by Len Levinson
He turned the page, and his eyes fell on a headline:
IMMENSE CONFLAGRATION!
A fire had killed several hundred people in Chicago, rendered ninety thousand homeless, and consumed two hundred million dollars in property. My God, thought Duane, reading forward as rapidly as his brain cells could assimilate information. The numbers staggered him. It was widely believed that the tragedy had begun in a barn.
He continued eagerly to peruse the paper, gleaning facts about shipwrecks, wars, plagues, and injustice in every corner of the globe. It shocked him, for he'd been sheltered from the vagaries of the secular world. Maybe I should become a priest after all, he speculated. A straw mattress isn't so bad, and I can live without women, can't I?
“Good morning, Duane.”
Titusville's foremost celebrity walked stiffly into the dining room, smoking her first cigarette of the day, wearing an ankle-length pale violet gown, her long blond hair pulled back and tied with a ribbon. She was sleepy-eyed, pale, and carrying a pot of coffee. Annabelle followed with a platter of ham, eggs, grits, and freshly made corn muffins. Annabelle placed the food on the table, and Vanessa sat opposite Duane, crossing her legs.
Duane scrutinized the woman of his dreams after she got up in the morning, and she was glorious with her pale, almost translucent skin.
“It's not polite to stare at a woman in the morning,” she said. “Have some coffee.”
She poured black steaming liquid into his cup, and he noticed the fine bone structure of her hand. She appeared even slimmer and more fragile in the light, and then she coughed, touching her hand to her breast.
Duane brought his eyes to that portion of her anatomy. She wasn't large-bosomed like some of the Mexican girls who'd come to the monastery, but she wasn't deprived by any means, and Duane wondered what it would be like to rest his head between those delicious fruits.
Meanwhile, she glanced at him while he sipped his coffee, and was surprised by how mature he appeared in his new clothing. In the bright daylight, he didn't appear quite so cherubic. This is more man than boy, she realized. She perceived a trace of cruelty around his eyes, and maybe a glint of madness, too.
“Thanks for the duds,” he said. “I shouldn't have any trouble getting a job dressed like this.”
“Annabelle didn't buy boots or a hat, because we don't know your size. When you finish breakfast, you can go to town and pick them out yourself. Just tell the man to put them on my account.”
Duane was stunned. “You mean I can buy a real cowboy hat, and real cowboy boots?”
“That's what you'll need if you're going to be a cowboy.
“But I don't know how to ride a horse!”
“Then we'll have to arrange lessons, won't we?”
“I can't afford riding lessons. First I'll have to get a job.”
“You can pay me back later. I don't want you emptying cuspidors in one of those filthy damned saloons. Somebody's liable to shoot you for the fun of it.”
She handed him a platter with four eggs, a slab of ham, and a stack of grits. It appeared a princely feast to one who'd eaten mainly tortillas and beans for the past seventeen years. Without a word, he dug into the food, trying to maintain basic table manners, but failing miserably.
She watched him eat, and he became the hungry little orphan boy who never got enough in his belly. You're here to help him, not take advantage of him, she told herself. His face will look like a saddlebag after a few years in the sun.
His big brown eyes looked up at her. “We're not kin, and you don't even know me. Why are you doing all this?”
“Somebody'd got to take care of lost kids.”
So that's the way she sees me, he realized with consternation. I should go over there and grab her, then she'd know I'm not a kid. But somehow his legs wouldn't move. He thought the ceiling would fall if he tried to kiss her. Disconsolately, he resumed eating.
I've hurt his feelings, she realized. He scowled, with brows knit together, and looking like a gloomy schoolboy. She placed her hand on his. “I'm sorry.”
“Don't like people feeling sorry for me,” he muttered darkly.
The wildcats of the world will tear him to pieces, she thought, but I can't hold his hand every step of the way, and he has to learn for himself.
After breakfast, in her office, she wrote a note:
Dear Mr. Sullivan,
Please provide the bearer of this message
with anything he requires, and put it on my bill.
She handed the note to Duane, then opened a drawer in her desk, selected a twenty-dollar double eagle, and held it out to him. “You'll need pocket money, so take this.”
Duane stared at the coin, unwilling to accept it, so she pressed it into his palm. “Get out of here—I've got work to do. Just make sure I don't have to look at those horrible sandals anymore, understand?”
Duane passed the kitchen on his way out, and found Annabelle washing dishes in the sink. “I want to talk with you,” she said, a stern tone in her voice. She dried her hands on a towel, then turned toward him and pointed her dark brown forefinger at his face. “Now you be careful when you're in town today, hear? There's lots of bad men here, so don't get into no more fights. And you'd better leave by the back door, ‘cause we don't want neighbors’ tongues to wag more than they do already.”
Duane departed through the kitchen door, and raised his hand to shield his eyes from the sun. Across the way, a middle-aged woman was hanging wet bloomers on a clothesline, and Duane hoped she didn't see him. He veered around the house and headed for the street, hands in his pockets, whistling a Gregorian chant. This is going to be a great day, he thought. I can feel it in my bones.
The woman across the way was Mrs. Florence MacGillicuddy, wife of a lawyer. Why that low hussy, she thought, placing her fists on her hips. And in broad daylight, too. She thought that she'd better tell Mrs. Washington, her next-door neighbor, of the new dimension of sin that had descended upon the neighborhood.
Meanwhile, in the small barn behind Vanessa's home, Jed Wilson sat on his cot, looking out the window at the young man in black jeans heading toward the street. Did that whippersnapper spend the night with Miss Vanessa? he wondered. I'll bet old Petigru will hit the ceiling when he finds out. He tossed his coffee cup into the wash basin, put on his cowboy hat, and headed for the door.
Duane walked toward the commercial district, and thought about Vanessa Fontaine. Women were alien beings to him, and it was difficult to divine what transpired in their inscrutable minds. A hot flash came over him at the mere thought of touching her naked body. I've got to view her as the Madonna of La Salette, he admonished himself. And I must move out of her house as quickly as possible. He thought of her narrow waist, surging breasts, and long, lissome legs. I guess I'm crazy about her, like everybody else in this town, he concluded.
He wasn't sure about his feelings, because all he knew of love was what he'd read in books at the scriptorium by Sir Walter Scott, Robert Burns, and Charles Dickens, among others. From them he'd learned that men and women sometimes developed overpowering feelings of desire that even drove them to murder!
His eyes fell on a sign that said:
SULLIVAN'S HABERDASHERY
He crossed the street, dodged a wagon piled high with stench-ridden buffalo hides, and on the other side, a few drunkards were passed out on a bench, adding their own special aroma to the atmosphere. He opened the door of the haberdashery, a large, cool room smelling of leather and wool, with clothing hanging from pegs on the walls, boots displayed on a rack, and hatboxes stacked on shelves. A man with white hair parted down the middle stood behind the counter, adding a row of numbers. “Can I help you?”
“Are you Mister Sullivan?”
“As far as I know.”
Duane handed him the note, which Mr. Sullivan scanned quickly. Then the entrepreneur smiled genially. “What would you like?”
“Hat and pair of boots.”
Mr. Sullivan led him to a co
rner of the store, wrapped a tape measure around his head, and took down a box. “I think this would suit you just fine.”
The hat was black, with a flat brim, black leather neck strap, and a hatband of silver conchos tied together with a black leather thong. “I don't think so,” Duane replied. “I might be in Indian territory some day, and those conchos could be seen for a hundred miles.”
“When yer in Injun territory, just take ‘em off.” Mr. Sullivan untied the leather thong and removed the silver disks from the crown. “Drop ‘em into your saddlebags, and when you come to the next town, tie em on again. Let me tell ya—this is the kind of hat the girls notice. That hatband was made by an Apache princess, and it's one of a kind. Put it on—see if you like it.”
“I'd wanted a white cowboy hat.”
“I'll get one down, but in the meantime, try that fer size.”
The black hat appeared well made, the brim wide enough to keep sun and rain off him. He put it on, tilted it rakishly to the side, positioned the strap beneath his chin, and walked to the full-length mirror.
A desperado stood before him, light shining off the silver hatband, and he smiled in recognition of himself. Maybe people'll leave me alone, when they see me in this hat.
“Here's a white one,” said Sullivan, proffering a ten-gallon sombrero similar to the one Duane had seen in the window the night before.
Duane dropped it square on his head, and saw an awkward farm boy, the kind of bumpkin that card-sharps cheated, and whores swindled. “Let me try on the black one again.”
They swapped hats, and Duane positioned the black one low over his eyes. If I saw myself walking down the street, I'd run for my life, he thought. “I’ll take it,” he drawled, trying to sound like an old, experienced cowpuncher. “Now I'll need me a pair of boots.”
“Have a seat, and take off them things yer wearin’.”
Duane glanced at himself again in the mirror. The hat went with his black jeans, and now all he needed were black boots to complete the picture. Mr. Sullivan brought two rectangular sheets of paper and a pencil, and bowed before Duane like an choirboy at Mass. He placed Duane's left foot on one sheet of paper, traced around it, then repeated the process with Duane's other foot.
“Takes about two weeks,” Mr. Sullivan said. “What color you want.”
“Black, but do I have to wait that long? I need a pair of boots now.”
The storekeeper raised his eyebrows in disdain. “We only sell custom-made boots here. Ready-mades ain't worth a damn anyway. How can a man in Austin know yer feet?”
“But I can't wear these sandals anymore,” Duane replied. “They're no good for anything.”
Sullivan snapped his fingers. “Just a minute!” He studied the outlines he'd just made of Duane's feet. “Hmmm. Well, I might have something, but how do you feel about wearing a dead man's boots?”
“Dead man's boots?” Duane asked. “What'd he die of?”
“He's the feller what got shot last night by Saul Klevins. He ordered the boots, but ain't never worn ‘em. Put on a thick pair of wool socks, and they might fit fine.”
The storekeeper propelled himself toward his vast array of boxes, and Duane asked himself: Do I want to wear a dead man's boots? He recalled the shooting in front of the Longhorn Saloon. A man died before his very eyes, and the killer got free drinks.
Mr. Sullivan appeared with wool stockings and a pair of plain brown work boots with high cowboy heels and round tops.
“I wanted black,” Duane explained.
“You work in ‘em for a while, they'll turn black—don't worry. The main thing is the fit. Put on the stockings.”
Duane pulled them on, and then tried one of the boots. It slid over his heel easily, then he tucked in his new pants cavalry style, and wiggled his toes. “Feels loose.”
“You'll be glad after a day's work, and your feet swell up. Put on the other one and take a few steps, because you really can't tell sitting down.”
Duane thrust his foot into the other boot, headed toward the mirror, and nearly pitched onto his face. He'd never walked in raised heels, but they gave him the special cowboy swagger that he so admired. He hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans and looked at himself in the mirror. “Isn't it bad luck to wear the boots of a dead man?”
“I'll give ‘em to you fer half price, since the original owner ain't never gonna claim ‘em, poor son of a bitch. He should never've gone outside with Saul Klevins, because Saul Klevins is a cold-blooded killer, and he does it fer a living.”
“Do you sell guns?”
“Gunsmith's down the street.”
Duane pulled his hat lower over his eyes, and changed position in front of the mirror. “Do you know where I could get horse-riding lessons?”
“How come you don't know how to ride a horse?”
Duane didn't want to retail the old monastery story again. “I'm from the East,” he lied.
Sullivan screwed up an eye. “You don't sound like yer from the East, but you want to ride horses, you should git a job in a stable, or on a ranch. We don't have no schools for horseback riders in Titusville.”
Duane ambled out of the store, leaning from side to side like a real cowboy. Down the street, he spotted a sign that said:
GUNSMITH
Hoofbeats clattered, the odor of manure was in the air. Duane promenaded toward the front window of the gunsmith's shop, and saw pistols, rifles, derringers, gun belts, rifles, and shotguns. When I get some money, I'll ask somebody to help me pick one out, he told himself.
A head crowned with a shock of red hair craned around the door. “Lookin fer a gun, cowboy?” The gunsmith wore chin whiskers, white collar, and a string tie.
Duane felt flattered that someone had called him a cowboy. He thrust out his chest and said in a deep voice, “As a matter of fact, I was.”
“Then come on in, and I'll show you the latest advances in the modern pistol, plus I have a fine collection of Sharps buffalo guns, and you know that there's fortunes in buffalo skins just north of here.” He ushered Duane into the store, and inclined him toward a case full of guns with shiny grips of wood and ivory, carved in designs of horses, eagles, sunbursts, and the lone star insignia of the great state of Texas. “What you say yer name was, cowboy?”
“Braddock.”
“I'm Cal Saunders. Braddock? Seems I heard that name before. Your family in the storekeeper business?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Seen the new Remingtons?” He reached into the case and pulled out an unadorned six-shooter with bright metal barrel and plain wooden grips. “Some say that the Colt is the best gun made, but for my money, I'll take a Remington any day. You see that strap of metal on top? It makes it strong, whereas the Colt is held together by two little wedges at the bottom. The Remington is a much finer weapon, and I think you'll like the balance.”
Saunders held out the Remington, and Duane took it in his fist. A pleasurable sensation passed up his arm, and he felt as if he'd become, for a second, a man in a black mustache.
“How does it feel?”
Duane raised the Remington, closed one eye, and lined up the V of the rear sight with the nub in front.
“What does it cost?”
“Fifteen dollars.”
“And a holster?”
“Depends on which one you pick. I got all kinds.”
Guns seemed a complicated science, and Duane decided not to buy until he learned more. “Haven't made up my mind,” he said. “Maybe I'll come back later.”
“I can take a deposit, and hold the gun for you. These Remington's go like hotcakes after a shooting, like the one we had last night. You see it?”
Duane nodded, as he placed the gun on the counter.
“Braddock? Seems I know that name.”
Duane leaned against the counter, scratched his cheek casually, and drawled, “There was an outlaw named Braddock once, but he was no relation of mine. Ever heard of him?”
The gu
nsmith wrinkled his brow. “Was he from Missouri?”
“Don't recall,” Duane replied. “Got shot by a sheriff, I believe.”
“Ain't that what happens to all of ‘em?”
Duane waited, hoping for more information, but the merchant held up the Remington instead. “I'll give you the gun and a plain leather holster for eighteen dollars, and you'll never get a better deal than that. What do you say?”
Duane wanted to ask more questions about the outlaw named Braddock, but didn't want to appear obvious. “I'm not ready yet,” Duane replied. “See you later.”
“Anytime,” the gunsmith said, a twinkle in his eye.
Duane walked out of the store, feeling strangely exhilarated. He'd liked the weight of the gun in his hand—solid chunk of machined metal. I wonder if anybody in town gives shooting lessons?
His eyes fell on a sign hanging over the sidewalk a few doors down:
LONGHORN SALOON
Maybe I should go in and strike up a conversation with a cowboy. Possibly I can hire somebody to give me riding lessons, he speculated. He elbowed through the swinging doors, stepped out of the light, and surveyed the scene before him, which was not much different from the crowd last night, except for fewer patrons. Above the bar, harem girls cavorted in their gigantic tub, waited on by Negro eunuchs in turbans. Duane found a space at the bar, placed his foot on the rail, and opened his mouth, but didn't know what to say to the bartender a few feet away. I can't drink whiskey, Duane cogitated, because whiskey will kill me, but they'll laugh if I order sarsaparilla. If I'm going to be a cowboy, I'd better start living like one.
“What's yer pleasure?” asked the bartender impatiently. He wore a dirty white apron and a black patch over one eye.