Free A Fistful of Horror - Tales Of Terror From The Old West by Kevin G. Bufton (Editor)

boots.
    Seamus, drunk as he was, noticed the quiet of his newest Gerrold. He paused halfway through tying the rope around his feet, his heavy breathing intermingling with the muttering of Ira. Seamus was bothered by the calm acceptance. Although dark, the Gerrold’s stare seethed with hatred as hot as coals and he strained to make out what he was muttering. Seamus would never admit fear but the muttering of the Gerrold did cause the hair to straighten on the back of his neck and tingle all along his scalp. It was disconcerting.
    “What are you saying Gerrold?”
    The muttering increased in volume.
    Seamus finished tying off the Gerrold, gathered the rest of the rope and loped off. He looked back over his shoulder, unnerved by the muttering. He tried to keep his mind on the task at hand but as he brought his horse over the tingling intensified and pulled at the little hairs on his arms, undulating under his beard. He usually enjoyed the mounting terror of the Gerrolds, their pleading was pleasing. His brain was too fuzzy to articulate what he was feeling now but he knew it wasn’t pleasant. It was getting to be downright uncomfortable. He didn’t want to drag this one out, sup on the fear as deep as he did whiskey. He wanted to get this one over with. It didn’t feel right.
    His hands shook as tried to toss the rope over the thick branch. It took him four tries and all the time the Gerrold’s words continued and his hair raising intensified. Seamus’ brow beaded with sweat as he tied the rope to the saddle. The cool breeze caused a reflexive shiver to pass through him. He urged the horse forward and the Gerrold rose, muttering, into the air. The Gerrold stared at him the entire time and it was Seamus who avoided eye contact. It was Seamus who wore the expression of fear. It seemed critical he finish the business. Seamus hurried into the hole, making sure his kindling was teepeed to hasten the flames. The words pulled at him. His hair tried to pull free of his skin. He lit the wood and it caught and grew. Seamus’s face twitched with an insane smile and paranoid relief.
    When the heat of the pyre blistered the Gerrold’s face and the repeated chanting of the strange words grew louder, without a break in diction, Seamus’ smile downturned into a sick grimace. Seamus could feel the words pulling at every hair on his body, the skin stretching like elastic and he wondered if it would be ripped off him until he stood there, a gleaming bloody mess.
    “Die, Gerrold! Why won’t you die!”
    He put his hands over his ears so he wouldn’t have to hear the words, hoping it would dull their power but the tautening of his skin didn’t diminish.
    The blisters on the Gerrold’s face popped and the liquid plopped onto the dirt but still the Gerrold said his words of power. His skin blackened, his eyes ruptured yet still his mouth moved and the words issued.
    “Shut up!”
    Seamus pulled out his pistol and shot the Gerrold in the chest. Kept shooting until there were no bullets left to shoot and at last the Gerrold shut up. Seamus looked at his pistol with awe and wondered why he didn’t use it before. He sat on the ground, exhausted but filled with relief. The pulling on his skin had stopped. He grabbed his whiskey bottle and guzzled.
    After a while, when time and whiskey dulled his remembrance, he dropped the latest Gerrold, collected his rope and rolled him as far from camp as his strength would allow. He didn’t want to sleep with him nearby. Seamus sat by the fire, drank whiskey and thought the blurred and convoluted thoughts of an alcoholic. When the sun teased the horizon with a lightening sky, Seamus fell asleep. Before he fell asleep, he considered taking a break from the Gerrolds.
     
    ***
     
    He awoke slowly, head heavy with alcohol, to the smell of a fire. He could feel the sun on his body and from years spent outdoors, knew it was an afternoon sun. The fire should have gone out by now but he wasn’t too