Natchez

by Paul Lederer

  “Put that gun down.” Ray turned to see a chrome pistol in the hand of the mustached man, Potter. “I’ll kill you where you stand, boy.”

  Ray measured his chances. A swing to the left, a drop to the knee. But the voice behind him cut his thoughts short. “I got you cold, young fellow. Don’t buck it.”

  From the corner of his eye Ray saw the sawed-off ten-gauge in the bartender’s hands, and by the door another man stood, pistol raised.

  “We don’t go for violence here,” Potter said with a thin smile. “So when we find a violent man we just kill him. Boy, you’re plain violent.”

  Bangston moaned and rolled to his knees. It took him a moment to clear his fuzzy thoughts, then he saw Featherskill and his eyes caught fire.

  “You!” The big man staggered to his feet, thick chest showing through the torn fabric of his shirt. “You…” he pointed a stubby finger at Ray, “you’re a dead man.”

  “Boy,” the bartender said behind Ray, “I wish you’d drop that pistol of yours before I have to cut you in half with this scattergun. Do it! Maybe they’ll let you off with a beating.” He sounded genuinely concerned, and it caused Ray to smile despite the circumstances.

  “You folks stick together, don’t you?”

  “We got to,” the bartender answered. “Please, son, put that down before I’m obliged to do an evil task.”

  Bangston shivered, his animal instincts urging him to fight, the gun in Ray’s hand freezing him. Potter smiled slightly, pistol cocked and ready. The man in the doorway, faceless with the brilliant sun behind him, waited.

  The room was utterly silent for a fraction of a second, only Bangston’s ragged breathing breaking the stillness. Someone was about to die. Three guns were ridden by anxious hands, three fingers ready to twitch and spell death with that single, small movement.

  “Oh, hell!” a strange voice said suddenly. A chair tilted forward, legs slamming against the wooden floor. “Man cain’t get no rest nowhere.”

  Ray’s eyes flashed to the far wall. The man with the Western hat who had been dozing there had let his chair tip forward. He had green eyes, a pleasant smile, and a big Navy Colt in his fist.

  “Put that damn thing away, George,” he told the bartender, “before Martha b’comes a widow.”

  The bartender hesitated, his eyes going to Potter.

  “Keep out of this, Kesey.”

  “The hell I will, Potter. You woke me from a dream of a Spanish lady.”

  He smiled, spat on the floor and rose to his feet. “Howdy,” he nodded to Featherskill. “Where you from, boy?”

  “Texas mostly, by way of Colorado.”

  “Good country. You know Denver?” Kesey asked.

  “I know it.”

  “Kesey, by God…” Potter sputtered.

  “You ain’t never done nothin’ by God,” Kesey said quietly. “Put that scattergun down, George!”

  The shotgun clattered to the floor and George’s hands went up as the Navy Colt trained on him.

  “How about Pueblo,” Kesey asked, “them San Juans—been up in them high mountains, have you?”

  “Some. Favor that area, Guyamas and thereabouts.”

  “Fair country,” Kesey agreed. “Them far blue mountains, deep spruce, clear brooks. I favor it too.”

  “Kesey!”

  “Shut up, Potter! And drop that gun before I take a notion. Bangston, back up against that wall, and tell your friend to come on in where I can see him better.”

  Potter’s pistol rattled against the wood of the floor as he dropped it, foaming a curse. Bangston stepped back, eyes dark, glaring.

  “Your life ain’t worth a nickel in Natchez, Kesey. Not now,” Potter warned him.

  “No? Try and collect. See what it costs you.” He motioned to Featherskill who still held his pistol in his hand. Together the two Westerners eased toward the backdoor.

  “I wouldn’t be in a hurry to rush out after us,” Kesey cautioned them. “I might just wait around awhile and see which turkey pokes his head out first.”

  Featherskill followed Kesey into the alley. Quickly they strode up the alley, taking a sharp left behind a Chinese laundry, then, winding through a twisting alley which dipped through a muddy wash and into a forested vale beyond, they lost themselves in the deep shadows of the woods. At a certain bend in the road Kesey winked and broke off the trail, Featherskill following him up a rocky, narrow pass which had been invisible from the main road. After a minute’s climb and a descent down a fifteen-yard slope, they came into a clearing where three horses stood grazing.

  “Home,” Kesey said.

  Featherskill looked around. There was a lean-to thrown up among the oak, and a fire ring. A canteen swung from a tree branch. Kesey started the fire, filling the blue enamel pot with coffee.

  He straightened up and winked at Ray. “Never did like that town life. Up here I can see ’em coming, and nobody can break through that brush without waking me when I sleep.”

  While the coffee boiled Kesey packed a roll. Featherskill watched the lean, dark-haired man, finally asking, “You pulling out?”

  “Huh?” Kesey looked at Ray as if he hadn’t understood. “Hell, yes,” he answered slowly. “I’m pulling out. I know how them boys work. Only reason I took a hand was that I seen you were a Western man and they had you outgunned.”

  “That and the dream they disturbed.”

  Kesey smiled. “That too. It was a nice dream, Featherskill. Pretty, dark-eyed Spanish lady I once knew. You best pack up to, boy. Bangston, Potter—they don’t like being showed up. They’ll come for you, Featherskill. I guarantee it.”

  “Well, maybe it’d be smart, but I can’t. I got friends coming to meet me,” Ray answered.

  “Your skin,” Kesey shrugged. He squatted beside the fire, pouring coffee for them, perching on a white log to drink it.

  “These are rough men, huh?” Featherskill asked.

  “Yeah. Tough in their way. Mean, that is. None of ’em would face up to you even, like a Westerner.” Kesey sipped the scalding black coffee from his tin cup. “That’s another reason I’m blowin’ Natchez. I miss the country, the folks out West. Time to time in crazy moments I miss the desert, the Apache, them freezin’ plains winters. I got a warrant on me, Featherskill, out of Dodge, but I reckon it’s cooled some. It’s been ten years nearly since I blew out of there.”

  “Sorry I got you into this,” Featherskill apologized. The wind was in the oaks, a scarlet cardinal flickered in a broken-limbed, gnarled old tree, a squirrel chattered deep in the grove. The sun was high, the smell of water in the air off the Mississippi below them and three miles off.

  “Like I say,” Kesey smiled, “I been meaning to drift. You just got me started.” Kesey tipped his hat forward and leaned back. “I mean to be among good men again. Hell, I might even punch cows. A man can miss the dust, the stink of cattle.”

  “I know what you mean,” Ray agreed.

  “But I’d seriously recommend you pull out. Say, we could ride together a ways! These Natchez boys, they’ll be comin’ after you, Featherskill.”

  “I guess I’ll be stayin’.”

  “I admire that,” Kesey said. “Don’t forget, though, these fellas are back-shooters, Featherskill. Bullies. Not like them Western badmen. I seen a bundle of ’em, and all the really good gun-fighters are square. Sam Pinty, John Harding. Pollis Minga even—scum he is, but he wouldn’t back-shoot you.”

  “Minga’s dead,” Featherskill advised him.

  “Do tell! Fair fight?”

  “Kid Soledad got him. Down to Julesburg.”

  “Soledad!” Kesey’s hat tilted back and he whistled. “Now there’s a gunhand. But you don’t mean to say he’s still working! Hell,” Kesey said, counting on his fingers, “I seen that big man down in Laredo. Must’ve been ten, twelve years back. He appeared to be middle thirties then. Had him a horse like nothin’ you ever seen. Strappin’, grand animal with a silver mane and tail. Beast a man would give his mother
away for.”

  “The Kid’s still working,” Ray said. “Still fast.”

  “Say. These friends you’re waitin’ for. You don’t mean you know Kid Soledad?”

  “I know him,” Ray admitted.

  “And he’s riding into Natchez?”

  “I couldn’t say,” Ray said hesitantly. “But it’s possible. It’s most possible.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Inkada stumbled on. The day was sultry, despite the late hour. The mud was thick beneath his feet. He wandered off the main road in the dark, and was attempting to follow the river. Yet here and there willow brush grew to the water’s edge, or the trail simply disappeared. Still he had gotten a glimpse of Natchez, flushed rose by the setting sun, perched on the bluffs above the broad Mississippi.

  He was weary, but had no wish to spend another night in the open in unfamiliar territory. He sloshed through a muddy-bottomed oxbow and climbed the far, sandy bank. Inkada was breathing hard, sweat lacquered his dark face.

  He sighed, wiped his brow and started to sit on a dark log.

  Instantly he leapt back, shuddering as the log took form, twitched its tail and waddled off to the water’s edge.

  Inkada plunged on, his legs trembling. He had known a man once in the East who had done the same thing, sitting on a log at the edge of the river to contemplate. When Inkada met him he was a one-legged man.

  That was far across the ocean, long ago. Yet the teeth in the American alligator’s jaws seemed no less sharp. This one had apparently fed well during the day; only that had saved Inkada.

  Finally he thought he saw a wagon road winding above him, and he fought his way toward it, taking the lashes of the willow brush on his face and arms. When he finally reached the road it was nearly dark, the sun painting a brilliant panorama of deep velvet and brilliant gold across the river.

  An owl hooted deep in the swamp. A lone crow circled high overhead, yet Inkada did not see it, he trudged wearily toward Natchez, wanting only a bed, dry earth beneath his feet, something warm to drink.

  The crow circled a moment longer then perched in the top of a bedraggled, ancient cypress. The bird cocked its head curiously, watching the human with yellow crow’s eyes. After a moment it ruffled its glossy greenish-black feathers and took to the golden-etched twilight skies.

  The bird winged low across the cypress swamp. A startled owl swiveled its head and watched, eyes wide, as the crow flew past.

  The last gleam of golden day illuminated faintly a nearly hidden, white structure lost deep in the woods. The crow dove suddenly downward, darting through the deep shadows.

  The house was a decaying mansion, abandoned for a quarter of a century. The bottomland had returned to swamp, an oxbow, cut off from the meandering river, bordered the ancient house on three sides. There had been a covered bridge across the deep gully to the south, a relic of the original builder’s New England boyhood, but the damp rot had taken its toll on the bridge, and it lay in a sorry heap.

  Vine crawled the stately pillars and porticoes, shutters hung at precarious angles on warped, unpainted walls. It had been called Echo Vale, this sad relic, now if it was remembered at all, it was called only “the old Planter House.”

  The crow landed with a flutter on the railing of an upstairs balcony and hopped to the doorway, entering through a broken-paned door. Wango’s head came sharply around. Then the scarred man’s features relaxed. Blackschuster came forward, still breathing roughly from the rigors of his flight.

  “Anything?” Wango asked. His hands were frozen in mid-air. He held two small vials which he had been organizing on the shelf in what had been the master bedroom.

  “The dark man.” Blackschuster sighed and sagged onto a heavy walnut chair. It had been upholstered in plush velvet once, but the rats had taken it for nesting.

  “Inkada.” Wango’s eyes narrowed. He owed that man a turn or two.

  The big man sat heavily in the chair, eyes flashing with unspoken curses. Damn this Spectros, this pursuer! He never quit. Never! Blackschuster clenched his fists until they were bloodless.

  “Shall I dispatch him, sir?” Wango asked. Expressionless, as always, he awaited Blackschuster’s decision.

  “No,” Blackschuster waved a hand. “He was heading away from us. He did not notice me.” Blackschuster rose, stripping off his black silk cape. He went to the wash basin which rested beneath a faded, smoky mirror, his head hanging…“I will have our new partner take care of Spectros and his crew. They will do it with the blessing of the community, with no reflection cast on us. I will request that he solidify his agreement with me in that way.”

  “Can he do it, sir?” Wango’s black eyes questioned the choice.

  “Perhaps not,” the big-shouldered magician answered. He studied Wango in the mirror, a faithful cutthroat he was. “But it will buy us time. I hope they destroy each other.”

  “He won’t know what he’s up against,” Wango pondered, gazing out the dusty window at the black night. “Spectros will be a surprise.” Wango turned back and chuckled humorlessly.

  “Does she rest comfortably?” Blackschuster asked quietly, nearly tenderly.

  “She does.” The scarred man nodded.

  “But for how long?” The silver supply was precariously low. Blackschuster walked to the velvet drape hung across the recess and slowly drew it open.

  There she slept. Blackschuster drew the velvet cover from her eternal bed. She slept peacefully in a casket made of crystal. A dark-haired, quite beautiful young woman with full lips, a perfect figure, dressed in a white wedding gown. Blackschuster swept a hand along the casket, leaning his lips closer to her young face.

  He kissed the glass casket, murmuring in a low, broken voice. Wango, as always, pretended to be completely unaware.

  Blackschuster watched her smooth young face a moment longer. The slender hands crossed on her breast, a massive, square-cut emerald encircled one finger. How many times he wished he had torn that ring from her hand!

  Her breast rose and fell softly, her eyelids seemed to flutter and Blackschuster lay nearly prostrate across the glass coffin. Slowly he composed himself, replacing the velvet cloth, muttering in a low, halting voice:

  “Kirstina… my Kirstina.”

  The girl slept on, frozen in her eternal moment.

  Butterflies hung motionless in the clear air, a bird’s song paused on a single note. The Yahif stood across the garden, smiling a father’s smile. The women, dressed in their finest, most colorful saris smiled as well. Yet nothing moved.

  Only a moment before she had been laughing as well, anticipating the marriage, catching a glimpse of the tall man she had chosen, dressed in white as well, dark hair smoothed back. He stood on the balcony, unaware that Kirstina had seen him. She let a quiet, whispered, lover’s message drift across the space between them.

  Then it had simply stopped. A hand, Denjisha’s—filthy thing!—stretched out and touched her face. The sun flashed on the rippled, motionless lily pond where white buds floated. A golden carp just beneath the surface poised, mouth open, frozen in its feeding, its expression surprised.

  She lived that single moment eternally now. Time was frozen for her. Delicately she slept, a gentle struggle occasionally moving her eyelids. The struggle of a natural animal, wanting time to continue its natural course.

  “I wonder at times…” Blackschuster said, turning to Wango, the sentence incomplete. “At times…”

  At times he wondered what he had done. He had craved this woman, the Yahif’s daughter, paid Denjisha dearly—a king’s fortune and more for her.

  He had tried the other ways. Begged, bribed, implored.

  But she had wanted some cowboy!

  A cowboy and the Yahif had approved. Blackschuster carefully replaced the velvet cloth, his stubby hand lingering there a moment.

  Wango had turned away. Night enveloped the room of the decrepit mansion. What had he done?

  With vast quantities of silver and precious drops of ch
emicals whose exact mixture was known only to Blackschuster, he was able to hold Kirstina just so. Exactly as she had always been. Now she could not struggle, berate him. She could only lie there, his possession. The only possession he cared for.

  He walked to the balcony, watching the deep swamp, the black waving shadows of cypress. What else could he have done?

  Yet what would happen now if he failed his Kirstina? If the silver ever failed to be found? Would she wither, age, simply scold him or laugh at him as before? There was no way of knowing, and so he kept her wrapped in her crystal cocoon, a beautiful butterfly which never could emerge.

  They had gutted the silver fields of Colorado, taking tons of silver, they had killed and cheated, stolen silver. With no end in sight. He had sold his life to the quest—as Spectros had sold his life to the search for Kirstina. Still he wanted her. Still he followed, plaguing their lives. Spectros! Damn the man. Damn him! Blackschuster was rigid before the balcony, fists clenched before him. Wango stepped forward from the shadows.

  “What about the other girl, sir?” Wango asked.

  “What?” Blackschuster took a moment to return to reality. “Oh, the other girl. Keep her under lock and key. She was useful before, perhaps she will be once more. It is something to consider.”

  Blackschuster stepped to the other room, holding high a dim lantern. On a plank table rested a girl’s figure. She slept—or did she? Her breast seemed to rise and fall as well.

  A fair-haired girl with a small mouth, quite pretty actually, Blackschuster decided. He touched her forehead. It was warm, yet should not have been. It was impossible to construct a casket for her, even had he wished to. Her usefulness would be limited. She could not survive much longer in the open like this.

  Blackschuster turned the doorknob, went out and extinguished the lantern, leaving the girl to the darkness of her own dream.