by Ed Gorman
The bartender came over. "You got trouble, take it outside."
"No trouble," Speaks said. "I'm just leavin', is all."
He stood up and did just what he said.
"You son of a bitch," the kid said as Speaks walked out the front door. "You son of a bitch."
* * *
The train was eight cars long, all passenger cars except for the caboose. Behind the windows Easterners sat staring imperiously at the small train depot. Not until they reached San Francisco would they be able to inhale civilized air again.
Chris Keegan looked fifteen years younger and ten years better than Speaks. They were almost the same age.
Keegan had always been something of a dude, and he was a dude still, what with the black silk gambler's vest, the flat-crowned Stetson, and black Wellington boots shined to blinding perfection.
Amy Keegan was a perfect match for her husband: blonde, poised, beautiful in a slightly wan way. Her dark blue traveling dress clung to curves that time had not ruined as yet. There was just a hint of arrogance in her eyes as she beheld Lyle Speaks. Clearly, she considered both her husband and herself his superior. Once again, Speaks wondered why this woman had ever taken up with Harry Creed.
Thinking about Harry Creed reminded him that Keegan was now married to a woman he'd stolen away from Creed. Why hadn't Harry erupted at the simple mention of Keegan? Strange, he thought. Man stole a woman from me, I'd curse every time I heard his name. I surely would.
"How about a drink?" Speaks said.
"I'd really like to freshen up," Amy said.
Keegan said. "Why don't we freshen up a little first and meet you down in the hotel bar? I assume they have one."
"Yeah," Speaks said, "a nice one."
Speaks walked them back to the hotel. The lamplighters were at work, pushing back the night. Player piano music from the saloons. Violins from the Hungarian restaurant down the street. The steady clop clop clop of horses pulling fancy carriages toward the opera house. The dusk sky was vermillion and gold and filled Speaks with a sadness he couldn't articulate, not even to himself. Rainy days and dusk skies always did that to Speaks.
When they reached the hotel entrance, passing couples strolling the sidewalks beneath the round red harvest moon, Keegan said, "Oh, hell, honey, why don't I have a drink with Lyle here and then I'll come up to the room."
Speaks expected her to say no, but she surprised him.
"That's a good idea. Then maybe your dear old friend Speaks here can explain what Harry Creed was doing at the depot."
"Harry Creed?" Keegan said.
"He was standing at the west end of the platform," she said. "Watching us."
"Is Harry Creed in town?" Keegan said to Speaks.
"I'm afraid he is. Sam November ran into him up in Dubuque and told him we'd all be down here today."
"He's not exactly Amy's favorite person," Keegan said.
"I don't want to be in the same town with the man," Amy said. "In fact, I think I'll change our plans, Chris. I think we should leave first thing tomorrow."
For the very first time since he'd met her ten years earlier, Speaks felt sorry for Amy Keegan. Tears shone in her eyes, and she looked genuinely frightened. Speaks wondered just what the hell Harry Creed had done to her, anyway.
Then, as if she sensed that this was one of the few times Speaks liked her, she said in a very soft voice, "Oh, why don't you two have your drink. I'll just go on up to the room." Then to Speaks, smiling sadly: "People will think I lead him around by the nose all the time."
"Oh, honey," Keegan said.
She really was crying now, gently.
"See you in a little bit," Keegan said, and kissed her good-bye on the cheek.
The tears had softened her face; and as he looked at her now, Speaks was almost rocked by her beauty.
* * *
"The last night the bastard raped her," Keegan said. "Then he broke her arm."
For all of Harry Creed's antics, for all of his prairie-boy affability, he was a treacherous and ruthless son of a bitch, part of a lower order of men who had drifted through the frontier scavenger-like, mostly as con artists who unburdened the dumb and the greedy of their money. But they had more sinister sides, too. They were arsonists and stickup men and hired assassins, too. Whatever was needed in a particular time and place, they would be.
"That's why she's the way she is," Keegan said. "Never lets me out of her sight, because she's scared he's going to show up sometime."
"What I can't figure out is how the hell she ever got with a man like Creed, anyway."
They were in the taproom of the hotel. Men in Edwardian suits and women in bustled dresses filled the room. The waiters wore starched white shirts with celluloid collars.
Keegan said, "Her father was a missionary to the Indians. Lutheran. She got some of that from him. She's always trying to save people. When we lived in Kansas City, she spent half her time working at the Salvation Army." He shook his head. "Well, you know Harry. Back when she was living over in Peoria, he met her at a temperance meeting and her husband had just died of influenza and she was very lonely and . . . well, she ended up marrying him. Didn't last long. Four months, I guess." He made a face. "He made her do all kinds of filthy things I'd rather not talk about. And he beat her up all the time, too." He made a fist. "Nearly every night."
"You never went after him?"
"She won't let me. She's afraid he'll kill me. I mean, a fair fight, guns or fists . . ." He shrugged. "But you know our Harry. It wouldn't be a fair fight. He'd be up to something."
Just then Speaks looked up and saw Amy coming toward them.
"I decided I'd rather be down here with you two," she explained as she sat down. "I got a little scared upstairs all alone. Knowing Harry's in town."
Keegan hadn't been exaggerating her fear. She looked agitated, all right.
Then she said gently, touching Keegan's hand, "I'd really like to leave tomorrow morning."
He nodded. "That's what we'll do, then." To Speaks: "Sorry, Lyle."
"I understand." Speaks looked at Amy. "I would've run him out of town if I'd have known what he did to you, Amy."
"He's always lurking someplace," she said.
"This has happened before?"
"Oh, sure," she said. "He's shown up several places over the past five or six years, hasn't he?"
"Yeah," Keegan said, "and he always leaves little reminders of himself. A note. A photograph of the two of them. Only time I ever called him on it, he denied it, of course. You know Harry."
"Yeah," Speaks said, "unfortunately, I do."
They drank through two hours of conversation, good conversation, fond memories of a good friendship, once they found out about Harry Creed, anyway. Keegan asked after Speaks's wife of five years, Clytie, and Speaks told him they were still very happy together in Montana. Ranching, he said, was agreeing with him.
Amy contributed, too. The booze took away her slight air of superiority. She was just a good woman then, and Speaks could see how they loved each other and took care of each other, and he was happy for Keegan. Keegan was one of the good ones. Despite his years as a reluctant gun-fighter, he was a peaceful, fair-minded, and decent man, and he deserved good things. There was no meanness in him.
Keegan had just ordered another round when Harry Creed came into the taproom.
Harry's pirate getup was gone. He wore a tweed coat, white shirt, dark trousers. His hair was slicked back in the fashion of the day. He actually looked handsome, and for the first time Speaks could imagine Harry and Amy walking down streets together. He came straight over to the table, as if they'd been expecting him.
Amy bowed her head, wouldn't look up at him.
But Keegan looked up, all right. "You got sixty seconds to get out of here. Harry."
Harry Creed smirked.
"You try to do an old friend a favor and look what you get."
Speaks wasn't sure which old friend Harry was talking about, Amy or Keegan.
>
"Sixty seconds, Harry," Keegan repeated.
Amy still wouldn't look up.
"There's a kid, Noonan's his real handle—Lyle here met him this afternoon—and anyway, he wants to shoot it out with you, Keegan. Says you're the last gunfighter and he wants the honor of puttin' you away. I'm tryin' hard to talk him out of it."
Now it was Keegan's turn to smirk.
"I'll bet you're tryin' real hard, Harry. I'm sure you wouldn't want anything terrible to happen to me, us bein' such good friends and all."
"I'm doin' everything I can," Harry Creed said. "I just thought I'd let you know. I'd be very careful where you go tonight."
Then he looked at Amy.
"You're lookin' lovely tonight, Amy."
Her head remained bowed, eyes closed. She was trying to will him out of existence.
The waiter appeared.
"Will you be staying?" he asked Harry Creed.
"No, he won't be," Keegan said harshly.
The waiter set down their beers and left quickly.
"I'm gonna try'n talk him out of it, Keegan," Harry Creed said.
"You do that," Keegan said. "Now get the hell out of here."
"You sure do look pretty tonight, Amy," Harry Creed said. Then he laughed. "Not quite as pretty as when she was with me, of course, but she was a lot younger then." He glanced at Speaks. "By the way, the kid likes ratting a lot better than you do. I can hardly drag him away from the barn." He patted his stomach. "Guess he's a little younger than you are, Speaks."
That was Harry, always getting in the last line.
They sat in silence for nearly two minutes. Amy brought her head up and reached over and touched her husband's hand again.
"Someday you won't be able to stop me, Amy," Keegan said softly. "Someday I'm going to kill him."
"Then they'd hang you," she said. "And he's the one who should hang."
Speaks said, "I'm going to take care of the kid for you. You two just go ahead and have yourselves a good meal."
"Don't get into trouble," Amy said.
Speaks shrugged.
"I've been in trouble a few times before." He smiled. "And I probably will be again before they plant me."
Keegan frowned.
"I wish there was a train out of here tonight. I want to get out of this town."
"Just relax and enjoy yourselves," Speaks said. He took out some greenbacks and laid them down on the table. "The next round's on me."
"Amy's right," Keegan said. "I don't want you to get into any trouble."
"I'll be fine," Speaks said, then shuddered inwardly. He'd be fine except for seeing the rats in the ratting cage. Kinda funny, the way you could feel sorry for something you hated. Speaks hated rats, and yet now he felt sorry as hell for them. He wasn't at all surprised that a punk like Noonan would enjoy ratting. He wasn't surprised at all.
He said good-bye and set off for the blacksmith's barn.
* * *
Two blocks away Speaks started hearing the dogs barking as they went after the rats. This was something he'd have to keep to himself, feeling sorry for the rats and all. People would think he was one strange cowpoke for taking the side of the rats.
The next thing he heard, this a block away, was the men. This time of night they were drunk, words slurred. But you could hear the blood lust in the timbre of their voices. They didn't much care whose blood it was as long as somebody excited them by bleeding.
Speaks went inside the barn and moved to the far doors where the crowd gathered.
Harry Creed and Pecos stood together, watching as more rats were dumped into the ring. They were at the back of the crowd, which made things easy for Speaks.
Pecos's face glowed with glee. This was something to see, all right. He even giggled like a little girl.
Speaks moved up carefully behind him, and then returned the favor Pecos had done for him that afternoon.
Speaks shoved his Colt hard against Pecos's back.
"We're going to turn around and walk outside."
Pecos looked over at Harry Creed. Creed saw what was going on. He nodded to Pecos.
The three of them went outside.
Pecos obviously figured he was going to get it first, but Speaks surprised him by turning around and kicking Harry Creed right square in the balls, then slashing the barrel of the gun down on the side of Harry Creed's head. Harry dropped to his knees.
"That's for what you did to Amy," Speaks said. "And this is so you don't get ideas about Pecos here doin' your killing for you." And with that he brought the toe of his Texas-style boot straight into Harry Creed's jaw. Harry had the good sense to scream.
Pecos he just pistol-whipped a little. Nothing special, nothing for Speaks to brag about or Pecos to bitch about, not for long, anyway, just enough so that Pecos had a couple of good-size welts on his face, and one very sore skull. There was a little blood, but again not enough to warrant bringing a reporter in.
Inside, the dogs went crazy. So did the crowd.
Harry Creed picked himself up. He was pretty wobbly. He started to say something, but then gave up. Very difficult to talk with a mouthful of blood.
"There's a train," Speaks said, "and it leaves in twenty minutes. I want you on it." This train was heading in the direction from which Keegan and Amy had just come.
"A train to where?" Pecos asked, trying to stand up.
"It doesn't matter where," Speaks said, "as long as you're on it."
Harry Creed, having apparently swallowed a mouthful of blood, said, "Amy gonna give you some of that nice sweet ass of hers, is she, Lyle?"
One punch was all it took, a straight hard shot to the solar plexus, and Harry Creed was sitting on his butt again.
"Maybe I should break your arm the way you broke hers, Harry."
"It was an accident."
"Sure it was, Harry."
"The bitch didn't appreciate nothin' I did for her."
"The train," Speaks said. "Be on it. Both of you."
"You son of a bitch," Pecos said as Speaks walked away. "You son of a bitch!"
* * *
Speaks went back to the hotel. Amy and Keegan were gone. Probably up in bed already. He had three brews, and then he was upstairs, himself.
He stripped to his long Johns, the smell of his boots sour, meaning he'd have to powder them down inside again, and then he lay on his bed in the darkness, the front window and its shade silhouetted on the wall behind him.
He thought briefly of Clytie, waiting for him to return to their ranch in Montana. He wished Sam November would finish up his visit to his relatives so they could head back.
That was the last thing he thought before he fell asleep.
* * *
Somebody was pounding on his door so hard, all he could think of—now that he was starting to think clearly—was that there must be a fire.
"Hey! You in there!" a man's voice shouted.
Speaks was off the bed and at the door in seconds.
The man was familiar-looking somehow—then Speaks remembered. A man at the bar downstairs earlier that night.
"You know that friend of yours, the one with the pretty wife?" the man said. He had gray hair and muttonchop sideburns and a belly bursting the vest of his dark three-piece suit.
"What about him?"
"He's got trouble downstairs, mister. There's some punk kid tryin' to get him into a gunfight downstairs in the street." The man shook his head. "Hell, mister, we don't have no gunfights here. This is Cedar Rapids. We've got over seven hundred telephones."
"Son of a bitch," Speaks said. Then: "Thanks."
He got dressed in seconds and hurried downstairs.
* * *
Pecos had read way too many dime novels.
He stood spread-legged in the middle of the street, his right hand hovering just above the pearly handle of his Peacemaker.
He'd gotten a crowd surely enough, too. His kind always wanted crowds around. In the electric light of the new lamps, Pecos looked li
ke a raw kid wearing his older brother's duds.
"I'm givin' you ten more seconds to draw, Keegan," Pecos said to Keegan's back.
He was slurring his words. He was drunk.
Speaks looked over at Harry Creed and scowled. No mystery here. Harry Creed had decided to let the kid do his killing. He got the kid drunk and pushed him out on stage.
Amy Keegan grabbed Speaks's arm when he reached the sidewalk.
"You hear me, Keegan?" Pecos said.
"He's callin' you out," Harry Creed said, "fair and square."
"My Lord," said the man who'd roused Speaks from sleep. "This is Cedar Rapids." He didn't mention the seven hundred telephones this time.
"He doesn't want to kill the kid," Amy whispered to Speaks.
Speaks nodded and then looked over at Keegan. He was standing with his back to his tormentor. You could see the anger and humiliation on Keegan's face. Obviously, a part of him wanted to empty his gun into the kid. But the civilized part of him—the part that had changed for the better under Amy's guidance—declined the pleasure.
Without turning around Keegan said, "Kid, I'm going to walk up these stairs and go into the hotel. And if you want to shoot me, you'll just have to shoot me in the back."
"You think I won't?" Pecos snapped.
Keegan couldn't resist.
"Even a punk like you wouldn't shoot a man in the back."
And with that Keegan started up the stairs.
"You think I won't?" the drunken kid called out again. "You think I won't?"
Keegan took another slow, careful step up the stairs to the front porch of the hotel.
"Draw, you bastard!" Pecos shouted, weaving a bit as he did so, the alcohol slurring his words even more now.
"Shoot him, kid!" Harry creed said. "You gave him a chance! Now shoot him!"
Even boozed up the way he was, the kid was passing fair with a handgun.
His gun cleared leather before Speaks even noticed. The kid brought the gun up and sighted in a quick, easy movement and—
Speaks shot the gun out of his hand.
The kid cried out, dropping the gun and looking around, as if some dark demon had delivered the shot and not some mere mortal.
Speaks walked directly over to Harry Creed. Harry turned and started to move away quickly, but not quickly enough. Speaks grabbed him by the hair, got his arm around Harry Creed's throat, and then proceeded to choke him long enough to make him puke.