Beginner's Luck (18 page)

“I never fired a gun in my life until tonight,” he retorted, “and I was lucky, while the other cowboy was drunk on his feet. Or maybe my daddy came up from hell to help me—I don't know. I thought you'd be the one person who'd believe me.”

“Why should I believe you?” she asked. “If everybody's a liar, why shouldn't you be one, too? You took advantage of my good nature once, but you'll never do it again. Start walking.”

He wanted to tell her that she was mistaken, but no sound emitted from his mouth. His face turned red, as he made a tentative, thin-lipped smile, and headed for the door. It slammed; pots rattled on the walls, and he was gone.

No one had ever called Duane a liar before. He shambled toward the outskirts of town, and recalled his simple life in the monastery, where such events simply didn't occur. He and the other monks never questioned each other's veracity, but lying evidently was common in the secular world. Why'd I ever leave?

The monastery had lacked the luxuries of the outside world, but it possessed other goods far more precious, such as trust, and the effort to lead decent lives in the eyes of God Almighty. Maybe tomorrow I'll go back, but where'll I get the money for the stagecoach? Life seemed so complex here, and he was unaccustomed to making decisions; In the monastery, every day was exactly like the last, an endless round of prayer, study, and the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass.

He came to the outskirts of town, and ahead was the endless rolling sage. The wind picked up, and
Duane gazed through heavily lidded eyes at the dim outlines of jagged mountain ranges in the distance. Stumbling, holding out his arms to the moon, he followed the wind into measureless wastes, but then fatigue, whiskey, and remorse hit him at the same moment. He lost his footing, tripped over a rock, and plummeted to the ground. Groaning, rolling over, he landed on his back. The heavens were ablaze, and he picked out the Big Dipper, Orion the Hunter, and Cassiopeia, the Lady in the Chair, who looked like Vanessa Fontaine. He closed his eyes, and she was engraved on his eyelids, glowing into his brain.

Five men huddled around the embers of a campfire approximately ten miles away. Like a nest of vipers on a vacant stretch of sage, they seethed and writhed as they passed around a half-full bottle of whiskey, while two empty bottles lay near the fire pit.

Nearby was a fresh mound of earth topped by a pile of rocks and a crude cross made from the limbs of a cottonwood tree. Six feet beneath the mound lay a rustler and outlaw named Dave Collins in eternal slumber.

The men around the fire had weathered faces and scraggly beards. They wore rough range clothes, and all had been cowboys at some point in their lives, but they couldn't knuckle under to rules and regulations, so they rode the owl-hoot trail, stealing whatever they could, killing whenever they had to, and doing anything necessary to prevail.

They were a brotherhood bound together in bloody deeds, and respected no laws save those concocted
by themselves. As for women, they bought them same as they bought beans and tobacco. Although they blended in with other cowboys, they were in the Titusville area for one reason only: to rob the bank. They'd seen a copy of the
Sentinel
and realized that Titusville was a prosperous town in the middle of nowhere, a peach ready to be plucked.

The group had ridden into Titusville like any other bunch of cowboys, and reconnoitered the bank. They'd even gone inside, on spurious business, to see where every teller stood, and where the safe was located. All had been proceeding on schedule, until Dave got into a beef with the young cowboy, but Dave always had a mean streak, and no stopping once he got started. The outlaws weren't bothered so much that Dave had been killed, but felt that the kid had tricked him, so that he could add another notch to his gun.

One of the outlaws was Daltry, and he threw the butt of his cigar into the fire, where it sent up a plume of smoke. “I think we orter go in first thing in the morning, track down the son of a bitch, an' shoot ‘im like a dog. We cain't let ‘im git away with it.”

There was silence for a few moments, as the others considered the proposition. One of them was Hardy, who wore the tattoo of a skull on the back of his left hand. “If we're a-gonna shoot him, we should bushwhack him at night when he's tired, and cain't see us. He's a fast hand, and we cain't afford no more mistakes.”

“Fast hand—my ass!” said Domenici, a tall, thin outlaw with a black beard to his chest. “Dave fired first, fer Chrissakes. If he hadn't been drunk, he
would've killed the kid. What fast hand?”

He was answered by Singleton, who wore an eagle feather in the band of his hat. “He sure looked plenty fast to me. Don't underestimate that kid, ‘cause he'd been drinkin' too. I got near him at the end, and he smelled like a still. He ain't nobody to fuck with.”

One man hadn't spoken yet—the leader of the outlaw band. At first glance, one might think he were a fat man, but what appeared fat were really thick slabs of muscle. His most arresting features were his small, intense blue eyes that darted about the group curiously, making little notations.

His name was Smollett, and he'd been a major under Jubal Early during the war. He understood logistics, maneuver, surprise, and retreat. Without his professional skills, they would've been hanged long ago.

“I don't think Duane Braddock is worth our trouble,” he said in his deep baritone voice. “Dave was always looking for a fight, and only a matter of time before somebody drilled him. Dave's ruined our whole operation in Titusville. We should move to another town, and forget him. If you cut yourself with a knife, you can't blame the knife.”

“Forget hell,” replied Domenici. “That little son of a bitch killed a good friend of mine. I say we got to even the score.”

“We're wastin' our time,” said Daltry, chewing his cigar butt, “He's probably left town.”

“We can't afford to lose any more men,” Smollett reminded them, “and we're running out of cash.”

“Fuck cash,” Domenici replied.

Singleton spat in the fire, his face narrow like a
polecat's. “I'll go into town first thing in the morning, and find out where he is. Maybe I can come up behind him and put a bullet through his noggin.”

Firelight flickered on Smollett's porcine features, as he realized the direction of their intentions. They were extremely violent men, the type that made good soldiers, but good soldiers didn't rob banks, and that was Smollett's main objective now. He couldn't do it alone, and needed them as much as they needed him.

“If you insist on killing this kid,” he replied, “we'll have to plan it carefully, because we simply cannot afford to lose any more men due to erratic gunplay.”

They glowered at him in the darkness, and he knew that they resented him, for they were the refuse and flotsam of a defeated lost cause, and he'd been a fancy-pants artillery officer. The demarcation between them remained clearly defined, and Smollett wouldn't be surprised if they shot him in the back someday.

“Let's turn in,” he said. “Tomorrow night at this time, if we all do as we're told, the kid'll be dead. Then we can get on with our business, which is robbing that damned bank.”

S
AUL
K
LEVINS
WAS TWENTY
-
EIGHT
years old, a former thief, fancy man, and bouncer. Like many other dishonest drifters, he tended toward erratic living habits, and during one of those scrapes, had discovered his unusually fast reflexes. Since then, he'd killed nine men.

He hated Sundays, because all the so-called nice people were out with their children, commandeering a town that only a few hours before had been the stomping ground of cowboys, gamblers, and outlaws. The noonday sun seared his eyes, he had a headache, and his mouth tasted foul. He lowered the brim of his hat as he trudged along the sidewalk, worrying about his low money supply.

He'd come to Titusville anticipating that somebody in the up-and-coming region could use a fast
hand. But since his arrival, he'd earned nothing at his profession, and spent nearly all of his own money. No one was mad enough to hire a gunfighter—yet. Klevins wished he could stir up trouble, for the sake of his earnings.

He pushed through the doors of the Longhorn Saloon, made his way to the bar, and ordered a shot of whiskey, a bag of tobacco, some cigarette papers, and the latest edition of the
Titusville Sentinel.
He carried them back to the chop counter, ordered his customary steak and eggs, and rolled a cigarette while the food was cooked. Then he carried the platter to a table against the wall, opened the
Titusville Sentinel,
and the headline smacked him between the eyes:

PECOS KID GUNS DOWN RIVAL

BEHIND BLIND PIG SALOON

Fast Hand Has Arrived in Our Town

Citizens Warned

The notorious Pecos Kid claimed his first victim in Titusville last night, when he shot a drifter named Dave Collins in a ruckus behind the Blind Pig Saloon.

The Pecos Kid, whose real name is Duane Braddock, pretended to be inexperienced with guns, as he lured Collins into the showdown that cost the cowboy's life.

Klevins glanced up every few sentences, to make sure of everybody's hands, then returned to his perusal of the newspaper. According to the article, the kid with the lucky shot was really a famous gun-fighter! Klevins guffawed, as he shook his head in
disbelief. These rubes'll believe anything.

It was the strangest town Klevins had ever seen, like a huge metropolis in the middle of nowhere. It had no industry, not much commerce, and most of the town's buildings were vacant. Klevins was three months behind his rent, and nobody cared. He'd seen towns come and go, and suspected that Titusville would probably go.

Petigru was the big money man behind the town, and also the most hated man in the county. The locals had sold him their land, lumber, cattle, and skills, and all the while kept telling him what he wanted to hear: the railroad is coming. But the Union Pacific didn't appear interested in Titusville, and Petigru could find himself a target when the bottom fell out. At that point, Klevins was certain that he'd have a lucrative assignment.

But the Pecos Kid was a new, unknown card thrown into the deck. Was he the dumb cluck that he appeared to be, or a clever flimflam man? Klevins had seen the shooting, and estimated that the kid would've been killed if Collins hadn't been drunk.

Klevins suspected that the Pecos Kid was the latest product from the imagination of Len Farnsworth, the shrewd local newspaperman, but many local fools would believe it hook, line, and sinker. Klevins searched the newspaper for his own shooting, but there was nothing at all.

Why them sons of a bitches—they cut me out of the newspaper. Klevins's self-esteem was hurt, and he simmered with indignation. If anybody wants a bodyguard, he'll hire Braddock, not me. That goddamn kid couldn't shoot his way out of a gunnysack, but he's in
the limelight, while I'm in the shade. I ought to shoot them conchos off his hat. That'd wake everybody up about who's the real gunfighter in this town.

Duane opened his eyes, and once more didn't know where he was. He'd awakened in so many strange places, he was almost afraid to look around. He raised his head and reached toward his gun.

A prairie dog sat on his hind legs, examining Duane curiously. Their eyes met, animal and man, and each saw total incomprehension. The prairie dog, being the smaller creature, decided to scoot off. He left so suddenly, Duane wasn't sure he'd seen him in the first place. His next sensation was a dry tongue, and he realized that his stomach was an empty, echoing cavern.

The sun shone brightly in a clear blue sky, and the morning pleasantly warm. Time for breakfast, he thought, as he rose to his feet. His hat hung down his back, and had become crushed during his sleep, but he punched out the crown with his fist, straightened the brim, and it was like new again.

He saw the town in the distance, smoke arising from chimneys. Something heavy and unfamiliar hung from his hip, and he looked down at the Colt in the worn brown leather holster. He pulled it out, rested his forefinger against the trigger, and the events of the night came back with stunning clarity. I've killed a man, but it's not as if I shot him in the back. I'm probably headed straight for hell, but nothing I can do about it now, he thought.

He pulled back the hammer, blew out the dirt,
spun the chambers, and looked down the barrel. A clump of something was in there, so he searched for a twig, passed it through the barrel, and the foreign matter fell out. He thumbed bullets into the empty chambers, but left one clear. Butterfield had counseled that precaution, otherwise he was liable to shoot his leg off.

He reached into his pocket, and only had three dollars and change left. He wasn't sure that he still had his job at the Lazy Y, after what transpired last night. He walked toward town, as events of the evening continued to agitate his mind, but he didn't feel awkward and youthful anymore. It was a new day, and he was a new man.