winters!” exclaimed Doc Bogannon, as his batwings squeaked and Deputy Winters strode in. “You’re just in time for a nightcap. My friend and I were just about to indulge; join us, by all means.” Winters approached their table as Bogie got up. He stared at Bogie’s new friend, an irregular mass of flabby skin and loose-jointed bones.
“Deputy Winters,” said Bogie proudly, “my good friend Professor Whitson Pettigrew. We’ve been having a most charming visit with each other.”
Winters did not offer to shake hands, nor did Pettigrew undertake to rise.
“A pleasure, Officer Winters. Any friend of Bogannon is a friend of Whitson Pettigrew; sit down.”
Winters took Bogie’s chair, faced Pettigrew. “I suppose you and Doc have been discussing philosophy?”
Professor Pettigrew smiled indulgently. “You could call it that.”
Bogie returned with a glass for Winters. He filled it with wine. “Have a good trip, Winters?” Winters displayed a currency holder full of money and passed a dollar to Bogie. “A mean trip, Doc. A longhaired mongrel refused to surrender; I had to shoot him.”
“You came off lucky, as usual,” observed Bogannon, pocketing his dollar bill.
Winters thought of his bullet-scratch, felt its persistent sting. “Luck explains it, Doc; and I’ve got a feelin’ my luck’s likely to play out someday, along about when I’m ready to quit chasin’ these gun-totin’ polecats. I’d quit right now, but I never seem to come to a good quittin’ place.”
Professor Pettigrew leaned forward slightly. “That reminds me, Winters; there’s a matter I’d like to call to your attention as a law officer.”
“Name it.”
“But let’s enjoy our wine,” said Bogannon. “Winters has had enough excitement for a while.”
“Very well,” agreed Pettigrew. “Let us drink first.”
