Black Cat Weekly #135 E-Book

John M. Floyd

• Herausgeber: Black Cat Weekly
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 564

Beschreibung

Starting with this issue, famous science fiction artist, space illustrator, and author Ron Miller has agreed to become our Art Director, which means he will be pulling future covers from his personal treasure trove of artwork. This issue’s stunning “spider woman” cover is one of Ron’s best, and I look forward to seeing what he comes up with for future issues.

As always, thanks to our authors, Acquiring Editors Michael Bracken and Barb Goffman, and readers for making BCW a great project and a lot of fun to prepare. We couldn’t do it without you!

Here’s the complete lineup—

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:
“The Road Trip” by Mark Thielman [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“Who Stole the Trophy?” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“The Donovan Gang”by John M. Floyd [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
“The Finger of Stone,” by G.K. Chesterton [short story]
Temple Tower, by “Sapper,” was originally published in 1928 [novel, Bulldog Drummond series]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:
“Death of an Inquisitor’s Host” by Phyllis Ann Karr [short story]
“The Wellsprings of Space,” by Albert Teichner [short story]
“Gangway For Homer,” by George R. Hahn [short story]
“The Legacy,” by Dick Hank [short story]
“Mission,” by John Hollis Mason [short story]
“Leasehold,” by Wallace West [short story]

Cover art:
“Spider Woman,” by Ron Miller

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

THE ROAD TRIP, by Mark Thielman

WHO STOLE THE TROPHY?, by Hal Charles

THE DONOVAN GANG, by John M. Floyd

TEMPLE TOWER by “Sapper”

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

DEATH OF AN INQUISITOR’S HOST, by Phyllis Ann Karr

THE WELLSPRINGS OF SPACE, by Albert Teichner

GANGWAY FOR HOMER, by George R. Hahn

THE LEGACY, by Dick Hank

MISSION by John Hollis Mason

LEASEHOLD, by Wallace West

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2024 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Black Cat Weekly.

blackcatweekly.com

*

“The Road Trip” is copyright © 2024 by Mark Thielman and appears here for the first time.

“Who Stole the Trophy?” is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

“The Donovan Gang” is copyright © 2022 by John M. Floyd. Originally pubished in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Sep/Oct 2022.

“The Finger of Stone,” by G.K. Chesterton, was originally published in Harper’s Bazar, Dec.1920.

Temple Tower, by “Sapper,” was originally published in 1928.

“Death of an Inquisitor’s Host” is copyright © 2024 by Phyllis Ann Karr and appears here for the first time.

“The Wellsprings of Space,” by Albert Teichner, was originally published in Amazing Stories, Oct. 1961.

“Gangway For Homer,” by George R. Hahn, was originally published in Science Fiction Quarterly, Spring 1942.

“The Legacy,” by Dick Hank, was originally published in Amazing Stories, Aug. 1961.

“Mission,” by John Hollis Mason, was originally published in Science Fiction Quarterly, Spring 1942.

“Leasehold,” by Wallace West, was originally published in Fantastic, October 1978. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.

With the advent of the Easter holiday, I find myself with a house filled with family members and less time than usual for working on Black Cat Weekly. But I can’t let this issue slip out without a note about our big news—starting with this issue, famous science fiction artist, space illustrator, and author Ron Miller has agreed to become our Art Director, which means he will be pulling future covers from his personal treasure trove of artwork. This issue’s stunning “spider woman” cover is one of Ron’s best, and I look forward to seeing what he comes up with for future issues.

As always, thanks to our authors, Acquiring Editors Michael Bracken and Barb Goffman, and readers for making BCW a great project and a lot of fun to prepare. We couldn’t do it without you!

Here’s the complete lineup—

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

“The Road Trip” by Mark Thielman [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

“Who Stole the Trophy?” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

“The Donovan Gang”by John M. Floyd [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

“The Finger of Stone,” by G.K. Chesterton [short story]

Temple Tower, by “Sapper,” was originally published in 1928 [novel, Bulldog Drummond series]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

“Death of an Inquisitor’s Host” by Phyllis Ann Karr [short story]

“The Wellsprings of Space,” by Albert Teichner [short story]

“Gangway For Homer,” by George R. Hahn [short story]

“The Legacy,” by Dick Hank [short story]

“Mission,” by John Hollis Mason [short story]

“Leasehold,” by Wallace West [short story]

Cover art:

“Spider Woman,” by Ron Miller

Until next time, happy reading!

—John Betancourt

Editor, Black Cat Weekly

TEAM BLACK CAT

EDITOR

John Betancourt

ART DIRECTOR

Ron Miller

ASSOCIATE EDITORS

Barb Goffman

Michael Bracken

Paul Di Filippo

Darrell Schweitzer

Cynthia M. Ward

PRODUCTION

Sam Hogan

Enid North

Karl Wurf

THE ROAD TRIP,by Mark Thielman

My Dodge Polaris purred as it tore across the Nebraska prairie. I had the windows rolled down; my hand hung outside, surfing the air currents. Ahead, however, trouble loomed. The round gray clouds on the horizon looked like brains. Or maybe I just had brains on my brain.

I had a Stuckey’s pecan log on the passenger seat and a country song by Chet Rowdy played on the radio.

“I’m taking back roads going forward.”

I belted out the lyrics for every farmhouse along Interstate 80. I had two of the greatest minds in their respective fields riding in the back seat. If they objected to my off-key singing, they didn’t complain.

“Can’t escape my small town, I’ve got red dirt in my veins.”

Of course, they didn’t. My passengers were two brains fixed in formalin. They rode in specimen jars on the floorboards. They didn’t have ears.

Perhaps I should explain. My name is Mark. I was a student at Berkeley in the Spring Semester of 1974.

I needed a break from my roommate, Tim. We were both in our last semester, and the pressure of completing our respective theses began to wear on us. I had paused my studies and fixed a cocktail—a Fresca and tequila—a Markarita. I borrowed his 4-color pen and used it as a swizzle stick. He got mad and started shouting. I yelled back. He called me a slob. I called him controlling and a few other things that we don’t need to go into. Then, I stormed out of the dorm, choosing to keep the peace by leaving.

We’d been arguing more lately, usually about the stereo. I listen to country music. Folks who grew up in Bakersfield often do. Tim liked the Grateful Dead. He said my music was for hillbillies. I said that his was for hippies who couldn’t make a decision.

Neither the music nor my barware choices were really the problem. Graduation loomed, and I didn’t have a clue about what I’d do next. After finishing my thesis, I figured I’d flip a coin: heads—graduate school, tails—law school.

Over at the Student Union, sandwiched between a notice about the Political Science Club’s upcoming forum on Watergate and an announcement advertising the English Department’s roundtable discussion on the popular new horror novel Carrie, I saw a posting for a job opportunity. The Department of Neuroscience needed someone to drive to Boston, Massachusetts. I needed to get out of the apartment. They’d pay someone to take to the road. We were made for each other. I pulled down the handbill and headed across campus, chomping a peppermint Life Savers to mask any lingering Markarita on my breath.

I walked into the Department of Neuroscience. The secretary turned away from her IBM Selectric typewriter and looked at me. My eyes widened—she looked like Farah Fawcett’s pretty sister. She wore a blue pantsuit. The coral-colored blush she’d added to her cheeks proved an alluring contrast. I’d shed my pearl snap shirts when I came to Berkeley. I hoped she liked my flared jeans and Qiana shirt, but I couldn’t tell. Her bangs hooded her eyes and allowed her thoughts to remain mysterious.

“Can’t escape my small town.”

I resisted the urge to smile at her. Instead, I showed brooding and pushed the handbill across the desk with a smooth turn of my wrist, a move, I thought, reminiscent of James Dean.

She lifted the phone receiver and pushed a button. “You have an applicant.” Then, hanging up, she slid the handbill back with barely a flick of her blue polished fingernail. A faint nod of her head directed me to the first office door. “See Dr. Shugart.” She turned back to her typewriter.

I should have smiled. I misread the hooded eyes.

I should have channeled my inner David Cassidy instead of James Dean. I was replaying my earlier decisions as I entered the office. A woman looked up from her desk.

“Sorry, I was looking for Dr. Shugart.”

“I’m Dr. Shugart,” she said. “Are you here about the flyer?” She gestured toward a chair.

I took it and nodded.

She cocked her head and looked at me. “I don’t recognize you.”

“I’m not a science major. I’m in the English Department.”

Dr. Shugart shook her head. “No matter, this isn’t a research job. This job enables research. Do you have a car?”

“I do.”

“We have some specimens we need to be delivered to Harvard. Our students are busy completing their research.” I heard the implicit comparison.

“I’ve completed a draft of my thesis. I need to step away for a couple days. Give me a chance to review it with fresh eyes.”

My explanation was true, mostly.

She nodded. “You may be ideal. Are you squeamish?”

“I can eat a hot dog and ride the Giant Dipper over at the Santa Cruz Boardwalk.”

She hesitated and raised an eyebrow. After a moment, she spoke. “Come with me.” Dr. Shugart walked down the hall and unlocked a door. The sign above said CEREBRAL LABORATORY. “Catch the light.”

I turned and flipped the switch. Long fluorescent lights flickered to full brightness. When I looked back, Dr. Shugart had pulled a large jar from a shelf and rested it on the lab table. At the Boardwalk, the pickle vendor sold dill pickles from a jar like this. I looked closer and then jumped back. What floated inside was not a pickle.

“We call this one Dr. Jekyll,” she said before pointing to a shelf. “And that is Mr. Hyde.”

“They’re brains.”

She nodded. “This is the brain of Inspector Billings of the San Francisco Police Department. His family donated it to us for scientific research. One of the finest investigative minds in the history of the Bay Area.” She turned and tapped the glass of the other encased specimen. “This is Joey the Recluse. Ever heard of him?”

I shook my head.

“A criminal mastermind from San Francisco’s past. Active during Prohibition, he ran liquor and prostitution. If you saw Joey, he might be your last image in this life. Smart and vicious.” Her eyes watched my face. “Harvard’s Brain Bank wants to make slides to see if they can find a difference in the brain structure between pro-law enforcement and the criminal element. We’ll pay you a stipend plus ten days’ expenses to take Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde there.”

“Can’t escape my small town.”

“When can I leave?”

* * * *

I figured I could get to Boston and back in half the time and pocket the difference. I chewed through miles of highway, imagining the uptick in my college budget, fueled by Vivarin and a thermos of coffee. After meeting with Dr. Shugart, I’d gone to the library and read through old newspapers on microfiche. The papers lionized Billings as the Fog City Sherlock. Investigator Billings was credited with clearing countless cases. Joey the Recluse, on the other hand, never got another nickname. In my reading, it sounded like no one wanted to appear too familiar with him. They might get a subpoena or get whacked. Inspector Billings rode in the floorboard behind me. Joey rode behind the passenger seat.

In northern Utah, I paused to get gas. I used the time to dig in the glove compartment for a roadmap. Sitting there, I felt gloomy. Dark thoughts filled my head. I wanted to take it out on someone. Since I was alone, I exiled Joey to the trunk.

“Perfect place for a recluse,” I said as I slammed the lid.

The brain-shaped clouds looked ready to unpack a storm near Ogallala, Nebraska. Intermittent bursts of static interfered with my FM station, and my hands shook from caffeine-fueled sleep deprivation. I was tired and hungry, and the gas gauge needle hovered just above empty. This looked like a good time for a break.

We pulled into the parking lot of the Valhalla of Ogallala, a motor lodge on the outskirts of town. The vacancy sign blinked at me. The motel had white stucco walls with green trim. Down the street, I saw a Village Inn Pancake House. Further down, a theater marquee advertised Chinatown. The green dinosaur sign of a Sinclair gas station lay sandwiched in between. Everything I needed lay within walking distance.

I checked in and received my key. It dangled from a plastic pendant displaying my room number. Stepping outside, I stood under the lobby’s awning and looked for my room. The rain had begun to fall. Next to the ice maker, a thin man in ragged blue jeans pounded his fist on the Pepsi machine. I mentally noted that the vending machine was a coin-eater and moved my car in front of my room.

Clutching Inspector Billings’s jar, I hurried to the door. Fiddling briefly with the lock, I stepped inside and settled Billings on the table. I heard the Polara’s engine rev. Patting my pockets, I realized that I left the keys in my car. I dashed outside in time to see my Polaris speeding across the parking lot. I chased and drew close enough to watch the guy from the vending machine shoot me the finger just before he bounced off the curb and onto the street. All I got was wet.

Racing to the lobby, I gasped to the man behind the counter, “Call the cops.”

* * * *

When the Ogallala police arrived, I had hidden Billings’s jar beneath the bed pillows. I didn’t want to explain why I had a pickled brain in my room.

Officer Johnson, a round-faced police officer wearing a full mustache and rain-matted hair, stepped inside and shook droplets onto the harvest-gold carpet of the room.

“Berkeley, huh?” he said when he saw my identification.

His disdain did not give me confidence.

“We’ll tell the state patrol to keep an eye out.”

“That’s it?”

“Son, I didn’t go to college. Didn’t get no student de-fer-ment. I went to Vietnam. Maybe Berkeley taught you something different between your flag burnings and your protests, but here, we learned that cars roll. That’s why we keep them. They ain’t just a place to stick your peace and love bumper stickers. We’ll look, and we’ll tell NSP to keep their eyes peeled. You just sit and be patient.”

After he left, I closed the drapes and turned on the television. I changed the channel, but neither Maude nor TheRockford Files could hold my interest. I lay back on the bed, hoping to sleep while awaiting word from Officer Johnson that the police had found my car. If I wore a mood ring, it would be black. I considered my options. I lay halfway from anywhere while my clothes and my car were someplace else.

“And Joey the Recluse,” I heard my head say.

And I agreed. One-half of the University’s research project rested in the trunk of my stolen car.

“But we can solve this,” my head said.

“I can’t. I don’t know anything about Ogallala or car thieves.”

“Crimes are crimes, places are places. We can deduce the answer.”

I moved to the window and pushed back the drapes. My head cleared. I saw an empty parking lot and had no thoughts about how to proceed.

I lay back on the bed, and my head immediately churned with ideas. “The gas needle showed nearly empty. You had only the spare change from the pecan roll in the car. Since last year’s oil embargo, little gas could be purchased with change.”

“But that assumes the car thief had no other money.”

“You saw the man. He is like those of the Tenderloin. If he had money, he wouldn’t have been trying to beat change out of the Pepsi machine.”

“I don’t know anything about the Tenderloin,” I said aloud.

“But I do. Our thief could not drive far. He will be nearby. We can find him. I can help you.”

I sat up in bed. The voice disappeared. I slowly leaned back.

“I can locate him, but it will take your cooperation,” the voice said.

* * * *

“Bummer about your car, man,” the clerk behind the counter said when I returned to the office. He let me riffle through the lost-and-found box until I found a canvas backpack. Back in the room, I settled Inspector Billings into the pouch, using towels to bolster the sides. I slid my arms into the straps. The canvas felt stiff with age.

“Let the quest begin,” the voice said.

I stepped outside the door. “Which way?”

“Let us examine the vending machine.”

The liquid in the backpack shifted as I dodged raindrops.

“Tell me what we see,” the voice said.

“The sides of the Pepsi machine are dented,” I reported.

“Look closely.”

I started at the bottom and worked slowly upward. Clinging to the middle hinge, my eyes spotted a snagged thread.

“Describe it,” the voice said.

“It’s green.”

“Do you have a microscope?”

“I don’t have a change of underwear. I’m standing in front of a Pepsi machine.”

The voice grunted. “We need an envelope.”

I stepped towards the office. My foot skidded slightly. “There is a button on the ground.”

“What kind?” The words came fast. The pitch sounded higher. I heard the excitement.

“Round, white, smallish,” I said as I hurried to the office.

“A gauntlet button.”

“A what?” I asked.

“The cuff of a shirt. Your thief wears a green shirt.”

In the office, the clerk reluctantly pushed two envelopes across the desk. They bore the logo of the Ogallala Valhalla Motor Lodge.

“Ah, can I have another?”

He narrowed his eyes.

“I got nothing to do without a car, so I’m writing letters,” I said.

After a moment, he pushed a third one across the counter. “Don’t get greedy, dude.”

I pushed through the door and hurried back to collect my evidence.

“We’re looking for a man in a green shirt,” I prompted after I sealed the evidence.

“And, he is likely to hit another vending machine. In my experience, criminals tend to stick with what works. I would also look for torn knuckles. When you saw him, was he facing the machine?”

“I honestly didn’t pay much attention.”

“Think, use your brain.”

I considered a sarcastic reply but swallowed it. “Inspector” Billings, after all, was being helpful. I closed my eyes and pictured the scene. “To the side. He stood to the side by the drink buttons. That’s why I couldn’t see his face.”

“Then, he is likely left-handed. Let us find the vending machines.”

I stopped back at the front desk. Fortunately, the earlier rain had passed.

The clerk looked up and then rolled his eyes. “What now?”

“Where can I find some other vending machines?”

He pointed his thumb up the street. “Gas station.”

“No, no,” the voice inside me said. “The thief would not break the machine and then try to buy gas there.”

“Any other vending machines around?”

The clerk’s pinched face frowned at me.

“I’m jonesing for a Whatchamacallit Bar. The gas station’s vending machines don’t have them either,” I said.

His eyes turned up toward the ceiling. “Try the bus depot, about a block past the movie theater. Or go to the store.”

I waved thanks.

“Whatchamacallit, I’ve eaten many of those on stakeouts,” Billings said. “A fine bit of improvisation.”

I smiled. “I read a lot of Shakespeare for English 302. I guess the theater rubbed off.” I hurried up the street towards the bus depot.

“Keep an eye out for a phone booth,” Billings said. “When we find him, you’ll want to call the locals. I can no longer make an arrest.”

“You’re out of your jurisdiction,” I said.

“And I left my handcuffs in my other specimen jar,” Billings said.

I stopped mid-stride.

“That was a joke, Mark,” Billings said.

I resumed walking, picking my way carefully.

“Might you walk a straight line?” Billings asked. “I’m sloshing inside my jar.”

“Sorry, but I’m trying to avoid puddles and keep my feet dry. I don’t have any spare shoes.”

I got the distinct sensation that Billings nodded, or at least sloshed forward and back. “Used to walk a beat. Dry feet make all the difference.”

Near the bus station, a crowd gathered. Officer Johnson stood in the center of the activity, talking to a man holding an ice pack to his head. I moved close.

“He pried the face off the vending machine,” the man said. “He started grabbing change. I told him to stop. Then, he belted me on the jaw. Took my wallet. I had just a couple of dollars, but he snatched them and ran off.”

Billings gestured toward the man’s wrist. “At least he left your watch.”

The man glanced at his arm. Then, his eyes widened as he patted his front pockets. “The bastard took my knife.”

“Quickly, we must hurry,” Billings said inside my head.

“Hey, stop,” Officer Johnson said, outside of it.

I stopped.

Bits of a frown showed beneath his mustache. “Funny how you keep turning up at crime scenes.”

“I just came up to get a candy bar. Ask the motel clerk. He told me to come here.”

Johnson squinted and looked unsatisfied.

“But I need to tell you, the guy you’re looking for was wearing a green shirt, and I’m pretty sure he’s left-handed.”

Johnson’s eyes pinched tighter. “You suddenly know a lot about this fellow.”

“I’ve been thinking,” I said. “And I found a thread stuck to the Pepsi machine.” I pushed the envelope of evidence towards him.

Officer Johnson swatted it away. “Maybe that’s what they do on Adam-12, but that’s not how it works here, college boy. Now, return to your room, and let me get your car back.” He stomped back to the man with the ice pack.

“Quickly, around the corner,” Billings said.

“What’s the rush?” I asked.

“The violence is escalating. Our man has moved from theft to robbery. Still, he has recovered no meaningful amount of money. I am concerned about where this might lead. Let us examine the vending machine. Sneak around back.”

“Officer Johnson doesn’t like me. If he arrests me and finds a brain in my backpack, I may not be able to explain it to his satisfaction.”

“You will think of something. Your Whatchamacallit line was quick and clever.”

I walked to the back of the bus station. Then, hugging the wall, I crept toward the crime scene.

“Do you see puddles?” Billings asked.

“Yes.”

“Can you make out footprints? How many sets? Which direction?”

“Looks like one, walking away.”

“Are they bigger or smaller than your feet, Mark?”

I shook my head. “Can’t tell from here.”

“Then you should quickly compare.”

I scanned the crowd. Johnson seemed occupied, and no one paid much attention to a vending machine. I hurried over and laid my foot alongside. “Slightly smaller than my shoe. I’d say size ten and one half.”

“You are likely looking for a man approximately five feet nine inches tall.”

I grabbed the canvas strap on my right arm and pulled. The pack shifted. I wanted to talk to Billings face to lid. “How did you know that?”

“There is a rough correlation between shoe size and height,” Billings said. “Now, describe the pattern.”

“Big heel, then a big space and a smooth sole at the front.”

“Ah,” he said.

I waited.

“You seem to be describing a platform shoe. Our criminal may appear taller than five-nine. Let us hurry.”

“If I run, you’ll slosh,” I said.

“A policeman expects some bumps and bruises.”

I jogged in the direction of the motel.

“Where are we going?” Billings asked.

“I assumed you’d tell me. You’re the detective.”

“We must figure this out. Our quarry is becoming impulsive and violent. And he now has a weapon.”

“You told me that criminals tend to stick with what works,” I said.

“Clearly, he has not read the criminal handbook,” Billings said. Then, I thought I heard the voice in my head suck in air. “Perhaps he has. We must hurry,” he urged.

“But why?” I asked.

“I hypothesize that our green-shirted foe is being tutored by Joey the Recluse. This could be very bad. If he gets gas money to fuel your car, there is no place he could not go. Think, Billings,” he said inside my head, “where would he go?”

I stopped walking and pointed to the Sinclair station up ahead. “He’d go to the gas station. He can’t go far; the Polaris is running on fumes. Gas, cash, and one employee. Now that he has a weapon, that’s where I’d go.”

I noticed a lilt in Billings’s voice. “Excellent idea. Come, Mark, the game is afoot.”

I didn’t budge. “You didn’t really just say that.”

Billings’s voice turned sheepish. “Let the newspapers call you the Fog City Sherlock for years and see if it doesn’t have an effect.”

* * * *

We stood in the shadows cast by the State Theater’s marquee, a phone booth a few short steps away. I pinched a dime between my thumb and index finger. I had a plan. When the Polaris arrived, I would call the police.

About the time my stomach decided that I was hungry, the Polaris rolled into the filling station and parked at the gas pump. The green-shirted man studied the small building from my driver’s seat. No one but the attendant was inside. He flashed a wolfen smile. I squeezed the dime more tightly.

“Go now,” Billings voiced, “call Officer Johnson.”

Before I could move, the Polaris’s door swung open. The man got out and strode toward the front of the gas station. As he walked, he fingered the outside of his jeans pocket.

“There isn’t time,” I said. “The bad guy is going for the clerk.” I ran across the street, slipping my arms from the canvas straps. I plopped the backpack down on the lid of the Polaris’s trunk. “Keep Joey busy,” I said to Billings as I raced after the man in the green shirt.

“Be careful, Mark,” I heard Billings say. The rest of his words faded.

“You,” I shouted.

The man turned.

“You ate my pecan roll. You owe me.”

The man sneered. “Get out of here. Don’t make me hurt you.”

“So, you can rob the clerk, not a chance. You’ve got witnesses. What are you going to do about it?”

He stepped my way, and the sneer widened. His pace quickened.

I felt confident that I could outrun him. Platform shoes were made for discos, not track meets. He followed me across the street. I stayed close but kept just out of his range, leading him further away from the Polaris. I ran backward, taunting him. “You can’t catch me. I am J.J. Walker slick.”

“No good times when I catch you,” he said.

For what it was worth, I now knew he wore a green shirt, stood five feet nine, was left-handed, and watched sitcoms.

And carried a knife. I stayed on his right side. He was left-hand dominant. Billings would be pleased; I had thought of everything.

Then, my back ran into a wall. I had forgotten about the State Theater.

“Nowhere to go, kid,” Green Shirt said. He moved closer slowly. I tried to slide to his right, but the bricks impeded me. He drew the knife from his pocket and flicked it open. He waggled the blade in front of me like a snake. “No witnesses.”

“Can’t escape my small town.”

If I wanted to keep the red dirt and everything else in my veins, I needed to do something. Keeping my eyes on my opponent, I felt about, trying to locate a weapon.

He moved closer.

Suddenly, Green Shirt stopped. His face went blank. He looked down at the knife, his brow furrowed. His eyes flicked up to me, then back down to the knife. His lips pursed, and he squinted. His arm dropped to his side. Green Shirt studied the blade. “What the...”

“Where’d you get the knife, dude?” I asked.

He gave a slight shake of his head. “No clue... I shot some dude the bird, and then...” His voice trailed off.

“What are you doing here?”

He looked around, his face blank. Another shake of his head. He looked down at his hand, his left knuckles skinned and mottled with dried blood. “I tried to beat enough change from a Pepsi machine to buy a hamburger.”

I jerked my head toward the Village Inn Pancake House. “Let’s go in there. I’ll buy you a short stack.”

His face brightened. “Would ya?”

“But let me hold the knife,” I said. “The waitress might get the wrong impression.”

* * * *

While Green Shirt downed his pancakes, I excused myself. At the pay phone, I called the Ogallala police. Fifteen minutes later, Officer Johnson slid into the booth alongside us. He drank a cup of coffee and ate a side order of sausage links while we discussed Green Shirt’s problem. His name, he told us, was Scott. I gave Johnson the knife. Scott gave me my car keys.

Johnson arrested Scott for damaging the vending machines. The guy he robbed had already boarded another bus and left town. I told Officer Johnson I didn’t want to prosecute Scott for the car theft. Johnson frowned but said he understood. It seemed apparent to both of us that Scott didn’t know what he’d been doing or saying for the last few hours.

“I have some friends who study human brains. If they can explain this situational amnesia, I’ll write and tell you,” I said.

Johnson nodded, then cocked his head and studied me. “College Boy, you handled yourself pretty good back there, disarming the man without anyone getting hurt.”

“Give peace a chance,” I said.

He scoffed but waved as he drove off with Scott in the back of the squad car.

* * * *

My backpack still sat on the trunk of the Polaris. No one had touched it. I let Billings sit in the front seat as we drove out of town. Joey the Recluse rode in the trunk, his jar in a box wrapped in a blanket.

Inspector Billings sounded peeved that I had taken on an armed man without backup. “When you’re at the police academy, they will teach you how to handle this situation correctly.”

“Who said anything—” I began.

“I’m a detective. The clues are obvious. You have natural police instincts. Look at how you dealt with Scott.”

“I had an idea,” I said. “On the road, the farther you get from a radio station, the more static you get. Brain waves or audio waves, I thought the violent criminal impulses would fade if I could get Scott away from Joey the Recluse. That’s why I got him to chase me down the street.”

“And you had me keep the Recluse occupied here.”

“What did you do to distract him?” I asked.

“I sang him a Chet Rowdy song. I don’t know where the idea came from.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Mark Thielman is a criminal magistrate working in Fort Worth, Texas. He is the author of more than thirty published short stories. His short fiction has appeared in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Black Cat Weekly, Mystery Magazine, and a number of anthologies.

WHO STOLE THE TROPHY?,by Hal Charles

Detective Kelly Stone’s mind had two thoughts when she arrived late at the finish line: how could she have missed the annual race and how many towns put on the Silver Streaks? The race, a product of her mother’s boundless imagination, catered to male and female Social Security recipients who wanted to recapture the joy of building and piloting a soap-box-style car.

“Kelly,” called Carmella Quirk from her truck cab, “what do you think of my new racer in the trailer, the Red Rage? I built it in secret for this year’s race.”

“What happened to the Black Beast?” asked Kelly, admiring the new, sleek, and aerodynamic racer. Carmella was a former aerospace engineer whose previous vehicle had won the Silver Streaks its first five years.

“Excuse me, Carmella,” interrupted Sheila Stone, Kelly’s mother, “but I must steal my daughter away for a few minutes.”

“What’s up, Mom?” said Kelly, picking up on the urgency in her mother’s voice.

“Somebody stole the very expensive trophy your dad made at the jewelry shop,” said her frustrated mother. “How can I present a missing trophy to Carmella for her sixth consecutive victory?”

Kelly walked her mother over to an empty bench away from the larger-than-usual crowd. As they sat, Kelly said, “Tell me what happened.”

“Since the starting line and site of the trophy presentation is city hall, I put the trophy in my office. As I locked up, I received a call from Wilma Roberts, my secretary, telling me she was staying home rather than being humiliated by ‘Quick’ Quirk again.”

“Wilma obviously has a key. Who else? Your two clerks?”

“Betty and Lettie received new keys this past week. City regs require I change the locks every three years. I think I just saw both of them and their husbands pushing their racers around back to their trailers.”

“Let’s go,” said Kelly.

The detective and her mother found the sweating twins and their husbands in city hall’s rear parking lot, and as usual they were bickering.

“Why couldn’t we have done it my way?” protested a sweating Lettie, flipping her pony tail back over her shoulder. “If we had dropped off our cars here and parked below, we wouldn’t have had to pull them back up Founders’ Hill.”

“Now I know your memory is failing you,” said Betty, fidgeting with her pigtails. “Remember last year we tried doing that and couldn’t find a place to park?”

“No.”

“And parking here is so easy because our I.D. cards get us into this lot with a single swipe,” continued Betty. “Besides, there were so many in the crowd helping us pull our cars back up to here. Another wipe, and voila!”

“I’m not used to sweating so much,” said Lettie. “Are you?”

“Ladies,” interrupted Kelly, “I’d like to ask you a question. Did either of you go into your city hall office today?”

“Who has time?” said Lettie. “It’s race day.”

“And race day is never a work day,” added Betty.

Kelly turned to her mom. “Stall the ceremony. I’ll go talk to Wilma.”

The secretary, who lived only a few miles away, invited Kelly in. “I’ve been here all day doing my laundry,” Wilma explained. “I didn’t listen to the race on the radio, and after calling your mother, I refused to answer my phone because someone might want to talk about Silver Streaks.”

“But you used to love the race,” said Kelly.

“I know it sounds like sour grapes, but I just couldn’t bear to go out to another lunch and have ‘Quick’ Quirk brag to everyone about the superiority of the Red Rage.”

Excusing herself, Kelly pulled out her phone and called her mother. “I know who took the trophy.”

SOLUTION

Wilma Roberts took the trophy as her only way of getting revenge against Carmella. Kelly knew that Wilma had lied about being home all day as soon as the secretary named Carmella’s new vehicle, the Red Rage, rather than her old vehicle, the Black Beast. The only way she could have known about the new vehicle Carmella unveiled that morning was if she had been around city hall that morning. Kelly retrieved the trophy from Wilma’s attic, and her mother made Carmella’s sixth consecutive Silver Streaks victory official at the belated ceremony. Wilma no longer works for Sheila Stone.

The Barb Goffman Presents series showcasesthe best in modern mystery and crime stories,

personally selected by one of the most acclaimed

short stories authors and editors in the mystery

field, Barb Goffman, forBlack Cat Weekly.

THE DONOVAN GANG,by John M. Floyd

I’ll never forget my twentieth birthday. May 6, 1907. It was a Monday, and I was on my way to my new job as a printer’s assistant at the Tombstone Epitaph. My hiring was a result of my father’s friendship with its editor, William Hattich, and I’d been put on a stagecoach instead of on one of my pa’s horses for the seventy-mile trip from Tucson because (1) I had a thirty-pound bag of luggage, (2) my ma still considered me a child, and (3) a gang of bandits was creating havoc in the southeast corner of the Arizona Territory. I recall pointing out to my parents that most of the robberies had involved trains and stages, not lone travelers, but that didn’t work. In their view, facing danger—especially danger to one’s offspring—should be a group endeavor.

As it turned out, my trip that morning was uneventful. I and my fellow passengers—two men and two women—sweated and dozed and chatted and watched the flowering desert pass by outside our windows as we bumped along a stage route still plagued with ruts and washouts after more than a quarter century of operation. It was only later that day, around noon, at a scheduled stop at a place called Harrison Wells, that unusual things began to happen.

The five of us had eaten lunch and visited the privy behind the station house and reboarded the stage for the next leg of our journey when something BUMPed on top of the coach. Seconds later, the left-hand door swung open.

Looking up at us through the open doorway was a tall lean man with a dark mustache and ice-blue eyes. Without a word he tipped his hat at the two ladies on the seat across from me, climbed into the coach, and took the window seat beside the older of the two women.

I wondered if I was the only one surprised. Harrison Wells was in the middle of nowhere. It was a way station, not a starting point. And yet here this guy was, appearing out of the blue.

For a moment no one spoke. At last the passenger to my right, a plump man with a red face and a white collar who had introduced himself earlier as Reverend Aaron Price, said, “Welcome aboard, Marshal.”

Another surprise. I hadn’t seen a badge, and the new arrival looked more like a dusty cowpoke than a lawman. He nodded solemnly and said, “Preacher.”

But the reverend was just getting warmed up. “Allow me to present our fellow travelers,” he said, as the coach lurched and we pulled away from the station. “Sitting beside you is Mrs. Alice Longworth, an accomplished actress in a local theatrical company”—Mrs. Longworth smiled but said nothing—“and on the other side of her is Miss Garrett... I’m afraid I didn’t catch your first name, young lady.”

“No,” Miss Garrett said, not smiling. “You didn’t.”

Undeterred, the preacher pointed to me. “Here on my left is young Tommy Willard, who I understand is a budding journalist, and the gentleman on my right is Dr. Grey, a dentist visiting our area from points east.” Both I and the doc nodded greetings. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to expand on the “journalist” reference. A typesetting apprentice didn’t sound nearly as impressive.

I needn’t have worried. The marshal made no reply.

Reverend Price, as preachers tend to do, kept trying. “I take it you lost your horse?”

The marshal gave him a long measuring look. “He ain’t lost. He’s shot.”

“Shot?”

“Broke his leg a couple miles from here.”

“I see.” The preacher paused. “We heard something bump, up top. Your luggage?”

“My saddle.”

“Sounds like you were lucky,” Alice Longworth said.

The marshal studied her a moment. She was probably my ma’s age, attractive and confident. She stared back at him with a steady gaze and a raised chin.

“I’m lucky you folks was passin’ by,” he said. “Unlucky my horse stepped in a hole.”

As I was picturing that in my mind, Miss Garrett said, looking past Mrs. Longworth at the marshal, “Maybe we’re the lucky ones.” She was young but neither as pretty nor as sure of herself as her seatmate was, and when everyone turned to look at her, her face reddened a bit.

“How’s that?” the preacher asked.

“Well—with all these rumors about the Donovan Gang... I feel safer having a peace officer aboard.”

“The Donovan Gang?” Dr. Grey said.

Miss Garrett, now looking as if she wished she’d kept quiet, said, “Bandits. I heard there was four of ’em, but three’s all anybody’s really seen. They’ve held up five stagecoaches now, all of ’em hauling boxes of either cash or gold.”

I’d already heard most of this, and I suspected the other passengers had too, but the doc, a man in his thirties with a longish face, was clearly intrigued. “How do they know when something worthwhile is aboard?” he asked.

“Well, that’s the thing,” Miss Garrett said. “There’s no way they could know. Right, Marshal? Any valuable cargo’s loaded in secret, behind the office ’fore the stage leaves, and nobody knows about it ahead a time. The only ones could know is the passengers theirselves, if they saw it bein’ loaded. Anyhow, only the stages that carry money or gold are gettin’ robbed.”

Alice Longworth, sitting next to her, said, “You seem to know a lot about all this.”

Miss Garrett narrowed her eyes. “What does that mean?”

Instead of answering, Mrs. Longworth asked, “Didn’t you say you work at a saloon?”

“That’s right. I’m a hostess.”

“Ah.” Longworth raised an eyebrow almost to her hairline. “Is that what you call it?”

Miss Garrett’s cheeks flushed beet red. “What I meant was, I hear things. Things people say.”

“Yes, I just bet you do.”

As the younger woman stiffened, the preacher raised a hand. “Please, ladies. Let’s keep things polite, shall we?”

Miss Garrett, eyes blazing, focused on him. “Reverend Price, would you mind if you and me switched seats?”

“Not at all.” Carefully, timing their movements to the bouncing coach, they swapped places. Price settled in on the other side of Mrs. Longworth from the marshal while Miss Garrett wedged herself between me and Dr. Grey. The new seating arrangement suited me just fine.

“Have they killed anybody?” the doc continued, as if nothing had happened.

“Two, so far,” Reverend Price said, mopping his pudgy face with a handkerchief. “Both of them were passengers.”

“Passengers?”

“From what I’ve been told, the gang always follows a set procedure. They stop the stage from up ahead, disarm the driver and shotgun-rider, and warn the passengers to lower the window shades and remain inside. The leader, Artie Donovan, climbs up top, shoots the lock off the strongbox, and checks the contents while Artie’s brother Joe and a friend of theirs are posted outside both doors of the coach. On one occasion, someone raised a shade to look out, and on another someone jumped from the stage and tried to run away. Both passengers were shot dead.”

The doc seemed to consider that. Frowning, he said, “Is this stagecoach, the one we’re on, carrying any cash or gold?”

Everyone looked at each other. After a silence Miss Garrett said, “I saw a big strongbox being loaded ’fore we left Tucson. I expect the rest a you did too, if you was watching.”

Dr. Grey gave that some thought, then turned again to the preacher. “Didn’t I hear you ask somebody, back at the way station, about our coachmen?”

“You mean our driver and the fellow riding shotgun?”

“That’s what I mean.”

“Yes. I asked the stationkeeper who they were. I travel this route regularly, to serve my other two congregations, and I didn’t recognize either of these men today.” He glanced at the two women. “Miss Garrett often rides this route too, to visit her ma in Tombstone, and so does Mrs. Longworth, to appear in her many plays. They told me they didn’t know these two men either.”

“So what did the stationkeeper say?”

Reverend Price shrugged. “He said they were new.”

Dr. Grey nodded slowly, then shifted his gaze to the marshal. “What am I missing, here?”

“Missing?”

The doc looked impatient. “I might just be passing through, Marshal, but I’m no fool. If an outlaw gang has been robbing stagecoaches around here for some time now, and if we are transporting something today that those outlaws would want, and if a new driver and his helper are on duty and the only law officer on board is one who just happened to materialize out of thin air at just the right time...” He shrugged. “I find all that a bit—”

“Hard to believe?” the marshal said.

“Yes.”

The marshal had been slouched in his seat with his arms folded across his chest. Now he sat up, put both palms on his knees, and took a deep breath. “See if you believe this,” he said. “Every robbery so far has happened in the early afternoon, not long after the stopover at the Wells. That’s a long distance, and a good many hours, from your starting point today. As Miss Garrett here mentioned, the gang seems to know which stages are carrying money and which ones ain’t. How they know that I can’t say for sure, but one possibility is that they’re being tipped off somehow, by someone who does know.”

“Being told, you mean?”

“Being signaled, more likely.” The marshal looked at all of us in turn before focusing again on the doc. “And if that’s true, whatever signal is sent out would probably be sent out by one of the passengers while the stage was stopped at the station back there, some kinda signal that I figure could be seen from up in them mountains to the west. So if I didn’t want any of them possible informants and signalers to know a lawman was along for the ride today, I would need to wait nearby and board the stage on the other side of the coach from them mountains, after your stopover. And after whatever signal to be given had already been given and received.”

Alice Longworth gave him a hard look. “So your horse didn’t break a leg.”

“No, ma’am. He’s just tired, like me. I left him in the corral behind the station. I didn’t tell you the real story till now because, as you can see, it’s a long story.”

“Wait a minute,” Miss Garrett said. “Did you say, a minute ago, that one of us—somebody right here in this coach—could be in on all this?”

“I said it’s a possibility. Main thing is, if a plan is underway to rob this stage, I don’t want anything to happen that might discourage that.”

“Because you have a plan of your own,” Reverend Price said, frowning.

“That’s right.”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” Price said. “Your intention is to use us as bait, to confront this gang of thieves and murderers?”

“My intention is to stop this gang, today, once and for all, so they won’t do any more thieving and murdering. And you’re not the bait, Preacher. It’s the money they want, not you.”

The doc cleared his throat. “No offense, Marshal, but besides being a bit alarmed, I also find myself puzzled by your level of confidence. I don’t do much dentistry anymore. I mostly just write stories now, and as a participant in that lonely pastime, I see no need to carry a weapon. I assume that neither young Tommy here nor the reverend is carrying one either. If we do meet these bandits, and the coachmen are forced to surrender their guns, a shootout between you alone and three desperadoes seems a little ill-advised.”

“No offense taken. But it won’t be as one-sided as you think.” The marshal looked at Reverend Price. “The reason you didn’t recognize today’s driver and shotgun-rider, Preacher, is that they’re friends of mine, and former Texas Rangers. The plan is, they’ll give up their guns when asked, but they’ll have others stashed and ready under the driver’s seat, within easy reach.”

“But even still—”

“And there’s something else you need to understand, Doc.” The marshal pointed a finger upward. “That strongbox up there that got loaded in Tucson is sure enough full of cash, most of it payroll money for mining operations near Tombstone and Bisbee. In that sense, this is a typical delivery run. But this box is different from most. This one has little air holes drilled into all four sides, and has half a dozen fat rattlesnakes inside, lying on top of the bills. Since Artie Donovan’s routine is to open the box and check its contents before taking it off the stage, he’s gonna get a little surprise today. I figure he’ll get bit several times in the face and neck, and if that don’t lay him out right away, it’ll be a hell of a distraction, both to him and the two men he’ll have guarding the coach doors. Not many people like snakes. There’ll likely be a lot of hollerin’ and screamin’ and messin’ in their pants. Pardon me, ladies.”

The marshal paused again and leaned forward in his seat. “While all that’s happening, the plan is for the shotgun-rider to pull his hidden gun and shoot Artie Donovan right then and there, snakebit or not, and for the driver to shoot the guy watching the right-hand door of the coach. I plan to push aside my window shade and shoot the one guarding the left-hand door.”

Every passenger, including me, fell silent. The only sound was the rattle of the traces and the constant rumble of hoofbeats and wheels. All eyes were fixed on the marshal, and some—Reverend Price’s in particular—were as wide and round as chicken eggs.

In a small voice he said, “You mean—you’re going to kill them all?”

“They’ll all three have guns in their hands, Preacher, and I expect they’d kill me without a second thought, and you too, if it suits their purposes.”

I took a moment to build up my courage, then cleared my throat and spoke for the first time. “But we’re still not sure anything at all will happen. Right?”

The marshal shrugged. “So far they’ve hit every single stage that’s been carrying something stealable. But no, nothing’s for certain.”

I found myself hoping that somebody, if we didn’t get robbed, would remember to tell the bankers in Tombstone to be careful when they open their cashbox.

“If they do try to hold us up,” I said, “When you figure it’d be?”

He took out a pocket watch, checked the time, and looked at me. “Soon.”

Another long silence. On the one hand, I could feel butterflies cavorting in my stomach; on the other, I somehow felt everything was going to work out all right. Maybe it was the calm determination I heard in the marshal’s voice, or the realization that this predicted gun battle might never happen. Or maybe it was just my youth and inexperience. As these things bounced around in my head, I found myself watching the other passengers and wondering what they were thinking. Mrs. Longworth studied the marshal’s profile as carefully as if she wanted to paint it in oils, the preacher sat with his eyes closed (maybe sleeping, maybe praying), Dr. Grey gazed out the window as if searching for storm clouds, and Miss Garrett stared dazedly at her folded hands. The marshal himself, the cause of this sudden change in the mood of the group, was thoughtfully rubbing the cover of his pocket watch. Outside my window, the barren landscape drifted past.

We didn’t have to wait long. First I felt the coach slow down, then I heard three quick raps, metal on wood, up front. A signal.

The marshal eased his revolver from its holster. I looked around. Everyone was alert and silent. A glance out the window showed no sign of bandits. They would be up ahead, as they’d been in the other robberies.

When we shuddered to a full stop, I heard a muffled voice shout, “Guns in the dirt,” followed by what might’ve been the thump of heavy objects being tossed onto the hard ground. Then another command: “You folks inside, get them blinds down.”

The marshal nodded to us. He and I and the two other passengers in window seats reached outside and unbuckled the straps that allowed the heavy shades to be lowered. Except for the tiny rectangular window above the top of each door, the interior of the coach went dark.

“What about those?” Miss Garrett whispered to the marshal.

“Stay away from ’em.”

Then we sat and listened. My mouth was dry, my heart pounding. I couldn’t help remembering that I was here only because my parents were worried about the threat of bandits.

What a way to spend my birthday.

More thumps, up on top. Boots? Then the scrape of something heavy being shifted around. And a sudden BANG and the whine of a ricochet. Both the women jumped, but neither cried out. The marshal cocked his revolver and rested its barrel on his shaded window. All six of us stayed dead quiet.

Seconds later, two softer thumps, directly overhead. Trousered knees, as the leader knelt in front of the strongbox? I heard metal latches being undone. He was about to open the box.

And then:

“DON’T DO IT, ARTIE!” Mrs. Longworth screamed. “Don’t open it!” Still yelling, she leaped out of her seat, threw open the door, and half jumped and half fell to the ground outside. The sheriff rose and followed her out, and foolishly—after hearing no gunshots—I followed also. The next thing I knew, the three of us were standing in the dirt beside the stage, looking up at the man kneeling on top.

He wasn’t Artie Donovan. He was the driver. The shotgun-rider was still sitting up front, holding the reins to the team. Both of them were looking calmly down at us. Neither held a gun. As I glanced around, I realized there were no bandits present. Just us. In that same instant it dawned on me that the loose bandanna around the driver’s neck had probably been pulled up and used to muffle his voice earlier, to make it sound as though he were speaking through an outlaw’s mask.

Alice Longworth’s face had gone pale. She looked at the marshal, then at the two coachmen, then at the marshal again. In a quiet, stunned voice she said, “You lied.”

“I did indeed.” Like the driver on top, he had already holstered his pistol.

“You weren’t trying to catch the Donovans at all.”

“We already caught the Donovans, and their friend too. Late last night, camped in them hills above the way station.”

She jerked backward as if slapped. “What? Then why... why did you—”

“Spin this little tale? To try to catch the fourth member of the gang.” He tilted his head and studied her face. “Looks like it worked.”

Reverend Price and Dr. Grey had climbed out of the coach and were standing there gawking. Miss Garrett was watching through the open door. The marshal looked at the three of us who were outside and said, “Get back on the stage, folks. Show’s over.”

The preacher and the doc obeyed, but I hung back a little. Watching and listening.

I saw that Alice Longworth’s shoulders were sagging. “So there were no snakes in the strongbox,” she said.

“No snakes, no air holes, no Texas Rangers up front.” The marshal pointed at the two coachmen. “Meet Wesley and Jimbo Purvis. My wife’s cousins.” Then, in a louder voice: “You boys ready?”

“We was born ready,” the driver said, while the shotgun rider jumped to the ground, retrieved his gun, and climbed back onto his seat at the front of the coach.

But Mrs. Longworth stayed put for a moment, and so did the marshal. Her face looked ten years older. “What will happen to me?” she asked.

“You’ll go to jail. Along with your three friends.” He studied her closely. “Just for the record, what was your signal? How’d you let ’em know the cashbox was on board?”

She drew a shaky breath. “It was different each time. Today I spread a white handkerchief on the rosebush outside the privy. With his telescope Artie could see it from the mountains above the station.” Her eyes hardened. “Where you say you caught them last night.”

“We caught ’em all right. In case it matters,” he said, “they surrendered without a fight. We took ’em alive.”

She smiled sadly. “And they didn’t give me up, did they. They wouldn’t tell you my name.”

“If they had, I wouldn’t have had to go through all this, would I?”

I was still listening, but at a sharp glance from the marshal I turned and reboarded the stage, and the two of them climbed in after me. The window shades had already been raised and buckled down. When we were underway, the marshal picked up Mrs. Longworth’s handbag, looked inside, and removed a little two-shot derringer, which he unloaded and put in his pocket.

“This woman is my prisoner,” he said to the rest of us. “All of you understand that?”

We nodded.

For several miles everyone stayed quiet. Finally Mrs. Longworth raised her head and saw Miss Garrett looking at her. “What are you staring at?” she growled.

Miss Garrett shook her head. “I was just wondering why.”

Longworth’s eyes flashed; her back straightened. “Because I’m Artie Donovan’s lover.”

“Ah.” Garrett raised an eyebrow. “Is that what you call it?”

* * * *

We arrived in Tombstone just past seven. The sun had gone down and the sky to the west was streaked with bands of red and orange. Lamplight glowed in the hotel-room windows on Allen Street. When Alice Longworth had been delivered to the authorities, the marshal walked back to join us at the stage office. Reverend Price, Dr. Grey, and I were standing on the boardwalk beside our luggage in the gathering darkness. Miss Garrett had already hired a buggy to take her to her ma’s house south of town.

Since the preacher and the dentist were deep in conversation, I moved away from them to meet the marshal in the street.

“Can I ask you two questions?” I said to him.

He fished a cigar from a vest pocket and put it unlit between his teeth. “Newspaper office is just around that corner there. I expect they’re still open.”

“No, that’s not what I need to ask.”

“Go ahead then.”

I swallowed hard and said, “Are you Wyatt Earp?”

For the first time, there in the dying light of the day, I saw him smile. “My name’s Roy Hinton,” he said. “Guess I never introduced myself. I knew the Earps though, most of ’em. Wyatt’s somewhere in California now.”

He must have seen the embarrassment in my face, because he added, “Don’t feel bad. I’m honored you thought that.” Then, remembering: “What’s your second question?”

I hesitated, wary now, and looked back at Dr. Grey and Reverend Price. They were shaking hands. The marshal—Hinton?—followed my gaze and smiled again. “Let me guess,” he said. “You want to ask me if that’s really Doc Holliday.”

Once more I felt my face heat up. “I couldn’t help wondering. Holliday was a dentist, right? And, like this fellow, he quit his practice to do something different.”

“That he was. But Holliday died twenty years ago.” He took out his cigar and pointed it at me. “You’re from this part of the country. You should know that.”

I nodded. “Guess I should’ve.”

Both of us watched as the doc bade the preacher farewell and headed in our direction. “Don’t tell him about my mistake,” I said to the marshal. “All right?”

“Don’t worry. Him and me already said our goodbyes.” Roy Hinton lit his cigar and turned to leave. “And I’m sorry you didn’t get to meet anybody famous today.”

As I watched the marshal walk away into the twilight, the doc squeezed my shoulder and held out his hand. “Young man, this was quite a trip. I wish you the best.”

I shook his hand and grinned. “You too, Dr. Grey.”

“Thank you,” he said. “Call me Zane.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

John M. Floyd is the author of more than a thousand short stories in publications like AHMM,EQMM, The Saturday Evening Post, Best American Mystery Stories,and Best Mystery Stories of the Year. A former Air Force captain and IBM systems engineer, John is an Edgar finalist, a Shamus Award winner, a five-time Derringer Award winner, and the author of seven collections of short mystery fiction. He is also the 2018 recipient of the Edward D. Hoch Memorial Golden Derringer for lifetime achievement. This story, “The Donovan Gang,” was a finalist for the Derringer in 2023. Learn more at http://www.johnmfloyd.com/.