It was high noon. Cthugha leered down from its perch in the sky, baking the dusty ground with intense heat.

"Gonna be a scorcher," said Cthulhu, rubbing his bald head. He looked for a moment at the sweat collected on his hand, then wiped it on the leg of his black jeans. He leaned back against a rotting fence post, his tentacles restless reaching down towards the six-shooters slung on his hips, then redrawing.

"This ain't nothin," said his scaly companion. "You coastline folk never could stand a good day in the sun." Yig pushed back his black Stetson with one clawed hand, hooking the other on his belt. Two bandoliers laden with knives criss-crossed his chest. The snake-man glanced out over the vast expanse of Leng. "You think they're gonna come?"

"If the Tcho-Tchos are correct, Chief Wind Walker and his Ithaquas should come today," answered Cthulhu as he dug an intricate design in the dust with one booted heel.

On the other side of the small village an almost identical conversation was being held.

"Which way you figure they'll come?" burpled the Dagon Kid.

"Perhaps from the North, maybe the South, maybe from overhead," answered the tall man standing beside him. Nyarlathotep smiled at the worried expression on the Kid's fishy face. He stroked his pharaoh beard with his left hand, the back of which was decorated with the tattoo of a three-eyed bat. "Maybe they'll come from under us," he added.

Dagon looked down at his booted feet, and made an involuntary move backwards. "Gods," he muttered. "I wish I was back in San Francisco."

"Wishing don't change things," said a third figure. Y'golonac stood up from where he'd been squatting in the shadow of a collapsing shed. A blue Stetson was perched on the headless man's shoulders, secured with straps that ran under his armpits. He held one hand up in the Kid's direction. The fanged mouth in the palm said, "They won't come unner ground, Kid. Dese are 'thaquas yer talkin bout." He angled his palm so it was looking up at the burning orb in the sky and added, "But they just may come in dis way."

Fifty feet away from the Kid and his companions, stood two more gunslingers. The first was a tall heavy-set man with an elephantine head terminating in a long snout with a disc-shaped end. He was clad in a black shirt, blue jeans and silver tipped boots. Two heavy shotguns were strapped across his back.

The second was a woman with a light complexion that got darker along her limbs until the skin on her hands was a dark brown. Unlike her companions, she did not wear boots--she didn't need to, her furry feet were hoofed. She had a mane of wavy black hair, shot through with strands of red, copper, white and gold. Her jeans were of a snugger fit than the others, and her white and blue checked shirt was left open at the neck, oblivious to the searing sun, and giving everyone an eyeful of her prodigious cleavage.

"Shubbie", said the man with the trunk, "you're gonna burn yer goodies."

"Thank-you for your sweet concern, Chaugnar," said the woman in a silky voice, "but I'll be fine."

The heavy man grunted and shrugged his shoulders. "I just don't know what a pretty lady like you is doing out here. This town is gonna be a killing field."

With fluid grace, the woman pulled out her iron and shot the skull off a shantak roosted on a cactus sixty feet away.

"I'll do fine, hon," she said, sliding her smoking piece back into its holster.

They both turned and looked into town as the church bell began to toll.

"They're commin," said Chaugnar as he pulled free his shotguns.

Drifting out of the dessert they could hear the chanting of the Ithaquas.

A Few Days Earlier

The Tcho-Tchos watched the Ithaquas as they rode off on their atlachs. Only once they were completely lost to sight did the townsfolk start grumbling.

"They've taken everything," said one Tcho-Tcho.

"All the gold," said a second.

"All the food," added a third.

"And all the children over fourteen," continued a fourth. "We have to do something, or these raiders will be the death of our village!"

"I know," said one of the others. "We should ask the Old One."

This idea was met by a chorus of agreements. The ragged townsfolk walked out of town to a small mill sitting on the banks of a dried up river. Legend had it that this was a tributary of the River Skai, but no one still believed in such tales. Except, perhaps, the Old One. From within the mill could be heard the soft sound of pipes.

Without knocking, the Tcho-Tchos entered the building and sat in a half-circle around the Old One. The bubbling and ever-shifting bulk of the Old One squatted on a stage in the centre of the floor. At its base sat a small man with horns and goat-like legs. It was he who was playing the pipes. This goat-man glanced at the Tcho-Tchos, and then ignored them, concentrating on his music.

The Elder Tcho-Tcho, whose idea it had been, knelt before the Old One and asked, "Oh, Old One, what must we do to protect ourselves from the Ithaquas who would destroy us?"

The amorphous mass on the stage roiled and bulged. Finally, a pseudo-pod stretched its way out of the flowing form, the end splitting open into a parody of a mouth.

"Fight," said the Old One in a soft voice.

"Fight?" asked one of the Tcho-Tchos. "We do not know how to fight."

The Old One laughed. All the Tcho-Tchos covered their ears, trying to block out the maddening sound. "Find those who do."

"But there is no law. No one wears the yellow sign any longer," said the Town Elder.

"Hire gunslingers."

"We have nothing to pay them with."

"And yet they will come."

The Old One had then given them a list of seven names and three of the strongest Tcho-Tcho men had set out to find these gunfighters.

They travelled to the towns of New R'ylexico, Tsaxas, Y'ha-Nuevo Laredo, and Houston-Kolath. They found Nyarlathotep first, who, with a small smile on his thin lips, immediately signed on, saying that he would help them persuade the others. And he was as good as his word. Within a few days the Tcho-Tchos had returned to town with the gunfighters in tow.

Now, the seven mercenaries prepared to meet the attack of Chief Wind Walker and his Ithaqua warriors.

They came suddenly; the atlach-riding Ithaquas appearing out of nowhere, ornamental feathers fluttering behind them. They pulled up short in front of the town's main road--a horde of gaunt, grey men with whithered skin, puffing clouds of mist. They stared at Cthulhu and Yig who were standing in the middle of the road, blocking their way into town.

A figure pushed its way through the crowded Ithaquas to stand before the two gunmen. It was Chief Wind Walker, tribal leader of the Ithaqua Tribe. His weathered body was decorated with war-paint, feathers and small bones. The head of a white bear perched upon his own. Somewhere in the distance, a tindalosi howled.

"Who are you?" whistled Wind Walker.

Yig hawked a gob of brown spit in the Ithaqua Chief's direction. "We're the guys gonna kick yer butts," he said, chawing on his tobacco.

Wind Walker's carmine eyes narrowed. "The two of you. Against an entire tribe?"

Cthulhu shrugged.

"We'll see," whispered the Chief, icicles forming on his chin.

One of the warriors raised a bow and fired. The bamboo projectile sunk its iron tip into Yig's chest.

"Fetch-sticks!" he said as he crumbled to his knees.

In a flash, Cthulhu's revolvers were thundering; one in each hand and four in his face tendrils. The star-bullets struck the Ithaqua with the bow, blowing holes the size of tumble-weeds out of his flesh.

The eight-legged atlachs began to buck, the booming noises sending them into a panic. As Yig pulled himself to his feet, the other five gunslingers came at a run, weapons ready.

"Holy Voids!" said the Dagon Kid, mouth gaping. "They shot Yig! You evil yellow faeries! You shot Yig!"

With a twist, Yig pulled the fetch-stick out of his chest and tossed it aside. "Don't worry bout me, boy. I've gotta thick hide. Watch out fer yer own." With that warning, Yig pulled two knives from his belts and leapt onto an Ithaqua which had been bearing down on them.

With a gasp, the Dagon Kid threw himself to the side, narrowly avoiding the charging atlach. He fired his revolver into the beast's side, popping it open like a wet balloon.

Y'golonac knelt behind a water barrel, shooting one handed. The mouth in his other hand curled in disgust and spat into the dust. "I hate the taste of gun hilts," he muttered.

Roaring like an enraged behemoth, Chaugnar Faugn charged towards the Ithaquas, ears flapping, both shotguns blasting. His star-stone charge ripped through atlach and Ithaqua alike. Beside him strode Shub-Niggurath, carefully placing her shots-- none of which missed.

Nyarlathotep stood to one side, smoothing down his suit. He watched the battle with a sly smile on his face, occasionally shooting down an Ithaqua if it came too near him. The tattoo on his hand seemed to wink.

Soon, the onslaught was over. All the Ithaquas laid dead in the dirt -- all except Chief Wind Walker. The other six gunmen watched as the Chief and Cthulhu circled each other warily.

The Dagon Kid hopped in excitement. "Watch out, Cthulhu! He's tough!"

With a flick of his tongue, Yig said, "Old Cth's a tough varmint hisself. If Wind Walker was smart he'd back down."

"I think his guns are outta ammo," said Chaugnar. "Maybe I should blast him."

"No," said Nyarlathotep in his clipped, educated tones. "Let him handle it himself."

The pachydermic gunslinger looked over at Yig who shrugged, then nodded.

With a gurgling bellow, Cthulhu launched himself at Wind Walker, bowling the Ithaqua to the ground. Cthulhu's tentacles wrapped themselves around the Chief's head, tearing at his eyes and pushing their way down his throat. The others couldn't see what was happening clearly (Cthulhu's wings kept blocking their view) but it looked like he was winning. After a few moments, Cthulhu stood up, hitching his belt and rubbing his head. Chief Wind Walker lay at his feet, his formerly blazing carmine eyes now a dead black.

As the byakees began to spiral down from the sky, attracted by the scent of dead meat, the Tcho-Tchos ran out from hiding, yelling with joy, flinging their hats in the air.

"You did it!" said the town Elder, happily. "You defeated them! We are free! We never have to worry about them again!"

"No," said Cthulhu, reloading his six-shooters. "Now you have to worry about us."

The Elder looked confused, even as Cthulhu's star-bullet blew his stomach open. The other Tcho-Tchos looked in horror at their Elder, twitching spastically in the dust.

With savage energy, Yig shot a fist into the air and yelled, "Yippee-yi-yo-ki-ai!" He and the others joined Cthulhu as he walked through the town, shooting down anything that moved.

One of the Tcho-Tchos, the Elder's younger brother, fled to the mill of the Old One. He burst inside and flung himself before the churning ectoplasmic mass.

"Old One," he panted, "the men we hired have turned on us! They are killing us!" The Old One said nothing, just sat and listened to the sounds of carnage, audible over the pipes. Finally, as the mill's door creaked open and Cthulhu led his brood inside, the Old One sprouted a great orange eye which it turned towards the Tcho-Tcho.

"Because I want them to," he said as Yig sliced open the man's throat.

After throwing the dead townsman outside, the seven gunfighters pulled off their clothes and began to dance about the thing that bubbled on its stage, moving in orgiastic fever to the playing of the pipes.

© 1998 by Todd H. C. Fischer

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