Speaker 1: 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