Winters used his hands to remove his hat and wipe sweat from his forehead. He never shook hands with Doc’s new friends; he didn’t like to shake with a man he might later have to shoot. “We’ve met already, Doc.”
“Ah,” said Bogie. “I didn’t know that.” Winters fumbled in his pockets, found an object and flipped it to Bogie. “I bought that off your friend Mosely in Elkhorn Pass. Take a look.”
Bogie took off its wrapping of oiled paper and smelled. “Well,” he exclaimed good-humoredly, “if you’ll pardon my saying so, it looks like soap.”
“Yeah,” drawled Winters. “Looks like a chip of old Granny Hannah Hibbett’s hard lye soap.”
Spurlock Mosely spun a silver dollar and snatched his article of sale from Bogannon. “I refuse to be regarded as a cheat. Any time I sell something, I stand behind it; there’s your dollar, Winters.”
“Now, now, no hard feelings,” Bogannon said placatingly. He went for another glass and poured wine all around.
Winters sipped lightly. With a mild shudder he noted that Mosely was staring at his head, particularly its upper half. He turned quickly to Bogie. “Anything of interest happened lately?”
Bogie Shook his head, then reversed himself. “Why, yes, I almost forgot. Early this evening Mrs. Hodge stepped into my saloon. An unprecedented thing, having a woman come in, a good looking one at that. ‘Has anybody here seen Orand Hodge?’ she asked, staring around like a person abstracted. Nobody answered, except that I answered for everybody, including myself. ‘What do you mean, Mrs. Hodge?’ I asked. She stared at me. ‘Why, didn’t you know? Orand has disappeared.’ Who hasn’t, I thought, though I didn’t say so.”
“As a matter of fact, who has disappeared?” asked Winters icily.
“I imagine people come and go quite regularly,” observed Spurlock Mosely. “They do,” said Bogie.
Winters glanced about. No one else was present. “What became of that gloomy-faced monkey, Doc? Name was Rat’s-vein Crowhop, or something like.” Doc reflected. “Oh, you mean Thackery Baine Winthrop. Why, he’s been gone ages. Left one evening with you, Mosely, didn’t he?”
“Winthrop?” said Mosely. “Yes, I recall that he did. Wanted to buy some of my great medicine. I gave him some—a generous supply. Have heard no more from him.”
“Medicine?” said Winters. “Not some more of Hibbett’s soap, I hope?”
Mosely had taken out a bottle. After a bit of search he found some cotton, sprinkled onto it a few drops of liquid, pretended to smell. He passed his cotton to Winters. “Nothing deceptive or fraudulent about that, Winters. Take a whiff.”
Winters pretended to smell, but didn’t. Nevertheless he caught a peculiar, sweet odor. “What is it?”
“Chloroform.”
“What’s it for?”
“It is used in surgery; makes an operation absolutely painless.”
Winters again observed that Mosely stared at his head. “Why do you look at me like that, Mosely?”
“I was merely admiring your beautiful hair. My only brother, Sir Jared Mosely, had hair like that, thick and sort of crinkly.” He slid back his chair. “Well, gentlemen, I’ve had a pleasant evening, but all good things must end. Goodnight.” He started out, stopped abruptly and came back. “Who was that you were speaking of a moment ago?”
“Winthrop,” said Bogie.
“No, there was another.”
“Hodge,” said Bogie. “Orand Hodge.” Mosely squeezed his chin. “I just happened to remember something. I believe I know where he’s hiding. If either of you would care to take a short ride, I’d show you where to find him.”
Winters slapped his hat on. Having his beautiful, crinkly hair stared at was getting to be uncomfortable. “I’ll ride with you.” He got up and tramped out, nodding to Mosely to come along. Mosely, exalted by what Bogie analyzed as a feeling of anticipated conquest, strode grandly after him.
Then it was that Doc Bogannon had a premonition. He recalled that a glib-tongued traveling salesman had departed with Spurlock Mosely. He recalled that Orand Hodge had departed with this same Spurlock Mosely. He recalled, also, that Thackery Baine Winthrop—
He sprang up. “Winters!”
He rushed out and looked in every direction. “Winters!”
But they were gone.
* * * *
Winters and Mosely rode southwestward across Alkali Flat. Mountains lay in that direction, and canyon walls that closed about them, towered darkly above them. By starlight Mosely and his horse loomed as shadows, more ghostly than substantial, but soft thuds on Alkali Flat had changed to clatter of iron-shod hoofs where canyon rocks replaced desert alkali and sand. Echoes from curving walls broke every sound into fragments, and Winters’ nerves jangled with every crackle.
“Well, here we are,” said Mosely, halting before an arched cliff-opening. He dismounted. “Here, I am confident, you will find Orand Hodge, or what is left of him.”
Winters felt sweat pop out. “What is left of him?”
“Oh,” said Mosely casually—much too casually—“after such a long absence from his natural habitat, you would expect some change in him, would you not? Get down, Winters; methinks I see a light back there.”
Winters glanced warily about but saw nothing to be scared of. He swung down, held onto Cannon Ball’s reins until he noticed that Mosely had ground-hitched, when he let go and followed his escort.
“You seem familiar with this place, Mosely.”
“Many places have known my presence—and felt my touch,” said Mosely.
What kind of touch, Winters wondered? He did not advance with as brisk confidence as marked Mosely’s progress, though their way was over a smooth, hard floor, illuminated dimly by light diffused from beyond a bend. He kept both an ear and an eye to rear and a gunhand alert.
“You wouldn’t be holding Orand Hodge a prisoner here, would you, Mosely?”
“Prisoner? Far from it. Dark portals, Winters, are not always pathways to prison; sometimes they lead to freedom. A new, strange kind of freedom, perhaps, yet freedom. And here we are again.” They stopped. A brilliantly lighted and oddly furnished cavern opened before them. “My laboratory, Winters. My hospital, my operating room.” He turned, looked intently at Winters and added, “And my patient.”
“Oh, that is quite right,” said a new voice.
Winters had heard or seen no one else. He had been cautious, too; at least he’d thought so. But Spurlock Mosely had seemed so carefree, so incautious, that Winters realized too late how extremely careless he himself had in fact been. Somewhere somebody had stepped behind him and now had a gun in his back.
“My, best advice, Winters,” said Mosely, “is that you lift your hands. We do not intend to kill you; that would defeat our purposes, but you could easily force us to immediate desperation.”
“And do take off your hat,” said that new, spooky voice. “I am so anxious to see your lovely hair. No, no, my friend; I shall remove it for you.”
“It is my brother, Sir Jared Mosely, who speaks to you,” said Spurlock Mosely. “Like myself, he is a famous surgeon. Don’t look just yet, because if you make a wrong move—”
Winters did not lift his hands. He felt a jab in his back, heard a sixgun click to