Black Cat Weekly #28 E-Book

Larry Niven

• Herausgeber: Wildside Press
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Seitenzahl: 568

Beschreibung

Black Cat Weekly #28 features another interview by acquiring editor Darrell Schweitzer—this time with Larry Niven.. It originally appeared in Thrust, a review and critical essay magazine published by Doug Fratz in the 1970s. As Darrell has observed, these old interviews fall “somewhere between oral history and paleontology.” It’s always interesting to compare where at author was in his career almost 50 years ago to where he is today.

For this issue’s mysteries, we have an original story by Bruce Arthurs, thanks to editor Michael Bracken. Barb Goffman has selected “The Chess Room” by Elizabeth Elwood. And we have a second classic novel from Mildred Davis. Plus, of course, a solve-it-yourself tale by Hal Charles (the writing team of Hal Sweet and Charlie Blythe)—no issue would be complete without one.

Editor Cynthia Ward has selected “Miles to Go” by Linda D. Addison for this issue. Great stuff, especially if you like music. (Who doesn’t?) Leslie Perri’s “Under the Skin,” Randall Garrett’s “Stroke of Genius,” and Lester del Rey’s “Mine Host, Mine Adversary” round out the classic reprints. Great reading.

Here’s the complete lineup:

Non-Fiction:

“Speaking with Larry Niven,” an interview by Darrell Schweitzer [interview]

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

“The Return of Dodge Tombstone, Outlaw,” by Bruce Arthurs [short story]
“A Secret Admirer,” by Hal Charles [solve-it-yourself mystery]
“The Dark Place,” by Mildred Davis [novel]
“The Chess Room,” by Elizabeth Elwood [short story]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

“Milez To Go,” by Linda D. Addison [short story]
“Under The Skin,” by Leslie Perri [short story]
“Stroke Of Genius,” by Randall Garrett [short story]
“Mine Host, Mine Adversary,” by Lester del Rey [short story]

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

THE RETURN OF DODGE TOMBSTONE, OUTLAW, by Bruce Arthurs

A SECRET ADMIRER, by Hal Charles

THE DARK PLACE, by Mildred Davis

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

EPILOGUE

THE CHESS ROOM, by Elizabeth Elwood

SPEAKING WITH LARRY NIVEN, an interview by Darrell Schweitzer

MILEZ TO GO, by Linda D. Addison

UNDER THE SKIN, by Leslie Perri

STROKE OF GENIUS, by Randall Garrett

MINE HOST, MINE ADVERSARY, by Lester del Rey

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2022 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

*

“The Return of Dodge Tombstone, Outlaw” is copyright © 2022 by Bruce Arthurs. it appears for the first time in Black Cat Weekly.

“A Secret Admirer” is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

The Dark Place, by Mildred Davis, originally appeared in 1955.

“The Chess Room” is copyright © 2019 by Elizabeth Elwood. Originally published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, November/December 2019. Reprinted by permission of the author.

“Speaking with Larry Niven” is copyright © 1984 by Darrell Schweitzer. It originally appeared in Thrust 21, Fall 85/Winter 85.

“Milez to Go” is copyright © 2006 by Linda D. Addison. Originally published in Voices From the Other Side. Reprinted by permission of the author.

“Mine Host, Mine Adversary,” by Lester del Rey, originally appeared in Fantastic Universe, October 1959. Reprinted by permission of the atuhor’s estate.

“Under the Skin” by Leslie Perri originally appeared in Infinity Science Fiction, June 1956.

“Stroke of Genius” by Randall Garrett originally appeared in Infinity Science Fiction, June 1956.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly #28.

This issue features another interview by acquiring editor Darrell Schweitzer—this time with Larry Niven.. It originally appeared in Thrust, a review and critical essay magazine published by Doug Fratz in the 1970s. As Darrell has observed, these old interviews fall “somewhere between oral history and paleontology.” It’s always interesting to compare where at author was in his career almost 50 years ago to where he is today.

For this issue’s mysteries, we have an original story by Bruce Arthurs, thanks to editor Michael Bracken. Barb Goffman has selected “The Chess Room” by Elizabeth Elwood. And we have a second classic novel from Mildred Davis. Plus, of course, a solve-it-yourself tale by Hal Charles (the writing team of Hal Sweet and Charlie Blythe)—no issue would be complete without one.

Editor Cynthia Ward has selected “Miles to Go” by Linda D. Addison for this issue. Great stuff, especially if you like music. (Who doesn’t?) Leslie Perri’s “Under the Skin,” Randall Garrett’s “Stroke of Genius,” and Lester del Rey’s “Mine Host, Mine Adversary” round out the classic reprints. Great reading.

Here’s the complete lineup:

Non-Fiction

“Speaking with Larry Niven,” an interview by Darrell Schweitzer [interview]

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure

“The Return of Dodge Tombstone, Outlaw,” by Bruce Arthurs [short story]

“A Secret Admirer,” by Hal Charles [solve-it-yourself mystery]

“The Dark Place,” by Mildred Davis [novel]

“The Chess Room,” by Elizabeth Elwood [short story]

Science Fiction & Fantasy

“Milez To Go,” by Linda D. Addison [short story]

“Under The Skin,” by Leslie Perri [short story]

“Stroke Of Genius,” by Randall Garrett [short story]

“Mine Host, Mine Adversary,” by Lester del Rey [short story]

Until next time, happy reading!

—John Betancourt

Editor, Black Cat Weekly

TEAM BLACK CAT

EDITOR

John Betancourt

ASSOCIATE EDITORS

Barb Goffman

Michael Bracken

Darrell Schweitzer

Cynthia M. Ward

PRODUCTION

Sam Hogan

Karl Wurf

THE RETURN OF DODGETOMBSTONE, OUTLAW,by Bruce Arthurs

“Jess, enough reading. That lamp don’t give enough light, and there’s chores in the morning.”

It’s always chores. Milk the cow, feed the chickens and gather eggs, give Daisy her oats and a brushing, start the fire in the stove for Ma to cook breakfast. Then more in the afternoon. Clean the barn stalls, weed and gather in the garden, chop wood, fix or patch the latest thing that done broke. Any or all the things Pa did before he died. All the things that take up the day from sunrise to sundown, so kerosene light’s all I got if I want to do any reading at all these days.

I miss Pa. But sometimes I think I miss school even more, even if the books there weren’t near as exciting as the Dodge Tombstone stories.

I tried to keep Dodge Tombstone and the Chinese Pirates hidden from Ma behind the Bible I’d been using as a false front. But she caught me at it.

“Jess, what is that book?”

“It’s the Bible, Ma,” I said, making my eyes go wide to look innocent. I guess Ma knows me better.

“The other book.”

Well, shoot, and pardon my language. I brought the book out into the light. Ma took the cheap-papered dime novel from my hand. On the cover, Dodge Tombstone, in his black getup and mask, fought slant-eyed men on a ship’s deck. Ma frowned, sniffed, and then sighed.

“You know these are trash and nonsense?”

“They’re just exciting stories, Ma. About men and women in peril from bad men, and how they’re rescued by a good man.”

Ma snorted. “The real Dodge Tombstone was nowhere near being a good man. Good men don’t have reason to wear a mask.” She looked at the cover again. “And there weren’t any pirates, Chinese or otherwise, within a thousand miles of Texas.”

That was true enough. I’d never seen a sailing ship for real, or the ocean, or a lot of things in the Tombstone stories. But it was what had slipped out of Ma’s mouth that made my eyes go wide.

“The real Dodge Tombstone?!” I gawped. “Did you ever see him?”

Ma looked real uncomfortable. “Never you mind what I saw or didn’t see when I was young. Everyone in Texas heard about Mister Dodge Tombstone back then. Some men that needed killing were killed, and a few others ended up in prison. But a lot of innocent people got caught up in the middle of that blood feud, and some of them died too. It was the Rangers finally bringing in actual law and order that brought peace back to that part of the country, not a lone vigilante with loaded guns and a fast horse. Besides, Tombstone died in a burning barn, so you know these stories”—Ma waved the dime novel.—“are nothing but purest moon-shine.”

“But they say no one ever found any bones.” I pointed at the book. “That’s the idea. That Tombstone escaped the fire, went further West, laid low for years, and only put the black outfit and mask on again when there were new villains to vanquish.”

Ma sighed again, shook her head, and—to my surprise—handed the dime novel back. “I won’t stop you from reading nonsense like this, so long as you remember it is nonsense. But don’t ever hide it behind a Bible again, or I’ll slap you ’til your eyeballs and ears trade places. It’s disrespectful.”

“Yes, Ma,” I answered, nodding. I could see her point about the Bible. “I’ll apologize in my prayers tonight.”

“That would be a righteous thing.”

* * * *

It was a few days later when everything began to go to Hell.

Ma and I’d gone into town for church. Afterward is when everyone gets together to swap news and gossip, though Ma tries to discourage me from listening to much of the latter. The townsfolk was buzzing like a hive of bees that day.

Up northwards of our little farm is “bad water” territory, where a black slick can rise up from the ground, leaving a shimmer on still water and a nasty taste in the water itself. We were lucky and had a clean creek running thru our property. Pa told me once before he died that we had hard solid bedrock under our land, and that was what kept our water clean, though sometimes it made it right difficult digging holes deep enough for a root cellar or an outhouse.

Turns out people in other parts of the country have been figuring out ways to use the black mineral oil, and they’ve been drilling deep holes and pumping it out to sell and make money. Lots of money, from what some of the congregation was saying. And some of those Easterners were looking for new places to drill for that oil.

You’d think that wouldn’t be any concern to our town; we had no black water in our area. But, the rumors said, those businessmen needed to get men and equipment to the black water lands. They needed a good road, and a spur run off the rail line if the test wells were productive. The shortest, easiest way to do that would be to run such a road through the land between the town and the hills separating us from black water land.

Our farm was one of the properties along that path. Some of the other landowners were pretty riled up, both in favor and against the idea. Farming’s a hard life, even when there’s more’n two to work a place, but there’s pride in owning your own property, and watering a living from it with your sweat. It was all wild rumor so far. Some said oilmen would come to town soon to make their offers, said offers ranging from a suitcase filled with double eagles down to a bucket of pig-slop. No one knew for sure, but some were getting mighty upset. Reverend McClane went around with soothing words, as is his wont, to moderate avail.

Ma said little about that gossip on our ride back home. I switched into some of Pa’s old working clothes and did more chores while Ma cooked dinner. I kept looking around as I worked, at our farm, the land and trees and the creek where fish swam and frogs croaked on its banks of an evening. The barn, and the house and fences. I didn’t know what to think. I hated the place, but I loved it too.

I felt like Pa still lived in the farm somehow, like a holy spirit or an angel, maybe. Not a ghost; Ma says ghosts are just more foolishness people believe in. I kinda wish Pa’s ghost would show up, though. I would have wanted to throw my arms around him, and tell him how much I missed him, and asked him what we should do. I think Ma, with all her seriousness, would have appreciated some guidance too.

Over the dinner table, Ma finally spoke about what we’d heard that morning. And she brought up the thing I’d been trying not to think about.

“Jess, how badly do you want schooling?”

I wanted it bad. I missed the one-room schoolhouse, and Miss Robbins, and seeing others my age. I missed the learning, the new things you could get and ponder on from words and numbers. But what would I do with more schooling? Like as not, I’d still spend my life on a farm; if not this one, one like it, raising animals and crops and probably children of my own, and working most of every day.

But I said what I thought I should say. “Most likely I’ll spend my life here, or somewhere like it, Ma. Not likely that schooling would do much more good for that, or for raising a family, eventually.”

“What if we didn’t stay on the farm?”

I was struck dumb by that for a moment. Others had been talking about selling their land to the oil people, but I’d thought Ma would reject such an idea out of hand. Would she do that?

“I... ” I began, then stopped to gather my thoughts. “Ma, the farm’s been in our family a long time, more’n sixty years since Pa’s grandfather brought his family to Texas. What would we do if we didn’t live here? Those oil people wouldn’t make us rich for our land, would they?”

Ma snorted. “Not likely. Rich people don’t like to see people like us rise to their level. But if we got a fair price, we could move to town, get work for someone there, or even set up a business of our own. You could get more schooling. I know how you love your books; you might get to be a teacher yourself someday, maybe. Knowing how to work numbers might get you work in a bank, or keeping a business’ books. Farming isn’t the only life.”

“It was the only life for you and Pa.”

“Oh, I had other dreams before I met your father. Everyone has dreams and aspirations. I know how hard you’ve had to work to do what your father did, and I regret that. You were never meant for that kind of labor, Jess. I want you to have other choices for your life. I loved your Pa, and I loved his farm because he loved it, but I don’t want to see you tied and bound to it unless that’s what you want. I love the farm, but I love you more.”

I got teary-eyed at that and went around the table to give Ma a hug.

“Now don’t get too hopeful, Jess,” she warned me. “We don’t know how much those oil people will offer for to build a road through here, or if it’ll happen at all. It could all come to nothing.”

* * * *

It all came to nothing.

Ma and I went into town again two days later, with a load of extra produce from the garden and a good gathering of eggs to sell or trade. While Ma haggled with the general store’s owner, I spotted Danny, Mister Walker’s son, sweeping the floor. I asked if a new volume of Dodge Tombstone had come in, but it hadn’t. There was news, though. Some of the oil men had arrived in town and set up at the hotel.

Ma went over to see what they had to say, with me tagging along behind. “Better to learn now, than fret over what might be,” she said.

The oil-man’s name was Mr. Berkshire; his first name was never mentioned. He was a thin stick of a man, hair slicked back and shiny, wearing a dark suit and a high collar. He held court at a window-side table in the hotel dining room. Two other men, thick where Berkshire was thin, sat at the next table over; they wore suits too, but tugged frequently at their own collars, and were still wearing their bowlers in the dining room; they had mean squinty eyes, watching other people in the room, and put a steady stare on Ma and me when the hotel clerk escorted us to Mr. Berkshire’s table.

The clerk introduced Ma. Berkshire motioned her to a seat at the table but arched an eyebrow at my being there.

“Jess is old enough to hear business about the farm.”

“Well, then.” He nodded, and I took the seat next to Ma. A look from Ma told me to keep quiet. I folded my hands in my lap like a good child.

“I’m glad to speak with you, Mrs. Bannerman. I gather you were widowed last year; my condolences. You own the property down by Blue Willow Creek, correct?”

“That’s so, Mister Berkshire.”

“Well, that’s one of the properties we’re interested in purchasing. How do you feel about selling?”

“What sort of terms are you proposing?”

He took a notepad from an inner suit pocket and wrote some marks on it, tore off the slip and passed it over to Ma. “This is what we’re offering.”

Ma picked up the slip and looked at it. Her face went still. She passed the slip back. “I guess we have nothing to talk about, then. Thank you for your time, Mister Berkshire.”

“Mrs. Bannerman, my company wants that land. We intend to have it, sooner or later. We’d rather it was sooner. Perhaps a slightly higher offer... ?”

“Only ‘slightly’? Your offer’s an insult, Mister Berkshire. I’m a woman, and a widow, but I’m not a fool. Good day. Come along, Jess.”

He called after us as we walked away. “We’ll have that land, ma’am, one way or another. Oil is the future of this country. You can’t stand in the way of progress.”

We left the hotel. Ma was fuming, so I let her be while we went for our wagon and supplies and headed back to our farm.

“Three hundred dollars.” Ma said it in a low voice as we pulled up at the house. “He offered three hundred dollars for the farm.”

Three hundred might sound like a lot when you look at it as a single pile of money. That’s more than a year’s income for a lot of folks. But when it meant moving out of your home, finding a new one, trying to find a new job somewhere else... I knew my numbers well enough to know three hundred wouldn’t last all that long. Ma’d been right; it was a mean joke of an offer.

My dream of going back to school looked to have died an early death. I tried to put my best face on it, though. “It’s all right, Ma. We still have the farm. Those oil people will just have to run their road some other direction.”

Ma looked grim. “I didn’t like that man, Jess. Not his looks, or his attitude. Nor the fellows sitting at the table behind him. I don’t think he’ll give up. And he didn’t seem disposed to make a decent offer.”

* * * *

We weren’t the only ones who turned down the oil company’s offer. The Zuckermans, closer to town, did the same. Others held off making a decision. After the Zuckerman’s pigs were poisoned and bloating in their pen a few days later, a couple of landowners decided to accept the offer. We started keeping our animals shut up in the barn at night, and the chickens in their coop as if a fox was after them. In a way, I guess that was true.

Mr. Zuckerman dropped by to let Ma know he’d decided to sell out. He and Mrs. Zuckerman had a couple of young toddlers, and another on the way. We couldn’t blame them for their decision; the next time, it might not be their pigs.

Our only firearm was Pa’s hunting rifle, which had brought many a rabbit or bird to our table in its time. Sometimes I’d hunted alongside Pa. Ma had never shown any liking for guns, never touched one that I saw, but we began keeping the rifle cleaned and loaded by the front door. There were only a few cartridges left in Pa’s ammo pouch, so Ma determined to buy an extra box the next time we went to the general store.

* * * *

We were waylaid on the road into town, at Black Oak Bend, where a tall broken and scorched stump of an old massive tree sits by the road’s side.

One of the thick men from the hotel came from behind the big stump and stepped into the road. He held up a beefy hand. “Stop right there, folks.” His other hand dangled at his side, a pistol gripped in his fingers.

Our rifle lay in the wagon bed, just behind the seat. I started to turn that way, then froze. The second thick man, and several more hard-looking armed men, rode out of the trees bordering the road behind us. Ma’s hand squeezed my shoulder, a warning against trying to act.

One man rode up and took the rifle. “Come along easy, and neither of you will be hurt.”

Ma spoke to me in a low voice. “Do what they say, Jess. They have the advantage.”

They took us to the Zuckermans’ old place. The Zuckermans had sold off what belongings they could before taking a train to relatives back East. The place looked empty and spooky with the animals gone, no toddlers running around whooping, no laundry on Mrs. Zuckerman’s clothesline.

A fifth man waiting there took our horse and wagon toward the barn. Everyone else went into the house. The Zuckermans’ heavy dining table still stood there, but only a few chairs. Upturned wooden crates served in the stead of the missing chairs.

With six people, the front room was crowded, even more so when the fifth man came in and joined us a few moments later, making seven altogether. I didn’t see Mr. Berkshire, but I figured he wasn’t the sort to do strong-arm work himself.

“What do you want?” Ma asked the first thick man, apparently the gang’s leader.

His right arm swung, fast and hard, into Ma’s stomach. Ma went down to her knees, curling over herself, gagging and retching. I cried out “Ma!” and lunged forward, but strong hands grabbed my shoulders and held me in place.

“It’s pretty simple, ma’am,” the thick man said, his voice easy and calm. “We want the deed to your property, signed over to the company. You’ll be paid fairly... or fairly enough... for it.”

Ma took a deep ragged breath. She lifted her head slowly and glared at the thick man. “You... know how to... impress a woman... you son of a bitch.” Several of the other men chuckled.

The thick man smiled and shrugged. “Would you be more impressed”—He looked in my direction.—“if I had this conversation with your young’un instead?”

Cold fear ran down my spine. I saw it filling Ma’s eyes, too, as she looked towards me. One man holding me tightened his grip. I gasped as his fingers dug deeply into my shoulder, setting the nerves there on fire.

“Just tell us where you keep the deed,” the thick man continued. “We’ll fetch it here, do the legalities, and everyone can walk out of this house satis—” He paused for a second. “Well, everyone can walk out of here, at least.”

Ma’s head dropped. She panted like a beaten dog, her hands clutching at her stomach. She looked up again, but there was no sympathy in any of the men’s faces. When she spoke, there was no defiance in her voice. “Don’t hurt Jess. There’s a chest at the foot of my bed. The deed’s in there.”

The thick man pointed to the man who’d dug his fingers into my shoulder. “Roy, go out to their farm. Take young Jess here with you. If that deed’s not where the woman says... hurt her kid.”

Roy took his hand from my shoulder and tousled my hair with it, chuckling; his laughter had a high unpleasant edge. A shiver went down my spine again, twice as strong as before. Giving others pain might be pleasure for him; I’d heard of men like that.

Ma caught my attention again; her face and voice were dead serious when she spoke. “Don’t be afraid, Jess. What they need is near the bottom of the chest. When you find it, just give it to him as quick as you can. You’ll be all right if you do.”

I looked back at Ma, trying to keep my face steady. Then I faced the men. “Don’t hurt my mother,” I said. They laughed.

* * * *

I went with the man called Roy, taking the horse and wagon. I drove while Roy rode in the bed, one hand always on the gun in his belt. If there’d been a drop off the road’s edge, I might have tried to tip the wagon over and maybe hurt or pin Roy, but no such opportunity offered itself.

“Don’t you try nothin’,” Roy said as he herded me into the farmhouse. “Just you go straight to that chest.”

The chest was at the foot of Ma’s bed, where she’d said. Important and private things were kept in there, and I’d been told since I was old enough to understand to not go prying in it. I’d only seen the topmost things inside the chest, on those occasions when Ma or Pa opened it in my presence.

Things like the cedar box sitting at the top. “What’s in that box?” Roy asked. He stood by the corner of Ma’s bed, watching as I opened the chest.

“The family Bible,” I answered. I lifted the lid of the cedar box part ways, enough for him to see the Bible resting there. I didn’t take the Bible out. If I had, Roy would see the farm deed and other papers kept in the bottom of the box. I lowered the lid again. “Ma said the deed’s down near the bottom.”

“Get diggin’ for it, then.” Roy sat on the bed, keeping his eyes fixed on me, eyes half-lidded like he was thinking hard about something. It made me even more nervous.

I lifted things part-ways up and ran my hands in among the layers, feeling like my insides were sweating. Ma’d known where the deed was kept but had told me to dig deep. I had no idea what I was looking for, or what Ma wanted done if I found... whatever it was.

There was a fancy quilt, some lace things, an old baby blanket. Mine, I supposed.

“Hurry it up.” I glanced towards the bed. Roy was looking at me hard; his thin lips twitched.

More fabric, faded white. Ma’s wedding dress? Darker fabric beneath that. I plunged my hand deeper, half-blind. I touched something hard. Wood?

“Y’know what?” Roy said. “I’ll dig out the deed myself. You just... ” His lips parted in a gap-toothed smile. “You just take off your clothes and get on the bed.”

I stared at him. “W-what?” My voice was shaking. My hand still deep inside the chest, my fingers traced more of the wooden object, and I realized what it was.

“You heard me.” His voice went all oily and slick, and his smile widened. “I’m going to show you things I bet you’ve never done before.”

My fingers slid past the wood, onto cold metal, up to the steel hammerpiece.

“You... you can’t do that.” As I spoke, I got a better grip on the hidden object, praying my voice and the layers of fabric muffled the click of the hammer being pulled back.

“Oh, I can,” he said, and undid the top button of his own dingy shirt. His voice turned hard. “Git naked. Now.”

My arm came out of the chest. Roy’s eyes widened, seeing the big revolver in my hand. He reached for the gun at his own waist.

Please, God, let it be loaded.

The room filled with an ear-smacking bang as the revolver bucked in my hand, then a second time as I flinched and pulled again. Gunpowder-stink hit my nose. I threw myself backwards and scrambled around the chest, not knowing if I’d hit Roy, if I’d hit anything. I clutched the revolver tightly, trying not to shake.

There was a horrible groaning, then a gurgling. I inched up carefully to peer over the top of the chest. Roy had fallen back on the bed, half on his side, clutching at a spreading patch of scarlet on his upper chest. His eyes were wide and scared. He wasn’t smiling no more. His chest spasmed, and a gush of bright blood spilled from his mouth. He rolled slowly, toppling off the side of the bed. He hit the floor with a thud and didn’t move after that.

I stood up on shaky legs.

I looked down at the gun in my hand, its ironwood grips and dark blackened steel. Pa always said a rifle was all any man needed. I’d never seen him with a handgun. I’d never seen or known about this one, but it seemed familiar somehow. Why was it in the chest? Why had he and Ma never mentioned it? I knelt by the chest, set the gun carefully aside, and dug beneath the chest’s contents again.

There was a second revolver, identical to the first. There was a gun belt, too, and a man’s outfit of black trousers, black shirt, and a folded black duster.

And one more thing. A black leather mask, cut and pieced together to fit over a head like a skullcap. A wide piece dropped from the front edge to go across a face, with openings for eyes and mouth. Leather thongs dangled from beside the eyeholes and from the bottom corners of the facepiece. I knew the thongs could be tied back to tighten the mask against the wearer’s face.

I knew because it was the mask shown on the covers of the Dodge Tombstone dime novels. And the guns were just like the ones described in the stories.

My jaw dropped open as I realized what the guns and clothing meant. Pa had been Dodge Tombstone!

I knelt there, trying to wrap my mind around the realization. My father, an outlaw, a vigilante, a... hero? I was right shocked, I tell you.

I shook myself. Ma was still a hostage at the Zuckerman farm. Something had to be done.

I looked at the guns and clothing, and I knew what that something was. And I knew I had to be the one to do it.

* * * *

The clothing was loose on me; I had to roll up the shirt sleeves and pants cuffs. Give me another year or two, and I might grow into them proper, but I didn’t have that time.

The gunbelt lay heavy around my waist. I practiced drawing and aiming for a quick moment or two; it was all I could spare. I had to pray I’d be good enough, and fast enough, to do what I had to do.

I left Roy’s body on the bedroom floor; it could be taken care of when I came back. If I come back, a voice in the back of my head said, but I shushed it.

I undid Daisy from the wagon harness and saddled her. She was a good horse, but not used to galloping. I dug my heels into her flanks to get her up to speed. The mask was warm and sweaty, but cool air came in through the eyeholes and mouth opening as we raced towards the Zuckerman farm.

I slowed Daisy before getting too close and led her off the road into the trees. I didn’t want Berkshire’s men to hear me coming. But Daisy needed to be as close as possible in case a quick escape was necessary. I looped Daisy’s reins over a low branch and made the rest of my approach on foot, one of the black guns a welcome presence in my hand.

Crouching behind a bush, I took in some shaky breaths. I would need to cross an open area, about forty feet, to get to the farmhouse. No help for that. I eyed the house, carefully examining the windows and doors, trying to estimate the lines of sight available from inside.

If I could get to that corner by the front porch, I’d be in a blind spot. I might be able to hear people inside from there. I’d have to risk it. I checked the doors and windows again, saw no one.

I began to rise from my crouch and heard something swish through the air behind my head. I didn’t even have time to turn around. Something smashed against the back of my skull and everything went black.

* * * *

I came to while being dragged up the front steps of the Zuckerman house. A big fist had me by the shirt collar, pulling me along. I was seeing double, and bolts of lightning seemed to run through my head at every bump and jolt. I grasped weakly towards my waist, reaching for the gunbelt.

Gone.

I heard a booted foot kicking the front door open. “Looky what I found!” a gruff voice cried as I was dragged into the house.

The man dragging me heaved and threw me into the middle of the room, where I tumbled into a groaning heap.

“What the hell... ?”

I recognized the voice of the first thick man. I tried to gather my arms and legs together to get up. The man who’d dragged me in put a kick into my side. I fell back to the floor with a groan. With an effort, I lifted my head and looked around the room.

Ma sat in a chair in a back corner, her arms clutching her belly. Her head lifted in surprise. Her face paled at the sight of me, her eyes widening, and she drew in a gasping breath.

Two of the gang members sat at the table, cards in their hands; a bottle and several partially filled glasses stood on the table. The first thick man pushed himself up from a chair in one corner; smoke rose lazily from a thin cigarillo in one corner of his mouth. His jaw dropped and the cigarillo fell from his mouth, tumbling end over end and hitting the floor with a burst of sparks.

“What... the... everlovin’... Hell?” The thick man crossed the room towards me, staring.

The man who’d brought me in—I could see now it was the second thick man—shook the gunbelt dangling from one hand. “This shitter was sneaking up on us, Boss. I got a sight of ’im when I was coming back from the outhouse, snuck up behind and... well, you see who won that contest.”

The thick man, Boss, came closer, his face flushing with anger. “Is this some kind of costume ball? No one told me. I sure didn’t send out any goddamned invitations.” He reached towards my head. “What kind of fool is behind that mask?”

Ma groaned, a high edge making the sound a whimper. She clutched her stomach harder. “Please,” she gasped. “You hurt me. Bad. I’m busted up inside. I need a doctor.”

Boss jerked his head toward Ma. “You need to shut up, woman.” He turned back to me and grabbed, pulling away the Tombstone mask. The jerk on my head sent fresh explosions of pain traveling across my skull. I wanted to shrug off the pain and dizziness, to jump up and tackle the Boss man and the others, pummel them all into unconsciousness, and leave them tied up for the law to take into custody. That’s what the dime novel Dodge Tombstone would have done.

But all I could do was gasp at the pain, flinching. A shock of my hair fell over one eye as it came loose from under the skullcap. I was a complete failure.

“Well,” said Boss. “Well, well, well. Hello, Jess. Where’s that deed?”

“Deed?” The second thick man spoke; he had my gunbelt—Tombstone’s gunbelt. Pa’s gunbelt, I thought silently. Not mine—slung over his shoulder, the holster on each side giving it balance. “Hell, where’s Roy? What did you do with Roy, damn it?”

I raised my head a little higher and managed to speak with a measure of defiance, even though I was sure I didn’t—that Ma and I didn’t—have much longer to live. “I killed him. I killed him dead!”

Boss stared at me for a moment, then shook his head. “This could have gone easy. Give us the deed, we let you go, everyone rides away. Everyone gets to live. Now a man’s dead. You’ve made this job a mess.” He sighed, waved a hand towards me. “And what is this... this... why would anyone dress up as that Doc Tombstone fellow from those cheap books?”

“Dodge Tombstone,” I answered. “These clothes were my Pa’s. My father was Dodge Tombstone.”

Boss laughed. “A scrawny young thing like you? Are you loony? Did squirrels get in your ears and eat your brains? Well, never mind. You killed one of my men. Can’t let that go, even if I didn’t like Roy too much myself. We’ll just have to tear up your house ourselves to find that deed. Say your prayers now, and I’ll do it quick.” He put a hand on the gun holstered at his hip. “I’m not a bad man, at heart.”

“Don’t hurt Jess,” Ma interrupted. “Please.” Her voice was anguished. “I couldn’t bear it.”

Boss’ face twisted in annoyance. He motioned at the other thick man, the one who’d bushwhacked me and taken the gunbelt. “Percy, slap that woman’s mouth shut, would you?”

“Sure.” Percy crossed the room towards Ma. If he knocked her out, I thought, at least Ma wouldn’t have to watch me die.

Ma spoke rapidly. “You don’t understand. Jess is wrong. Those clothes never belonged to Jess’ father.” Percy halted in front of Ma, arm rising to strike.

And suddenly Ma’s face went still, and there weren’t no fear in her eyes at all, and the two words she spoke next were pitched lower, deeper, like a man’s voice:

“They’re mine.”

And then she killed them all.

It was all so quick, so fast. I had to run what I saw back through my head several times, later, to know just how Ma did what she did.

Percy was right in front of her, arm rising, and then Ma wasn’t in the chair anymore. She exploded out of that chair like an overwound watch-spring bursting its case, uncoiled like an evil-eyed rattlesnake. No sign of pain or injury now, up from the chair and towards Percy. Her left hand, fingers held stiff, drove up hard into his armpit, all while she threw herself into him, around him, sliding around his side under the raised arm. All while she reached out to the left side of Percy’s chest where the gunbelt lay, where one of the pistols hung in its holster.

It looked almost impossible to grab that gun from its holster at that angle, all while spinning and moving, while trying to get behind a big man jerking back in alarm. But every time I rewatched those seconds in my head, I would swear Dodge Tombstone’s gun leaped out of its holster and into Ma’s grip as her fingers came close.

Ma’s dancing with Percy had set both of them spinning around, even as she was moving further behind Percy, but her right arm still lay across his chest, and held a gun now.

A roar burst from Percy’s throat, but Ma’s movement under his right arm made him unable to reach properly for his own gun. Then she slipped further around his back. He could reach his gun now, but his fingers couldn’t get a grip on it. Whatever she’d done with that jab to the armpit, it had left his entire arm numb.

And then Ma’s left hand appeared between Percy’s left arm and side, holding the other ironwood-gripped revolver.

Ma and Percy weren’t the only ones moving. Boss turned towards Ma, foul words bursting from his mouth. His hand pushed open his coat and reached for his own revolver. The two cardplayers leapt to their feet, also shouting. The room was becoming very noisy, very quickly.

All this had taken only a few seconds.

I saw Boss’ hand pull his gun free from its holster. I lunged forward and threw myself against his legs. He lurched and stumbled to one side.

Ma’s guns fired. The one on Percy’s chest sent a bullet across the room. One cardplayer fell back against the wall, leaving a long streak of blood on the painted plaster.

The gun peeping out beneath Percy’s left arm fired at the same instant. The bullet would have hit Boss smack dab in the chest, but his sideways lurch from my lunge saved him. Instead, the bullet struck Boss where arm and shoulder bones meet. He screamed and staggered again, then fell backwards over me. My face mashed against the floor, my head lancing with pain.

The second cardplayer raced for the door. He had his gun out and fired off several wild shots. Plaster puffed out in small clouds from the wall behind Ma and Percy. Percy screamed as a bullet clipped off a chunk of ear; he heaved back, eyes white, throwing himself and Ma hard against the wall. I heard Ma grunt as she struck the plaster, but she got more shots off even as she hit the wall. Percy grabbed for Ma’s right arm, the one across his chest, and she shot a hole clean through his hand. He screamed even louder, and lunged forward to get away, straight into the path of the cardplayer’s next bullet. Percy fell to the floor.

That left Ma and the cardplayer with a clear field of fire at each other. But the cardplayer was running for the door, trying to aim and fire at the same time. Ma’s face was cold and still; her guns came up quickly, the motion smooth and controlled, to bear on the cardplayer. He pawed frantically at the door with his free hand and threw it open. Ma fired both guns.

The two bullets struck the cardplayer in the chest and he went over backwards like a circus acrobat starting a flip. He flew all the way across the small porch and onto the steps, crumpling into a limp dead heap there.

But Boss was still alive and pinning me down with his weight. His gun had dropped to the floor, but it was right close to his leg. He bent his leg and tried to back-kick the gun up along his side enough to take it back with his left hand.

It almost worked. But my own arm was free on that side, and when the gun slid across the floor, I batted at it, hit the tip of the barrel, and send it counter-spinning back. Just a few inches, but out of Boss’ reach. He grunted with effort, fingers twitching towards the unreachable weapon. Boss groaned, and then, finally, there was silence in the room.

The both of us on the floor looked up to see Ma’s gun leveled straight at Boss. Her face was like ice on the creek during a sharp winter freeze, hard and cold and with nothing under it but the promise of darkness and death. I didn’t see any of the Ma I knew, that stern but loving woman who’d raised me right, mostly, but for my own stubbornness.

“Oh, Ma’am,” Boss said, his voice shaking. His face was pale with shock and fear. “You don’t want to do that. My gun arm’s so busted up I’ll never shoot with it again. Probably never do nuthin’ with it again. You’ve wrecked me good, so why don’t we just call it even? It was always just business with me, you see? I never had no complaint with you or your young’un. It was never anything personal.”

“No,” Ma said, in that low mannish voice. “It was never anything personal for you.” Then she spoke again, in her normal voice. “But it is for me.”

She let her gun have the last word, and Boss’ brains burst out the back of his skull and painted the plaster wall.

I crawled out from under Boss’ corpse and knelt on the floor. I didn’t feel up to standing yet. The room reeked with blood and gun smoke.

Ma stared at Boss’ dead body, a wisp of smoke still rising from her gun’s barrel. Her face was still and impassive again. She stayed that way for a moment, then a shudder passed over her. Her eyes closed, then slowly opened again. She cast her eyes down towards the gun, took a deep breath, turned and laid the gun down on the table. She leaned both hands on the table’s edge, like she could barely hold herself up anymore. Her head hung low, and she whispered words I barely heard.

“Twenty-seven. Twenty-seven men to pray for now.”

All this while, my aching head had been figuring things out. Ma’s words made me certain. It had always been said as fact that Dodge Tombstone killed over twenty men before his supposed death.

“It was you,” I said softly. “You were Dodge Tombstone, not Pa.”

Ma always said women of her family line ran small-chested. And she was tall for a woman, a man’s height. With a loose shirt, a coat, hair tucked up under a cap and Tombstone’s mask hiding her face, keeping her voice pitched low, she could pass for a man without much problem.

I had no idea how she’d come to take up the mask, or how she’d gotten so deadly good with guns, or how she’d been able to take so many lives, or how and why she’d finally given up that path of death and vengeance and somehow found a new life with Pa and, later, me.

“Yes,” Ma answered, her voice soft and faint.

But that history wasn’t important right then. What was important was figuring out what to do next.

Ma stood up, took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and turned toward me. “Are you all right, Jess?” Her voice was closer to normal again.

I admitted I was doing kind of poorly. “Got smashed in the head. Still dizzy.” I got shakily to my feet, started to sway, and then Ma was there with an arm under mine to steady me.

She led me to the porch where the smell of blood and death was less, sat me on a chair and checked me over. I had a large tender goose egg on my skull where Percy had bushwhacked me.

“Let’s get you home, Jess. You need to rest.”

We left that place of carnage doubled up on Daisy, Ma’s arms holding me steady. The Tombstone gunbelt hung over the saddle-horn; the mask had gone into a pocket of Ma’s dress. It was getting into afternoon now, with light coming slant through the leaves of the roadside trees. When we passed by the blackened stump again, I’d worked up enough courage to say some of the things spinning through my head.

“What happens now, Ma? What will that Berkshire fellow do when he learns a bunch of his men are dead? What if he sends more after us?”

“Shush now, Jess. I’m thinking on that.”

I let it go. Even though Daisy’s pace was gentle, each sway and shake made my head ache.

Ma got me home, got me undressed and into nightclothes, got me into bed. The sheets were cool and the pillow soft, and I let myself enjoy it.

“I didn’t mean for you to have to kill those men, Ma. That’s why I put on the Tombstone outfit and came back to the Zuckermans’. I was trying to rescue you.”

Ma looked down at me, her face split between concern and sternness. “I hoped you’d use the guns to get yourself free. But I expected you to go to neighbors and get help, not come charging back on your lonesome.” She shook her head. “I guess I should have taken those trash stories away from you and burned them. They put ideas in your head nothing like the real world.”

I felt right chagrined when Ma said that. That would have been smarter, but I’d been so caught up in excitement and concern it never occurred to me. I’d nearly gotten myself and Ma killed because of it.

“I’m sorry about the dead man in your bedroom. What can we do with him?”

“You rest.” She placed a cool damp cloth on my forehead. “I’ll get the wheelbarrow and take him outside. He’ll get a burial proper for one like him.” I’d told Ma what the man had wanted to make me do, and her cold grim face had reappeared again for a moment. “Don’t fret about killing a bad snake like that.”

I didn’t, which worried me a little. Ma felt grief about the four men dead at her hand at the Zuckermans’, however bad they’d been. But I couldn’t work up much feeling except relief over them, and none for the Roy fellow I’d killed myself.

Was I hardened in heart myself, like Boss and the other men had been? Had I coarsened myself by reading coarse fiction, by the shooting and stabbing and killing in the Dodge Tombstone stories?

It was a puzzle. Somehow, I drifted off into sleep, shortly after hearing the wheelbarrow’s squeak in the hall.

I woke briefly later and heard the sound of Ma scrubbing at the floor in her room. I hoped the stains would come out.

I woke one more time, the quiet darkness of just past midnight broken by soft light. A kerosene lantern turned low sat on my bedside table.

Ma stood by my bed. She wore the black trousers, black shirt, black coat. The gunbelt was cinched around her waist. She held Dodge Tombstone’s mask in her hands, her fingers fidgeting with it.

She saw my eyes open. “I didn’t want to wake you. I just wanted to look in on you again before I left.”

“Ma?” My head was still muzzy with sleep, though it didn’t seem to ache or spin as bad as it had. “What are you—? Are you going to... to kill Berkshire?”

Her face went grim. “No. Worse than that.” She slid the mask onto her head, tucking her hair up under the skullcap and tying the thongs back. “I’m going to ruin him.” It was Dodge Tombstone’s voice that spoke from beneath the mask.

It took a long time to fall asleep again after she’d left.

* * * *

The next time I woke, it was morning, and I felt normal-headed enough to totter to the kitchen. I smelled fresh-brewed coffee, and it didn’t make my stomach queasy.

I went to the side door and saw Ma coming in from the barn. She was wearing one of her regular dresses and work boots, and she carried a milk pail in one hand. I waved.

She came in and set the pail down. She looked tired.

“Did you get any sleep?”

“About an hour.” She sat in a chair by the table.

I felt guilty. “I can do chores,” I offered. In honesty, though, I didn’t think I could last long.

Ma must have seen that on my face. “Stifle that nonsense. A skull-bashing needs rest. Exertion can make it worse. Rest and sleep as much as you can, for at least a few days. I’ll finish your chores and try to get a few more hours sleep myself, but then there are things that need doing. I’ll be talking to the other families hereabouts. I’ll see if one can spare a young’un to help us out for a few days.”

“The other families? Why?”

“Pour me a cup of coffee, Jess. I can sit for a bit and tell you what I’ve done, and what I thought to do next.”

“All right. Let me fix breakfast, at least. I’m up to that. But... ” There was a question I had to ask. “That Berkshire fellow. Did you... ? Is he... ?”

“Didn’t lay a hand on him. Didn’t even see him last night. I went around him.”

I fixed eggs and hash browns while Ma talked. By the time I put them on the table I was glad to sit down myself. Ma’d been right about not pushing myself too hard.

What Ma had done as Dodge Tombstone the previous night was rouse Harold Watkins from his sleep. “Poor fellow near peed himself.” Mr. Watkins managed the town’s small railway station and ran the post office from there too. But most important, he ran the telegraph office.

Dodge Tombstone had made Mr. Watkins send a telegram to the president of the oil company Berkshire worked for. It read: BERKSHIRE A FOOL STOP FOUR MEN DEAD STOP BARGAIN IN GOOD FAITH OR KILLING CONTINUES STOP SINCERELY DODGE TOMBSTONE.

“Bargain in good faith?” I asked. “After we were nearly murdered?”

“Sticks in your craw, doesn’t it?” Ma answered. “But it’s the best course. Killing only leads to more killing. Berkshire expected people to fold when they were threatened or attacked. If the company sanctioned that, they’d never admit it. But now they know they can be attacked back. They’ll know the landowners have someone at their back, someone dangerous to fight. I’m hoping they’ll be smart.”

“I don’t see why we should bargain with them at all, after what’s happened.”

Ma explained it to me. “They thought they could get our land fast and cheap if they strong-armed us. They’ll know that’s not likely now. Their next step will be to bring in lawyers instead. If we won’t bargain with them, they’ll sic those lawyers on the state legislature, and get them to pass laws forcing us to sell on the oil company’s terms.”

“That’s not right! They can’t do that, can they?”

“They can. It’s called eminent domain, and no, it’s not fair. But it can be legal under the law.” She sighed. “Berkshire was right about one thing. Oil’s the future, and it won’t stop for little folks like us. That oil company, or one like it, will get their road. If not now, then later. That’s why I need to talk to all our neighbors. We need a united front on our own behalf. It’s the only way to get some kind of decent agreement. We need to find a satisfactory middle ground, somewhere between Berkshire’s gunmen and the government taking our land away from us. And we need to do that quick enough the oil company won’t petition the legislature instead.”

Ma was right. It stuck in my craw, but I didn’t want a shooting war. “I hate the idea of being forced off our land, Ma. I want to get back to school, but not that way.”

“I have some thoughts on what to propose, Jess. We might keep the farm, or most of it, if things go right. But everyone whose land is in danger will need to cooperate.”

* * * *

That was how it worked out, finally. Some of it we were part of, some of it we only heard about.

The next day, Berkshire spent near all day in the telegraph office sending and receiving messages, looking more and more nervous with each one, until Harry Watkins’ finger was near worn out. And at the end of that day, Berkshire packed his bags and was on the next train back East, hat in hand and tail between his legs. By that time, townsfolk were about ready to lynch Berkshire anyway. Ma had spread the tale of how Berkshire’s men had kidnapped and roughed up both of us, only to have Dodge Tombstone himself come to our rescue. Mr. Watkins confirmed our story that the legendary Dodge Tombstone had come back from the dead.

Well, that news caused a sensation, and not just in our town. We had reporters from as far away as Denver come to hear our story and write about the unexpected return of Night’s Grim Avenger, Dodge Tombstone!

By then, the oil company had sent another man, a full vice-president named Hawthorne, to clean up the mess Berkshire had made. Ma rallied the other farmers, and they all insisted the oil company deal with the farmers as a whole. Several weeks of talks followed. In the end, the oil company got a long strip of land sufficient for a road and, for later, a rail-bed. But everyone kept enough land to keep their farms. For that, some property owners had to swap acres with other owners. It was complicated, and sometimes fractious, but Ma held it all together until property lines were redrawn. The farmers hired their own lawyer, who got together with oil company lawyers. An agreement everyone could sign was drawn up, not without grumbles and harrumphs from both sides. Ma said, “It was something everyone was satisfied to be dissatisfied with.”

So, we kept the farm, and we didn’t get murdered. We made a little money off the deal, but we didn’t get rich. The Heinz family down the way had sent a cousin newly arrived from Germany, Heinrich, to our place to help out while I recovered from that bash to my skull. His English isn’t much, but he’s a big older fellow who worked with horses back in Germany. The oil money let us keep Heinrich on as a hired hand. Having a man fully grown is a big help with the farm, enough we plan to go back to planting all the acres we did before Pa died. Which means I can go back to school.

And Dodge Tombstone vanished back wherever he came from. What most people think is this: Tombstone killed four of Berkshire’s men, but Berkshire had five men working for him. That fifth man, that fellow who called himself “Roy,” vanished the same time Dodge Tombstone did. So “Roy” must have been Dodge Tombstone in disguise!

That story makes perfect sense, so long as only Ma and I know Roy is actually buried beneath a spreading patch of poison ivy on a steep bank of the creek. Ma had raked back the ivy by lantern-light, dug a hole and put Roy in, then smoothed out the extra dirt and pulled the ivy back over the grave.

I know it hurt Ma to take up being Tombstone again, even if for a short while. The men she’s killed weigh heavy on her soul.

That’s why Ma finally burned the clothing and mask when she had a chance to do so out of Heinrich’s sight.

The guns? You don’t destroy something that well-crafted. They’re hidden in the bottom of my own chest now.

That may seem foolish, considering how poor a job I did at pretending to be Tombstone. And the thought of maybe using those guns again scares me. But I’ve learned that sometimes there are violent men in the world, and they can only be met with violence. If it becomes necessary again, I hope I’ll be up to the task. I’ve still got a few years of growing to do.

But if it comes to that... I think I could stitch up a passable mask.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Bruce Arthurs has been writing occasional stories since 1975, with about two dozen published over the years. His mystery story “Beks and the Second Note” was a Best Short Story finalist for the 2017 Derringer awards. He lives in Arizona with his wife Hilde, several housemates, and a small mob of cats.

A SECRET ADMIRER,by Hal Charles

Kelly could feel her face turning red as she looked down at the beautifully wrapped package on her desk.

“Seems someone has a secret admirer,” said April, her officemate and best friend. “Hurry up and open it!”

Picking up the package, Kelly couldn’t help but notice the decorative knot used to bind the red foil wrapping. A so-called “Navy Brat,” she had spent her childhood bouncing from one base to another, and her dad had taught her to tie a variety of nautical knots. “What a neat Carrick Bend,” she said with a smile.

“Well,” said April, “at least you know I’m not responsible since I have trouble tying my shoes.”