Manly Wade Wellman - John the Balladeer SSC Read Online Free Page B

The
soft old storekeeper looked dead and gloomy at me. "Better get going,
son," he said, as if he'd memorized it.
                I laid my guitar on the bench.
"You men ail my stomach," I said, looking at them. "You let this
half-born, half-bred hoodoo man sic you on me like hound dogs when I'm hurting
nobody and nothing."
                 "Better
go," he said again.
                 I
faced Mr. Onselm, and he laughed like a sweetly played horn. "You,"
he said, "without a dime in your pocket! You can't do anything to
anybody."
                 Without
a dime . . . the Ugly Bird had seen me spend my silver money, the silver money
that ailed Mr. Onselm. . . .
                 "Take
his guitar, Kobe ," said Mr. Onselm, and the gawky man,
clumsy but quick, grabbed the guitar from the bench and backed away to the
door.
                 "That
takes care of him," Mr. Onselm sort of purred, and he fairly jumped and
grabbed Winnie by the wrist. He pulled her along toward the trail, and I heard
her whimper.
                 "Stop
him!" I bawled, but they stood and looked, scared and dumb. Mr. Onselm,
still holding Winnie, faced me. He lifted his free hand, with the pink forefinger
sticking out like the barrel of a pistol.
                 Just
the look he gave me made me weary and dizzy. He was going to hoodoo me, like
he'd done the mules, like he'd done the woman who tried to hide her cake from
him. I turned from him, sick and afraid, and I heard him giggle, thinking he'd
won already. In the doorway stood the gawky man called Hobe, with the guitar.
                 I
made a long jump at him and started to wrestle it away from him.
                 "Hang
onto it, Hobe," I heard Mr. Onselm sort of choke out, and, from Mr.
Bristow:
                 "There's
the Ugly Bird!"
                 Its
wings napped like a storm in the air behind me. But I'd torn my guitar from Kobe 's hands and turned on my heel.
                 A
little way off, Mr. Onselm stood stiff and straight as a stone figure in front
of a courthouse. He still held Winnie's wrist. Between them the Ugly Bird came
swooping at me, its beak pointing for me like a stabbing bayonet.
                 I
dug in my toes and smashed the guitar at it. Full-slam I struck its bulgy head
above the beak and across the eyes, and I heard the polished wood of my
music-maker crash to splinters.
                 And
down went the Ugly Bird!
                 Down
it went.
                Quiet it lay.
                 Its
great big wings stretched out on either side, without a flutter. Its beak was
driven into the ground like a nail. It didn't kick or flop or stir once.
                 But
Mr. Onselm, standing where he stood holding Winnie, screamed out the way you
might scream if something had clawed out all your insides with a single tearing
grab.
                 He
didn't move, I don't even know if his mouth came open. Winnie gave a pull with
all her strength and tottered back, clear of him. And as if only his hold on
her had kept him standing, Mr. Onselm slapped over and down on his face, his
arms flung out like the Ugly Bird's wings, his face in the dirt like the Ugly
Bird's face.
                 Still
holding my broken guitar by the neck like a club, I ran to him and stooped.
"Get up," I said, and took hold of what hair he had and lifted his
face up.
                 One
look was enough. From the war, I know a dead man when I see one. I let go his
hair, and his face went back into the dirt as if it belonged there.
                 The
others moved at last, tottering a few steps closer. And they didn't act like
enemies now, for Mr. Onselm who had made them act so was down and dead.
                 Then Kobe gave a scared shout, and we looked that
way.
                 The
Ugly Bird all of