by Len Levinson
Meanwhile, the stagecoach driver passed the luggage to the shotgun guard, who handed it to passengers. The sergeant carried his belongings across the street to Sullivan's Saloon, and disappeared into the smoke and laughter behind the bat-wing doors. The driver sauntered toward Duane.
“Got someplace to stay?”
Duane cleared his throat, and tried to speak deeply, like Boggs. “I'll find a boardinghouse, I reckon.”
The stagecoach driver raised an eyebrow. “Ain't you got folks?”
“Killed in an injun raid.”
“They got a good parson in this town, name of MacDuff, and if you ever git the miss-meal cramps, I'm sure he'll give you a bowl of soup. He might even have somebody in the congregation who can find you a job. Life is what you make it, boy. Don't take no shit from nobody.”
The driver patted him on the shoulder, then climbed back to the top seat of the cab. The horses strained as they pulled the stagecoach toward the livery stable. Duane stood in the middle of the street, dumbfounded that the highly respected driver had noticed him.
“Git out of the road!”
Hoofbeats pounded toward him, and he darted toward the sidewalk. Three cowboys galloped past, yipping and yelling down the main street of town, colorful bandannas flying in the breeze. Duane's eyes fell on a sign that said:
HATS
The store was closed for the night, but moonlight illuminated a display of headgear with wide flaring brims and crowns dented in numerous interesting configurations. Duane's eyes widened at the sight of a white ten-gallon sombrero with a neat dent in the middle of the crown. That's the one I'll buy, soon as I find a job, he promised himself.
He became aware of running footsteps, and turned toward a gang of boys not more than ten years old, charging toward him. Barefooted, filthy, ragged, they dove through the air, clutched at him. Something came down on his head, and he saw sunbursts.
He staggered on the sidewalk, trying to make sense of what was happening, when another boy smacked him in the cheek with a rock, and Duane went sprawling backward. A hand groped into his pocket, as the rock hit him again.
“Won't go down,” one of the boys lamented.
A voice came from the other side of the street. “Hey—what's going on over there!”
A gun fired, and the boys scattered. Duane tripped over an empty whiskey bottle, fell to the floorboards, his head whirled. He rolled onto his back and looked up at a man with a bony angular face and a six-shooter in his hand. “You okay, kid?”
Duane touched his head, and blood came back on his finger. His nose felt smashed, and more blood showed. “What happened?”
The stranger had a thin black cheroot sticking out his teeth. “Guess they figured you had money.”
“I did.” Duane reached into his empty pocket. “And they got it all.”
The man was tall, in his forties, with blond hair and long sideburns, wearing a ruffled shirt with black string tie. Duane gave him his hand, and the stranger pulled him up. The stranger wore his six-shooter in a holster beneath his frock coat.
“I'm much obliged to you, mister.”
“You've got to get yourself a gun, boy.”
“I will, soon as I get some money. Do you know where I can find a job?”
“Not offhand.” The stranger looked Duane up and down, and his forehead became wrinkled. What's your name?”
“Duane Braddock.”
The friendly expression on the stranger's face changed to something more thoughtful, as he submitted Duane to another appraisal, noticing tattered clothes and sandals. “My name's Clyde Butterfield. Where'd you say you're from?”
“Didn't say.”
Butterfield reflected for a few moments, absent-mindedly scratching his chin. “If I needed money in a hurry, I'd find a cowboy job.”
“Can't ride a horse.”
“Can you do carpenter work?”
Duane shook his head.
“Well, if you don't want to rob the bank, you might go to every saloon and restaurant in town, and ask if they need a dishwasher. Where're you sleeping tonight?”
“Don't know yet,” Duane replied.
Butterfield paused, as if making a decision. “Watch your step, kid. As soon as you get fifteen dollars, buy yourself a Colt.”
Butterfield touched his forefinger to the brim of his cowboy hat, and strolled off into the night. Duane watched him go, certain that Butterfield was an important man about town. He looked at me awfully funny, he thought, and I must be a disgrace in these clothes. Duane smoothed the front of his shirt, wiped blood from the corner of his mouth, and headed for the nearest saloon, to search for a dishwashing job. Nothing can stop a determined Christian, Duane reminded himself.
He thought of acetic Brother Paolo fasting, praying, and suffering, trying to atone for his wicked life as a bandito, while Duane had studied in the scriptorium. The monastery had been filled with brooding, gloomy monks like Brother Paolo, who'd talked incessantly about the joy of God's creation.
Duane worked himself to a high pitch of self-confidence as he approached the front of the Longhorn Saloon, where men congregated in groups on the sidewalk and street, passing bottles of whiskey, laughing loudly, gesticulating drunkenly—countless conversations taking place simultaneously. Some dressed like cowboys, but others wore frock coats and stovepipe hats, with brocade vests, gold chains, and diamond tiepins. Horses plodded down the center of the street, and a small shellacked black carriage with two white horses rolled past, its passenger shrouded in shadows.
Duane stared at the carriage, because it resembled an illustration he'd seen in an old magazine at the monastery, about how rich folks lived in the East. But now at last he was seeing the world through his own eyes, instead of from the printed page. He turned toward the Longhorn Saloon, and prepared to push open the bat-wing doors, when suddenly they erupted in his face. He dodged to the side, as a crowd of grim men poured outside. No one spoke, and they resembled monks going to Vespers, except that they carried no cross, and no hymns were sung.
Duane stood near the window of the Longhorn Saloon, as men continued to stream outside. They grumbled to each other, a few passed money from hand to hand, and it looked like a major event was about to occur. Duane peered inside the murky window, saw a bar to the left, countless tables, and women wearing low-cut gowns. A group of them approached the window, and Duane ogled their bare shoulders. He'd never seen such things before, and was transfixed. The women drew closer, motioning for him to get out of the way. They pointed over his shoulder, and he turned around.
Two men faced each other in the middle of the street. Crowds lined both sidewalks, and Duane climbed onto a nearby barrel for a better view. The adversaries were tense, knees bent slightly, hands resting above their guns.
“Make yer play,” said the one in a black leather vest.
The other cowboy was younger, leaner, and more nervous. Curly red hair furled beneath his white cowboy hat, and he appeared as if he wanted to be somewhere else. A man wearing a badge stepped out of the crowd, holding both palms out, and his voice broke as he said, “We don't allow no gunfightin’ in this town. Why don't you boys sleep it off?”
“Light a shuck,” said black vest. “This is between him and me.”
The lawman opened his mouth, but no sound came out. A man in his sixties, wearing a business suit, stepped from between two horses. “Deputy Dawson,” he said, “I think you'd better move out of the way. You're liable to get shot by mistake, or on purpose.”
Someone in the crowd laughed nervously, and Deputy Dawson eased backward, leaving the two men alone in the street. Duane felt as if his hair was standing on end. They're really not going to shoot each other, are they?
“I'm a-waitin’ on yuh,” black vest said, “and I'm a-losin’ my patience. You can apologize, but I ain't got all night.”
“You insulted my woman,” the young cowboy said evenly, trying to be brave. “I got nothin’ to apologize fer.”
Duane heard a new
voice on the far side of the street. “It ain't worth dyin’ over, cowboy. That's Saul Klevins, and he's the fastest hand in these parts. You walk away, no one'll think the less of you.”
“I don't walk away,” the cowboy said stubbornly.
“Then yer a-gonna die,” replied Saul Klevins.
The young cowboy licked his upper lip, and went into his gunfighter's crouch. Light glanced off his burnished spurs, his pants were cut tight to his legs, his eyes steely. Saul Klevins hunched his shoulders, and his right palm hovered above his gun grip. The night was silent, and Duane held his breath. He didn't know whether to say a Hail Mary, Our Father, or a Glory Be.
The combatants were frozen like statues in the moonlight, then the young cowboy's hand darted suddenly toward his holster, but Saul Klevins already was hauling iron. A faint smile came over Klevins's face as he aimed down his barrel and fired. The explosion shattered the night, and Duane flinched. Gunsmoke billowed in the middle of the street, and the cowboy's knees locked together. His gun couldn't clear its holster, as he tried desperately to raise it, and a dark stain spread over his shirt.
Klevins narrowed one eye and fired again. The cowboy was rocked on his heels, as his gun fell out of his hand and his hat dropped off the back of his head. His red hair glowed like fire as he staggered in the middle of the street. A woman shrieked, as the cowboy's legs gave out. He fell like a sack of potatoes at the feet of the man who'd killed him.
A smile played over Saul Klevins's face, as he twirled his Colt around his forefinger, then jammed it into his holster. He snorted derisively, then headed back toward the front door of the saloon. “Good shot, Saul,” someone murmured. The crowd parted like the waters of the Red Sea, as Klevins approached the door. “Lemme buy you a drink, Saul.”
Klevins pushed open the bat-wing doors, and the crowd followed him into the Longhorn Saloon. Duane turned toward the street. A woman in a bright red dress kneeled beside the dead man, her face drenched with tears. “Why didn't you stop them!” she screamed at the deputy.
The lawman was freckle-faced, with a nose like a finger. “Saul Klevins is the fastest gun in this county, and I ain't a-gonna die fer some stove-up cowboy what didn't know how to keep his mouth shut.” The deputy wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I'll git the sawbones.”
He walked away, and the woman gazed at the dead cowboy. A sob escaped her throat, blood dribbled out the corner of the cowboy's mouth, and a gay tune was played on the piano in the Longhorn Saloon. Duane crossed himself and prayed, “May the Lord have mercy on your soul.”
The woman's head snapped up, and she looked at Duane. “What're you want?” she asked. “You need to see some more blood—you ain't got enough—you goddamned buzzard!”
Duane looked away, as he reflected upon the sudden destruction of a life. From dust thou came, to dust thou shalt return. It had been unexpected, brutal, and shocking, but yet everyone had behaved as if it were a normal activity, like eating a meal or going to Mass. Duane had read about killings, but no description could duplicate the real thing. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death.
He looked through the window of the saloon, and saw Saul Klevins at the bar, center of adulation, drinking whiskey. He'd killed somebody, and become a hero in the secular world. It was just as Brother Paolo had warned: moral values extinct in the secular world. Duane sat on the bench in front of the saloon, and watched the deputy return with a dignified man in a suit and shirt, his hair mussed with sleep. Duane guessed it was the sawbones, who kneeled beside the dead cowboy. The sawbones felt the cowboy's pulse, held a mirror in front of his nostrils, and pronounced, “He's dead.”
“Well, who the hell didn't know that?” asked the deputy.
The deputy grabbed the cowboy's arms, and the doctor took his ankles. Together, they carried him toward the far side of the street, as the dance hall girl followed, head bowed in sorrow. The street became still as before, and Duane wondered if the gunfight had really happened. He recalled Klevins's speed, like a flash of deadly lightning.
Duane still felt the passion of the duel, and it reminded him vaguely of euphoric feelings that sometimes came over him when the abbot placed the Host on his tongue, during the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass. And he died like Jesus, Duane thought, mocked in the middle of the street, while Deputy Pontius Pilate washed his hands of the deed.
That's the way my father croaked, more or less, the orphan figured. Or maybe he was shot out of the saddle as he was rustling cattle. Duane had no idea of how his father died, as a brave man or coward, outgunned by one other man, or strung up by a posse.
Duane wondered who was responsible for the death of his father, and whether he or they were still alive. He was headed toward the Pecos country in search of answers, because an orphan needs his history, as another man needs food and drink. He couldn't believe that his parents could be so bad. Whatever the truth, he wanted to know it.
The reflection on his parents was interrupted by a woman's laughter behind him. He turned, and saw, through the front window of the saloon, a prostitute squirming on a man's lap. Duane's eyes widened as the man snaked his hand up the woman's dress, and she shrieked with delight. She was fat, her face painted grotesquely, and her breasts surged out of a red satin gown. Near her, men gambled, drank, and hollered at each other, while couples swayed together on the small dance floor, and a man in a striped shirt pounded a piano. In the light of coal oil lamps, it looked like the bowels of hell.
Duane noticed that some of the people were eating from big wooden plates, and realized that the saloon was also a restaurant. He was reminded of his plan to become a dishwasher, made a motion to stand, but something held him back. You go in there, said the voice of Brother Paolo in his ear, you might never come out.
Duane stared through the window fearfully. Nobody could make me drink something I don't want, and I'm not looking for a fight. He rose to his feet, slapped dust from his jacket, and smoothed down his unruly hair. I can be anything I want, he said to himself.
Someone cackled nearby as he pushed open the bat-wing doors. The panorama of the saloon stretched before him, and the first thing that hit him was a cloud of cigar smoke blown from the lungs of a freighter just in from El Paso. Duane coughed, his eyes watered, his face went red. Beside the door, a man in a string tie spun a giant wheel covered with numbers. “Round and round she goes, and where she stops—nobody knows!”
“Could I have a word with you, sir?”
“Just put yer money down, boy.”
“Could you tell me where the owner is?”
An arm draped over Duane's shoulder, and a cloud of flowery fragrance enveloped him. He turned, and his eyes bugged at a half-naked woman whispering in his ear. “Wanna go fer a walk?” she asked, pressing her breasts against his arm.
He was unable to speak, and the sound of a drowning bird emitted from his throat as she wormed her tongue into his ear and maneuvered him toward the back door. “I'll show yuh a real good time,” she said. “You just leave everything to LouAnn.”
She looked about fifteen years old, with brown hair, brown eyes, long eyelashes, and a few freckles on her nose. He realized that she was the one who'd peered at him through the window. “But I don't have any money,” he protested.
Her arm left his shoulder as quickly as it had appeared, taking her smile with it. “If you ain't got no money, what the hell're you doin’ here?”
“I'm looking for a job. Do you know where the boss is?”
“The kitchen.”
She turned away from him, and dropped onto the lap of a cowboy trying to read a newspaper. “How's about a drink?”
Duane stared at her in fascination. His eyes widened as she wiggled her fanny in the man's lap. The man pinched her bottom and chortled happily. That's a scarlet woman? He wondered how she could sell her most precious gift for a few coins.
I could have her for only a few dollars, Duane realized. He'd never thought that paradise could be p
urchased so cheaply. The Mexican girls at the monastery had been unapproachable, but for only a few coins . . . ? He felt ashamed of his lascivious thoughts.
“Git the fuck out'n my way!” somebody bellowed.
Duane felt as if a stagecoach had crashed into him, and he went sprawling against the wall, his head narrowly missing a coal oil lamp hanging from a nail. He turned and saw a cowboy in a green and black checkered shirt stalking toward the chuck-a-luck wheel. Duane heard the voice of Brother Paolo in his ear: Even if you are angry, you must not sin. Never let the sun set on your anger, or you will give the devil a foothold.
It was a line from Saint Paul, and Duane tried to calm himself. The orphan carried a low opinion of himself, and didn't like it when others confirmed his worst doubts. The big cowboy threw coins onto a colored square, and the man with the bowtie spun the chuck-a-luck wheel. “Round and round she goes, and where she stops—nobody knows!”
The hulk in spurs leaned forward, squinting at the spinning wheel. His head rolled round and round with it, and finally the wheel came to a stop.
“You lose,” shouted the man in the string tie, scooping up the money.
The big cowboy grabbed the croupier by the front of his shirt. “This goddamn wheel's fixed!”
The hapless croupier struggled to get loose, and men nearby scooped whiskey and money off the tables. A painted woman screamed, as the cowboy leaned the croupier over the table and drew his fist back for a solid punch to the teeth.
The twin barrels of a shotgun appeared through the crowd, carried by a stout man in a dirty apron, with waxed turned-up mustaches and a bald head. He placed both barrels against the big cowboy's ear. “Let ‘im go, or I'll blow yer fuckin’ head off!”