Beginner's Luck (25 page)

Sure hope it's quiet here tonight. I don't want to die just because a bunch of cowboys can't hold their likker, he told himself.

Smollett, Hardy, and Singleton rode down the main street of Titusville, peering about cautiously. They were men with prices on their heads, and never knew when they might be recognized. Their hands rested near their guns. They looked as though they'd been sleeping in their clothes, but didn't appear significantly different from other cowboys in town that night. Their plan was to come up behind Duane Braddock amid Saturday night crowds, and put three bullets into his back.

Smollett rode in the middle, his wounded leg bandaged with an old rag. It ached fiercely; pus oozed out the gash, and it was turning green around the edges. “I'm going to see the sawbones,” Smollett said, “and you boys can start looking fer the Kid. When you find him, one of you stay with him, and the other report to me.”

Vanessa sat in front of her bedroom mirror, preparing for her evening's performance at the Round-Up Saloon. She'd lost weight during the past week, her
complexion had gone pale, hence more cosmetics than usual were required to make her acceptable to the crowd of cowboys and gamblers who'd come to ogle her. No matter how heavy her heart, the show must go on.

She'd spent most of the week in a cloud of gloom, worried about her future, and recalled Petigru's advice to speak with Miss Ellie. Edgar didn't realize it, but his words had plunged terror into Vanessa's heart. If it comes to prostitution, I'll kill myself first.

She raised her skirt, and pulled the derringer out of her garter. Two ugly snouts looked her in the eye, and all she need do was thumb back the hammer, point at her temple, and pull both triggers at the same time. Then she'd never have to worry about prostitution or anything else ever again.

It bothered her that she hadn't been aware of Petigru's true financial situation. I'm a child, and don't know anything about business, she realized. It's easy for men to take advantage of me, because they know I'm needy. I'd marry the devil himself, if he'd buy me a house. But you can't trust men. All they want is one thing, and they'll say anything to get it.

She applied rouge to her cheek, and reflected upon Duane Braddock touching her breast in the vestibule downstairs. She had to admit, despite everything, it had been an extremely exalting moment. She knew that the Pecos Kid would come to town that night, and if he was the man she thought, he'd show up at the Round-Up Saloon.

Why shouldn't I have a taste of love before I die? she thought wistfully, placing Beauregard's daquerreo-type in the bottom drawer of her dresser.

Edgar Petigru sat at his window, looking into the main street of town. It was filling with the usual Saturday night riffraff, and he didn't want to go out.

The week had been increasingly difficult, as the true depths of his predicament became increasingly clear to him. He couldn't simply declare bankruptcy, and ride home in a carriage, because home was nearly two thousand miles away, and an Indian might slice his genitals off, and stuff them into his mouth.

Edgar owed substantial amounts to local citizens, and they wouldn't let him leave until they were paid, or he was milked dry. In essence, he was a prisoner, except for his bodyguard, Saul Klevins. But how could he trust a hired gun? Edgar saw Klevins napping on the sofa, his hat covering his face.

Sometimes Edgar had the notion that Klevins didn't like him, and might even shoot him in the back. Edgar had no firm basis for these thoughts, but experienced them nonetheless. Klevins carried an aura of untrustworthiness about him, which made Edgar distinctly uneasy.

Although Klevins appeared to be sleeping, he actually was wide awake, peering at Edgar beneath the brim of his hat. Klevins had laid plans throughout the week. On Monday evening, before Edgar locked the safe for the night, Klevins would slit his throat, steal the money, and be in another jurisdiction by the time Edgar's body was found.

Klevins knew that Edgar would go to the Round-Up Saloon later, to see Vanessa Fontaine. But this time he won't git rid of me so easy, he told himself. I'll have
me a talk with the bitch, and maybe she and me can come to terms, especially when she finds out that I'm a-comin' inter a large sum of money. Klevins smiled confidently beneath his hat. Her eyes'll light up when I tell her about the money, because whores have got cash boxes where their hearts are supposed to be, he concluded.

Duane crouched in the alley, watching the carriage approach on the darkened street. He was in the quiet part of town, far from the saloon district, waiting along the route Vanessa usually traveled to the Round-Up Saloon.

He wore his black pants, a black shirt, and a yellow U.S. Cavalry bandanna that he'd bought from one of the cowboys. Atop his head, at a jaunty devil-may-care angle, sat his hat circled with silver conchos. The carriage drew abreast, and he sprang out of the alley, dashed into the street, and jumped onto the running board. Vanessa pulled back in horror, one hand over her breast, for suddenly there he was, the identical person she'd been thinking about on her ride to work.

He opened the door, swung inside, and sat on the seat beside her. Their eyes met in the darkness, she hesitated, but Duane leaned forward and touched his lips gently to hers. She was shocked, enchanted, thrilled, overjoyed—a clutter of confusing emotions sweeping over her.

“I've been thinking about you all week,” he said.

“I've been thinking about you, too,” she replied, the words out of her mouth before she could stop herself. He touched his hand to her breast, and she didn't
slap his face, as she knew she would. “Oh, Duane,” she breathed.

Their tongues touched, and he squeezed her breast gently. It was small, firm, pert, and his thumb could make out the outline of the nipple tucked away beneath layers of fabric.

“Don't do that,” she begged. “We'll be at the Round-Up soon, and we can't be seen like this.”

She made perfect sense, but he couldn't remove his hand, as though it were stuck by the strongest glue known to mankind. He felt her grace and strength, as their tongues did soft combat. She melted in his arms. His other hand roved beneath her dress, and she breathed heavily, as she tried to talk sense to herself. He's a young bull, he can't stop himself, but I'm more mature, and
I'll
have to do it. His hands were driving her mad, but somehow she was able to draw together her last remaining fiber of strength. “
Please,
” she begged. “We can't do it here.”

He heard the helplessness in her voice, and somehow her predicament reached the depths of his feverish brain. Reluctantly, he let her go, moved a few inches away, and his trembling hand pulled out his bag of tobacco. She adjusted her clothing in the darkness, her breast still heaving. “How long have you been smoking?” she inquired, as though they were taking a casual ride in the park.

He spilled half the tobacco onto his lap. “Do you think we can meet after you're finished work tonight?”

“I'll be home, and if you found time to visit...”

Duane despaired of rolling the cigarette, because he was far too maniacal. He threw the paper out the window, and said ruggedly, “I'll see you then.”

He pecked her cheek, caressed her breast again for good measure, and was out the door. She watched from the window of the cab, as the Pecos Kid disappeared into an alley on the far side of the street.

Dr. Robinson examined the man lying with his face on the table, a bullet hole in his leg. The slug had been removed crudely, but the wound was badly infected. The man had ridden out of nowhere, and claimed to've been shot by an Indian, but not many Indians had guns, and although Dr. Robinson's suspicions were aroused, he was bound by the ancient oath of Hippocrates to offer medical care to anyone, even possible outlaws.

Dr. Robinson was only twenty-six years old, with curly brown hair, and a diploma from the St. Louis School of Medicine. He leaned back, wiped his pus-stained fingers on his white apron, and said, “Too bad you didn't see me sooner, because it's quite infected. I can cut away the diseased flesh, and we'll see if it heals.”

“What if it doesn't?” asked Smollett apprehensively.

“Well,” said the doctor, “it might mean amputation ... or your life.”

Smollett swallowed hard. “When you cut that infection away, you'd better make sure you get all of it.”

“Do my best,” the doctors aid.

“You'd better do better than your best.”

The menacing tone in Smollett's voice was unmistakable, but no surprise to the doctor, who regularly
was threatened by patients. “Would you like me to get started now?”

The door opened, and a young man in black pants stood there, wearing a silver concho hatband. “Can I see Boggs?”

“He's in the same bed,” Dr. Robinson replied, “and much improved.”

The young man passed through the office, and entered the next corridor. Smollett swung his legs around, stood, and pulled up his pants.

“Where are you going?” asked the doctor.

“Something I've got to do,” Smollett replied.

Duane entered the small room, and Boggs appeared asleep in the darkness. The curtains had been closed, and Duane reached for the chair. “Hold it— you son of a bitch,” croaked Boggs. “I got me gun aimed right ‘twixt yer eyes.”

“It's me,” Duane said.

There was silence for a few moments, then Boggs uttered, “You shouldn't creep up on a man like that.”

“I didn't want to awaken you.” Duane reached into his pocket, and flipped out a bottle of whiskey. “Have one on me, pardner.”

Boggs snatched it out of the air, and the blanket fell off his chest, revealing the tattoo of an eagle. He pulled the cork, leaned back, and guzzled noisily. “Best medicine in the world,” he said with satisfaction, as he handed the bottle back. “You sure look like yer full of piss and vinegar tonight. What's goin' on?”

“It's Saturday night in Titusville, and the town's wide open. Can you walk?”

“A few steps.”

“Let's go to the Round-Up Saloon.”

“Don't know if I can make it that far. Last time I took a walk with you, I got shot.” Boggs made a few unsteady steps across the floor, and reached to the wall for support.

“I'll help you get over there,” Duane said. “Put your pants on.”

Jed Wilson entered the Round-Up Saloon through the back door. He detected the fragrance of Vanessa's perfume, for she'd walked through just a few moments ago, on the way to her first performance of the evening. Jed stepped into the main room of the saloon, slipped into the shadows, rolled a cigarette, and contemplated what he was about to do.

Certain tricks cause amusement, discomfort, or discord, but other tricks can get somebody killed, and it was this latter category that he was about to spring. His eyes roved toward the front tables, and he spotted Edgar Petigru sitting with Saul Klevins. I shouldn't do this, Jed thought, as he moved away from the wall. But I can't resist.

They looked up as he approached, and Petigru's complexion appeared a faint shade of green, his collar undone, eyes glowing with unholy light, while Klevins's hand slid down to his gun.

“I got news,” Jed said to Petigru. “Mind if I sit down?” Without waiting for a reply, Jed dropped to the chair opposite them, and placed his hands on the table, where Klevins could see them. “You asked me onc't to tell you if the Kid ever came sniffing
around Miss Vanessa again, and ...”

Jed let his sentence hang in the air, as Petigru turned a deeper shade of green. “Well?” he asked testily. “What happened!”

“While I was a-ridin' down the street, the Kid jumped in back with her, and if I din't know any better, I'd say he give her a screw right thar in the backseat.”

Edgar felt as if someone had reached into his chest and torn his heart apart. He was losing everything, and now even Vanessa was being unfaithful! Just like a rat deserting a sinking ship—the bitch took everything I gave her, but now that I need her, she's gone.

Edgar had been on thin ice all week, and was cracking beneath the strain. Somehow her treason loomed larger than his incipient poverty, because poverty harmed only his wallet, while this cut to the vitals of who he believed himself to be. He was vain, filled with false pride, and as he arose, he swore that he wouldn't let her get away with it this time. He stormed to her dressing room, knocked twice, and opened the door.

She sat at her mirror, and flinched in surprise. Annabelle jumped three inches in the air.

“Leave us alone,” Edgar said to Annabelle.

The servant left the room, as Vanessa scowled. “I've told you that I don't want you bursting in here like that!”

He pointed his trembling finger at her. “I ought to kill you!”

“Try it!”

Edgar was astonished to find himself staring into the two dull eyes of her derringer. It was the last thing
he'd expected, and his mouth went dry. He tried to reply, but he'd never learned, in fashionable New York society, what to say to a woman pointing a gun at your heart.

“Get out of here,” she said, “and if you ever come at me like that again, I'll shoot you!”

He pointed his finger at her, and it trembled more than ever. “I know about you and the Pecos Kid— don't think I don't. So you just screwed him in the carriage, eh? I always knew that you were a dirty rebel slut beneath your ridiculous Southern belle pretensions!”

Her eyes narrowed angrily, as her finger squeezed around the trigger.

“No!” he screamed.

The night exploded suddenly with volleys of gunfire.

Ten minutes earlier, Duane and Boggs had emerged from the doctor's office, and were heading toward the Round-Up Saloon. Boggs's arm was draped over Duane's shoulder, and Duane held Boggs by the waist, as they moved along the sidewalk like strange upright Siamese twins.

Duane explained his cowboy week to his spiritual advisor. “I remembered all the things you told me, and they were a big help when I was riding that horse. I just dug in my heels and never let go.”