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Jim Dickinson's head by Harold Ward.
Jim Dickinson's head, pickled in a jar

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of alcohol, reposes in the dishonored
fastness of a dusty closet in Doctor Wright's

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office. It has been all of
half a century since I assisted the doctor's

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father, Old Docwright, in separating
it from its trunk that dark stormy night

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out in the weed grown Potter's field. Yet last night, when I looked

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at the grizzly relic, the face
wore the same wolfish grin that it had

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borne in life. The fangs were
skinned back ferociously, like the tusks of

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an angry bore, and the one
good eye, the other, having been

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gouged out in a fight years before, glared malevolently, insolently, leeringly,

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as if even in death the owner
found a certain grim pleasure in cheating the

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law which declared that the head and
body must remain intact. Jim Dickinson's body

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has, in the natural course of
events, long been incorporated with the black

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earth slime from which it came.
Over it the loathsome worms have long since

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ceased to hold their goulish revel His
filthy soul is without doubt in the hall

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it created for itself. As for
his head, the head he lost to

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Doc Wright in a poker game,
and which the whisky sodden old physic Dispenser

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claimed from the grave rather than brave
the unspeakable wrath of the dead outlaw.

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That is another story. Doc wanted
the head because of the thickness of the

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skull, which had withstood without cracking
a tattoo from the butt end of a

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revolver in the hands of a frenzied
man, and Dickinson wanted him to have

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it because it had been fairly won, and the only point of honor he

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ever observed was the payment of his
gambling debts. It is with Jim Dickinson's

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malformed head, the black cat with
the devil's tempers and creole may the outcast

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that this story is written. One
where Jim Dickinson was spawned or whelped,

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or whatever the inception of an anomaly
like him can be called is a question.

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My personal opinion is that he was
never born, that he was created

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from the slimy green frog spit that
gathers in a scum on the stagnant muck.

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But the preachers will probably take issue
with me on that point. At

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any rate, I know of my
own knowledge that there were more maggots of

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devilry squirming inside the blackness of his
skull than could ever exist in the same

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space in hell. Jim Dickinson made
his first bid for our attention by appearing

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in Black Peter's saloon one dark stormy
night, a big, haulting figure of

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a man with a broken, hooked
nose and a black, tangled thatch of

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whiskers. His huge, misshapen head
stuck out turtlewise on a thick bull neck.

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His thin cruel lips were drawn back
in a snarl of vindictive hatred of

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the world in general, over yellowed
fangs so large as to almost appear artificial.

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One socket was empty from the other
blazed an orb so badly twisted out

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of shape by the scar from the
wound that had destroyed the other, that

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it looked to be almost in the
center of his forehead, giving him a

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horrible ogre like appearance. There was
nothing human about him. He was an

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animal. Black Peter's den was crowded
that night, Finding no open space at

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the bar, Dickinson made one for
himself by shooting in cold blood a poor

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swede whose place he coveted. Before
the murmur of anger and astonishment had fairly

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started, he stepped across his victim's
twitching body, to the blood spattered bar,

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and down the liquor which the latter
had just poured out. His baleful

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eye gleamed from under the mop of
hair, challenging the world to dispute his

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right. The swede was a stranger
in the camp, and the ferocious,

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cruelty and simion like appearance of the
slayer was such as to make the average

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man think twice before taking up the
dead man's quarrel. Where he had come

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from. No one knew, nor
did his attitude toward the world at large

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tend to encourage familiarity. That one
venomous deed. He became the bully of

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the camp. From then until his
death, he held his sway over the

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scum of the earth that had gathered
there by sheer devilishness and wanted cruelty.

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He was a thief, a crook, a gambler, and a red handed

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killer, a beast, a thing
of evil. The only sense of decency

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he had was in the payment of
his gambling debts. He would murder a

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man in cold blood without a pang
of remorse, in order to filch from

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his pocket the money with which to
pay a debt of honor. His philosophy

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of life was as warped and crooked
as his twisted soul, and yet we

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allowed him to live because we feared
him. Take the affair with the gang

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of the Devil's Gulch. Originally there
had been six of them pitted against him

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as a result of some mix up
with one of the partners. By shooting

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straight, Dickinson had whittled the number
down to three before they caught him at

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the edge of the camp, with
a bullet through his leg and a horse

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that dropped dead in its tracks.
He had no friends, he expected no

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assistance. Those of us who were
at leisure gathered around to enjoy the spectacle

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and to see that the strangers handled
the affair in a strictly ethical manner.

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The only tree in that part of
the state was a stunted cottonwood, the

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lower limbs of which were but a
few feet above his head as he stood

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erect. His gun was empty and
he was apparently exhausted. Hence they attempted

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to send him into the presence of
his maker without going to the trouble of

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binding him, thinking no doubt that
he would die game and save them any

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unnecessary trouble. They were not as
well informed on the general cussedness of the

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band, however, as they should
have been, a fact which resulted disastrously

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for the visitors. For Dickinson,
instead of giving up the ghost without a

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fight, made a mighty leap and
seized the lower limb with both hands,

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taking the strain off his neck.
Doc Wright, drunker and more vitriolic than

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usual, was among the spectators.
The dissipated old retrobate clucked gleefully and hammered

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the outlaws smartly over the knuckles with
his cane. Let go that tree,

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he yelled, Why the hell didn't
you die like a man, you yellow

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dog. You're trying to cheat me
out of your head. With the speed

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of a panther, Dickinson hung by
one hand, slipped the noose over his

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head with the other, kicked one
of his captors in the face as he

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hung there, and vanquished the other
two in a fair fight fist against gun,

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And when he had completed the job, he humbly apologed to Doc Wright

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for not allowing them to hang him
so the bone setter could claim his honest

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winnings. Two to cavemen like Jim
Dickinson, love comes but once, and

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in ways that are peculiar and dark. That he loved Creole May in his

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own fashion, there is not a
doubt, And like his aboriginal ancestors,

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he demonstrated his affection by beating the
lady of his choice whenever opportunity offered,

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and she, recognizing in the subtle
way that women have that his display of

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brutality was only a cover for the
flame of love that smoldered in his heart,

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took her beatings, whimpering but uncomplainingly, and seeking an outlet for her

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feelings, lavished her affections on Michael. Michael was an ugly brute of a

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cat, black of fur, and
short of temper, in short, a

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felion double of Dickinson. Dickinson hated
him with a deep jealous hatred. Hated

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him because Creole May loved him with
the peculiarity of a woman. She treated

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her lord with humbleness and humility,
fighting his battles and cooking his meals in

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a true wifely way, until he
lay hands on the cat that she would

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not allow, and Dickinson, loving
the swarthy strumpet who shared his bed and

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board, feared to vent his feelings
on the animal lest he drive the female

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creature from his side. Cheetah,
the squaw, who was reputed to be

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a witch, had warned him against
black cats, warned him as she cursed

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him for killing her husband. Dickenson
sought to close her mouth by knocking her

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down, but she refused to be
silenced. It'll get you, curse you,

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It'll get you, she howled,
shaking her skinny fist at the one

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eyed man. A black cattle be
the death of you. A black cattle,

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send you to hell. Hand he'll
spit at you while you're roasting.

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Damn ye, you spawned the devil. In self defense, he was compelled

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to choke her into unconsciousness, but
her screams still echoed in his ears.

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Nor would he drown them out in
drink, for the maggots in his head

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were the kind that alcohol stimulates rather
than deadens. We had our priest,

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Father O'laughlan, a warm hearted little
chap who sought with every means at his

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command to regenerate the place and bring
its inhabitants into the fold. He met

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with scant success, to say the
most, but he persisted, and because

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he was a man among men,
measured by men's standards, he gained our

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respect and love, even though we
refused to follow the cross. In some

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mysterious manner, Father O'Loughlin learned that
Creole May had once been baptized in his

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faith. Immediately he set about seeking
a way to win her back to the

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church, But she had slipped too
far down the scale of righteousness and virtue.

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She gave no heed to the messages
the good padres sent her time after

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time begging her presence at the little
church in the valley with its cross on

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spotless white of two evils. She
had been taught to fear Jim Dickinson worse

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than the threat of Hell, and
Dickinson, his soul already forfeited to the

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devil, and his head honestly lost
in a poker game, waiting only for

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his death to be claimed forbade her
responding to the priest's appeal, But to

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the latter she was branded to be
plucked from the burning, and after several

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weeks had elap he determined to visit
her in person and appeal to her better

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nature. For Father o' laughlin loved
humanity, and to him none had dropped

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so low that he could not be
saved. On the evening selected by Father

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O'Loughlin for his visit, Dickinson,
who was violently jealous, having been called

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away on some expedition outside the law, had taken precautions, tending to keep

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any of May's admirers away from the
cabin by planting a bear trap in the

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dirt just outside the door. To
this, May submitted dumbly and without bitterness.

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She was a woman, and her
philosophy taught her that a woman is

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the rightful prey of the man strong
enough to take her. The method of

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taking did not enter into her thoughts. They lived in a tumble down shack

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far up the mountain side and approached
by a single narrow path tie in the

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cliff. For Dickinson was a bit
of a strategist, and in building looked

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forward to a possible siege following some
new outrage. When she saw the little

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priest slowly puffing up the path,
she realized for the first time that something

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of evil might result from Dickinson's efficient, but brutal attempt to capture his rival.

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She was willing to stand his abuse, but sight of the priest brought

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remembrances of her better days, and
over her swept a sense of shame.

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She rebelled against the man of God, seeing her in her squalor and misery.

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There was no way to flee,
for the path over which he was

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approaching was the only way from the
place, and that path would bring him

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directly into the jaws of the trap. Creole May, for the first time

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in her long career of shame and
sorrow, was panic stricken. There was

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but one door to the shack to
dodge out of it. Even in the

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dust of the swiftly falling twilight would
betray her presence to the visitor. Nor

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was there a bush or a rock
in the vicinity behind which she could take

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refuge. Yet she could not remain. She was not given to analyzing her

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sentiments. She had a vague feeling
that she was not fit to meet the

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man who represented in the wild territory
the church of her innocent youth, not

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for the punishment he might bring,
for she knew that he brought only a

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message of love, but as an
erring child, fears the parent who governs

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by kindness. Physical pain she could
endure, but she knew that Father O'Laughlin

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ruled his flock by love and love. Except the love she lavished on Michael

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was missing from her strange life.
So, like a child caught in some

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mischievous prank, she peeked around the
doorway and watched the head of the priest

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just appearing over the little knoll.
Her foot rested on the chain, which

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fastened to the bed, and dragging
across the floor, was attached to the

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bear trap. To leave the snare
in its present location meant injury to the

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priest. Even if the jaws did
not break his leg, Dickinson might return

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ere she could free him, and
Dickinson, in a jealous rage, cared

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nothing for God, man nor devil. He might even kill the Good Father.

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In spite of her fear of Dickinson's
revenge over the removal of his snare,

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the religion of her childhood surged forward
in her thoughts. Father O'Laughlin must

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be saved. To think was to
act. Hastily. Grasping the chain,

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she gave a mighty heave and pulled
the trap out of the dirt and dragged

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it into the house, Pulling down
the blanket on the battered bed, she

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laid the trap on the mattress and
laid the covering over it again. Then

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she dived hastily under the bed.
Just as she heard the priest's step outside

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the door. Father O'Laughlin, receiving
no answer to his repeated rappings, turned

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sadly and wented his way back again
down the mountain path. With fear and

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trembling, Creole May listened to the
podreys retreating footsteps, Then as they died

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away in the distance, she rose
and seated herself in one of the two

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broken chairs the cabin afforded. She
gave way to meditation and tears, sharing

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her troubles with Black Michael, her
only friend. Dickinson returned earlier than usual,

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found the cabin in darkness and May
in tears. The moon shining brightly

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on the front of the shack showed
him that the trap had been removed.

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Ere he reached the spot with a
bellow of rage, he leaped through the

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open doorway. He stood for a
second, his single bloodshot eye accustoming itself

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to the darkness of the interior.
Then with a snarl, he turned upon

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the woman. Where is he?
He demanded, shaking her as a terrier

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shakes a rat. Damn, you
tell me where's the man you had in

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here? She attempted to answer.
To explain, he refused to listen.

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The words were choked off in her
throat by the pressure of his huge,

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muscular fingers. Then, holding her
at arm's length with his left hand,

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he smashed blow after blow into her
face with his right until tiring, he

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hurled her into the corner. A
dying, battered, unconscious heap. The

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cat, true to its nature,
angrily at the invader, roaring like a

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maddened bull. Dickinson aimed a kick
at the animal. Michael attempted to dodge

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out of the crazy man's way,
became tangled between his legs in the darkness.

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Dickinson stumbled and fell, sprawling across
the bed. His huge head struck

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the trigger of the bear trap hidden
beneath the blankets squarely and with the force

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of a battering ram. The jaws
flew together with a snap, closing about

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the thick neck with a grip that
had been made to hold a grizzly king.

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Dickinson's thrashed about spasmodically for a second, his eye bulging out of its

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socket. His finger worked convulsively,
then twitching slightly, He lay quiet on

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the foot of the bed. Michael, his greenish yellow eyes gleaming like twin

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fires, humped his back and spit
in accordance with the prophecy of Cheetah,

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while Jim Dickinson's word worthless soul entered
into hell. Two nights later, I

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helped Doc Wright claim the head he
had won and which Jim Dickinson was ready

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to pay. The End of Jim
Dickinson's Head by Harold Ward