Webb's Weird Wild West. Don Webb
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 1986, 1987, 1988, 1990, 1991, 1993, 1994, 1999, 2011 by Don Webb
[“Acknowledgments” shall constitute an extension of this copyright page]
Published by Wildside Press LLC
www.wildsidebooks.com
DEDICATION
For Gardner Dozois,
Who Gave Me Tons of Confidence
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
These stories were previously published as follows, and are reprinted (with some editing, updating, and textual modifications) with the permission of the author:
“Jesse Revenged” in Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, Vol. 10, No. 12 (Dec 1986); reprinted in Isaac Asimov’s SF-Lite Bantam-Doubleday-Dell (1993). Copyright © 1986, 1993, 2011 by Don Webb.
“A Note to His Publisher” in the hardback anthology, Copper Star, distributed as part of the 1991 World Fantasy Convention. Copyright © 1991, 2011 by Don Webb.
“Seven Four Planting” in a limited edition surplus book with The Bestseller and Other Stories, Chris Drumm Books (1993). Copyright © 1993, 2011 by Don Webb.
“Innocents Abroad” in Blood from Stones (Fall 1999). Copyright © 1999, 2011 by Don Webb.
“A Half-Dime Adventure” in Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, Vol. 14, No 10 (Oct. 1990). Copyright © 1990, 2011 by Don Webb.
“Billy Hauser” in Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, Vol. 15, No. 14 (December 1991). Copyright © 1991, 2011 by Don Webb.
“Common Superstitions” in Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, Vol. 12, No. 10 (Oct. 1988). Copyright © 1988, 2011 by Don Webb.
“Sabbath of the Zeppelins” in Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine (April 1994). Copyright © 1994, 2011 by Don Webb.
“Gravy Run” in Truckers/USA (the Nation’s News Weekly for the Trucking Industry) Vol. 4, No. 45 (Nov. 3, 1987). Copyright © 1987, 2011 by Don Webb.
“The Martian Spring of Dr. Woodard” in New Pathways #16 (July 1990). Copyright © 1990, 2011 by Don Webb.
“Night of a Thousand Eyes” and “A Rune for Rebirth” are published here for the first time. Copyright © 2011 by Don Webb.
JESSE REVENGED
The community of Oneida had become Amarillo, Tascosa was beginning to fade into the dust, and a few weeks ago Admiral Sampson blockaded the navy of Admiral Cervera in Santiago Bay. It was the summer of 1898. Robert Ford, the man who shot Jesse James in the back, had left the Ozarks and moved to Amarillo. He lived in the third floor of the yellow-painted wooden Amarillo Hotel. He’d changed his name to Aubrey Sorrentino and affected an Italian accent.
He sits on the wide porch of the Amarillo and slowly fans himself. Lesser men would’ve been blinded by the gleam from his refulgent ebon leather boots. But Aubrey sits with his boots up, face lit by the black light, and sips very slowly a Texas Tumbleweed.
Aubrey doesn’t know that his doom is already coming by train from California.
He’s plotting how to extend his hotel bill. Maybe he’ll borrow money from a wealthy rancher using his phony Count title and his phony Old World charm. The reward money from shooting Jesse seventeen years ago has long since been converted to wine, women, and song. He’ll have another cigar by and by.
Heavy rain last night and the ridiculous wooden cobbles the city bought in the spring have begun to swell. Every now and then one pops out of the grid shooting eight or ten feet into the air. The horses hitched in front of the hotel are getting a mite skittish. Aubrey wishes it were cooler.
In California having completed his lecture on philosophical conceptions and practical results William James boarded an eastbound train. His brother Henry had arrived a week before ostensibly to autograph copies of just-released In the Cage at a Navajo bookstore in nearby Arizona. They had a private car.
William didn’t speak to Henry until they passed through Tombstone. He’d just corrected proofs of Human Immortality. He was still peeved at Henry for siding with Frank and against him on the ideas of the specious present. In Tombstone he recited the James brothers creed to break the silence, “Never rob from a friend, a Southerner, a preacher, or a widow. Amen.”
“Amen,” said Henry.
Henry opened up a small hand-tooled leather valise. Inside were two pairs of pearl-handled revolvers. One pair had been Jesse’s, the other was Frank’s who was too old for this. Henry handed Jesse’s guns to William.
William said, “I see you’re already interested in the dense symbolism and complicated characterization that will come to dominate your later work.”
Henry nodded grimly.
As the warm stars of the Panhandle night begin to shine through the lavender and orange Texas sunset, Aubrey makes his way to his room. He opens his last bottle of Kentucky bourbon and dips his pen in the inkwell the Chinese boy had brought. The two civilizing claims that the six-year-old city of Amarillo has are a five-story hotel and two Chinese gofers, Joe Fong Yang and Joe Fong Yin. Aubrey begins the 37th chapter of his autobiography, Robert Ford My Story. Aubrey writes, “To Carthage I come, where a cauldron of unholy loves sang about my ears. Since I had developed elephantiasis in my testicles six months ago in New Orleans I was tone-deaf. So I went to Amarillo.” He is referring to Carthage, Texas but the words—at least the first string of them—are St. Augustine’s. The man who shot Jesse James in the back is not above plagiarism. Aubrey takes a long swig of bourbon and decides to stretch his legs. He locks his bio carefully away in a Confederate Army strongbox.
When Aubrey reaches the door of the Amarillo no more sunset remains. He walks toward the depot, a thousand schemes hatching in his brain. A swarthy man lights a kerosene lamp in front of a buffalo hide tent.
MADAME ROSA
Reader and Adviser
Palm—Head—Cards Read
The tent’s new. The hides smell and look a little stiff. Aubrey walks up to the swarthy man. “How much?”
“Palm read ten cents. Head read ten cents. Cards read fifteen cents. Triple reading thirty cents.”
Aubrey hands the man a quarter and a nickel. The man sticks his head through the folds and says, “Triple reading.” Aubrey enters. The man walks up the street toward the saloon.
Rosa an ancient and enigmatic gypsy quietly and efficiently does the three readings. Across the candles she stares sad and sullen at the elderly stranger. Finally she says, “You’ve got troubles.”
“Like what?”
“Like death. I can see in your palm that someone’s coming to kill you. Someone influenced by the novels of Ivan Turgenev. Someone who’s an excellent marksman and a damn fine writer.”
Aubrey feels his bowels turn into cold aspic. He’s naked without a gun belt. But he still appreciates the value of money, he’ll get his thirty cents worth. He asks Rosa, “This someone, does he come alone?”
“No. I feel he’s traveling with an older bearded man. An older man who distrusts all monistic absolutisms.”
“Anyone else?”
“No. Just the two. Coming from the direction of the setting sun.”
Aubrey knew the first man was Henry, the writer. The second could be either Frank or William. Both were good shots—maybe as good as Jesse. He couldn’t remember if the subject of monistic absolutisms came up when they were planning bank jobs.
“Are they going to kill me?”
“They’ll try. I think the younger one will succeed.”
“But