The
yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The
yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked
its tongue into the corners of the evening,
He
meandered past my window in that devilish fog, chanting quietly to himself in
some heathen tongue. Doctor Henniway told me all about the walking fellow and
his murderous ways. Shameful that in a civilized society men should still be
killing men over trifles. And now Sheriff Hedge had gone mad and shot the
little Vandeusen boy. Such a terrible shame. All this violence. Most certainly
caused by the walking fellow. He had brought trouble with him to this little
town—though we have long deserved chastisement for our sinful name. Blasphemy
and pride! It has called down ruin upon us!
Now what was the stranger doing? Adjusting my spectacles—abominable fog—I leaned forward in my seat. He had bent down in the dust, and was scratching gibberish symbols with a large knife. Slowly he spun in a circle, sketching out more and more runes, still chanting that uncouth tongue.
Now what was the stranger doing? Adjusting my spectacles—abominable fog—I leaned forward in my seat. He had bent down in the dust, and was scratching gibberish symbols with a large knife. Slowly he spun in a circle, sketching out more and more runes, still chanting that uncouth tongue.
For
shame. I prayed to the Lord God for the salvation of his soul.
Stooping
to such abhorrent practices in order to drive out demons was nigh the same as
consorting with Satan itself. Only prayer and fasting could purify the soul and
make it righteous enough to banish the great deceiver.
Certainly
the walking fellow had not been praying or fasting. I had noted his long
excursions to the saloon of that papist McConnell. Drinking and blaspheming, no
doubt. At least McConnell had enough decency not to hire dancing girls.
Adultery would be too much even for such a dissolute, I presume. Had he
attempted to bring such whoredom to our town I should have been forced to speak
out in protest, much though the thought is unwelcome to me.
The Lord knows I have been patient with His lost lambs. It is the task of many
lifetimes to rescue all the straying souls and I am old. But this abomination
could not continue.
Bending
to my Book, I opened its pages. The leaves ruffled open to Exodus: “Thou shalt
not suffer a witch to live.” My purpose was clear. On the wall hung dear
Richard’s scattergun, that he had shown me long ago how to load and fire.
Slowly, so slowly—my old bones!—I shuffled to the fireplace and reached down
Richard’s gun and tamped down the powder and shot and filled the firing pan and
shuffled—slowly, my old bones!—to the door. This town would suffer no more
heathenism. Before the Lord Jehovah I would purify it of evil as a surgeon
removes diseased flesh. As my door opened quietly I breathed a prayer unto
Jesus. “Let my aim be true, oh Lord.”
My
finger tightened around the trigger and the hammer fell with a click. The
walking fellow stood and dusted off his hands. “Not nice to shoot a man in the
back, ma’am. Downright unchristian of ya. Seein’ as I’m ridding your town of a
demon an’ all.”
His
voice was the voice of Satan. A sludge of tar and pain mixed with the jangle of
a whorehouse piano. And then he turned and I beheld the face of evil. The
walking fellow was not an old man. Rather he possessed the prime of manhood.
But it was a dissolute visage, marked with sin and unchecked passion. Unshaven
hair matted upon his jaw and his eyes bore the faraway look of one who has
gazed upon mysteries beyond comprehension. Not pleasant mysteries, either.
Such
a man could bode no good for anyone. I clutched the dangling cross upon my
bosom.
“Crosses
don’t work on me, lady. I ain’t Ol’ Luke Scratch. Though I rode with him once.”
The walking fellow glanced down at his scribblings in the dust and nodded.
A
sudden howl broke the town’s stillness. Beloved Richard’s scattergun fell from
my nerveless fingers. With a laugh, the walking fellow stood ramrod-straight
and spread his arms in invitation. “Come on then, Beelzebub, or whatever your
name is! Get out here an’ play! Dontcha wanna play a gaaaaaaaaame?”
Laughing
blasphemy! Surely he was a child of the great deceiver. To linger out in this
place would be unhealthy. Slowly—my old bones!—I limped back indoors. Once
inside, curiosity—oh, sin of my youth!—prompted me to peer through the window.
It was my duty to note what transpired. To chronicle the wages of sin and
devilry. My burden.
The
ticking grandfather clock—Beloved Richard’s handiwork—marked passing time.
Seventeen times its pendulum swung. Outside the walking fellow waited, palm
hovering over pistol butt.
At
first my ears—oh, so old!—tricked me into believing it was a far-off stampede. But
then my eyes—not so old as my ears, ah!—saw the tide of horror. Vermin. Vermin
of every shape and kind. Rats and snakes and cockroaches and locusts crawling
and jumping and slithering and swarming altogether in a tidal mass. Once as a
child I saw the Atlantic Ocean crash in over massive rocks. So this wave of
abominable creatures seemed to me—all gnashing and hissing and foul.
As
seawater had broken on jagged reefs did the filthy things sweep around the
walking fellow’s ring of glyphs. Inside his protective circle he laughed again.
“’Tis the time o’ plagues, when madmen lead the blind!”
Oh!
Such blasphemy in a Christian nation. Truly these were the end times when evil
would compass the earth.
Once
again the rush of vermin swirled around the walking fellow, before coalescing
into—my old eyes! Surely I was deceived!—into a man. Short and stout, draped in
a ragged cloak of purple as a king of old, he bore the innumerable lesions and
boils of a leper. As my old eyes—so old!—strained I caught a glimpse of the
vermin-king plucking a maggot from his hair and dropping it into a maw filled
with broken, rotten teeth.
The
walking fellow chuckled. “And the worm turns, huh? How’s Papa doing these days,
Aplu? Been busy spreading yellow jack and scarlet fever, has he? What brings
you out here? Fall out of favor?”
Silently,
the vermin-king, Aplu, strode forward, to the very edge of the circle defined
by the walking fellow’s scribbling. Roaches and rats fell from beneath his
purple garb with every step. I breathed a prayer to the Lord. Through dusty
glass, I saw Aplu’s head turn slowly, inexorably, toward me. Words of
supplication caught in my craw. There was nothing but my bare soul and the
demon Aplu in all the world. I felt my soul laid bare.
As
if moving underwater, the walking fellow drew and fired. Each hunk of lead
impacted squarely into Aplu’s pimpled forehead, snapping back the demon’s head
once-twice-thrice. Aplu howled. The glass of my spectacles shattered.
When,
at long last—my old bones!—I struggled to my feet, Aplu in his purple robe had
disappeared. Only the walking fellow, draped in a white dustcoat, stood kicking
at the dust where his protective circle had been etched. The sky above had
cleared. No more purple fog loomed threatening. “The Lord works in mysterious
ways.”
Addendums
Shopkeeper’s
note found in old general goods store, Hell, Nevada
“Supplied unknown personage with 60 rounds of pistol
ammunition, 60 rounds of rifle ammunition, one Henry Repeating Rifle, misc.
food supplies, at expense of Deputy Festus Rothmeyer. Charge: $45.”
Scrap
of newsprint found in Hell, Nevada, saloon
“We are pleased to announce that Sheriff Bradleyson
has recovered from his fit of delirium and subsequent illness. He will not be
charged for the shooting of James Vandeusen.”
