Noble felt something stirring inside himself, a familiar sensation he identified, despite his drunkenness, as the flexing of the creative muscle, the insistent prodding of the muse, and he heeded its message. Could anything be less like his former works? No innocent damsels here; no virtuous heroes or happy endings. Blood. More blood than the Scottish play. Brothers in Blood. That was good, but Red Hellions was even better. He wouldn’t even need to think up a story; it was right there before him in the newspaper, complete from first act to last, although he would need to invent characters and scenes to flesh out the basic plot. But what a plot! Barbaric. Cruel. Indigenous! This was a story wrested from the uncivilized heart of America, a true story, a tragedy steeped in redness. To write and stage such an epic would be an unprecedented flouting of conventional theater’s rules. Did he have the courage within himself to do such a thing? He must! The play already was springing ready-formed from his brain. It would be a new beginning, for himself and the Arcadians, and for Thespis Americanus! New theatrical worlds awaited conquest, and Noble Burgin would be in the vanguard, a bold innovator, working against the grain, leaving behind the shopworn candy apples of yesterday’s proscenium! He fell from his chair and struck his temple against the floor, was assisted to his feet, bleeding slightly, and aimed himself at the door. Destiny had called his name, and Noble would not hesitate now.
It had begun with the puppy. His mother gave it to Tatum on his tenth birthday, an adorable ball of fur that delighted in biting fingertips. He liked to play with it, but not for very long; its habit of playfully biting him annoyed Tatum in the end, and he hit the puppy to make it stop. The pup was confused, then approached him again, biting as before, and Tatum snapped its neck to teach it a lesson. He smuggled the tiny corpse from the house beneath his jacket, and flung it into a stream, then sat watching the waters flow, trying to understand what it was that he had done. Two things were clear to Tatum: it was easy to kill things, and it was possible to do so without feeling bad about it. He really didn’t care that the puppy his mother had saved her money for was dead. It seemed to Tatum that spending money on something that was so easily killed and disposed of had been an awful waste. His mother was a fool.
When he was twelve, Tatum found that riding piggyback on one of his friends in the schoolyard produced a wonderful sensation in his groin. His penis hardened in an inexplicable way, so he urged his friend to run faster, and the jerkings of a backbone against Tatum’s crotch aroused him further, pleasing him so much he demanded of his friend that he keep running and running, even when he grew tired. The friend stopped and flung Tatum off, aware that the piggyback ride had been more than just that, and Tatum smacked him hard across the face to punish him for having denied further enjoyment. The friend had cried, and Tatum despised him for that. He usually despised his friends after a very short time, without quite knowing why, but at least in this instance he had a definite reason.
Tatum found he could reproduce the effects of the piggyback ride by rubbing himself against the side of his mattress, and he kept this up until a terrible thing happened: his belly exploded and leaked a peculiar kind of fishy-smelling glue all over the front of his nightshirt. Tatum felt that death was near, but was glad to die while in a state of physical contentment that he could not explain.
Further experimentation along these lines led Tatum at last to the basic act of masturbation, but he found that however many times he might cause himself to spurt the belly glue, it was never so enjoyable as when he had ridden on the back of his erstwhile friend; in fact he could not produce the glue half so readily if he did not imagine himself again being carried around the schoolyard, high and hard.
Boys his own age soon learned to avoid Tatum; he was always trying to make them play piggyback, and they began to make fun of him, calling him piggy-wiggy. They would not allow him to play leapfrog with them, because Tatum had developed the habit of landing on top of the boys he was supposed to be vaulting over, which spoiled everyone’s enjoyment. In time he was made an outcast for his seemingly irreconcilable needs to be physically close to the other boys and to punish them with his fists when they would not play piggyback or leapfrog the way he wanted.
Before Tatum was fourteen, the school informed his mother his attendance there was no longer required, and on inquiring the reason for this surprising statement, Mrs. Tatum was told that her son had been caught engaging in unnatural acts with a much younger boy, who had also been dismissed from further schooling, even though it was clear Tatum had been the event’s instigator. Mrs. Tatum could not even broach the subject when she arrived home, and wished as she had never wished before that her husband had not died when their son was just one year old. She had struggled since then to provide him with love and a roof over his head and clothing he need not be ashamed of, but she could not talk with him of the things she had been told. It was easier to move away from Ohio and join her spinster sister Lydia in Denver, taking Tatum with her to begin again, far from the scene of such unpalatable and unbelievable allegations.
When he was eighteen, Tatum knew what he liked, but he knew also that proclaiming his likes would earn him nothing but scorn and very possibly a beating. He looked into the eyes of every young man who crossed his path, seeking out the ones like himself, and when he found them, he was kind to them, and generous with his money, until they balked at his suggestions for additional pleasures of an unusual nature. When they refused, he would hit them with the stout dog-headed cane he carried, until they begged for a chance to perform the service he had requested, a service that left them with rope burns around their necks, and more than the usual anal bruising.
Tatum became known in the gathering places of the sexually dispossessed, and stories of his excesses led some to cultivate his company, although few remained his friend for long. He was a handsome, smooth-skinned young man, with facial hair so fine it required shaving no more than once a week. He dressed well and took pains to present a neat appearance at all times. He did no work, allowed his mother to support him and wondered if he would always live thus.
In 1884, when he was twenty-one, he posed nude for an artist who was covering the walls of a large room with life-sized depictions of whorish abandon, most of it without much interest for Tatum, since it involved the penetration of women, although he was somewhat smitten by the image of a young soldier cupping his victim’s breast while brandishing a sword as he took her from behind. The juxtapositioning of the weapon and the act appealed to Tatum, and he asked the artist, a florid-faced drinker running to seed, who the handsome model might be.
“That one,” said Nevis Dunnigan, “was a mystery. Had a finger missing, but an excellent study: no twitching, perfectly composed. Would you mind not wobbling your helmet that way, my good fellow? It distracts me something awful.”
“Is that him again over there, with the spear?”
“The same, and again to your left, with the young lady’s face hiding his member. He wouldn’t stay for more posing than that. Pity. You’ll let me use you for several more studies, won’t you?”
“What was his name?”
“Ilium, he said, but I didn’t believe it. There were secrets in his eyes, buried deep. It’s hard to find young fellows willing to pose. I prefer fellows—as a painter, I mean—with all their planes and angles. Michelangelo was that way too. Ever notice how his women look like men with tits? Well, they do say he was homely, so maybe he never knew a woman the way a man should.”
Tatum had never heard of Michelangelo, but was content to let the painter drone on while he worked, for the opportunity it gave him to stare at the naked soldier on the wall. Tatum had stayed on with his aunt Lydia following the death of his mother, and held the woman in a permanent state of dread. She did not dare to question his comings and goings, or inquire who the young men entering his room might be. The one occasion when she did so had resulted in a beating around her varicose-veined legs, and the pain of it had been so excruciating and lasted so long she never again q
ueried his least movement or choice of company. Tatum was silently provided with meals at any hour of the day or night, and Lydia could not refuse him a portion of the money she had saved over a lifetime of toil. He took, he spent, and not once did he thank her, but his aunt said nothing, valuing a life without physical pain over a life with pride.
Leaving Nevis Dunnigan’s “studio,” as the artist referred to it, Tatum wandered up one street and down another until evening, then paid for a meal with the few dollars he had earned by posing. Curiosity rather than any urgent need for money had caused him to apply for the work when he saw a small advertisement placed in a newspaper. It had been an interesting experience in its way, but he was not willing to pose again. He might have reconsidered, had the other model been returning, but Dunnigan had told him the young man with the missing finger had come and gone, his artistic purpose served.
Finished with his meal, Tatum again took to the streets, strolling aimlessly in the dark until he found himself far from his usual haunts. He had wandered almost to the edge of town, and was somewhere near the railroad tracks; he could hear boxcars being shunted and coupled in the dark, and smell the acrid odor of coal smoke, and was just about to turn and retrace his steps toward brighter lights when he heard a low coughing from some brush nearby.
Investigating, he found a tramp asleep in a shallow ditch. The tramp was filthy, ragged, and coughing in his sleep. Tatum was offended by such shabbiness, such disregard for the sartorial arts; he himself spent a considerable amount of his aunt’s money on clothing of the latest cut, and delighted in the figure he presented, from his narrow-brimmed hat to his elastic-sided boots and dog-headed cane. The tramp was an insult to man, to the world at large, with his unshaven cheeks and busted-out boots, and Tatum conceived a great dislike of and contempt for him as he stood above the quietly coughing figure.
The cane was raised as if lifted by another arm, some invisible appendage not connected to Tatum. He felt the arm lift his cane, felt it bring the golden dog down hard upon the flimsy hat, felt the cranium give way with surprising ease, and he heard the coughing stop. He thought at first it had been no more difficult to kill the tramp than break an egg, but then the fellow’s eyes opened and he began to shout, so Tatum was forced to silence him with repeated blows, laid on by his own arm now, and laid on with a will, until the head and face below him became an indistinct smear of blood and bone.
When he was convinced the job had been completed, Tatum hurried away, sweat running down his sides. He calmed himself as the scene was left behind, then became a little hysterical, laughing at the tramp’s pathetic efforts to defend himself, never more than a spasmodic clutching at the air. Really, it had been a fine thing he did, ridding the city of so degenerate a specimen of rude humanity. Arriving home, Tatum was annoyed to find embedded in the wood of his cane a human tooth.
Work on the new play kept Noble isolated from the players, and from his wife. Hortense had never seen him so consumed by a project; he would not discuss the nature of the piece, wouldn’t even hint at the plot. He did go so far as to let her know there was no role in it for herself, a fact that stunned Hortense; Noble’s plays had always included a plum part for her.
She asked, “Is there a role for Marcie?” and Noble told her no. “For any female?” she asked, and this time Noble paused before answering.
“No, but so far they haven’t begun their murderous rampage. I suppose I could include you and Marcie later on, when some rancher’s wife and daughter are being slaughtered. Yes, you could plead for your lives and they would laugh at you before cutting your throats.”
“Noble! What beastliness are you creating? Ranchers? No one wishes to see a play about ranchers. Where would the interest lie? And slaughter? Cows, Noble?”
“Not cows, my dear—humans, yourself and Marcie among others. There will be several dozen in all. I’ll have to devise a way of splashing blood around that won’t create too much mess, or stain the costumes permanently.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“Hortense, I am revolutionizing the theater. This play will become a cornerstone of the new American drama. This is something rooted in reality, actual occurrences so recent they have been included in the newspapers.”
“Newspapers?”
Hortense was aghast. She had never read any part of a newspaper except for theatrical reviews, and even then she only consented to scan those articles that concerned plays she herself was appearing in. The rest of the newspaper was for common people, not artists like herself and Noble.
“You must explain yourself this instant,” she said. “I fear for your sanity, with this talk of ranchers and blood.”
“My dear, this play is not about ranchers. Such ranchers as will appear are incidental to the main thrust of the plot, which basically is about two Indian brothers.”
“Indians! Noble, how can you even think to dabble in such low stuff …?”
“Not just any Indians—Panther Stalking and Kills With a Smile! Raised in the church, then stolen away and taught to kill without mercy in the way of their kind.”
“What! What! Noble, you are demented.…”
“It was their grandfather who did it. I haven’t been able to find out his name, so I’ll call him Flaming Arrow, and there’s another fascinating character, the one who let Flaming Arrow into the mission to steal his grandsons away. I’m calling him Augustus Chillington, and he won’t be aware of the consequences of what he did until later, when he learns what the brothers have become. His own family is killed by them, you see. He’ll swear vengeance and track the redskins down single-handed and bring them to justice, to set right the unconscious wrong he perpetrated in the first place. It’s a wonderful story, Hortense. I have some doubts about the ending, though. In actual fact the brothers bit open each other’s necks and bled to death.… Hortense?”
Noble’s wife slid gently to the floor.
27
He entered the bank in a highly nervous state, then could not find his voice, even though his gun was already out and aimed at the teller. Drew felt himself freeze, and wondered if it was too late to back out before matters went any further.
“Yessir, yessir …,” said the teller, understanding that the silent man with the gun was a robber. Drew felt his heart sink as cash was scooped from the drawers for him; the robbery had begun, and there could be no going back now. He forced himself to thrust a canvas bag under the teller’s bars, and the money was clumsily stuffed inside.
There were no other customers in the bank, and just the one teller. Drew could hear someone moving around and coughing in an office to the rear, oblivious to the theft occurring mere yards away. Drew felt he had chosen wisely for his initial foray into crime; the bank was in a small mountain town west of Denver. He did not expect the haul to be large, but he did anticipate easy pickings and no interference from lawmen; he had established before entering the bank that the town had no marshal, just a part-time constable currently laid up in his home with a bad case of gout. The teller was being cooperative, and the manager, if that was who the cougher was, remained in his office. Everything was proceeding as it should, and Drew began to feel his throat loosen as the prospects for success grew.
“Hurry,” he said.
“Yessir, that’s all there is, I’m sorry.”
The bag was returned to him, disappointingly flat, but it could be that the bills were of large denomination.
“About how much is this?” Drew asked.
“Oh, around three hundred, I guess.”
“Well, thank you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I wouldn’t really have shot you.”
“Yessir.”
“I just need the money.”
“Yessir.”
“Good-bye.”
“Good-bye, sir.”
Drew walked out of the bank, then turned around and went back in. The teller had not moved. The same dry cough came from the office.
�
��I forgot to tell you not to make a fuss, and don’t come after me with a gun, because then I’d have to shoot back.”
“Yessir.”
“I’m a good shot. You’d get hit.”
“Yessir.”
“Well, so long.”
Drew mounted his horse and began riding slowly out of town. He turned in the saddle once to reassure himself that the teller had done as he asked, and was relieved to see that the sidewalk in front of the bank was clear, in fact the whole street was tranquil, virtually unpopulated. It had been easier than expected. Next time he wouldn’t freeze up. He might restrict himself to the smaller towns until he was more comfortable with the role of robber, though, just to be sure nothing went wrong.
Drew felt his horse lurch beneath him before the sound of the shot reached his ears, and the sound was unmistakably that of a buffalo gun. His horse was sinking beneath him, simply collapsing onto its buckled legs, and Drew had to jump clear before it fell on its side. He could see no wound, but blood was gouting from its mouth. Looking back, Drew could see someone standing outside the bank, reloading what looked like a Sharps fifty-caliber. It was not the teller, so it must have been the cougher. The bullet had entered his horse’s anus and plowed straight through into its chest; the next bullet would be for him.
He began to run, ducking and weaving to present a difficult target. A horse was tethered outside a store further along the street, but before Drew could reach it the buffalo gun boomed again, and that horse also sank to its knees, shot through the belly. It began to scream, and the sound unnerved Drew so much he dropped his canvas bag. There were people on the street now. Drew could hear the man in front of the bank yelling about the robbery, and see his arm pointing. People were looking at him. He felt sick to his stomach. There had to be another horse that he could steal and ride away from such embarrassment. It seemed like the right time to yank out his pistol to prevent anyone from thinking he could be stopped, but this act also went astray when Drew fumbled his grip and dropped the Colt. He had the presence of mind to pick it up before dashing into an alley.
Power in the Blood Page 47