by Len Levinson
He searched three more saloons, still no Lester Boggs. A substantial crowd gathered in front of the Round-Up, as cowboys tried to squeeze inside for the next show. Boggs won't be in there, Duane thought. He'll be in the most filthy and disgusting saloon available. Duane remembered the Blind Pig off Main Street. Of course.
Bodies became too numerous on the sidewalk, so he cut into the muddy street, walking behind horses’ tails. He made a few turns, and came to the dark alley where the Blind Pig was located, its lights twinkling through dirty windows. A decent person wouldn't dream of going to such a place, and that's why Boggs is probably there.
He entered, stood in the shadows, and examined the small, crowded establishment, about one-quarter the size of the Round-Up, with no dance floor, no chop counter, nothing but whiskey and whores. One of the latter creatures sidled up to him, and he turned to her garish cosmetics. She was sixty if she was a day, had no teeth in her mouth, and grinned merrily. “You look like you could use a good screw.”
“I'm looking for a friend of mine,” Duane replied, extricating himself from her claws. He plunged deeper into the Blind Pig Saloon, and it looked like the lower depths of hell, with grimy, sweaty cowboys squeezing against painted harlots. His eyes fell on Lester Boggs sitting in a corner, with a whore on his lap, both lapping whiskey. Duane pulled up a chair opposite them. “Figured this is where you'd be, pardner. Where'd you steal the money?”
Boggs replied without batting an eyelash: “You remember that feller I was supposed to meet—the one what owed me ten dollars? I ran into him in the piss-house behind the Cattlemen Saloon. He was sober fer a change, said he remembered that he owed me, and paid up. This here bundle of beauty a-sittin’ on my lap is Maggie. Say hello to Duane Braddock, Maggie.”
“Hiya Duane,” she said with a wry grin, and she, too, didn't have a tooth in her head. “Yer kind've cute.”
Duane leaned toward Boggs. “You'll never guess what happened. I've found the both of us cowboy jobs at the Lazy Y. A friend of mine introduced me to Edgar Petigru, who owns the spread. He hired me even though he knows that I can't ride a horse.”
Boggs looked seriously inebriated, his eyes half closed, face flushed with rotgut whiskey. “You got some pretty good friends in this town. Who is he?”
“He's a she.” Duane didn't want to mention Vanessa's name, so he told another lie. “Old friend of the family.”
“Back in the stagecoach, to tell you the truth, I thought you was a little simple, but it ain't even Monday yet, and you got both of us a job? I guess you ain't as dumb as you look.” Boggs spat toward the cuspidor, but the cargo landed on the boot of a cowboy passed out at the next table.
Maggie unwound her tongue into Boggs's ear. “Let's go in back, cowboy. I'll give you the ride of yer life.”
Boggs winked at Duane and said: “See you in a little bit.”
Boggs drained his glass of whiskey, took Maggie's hand, and they walked like bride and groom down the aisle, heading toward the rooms in back.
Duane felt dispirited by lonely men willing to descend to any depths for a few fleeting moments of women's love. He couldn't help comparing the Blind Pig to the monastery in the clouds. This is exactly what the Gospels tell you to avoid, Duane realized, and here I am in the middle of it, a glass of rotgut whiskey in my hand.
He drained off half the glass, and infernos licked his throat. You can't really understand sin unless you wallow in it, he decided. I won't come to town for another month, so I might as well enjoy it while I'm here.
A familiar voice came to him from the direction of the bar. “Isn't that the little son of a bitch over thar?”
Duane was shocked to see the four cowboys whom he'd fought earlier at the cribs. They peered in his direction, and didn't appear willing to let bygones be bygones. Dave wore a white bandage on his nose, and his face was puffed like Duane's. “I orter shoot ‘im like a fuckin’ dog!” Dave said.
It was difficult for Duane to believe that they were actually discussing the termination of his existence. Casually, he arose and headed toward the door, leaving his half-glass of whiskey behind.
“Hold on!” Dave sidestepped among tables, moving to cut off Duane's retreat, and he felt a rise of panic. He wanted to run for the back door, but could get a bullet in the back. He slowed his pace, as Dave blocked his path.
“Where d'ya think yer goin’, Sonny Jim?” asked Dave.
“What's it to you?” Duane replied.
Lightning flashed out of Dave's eyes, and his broken nose still hurt despite several shots of whiskey. Dave thought he had a score to settle with Duane, and the time had come to submit the bill. “Yer a mean little son of a bitch,” Dave said, “but I'm a-gonna kill you.”
Duane knew that whatever he said, it'd only make matters worse. Please, God—don't let him shoot me. Dave reached down, pulled out his Colt, drew back the hammer, and aimed the barrel at Duane. “You done fucked with the wrong cowboy.”
Duane closed his eyes. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed is . . .
His prayer was interrupted by a sound from the bar. “If yer a-gonna shoot ‘im, do it in the alley. I ain't got time to clean up the mess, and the deputy ain't wuth a fiddler's fuck.”
The bartender was an old, white-haired man with a tobacco-stained mustache, wearing a dirty white apron and holding something that looked like a blunderbuss.
Dave motioned with his gun to the back door. “Git movin’.”
Duane realized that he was headed for his summary execution, and wished somebody would step forward to save him. Then a shot rang out, and Duane felt a stab in his heart. He was certain he'd been hit, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw the bartender stagger to the side. One of Dave's cowboy pals had taken a side shot at him. The bartender fell to the floor, the blunderbuss fell out of his hands, and the Blind Pig became very silent.
Cowboys and whores drifted toward the doors, while others ducked behind the bar, or dropped to the floor. Dave lined up his sights on Duane's shirt, and Duane realized that his only hope was to buy time. “I'll go outside with you,” he said.
He headed toward the back door, expecting a bullet in his skull, but instead heard footsteps behind him, and realized that Dave and the others were following. He pushed open the back door, and stepped into a yard with a foul-smelling privy ten yards away, next to the woodpile.
Duane wanted to run for his life, but he couldn't run faster than a bullet. Men poured out the back door of the Blind Pig, while others streamed in through alleys, for word was spreading through town that a shootout was imminent behind the Blind Pig Saloon.
Duane faced the battered cowboy across the backyard, and tried to understand. I should never have left the monastery, he chided himself. Brother Paolo warned me, I didn't listen, and now I'm going to pay the price.
Dave raised his gun and aimed down the barrel at Duane. “Say yer prayers—you little shit.”
Duane stared at the gun barrel and tried to steady himself. Hail Mary, full of grace . . .
Dave's finger tightened around the trigger, the flames of hell danced before Duane's eyes. “Give ‘im a fightin’ chance,” somebody said. “Otherwise, it's murder.”
Another voice chimed in: “You can't kill an unarmed man, cowboy. Why, tain't fair.”
Dave nodded toward one of his friends. “Hardy— lend ‘im yer gun.”
“Aw shit,” Hardy replied. “Why don't you just shoot ‘im and git it over with?”
Another voice came from the crowd. “You got to give ‘im a play,” he said. “We're all witnesses here.”
Dave spoke again. “I said give ‘im yer gun, Hardy.”
Hardy stepped forward, cursing beneath his breath. He unbuckled his brown leather gun belt, and passed it to Duane. Duane weighed it in his hand thoughtfully for a moment, then fastened it low around his waist. He tied the leather thong at the bottom of the holster around his leg, just like the other men in the crowd, but he knew it was all futile, and he didn'
t have a prayer.
The gun felt heavy and strange against his leg, but he was armed for the first time in his life, and maybe his last. He eased the gun out of the holster, wrapped his long fingers around the grips, and inserted his forefinger into the trigger guard. “I've never fired one of these things before,” he admitted.
“Yer a-gonna larn fast,” Dave said, “otherwise I'll shoot ya where ya stand.”
“How does it work?” Duane asked, trying to remember what the gunsmith had taught him, something about cocking a hammer.
The crowd was stunned into silence. The kid didn't even know how to fire a gun? It looked like slaughter was about to commence. Duane chewed his lower lip, and wondered how he could discern whether the gun was loaded. For all he knew, Hardy had given him an empty weapon. He angled it toward the ground, and looked into the cylinder.
“Does anyone mind if I show him how to use it?” asked a voice in the crowd.
Duane was surprised to see Clyde Butterfield, hat tilted rakishly over his eyes, cheroot in his teeth, thumbs hooked in his gun belt. The ex-gunfighter sauntered out of the crowd and into the line of fire. “The kid doesn't even get a chance?” he asked, a disapproving note in his voice.
“Git out'n my road, or you might get shot, too, you old fart.”
Butterfield tensed, but Dave's cowboy friends aimed their guns at him. “Hold it right there, mister,” one of them said. “Unless yer ready fer lead.”
“I only want to show the kid how to use the gun. You boys aren't afraid of him, are you?”
“Hell no,” Dave replied. “I'll shoot him, and then I'll shoot you.”
Butterfield walked lazily toward Duane, and came to a stop a few feet away. His jocular manner vanished, his face became solemn, and he peered intensely into Duane's eyes. “Listen to me, boy,” he said. “This cowboy has been drinking all night, and he's nearly out on his feet. You can live if you do as I say. Now draw your gun like so.” Butterfield gave him a side view, and demonstrated the classic draw. “The goal isn't to fire the first shot, but the first accurate shot. When the barrel of your gun clears your holster, snap it up, and fire at the center of his chest. You can't take forever to aim, but you can't shoot wild, either. It's got to be one smooth motion. Draw, snap, thumb back the hammer, aim, and trigger. I'll show you again.”
“Let's speed it up over there,” said Dave. “I ain't got all night.” Dave reached into his shirt pocket and took out a plug of tobacco, as Butterfield performed the draw once again.
“You don't have to be a genius to do this,” Butterfield explained. “It's got to feel right, that's all.”
Duane smiled bitterly. “I don't have a chance, and you know it. It's kind of you to help, but that man's fired his gun before, and I've never fired mine. Experience has to count for something in this game, doesn't it?”
“I know that you're a beginner, but he's half in the bag. Look at him—he's practically reeling. I'm telling you straight, boy, you've got a chance to live here. It's up to you, but don't give up before you even pull the trigger.”
Duane turned his gaze across the backyard, where his adversary eyed him with open contempt. How'd I get into this? Duane wondered.
“What's the hold-up?” Dave asked.
Butterfield smiled, his cheroot still clamped between his teeth. “Just showing him how to pull the trigger, that's all. You wouldn't want to gunfight a man who didn't know how to pull the trigger, would you?”
“Keep it up,” Dave replied. “I got a bullet fer you, too.”
Butterfield turned toward Duane. “Listen close, because it might be the last lesson you ever get. A gun-fight is more than just fast hands. It's also what you got inside you, that makes you tick. What is it that you want more than anything in the world?”
Duane saw Vanessa Fontaine seated at her dressing table, her silk robe clinging to her long, graceful limbs. “It's a woman,” Duane admitted.
“You'll never kiss her again, if you don't shoot that son of a bitch over there.” Butterfield took a step backward, then turned toward Dave again. “You don't mind if he makes a few practice draws, do you?”
“Yer gittin’ to be a pain in the ass, you know that, old man?”
“Are you looking for an easy win?”
Dave spat some tobacco juice at the ground. “I'll let ‘im practice, just as long as he don't point that gun in my direction.”
Duane turned toward the crowd, which moved out of his line of fire. He moved his legs apart and went into the gunfighter's crouch that Clyde had just demonstrated. He poised his hand, then reached down, grabbed the gun, drew, and aimed.
“Very good,” Butterfield replied dryly, “except you forgot a very important point—you didn't thumb back the hammer. And when you snapped up, you went too high, and then you had to bring the gun barrel down, which wastes time. You're never going to see that gal again, unless you wake up.”
Duane went into his crouch again, and it felt like a familiar posture. He reached for the gun, and caught a glimpse of a strange phantom in a black mustache standing at the edge of the crowd. The Colt flew into Duane's hand, but didn't rise so far this time, and he didn't forget to thumb back the hammer.
“Much better,” Butterfield said. “Once more.”
Duane focused his mind, went into the crouch, slapped his hand down, yanked iron, snapped, thumbed, and pulled the trigger. Click.
Dave's voice came to them from the far side of the yard. “I'm a-gittin’ tired of this horseshit. Let's git started, kid.”
Butterfield turned toward Duane. “Even if he gets off the first shot, don't get flustered. Your gun's going to kick hard, so be prepared. If he hits you, keep on going. You aren't scared, are you?”
“You're damned right I am!”
“You can always get down on your knees and beg for mercy. He might let you go, but on the other hand, he might not.”
“I'm not getting on my knees for anybody.”
Butterfield loaded Duane's gun, then handed it to him butt first. He placed his hand on Duane's shoulder and looked into his eyes. “Go ahead and shoot this fucker down.”
Butterfield winked, then stepped backward toward the crowd, holding his hands in the air. Duane holstered his gun, and turned toward his opponent. “I'm ready.”
“ ‘Bout time,” Dave replied, irritation in his voice. He faced Duane and spread his legs apart. “Go ahead and draw,” he said. “Ladies first.”
Duane blushed at the insult, and for the first since the encounter began, felt a rise of anger. I hate him, he thought, and if I don't shoot him, I'll never kiss Vanessa Fontaine.
Duane worked his shoulders, loosened his fingers, and went into his gunfighter's crouch. He had the eerie feeling that the man with the black mustache was behind him, guiding his movements. This is it, he thought. Kill or be killed, down and dirty to the bitter end. His life passed before his eyes, as he recalled coming to consciousness in the monastery in the clouds, living under the Rule of Saint Benedict, singing Gregorian chant in the chapel, and ending up in Titusville, Texas. How strange is the trajectory of a man's life, he reflected.
“You better git a move on, boy. Yer pissin’ me off.”
Duane brought his right hand to rest above the walnut grip of the Colt. He leaned forward, due to the high heels of his boots, then his hand darted downward, and he saw Dave go into motion before him. A hush fell over the crowd as the barrel of Duane's Colt cleared the top of the holster. He raised the barrel up Dave's body, thumbed back the hammer, but he was nervous, and raised too high again!
Dave fired the first shot, and Duane felt hot lead pass his cheek. Gritting his teeth, he brought his gun barrel in line with Dave's chest, and pulled the trigger. The report of the gun startled Duane. It kicked into the air, smoke billowed around him, and gunpowder filled his nostrils. He peered through black clouds, and saw Dave staggering at the far side of the yard, both hands gripping his stomach, his head bowed as if in prayer. Dave's hat fell off, and then he followed
it to the ground, where he landed in a clump.
Silence filled the backyard, and Duane's mouth hung open. He was still in the shooter's position, arm extended before him, a wisp of smoke arising from the barrel of the Colt. I just shot a man. My God! he yelled silently.
Across the yard, Dave's cowboy pals kneeled around him, and one listened to his heart. “Somebody better git the sawbones.”
Duane felt as though he were looking down at himself with the gun in his hand. I was headed for the priesthood, he thought. Thou shalt not kill. A crowd gathered around him, gazing in awe, and he couldn't believe that he still was alive. Glory be to the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. In jerky movements, he dropped the Colt in its holster. Clyde Butterfield approached, smiling proudly at the success of his novice. “You did it, just as I said, but the best is yet to come. You won't have to pay for another drink for the rest of the night, and you'll probably even get laid!”
CHAPTER 5
BUTTERFIELD LED DUANE INTO THE Longhorn Saloon. “If his aim had been three inches to the left, he would've cleaned your clock.”
They headed for a round table at the back, where a cowboy was passed out. Butterfield picked him up, then deposited him in the aisle. “Have a seat,” Butterfield said. “I'll get us a bottle.”
Butterfield stepped over the drunken cowboy, as Duane sat at the table. He leaned back his head, closed his eyes, and saw himself standing in the backyard of the Blind Pig, the smoking gun in his hand, Dave crashing to the ground before him. And Duane didn't even know who Dave was, or where he came from. If I hadn't left the monastery, this never would've happened, Duane realized.
I killed him, but he wouldn't let me off the hook, he reasoned. The incident behind the Blind Pig seemed a dream, but everyone in the saloon was looking at him with fear, admiration, curiosity, and other expressions he couldn't fathom. Something told him that his life would never be the same.