A Fistful of Horror - Tales Of Terror From The Old West by Kevin G. Bufton (Editor) Read Free Book Online

she whispered the words, “This is what I fear…”
    “You ready, El Lobo?”
    The figure across the way nods his head. The wide brim of his hat still shadows his face. Grayson likes to see a man's eyes before he kills him. He frowns. In the whole town there is not a sound, not even an insect. Grayson feels eyes on them, watching and waiting for the outcome of this duel. He flexes his fingers, aware of each muscle and tendon in his hand.
    “Then draw.”
    He’s fast, but El Lobo is faster. Three shots ring out before Grayson fires his first. El Lobo’s gun empties and clicks on spent cartridges. Grayson looks down at himself and laughs. El Lobo missed.
    Rosita hadn’t wanted to let him go in the morning. She clung to him as he washed his face in the chipped enamel basin. He had to pry her away so he could put on his shirt.
    “You’ll see, Rosita. I don’t plan on dying today.”
    Dark liquid eyes stared up at him. “No matter who dies, El Lobo always wins.”
    He chuckled, and then started as he felt something slip around his neck. A silver crucifix, on a thin metal chain. Rosita kissed his forehead.
    “For luck, Señor Orestes.”
    It seems Grayson didn’t need luck. He walks over to the fallen man. Blood seeps from his heart and stains his shirt a dark brown. The hat is blowing down the street, but Grayson gives it scant notice. He blinks to make sure he’s seeing right. He hadn’t expected El Lobo to be a kid, but a baby face stares up at him. Dirty blond hair half-covers hazel eyes.
    In death, El Lobo smiles.
    Grayson looks back up the street. His frown deepens. There are holes in the three upstairs windows of the saloon. The undertaker’s sign still swings, two holes in the wood. That leaves El Lobo’s sixth bullet.
    A horse lies on the ground outside the saloon. Grayson’s horse. He thinks of Rosita’s warning. Did El Lobo miss, or did he hit exactly what he aimed for?
    Grayson spits on the ground. Questions don’t feed an empty stomach or buy a new horse. He turns back to El Lobo and kicks at his hand. It doesn’t want to release the gun.
    “Promise me one thing, Señor.”
    Grayson turned as he buckled on his gunbelt. He smiled, though the smile didn’t touch his eyes. Promises made to saloon girls were worth about as much as promises made by saloon girls.
    Rosita went on even though he said nothing. “Promise me you won’t take El Lobo’s gun.”
    Grayson blinked. That was the condition of his bounty. Whether El Lobo was dead or alive, he had to bring in the gun or he didn’t get paid.
    Rosita tugged at his pants leg. “Promise me you won’t touch El Lobo’s gun.”
    Grayson looks down at the revolver in El Lobo’s hand. It’s as big as a Colt 45, long barrel, with something engraved on the blue-grey steel. The handle is mother-of-pearl with an intricate inlay that looks like real gold. A lacework design, or maybe a spider web. The design moves as Grayson studies it. It is like a thread, drawing him into a maze of shifting walls. It is the dancing lace on the stocking of a whore, beckoning him towards mysteries and pleasures unknown.
    He pinches the bridge of his nose. He must be tired. The sooner he gets the gun the sooner he can get out of this shit-hole of a town. He unbuckles the kid’s gunbelt, slings it over his shoulder, and then he pries the gun from his fingers.
    There’s a web of burns on the kid’s palm that matches the inlay of the gun. Grayson frowns and tests the feel of the handle. Something stings his hand. He cries out and opens his fingers to drop the gun.
    The gun stays firmly planted against his palm. He feels the gold filigree press into the flesh of his palm, enter his veins, follow their courses to his heart, to his brain. The web of the gun stabs into him. He sinks to his knees and screams.
    An abyss opens before Grayson. He falls, faster than a racehorse, faster than a steam engine. Stars fly past him. He is on fire. He burns, but he is not consumed.
    He