Ghosts of the Wild West: Enlarged Edition Including Five Never-Before-Published Stories

Pancho Villa's Treasure and the Ghost Cat

PANCHO VILLA'S TREASURE AND THE GHOST CAT e awoke shivering with terror, perspiration pouring fiom him. The room was pitch black; the lamp he had left burning in his hotel room before retiring had gone out. Yet he was certain he was not alone. Something too horrible to imagine was in the room with him. His mouth was dry. He was too petrified even to scream.Somethingbegan to move on the bed near him, and straining to see, he found himself looking into two glowing, baleful yellow eyes. Leapingfrom his bed, he dashed outsidethe room, feeling his very soul was in danger from this evil presence. He was not the first nor would he be the last guest to be frightened nearly out of his senses at the Fort Stockton Hotel. But we are getting ahead of our story. PANCHO VILLA'S TREASURE AND THE GHOST CAT Eugene Webber had slept in a bedroll on the plains under the stars. He had dozed fitfully as a wagon rolled along in the darkness. Now the thin, gray-faced little man stood before the square, dust-coloredadobe building that was Fort Stockton's first hotel and stared at it thoughtfully. A large cat purred and rubbed against his legs. Webber went in to the desk to register. "I have only one room left. How long will you be wanting it?"asked the weather-beaten middle-aged woman who stared at him curiously. "I'll try it by the week for a while, ma'am," he replied. He was wearing a gun belt but certainly did not look like a gunman, so she handed a key over to him. She had been in the West long enough to tag her guests pretty quickly, but this man puzzled her. "Eugene Webber," she watched him write on the register. Then she looked down at the cat near his feet. "Mr. Webber, is that your cat?" Webber paused for a moment staring at the animal as it rubbed affectionately about his legs. He hesitated. He had never seen the cat before. But he replied, "Yes, I guess it is. Don't worry about him. 1'11 see that he doesn't give you any trouble." "It's not my habit to let guests keep animals, Mr. Webber, we'll see." "He'll stay in my room and not bother anybody," her new guest promised. Webber glanced quickly around the lobby. The hotel appeared to be comfortable and safe. Safe-that was the main thing. Fort Stockton was a railroad town, which meant that it had a better hotel than most, and the GHOSTS OF THE WILD WEST countryside around it was so flat and bare a fox could scarcely have found cover. Hotels like this brought together all sorts of people since they were often the only places to eat, drink, and sleep. All of life was acted out here-birth, marriage, death-and for many the hotels became permanent homes. Misfits from the more civilized parts of the country found these hotels a convenient place to live and to die. Webber had a corner room, small, probably about ten by fourteen feet, but it was comfortable and it looked out over a courtyard full of small trees and flowering shrubs. He stood in his doorway for a moment admiring the desert willow in bloom, stroking the cat, and then with a faint, satisfied smile, he closed the door. Unbuckling his ammunition belt, he hung it on a nail. It was an unusual belt, more Spanish than western in style. He removed the revol\ler, set the safety catch, and, with the weapon in his hand, Gene Webber turned over and went to sleep. When he awoke, it was time for dinner. The cat lay curled on the bed beside him. "Mr. Whiskers. How's that for a name? I don't know what you and me are doing here together, but you stick with old Webber and you'll be livin' in clover, or whatever cats like to live in." He gave Mr. Whiskers a farewell pat on the head and went to supper. Gene Webber kept to himself, and nobody at the hotel paid much attention to him. He paid promptly each week, and sometimes the lady who ran the hotel wondered where his money came from. She would try to draw him out in conversation, talking about claims [18.226...