Beginner's Luck (5 page)

Meanwhile, Jethro's face flashed deep, insatiable vengeance. Duane realized, with mounting concern, that his opponent was no overgrown schoolboy, but a gigantic fully matured beast with mayhem in his heart. For the first time since landing in the water trough, Duane put himself into perspective.

Jethro launched a right toward Duane's head. Duane raised his arm to block the blow, and it felt like a sledgehammer. His brains rattled in his head as he tried to dance away, his shoulder feeling dislocated. Jethro stalked him, a determined expression on his countenance, and blood dripping from his nose. He feinted a left jab, as Duane tried to dodge out of the way, and walked into a right cross like the freight train from St. Louis.

Everything went black. Duane heard bells and birds, and when he opened his eyes, he was lying on his back in a puddle of bilious substances spilled from the nearby spittoon. The immense gnarled face of Jethro appeared above him, and Duane felt himself being lifted into the air by the front of his shirt.

Jethro raised him slowly, while drawing his right fist back for the final blow. The crowd watched in morbid fascination at the cowboy giant and the limp young man in his grasp. Duane knew what was coming, but was paralyzed by the earlier blows.

“You little fuck,” Jethro snarled. “I'll teach you to mess with me.”

The fist zoomed forward, and grew larger in Duane's eyes. It landed on Duane's cheek, and Duane's lights went out once more. He soared through the air, crashed against the bat-wing doors, and landed with his face in a pile of muck at the curb, where he lay still for a long time.

“Y
OU ALL RIGHT, KID?
” Duane opened his eyes. He lay in the street, and it felt as if a balloon had take up residence underneath his left cheek. “Where am I?”

“You just got the shit kicked out of you.”

Duane tried to focus on a skull-like face with a cheroot stuck between the teeth. It looked familiar, but it definitely wasn't the face of Brother Paolo. Duane glanced around, expecting to see familiar monastery buildings, but instead saw the main street of Titusville. His ribs felt broken, and his head throbbed with pain.

“You're not going to die on me, are you?” the face asked. “Don't you remember me? I'm Clyde Butterfield, and I told you to buy a gun. You'd better get out of the street before a wagon runs you over.”

The dapper gentleman helped Duane to his feet, and maneuvered him toward the sidewalk. Duane's legs were uncoordinated, he felt sick to his stomach, and an elf pounded a chisel into his brain. He dropped heavily onto the bench in front of the Black Cat Saloon. Butterfield withdrew a flask from inside his frock coat and held it out to Duane.

“I don't drink,” Duane said, as he located new agony in his neck.

“Wake you right up.”

Duane's head was full of fog, and the sidewalk undulated before his eyes. He took the flask, tipped it back, and swallowed a small amount. For the first three seconds, it was mellow and smooth, and then became liquid flames down his throat. He coughed, hacked, and spit up blood.

“To tell you the truth,” Butterfield said, “I'm surprised he didn't kill you. He hit you so hard, I thought your skull would bust apart.”

Duane touched his nose to make sure it still was there. His jaw felt loose on its hinges, and he was certain that his rib cage had been caved in. “Naw, he didn't kill me,” Duane replied, trying to be brave, but he winced, and his voice came out in squeaks. It hurt when he breathed.

“You had him, but you let him off the hook. If you'd stayed after him, you would've beat him, instead of the other way around.”

Duane recalled the initial stage of the fight, when he'd bloodied Jethro's nose, then stopped to assess the damage.

“If you ever hurt your man,” Butterfield confided, “finish him off, and think it over afterward. Want a smoke?”

“Don't smoke.”

Butterfield puffed his long, thin cheroot, gazing askance at Duane. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. “Get yourself a good meal, then find a bath and a hotel room. I'll meet you tomorrow night at the Crystal Palace, and we'll discuss your future.”

Duane looked at the coins, and thought he heard pity, or was it disdain, in Butterfield's voice. A flush of bad temper came over Duane, and he slapped Butterfield's hand. The coins went flying in the air, and Butterfield made a motion toward his gun.

Duane limped away, bending slightly to favor his aching ribs. He came to an alley, and absentmindedly turned into it. A group of cowboys threw dice at the side of the building, and everybody held a bottle. Duane sidestepped around them, and made his way toward the backyard. The shame of defeat hurt worse than the pain in his head and chest, and he ground his teeth angrily.

Butterfield was right, he admitted. I should've stayed after him, but I had to admire my handiwork, like an idiot. He came to the backyard, and saw sheds, privies, and piles of trash. No one was around, and he slipped into the shadows at the side of a building, sat on the ground, and wondered what to do next.

I've been in Titusville approximately four hours, and so far I've been robbed, beaten, insulted, and humiliated, he thought dejectedly. I'm supposed to be looking for a job, but instead I got into a fight with a man twice my size, and I could be the hero of the Black Cat Saloon right now, except I didn't have the guts to finish him off.

He recalled the moment he'd smashed Jethro in the nose. A few more solid punches to the head—that's all it'd require. I've been out of the monastery a week, and already I'm thinking of beating people, Duane thought ruefully. I can't be a very intelligent person, if this is the direction my mind takes.

For all I know, Jethro's an orphan, too, and something's hurting him inside, just like me. If I were a true Christian, I would've turned the other cheek. Maybe I should go back to the monastery, apologize profusely, take the vows, and become a brother, he speculated.

He recalled the serenity of the monastery in the clouds, where few people ever visited, and mountain winds whistled through the steeple of their little chapel. His life had been orderly, and he'd studied hard. That's where I belong, not this filthy hellhole, he said to himself.

He recalled the impression of Jethro's boot squashing his hindquarters, not to mention Jethro's fist crashing into his cranium. What about justice and free will? Duane wondered. Does he have the right to kick me in the ass, just because I'm in his way? I don't kick people in the ass. Somebody had to stop him, and it happened to be me!

He dropped to the next level of reflection. But he's so much bigger than I, and fighting is wrong in the first place. I've already broken countless commandments, and if I had a few dollars in my pocket, I'd probably wallow in prostitutes like the pig that I am.

I'm a sinner, he admitted. Just like every other poor fool in the world. I've just had the stuffing beat out of me, and I'm starving to death. I should've had a
job by now, but I've been doing everything wrong.

He heard the sound of a wagon, and became still in the shadows. The conveyance approached through a far alley, and he could perceive lamplights flickering on its sides. In the moonlight, he saw the same fancy carriage he'd noticed easier, the one belonging to the singer, Vanessa Fontaine. The carriage appeared headed toward the rear of the Round-Up Saloon.

I guess he's going to drive her home, Duane thought. Maybe I can see her close up. He advanced across the yard, and dropped behind the first trash barrel. The driver appeared to be dozing, but the two horses' ears perked up at the sound of Duane's muffled footsteps. Their huge luminescent eyes followed his progress around the perimeter of the buildings, until finally he came to a stop behind a stack of firewood near the rear door of the saloon.

She might not come out for another three hours, Duane told himself, and I'm supposed to be looking for a job. Just as he was about to head for the nearest saloon, he heard a peal of woman's laughter erupt from the depths of the establishment.

The sound sent a chill up his back, and he wished he had a clean, sweet-smelling woman to kiss. He recalled Vanessa Fontaine on the stage of the saloon, trilling her tale of love. He felt woozy. He rested his head against the firewood, and he took a few deep breaths to clear his mind.

His eyes fell on a trash barrel, and he thought, I'll bet it's full of steaks that the customers were too drunk to eat. I'll just wash one off in the horse trough and have me a meal. But then his eyes caught movement near the barrel, and his hair stood on end. Creatures
with bright little eyes, plump furry bodies, and long skinny tails, scurried about, nibbling tidbits. Duane lost his appetite immediately.

The back door of the saloon opened. Duane raised his head above the firewood, and saw a man in a vest step outside, gun in hand, looking both ways. Another man appeared, holding the arm of Vanessa Fontaine. The men led her toward the carriage, as the driver jumped to the ground.

Duane realized that Vanessa Fontaine was tall for a woman, built on the slim side, just as he. Moonlight silhouetted her profile, revealing a gently curved nose and blond hair beneath the hood of her black cape. Duane had never seen anything like her among the girls who came to the monastery. They'd been farmers' daughters in plain homespun dresses, but Vanessa Fontaine looked like a celestial creature from another realm.

She entered the cab, and the driver climbed onto his seat. He snapped his whip, and the matched white horses headed toward the street. Duane found himself moving toward the alley, following the carriage. He saw the outline of her head through the back window, and wondered what kind of person she was.

He drank water from the trough in front of the hitching rail, and felt stronger. I'll see where she lives, just for the fun of it, and then I'll come back and look for a job. Or maybe I'll go out on the sage and trap a rabbit.

He felt revived, as he moved along the sidewalk, passing men sleeping on benches, in alleys. One stalwart fellow was out cold in the middle of the sidewalk. Duane stepped over him, as the coach turned left at the
next corner, and Duane followed like a lean hungry wolf of the night.

Lanterns on the carriage vied with the moon for lighting the way, but all other lamps were out in the increasingly residential street. They came to a neighborhood of larger homes and more spacious yards, with wagons and carriages parked outside. Some houses were neatly painted, with white picket fences, while others were in varied states of construction. This is a growing town, Duane realized. Lots of potential here for a man like me.

Duane slipped through the shadows, as cool night wind blew in from the sage. The carriage turned right, and Duane followed it to a narrow road with only a few houses. The driver pulled his reins back, steering toward a two-story, boxlike structure sleeping in the night. Duane hopped the fence, landed behind a bush, and a dog barked across the street. The driver climbed down and opened the door.

The wraith in black shawl emerged from the carriage, and moonlight glinted on her golden hair. She fairly flew to the front door, opened it, and was gone. A lamp was lit inside the residence, sending pale yellow rays through the windows. Duane heard something crash, as the singer rattled a string of outrageous curses in a strange lilting drawl.

A door slammed, and it seemed as if the whole house shook. Duane was fascinated by her behavior, for he'd grown up without women, and they were strange alien beings to him. The women who'd visited the monastery had been devout Catholics, whereas this woman evidently was Jezebel herself!

Duane felt nauseated, and weakness came over
him. I've got to get something to eat, he reminded himself. The lamp went out in the house just as he was about to rise. He lowered himself as she burst onto the porch and ran toward the carriage, holding her skirts in the air.

The driver opened the door for her, and she said: “Hurry, because I'm late.”

She stepped into the backseat, the driver lashed the horses, and the sleek animals pulled the carriage away from the curb. Galloping hoofbeats could be heard, as the contrivance rumbled toward the center of town.

Duane's vision blurred, and only the rapid deployment of his hands prevented his face from crashing into the dirt. Black curtains fluttered before his eyes, and the tinkling of bells came to his ears. He tried to rise, but fell on his butt. I'm liable to die on her lawn, if I don't get something to eat soon.

His system weakened by inadequate nutrition, a vicious beating, and a few swallows of rotgut whiskey, he tried to stand, but his knees were wobbly. I'll never make it to town, and I'll bet her kitchen is stocked full of food. His mouth watered as he imagined sliced beef, roast chickens, fried potatoes, sliced tomatoes, mounds of rice, and pies bursting with apples and cinnamon. I wonder if her back door is locked?

Duane glanced around, and all was still. The nearest house was fifty yards away, completely darkened. Duane crept over the scraggly lawn, heading toward the rear of the house. He drooled uncontrollably, and felt like fainting. I'll only take food, and I'm sure she can afford it, he rationalized. You don't want me to die, do you, God?