Jacques Futrelle Megapack
The Randall Garrett Megapack
The Second Randall Garrett Megapack
The Anna Katharine Green Megapack
The Zane Grey Megapack
The Edmond Hamilton Megapack
The Dashiell Hammett Megapack
The C.J. Henderson Megapack
The M.R. James Megapack
The Selma Lagerlof Megapack
The Murray Leinster Megapack***
The Second Murray Leinster Megapack***
The Arthur Machen Megapack**
The George Barr McCutcheon Megapack
The Talbot Mundy Megapack
The Andre Norton Megapack
The H. Beam Piper Megapack
The Mack Reynolds Megapack
The Rafael Sabatini Megapack
The Saki Megapack
The Darrell Schweitzer Megapack
The Robert Sheckley Megapack
The Lon Williams Weird Western Megapack
* Not available in the United States
** Not available in the European Union
***Temporarily Unavailable.
OTHER COLLECTIONS YOU MAY ENJOY
The Great Book of Wonder, by Lord Dunsany (it should have been called “The Lord Dunsany Megapack”)
The Wildside Book of Fantasy
The Wildside Book of Science Fiction
Yondering: The First Borgo Press Book of Science Fiction Stories
To the Stars—And Beyond! The Second Borgo Press Book of Science Fiction Stories
Once Upon a Future: The Third Borgo Press Book of Science Fiction Stories
Whodunit?—The First Borgo Press Book of Crime and Mystery Stories
More Whodunits—The Second Borgo Press Book of Crime and Mystery Stories
X is for Xmas: Christmas Mysteries
KING SOLOMON’S THRONE
Real Western Stories, October 1952
Deputy Marshal Lee Winters, headed for home-base in Forlorn Gap, rode by starlight onto Alkali Flat. It was too late now to backtrack, but he wished he’d gone by Elkhorn Pass instead.
Alkali Flat at night was a weird place. Its winds carried noises foreign to its character. Wolves howled there, coyotes barked and yodeled, owls clinked like steel upon musical gongs—and that in a vast, whitish barren where life theoretically could not subsist at all. Ghosts! That was what they are, thought Winters. Ghosts of dead animals, dead men, and dead ages.
Mile after mile he let his tired horse walk, his eyes alert for night-prowlers, real or unreal. Then there came a sound that made his flesh crawl. It winged up from southwestward, wind-whipped and eerie. There was no mistaking its nature; somewhere across there, male voices were singing. How many there were, he could not tell. Nor could he determine what song, or songs, they sang. For awhile, driving winds mourned a dirge. It was followed by a paean of victory that flung itself fiercely around his tingling ears. Transcending strained, high-pitched measures, a discordant cry came shrieking. It was a man’s scream, a death scream. It gave Winters’ throat a tight feeling; sweat popped in profusion, proof positive that he was scared stiff.
Winters wanted no truck with ghosts. He lifted bridle leather and gigged deep. His horse, also eager to put miles behind, set its hoofs down hard and fast. Forlorn Gap’s distant, dim lights grew brighter.
* * * *
Lamps in Doc Bogannon’s saloon burned clean. Guests from Goodlett Hotel had dropped in, had their drinks, chatted awhile, and departed.
One customer remained, Spicewood Lilloughby, a runty, mouse-faced miser who sat, dry and wretched, torn between thirst for wine and affection for a silver coin clutched in skinny fingers.
Doc Bogannon dried and polished glasses. He was tall, black-haired and heavy, statesman rather than barkeep in appearance and bearing. He possessed philosophical eyes, too, hence regarded his miserly guest not with merited distaste, but as a human creature entitled to his principles.
“Spicewood,” said Bogie, “your luck has run thin tonight; nobody’s been generous.”
Lilloughby stiffened. “Sir, I’ll have you know I’m no beggar; I’ve money, and I’ll drink when I’m ready.”
Bogannon’s batwings swung inward, and lean, middle-aged Deputy Lee Winters strode in, dusty, spirit-drained. “A drink, Doc, and make it stiff.”
Bogie set up a glass and filled it. “Seen another ghost, eh?”
Winters downed his liquor. “You guessed it, Doc; where’s that vinegar dish for alkali sufferers?”
Bogie brought up bowl and cloth. “This means you’ve come across Alkali Flat.”
Winters swabbed his burning face and felt better. “Why I done it, Doc, I wouldn’t know; too spooky out there for me.”
Bogie leaned against a back shelf and folded his arms. “Spooks,” he declared, “are creatures of over-stimulated minds. I’d say you’d hit a squall before you hit Alkali Flat, that a quick-draw artist nearly got you, and that you emerged as sole survivor only by some quirk of luck.”
Winters measured Bogie with approval. “Doc, you know me like a book. I oughtn’t pretend to be a lawman; every time I see a gun-toter I’ve an urge to run and hide. It’s a good thing these wandering toughies don’t know what a coward I am.” Suddenly Winters had a crawly feeling. He whirled and stared, and a mouse-faced varmint stared back. “Spice Lilloughby, as I live. Waitin’ for some free-hearted sucker to buy you a drink, eh? Well, Spicey, I’m your man; Doc, a full glass for a world’s champion tightwad.”
Lilloughby got up and ambled forward. “Now, you look here, Winters—you can’t make me out a beggar. If I wanted a drink, I could buy one; I’ve got money, and I’ve got pride.”
“That you have, Lilly,” said Winters. “Here; this is my token of respect.” He slid a wine glass toward Lilloughby, whose eager fingers closed around it.
“You needn’t think you’re being generous with me, Winters. I take this as a favor to you. Anybody’d know you’re just trying to make Doc think you’re big-hearted.”
Winters grinned, paid, and
