Part 38 (1/2)

Well, he looked peculiar but harmless, a heavy chap with a red nose and white beard, his head topped with a bowler hat that had two white feathers swooping up from its band, one at each side. Golden hoops hung from his ears. He wore a leather s.h.i.+rt that s.h.i.+vered all over with fringe. It was cinched in around his huge belly by a beaded belt. He didn't wear a pistol, but a rather large knife was sheathed at his hip. His trouser legs were tucked into high moccasins that nearly beat his s.h.i.+rt for all their fringe.

I judged the sensible thing might be to stay out of his reach.

Besides, a blanket draped the opening behind him, so I couldn't see into the wagon. No telling who might be back there, laying low.

”I'll keep to my mount, but thank you for the offer.”

”I'm on my way to Tucson, myself,” he said. ”What about you?”

It didn't seem wise to tell him my plans. ”Just touring about, I reckon.”

”Beware the heathen, barren place of lawless men and savage race.”

”Not Shakespeare, is it?”

”Lazarus.”

”You're a poet, then?”

”Poet and purveyor of the Glory Elixir.”

I wanted no truck with his Glory Elixir, so I asked, ”Did you encounter a pair of rascals, earlier?”

He let out a soft chuckle.

”I do hope they did you no mischief.”

”They beat a quick retreat at the sight of my friend, Buster.” He reached down by his feet and hoisted a shotgun. Its barrels were cut off short, just in front of the forestock. ”Buster.”

I half expected him to point it at me, but he stowed it away.

”Buster's sent many a miscreant to glory,” he said. ”When he gets done with them, they're well beyond the aid of my Elixir.”

I couldn't help but smile at that. ”Doesn't it vanquish death, then, after all?”

”Why, it most surely does, Trevor. However, the vital revivification of the deceased is greatly impeded by the destruction of his anatomy. That is to say, it don't work worth spit if I've blown off the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's head.”

Now that I'd been hauled into this talk of death and the merits of Lazarus's flimflam Elixir, it all didn't seem so grim. ”If a bloke's anatomy wasn't destroyed some,” I allowed, ”he wouldn't likely be dead in the first place.”

”All depends, my friend. Depends on how much is intact and how much is demolished.”

”If a chap's dead, he's dead. This Glory Elixir of yours won't change that.”

”There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio...”

”I might look like a fool, Dr. Lazarus, but I don't regularly think like one.”

Well, he pulled back on the reins and halted his team.

”I tell you what, Trevor. Just suppose I give you proof, right before your very eyes, that my Glory Elixir has the power to raise the dead?”

”Reckon I'd purchase a bottle,” I said, shaking my head. He couldn't prove any such thing, and I knew it. Still and all, as he climbed down and I followed him toward the rear of the wagon, I found myself wondering whether I could backtrack to the place I'd buried McSween and the boys. And I wondered if they were shot up too much for the Elixir to work on them. Then I wondered if I should buy enough to raise the other eleven. That'd be the proper thing to do, but I judged they might try to shoot us all over again, and then I took a mind to kick myself for allowing such thickheaded notions. No amount of Glory Elixir could fix any one of those fellows.

Be that as it was, I'd worked up a powerful curiosity to see the old fellow's proof.

He let down the gate at the back of his wagon, then crawled in under the blanket. The wagon shook some as he scurried about inside. Then came a sc.r.a.py, dragging sound.

”Lend me a hand,” he called from inside.

I dismounted. By the time I got done tying General to a bolt at the back of the wagon, the blanket was abulge with Lazarus. He jumped to the ground, hauling at the end of a wooden box. A pint bottle of Elixir was standing atop the box, its red fluid slos.h.i.+ng about.

He stopped pulling, grabbed the bottle, and tossed it to me. Then he went on dragging. More and more of the box slid into sight.

”What have you there?” I asked, though I could sure see what it looked like.

”A casket. Be a good lad and take the other end.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN.

Lazarus and the Dead Man My curiosity shrank some. I didn't hanker to see what might be inside the casket. But I slipped the bottle into my pocket and did as he asked. When I got close, I had to hold my breath so as to avoid the sickening aroma in the air.

My end of the box was so heavy I near dropped it, but I managed to hang on until we got it lowered into the dust behind the wagon. Then I stepped back a few paces to get clear of the odor.

The hard work must've tuckered out Lazarus, for he sat down on the casket. He plucked a kerchief out of his trouser pocket and mopped his brow.

”You have a corpse in there, do you?” I asked.

He answered with a wink.

”Be a good lad and pa.s.s me the Elixir,” he said.

I handed over the bottle. He uncorked it, took a swig, and sighed. ”Good for what ails you. Have a drop yourself,” he said, and held it toward me.

I shook my head. ”I reckon I'll move on. I've seen my share of dead folks.”

”Nothing to fret yourself over. He's in pa.s.sable shape. He don't even stink much, long as you stand upwind. It was only two days ago I cut him down.”

”Cut him down?”

”He's a fellow who threw a long rope and wound up at the end of a short one.”

”Threw a long rope?”

”A rustler. Cattle. Only his luck ran dry, and he was strung up by the ranch hands that nabbed him. I arrived upon the scene purely by happenstance, in the very nick of time to watch him swing. It was a stroke of wonderful good fortune. Very difficult, you see, to find a healthy subject for revivification.”

He took a few more swallows of the Elixir. ”A lynching's just the thing. If a fellow's hanged proper from a gallows, you see, his neck gets itself snapped. Stretched considerable, too. That's if he don't drop too far and get his head popped off altogether. Either way, the fellow ain't fit. I've brought back a few that had their necks busted, and they pretty much put off my customers, how they stumbled about with their heads all wobbly. But you take a feller that's gotten lynched, he's generally been choked to death so his neck's in fine shape. That's how it went with this one. Choked. Strangulated.” He rapped his bottle against the top of the casket. ”Right off, I knew I had to have him. The ranch boys didn't want me to take him, as they preferred to let him dangle as a lesson for others of his ilk. But I paid them a dollar, and they allowed me to cut him down.”