Pettigrew. Pettigrew’s face reminded him vaguely of one he’d seen among his pictures of wanted monkeys. Anyhow—here was a genius, he thought. Pettigrew had a fine big head, wavy, thick black hair. Some ways he reminded Winters of Doc Bogannon, too. He’d been born for great things; undoubtedly he was possessed of an intellect of marked superiority.
But then Winters’ eyelids froze. He’d seen a strange light in Pettigrew’s eyes, a gleam of carnivorous ferocity. He felt a chill suddenly, and then alkali dust, dissolving in fresh cold sweat, began to burn his skin.
“Doc, where’s that vinegar bowl you used to keep around?”
Bogie stared at him, surprised. “Oh, sure, Winters; I’ll get it.”
Lee followed him. No words passed between them while Winters washed his face in vinegar, but the deputy had time to think. When they were seated again, Winters glanced casually at Bogie.
“Doc, what’s become of your hard-to-please friend McGuffy?”
Doc scratched a corner of his spacious forehead. “McGuffy? Oh, yes…McGuffy. Why, I haven’t seen McGuffy lately.”
Professor Pettigrew leaned forward, smiled brightly. “McGuffy? Was it McGuffy who could not see life’s charm because of life’s imperfections?”
“No less,” said Bogie. “Ah, I remember now; he went out with you a few evenings ago. Hasn’t been back since.”
Pettigrew sank back. “McGuffy,” he mused. “What a charming person McGuffy turned out to be. Yes, we left here together; we had a most delightful stroll by moonlight. Talked of many things. As a result McGuffy, I’m sure, found himself. You’ll hear no more complaints from him, I venture. Life, as he now sees it, is not something imperfect and repulsive, but an experience of transcendent beauty. McGuffy, I happen to know, has left Forlorn Gap—returned to where he came from. And from all indications, I am confident he won’t be back.”
Winters shoved back his chair. “All I’ve got to say is, Forlorn Gap has lost a first-class bellyacher.” He got up and shifted his belt to give his six-gun a proper feel at his hip. “Enjoyed our nightcap, Doc; goodnight.” He turned to leave. This was one time he couldn’t get away fast enough.
“But wait, Winters!” Professor Pettigrew shoved back his chair and wobbled up. “You forget, Winters; I had to see you on official business.”
Winters caught a quick breath; his face was wet. Pettigrew came flapping after him, preceded him out, beckoned Winters to follow.
Doc Bogannon shook his head, as if awaking from sleep. He gathered up bottle and empty glasses, glanced at his watch, observed that it was midnight. His mind cleared. That man Pettigrew, he realized now, had almost put him under a spell. Now, also, he remembered more vividly about Aloysius McGuffy—remembered his departure with Professor Pettigrew and under what strange fascination Pettigrew had held McGuffy. He thought of a queer look he’d seen in Pettigrew’s eyes, queer talk from his eloquent tongue.
Suddenly he was gripped by a clammy fear for Winters. “Winters!” he shouted. When no answer came, he ran out and looked up and down Forlorn Gap’s lonely, deserted main street. A low half-moon cast long shadows that lay black upon dust and barren walls. “Winters!” he yelled. Still there was no answer; worried to near distraction, Doc tramped back inside, and sat down to wait.
* * * *
Pettigrew was saying to Winters in low tones of confidence, “What I had in mind to tell you is that a crime, I fear, has been committed in your town.”
“Nothing startling about that,” said Winters. He’d heard Bogannon’s distraught call, but gave no intimation thereof to Pettigrew. “Nor is this what I’d call a good hour for investigations.”
“True,” said Pettigrew, “but this is exceptional. I have a habit—a foolish one, I admit—of walking abroad at night. Recently, I heard groans in a deserted building and peering through a cranny I saw a man with a knife. A grotesque creature, he was. I could not see his victim, but I did see him lift his knife and plunge it down hard. Groans ceased then; undoubtedly that plunge was a death-thrust. Needless to say, I was frightened. Ah, it was that building there. Bless me, there’s a light in it now. You, as an officer, perhaps should go see what, I dare say, will curdle your blood.”
Winters stepped aside. “I never go before; it’s impolite. You go.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Pettigrew. He stepped in front of Winters and proceeded slowly, bending forward to peer cautiously at a streak of light.
Winters wished for a thousand eyes. He expected something violent to befall him at every moment—an object dropped on him from a roof; a snare pulled tight around his feet; a knife-thrust into his back; a clubbing blow on his head; some monster leaping at him from a dark recess.
Pettigrew stopped abruptly. “Look there!” he whispered. “There’s a cellar under that building. Something’s moving—”
This, Winters knew, was a critical moment. They had just passed a narrow space between buildings, shrouded in black shadow. Something undoubtedly was hiding there; this pretense of caution and discovery put on by Pettigrew had but one object—to distract Winters’ attention from a trap which had been set for him.
Winters heard a noise; vaguely he saw a misshapen creature leaping upon him. Winters whipped up his six-gun and fired. A club descended toward his head, missed, but jarred his left shoulder. He fired again—point-blank—at a small, round head that silhouetted itself against sky. Two flailing arms closed around his neck. He stepped backward to struggle free, tripped and fell. His breath went out under a dead weight that had fallen with him.
Above, towered Professor Pettigrew, gun in hand. Fire blazed downward. A slug, intended for whatever it might hit, buried itself in a body already dead. Winters’ gun had caught under his back. He tugged to get it free, at last succeeded. He aimed at Pettigrew’s chin; two guns blazed as one.
* * * *
In his saloon by a table Doc Bogannon swabbed a perspiring face. When his batwings swung in, he stared, horrified. “Winters! You’re killed.” Winters strode forward and eased himself into a chair. “A little arnica, Doc; I’ve got a bruised shoulder.”
“Winters, you’ve got blood all over your face and neck!”
“Not my blood, Doc. You might fetch a bowl of water, too, and a towel.”
Bogie, about to drop, stumbled off and poured himself a drink of whiskey. He came back with water in a wash basin and a towel over his arm.
“Winters, what happened?”
Winters stood, bent forward and washed his face. He was painstaking and slow with both water and towel. At last he sat down, looked at Bogie and drew a deep, shuddering breath. “Doc, you want to know what happened? Well, I’ll tell you. I ran into a wool-merchant. And something else, Doc. If you want to stay out of trouble, take my advice; don’t ever have no truck with a wool-merchant.”
MASTER OF INDECISION
Real Western Stories, April 1953
Deputy Marshal Lee Winters left Rocky Point at noon and traveled by way of Cow Creek and Elkhorn Pass. This was ten miles farther, but he figured on its being much safer than that ghost-infested wasteland of Alkali
