A Birthday Wish

Ashley looked beautiful for a girl who'd been dead eighteen months. She smiled brightly at Roger, her face radiant with useless optimism. Her gray-blue eyes held that characteristic sparkle that lovers' gazes are supposed to reflect. Her whole face was clear, smooth and lovely, its features unmarred by a single blemish. Her ears peeked out from the folds of her wavy, velvet hair. She was wearing large, looped earrings. Silver earrings. The earrings Roger had bought her. "I love you, Roger," he heard her say.

But Ashley was no longer pretty. The last time anyone had seen her face it was mutilated, barely recognizable, probably full of cuts and gashes. Roger imagined her fair, white teeth split and broken, her comely features mangled and bloody.

Roger shuddered. He closed his eyes tightly and drew a slow, deep breath, trying to shut out the pain that was flooding into him. It had been eighteen months. Eighteen months was a long time. He had tried to forgive himself for what happened. He had tried to stop dwelling in the past, and get on with his life. He couldn't.

The ringing of the telephone rudely summoned him back to the real world. Roger stood up and walked into the kitchen to answer it, leaving the photo album open on his desk.

"Hello?" he said.

"What's up, dude?" exclaimed a familiar voice.

"Hey, Roy!"

Roy and Roger had been best friends since fifth grade. In the fourteen years that they'd known each other, people had unmercifully bombarded them with roast beef jokes. 

"So, how's the new job?" Roy asked.

"Oh, it's there," Roger replied.

"It can't be that bad," his friend said.

"It's all right, if you don't mind listening to people bitch all day because their new VCR or Compact Disk Player doesn't work. But I guess that's what Customer Service is all about."

There was a lapse in the conversation.

"So, are we on for tomorrow night?" Roy said, changing the subject.

"Yeah, sure. I guess so," Roger said. "Say, who's gonna be there anyway, Roy?"

"Craig, Becky, probably Mike."

Roger liked Roy's cousin Craig, and Craig's fiancee was nice enough, too. Mike, on the other hand, was one weird dude. While Roger didn't actually dislike the guy, he didn't really like him, either. He didn't know anyone besides Roy who did. But Mike was basically harmless, and Roger supposed he could humor his best friend for one night.

"I'll pick you up at six, then," Roy told him.

"Six o'clock."

"Yeah. We should still be able to make happy hour. Is that okay?"

"Yeah, Roy, it's fine."

"Okay, see you tomorrow."

"So long," Roger said.

Roger hung up. April 1st! What a day for a birthday! He'd have to keep on his toes the whole night with Roy there.

Roger was alone that night. He sat back in his old leather recliner, his legs stretched out on the footstool in front of him. A can of beer was cupped lazily in his right hand. He was barely watching whatever program was on TV.

Roger was often alone Friday evenings, by choice. Roy was always trying to talk him into going somewhere, doing something, and last week Roger had actually broken down and gone to a topless bar with his friend. "Watermelons, Roger, we're talkin' watermelons!" Yeah, right. Watermelons. Roger wasn't impressed with the place and hadn't expected to be. The next time Roy wanted to go to the Shangri La II, he could go there himself.

Roy meant well, though. He was Roger's best friend. He was practically Roger's only friend. But Roger supposed that that was nobody's fault but his own. He tried to be sociable, but it seemed that his get-up-and-go had got up and left. He'd go out tomorrow; he had to on his birthday. He used to spend his birthdays with Ashley. Sometimes they'd go to a cafe, or a discotheque, or play miniature golf -it didn't matter what they did, as long as they were together. They'd spent a lot of time together in three and a half years. But that was all over. 

Roger downed the last of his beer. Crushing the can, he tossed it toward the waste can next to his desk. A perfect miss. Roger cursed. Heaving himself out of the recliner with a groan, Roger walked over to the desk, picked up the Budweiser can and neatly dropped it into its place. It clanged loudly upon striking the steel bottom, as if protesting being used and discarded.

Roger looked down at the desk. Ashley was still there where he'd left her that afternoon, smiling up at him from her glossy, two-dimensional world.

"You waited for me, huh?" Roger said.

But her smile was somewhat subdued now -not as bright, not as radiant. Roger was sure of it. And there was a definite trace of sorrow in her eyes. Gently picking up the photo album with both hands, he carried it over to the recliner and sat down again. He turned to the beginning and began leafing through the pages slowly, lovingly, thoroughly digesting each photograph. Roger and Ashley. Wildwood, New Jersey. July, 1984. He was holding her in his arms, as if he were about to carry her over the threshold. She was wearing her pink bikini. She had taken out her earrings. She always took them out when she went swimming. She was laughing, laughing so happily. Why the hell was she always so happy? Roger thought bitterly. Busch Gardens. April, 1985. A candid shot. Chocolate fudge smeared all over her face. Say "cheese." Oh, no, Roger! Not now! Bentham Memorial Park. October, 1985. A sexy pose. Stretched out on the bench, propped up on her elbow, her head resting on her hand. A tiny, mischievous smirk on her face.

Three sharp knocks sounded on the front door. Roger looked up abruptly.

"Who is it?" he called sharply.

Receiving no answer, he repeated the question. 

"It-it's me, Roger," a female voice responded. 


Setting the photo album on the floor, Roger went to the door and somewhat nervously undid the lock.

A young woman stood before him, about the same age as Roger. She wore a Mickey Mouse t-shirt and a pair of tight blue jeans. Her face was clean, fresh and attractive. She smiled at Roger.

"Hi!" she said cheerfully.

"Oh, hi, Tricia," Roger said. He stepped aside. "Come on in."

"Thanks," she said, accepting.

Tricia lived on the fifth floor of Roger's building, two floors above him. She had moved in about two months ago. Roger chatted with her occasionally in the laundry room downstairs, and even went up to her apartment once to help her move some furniture. She was obviously quite fond of him, though Roger wasn't sure why.

"So, Tricia," Roger began. "What are you doing home on a Friday night?"

"I could ask you the same question," she replied coyly.

"Well, I-I just didn't feel good."

"Awww, poor baby."

"Uh, you wanna sit down?" He motioned toward a small sofa against the wall. 

"Okay," she said, trying to sound seductive. Taking a seat, she crossed her legs elegantly and folded her hands on her knees. "Actually," she confessed. "I was supposed to go out with my girlfriend and her fiance tonight, but they never called me. So I'm stuck here. I thought I'd pay you a visit if you were home."

"Well- that was nice of you," Roger stammered. 

"What're you watching?" she asked, glancing at the television.

"Oh, nothing," Roger said. "There's nothing good on tonight. Would you like a beer or something?"

"Okay," she said.

Roger brought two beers from the kitchen, one of which he gave to Tricia. Reluctantly he sat down next to her and tried his best to politely converse.

An hour passed, and Roger wished he'd never answered the door. He had trouble keeping up his end of the conversation; he didn't know what to say to this girl who had the hots for him. Tricia was persistent, but finally saw that Roger was unresponsive.

"Well, Roger, I'd better get going," she announced. "I hope you feel better."

"Thanks," he said. He saw Tricia to the door. "Goodnight, Tricia."

"Goodnight, Roger," she said. "Come up and see me sometime."

"Okay," Roger said.

Roger closed the door. He sighed. There was nothing wrong with Tricia. She was a nice girl, a pretty girl. But she wasn't his type. She wasn't- Roger banished the thought.

Roger stood barefoot by the side of a highway, his hands tucked into his jean pockets. It was late, very late, and dark. There were no cars on the highway. No cars save one -a small red sports car speeding by in slow motion. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the red blur zip past him across the darkness of the empty road, like a streak of blood on a blackboard.Then he turned and looked directly at the car, and saw it creeping slowly down the highway, its wheels spinning furiously. The dull roar of the engine sounded far away. Then it was the highway that was moving -the cold steel guardrail zooming by into the silent night. But Roger was not moving, and the car continued to roll forward until it was directly across from him. It stopped, as if floating ethereally on the blackness underneath it, the motor still revving, the tires still spinning.

The window rolled down. Roger couldn't see who was behind the wheel, but he crossed the highway without trepidation and stood by the door.

A face leaned out the window. A beautiful face. And Roger was not afraid.

I love you, Roger, the words echoed.

A hand waved in farewell. The face disappeared. And the car rolled forward once again. 

A terrible panic seized Roger. "No!" he cried. "Stop!"

But no sound came out his mouth. Up ahead Roger saw a huge wall of flame, bright orange, leaping a hundred feet into the air. It crackled wickedly. 

"Nooooo!" he wailed. "Please don't!"

But the car continued on. It passed into the fire, never faltering in its steady, determined drive. It disappeared into the conflagration, flames licking hungrily at its doors and windows.

Roger sat up with a sharp yell. His covers were drenched with sweat. He was shaking all over.

"My fault," he said aloud. "I never should've let her go out."

He looked around his room. It was dark, quiet and peaceful. He took several deep breaths, lay back down, and closed his eyes. Soon he was asleep.

Roger was ready at six o'clock on Saturday. He slipped on his black loafers, brushed himself off for good measure, and stood up in front of his bedroom mirror.

He had on his light blue slacks, neatly held up by a pair of new suspenders. His red and white striped silk shirt was buttoned to the top. A white leather tie hung smartly from his collar.

"Not bad," he told himself. "Not bad."

Roy showed up promptly 37 minutes late. Roy was usually about 37 minutes late. 

It was nearly seven o'clock when Roy and Roger arrived at Flannery's Pub. The bar wasn't crowded yet, and Roy spotted the group immediately, seated at a booth in the back corner. Roy's cousin Craig sat next to his fiancee, Becky. Mike was across from them, waving his finger in the air, as if giving another one of his "informative" lectures. "You don't seem to understand something," he was saying.

Craig noticed the two friends enter, and motioned for them to join the group. Hellos were exchanged, and Roger and Roy took their seats.

"So, how does it feel to be twenty-four, buddy?" Craig asked Roger, with a slap on the shoulder.

"About the same as it feels to be twenty-three," Roger remarked sagely.

"Just think," Mike interrupted. "If you were Zeus, you'd feel the same when you were a million as you did when you were five hundred."

Mike's companions gazed quizzically at him for a moment, and Roy forced a polite smile.

"Well, how about some drinks?" Roy suggested.

Straightaway a pitcher of beer was ordered. Then two more. After drinking several rounds and toasting Roger half a dozen times, everyone was in a good mood.

Roy thought that his friend looked genuinely happy, and it was a long time since anyone had seen him like that.

It was about 9:00. Roy was skillfully performing his juggling act with three empty beer glass when the waitress rushed over to their table, with an urgent look on her face.

"Roy Cummings?" she inquired.

Roy started, nearly dropping the glasses. "Huh? Oh, yes! What?"

"You'd better get the phone. It's very serious, I'm afraid."

Roy's face grew worried. Setting the glasses down on the table, he hurried off behind the bar somewhere.

"What's going on?" Roger asked anxiously.

"I can't say for sure," the waitress answered.

In a minute Roy returned, looking wan and out of breath. He addressed Craig, Becky and Mike.

"We gotta go to Hanover Street," he said with an air of desperation. "It's Billie again."

Craig showed alarm. "Billie? What's the matter with her?"

"The same old thing," Roy replied.

"Oh, Jesus!"

The three scrambled to their feet. Roger sat there bewildered. 

"Would somebody mind telling me what the hell's going on?"

"Roger, we've gotta run out for a while," Roy told him. "It's an emergency. We'll be back in half an hour."

Roger was not satisfied. "Where are you going?" he insisted.

But his friends were already heading for the door. 

"We'll be back soon," Roy promised him. "Just wait. You'll have to trust me on this one."

And they were gone. Roger sat alone at the table, silent, completely stunned. It was several minutes before he somewhat recovered his senses. He summoned the waitress.

"Who called them? Do you know anything about this?"

"I-I really can't say," she demurred. "You'll have to take it up with him." She turned to go.

"Hey! Wait a minute!" Roger shouted.

"I'm sorry, I have other customers," she answered curtly and walked away.

Roger muttered a four-letter word. What was it with her? What was it with Roy? What was it with all of them?

Fifteen minutes later, Roger's patience had all but dissipated. He got up to complain again when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Roger?"

Roger spun around. He gasped. It was the same face -soft, smooth and round. And the eyes -sparkling and effervescent. And the -no, the hair was too short, and it was the wrong color.

"I'm sorry if I startled you," the waitress said. "Your friend's on the phone."

Roger followed her to the phone, in a small room behind the bar. He snatched the receiver.

"Hello?"

No answer.

"Hello?" He slammed the receiver down. He stalked furiously back to the table, his fists clenched. He'd get his jacket and leave!

Then he saw them, all sitting at the table, grinning stupidly at him. All five of them. Five? Who was the girl?

Tricia.

"April Fools, dude!" Roy crowed jovially.

Roger stood frozen to the spot, unbelief etched on his features. 

"Roy," he said confusedly.

"Come on, Roger!" Roy said cheerfully. "It's a joke! Sit down, buddy."

"I shoulda known," Roger said, blushing.

Roger sat down next to Tricia, much to her delight.

"Happy Birthday, Roger," she said and promptly kissed him on the cheek. "I'm glad you have such a good sense of humor."

Roger flushed. "Yeah," he said.

Roger looked at Tricia. "Say," he began. "How did you . . . ?"

Tricia laughed.

"She works with me at Fulton Technical," Roy explained. "I didn't know you two were neighbors. Your name came up in conversation and she told me she lived in the same building as you. So I invited her."

"I hope you don't mind, Roger," said Tricia.

"No, no, of course not," Roger replied.

Roy winked at his friend.

The revelers passed three hours talking, laughing, joking and singing. By midnight Roger was rather tipsy, as everyone had taken the liberty of buying him a drink or two. Tricia sat on his lap, her arm around him. Roger didn't seem to object to this.

Roy was busy recounting one of their exploits of earlier days.

"So Roger says, 'Sure, sure, it's in drive, Roy,' steps on the gas, and goes right through Mrs. Mallory's garage door!"

This was followed by peals of laughter.

"It was through her fence," Roger protested weakly.

"Oh no it wasn't," Roy insisted. "It was through her garage door."

Then came the finale. The waitress approached the table, carefully holding an ice cream cake illuminated by two dozen candles.

"Oooo, look at that!" Tricia cooed. "Make a wish, Roger," she urged him. "Make a wish!"

Roger looked at the faces surrounding him. Then he looked at Tricia, sitting on his lap, her pretty round eyes gazing at him affectionately. The springy curls of her auburn hair rested gently on her large bosom. As Roger blew out the candles, his friends were fairly sure they knew what the birthday boy's wish was.

But they were wrong.

Roy drove Roger and Tricia home. Tricia bid Roger a pleasant goodnight, and trotted upstairs to her apartment.

Roger sat up abruptly in bed. He was shaking all over. A definite chill ran down his spine.

"My God," he whispered hoarsely.

He looked around the room. The red numerals of his digital clock glared angrily at him. 1:37. He lay back down and stared at the dark ceiling above him. He saw strange, amorphous shapes. He wasn't frightened. And the shapes became other shapes, and vanished and reappeared and began swirling around and around. Roger drifted off to sleep.

WUMP! WUMP! WUMP!

The knocks had come slowly, steadily, loudly and had jarred Roger out of a sound slumber. He suddenly found himself trembling again. He looked at the clock. 2:05. Who could it be at 2:05 in the morning? Maybe a mad psychopath with a scalpel. Or the police coming to tell him that his parents were dead. Or maybe . . .

Maybe it was someone knocking at a neighbor's door. Or just another bad dream. Roger closed his eyes tightly, hoping that it would stop.

WUMP! WUMP! WUMP!

No such luck. Nervously, he climbed out of bed and started down the hallway.

WUMP! WUMP! WUMP!

"All right, all right!" he cried. He stopped in front of the door.

"W-who is it?"

No response.

Roger slowly turned the lock, careful not to make any sound. Then placing a hand on the doorknob, he rushed out into the hallway. He looked to his left and his right. No one was there. What the hell was going on? 

Roger went back inside and closed the door. His stomach churned grotesquely. His nerves were on fire. He dashed into the kitchen and rummaging through one of the drawers, took out a carving knife. He returned to the foyer, holding the knife behind his back. He stood by the door, ready for come-what-may. And waited.

Roger was rewarded.

WUMP! WUMP! WUMP!

Seizing the knob and turning, Roger pushed the door wide open.

He nearly fainted at what he saw.

The face was a zombie's face, that of a rotted corpse. The putrid, yellow skin clung loosely to the skull, save for the lower half, where it was completely rotted away. The effect was a sickening, perpetual grin. The stringy black hair hung hideously from its head. One eye was missing, but the other, clear and blue, stared straight at Roger. A hand touched Roger's shoulder.

"Happy Birthday, honey."

"Nooooooo!" Roger screamed with his entire soul. In an instinctive paroxysm of fright, he struck out blindly with the knife, raising and lowering it a dozen times.

"Go away!" Roger screamed. "Go away! I don't want you!"

Horrible, eldritch screams came in response, and fresh blood spattered on Roger's clothes and on the wall.

Roger stopped. He gazed down at the inert mass on the floor. His hand loosely gripped the dripping knife. Then an even greater horror overcame him, if that were possible at that point. Reaching down, he tugged at the latex Halloween mask with his free hand. The face of Tricia stared back at him, contorted in agony, eyes bulging out horribly. A stream of blood trickled obscenely from the corner of her mouth. Roger whimpered. The knife fell from his hand.

April Fools.

The End of the Line

Colt revolver chambered in .357 magnum. Photo by Cerebellum, 6 August 2008. Public domain.

"Next stop Hays City!" the conductor hollered.

The train rattled loudly as it sped through the dark Kansas plains. Aside from the occasional roar of a passing steam engine, all was quiet along the desolate stretch between Fort Ellsworth and the train's next destination.

The man in the blue flannel suit pulled a watch out of his vest pocket and glanced at the time. 9:30. He was neat, clean-shaven and about forty-three years old. His straight brown hair was cut short and covered mostly by a black bowler. His dark, gentle eyes and youthful countenance gave him an amiable appearance. Clearing his throat, he summoned the conductor.

"Pardon me, mister," he called politely. "How much longer we got?"

The grizzled conductor turned to face him. " 'Bout fifteen minutes," he grunted and shuffled slowly towards the front of the car.

The man sighed softly. He glanced around him. The car was practically empty. There were half a dozen other passengers, one or two who might have been asleep. He himself was becoming rather tired. The steady hum of the engine he found relaxing.

He looked at the stranger in the black Stetson seated across from him. He'd almost forgotten he was there. Both had boarded the train at Topeka, and the fellow hadn't said a word for two hours straight. He hadn't even moved. Was he awake? It was difficult to make out his features clearly. His thick whiskers were visible and from what could be seen of his face he looked to be in his mid-forties. A holstered gun and a sheathed knife hung at the right and left sides of his belt, respectively. A dark blue neckerchief was tied loosely around his throat. But his eyes were completely hidden by the brim of his big black hat.

"Howdy," the man in the blue suit ventured.

The cold stranger made no reply.

I said, " 'Howdy, mister.' "

The man's right hand went  instantly to his hip. His Colt Walker glinted faintly in the dim light of the of the car as he pointed it straight ahead. 

"Hello, Pete," he replied.

Pete Slimm gasped upon hearing the familiar voice. It was a voice he hadn't heard in a long time and one he had hoped never to hear again. His mouth went dry. He tried to speak, but rasped incoherently.

The gunman grinned. 

"What's the matter, Pete?" he asked sardonically. "Don't recognize your old buddy?"

"Jack Brewster!" Slimm managed to whisper.

Brewster chuckled harshly. "You remember. Must be fate keeps bringin' us together, Pete. When I seen you boardin' the train at Topeka I wasn't sure it was you at first. But I had to take a hunch. And what do you know? Been a long time."

Stunned, Slimm merely shook his head.

Brewster continued in a low, menacing tone. "Not since you stole ten o' Charlie Goodnight's longhorns back in '77." He spat on the floor. "Then you sold 'em to Bill McMalden. Almost had 'em fooled. They was gonna lynch that man. I don't suppose you give a damn."

Pausing, he studied Slimm's apparel. "That's a nice suit you're wearin', Pete. Who'd you steal that from?"

Slimm swallowed. "I didn't steal anything, Jack! Those steer were mavericks!"

"They was on Goodnight's property!" Brewster hissed. Told them two idiot ranch hands you was movin' them to better grazin' grounds! And of course, there was that nasty business with Jim Mangus back in '74."

"What nasty business?" Slimm said. "Just sold him some land."

"Yeah, that belonged to somebody else!" Brewster said. "Since when have you had any land to sell anyone?" He lifted up the brim of his hat, revealing a wicked scar across his left cheek. 

"I used to have a nice-sized plot o' land myself. Before the war." He glared at Slimm with particular ferocity. "Ain't nothin' worse than a swindler."

Slimm trembled slightly. "Look, Jack, I didn't really harm . . ."

"I don't wanna hear it, Pete!" Brewster interrupted. "You done plenty o' harm. You're wanted for all kinds o' stuff -cattle rustlin', horse thievin', sellin' phony real estate -even snake oil sales!" Brewster scowled. "You've made a fool outta me too many times -Saint Louis, Abilene, Mason City . . . I remember spendin' a week in jail in Sweetwater 'cause o' somethin' you did!" Brewster's lips curled into a sneer. "I never had nothin' but trouble from the law. But around here, I'm the law. It's the end of the line, Pete." He nodded towards his Colt revolver. "Now I know you ain't gonna give me no trouble."

"N-no, Jack," Slimm stammered. "I wouldn't do that."

"Good," said Brewster, sounding pleased. " 'Cause I can bring you in dead or alive and still collect five hundred dollars. As soon as we get to Hays City, I'm takin' you into custody until tomorrow. Then we're takin' the first coach back to Texas. I been chasin' you for six years and that's long enough." He placed the gun back into the holster, keeping his hand on the butt.

Beads of sweat covered Slimm's forehead. He couldn't believe this was happening. It must be a bad dream, he thought. But the bounty hunter's ominous figure, huge gun and cruel countenance belied this notion. Jack Brewster was very real. 

Slimm gnawed his lower lip. The train would pull into Hays City any minute now and he would be Brewster's prisoner. He had to do something.

"Hays City," the conductor shouted again. "Hays City!"

A long, shrill whistle sounded as the train screeched to a halt.

"Come on," ordered Brewster, motioning towards the aisle with his gun.

With some difficulty Slimm stood up, placed his hat on his head and brushed off his slacks. He stepped cautiously into the aisle, the barrel of Brewster's revolver urging him on.

"Right on time, Jack," he cheerfully remarked.

"Oh, who cares?" Brewster answered brusquely.

Slimm started to walk towards the door. Suddenly he doubled over and clutched his belly.

"Oh, God!" he screamed, feigning agony. "He stabbed me! He stabbed me!"

Alarmed, Brewster grabbed the collar of Slimm's coat. "What the hell are you try . . ."

Slimm spun around like a tornado and with all the strength he could muster landed a solid blow on Brewster's jaw. Knocked off his balance, the bounty hunter staggered backwards and fell flat on the floor. Gunsmoke and the sound of shattered glass filled the car as the firearm discharged, sending a .45 slug through one of the windows. In the midst of the commotion, Slimm grabbed the conductor, who was standing by the exit, and frantically threw the old man aside. Then opening the door, he jumped out onto the dusty ground. 

When the train had stopped, the five bewildered passengers, as well as the conductor, had no idea exactly what had happened. Suspecting a robbery attempt, three men seized Brewster, who was just getting to his feet. 

Brewster struggled wildly. "Get your damn hands off of me!" he demanded.

Noticing the situation, the conductor produced a derringer from his uniform pocket and held the muzzle inches from Brewster's forehead. 

"Try it, mister," he said.

Having realized that something was amiss, the engineer appeared, accompanied by two brakemen. Taking off his cap, the burly man wiped the sweat from his bald head. 

"What's goin' on back here?" he inquired. "I heard a gunshot."

The conductor's eyes never left Jack Brewster. "This fella tried to pull a robbery, Ed," "Tried to shoot one of the passengers, 'cept the man  got away."

"I ain't no train robber!" Brewster said fiercely. "My name's Brewster, Jack Brewster! I'm a bounty hunter! That man was an outlaw, a confidence man -the sneakiest son-of-a-bitch you'll ever meet! There's a five hundred dollar price on his head. And I almost had him this time." He glared at the conductor.

The engineer scratched his beard. "Bounty hunter?" he mused. "How do we know you ain't lyin'?"

Brewster looked at him disgustedly. "Look in my right shirt pocket," he grumbled. "I got a warrant."

The engineer reached into the pocket of Brewster's flannel shirt. He withdrew a folded, slightly brown piece of paper and opened it up. He examined the warrant closely, mumbling audibly as he read it to himself. Then folding it carefully along the creases, he returned it to Brewster's pocket.

"Where did this . . . outlaw go to?"

The conductor spoke up. "Jumped right out of the train as we was slowin' down. Threw me aside like a tumbleweed."

"Hmm," the engineer responded. "He couldn't have gone far. We'll notify the authorities."

"Authorities!" Brewster snorted. "Where the hell do you think we are?"

Brewster shrugged off the three men who had been restraining him, picked up his Colt and stormed out of the train. The engineer stared warily after him for a moment, then shaking his head, walked back to the front of the train.

*****

"Why didn't you try and stall him? He was a fugitive!"

The clerk at the Wells Fargo station sat with his feet on his desk and listened disinterestedly to Brewster's tirade. For the past ten minutes the irate bounty hunter had lambasted him for having let "a despicable, law-scoffing rat" jump town on the last stagecoach.

The clerk's desk sat in the center of the room, on top of a dirty Turkoman rug. A heap of papers was strewn across its dusty surface and it was dimly lit by a small kerosene lamp. By the entrance to a storeroom in the back of the office were four large wooden crates marked "U.S. Mail." A dozen or so wanted posters were tacked on the wall above them, Jesse James's being the most prominent. The telegraph operator reclined behind an adjacent table, the headphones down around his neck, calmly reading the newspaper. He seemed completely oblivious to the other two men and did not even glance up from his paper once.

"How did a cretin like you get this job anyway?" continued Brewster.

The clerk responded imperturbably, "Look, mister, the gentleman come in here half an hour ago and he says 'You got any tickets left for the next coach?' and I says 'Yessir!' and he says 'Gimme one ticket,' so I gives him one ticket and he pays me and he leaves on the ten o'clock coach. And he didn't look like no fugitive to me. Was in an awful hurry, but . . ."

"Where was it headed?" Brewster asked.

"What's that?"

"Where was it headed?"

"Where was what headed?"

"The stagecoach, you fool!" Brewster exploded.   

"Oh, that!" The clerk laughed amiably. Turning his head, he spat a thin stream of brown saliva into the cuspidor next to him. "Don't remember," he remarked nonchalantly. "Helena, maybe. Or coulda been El Paso. Or maybe even Boston."

Brewster was having a difficult time holding his temper. 

"Don't you got a schedule?"

"Had one somewhere around here. Forgot where I put it, though."

Brewster spoke slowly and deliberately, straining to control himself. 

"Do you . . ." He paused. "by any chance . . . remember when the next coach is comin'?"

The clerk thought. "Hey, George!" he called to the telegraph operator. "George!"

George's eyes remained fixed on his paper. "What?" he said, annoyed.

"When's the next coach comin' tomorrow?"

"Six."

"Is that a.m. or p.m.?"

"One o' the two."

"Well," the clerk said to Brewster. "George don't remember whether it's six a.m. or six p.m., and neither do I. But I suggest that you come back at six tomorrow mornin', 'cause that way if it's six a.m. you won't miss it, and if it's six p.m. you'll still have twelve hours. Don't that sound logical?"

"Where can I buy a horse?" Brewster asked, exasperated. "Forget the coach. Just where can I buy a horse?"

The clerk cocked his head and stroked his chin reflectively. 

"Hmm . . . a horse," he repeated. "I know," he said. "Old Ron Miller sells horses. He got a stable five miles north o' Hays City. If you tell him . . ."

"He's dead," George answered laconically.

"Dead?"

"Died Tuesday." 

"Oh, that's right," he said. "I forgot about that. But I'll tell you what you can do, Mr. Booster. His son be back in town Wednesday -he away on business now- but he be back Wednesday and you can buy a horse from him then. Though I suggest you wait 'til Friday, 'cause Joe Miller don't know his Pa's dead yet and you really should give him a couple days to adjust. But next Friday . . . "

Brewster couldn't stand it any longer. "You idiot!" he stormed. "I can't wait a week from now! I don't need your help and I don't want it! I'll find me a horse and get that sidewinder myself! You see if I don't!"

Saying this, he turned on his heel and walked out the door in a huff, slamming it loudly as he exited.

The clerk shook his head. "I don't understand it, George. Some folks is so rude."

"Shut up, Clem."

*****

"Would I lie to you, amigo?" Pete Slimm asked, patting the other man on the back. This knife belonged to my personal friend and commanding officer, George Custer."

The two men sat on the front steps of Jacobson's General Store in Central City, Nebraska. It was a late April afternoon, near dusk. 

The streets were quiet, free from passersby. Two weeks had elapsed since Slimm's escape from Hays City.

Gingerly, the Mexican took the large knife from Slimm's outstretched palm. Easing it out of the sheath, he carefully turned it over in his hands, scrutinizing it. He seemed fascinated by the long, sharp steel blade and the black leather handle. Inscribed near the hilt were the initials G.C. He had no idea that Slimm had won it in a card game from a one Gerome Collins.

"This was really his?" the Mexican asked.

"It sure was," Slimm replied. "Now folks'll tell you that every man in the 7th Cavalry was killed at Little Bighorn. Well, that isn't true." He paused. "I'm the sole survivor. Was shot in the shoulder and I just laid there, hoping the Sioux would think I was dead. As you can see, it worked."

The Mexican continued to gaze intently at the knife, stroking the long blade with his fingers. "He  gave this to you?"

"No." Slimm shook his head. "No, he didn't exactly give it to me. Like I said, I just laid there and when those injuns left I took it off of George's belt. Some folks might call that stealing, but it wasn't stealing. This is all I have to remember my friend by," he said wistfully.

The Mexican was puzzled. "Why you want to sell this?"

Slimm sighed. "Have to," he replied. "Times are hard for me. Need the money. "Haven't had work for six weeks."

"I thought you were a captain in the . . ."

"No!" Slimm interrupted loudly. "I'm through with that. After Little Bighorn I never wanted anything to do with the military again." He scowled. "I never want to see another uniform as long as I live."

"How much you want for it?"

Slimm folded his arms thoughtfully. His brow became taut. The corners of his mouth turned ever so slightly upwards. "Something like this'll be extremely valuable one day. Why, I could probably sell it for a couple of hundred bucks right now." He exhaled loudly. "But I'll tell you what I'm going to do, amigo. I'm going to let you have it for a mere seventy-five dollars." 

The Mexican replied, "Ah, senor, I can only pay you forty."

"I'll take it."

*****

It was a chilly afternoon in Belfield, North Dakota Territory. Several horses were tied up in front of the local tavern and the usual steady din emanated from behind a pair of swinging doors. The tavern was large, 60 by 30 feet. An oaken bar was located against the south wall with twelve wooden stools in front of it. Behind the door hung a huge mirror, sparkling clean, with the words "A.J.'s Saloon" etched skillfully across the top. It seemed out of place. Countless bottles of bourbon, scotch and whiskey sat on a long shelf under the mirror. Three gas lamps burned smokily along either wall. It was a squalid place, and this was enhanced by the dearth of light, the odor of stale cigars and the grumbling of discontented card players.

The bartender stood at his post, hands resting on the counter, casually observing the customers as he was wonted to do. He was a tall, gaunt man of fifty. His lips were almost covered by a bushy white moustache. He wore a white cotton shirt, brown wool slacks and suspenders. There were about twenty patrons that day, half gambling, half seated at the bar. He noticed an ugly-looking group playing pinochle in the far corner of the room. The three of them had finished most of a bottle of whiskey in less than an hour. In addition to drinking heavily, one had a large wad of tobacco behind his lip. They made the bartender slightly uncomfortable, but weren't causing any commotion.

But he had his eye on one man in particular that day. He'd never seen him before; he certainly wasn't a regular. He was clean and well-dressed, contrasting sharply with the rest of the crowd. The suit he was wearing must have cost twenty dollars. He was seated at one of the four tables in the room, with a negro and an Indian, ostensibly teaching them to play cards. The bartender couldn't help but hear some of the conversation. He would never trust this man. What was he doing in Belfield, anyway?

The stranger coolly adjusted his tie. There was something smug about his manner. With impressive dexterity, he rapidly shuffled the cards and systematically dealt them out to each player. The three dully pushed ten cents apiece toward the center of the table. Glancing casually at his hand, the stranger addressed the Indian seated across from him.

"You're first, partner."

The Indian appeared to be concentrating intently on the cards. 

"I will bet thirty cents," he said, pushing three coins into the pile.

The negro blinked confusedly. He said, "I'm gonna raise 'im twenny-five cent," and added a quarter.

Pete Slimm spoke: "Jim," he said. "You have to see his thirty cents first."

"Oh," Jim replied, embarrassed. He placed another thirty cents in the pot. "Den I sees his thirty cent and I raises 'im twenny-five cent."

Pete Slimm pretended to study the cards in his hand. He dropped fifty-five cents into the pile.

"How many cards, my friend?" he asked the Indian.

"Three cards," the latter replied gruffly.

It was Jim's turn. "Gimme one card," he said.

"And I'll take two," Slimm said. Silence followed while the three looked over their hands.

"It's your turn," Slimm told the Indian.

Without a word, the Indian produced two wrinkled dollar bills from a small cloth purse in front of him. Hesitantly, he placed them into the pile. Following suit, Jim dropped two dollars in coins into the pot.

Slimm leaned back in his chair. He stretched out his legs, assuming a reclining position. He slowly drummed the fingers of his left hand on the table. Tossing a five dollar bill onto the pile, he said, "Let's get serious, boys."

The Indian was puzzled. "I don't know," he remarked.

"Three dollars to stay in," Slimm reminded him. 

"I . . . I check," he said.

"Well, I don't!" Jim said cheerfully. He placed three dollars in the center of the table.

The Indian tossed down his cards. "I'm out."

"Well, Jim," Slimm eagerly inquired. "What have you got?"

Smiling broadly, the negro placed his cards face up in front of him. A pair of aces and a pair of kings.

"Not bad," Slimm said, sounding mildly impressed. "But a full house beats two pair every time." He laid his cards on the table. Two jacks and three queens.

Jim stared at them dumbfoundedly. 

"Well, gentlemen, it's been real nice playing with you," Slimm said, sliding the pile of money toward himself. Standing up, he began stuffing the bills and coins into his coat pocket. "I hope to see you again sometime."

"Aw, shucks," Jim said. "You gots to give us one more chance to win our money back."

"We never played before," the Indian added. "Teach us another game."

Pete Slimm considered it. "All right," he said reluctantly. Sitting down once more, he gathered up the cards on the table and reshuffled them. "Either of you boys ever heard of Twenty-One?" 

Grimacing, the bartender turned his eyes away in disgust. Oh well, it probably wasn't his business anyway. He'd seen all sorts of people in the tavern; some good, some not so good. This fella would get his someday. Maybe. 

As the bartender was surveying the customers, a cowboy approached the bar. He was about thirty years old and had a rough, weather beaten face.

"Hi, Alex," he said. 

"Oh, hi, Bill," the bartender replied, slightly startled. 

The man grinned. "Gimme the worst stuff you got." 

Reaching under the bar, Alex produced a clean glass and set it on the counter. He turned to the liquor shelf and seized a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a bottle of tonic water in the other. He filled the glass halfway with whiskey and was about to add the tonic when the cowboy stayed his hand.

"Alex, don't put no branchwater in my drink."

"Whatever you say, Bill," the bartender answered and finished filling his glass with whiskey. "Ten cents."

Bill reached into his jeans pocket and tossed a couple of coins onto the bar. "Thanks, Alex," he replied and headed back toward his table, drink in hand.

Pete Slimm was engrossed in Blackjack, dealing hand after hand. He took no notice of the figure standing quietly in the doorway, arms folded across the chest. No one had seen him enter; it was as if he'd materialized there.    


Slimm placed another card in front of the Indian. He now had two fives and a two. He tapped the table lightly with his index finger. Slimm obediently dealt him another card. A four.

"Sixteen," Slimm announced.

The Indian was frustrated. "Hit me," he said.

Slimm placed a sixth card on the table. A ten.

"Sorry, partner," he said, and collected the last of the Indian's cash.

"Hey, mister," a voice boomed from across the room. "Mind if I get in on a couple o' hands?"

Slimm froze where he was seated, his mouth dropping open in shock. The playing cards slipped from his hand and fell to the floor.

Without taking a step forward, the bounty hunter drew his Colt Walker from its holster and aimed it straight at Slimm. 

"You son of a bitch," he muttered and fired.

But Slimm had quick reflexes. The second he saw Brewster's finger tense on the trigger, he threw himself to the floor. The bullet missed him by half an inch and tore through the back of the chair, splintering it to pieces. Alarmed, Jim and the Indian jumped up from their seats and backed away from the table as quickly as possible. The other customers did likewise. Getting to his feet, Slimm dashed toward the bar and nimbly leapt behind the counter. A second bullet followed him, skimming the counter and shattering the great mirror. The large broken pieces of glass crashed to the floor, smashing two dozen bottles as they fell. 

Brewster rapidly approached the bar, smoking gun in hand. Several people made for the door; the others looked on in amazement, no one daring to move. Desperately, the bartender ran out from behind his post and grabbed Brewster's arm, attempting to wrench the weapon from him.

"No!" he screamed. "Stop it! Stop it! Go away!"

While Brewster was grappling with the bartender, Slimm jumped over the counter once more and lit out for the exit. Brewster hurled the crazed bartender aside, knocking him into an adjacent table, which promptly collapsed. 

Once outside, Slimm untied the horse as fast as his trembling hands were able and climbed into the saddle. With a yell, he dug his heels into the animal's sides and was off.

Brewster was not long to follow. Seconds after Slimm's departure, he rushed out of the tavern and once again took aim at the figure riding away on horseback. Again the shot missed. Suddenly, a shotgun blast sounded behind Brewster and the swinging door next to him exploded into a thousand fragments.

"You wrecked my bar, damn you!" the bartender's voice screamed at him. 

Not wasting any time, he drew his Bowie knife and sliced through the rope that bound his horse to the hitching post. Hopping onto the stallion's back, Brewster took off after his old rival.

The two men sped through the streets of Belfield, leaving a trail of dust behind them. The gap between the two horses narrowed, Brewster gradually gaining on Slimm. 

Slimm was worried. Brewster was closing in on him fast. The two were nearing a crossroads. A post office was stationed at the northwest corner and across from it was a small chapel with a large wooden cross on its roof. 

In an attempt to throw off his pursuer, Slimm jerked the reins sharply to the right. But he was unprepared for such an abrupt turn and losing his balance, he tumbled sidelong from the saddle and landed with a thud by the entrance to the chapel. 

Though not seriously hurt, Slimm was dazed and out of breath. His lower back throbbed painfully. He soon recovered when he saw Brewster round the corner and yank his steed to a halt. Slimm ran into the chapel.

Slowly, menacingly, Brewster dismounted and began stalking toward the entrance. "Bad move, Pete," he said. Kicking open the door, he entered.

Brewster quickly surveyed the room. A long red carpet ran down the aisle, leading up to the altar. On either side were seven pews, each bench with a shelf containing six or seven prayer books. Two diamond-shaped stained glass windows were on the side two walls. Behind the podium was a huge mural depicting the Crucifixion.

Brewster walked leisurely down the aisle, glancing left and right as he passed each pew. As he came to the second row from the podium, a voice called out, "Freeze!"

Brewster's glance shot to the right. Slimm stood in the side aisle, between the pews and the stained glass windows. His outstretched arms nervously held a Smith and Wesson revolver. 

"Take off your gun belt, Jack," he sputtered. "Take it off and lie down next to the podium."

Brewster was dead calm. "Well, well, Pete," he remarked wryly. "Nice to see you've come up in the world." With blinding speed, he seized the gun at his hip, turned and fired. There was a brief zing! of lead against steel as Slimm's weapon flew harmlessly out of his hands. Slimm stared incredulously at his empty palm.

"The game's over, Pete." Brewster approached Slimm until he was in point blank range. He raised his gun. The barrel was a foot from Slimm's heart. "Thought you was pretty smart, didn't you? Well, I'm smarter!"

Beads of sweat covered Slimm's face. He quaked slightly.

"How did you find me this time?" he asked.

Brewster grinned, a thing he rarely did. "You made some dumb mistakes too, Pete," he answered. "After you made a fool out of me in Hays City, I was determined to redeem myself. So I went searchin' for you up north in Nebraska. And you'll never guess who I met in Hastings. Some stupid Mexican I see in a bar tries to sell me a knife he says belonged to General Custer." He barked a short laugh."I recognized your handiwork immediately, Pete. Then it wasn't hard. Just looked around."

Slimm was shocked. He was actually going to die. 

"Jack, you wouldn't shoot a man in a house of God, would you? That's not proper."

Brewster thought for a moment. "No, you're right. It ain't proper. But I'm gonna do it anyway."

Brewster pulled the trigger. CLICK! Slimm winced. Nothing happened.

"Damn it!" Brewster exclaimed. Turning toward the front of the chapel, he hurled the empty revolver toward the pulpit.

 Slimm sighed in relief. "I guess you can't shoot me now, Jack. Why don't we just forget this whole thing?"

Brewster reached for the Bowie knife strapped to his belt. He firmly grasped the hilt. "Forget nothin'," he said. Raising the blade above his head, he lunged at Slimm.

Slimm's back was literally to the wall. As the knife came down, his hands shot up and caught Brewster's wrist. With all his strength, Brewster began pushing the knife toward Slimm's chest. The sole of Slimm's boot slammed into Brewster's stomach, sending him flying into the pew behind him. Brewster grunted loudly as his back collided with the wood. The Bowie knife slipped from his hand and clanked to the floor. Brewster reached to recover it when Slimm kicked him in the stomach again. Brewster seized Slimm's legs and toppled him to the ground. 

Straddling himself atop his old rival, he grabbed Slimm by the collar and struck him repeatedly, between words.

"I'm . . . sick . . . of . . . you!"

Slimm furiously groped for the bounty hunter's face. Grabbing hold of Brewster's nose, he gave it a savage twist.

"Aaahh!"

With both hands, Brewster seized Slimm's wrist, attempting to loosen the grip on his face. Slimm's other fist struck Brewster squarely on the chin. Managing to free himself, Slimm stood up and kicked Brewster in the face. Brewster's head snapped back with the force of the kick. Blood trickled from his mouth and nostrils.

Suddenly enraged, Brewster sprang to his feet and slammed his opponent into the wall again. With determination, his fists thudded repeatedly into Slimm's ribs. Slimm winced noticeably with every blow. Then grabbing Slimm's shoulder, Brewster turned him around so he was facing the wall and began fiercely twisting his arm, attempting to snap it.

With amazing alacrity Slimm's other hand caught his arm and held it in place. He groaned in obvious pain and exertion. His left heel struck Brewster's shin and managing to free himself for the moment, Slimm spun around and cracked Brewster across the mouth. He hit him again. And again.

Brewster stumbled backward in pain and confusion, reeling like a drunken man. Slimm dealt him blow after blow, until Brewster lay half senseless on his back. Then he himself collapsed to his hands and knees, panting in exhaustion.

After a minute Brewster sat up, holding his aching head with both hands. His lower lip was cut badly and the blood was smeared all over his mouth and chin. He gently inserted a finger into his mouth and carefully felt one of his upper molars.

"You good-for-nothin' slug," he said, glaring at Slimm. "You broke my tooth."

Slimm glared back reproachfully. "Well, you cracked a couple o' my ribs!"

"You near broke some o' mine!"

"Well, who started it?" Slimm hollered.

"It doesn't matter who started it," Brewster said apathetically. "I'm finishin' it. I'm sick o' this whole damn job. I'm sick o' chasin' after lowlives like you and nearly gettin' myself killed in the process. Your kind ain't worth it. So actually, Pete, I oughta thank you. You're doin' me a favor."

"Always happy to oblige," Slimm replied with slight irony. "It sure makes me happy to hear you say that, though." He extended his hand.

Brewster just looked at it.

"Yeah, that's easy for you to say," he grumbled. "You got nothin' to worry about 'cept who you're gonna swindle your next dollar from." 

Slimm frowned. "I've been thinking of going straight, Jack," he replied. "Really I have. Only problem is I've never done anything else."

"I've got a brother in Tennessee," Brewster remarked. "Maybe he could use a hand. Ain't seen him in twenty years."

"No point in worrying about it now, Jack," Slimm replied. "Let me buy you a drink. It's the least I can do."

Brewster stared at him long and hard. Then he chuckled, almost jovially. "I think we wore out our welcome at the local tavern."

"Heck, not here!" Slimm said."There's a nice bar in Dickinson. Only about fifteen miles. It'd be a fine idea if we left this town pronto!"

Brewster shrugged. "I guess you're right."

The two men got to their feet. 

"Your knife, Jack," Slimm reminded him. Walking over to where the Bowie knife lay, Slimm picked it up by the blade and handed it to Brewster. Brewster looked at it for a moment, then slipped it back into the sheath.

"Thanks," he said unemotionally.

Slimm walked over to where his gun lay on the floor. "Don't worry, Jack," he explained as he bent over to pick it up. "It's not loaded. What about your gun?"

"We got no time," Brewster said. "Besides, my brother got a spare gun he can give me. Let's get outta here."

The two began walking toward the exit.

"I'll show you a good time, Jack," Slimm assured him. "After we hit the saloon, there's a place right down the road with the most beautiful women you've ever seen."

"You don't say."

"Say, Jack," Slimm began. "Ever play gin rummy?"

"Don't even start, Pete," Brewster muttered, and they departed.

The Mark of the Wolf

Photo: National Park Service (NPS). Public domain.

I knew from the start that I never should have gone to the Galloping Stallion Saloon that evening. My work load was piling up and there were many more important matters to look after. But it had been a hectic day and this was a well-deserved rest, not to mention the fact that it was Friday.

I had consumed about five beers and was still relatively sober when a peculiar-looking gentleman sat down beside me and ordered a glass of white wine. The fellow was about 50 years old and wearing a huge fur coat, a thick brown scarf and a black wide-brimmed hat. In short, he looked something like a bear. His hat and scarf partially obscured his face but I could discern a thick black moustache. I watched him sip his wine, so slowly, so meticulously. Curiously, I observed him for several minutes, my eyes transfixed. Suddenly he returned my gaze. I jumped, nearly knocking my beer onto the floor.

"Uh, um, hello," I managed to say.

"Good evening," the dark stranger replied. "Did you want something?"

"N-no," I stammered. "I had just never seen you before and I was wondering . . ."

"I do not come here often," he interrupted, seemingly knowing what I was going to say next. "Only when there is good reason."

Upon finishing his sentence, he slipped his right hand into his coat pocket and produced a necklace with what appeared to be some sort of talisman. He dangled it before my eyes for a few moments, then quickly slipped it back into his pocket.

Now I was genuinely perplexed. "What is it?"

The stranger looked me straight in the eyes. It is a talisman of the wolf. Do you wish to buy it?"

I was completely taken aback by his question. I had met this fellow not two minutes ago and already he was trying to sell me some strange charm about which I knew nothing. My lips could not speak.

"He that wears it around his neck shall receive great wealth."

It seemed to me that I had heard that line before. Wherever one went these days, there was always some crackpot selling good luck charms. I recalled the time when I was in Philadelphia and a crazy old woman had tried to sell me a dinosaur tooth which she claimed would protect me from vampires. "I don't believe in vampires," I had calmly replied. 

"I'm sorry, sir," I said, managing as polite a tone as possible. "I'm really not . . ." 

The man seemed angered. "You do not understand!" he cried. There was fire in his eyes. "I speak the truth. Its magic is very powerful. But any one person may only benefit from it seven times. Seven blessings but the eighth time he is cursed. I have made full use of it and would like to be rid of it. It is yours for a mere five dollars!"

"Well, I don't know. . ."

"All right, then, four dollars."

"Now wait a minute, fellow," I said, becoming a bit perturbed myself. "What's the meaning of this? I come in here to relax after a rough day and you start harassing me about some charm I know nothing about! Who do you think you are?"

"Will you at least look at it?" he pleaded. The stranger had an air of desperation about him. I agreed to this, but not without some apprehension. Calmly reaching into his pocket once more, he withdrew the pendant and placed it almost cautiously in the palm of my hand. 

My eyes widened at the sight of the magnificent necklace. The charm was clearly made of solid gold and on the chain was a round, smooth coin with a wolf's head embossed on the front. Two tiny diamond's formed the wolf's eyes. It was a beautiful piece of jewelry and I was immediately captivated by it.

"I'll take it," I said, more to myself than to the stranger. "How much do you want for it?"

The stranger appeared relieved by my decision. "Very good," he replied. "Four dollars, please."

Without taking my eyes from the wolf's head, I fumbled around in my pocket and withdrew my wallet. I opened it up and carefully handed the man four one-dollar bills.

"I must caution you, young man, the talisman is to be worn around your neck at all times until its magic is depleted. If it is removed before then, all its power will be lost. But you may profit from it seven times. After that you must remove . . ."

I could hardly hear the mysterious stranger. I was too entranced by my new purchase. I fingered it for several moments, noting that it was of excellent craftsmanship. And how it glittered in the dim light of the bar. It would certainly be an original present to give to someone, I thought.

". . . or something terrible will surely befall you. Do you understand me?"

"Yes," I replied, slipping the pendant around my neck.

Later that night, I lay in bed fingering the talisman of the wolf and wondering if anything the old man had said was true. Probably not, though it did make a nice piece of jewelry. I decided that there was no harm in wearing it for a few days, as it could do no harm. . . or could it? And if it did work . . . I soon fell into a deep slumber while pondering all the possibilities. I was certainly due for a new automobile.

When I woke up the next morning, I was in a surprisingly good mood. Having obtained a full eight hours of sleep for the first time in years, my body and mind were quite refreshed. When my alarm clock rang at nine that Saturday morning, instead of groaning and swearing as I was accustomed to doing, I leapt cheerfully out of bed, hopped into the shower, dressed myself in my finest pair of slacks and jogged over to the diner where I usually eat breakfast. I was certainly bursting with radiance this day.

"Morning, Rose," I said to my dear friend who had served me breakfast every Saturday for the past three years.

"Alex, sweetheart, you look wonderful today! What'll you have?"

"Just bring me some French toast and a cup of coffee, Rose."

"Sure thing," Rose said, scribbling on her pad.

"Rose," I called out as she turned to make my French toast.

"Yeah, Honey?"

"Do you still sell those lottery tickets here?"

"Sure do, babe."

"I think I'll buy one. I feel lucky today."

Rose looked surprised. "You, Alex? You've never bought a lottery ticket before. But just pay the cashier a dollar on the way out."

I finished my breakfast, wiped my mouth, and waved farewell to Rose, stopping at the cash register to purchase my first lottery ticket.

"I'll take number 613," I said, handing the cashier four quarters.

That evening, I was watching television and munching on potato chips when I realized what time it was. Quickly changing the channel, I glanced at my lottery ticket and waited anxiously for the drawing.

"Good evening, it's almost seven o'clock and time for the drawing of the New York Daily Lottery. Drawing the numbers today will be Dr. Richard Cornback from the American Heart Association."

I was very impatient for the numbers to be picked. Why did they have to take so long with all these formal introductions?

"The first number is a six," said the lottery official. I looked at my ticket. 613. That was a start.

"The second number is a one. That's six, one." 

6-1, I thought. Maybe I was going to win today. But it was more likely a coincidence. I found myself wondering what was done with all the money collected for these lottery tickets. It supposedly went to charity but I had my doubts.

"The last number is a three. And today's Daily Lottery number is 613. Congratulations, number 613! And to the rest of you, try again tomorrow." 

Number 613! I was ecstatic but at the same time incredulous. I looked once more at my ticket number. Unquestionably it was the winning number. Immediately I rushed to my Pontiac and drove to the diner to collect my $500. 

Driving back from Sam's Diner, I reassuringly patted the thick wallet in my pocket. I remembered the talisman of the wolf. I had been wearing it faithfully around my neck since Friday evening. Great wealth, the old man had said. Surely there could be no truth in that. But yet, I could not bring myself to remove the strange charm. Not yet. And maybe it did work. It was certainly an expensive piece of jewelry, if nothing else. Why had the old man sold it to me for a mere four dollars? The whole event was still an enigma to me.

It suddenly became apparent to me that I had not played poker in a long time. Maybe a game on Sunday night with Charlie and Steve was not a bad idea.

I called Steve at about 9 that evening. The phone had rung about 15 times and I was ready to hang up when I heard Steve's voice on the other end of the line; he was groggy and half asleep.

"Steve," I said. "It's been a long time. How are you?"

Steve immediately recognized my voice. 

"Alex!" he shouted excitedly. "What have you been up to?"

"Oh, the usual," I said in a casual tone of voice.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Steve replied and burst out laughing.

"Listen, Steve," I said. "What do you have planned for tomorrow night?"

"Not much," he said. "Why?"

"What do you say to you, me and Charlie's getting together and playing some poker?"

"All right," he said.

"Tomorrow night at seven?"

"Why so early, Alex?"

I grinned. "Let's just say that I'd like to get an early start, okay?"

"All right, buddy. Take it easy."

"So long, Steve," I said, suavely putting the phone back into the receiver.

The events that occurred that week were unbelievable. I had pocketed $400 from my poker session with Charlie and Steve; the following day I received a letter from the IRS with a check for $631 attached and on Friday I received a phone call from the radio station to which I listened regularly. The caller informed me that I had won a brand new Mustang in their "Tunes from the 50's Contest." This last event thrilled me. I could finally be rid of my shoddy Pontiac. The necklace, I thought. It had to be the necklace. Next week I would go to Atlantic City and clean out every damn casino there. I wouldn't even bother going to work. I'll never work again, I gloated to myself. 

Monday proved to be a cold and rainy day. I had never seriously minded the rain before but when I had to drive from New York City to Atlantic City, it was a different story. With the help of my wolf's talisman, I would break the bank. The whole situation was unbelievable. But it was happening. It was truly happening.

It was about 5:30 p.m. when my car stopped in front of the Atlantis Casino. The myriad of automobiles filled with eager gamblers, the brilliant lights from the hotels, and the countless shops and stores made for a dazzling view of casino life. I rolled down my window and was approached by a valet parking attendant. 

"Park your car, sir?"

"All right, I replied cautiously. "But be very careful with it. It's brand new."

"Of course, sir."

I confidently strolled into the casino and headed towards the nearest slot machine. I deposited a coin and was not surprised when $100 worth of quarters spilled out onto the floor. Producing a leather sack I had brought along specifically for this purpose, I collected my new-found wealth and proceeded towards the Blackjack table.

I seated myself between two rather strange-looking characters. The woman on my left appeared to be an addicted gambler, but one with plenty of money to spend. A Russian mink coat was draped about her body and her neck was adorned with a string of pearls. In each ear she wore a diamond earring and she had two rings on each hand. Excessive makeup covered her face, although it did little, if anything, to improve her appearance. She was perhaps 40 years old.

The gentleman on my right looked like a villain from a James Bond movie. He was approximately 35 years old and had a long, drooping moustache, slick black hair parted in the center and tiny, almost insidious eyes. He wore a black bow tie with a white cashmere jacket. On the ring finger of his right hand was a large ruby. I felt slightly uncomfortable.

After five minutes of Blackjack I found myself ahead by $100. The woman on my left was doing very poorly, although she seemed to have an infinite supply of money to lose. The sinister-looking man on my right was neither losing nor winning, but had certainly drank his share of liquor. I had $800 in my possession and decided to bet half. I looked at the cards the dealer had placed before me: two aces.

"I'll split," I said to the dealer, pushing another $400 worth of chips towards my cards. I stared in amazement as the dealer placed two kings on top of my two aces.

"Double Blackjack," he shouted. I had just won $1,600. My luck continued throughout the entire game. Within two hours I had accumulated $20,000. Most of the other gamblers had been cleaned out long ago, yet the woman next to me persisted in losing more and more money. It was at this time that the drunken man to my right stumbled away with what little money he had left. 

"I'm going to play the slots," he muttered. "One of those machines is due to hit."

The slots, I thought. That was it. I cashed in my $20,000 worth of chips and sighting a slot machine, I deposited five one-dollar tokens. After ten minutes I had placed $95 worth of tokens into the machine. Depositing the last of $100, I gave the lever a final pull. I walked out of the casino $1,000,000 richer that night. 

I rented a room at the Atlantis and reflected on all that had occurred since Friday night at the Galloping Stallion. The stranger had told the  truth. The talisman of the wolf certainly contained some very potent magic. First my winning the lottery, the $400 from the poker game, the check from the IRS, my new car, the slot machine -it was all very . . . very weird. And that night I had acquired fabulous winnings in the casino. I was never even very good at Blackjack. I had skipped work that day without even notifying my boss. Suddenly, I found myself frightened for the first time. But what was there to worry about? I could go on like this forever. As I drifted off to sleep, I was reminded of something the old man in the bar had told me but I couldn't remember exactly what he had said. Perhaps a warning of some sort . . .

The next day, I decided to give the Atlantis a break and head for home. But something made me go back to the casino. I cashed in my money for chips and sat down at the familiar Blackjack table. 

After two hours of play, I wasn't doing as well as I wanted. What was the matter with the talisman? Finally turning to the dealer, I said, "I've won a million dollars here, so I guess that makes me a high roller. I'd like my own private table, no limits."

The dealer rose from his seat. "Just a moment," he said. A minute later he returned with an oily-looking gentleman. 

"Come with me, sir," said the man. I was promptly lead to a quarter table with seven spots reserved.

Something was terribly amiss that night. After ninety minutes of gambling, my money was disappearing quicker than icicles in August. I was down to my last hand and had a mere $30,000 left. This had to be it. I pushed the entire stack forward. 

"Are you sure about this?" the dealer asked. "That's a lot of . . ."

"It's my money," I snapped. "I know what I'm doing."

The dealer methodically place the first two cards in front of me. A Jack and a five. I was suddenly aware of the sweat running down my temples. 

"Hit me," I said.

He placed another card on the table. It was a three.

"Eighteen," he said. I don't know what happened to me in the next few seconds but some sort of terrible greed overcame me.    


"I'll take another hit," I said almost desperately.

"With eighteen?" the dealer said, amazed. "Are you . . . ?"

"I said hit me!" I hollered back.

Quickly, the dealer placed a fourth card on top of the three. It was an eight.

"Twenty-six," he said calmly. "You're busted."

I watched unbelievably as the dealer collected the remainder of my chips. I had lost. Speechless, I raised myself from the chair and stumbled blindly outside to the parking lot to find my car. It was gone. Then the stranger's words came back to me.

"But you may only profit from it seven times. After that, you must remove it."

So that was it. I had been foiled by greed. That deceitful old villain in the bar. If I ever saw him again . . . Furiously, I reached for the pendant which had hung around my neck for five days. My hands felt nothing but the skin on my throat. I began to walk quickly down the ramp of the parking lot. I froze upon hearing a low growling sound behind me. Very slowly I turned around, almost knowing what to expect.

Twenty feet from where I stood petrified there stood a huge monster. It was five feet tall at the shoulders and must have weighed 1,000 pounds. It stood on all fours, its bushy tail waving back and forth. The bright crimson eyes seemed to burn right through me. It snarled, exposing long white fangs. I wasted no time in fleeing. I ran down the ramp as fast as my meager feet could carry me, which wasn't fast enough. The lupine behemoth was gaining on me. I rushed out of the parking lot and onto the sidewalk, panting like a marathon runner. The wolf was nowhere to be seen. And then I felt the sharp pain in my shoulder. 

Maybe eight hours later I awoke to find myself lying in a hospital bed. Three people were looking down at me. One was unquestionably a police officer; the others were probably a doctor and a nurse.

"Are you all right, son?" asked the policeman. He seemed concerned.

I looked at the three figures surrounding me. 

"Am I alive?" I asked seriously. 

The officer laughed heartily. "Just barely. But tell me, young fellow, who did this to you? Or should I say, what did this to you?"

"Where's the old man?" I mumbled. "Where is he?"

The doctor looked at me quizzically. "You seem to have been attacked by some sort of animal," he said professionally. "Most likely a dog. A very large dog."

"My men found this lying beside you," said the policeman, taking something out of his pocket. "Does this belong to you?"

He held a gold charm in front of my face. Attached to it was a coin with a wolf's head embossed on the front.

"Son?" he said. "Have you ever seen this before?"

"No," I said. "No."

Author's note: I wrote this story circa 1984, and my lack of experience then as a writer shows. Nonetheless, I decided for some reason to preserve it for posterity! 
- A.H.