Jim Dickinson's head by Harold Ward. Jim Dickinson's head, pickled in a jar
of alcohol, reposes in the dishonored fastness of a dusty closet in Doctor Wright's
office. It has been all of half a century since I assisted the doctor's
father, Old Docwright, in separating it from its trunk that dark stormy night
out in the weed grown Potter's field. Yet last night, when I looked
at the grizzly relic, the face wore the same wolfish grin that it had
borne in life. The fangs were skinned back ferociously, like the tusks of
an angry bore, and the one good eye, the other, having been
gouged out in a fight years before, glared malevolently, insolently, leeringly,
as if even in death the owner found a certain grim pleasure in cheating the
law which declared that the head and body must remain intact. Jim Dickinson's body
has, in the natural course of events, long been incorporated with the black
earth slime from which it came. Over it the loathsome worms have long since
ceased to hold their goulish revel His filthy soul is without doubt in the hall
it created for itself. As for his head, the head he lost to
Doc Wright in a poker game, and which the whisky sodden old physic Dispenser
claimed from the grave rather than brave the unspeakable wrath of the dead outlaw.
That is another story. Doc wanted the head because of the thickness of the
skull, which had withstood without cracking a tattoo from the butt end of a
revolver in the hands of a frenzied man, and Dickinson wanted him to have
it because it had been fairly won, and the only point of honor he
ever observed was the payment of his gambling debts. It is with Jim Dickinson's
malformed head, the black cat with the devil's tempers and creole may the outcast
that this story is written. One where Jim Dickinson was spawned or whelped,
or whatever the inception of an anomaly like him can be called is a question.
My personal opinion is that he was never born, that he was created
from the slimy green frog spit that gathers in a scum on the stagnant muck.
But the preachers will probably take issue with me on that point. At
any rate, I know of my own knowledge that there were more maggots of
devilry squirming inside the blackness of his skull than could ever exist in the same
space in hell. Jim Dickinson made his first bid for our attention by appearing
in Black Peter's saloon one dark stormy night, a big, haulting figure of
a man with a broken, hooked nose and a black, tangled thatch of
whiskers. His huge, misshapen head stuck out turtlewise on a thick bull neck.
His thin cruel lips were drawn back in a snarl of vindictive hatred of
the world in general, over yellowed fangs so large as to almost appear artificial.
One socket was empty from the other blazed an orb so badly twisted out
of shape by the scar from the wound that had destroyed the other, that
it looked to be almost in the center of his forehead, giving him a
horrible ogre like appearance. There was nothing human about him. He was an
animal. Black Peter's den was crowded that night, Finding no open space at
the bar, Dickinson made one for himself by shooting in cold blood a poor
swede whose place he coveted. Before the murmur of anger and astonishment had fairly
started, he stepped across his victim's twitching body, to the blood spattered bar,
and down the liquor which the latter had just poured out. His baleful
eye gleamed from under the mop of hair, challenging the world to dispute his
right. The swede was a stranger in the camp, and the ferocious,
cruelty and simion like appearance of the slayer was such as to make the average
man think twice before taking up the dead man's quarrel. Where he had come
from. No one knew, nor did his attitude toward the world at large
tend to encourage familiarity. That one venomous deed. He became the bully of
the camp. From then until his death, he held his sway over the
scum of the earth that had gathered there by sheer devilishness and wanted cruelty.
He was a thief, a crook, a gambler, and a red handed
killer, a beast, a thing of evil. The only sense of decency
he had was in the payment of his gambling debts. He would murder a
man in cold blood without a pang of remorse, in order to filch from
his pocket the money with which to pay a debt of honor. His philosophy
of life was as warped and crooked as his twisted soul, and yet we
allowed him to live because we feared him. Take the affair with the gang
of the Devil's Gulch. Originally there had been six of them pitted against him
as a result of some mix up with one of the partners. By shooting
straight, Dickinson had whittled the number down to three before they caught him at
the edge of the camp, with a bullet through his leg and a horse
that dropped dead in its tracks. He had no friends, he expected no
assistance. Those of us who were at leisure gathered around to enjoy the spectacle
and to see that the strangers handled the affair in a strictly ethical manner.
The only tree in that part of the state was a stunted cottonwood, the
lower limbs of which were but a few feet above his head as he stood
erect. His gun was empty and he was apparently exhausted. Hence they attempted
to send him into the presence of his maker without going to the trouble of
binding him, thinking no doubt that he would die game and save them any
unnecessary trouble. They were not as well informed on the general cussedness of the
band, however, as they should have been, a fact which resulted disastrously
for the visitors. For Dickinson, instead of giving up the ghost without a
fight, made a mighty leap and seized the lower limb with both hands,
taking the strain off his neck. Doc Wright, drunker and more vitriolic than
usual, was among the spectators. The dissipated old retrobate clucked gleefully and hammered
the outlaws smartly over the knuckles with his cane. Let go that tree,
he yelled, Why the hell didn't you die like a man, you yellow
dog. You're trying to cheat me out of your head. With the speed
of a panther, Dickinson hung by one hand, slipped the noose over his
head with the other, kicked one of his captors in the face as he
hung there, and vanquished the other two in a fair fight fist against gun,
And when he had completed the job, he humbly apologed to Doc Wright
for not allowing them to hang him so the bone setter could claim his honest
winnings. Two to cavemen like Jim Dickinson, love comes but once, and
in ways that are peculiar and dark. That he loved Creole May in his
own fashion, there is not a doubt, And like his aboriginal ancestors,
he demonstrated his affection by beating the lady of his choice whenever opportunity offered,
and she, recognizing in the subtle way that women have that his display of
brutality was only a cover for the flame of love that smoldered in his heart,
took her beatings, whimpering but uncomplainingly, and seeking an outlet for her
feelings, lavished her affections on Michael. Michael was an ugly brute of a
cat, black of fur, and short of temper, in short, a
felion double of Dickinson. Dickinson hated him with a deep jealous hatred. Hated
him because Creole May loved him with the peculiarity of a woman. She treated
her lord with humbleness and humility, fighting his battles and cooking his meals in
a true wifely way, until he lay hands on the cat that she would
not allow, and Dickinson, loving the swarthy strumpet who shared his bed and
board, feared to vent his feelings on the animal lest he drive the female
creature from his side. Cheetah, the squaw, who was reputed to be
a witch, had warned him against black cats, warned him as she cursed
him for killing her husband. Dickenson sought to close her mouth by knocking her
down, but she refused to be silenced. It'll get you, curse you,
It'll get you, she howled, shaking her skinny fist at the one
eyed man. A black cattle be the death of you. A black cattle,
send you to hell. Hand he'll spit at you while you're roasting.
Damn ye, you spawned the devil. In self defense, he was compelled
to choke her into unconsciousness, but her screams still echoed in his ears.
Nor would he drown them out in drink, for the maggots in his head
were the kind that alcohol stimulates rather than deadens. We had our priest,
Father O'laughlan, a warm hearted little chap who sought with every means at his
command to regenerate the place and bring its inhabitants into the fold. He met
with scant success, to say the most, but he persisted, and because
he was a man among men, measured by men's standards, he gained our
respect and love, even though we refused to follow the cross. In some
mysterious manner, Father O'Loughlin learned that Creole May had once been baptized in his
faith. Immediately he set about seeking a way to win her back to the
church, But she had slipped too far down the scale of righteousness and virtue.
She gave no heed to the messages the good padres sent her time after
time begging her presence at the little church in the valley with its cross on
spotless white of two evils. She had been taught to fear Jim Dickinson worse
than the threat of Hell, and Dickinson, his soul already forfeited to the
devil, and his head honestly lost in a poker game, waiting only for
his death to be claimed forbade her responding to the priest's appeal, But to
the latter she was branded to be plucked from the burning, and after several
weeks had elap he determined to visit her in person and appeal to her better
nature. For Father o' laughlin loved humanity, and to him none had dropped
so low that he could not be saved. On the evening selected by Father
O'Loughlin for his visit, Dickinson, who was violently jealous, having been called
away on some expedition outside the law, had taken precautions, tending to keep
any of May's admirers away from the cabin by planting a bear trap in the
dirt just outside the door. To this, May submitted dumbly and without bitterness.
She was a woman, and her philosophy taught her that a woman is
the rightful prey of the man strong enough to take her. The method of
taking did not enter into her thoughts. They lived in a tumble down shack
far up the mountain side and approached by a single narrow path tie in the
cliff. For Dickinson was a bit of a strategist, and in building looked
forward to a possible siege following some new outrage. When she saw the little
priest slowly puffing up the path, she realized for the first time that something
of evil might result from Dickinson's efficient, but brutal attempt to capture his rival.
She was willing to stand his abuse, but sight of the priest brought
remembrances of her better days, and over her swept a sense of shame.
She rebelled against the man of God, seeing her in her squalor and misery.
There was no way to flee, for the path over which he was
approaching was the only way from the place, and that path would bring him
directly into the jaws of the trap. Creole May, for the first time
in her long career of shame and sorrow, was panic stricken. There was
but one door to the shack to dodge out of it. Even in the
dust of the swiftly falling twilight would betray her presence to the visitor. Nor
was there a bush or a rock in the vicinity behind which she could take
refuge. Yet she could not remain. She was not given to analyzing her
sentiments. She had a vague feeling that she was not fit to meet the
man who represented in the wild territory the church of her innocent youth, not
for the punishment he might bring, for she knew that he brought only a
message of love, but as an erring child, fears the parent who governs
by kindness. Physical pain she could endure, but she knew that Father O'Laughlin
ruled his flock by love and love. Except the love she lavished on Michael
was missing from her strange life. So, like a child caught in some
mischievous prank, she peeked around the doorway and watched the head of the priest
just appearing over the little knoll. Her foot rested on the chain, which
fastened to the bed, and dragging across the floor, was attached to the
bear trap. To leave the snare in its present location meant injury to the
priest. Even if the jaws did not break his leg, Dickinson might return
ere she could free him, and Dickinson, in a jealous rage, cared
nothing for God, man nor devil. He might even kill the Good Father.
In spite of her fear of Dickinson's revenge over the removal of his snare,
the religion of her childhood surged forward in her thoughts. Father O'Laughlin must
be saved. To think was to act. Hastily. Grasping the chain,
she gave a mighty heave and pulled the trap out of the dirt and dragged
it into the house, Pulling down the blanket on the battered bed, she
laid the trap on the mattress and laid the covering over it again. Then
she dived hastily under the bed. Just as she heard the priest's step outside
the door. Father O'Laughlin, receiving no answer to his repeated rappings, turned
sadly and wented his way back again down the mountain path. With fear and
trembling, Creole May listened to the podreys retreating footsteps, Then as they died
away in the distance, she rose and seated herself in one of the two
broken chairs the cabin afforded. She gave way to meditation and tears, sharing
her troubles with Black Michael, her only friend. Dickinson returned earlier than usual,
found the cabin in darkness and May in tears. The moon shining brightly
on the front of the shack showed him that the trap had been removed.
Ere he reached the spot with a bellow of rage, he leaped through the
open doorway. He stood for a second, his single bloodshot eye accustoming itself
to the darkness of the interior. Then with a snarl, he turned upon
the woman. Where is he? He demanded, shaking her as a terrier
shakes a rat. Damn, you tell me where's the man you had in
here? She attempted to answer. To explain, he refused to listen.
The words were choked off in her throat by the pressure of his huge,
muscular fingers. Then, holding her at arm's length with his left hand,
he smashed blow after blow into her face with his right until tiring, he
hurled her into the corner. A dying, battered, unconscious heap. The
cat, true to its nature, angrily at the invader, roaring like a
maddened bull. Dickinson aimed a kick at the animal. Michael attempted to dodge
out of the crazy man's way, became tangled between his legs in the darkness.
Dickinson stumbled and fell, sprawling across the bed. His huge head struck
the trigger of the bear trap hidden beneath the blankets squarely and with the force
of a battering ram. The jaws flew together with a snap, closing about
the thick neck with a grip that had been made to hold a grizzly king.
Dickinson's thrashed about spasmodically for a second, his eye bulging out of its
socket. His finger worked convulsively, then twitching slightly, He lay quiet on
the foot of the bed. Michael, his greenish yellow eyes gleaming like twin
fires, humped his back and spit in accordance with the prophecy of Cheetah,
while Jim Dickinson's word worthless soul entered into hell. Two nights later, I
helped Doc Wright claim the head he had won and which Jim Dickinson was ready
to pay. The End of Jim Dickinson's Head by Harold Ward