The Weird West: Three Weird Western Short Stories by William Meikle

Author:William Meikle [Meikle, William]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-06-12T04:00:00+00:00

The Pastor came out of it slowly, aware that someone else was now speaking to him, but at first the accent sounded strange and uncouth after the soft Spanish from the dream.

“I said, are ye all right Pastor? You gave me a hell of a fricht.”

He looked up into Old Jock’s face, only then becoming aware that he was lying on his back on the ground. He sat up, too fast, and the world swam around him. He tried again, slower this time, and managed to get carefully to his feet, helped by Jock giving him a shoulder to lean on. He looked down into the ravine.

It was empty of people, no sign of either miners or skeletons.

“What happened?” the Pastor said.

“I was hoping you would tell me,” Jock replied. “Them haunts were running down the miners, you commanded them to stop, and the next thing anybody knew the haunts were heading back up the hill and you were flat on your back on the ground here.”

The Pastor’s head was clearing slowly, but he could still hear that soft Spanish voice in his head.

Dear Lord, give us rest.

“Where are the miners now?”

Jock pointed down to the village.

“They’ve called a town meeting. I think they mean to go back up the hill and do something about the haunts.”

The Pastor laughed.

“What, kill them you mean?” He started to walk down the hill. “Come on. If there is a meeting, then I have something to say.”

He strode off, leaving Jock to follow behind as quickly as he could manage.

There was indeed a meeting in progress. The youths – the same bunch who had heckled so loudly at his sermon the day before, seemed to be holding forth, loudly and obviously drunkenly.

“I say we go up there and show them who the boss is around these parts,” the ringleader shouted, and to the Pastor’s dismay there was much drunken agreement in the crowd. He pushed his way to the front.

“And what will you do when you get there? These are troubled souls. They need to be met with the Lord’s voice, not violence.”

The ringleader turned, spittle flecking his lips.

“Violence is it? Haven’t they already killed young John Sommers? You yourself brought the body down.”

That drew more shouts of agreement in the crowd.

I’m losing them.

“That lad died from his own misuse of powder. Whatever these… these skeletons, might be, all they want is to be left alone to make their peace with the Lord,” the Pastor said.

The youths all laughed at that.

“And I suppose you’ve been talking to them Pastor? How’s that working for you?”

The crowd laughed along loudly. Whisky bottles were being passed freely, as were rifles and ammunition. The Pastor was pushed aside.

“You can say your prayers when we’re done,” the leader of the youths said. “Your holy-joe shite won’t be needed until then.”

And with that the Pastor and old Jock were left alone. It seemed that almost everyone else had fallen in with the youth’s plan. A drunken mob, little more than a rabble with rifles, started to climb the slope out of town.

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