Ghost Town: A Novel (15 page)

There’s another whistle howl and blast of steam and a rattling of the couplings, the caboose lantern bouncing wildly on its hook at the parlor end and sending shadows leaping about the hellish tunnel, but the train knows well it’s beat. A final rackety spasm shudders its length, and then the cars slump forward in defeat, knocking dolefully up against one another, and the caboose lantern ceases to sway and hangs limply in dimmed despond.

I’ll see to it they dont hurt yu none, he says, and the train, in abject surrender, sighs grandly and commences to spill out its contents. When it has wholly emptied itself, he leads it, its steel drivers and wheels groaning self-pityingly, back up out of the mine shaft. He feels he has been down here for weeks, but it has probably not been so long, though he does emerge into midday sunlight, there to find his gang still mounted and waiting for him as he left them, the black mare foremost, greeting him at the entranceway with an eager whinny and a nuzzle of his chest. Yu kin let the train go, boys, he announces. We aint got no more use of it. It’s dumped all its freight down below. Go hep yerself!

Yippee! the men shout, and leap out of their saddles, and, as soon as the train, chugging gloomily, has backed out of the way, they go charging off into the mine, firing their pistols and racing one another for first pick among the goods. He can hear their clattering bootsteps echoing up out of the pitch-black tunnel, the occasional ricocheting shot, their curses as they bounce off the walls and each other and tumble down the shaft. Still sitting on her horse above him—in the sun, her golden palomino has a soiled and scurfy aspect, more the color of day-old cowpatties—the bandit queen takes her mask off and says: I got some news fer yu, kid.

Before she can deliver it, though, they are interrupted by a terrific explosion in the depths of the mine and the tunnel mouth spews forth a macabre and filthy rain. He turns in rage and fires his rifle futilely at the escaping train, showing now only its red-tipped caboose, wagging tauntingly in the sun-bleached distance. He leaps astride his mare, prepared to give chase, but Belle restrains him.

Whoa, cowboy, she says, grabbing the reins. Let it go. We didnt need thet gang no more anyhow. They’ve ketched the real hoss thief. Yu been pardoned. Yu’re a free man. He rests back in the saddle, taking in this unexpected news. Free. The sound of it soughs through him like a freshening wind. He stretches, and the land seems to stretch out around him. In the distance, above where the judas train disappeared, a lonely hawk wheels like a summons. It’s time, it spells out upon the slate-blue sky in graceful loops and swirls, to leave this town behind. Even as a badman on the loose he has been held captive by it, but no longer. He strips off his mask and squints off toward the spreading horizon, looking for something out there on the rim to aim at before it all recedes out of sight. Yu kin go back t’bein sheriff agin, darlin. Me’n yu, we kin clean up thet disreptile town.

I dont much cotton to the sheriffin line, mam. Reckon I’ll be hittin the trail. The chanteuse, for that’s what she is once more, looks sorrowed by the news but not surprised; it’s who he is, after all. So who’d they say done it?

Well yu wont hardly believe it. It’s the schoolmarm. She come ridin inta town on it, bold as brass.

Whut? But I give her thet hoss.

Dont matter none how she come by it. She wuz settin it and thet wuz fault enuf. They clapped her sanctimonious fanny smack in the calaboose, no questions ast nor answered, thet’s all she wrote. They’re hangin her tomorra at high noon and good riddance.

The hawk has left the sky, that slate wiped blank. The horizon has shrunk toward him some, but whether to urge or thwart his departure is not clear, and the wind has died, if it was ever blowing. His mare snorts impatiently, paws the ground. He strokes her neck. Did yu say thet sheriff’s job wuz open?

I thought yu wuz boltin off inta the sunset.

Dont seem t’be thet time a day. Anyhow, I reckon I caint go jest yet.

Now yu’re talkin, sweetie. I knowed yu couldnt leave me. C’mon! I still got thet silk’n velvet gown with all them buttons and almost nuthin spilt on it. Lets git goin!

Y’know, what gits me, says the chanteuse, gazing down upon the town, laid out below in parallel lines as though to lend conviction that it is somewhere, is how sad it is, settin thar like a speck in the middle a nuthin. And how grand.

Peculiar, more like, he says. They have arrived at a bluff overlooking the town, a prominence he had not noticed before. Dont see nobody movin down thar.

Thet’s jest cuzza us bein up so high.

We aint so high I caint read the saloon sign nor see the curtain hangin in yer winder.

And aint it a purty sight! She reaches over and clasps his buck-skinned thigh. He can also see the gallows, which, like the rest of the town, is presently unoccupied, a relief to him because he was afraid a day might have passed in their coming here and he might be too late. Unless it’s already the day after. Caint wait t’git back inta my own satin sheets. She sighs, giving his leg an eager squeeze. It aint in my maidenly nature t’be livin rough.

Belle, he says, they’s sumthin I gotta talk t’yu about.

Only one thing though, darlin: I aint sharin my bed with thet damned hoss.

Well thet’s jest it. Yu wont hafta do.

Course not. But lookie thar!

Down below, the streets are now full of diminutive figures running about in an aimless frenzy like a colony of ants whose nest has been poked. They scramble in and out of buildings, dash across streets, fall off rooftops and out of windows, whirl, roll, and tumble, and though it all happens in a heavy midday silence, he realizes that they must be shooting at each other. Yes, he can see flashes now, puffs of smoke. And then the sound does reach them: a series of stuttery little pops like strings of firecrackers going off.

I’d say thet’s a town desprit fer a sheriff, the chanteuse remarks. I jest hope they aint shot the parson.

The dead are dragged away or carried off by buzzards and the figures vanish, though the pops continue for a time before also dying away. Then the buildings shift about like wagers on a faro table, the bank moving over to where the saloon was, the saloon replacing the church now sliding into the center next to the stables, the claims office and the jailhouse changing places either side of the general store, and so on, until the entire town layout has been reset. The streets are empty and silence reigns as before. He feels he has just witnessed something vital but he does not know what it is, nor can he fix his mind wholly upon it, so assailed is it by dire apprehensions about a certain person and the danger she is in. Dont fret about no parson, Belle, he says. I aint stayin. They’s sumthin I gotta attend to. And then I’ll be movin on.

Suddenly the figures reappear in the streets below, scampering, rolling, and falling about as before, scribbling their miserable fates on the town’s dusty tablet, and a moment later the stutter of pops resumes, tattooing the desert air. He is not certain how he will manage what he has to do, but the simplest and boldest thing would be just to ride down there, pick her up, put her on his horse, and ride away, and he supposes it’s what he’ll do, or try to do. If she’ll allow him. There’s a fierce principled streak in her that can get in the way of amiable intentions. He envisions the struggle, and his lips twitch involuntarily into a half smile. Whut’s she got that I aint got twice of? asks the chanteuse flatly, her voice hardening.

He presses his lips together, feeling like someone’s just peeked at his hand in a poker showdown. It aint thet. The little figures below withdraw and the streets are cleared and the buildings slide about once more as though trying to solve some puzzle. It’s jest she aint no hoss thief, and I caint let her die fer thet.

Hmmph, says Belle in the silence that returns. Her tasseled sombrero has been tipped back onto her shoulders and her orange hair is blazing in the sun like her whole head’s on fire. Thet harpy is homely as a fencepost and friendly as a dead cat and she aint even bowlaigged enuf t’set a hoss proper. Ifn it wuz me they wuz hangin, yu’da been long gone, wouldnt yu, handsome?

She’s differnt, Belle. He remembers her as he first saw her, framed in the schoolhouse window, her dark hair coiled into a tight bun, so very pale and beautiful and staring out at him as if to instruct him by gaze alone on the ways of the universe and the means for quelling the spirits of evil in the human heart. She’s kindly and reefined and pure as a angel. She caint think a wicked thought.

Damn her eyes. She’s a prissy bitch with a cob stuck purely up her reefined angel ass. I caint stand the proud uppish way she talks, struttin her book larnin. Whut’s sumbody like her doin out here anyhow? The chanteuse pauses to collect her breath, which is coming in short furious gasps. There is a look on her face that reminds him of his mustang just before he shot him. Well jest dont yu fergit, cowboy. Yu made a promise.

He sighs. This is not turning out as he’d imagined it. He’d even thought that Belle might help him. Aint no witnesses t’thet promise, Belle.

No? How many folks yu reckon is down thar?

They are dashing about through the streets again in their hats and batwing chaps, shooting at each other, diving for cover, appearing on the tops of things only to fall off them, the buzzards as usual hovering shaggily above like bald black-jacketed croupiers, surveying the action, waiting to gather in the winnings. The thin
puppety-pop
code of distant gunfire rises as the agitation diminishes and the streets empty out, and then it dies, too. I dunno, he says, as the little buildings rearrange themselves around the gallows again. A goodly number, I spose. They dont stand still long enuf t’count.

Well however many, sweetiepie, thet’s how many witnesses I got.

The streets of the town below are empty and silent as before and hotly burnished by the noonday sun. Into them on a coal-black horse now rides a lone figure all outfitted in black with silver spurs and six-shooters and a gold ring in one ear. It is he. A man on a mission. The chanteuse has left him in anger and disgust, or seems to have done, nothing he could do about that, and here he is. From under the broad brim of his slouch hat he warily watches, feeling watched, the windows and rooftops, the corners of things. Expecting trouble. The mare seems edgy too, rolling her head fretfully, biting at the bit. Well, she’s an outlaw horse, has likely never set hoof in this town before except on illegal business; she probably has good reason for unease.

In the center of town across from the saloon, a potbellied mestizo with a missing ear and a tall squint-eyed man with droopy handlebars and a bald head tattooed with hair are testing the trapdoor of the gallows, using a noosed goat, not by the appearance of it for the first time. Yo, sheriff! the man with the tattooed hair calls out, dragging the goat into position. Howzit hangin?

He nods at them and watches the limp goggle-eyed goat drop, then walks the mare cautiously over to the jailhouse. So he’s the sheriff again. Yes, he’s wearing his silver badge once more, the one with the hole in it. That explains the sharp tug in the breast he’s felt since turning his back on the inviting horizon and riding back to town again. Shines out on his black shirt in a way it never did before.

There’s a poster outside the jailhouse door announcing the high noon hanging on the morrow, with a portrait of the schoolmarm staring sternly out at all who would dare stare back. He is shaken by the intensity of her gaze, and the pure gentle innocence of it, and the rectitude, and he knows he is lost to it.

He hitches the mare to the rail there, and though she is skittish and backs away, her eyes rolling, tugging at her tether, he needs her for what he must next do. He unhooks his rifle from the saddle horn. I’ll jest be a minnit and then we’ll hightail it outa here, he says softly, stroking her sweaty neck to calm her, and he enters the jailhouse ready for whatever happens.

But the jailhouse is empty, nobody in there except an old codger with an eyepatch, slumped in the wooden swivel chair, wearing a deputy’s badge on his raggedy red undershirt. There is a thick gully of scar running through his gray beard, down which a trickle of tobacco juice dribbles, and his lone eye is red with drink. Hlo, sheriff, he drawls, trying to stand. Glad yu’re back. Yu’re jest in time t’hang thet rapscallious hoss thief yerself. He chortles, then falls back into the swivel chair, takes a swig from a whiskey bottle, belches, offers it out. Yer health, sheriff!

Whar is she? he says.

The prizner? They tuck her over t’the saloon t’shuck her weeds offn her’n scrub her down afore her hangin.

The saloon?

Yup, well they got soap’n water over thar and plentya hep in spiffyin her up. The boys wuz plannin t’rub her down good with goose grease’n skunk oil after, polish her up right properlike. He’s already at the door and there’s a pounding in his temples that’s worse than snakebite. Hey, hole up, sheriff! Ain’t thet a outlaw hoss out thar?

Mebbe. I’ll check into it. Yu stay here’n keep yer workin eye on thet whuskey bottle.

I aim to.

The mare is wild-eyed and frothing, rearing against her hitching rope, so he lets her go. Stay outa sight, he whispers to her as he unties her. This wont take long. I’ll whistle yu when we’re set t’bust out. The horse hesitates, pawing the ground, whinnying softly, but he slaps her haunches affectionately, and, glancing back over her shoulder at him, she slips away into the shadows behind the jailhouse.

The object of his quest is not in the saloon either. It’s quiet in there, four men playing cards, a couple more at the bar, a puddle of water in the middle of the floor where a bucket of soapy water stands, a lacy black thing ripped up and hung over its lip. The men at the bar are laughing and pointing at the bucket or else at the wet long-handled grooming brush beside it. Thet goddam humpback! one of them says, hooting.

Hlo, sheriff, grins the bartender, a dark sleepy-eyed man of mixed breed with half a nose. Welcum back. Whut’s yer pizen?

An argument breaks out at the card table, the air fills with the slither of steel flashing free of leather, shots ring out, and a tall skinny man with spidery hair loses most of his jaw and all else besides, slamming against the wall with the impact before sliding in a bloody heap to the floor. Looks like they’s a chair open fer yu, sheriff, says the thin little bespectacled man who shot him, tucking his smoking derringer back inside his black broadcloth coat. Set yer butt down and study the devil’s prayerbook a spell.