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Speaker 1: Jim Dickinson's head by Harold Ward. Jim Dickinson's head, pickled

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in a jar of alcohol, reposes in the dishonored fastness

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of a dusty closet in Doctor Wright's office. It has

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been all of half a century since I assisted the

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doctor's father, Old Docwright, in separating it from its trunk

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that dark stormy night out in the weed grown Potter's field.

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Yet last night, when I looked at the grizzly relic,

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the face wore the same wolfish grin that it had

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

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the tusks of an angry bore, and the one good eye,

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the other, having been gouged out in a fight years before,

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glared malevolently, insolently, leeringly, as if even in death the

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owner found a certain grim pleasure in cheating the law

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which declared that the head and body must remain intact.

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Jim Dickinson's body has, in the natural course of events,

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long been incorporated with the black earth slime from which

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it came. Over it the loathsome worms have long since

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ceased to hold their goulish revel His filthy soul is

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without doubt in the hall it created for itself. As

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for his head, the head he lost to Doc Wright

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in a poker game, and which the whisky sodden old

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physic Dispenser claimed from the grave rather than brave the

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unspeakable wrath of the dead outlaw. That is another story.

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Doc wanted the head because of the thickness of the skull,

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which had withstood without cracking a tattoo from the butt

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end of a revolver in the hands of a frenzied man,

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and Dickinson wanted him to have it because it had

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been fairly won, and the only point of honor he

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ever observed was the payment of his gambling debts. It

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is with Jim Dickinson's malformed head, the black cat with

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the devil's tempers and creole may the outcast that this

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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

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be called is a question. My personal opinion is that

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he was never born, that he was created from the

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slimy green frog spit that gathers in a scum on

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the stagnant muck. But the preachers will probably take issue

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with me on that point. At any rate, I know

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of my own knowledge that there were more maggots of

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devilry squirming inside the blackness of his skull than could

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ever exist in the same space in hell. Jim Dickinson

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made his first bid for our attention by appearing in

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

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figure of a man with a broken, hooked nose and

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a black, tangled thatch of whiskers. His huge, misshapen head

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stuck out turtlewise on a thick bull neck. His thin

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cruel lips were drawn back in a snarl of vindictive

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hatred of the world in general, over yellowed fangs so

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large as to almost appear artificial. One socket was empty

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from the other blazed an orb so badly twisted out

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of shape by the scar from the wound that had

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destroyed the other, that it looked to be almost in

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the center of his forehead, giving him a horrible ogre

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like appearance. There was nothing human about him. He was

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an animal. Black Peter's den was crowded that night, Finding

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no open space at the bar, Dickinson made one for

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himself by shooting in cold blood a poor swede whose

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place he coveted. Before the murmur of anger and astonishment

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had fairly started, he stepped across his victim's twitching body,

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to the blood spattered bar, and down the liquor which

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the latter had just poured out. His baleful eye gleamed

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from under the mop of hair, challenging the world to

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dispute his right. The swede was a stranger in the camp,

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and the ferocious, cruelty and simion like appearance of the

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slayer was such as to make the average man think

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

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had come from. No one knew, nor did his attitude

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toward the world at large tend to encourage familiarity. That

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one venomous deed. He became the bully of the camp.

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From then until his death, he held his sway over

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the scum of the earth that had gathered there by

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sheer devilishness and wanted cruelty. He was a thief, a crook,

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a gambler, and a red handed killer, a beast, a

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thing of evil. The only sense of decency he had

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was in the payment of his gambling debts. He would

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murder a man in cold blood without a pang of remorse,

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in order to filch from his pocket the money with

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which to pay a debt of honor. His philosophy of

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life was as warped and crooked as his twisted soul,

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and yet we allowed him to live because we feared him.

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Take the affair with the gang of the Devil's Gulch.

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Originally there had been six of them pitted against him

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as a result of some mix up with one of

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the partners. By shooting straight, Dickinson had whittled the number

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down to three before they caught him at the edge

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of the camp, with a bullet through his leg and

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a horse that dropped dead in its tracks. He had

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no friends, he expected no assistance. Those of us who

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were at leisure gathered around to enjoy the spectacle and

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to see that the strangers handled the affair in a

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strictly ethical manner. The only tree in that part of

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the state was a stunted cottonwood, the lower limbs of

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which were but a few feet above his head as

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he stood erect. His gun was empty and he was

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apparently exhausted. Hence they attempted to send him into the

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presence of his maker without going to the trouble of

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binding him, thinking no doubt that he would die game

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and save them any unnecessary trouble. They were not as

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well informed on the general cussedness of the band, however,

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as they should have been, a fact which resulted disastrously

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for the visitors. For Dickinson, instead of giving up the

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ghost without a fight, made a mighty leap and seized

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the lower limb with both hands, taking the strain off

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his neck. Doc Wright, drunker and more vitriolic than usual,

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was among the spectators. The dissipated old retrobate clucked gleefully

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and hammered the outlaws smartly over the knuckles with his cane.

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Let go that tree, he yelled, Why the hell didn't

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you die like a man, you yellow dog. You're trying

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to cheat me out of your head. With the speed

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of a panther, Dickinson hung by one hand, slipped the

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noose over his head with the other, kicked one of

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his captors in the face as he hung there, and

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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

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to Doc Wright for not allowing them to hang him

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so the bone setter could claim his honest winnings. Two

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to cavemen like Jim Dickinson, love comes but once, and

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in ways that are peculiar and dark. That he loved

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Creole May in his own fashion, there is not a doubt,

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And like his aboriginal ancestors, he demonstrated his affection by

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beating the lady of his choice whenever opportunity offered, and she,

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recognizing in the subtle way that women have that his

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display of brutality was only a cover for the flame

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of love that smoldered in his heart, took her beatings,

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whimpering but uncomplainingly, and seeking an outlet for her feelings,

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lavished her affections on Michael. Michael was an ugly brute

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

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in short, a felion double of Dickinson. Dickinson hated him

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with a deep jealous hatred. Hated him because Creole May

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loved him with the peculiarity of a woman. She treated

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her lord with humbleness and humility, fighting his battles and

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cooking his meals in a true wifely way, until he

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lay hands on the cat that she would not allow,

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and Dickinson, loving the swarthy strumpet who shared his bed

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and board, feared to vent his feelings on the animal

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lest he drive the female creature from his side. Cheetah,

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the squaw, who was reputed to be a witch, had

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warned him against black cats, warned him as she cursed

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him for killing her husband. Dickenson sought to close her

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mouth by knocking her down, but she refused to be silenced.

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It'll get you, curse you, It'll get you, she howled,

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shaking her skinny fist at the one eyed man. A

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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

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you're roasting. Damn ye, you spawned the devil. In self defense,

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he was compelled to choke her into unconsciousness, but her

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screams still echoed in his ears. Nor would he drown

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them out in drink, for the maggots in his head

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were the kind that alcohol stimulates rather than deadens. We

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had our priest, Father O'laughlan, a warm hearted little chap

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who sought with every means at his command to regenerate

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the place and bring its inhabitants into the fold. He

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met with scant success, to say the most, but he persisted,

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and because he was a man among men, measured by

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men's standards, he gained our respect and love, even though

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we refused to follow the cross. In some mysterious manner,

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Father O'Loughlin learned that Creole May had once been baptized

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in his faith. Immediately he set about seeking a way

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to win her back to the church, But she had

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slipped too far down the scale of righteousness and virtue.

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She gave no heed to the messages the good padres

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sent her time after time begging her presence at the

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little church in the valley with its cross on spotless

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white of two evils. She had been taught to fear

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Jim Dickinson worse than the threat of Hell, and Dickinson,

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his soul already forfeited to the devil, and his head

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honestly lost in a poker game, waiting only for his

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

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But to the latter she was branded to be plucked

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from the burning, and after several weeks had elap he

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determined to visit her in person and appeal to her

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better nature. For Father o' laughlin loved humanity, and to

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him none had dropped so low that he could not

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be saved. On the evening selected by Father O'Loughlin for

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his visit, Dickinson, who was violently jealous, having been called

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away on some expedition outside the law, had taken precautions,

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tending to keep any of May's admirers away from the

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cabin by planting a bear trap in the dirt just

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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

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a woman is the rightful prey of the man strong

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enough to take her. The method of taking did not

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enter into her thoughts. They lived in a tumble down

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shack far up the mountain side and approached by a

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single narrow path tie in the cliff. For Dickinson was

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a bit of a strategist, and in building looked forward

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to a possible siege following some new outrage. When she

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saw the little priest slowly puffing up the path, she

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realized for the first time that something of evil might

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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

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the priest brought remembrances of her better days, and over

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her swept a sense of shame. She rebelled against the

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man of God, seeing her in her squalor and misery.

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There was no way to flee, for the path over

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which he was approaching was the only way from the place,

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and that path would bring him directly into the jaws

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of the trap. Creole May, for the first time in

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

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There was but one door to the shack to dodge

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out of it. Even in the dust of the swiftly

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falling twilight would betray her presence to the visitor. Nor

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was there a bush or a rock in the vicinity

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behind which she could take refuge. Yet she could not remain.

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She was not given to analyzing her sentiments. She had

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a vague feeling that she was not fit to meet

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the man who represented in the wild territory the church

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of her innocent youth, not for the punishment he might bring,

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for she knew that he brought only a message of love,

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but as an erring child, fears the parent who governs

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by kindness. Physical pain she could endure, but she knew

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that Father O'Laughlin ruled his flock by love and love.

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Except the love she lavished on Michael was missing from

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

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mischievous prank, she peeked around the doorway and watched the

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head of the priest just appearing over the little knoll.

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Her foot rested on the chain, which fastened to the bed,

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and dragging across the floor, was attached to the bear trap.

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To leave the snare in its present location meant injury

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to the priest. Even if the jaws did not break

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his leg, Dickinson might return ere she could free him,

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and Dickinson, in a jealous rage, cared nothing for God,

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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

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removal of his snare, the religion of her childhood surged

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forward in her thoughts. Father O'Laughlin must be saved. To

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think was to act. Hastily. Grasping the chain, she gave

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a mighty heave and pulled the trap out of the

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dirt and dragged it into the house, Pulling down the

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blanket on the battered bed, she laid the trap on

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the mattress and laid the covering over it again. Then

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she dived hastily under the bed. Just as she heard

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the priest's step outside the door. Father O'Laughlin, receiving no

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answer to his repeated rappings, turned sadly and wented his

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way back again down the mountain path. With fear and trembling,

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Creole May listened to the podreys retreating footsteps, Then as

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they died away in the distance, she rose and seated

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herself in one of the two broken chairs the cabin afforded.

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She gave way to meditation and tears, sharing her troubles

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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

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moon shining brightly on the front of the shack showed

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him that the trap had been removed. Ere he reached

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the spot with a bellow of rage, he leaped through

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the open doorway. He stood for a second, his single

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bloodshot eye accustoming itself to the darkness of the interior.

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Then with a snarl, he turned upon the woman. Where

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is he? He demanded, shaking her as a terrier shakes

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

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had in here? She attempted to answer. To explain, he

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refused to listen. The words were choked off in her

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throat by the pressure of his huge, muscular fingers. Then,

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holding her at arm's length with his left hand, he

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smashed blow after blow into her face with his right

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until tiring, he hurled her into the corner. A dying, battered,

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unconscious heap. The cat, true to its nature, angrily at

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the invader, roaring like a maddened bull. Dickinson aimed a

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kick at the animal. Michael attempted to dodge out of

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the crazy man's way, became tangled between his legs in

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the darkness. Dickinson stumbled and fell, sprawling across the bed.

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His huge head struck the trigger of the bear trap

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hidden beneath the blankets squarely and with the force of

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a battering ram. The jaws flew together with a snap,

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closing about the thick neck with a grip that had

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been made to hold a grizzly king. Dickinson's thrashed about

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spasmodically for a second, his eye bulging out of its socket.

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His finger worked convulsively, then twitching slightly, He lay quiet

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on the foot of the bed. Michael, his greenish yellow

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eyes gleaming like twin fires, humped his back and spit

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in accordance with the prophecy of Cheetah, while Jim Dickinson's

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word worthless soul entered into hell. Two nights later, I

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helped Doc Wright claim the head he had won and

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which Jim Dickinson was ready to pay. The End of

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Jim Dickinson's Head by Harold Ward