Bogannon’s batwings squeaked, and a lean, middle-aged man with a badge and a strapped-down six-gun strode in.
“Winters!” exclaimed Bogie. “Come in and meet a new friend of mine.”
Winters approached, stopped, lifted hands to hips and stared at Aloysius McGuffy. “There’s usually a jinx on your new friends, Doc. What’s wrong with this one?”
Bogie leaned on his bar and smiled broadly. “Deputy Winters, this is Aloysius McGuffy. If I should undertake to characterize him—which I don’t, of course—I’d say he is a most excellent man who is hard to please.”
Winters moved up and planked down a coin. “Maybe a glass of wine would help his disposition. Fill ’em up, Doc; both on me.”
Bogie filled two glasses with sparkling red wine. He slid one to Winters, one toward McGuffy. “Step right up, McGuffy. When Deputy Winters indulges in generosity, it’s big-heartedness at its best, indeed—without a flaw or blemish.”
McGuffy stepped forward with alacrity and lifted his glass. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that; basically, all human behavior is selfish.”
Winters sipped leisurely. “Good wine, though.” McGuffy held his glass toward a light and stuck out his lips in contempt. “Far from pure vintage, I’d say; nothing to compare with madeira. Burgundy is far superior. Champagne, port, hock, sherry—all are much better. This, I would surmise, is merely a cheap grade of claret. Of course Winters is generous—as that term is vulgarly used—but generous with what?” He drank and put down his empty glass. “Generous with what, in ordinary circumstances, I would disdain to touch.”
Winters drained his glass and set it aside. “You know, Doc, when I was a button down in Texas, there was a neighbor boy just like this here McGuffy. At table, when there was fried chicken, he always grabbed for best pieces. Even so, he wasn’t satisfied. There’s just something in McGuffy makes me think of that wishbone-breast-gizzard-grabber.”
Aloysius McGuffy, unused to reminder of imperfection on his own part, backed away in sudden wrath. “I will not be criticized by a bottom-strata, dust-ridden, desert varmint—here or elsewhere. Especially will I not be criticized by an arrogant, overlording deputy-marshal. I dislike deputy-marshals instinctively.
“It is a peculiar thing I have consistently observed about them. They are products of an amazing transformation. You can take a fellow of most ordinary makeup and ability, put a deputy-marshal badge on his chest, a few legal papers in his pocket, a six-gun on his hip, and he is no longer an ordinary mortal. Suddenly he is a giant who moves astride this narrow world like a Colossus. Imperfection it is—imperfection magnified a thousand fold. A magnitudinous manifestation of that inherent arrogance and evil—”
“Enough,” snapped Winters. “I know when I’m beat; goodnight, Doc.” Winters swung on his heels and made a hurried retreat.
Bogie leaned back again and folded his arms. This Aloysius McGuffy intrigued him, as had so many queer ducks before him. To many of them, Forlorn Gap had been a crossroads of destiny. Some here had departed from accustomed ways, to become earthly saints or unmitigated sinners. Not a few here had their natural or acquired evil tendencies brought to their natural and logical conclusions. Bogie wished—in vain, of course— for a prophetic eye: he would have liked to foresee McGuffy’s future, and McGuffy’s end.
But a stranger rose from a back table and flapped forward like a blanket in a stiff wind. Now, here was a character, thought Doc, if ever one there was. He was big—bigger than Doc himself—dark, wearing a big black hat whose stiffness had long since departed. Most noticeable, however, of all of his qualities was his overall flabbiness, evident in face, mouth, skin, and joints. Inseparable from that looseness of texture, too, was a flabby imitation of genial spirit.
He moved straight to Aloysius McGuffy and put a big arm about his shoulders, deceptive friendliness wrapping itself around McGuffy as something warm and protective against a frigid world. “Brother to my heart,” said a voice, full of richness and melody. “I am Professor Whitson Pettigrew, lecturer, philosopher and philanthropist. I overheard your learned, observant remarks, McGuffy; they touched me deeply. I, too, have been to Boston, city of industry, commerce and culture. I, too, became a skeptic; for a time I lost contact with all things that lent joy to living. Yet, after a bitter struggle—and as all true artists should do—I found again that which was lost.” Pettigrew glanced at Bogie. “Two glasses of wine, Bogannon. As I was befriended in my darkest hour, so must I befriend this wise, good man. McGuffy is an unhappy captive of fate; I have been designated by a higher destiny as McGuffy’s angel of deliverance.”
Bogie filled two glasses and took his pay. In McGuffy he discerned birth of a new spirit, surcease of trouble, contentment after sorrow. A cat in similar situation, thought Bogie, would have begun to purr.
In Whit Pettigrew, Bogie detected a contradiction of qualities. Friendliness— insincerity. Generosity—leonine voracity. If Pettigrew had suddenly gobbled up his charmed captive, Bogie would have been surprised, though not bewildered. Professor Pettigrew was a consummate actor. Bogie himself felt a hypnotic tug; slightly shaken, he grabbed a bar-rag and moved out of range.
A moment later his batwings swung out. McGuffy, under Pettigrew’s gentle guidance, was leaving. Bogie shook his head; he was glad it was McGuffy, not he, who was leaving in such weird company.
Outside, Pettigrew drew McGuffy’s arm under his own. “Your remarks, McGuffy, about sunsets and sweeping clouds, were divine. With your reasonable cooperation, I shall show you how to ride upon a cloud and live forever in sunset glory. You, I happen to know, have much money on your person, but it means nothing to you; it is only a part of that mundane imperfection which has brought you disillusionment, unfitted you for life among creatures of blemish and sordid aims. Stars should be your companions, your abode a realm of untarnished blue.”
Night-wind brushed McGuffy’s warm cheeks and cooled them. Fascination slowly yielded to his acquired fixation of fault-finding. As Pettigrew’s oily tongue raced along, McGuffy began to think of his companion as a windbag who was not to be trusted. Uneasiness increased when he realized they were passing along an unlighted street—now and then in moonlight, but mostly in shadow. Of Bogannon’s saloon, they’d passed out of sight; Goodlett’s porch lamp grew dim.
Suddenly McGuffy stopped, pulled against Pettigrew’s clamping arm. “All this rosy palaver is missing its objective, whatever it is. Something warns me that I should go back; so…goodnight.”
McGuffy gave his arm a jerk.
But Pettigrew held it tight. “Now, now, sir. Of course I would not deny your wish to do as you please, but do allow me to release you like a gentleman.” He relaxed his hold, and McGuffy sighed. But something had moved behind them; something tapped McGuffy’s head, not crushingly, but hard enough to weaken his knees.
He had a sinking sensation, then one of being carried into a building and down a stairway. He regained full consciousness in a lighted cellar, but only to find himself unclothed and strapped securely on his back on a long, narrow workbench. He tried to speak, but discovered he could not; he’d been gagged. He turned his head sideways and saw Professor Pettigrew seated on a tall, sturdy wooden stool.
Pettigrew’s flabby lips moved loosely. “You should not have trusted me at all, McGuffy; else, you should have trusted me more.” His voice was low, but minus its former rich melody. Pettigrew glanced up and nodded.
McGuffy’s eyes followed that glance. What he saw filled him with horror. It hardly looked human—but it had to be, of course. He was a man with long legs, short torso, huge lumpy shoulders, and a small