Hell's Bounty

  Hell’s Bounty Copyright © 2016

  by Joe R. Lansdale and John L. Lansdale.

  All rights reserved.

  Dust jacket illustration Copyright © 2016

  by Timothy Truman.

  All rights reserved.

  Print version interior design Copyright © 2016

  by Desert Isle Design, LLC.

  All rights reserved.

  Electronic Edition

  ISBN

  978-1-59606-745-5

  Subterranean Press

  PO Box 190106

  Burton, MI 48519

  subterraneanpress.com

  Table of Contents

  Part One

  Part Two

  Part Three

  Part Four

  Part Five

  Part Six

  Postscript and Resurrection

  In memory of a real horror fan.

  Patsy Pugh, this one is for you.

  J.L.L.

  To everyone who ever enjoyed a good,

  old-fashioned pulp-style story with wooly

  boogers and cowboys, blood and dust,

  ropes and bullets, fire and carnage,

  and a whisper of Armageddon.

  J.R.L.

  So Satan called up his minions, counted them one by one. And the worst of them was missing.

  From The Book of Doches

  Part One:

  A Whiff of Sulfur

  By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.

  Shakespeare’s Macbeth

  (1)

  A full moon hung at the peak of a shadowy mountain like a gold coin on a pedestal, shining thin light into the narrow canyon below. Above it all, shimmering white dots filled the dark velvet sky. A lone wolf’s howl echoed across the canyon as if it were trying to call up the dead. When the howl faded, the ground began to shake, rumbling louder and louder.

  At the summit of a narrow, rising grade, an old boarded up mine shaft trembled and dripped dirt. The boards in front of the mine cracked and blew out in a spin of splinters and dust. A dark cloud coughed out of the shaft, soared toward the sky, temporarily blotted out the moon. The cloud tore apart with a screech, burst into a horde of chattering bats flying in all directions, once again revealing the gold doubloon moon.

  The bats flew a short distance, merged, and raced toward a smattering of lights from the town of Falling Rock. In one elegant swoop they dove, soared above the dusty street that centered the town, fluttered past the sound of a plinking piano and shrill laughter spilling out of the dimly lit Sundown Saloon.

  Horses out front, tied to the hitching post, began to snort. The twisted mass of bats rose up and appeared to swim through the sky, toward a church belfry, toward the tall bell tower there, gathered in it thick as wet rot, and once collected there, there was a puffing sound and a thick twirl of black shadow. The shadow hardened, formed a dark image with eyes like wounds. Wings flapped from the shape’s back, gathered up moonlight and folded it into the wings and tossed it out again. It flexed its hands and took in a breath so deep the night sky seemed to shudder.

  With a flip of a dark hand, a small box became visible. With a touch of its other hand, the box lid sprang open and red lights jumped out of the box like inflamed grasshoppers. The lights twisted into odd shapes and the little shapes darted about the tower and ricocheted off the huge bell like gunfire. Then they slowed and went for the inside of the bell and clung to it, hissed like ants on a hot skillet, burned themselves into its interior. Finally, they were still and the hissing stopped and the glowing stopped and what they left imprinted deep in the metal of the bell were hieroglyphic-like impressions.

  The shadowy thing snapped the box closed and let out with a sound like it had just eaten something tasty. The box was deftly put away and the great winged shadow leaped from the tower, fell for a long distance, then flapping its leathery wings, rose up against the moonlight briefly, sailed away, filling the air with a whiff of sulfur.

  (2)

  The bat wings of the Sundown Saloon cracked open and a little man flew through them, out into the street, another man’s boot flashing at the end of his ass. The little man’s bowler hat came loose from his head and rolled around in the dirt before lying down with a wobble.

  The man who had kicked the little man came into the street. He had a smashed hat in one hand and a bottle in the other. He looked mean enough to eat floor tacks and shit horseshoes.

  “You little worm,” the mean man said. “Ain’t nobody sits on Trumbo Quill’s hat.”

  The man in the street hiked a leg under him and made it to his feet. He eyed his hat but decided against it. He took off running.

  Taking his time, Trumbo Quill put his hat on his head and pulled his revolver and fired. The little man, who had actually covered a pretty good patch of ground, threw his leg forward in what looked like a goose step, did a stumble step, and went to one knee. He hung there for a moment then fell on his face in the dusty street and rolled on his back. He set up and took hold of his knee. The bullet had gone through the back of his leg and popped loose the knee cap, splintered it. There was a hole there big enough to hide a plum.

  Quill came and stood over the little man and said, “How’re you feelin’?”

  “God, Quill. You done ruined my knee.”

  “I’d say the whole leg, wouldn’t you? Your dancin’ days is over, if you ever had any.”

  “I can’t walk. You’ve ruined me.”

  “I think you’re right. Well, can’t leave you that way.”

  Quill lifted the pistol and fired. The shot took off the top of the little man’s head.

  “See,” Quill said. “All better now.”

  Quill lifted the bottle in his other hand and finished it off. Without moving toward the saloon, he yelled out, “Hey, Double Shot, bring me another bottle.”

  After a moment the bat wings moved and a tall, skinny, near bald man moved through them, briskly made his way over to Quill. He looked down at the little dead man as he handed Quill the bottle.

  Quill said, “Put it on my tab.” Then he looked at the little man on the ground, back at Double Shot. “Ain’t none of your kin, is he?”

  Double Shot shook his head.

  “That’s good, cause in case you hadn’t noticed, little son-of-a-bitch is dead. I’m gonna take me a walk. Have him out of the street before I get back. Nothin’ I hate worse than a dead man in the street.”

  “Yes, sir,” Double Shot said.

  Double Shot went back in the saloon. Quill uncorked the new bottle with his teeth and took a jolt, went trudging back toward the saloon where the little man’s bowler hat lay, and stepped on it, smashing it flat. He then turned and went up the street, pausing now and again to take a swig. At the end of the street, Quill passed a marker that said BOOT HILL.

  He’d put a lot of men there and one woman. He hadn’t liked her singing, caterwauling was more like it. She had sounded like a cat with a stick up its ass. Even the horny miners and cowboys in the saloon applauded when she hit the floor. She was not only a terrible singer, she’d had a face that could drop a raccoon out of a tree at twenty paces. Her piano player caught some of the blame too. He had been pretty swift, however, and he had made it to the door before Quill fired, punching a hole through the back of his head with a well placed shot. They were finding that piano man’s teeth in the street for three, four days. Little boys gathered them up and put them on strings and wore them around their necks as mementos of the gun fight. There was even a little song they made up that went something like “He played the ivory teeth, but lost his in the street.”

  Quill thought it was a glorious shoot out. Course, only Quill had a gun. He felt it worked better that way
, less tension on his behalf.

  Quill went up the hill, and at its peak he came to a tombstone under a big oak that leaked shadow on the ground. Quill stopped there and took off his hat and placed it on the tombstone. He dropped to his knees and used the bottle of whisky to support himself.

  To his left, unnoticed by Quill, a shadow perched on top of a nearby tombstone. It flicked its wings and twisted its head like a curious dog. It watched Quill carefully with its glowing eyes, watched as he pulled grass from around the grave, tossed it behind him.

  A voice like thunder inside a cave said: “Would you like to have her back?”

  Quill dropped the bottle, came to a crouch, pistol drawn, aiming between the glowing eyes. When Quill saw the thing he inhaled sharply.

  “What in the hell are you?”

  “You loved your wife, didn’t you,” said the winged shadow, the wings moving gently.

  “How do you know about— What are you?”

  “I’m your wish come true.”

  Quill cocked back the hammer of his revolver. “What wish?”

  “I can give her back to you.”

  Quill swallowed. “No you can’t.”

  “Oh, I can.”

  “I’ll shoot you off there like the buzzard you are. You tauntin’ son- of-a-bitch.”

  The shadow lifted its wings and the night air moved with the motion.

  “You’re just some drunk dream,” Quill said.

  “I can give her back.”

  Quill made with a sound that might have been a laugh. “If you could, I’d sell my soul.”

  The dark head of the shadow broke open and showed a smile. Lots of sharp teeth, yellow in the moonlight. The shadow stretched its right hand; it appeared to leak ink, and the next thing Quill knew the hand was long and then longer and it grabbed his own; the shadows from the arm dropped along the ground and flowed, and then the thing was no longer on the stone; it was standing right in front of him, holding his hand, the one gripping the pistol. He tried to pull the trigger, but the gun was taken from him as easily as a rattle from a baby and dropped to the ground.

  Weak with nausea, Quill dropped to one knee and the shadow moved swiftly, drawing its claw-like hand across Quill’s palm, cutting deep. Quill looked up at the shadow as it spread its wings wide, said, “Done.”

  “You are real,” Quill said.

  “Very.”

  “You’re him…the one down there.”

  The thing split its face apart and showed the yellow teeth again.

  “Worse.”

  “You took my soul?”

  “Not yet. But soon. Pick up your gun.”

  Quill’s hand shook as he picked up the revolver and stuck it in the holster. The shadow shape said, “First, your reward.”

  The shape turned its head and looked toward the grave Quill had been brooding over. The grave trembled and the dried dirt became soft and began to shift. There was a sound below the dirt like rats chewing wood, and then some of the dirt fell inward. There was a cracking and creaking sound and a hand shot up through the soil and the moon glistened off the tips of the broken fingernails.

  Quill jumped to his feet, stumbled and fell on top of the grave. He grasped the wriggling hand. “Darlin’ Jenny,” he said, and then he let go and began to dig with his hands like a dog for a bone. Finally, he saw a sandy shape through a cracked slat of coffin. He grabbed at the slat, and pulled. The board groaned and broke. He tossed it aside, grabbed another piece and ripped. The body in the coffin worked from the inside, pushing, clawing, and then the shape sat up. Her dark hair dripped sand. Her eyes blinked, shedding dirt from the lids; the eyes were bright and green. The white burial gown she had worn was rotten and ripped. Her flesh went from sheet white to a healthy pink. She looked at Quill and smiled and spread her arms. When she did, most of the rotting gown fell off.

  Quill lifted her near-nude body from the coffin as easily and as gently as a kitten. He started down the hill, carrying her. As he went down, she whispered something in his ear. It was hoarse, but he understood it: “I love you.”

  “And I love you,” he said. “Without you…I…”

  She pressed her hand to his lips.

  And then her foot fell off.

  Quill stopped. He looked at it on the ground, and then looked at her. She had an expression like a worm had just crawled up her ass, and considering where she had been, maybe it had.

  And then her leg fell off.

  Followed by an arm.

  “Dang it,” she said.

  “No,” Quill said.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  Jenny’s head rocked to one side, made a noise like a dog biting into a chicken bone, then her head rocked in the other direction—

  —and fell off.

  The rest of the body crumbled in his arms. He dropped to his knees as dirt and desiccated bone and hanks of flesh and hair fell to the ground. The wind picked up the fragments and moved them about and carried some of it away.

  Quill yelled to the darkness. “You cheated me, you son-of-a-bitch. You cheated me. You lying bastard!”

  Drawing his gun, Quill charged back up the hill, firing at shadows amidst the tombstones. But they weren’t the shadows he wanted. He kicked at a stone, shoved over another, then fell into his wife’s grave and rose up on his knees. He picked up a piece of her gown, clenched it in his fist, let out with a hoarse bellow that could be heard all the way down to the Sundown Saloon.

  No one came to investigate.

  (3)

  The mid-day sun was dripping heat across the territory like hot honey poured from a pot. Down below, sunlight flashed on the bone-handled .44s strapped on the hips of a solitary rider and bounced off the silver conchos decorating his cowhide vest. His dead-black coat was rolled and bound on the back of his saddle.

  He sat comfortably in the saddle, a long, lean whip of a man, his hat pulled down low to block out the yellow bitch of a sun. His face looked like a recently healed saddle sore with a mustache. He turned his head slightly as he rode past a sign that read: Falling Rock. One mile.

  A mile later he rode into town passing the mining assay, the livery, a few other buildings, stopped in front of the saloon, swung off his horse, wrapped the reins around the hitching post, where another horse was tied, paused long enough to open up a saddle bag full of dynamite. He plucked out a stick and poked it into his belt. He stepped on the boardwalk and stomped dirt off his boots, dusted his clothes with his hands. He unfastened his black coat from the back of his saddle and put it on. It made him look like an angry preacher. He adjusted his hat and went through the swinging doors and into the Sundown Saloon.

  It wasn’t much of a saloon. Clapboard, bullet-pocked walls, rough board floors with cracks wide enough to piss through, and from the smell of things, plenty had. There was an overturned spittoon and its contents oozed across the floor and ran between the cracks. A fly specked mirror hung on the wall behind the bar and there was one fly on duty. A wagon wheel hanging from the ceiling with half a dozen lighted oil lamps attached was the most prominent decoration. Still, with all those lamps lit and it being mid-day, it wasn’t all that bright inside and the smell was ripe. It was like being inside a poorly ventilated dead dog. There was a doorway at the back and a curtain of beads hung over it and stairs could be glimpsed through the beads.

  Patrons gave him a short look, went back to what they were doing. They were a sparse crew. The bartender was working the bar, wiping down glasses with an almost clean rag. Three men were standing at the bar. One was a kid that didn’t look old enough to shave. He was decked out in fancy black clothes with a long black deacon’s coat and a fancy black holster that held fancy pearl handled revolvers. The guns were so well oiled the air was filled with their smell and at that range it almost blocked out the stink of piss and the spittoon, stale farts and thrown-up whisky.

  Across the way, two men wearing buckskin coats sat at a table, their out of date buffalo guns propped against the wall. A plump s
aloon girl sat in the lap of one of the men, playing with his long greasy hair. They were smiling at one another. Between them, they almost had a full set of teeth.

  At another table a gray-haired man was face down, his hand gathered around an empty whisky bottle. A little black bag was on the floor beside his chair. At the table near his, three men were playing cards.

  The new saloon entry made his way to the bar, said, “Whisky, and put it in a clean glass.”

  “Flies been in most of them,” the bartender said.

  “You should try turning them face down.”

  “Then you got the ants.”

  “Just give me a whisky, bartender.”

  “You can call me Double Shot. Everyone else does.”

  The bartender poured him one, and the man threw it back and winced. “Dog piss.”

  Double Shot smiled, waggled his hand as he said, “About fifty percent whisky, about fifty percent piss. Gives it bite.”

  “I’ll say. Do me another.”

  The bartender poured, and the man at the bar turned and looked at the card players. One of them was a big guy. He wore a wrinkled hat that shadowed a face of cold determination. It was the kind of face that would make babies cry. The hands that held the cards had enough dirt under them to grow corn.

  The bartender leaned over, said, “Big guy. That’s Trumbo Quill. He had a bad night last night. Had to shoot someone, got his hat crushed, then got drunk enough to shoot up the graveyard. Word is too that he lost his favorite pocket knife. Another word, and this one to the wise. Watch him.”

  “That’s two words.”

  Double Shot grinned.

  “Thanks,” said the man at the bar.

  “We got girls upstairs. They’ll do you this and do you that, you got some money.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Is that a stick of dynamite in your belt?”

  “Naw. Just looks like it.”

  The man at the bar studied the other men at the poker table. One was thin and dressed all in black, had on a stove pipe hat. The man said to the bartender, “Don’t tell me, the black suited man is the town preacher.”