Shadows of the New Sun: Stories in Honor of Gene Wolfe (23 page)

More tension derives from the two camps just downstream from the town, one on either side of the river. On the far side lies a French fortification properly named Fort Beauchamp but referred to by the Texans as Fort Cow. A squat and homely thing of wooden palisades and buildings made of uneven stones and mortar, it safeguards the French inspectors who levy tariffs on cattle entering Indian Territory; the French take possession of one cow per two hundred in a herd. This practice often produces conflict, for the French choose when they wish to examine a herd and can keep a trail boss and his cowboys waiting for days. A trail boss out of favor with the French can be the regular victim of this tactic. Delays might also be brought on by inspectors accepting bribes from one trail boss to inconvenience another. Coali tions of businessmen in Salt Creek, it is rumored, bribe the inspectors to hinder a herd’s progress to promote the town’s economy. On the other hand, trail bosses might offer bribes of cash or cattle to the inspectors to speed things along. It is a complicated business.

The cattle taken by the French are collected at intervals and sent along the same Chisholm Trail to Kansas for sale by the French. Those herds are preyed upon by rustlers of all stripes, especially Texans and Cherokee.

Nor could the French have a fort here without incurring a Texan response. On the near side of the river, directly opposite Fort Cow, lies Fort Montague, similarly an architectural tragedy, its Texan garrison charged with eyeing the French while the French eye them. So a state of mounting agitation exists between the French and the Texans here.

[Omitted.]

We arrived in Salt Creek the day following my introduction to the Baghdad Kid and Vasquez. We three and Young Mr. Danton rode ahead of the herd. As we reached the town’s outermost buildings, Danton made his farewells and rode on alone to visit the office where he would request an inspection of the herd.

The three of us continued, making, I am sure, an unusual picture: a raw-boned youth intent on achieving fame as a killer, a sleepy-eyed vaquero whose passivity concealed a history of mayhem, and a Northerner who might most charitably be described as a “dude.” Astride my swaybacked nag, in civilized dress, a leather duster coat thrown over it all, a bowler hat atop my head and goldrimmed spectacles before my eyes, my hair graying and my features mild, I was, I am certain, the least dangerous-looking man in Salt Creek that day.

We enquired after the location of the saloon named Bust and rode there. Contrary to my expectations, it was a reputable-looking wooden building of sound construction, one story in height but spacious, with glass in the windows. Dark orange curtains within shielded patrons from the sun, the building front being west facing. We watered our horses and mule from the trough outside, then hitched the beasts and entered through swinging wooden doors.

In the main room beyond, a massive, dark wood bar dominated the left wall. Square tables lined the other walls. Wooden partitions separated the tables along the back wall, and curtains, matching those of the windows, on rods allowed those tables to be screened off for privacy individually. None was so shrouded at this hour.

There were more tables in the center of the floor, but widely spaced, and I suspected that the spaciousness was meant to accommodate dancing. Against the right wall, where a table might otherwise rest, was an upright piano, its surface scraped and scoured, suggesting that it dated back to the Texas Revolution or earlier.

The business was lightly occupied at this hour. Seated at one table beside the piano, French soldiers argued in their own language about the virtues, real or imagined, of a young lady named Sally. Their red pants and blue coats made them the most colorful patrons present. Three cowboys, none of them young and all of them surly of manner, held cards and exchanged silent looks around a central table. The bar itself was unoccupied except for its keeper, a round-bellied man, his whiskers nearly white.

As we entered, I heard a growl from near my right foot. There lay a hound dog, dirty yellow in color, eyeing us as if considering whom to bite first. But it did not so much as stir a muscle as we passed, and ceased growling when we were a few steps beyond.

We moved to the bar and took stools there. I set my bowler on the bar beside me, while the Kid and Vasquez kept their hats atop their heads in the fashion of Texans.

I engaged the bartender’s attention. “Your maître d’ is not entirely friendly.”

He left off polishing a glass mug. “My what? Oh, Mustard. He don’t mean nothing. He loves all ladies and hates all men, but he don’t actually bite. What’ll you gentlemen have?”

Vasquez and I chose beer. The Kid ordered a white mule. Perhaps he considered rough, unaged whisky the drink of mean-spirited gunmen. I saw Vasquez suppress a laugh as the Kid made his demand.

My companions, perhaps trusting that my profession would afford me some ease in investigative conversation, left it to me to begin enquiries. When the bartender returned with our drinks, I asked, “Why is this establishment called ‘Bust’?”

He smiled, clearly happy to answer a question he’d dealt with many times before. “It’s where you end up. You know, Kansas or Bust, Nuevo Mexico or Bust, Florida or Bust. This is Bust.”

“I’m Chester. This is Vasquez, and that’s the Baghdad Kid.”

The bartender did not react to that last name, so it appeared that the fame of the Kid had not yet spread as far north as the Red River. The bartender merely nodded. “I’m Tubb. Edgar Tubb, owner and proprietor. You here with Danton’s drive? You don’t look like a cowpoke.”

“I’m here looking for an old friend. By chance, are you acquainted with a man named Thaddeus Hobart?”

He nodded again. “Spent some time here and in the gambling halls. He left awhile back, I think. Haven’t seen him in nearly a month. That your friend?”

He seemed sincere and unconcerned, but his answer puzzled me. It suggested Thad had not perished in a public duel. Yet if he had escaped Salt Creek, surely he would have written or telegraphed my home in Chicago to let me know of his fate.

“That is indeed the name of my friend.” I turned to my next avenue of investigation. “Do you know a Cletus Simmons?”

“I surely do. He and his daughter have a hardscrabble farm west of town. Saw his buckboard go past a little while ago. I imagine he’s buying supplies. Might still be around.”

The Kid stood. “I’ll fetch him.”

“You don’t know Salt Creek, nor would you recognize Simmons by sight.” I turned back to Tubb. “Do you have a boy you could send for him?”

“Well, yes.” He frowned and his voice suggested he did not find the request to be a convenient one.

I drew forth a coin and set it on the bar before him. “For your boy’s trouble.”

He swept it away—I suspected the boy would see no part of that payment—and his smile returned.

The three of us retreated to one of the partitioned tables with our drinks. We had ordered and received a second round before the boy, an Indian lad of perhaps ten, returned. He led a very lean man whose hair and mustache were a dense gray, his garments a hard- wearing brown. When the boy pointed to us, the man gave us a look of trepidation before turning our way. The hound growled as he passed and the man shied away from the beast.

I gestured for him to join us and made introductions all around. In a voice beginning to go dry and thin with age, he confirmed that he was Cletus Simmons. He took off his hat and held it against his chest, twisting its brim as if unaware he were doing so.

I took little time to reach the subject. “Can you tell us where we can find Thaddeus Hobart?”

He looked around, his expression unhappy, before returning his attention to us. His voice dropped to a whisper. “I’d take it as a kindness if you would speak a little more quiet. Yes, because Thad told me some names, yours among them, I can tell you of his whereabouts. Anyone else, I’ll deny ever having met him.”

The Kid frowned at that statement. “Did he do you wrong?”

Mr. Simmons took a moment to array his thoughts. “Yes, he done me wrong, but that’s of no matter now. You will find it easy to visit him. Because he’s stone dead in an unmarked grave on my land.”

Vasquez, the Kid, and I exchanged a glance. Vasquez was the first to respond. “How did he die?”

“Shot in the back by a man named Rey.”

I sighed. There was to be no happy ending for Thaddeus Hobart. “Tell us the whole story.”

There was nothing remarkable, only pettiness and tragedy, to the tale Mr. Simmons spun. Thad had initially approached him to write letters to us and two other individuals—both of them gunmen Thad had ridden with . . . men quite famous in their own right for crimes and exploits. It seemed they had not responded, or at least not yet responded, to Thad’s entreaties. Thad had paid Mr. Simmons well for scribe duties and his silence.

A few days after the letters had been posted, Mr. Simmons heard a pounding upon his farmhouse door and a pained voice crying, “For God’s sake, help me!” He unbarred the door, and Thad, in a state of collapse, fell into his home. Thad gasped out a few words of explanation, saying he had made a break from Salt Creek on foot, undetected by the soldiers watching him, but then he had been pursued by Rey. Rey had shot him in the back, leaving him to die. After those words, Thad had indeed perished. Mr. Simmons had buried him, telling no one of these events out of fear that as the sole person who knew the name of Thad’s killer he might himself be murdered.

The news cast an air of gloom across me. Vasquez evidenced no emotion on the subject. The Bagdad Kid, on the other hand, seemed jubilant. “I’m sorry about Uncle Thad, but hell, I get to kill me a bad man.”

I kept my attention on Mr. Simmons. “This Rey—is he still in town?”

Simmons nodded. “He comes to town every night with one of his whores, or both. But their quarters are at Fort Cow. I think they’re friends with the commander.”

“So he’ll be here tonight?”

“He will. Right here. He comes to Bust most nights.”

“Thank you, Mr. Simmons.” I extended my hand to him. “We won’t speak of your involvement.”

“Thank you.” He shook all our hands, then rose.

I added, “With your permission, once we’ve settled this situation, we may visit your farm to pay our final respects to Thaddeus’s grave.”

“Oh.” He seemed to have been made uncertain by that request. “Of course. You’d be welcome.” He hurried from the saloon, receiving another growl from Mustard.

Vasquez, the Kid, and I spoke then in hushed tones about what we needed to do. Clearly, a murderous attack from behind called for vengeance. Vasquez, pragmatic, suggested a solution suited to the Code of Hammurabi—shoot Rey in the back. But as dishonorable as Rey had been, I could not quite agree. Such an assault constituted a grave sin.

Nor would the Kid have anything to do with such a plan. He told us, “You don’t get the right kind of fame shooting people in the back. It’s going to have to be in front of God and everybody. Three duels. Me first, since Uncle Thad was my blood kin. If Rey survives— and he won’t—Vasquez. And if the Spaniard survives Vasquez— which he won’t—Chet kills him.”

Such a strategy did seem to stack the deck against Rey, and yet it was fair. Each of us would be taking the same risk. Rey could not complain of unfair treatment. So I assented, as did Vasquez.

The Kid pressed on, “Chet, do you even own a gun?”

I patted the pocket of my waistcoat. “I have a derringer.”

His face fell as though I’d confessed to being proficient only with thrown rocks. “Oh, dear God. See here, I’ll bet you a dollar that Mr. Simmons ended up with Thad’s Peacemaker. We’ll set the duels for tomorrow noon but fetch you that gun before then.”

“Done.”

We then set out to stable our animals and secure rooms at the Station Hotel, a well-maintained business with a dining room, and we prepared to confront Rey that night.

[Omitted.]

On our return to Bust that evening, we found the establishment well occupied with patrons. Every stool at the bar was engaged, and most of the tables as well. A fair-haired man sat at the piano, hammering at its keys, producing a noise suggesting that the instrument was being rolled down a flight of stairs. There were women present, their dresses colorful and in some cases decorated with what looked like dyed ostrich feathers, offering dances, saloon companionship, and doubtless other services to the cowmen present. Oil lanterns hung from rafters cast a warm glow.

Mustard was in his usual place and offered his usual greeting. The Kid shook his head over that. “After I kill Rey, I may have to do something about that hound.”

“Unlike Rey, he’s done you no harm.” I led the way to an unoccupied table away from the wall and set my hat aside. When Tubb approached, we repeated our orders of earlier in the day.

I also requested of Tubb that he point out Señor Rey when he arrived.

Tubb chuckled at that. “You’ll know him when you see him.”

A few minutes later, a hand—a white hand of diminutive proportions—pushed open one of the swinging doors and held it. Another individual, not so fair, strode through and paused.

This did indeed have to be Rey. He was a tall man, dark-haired, his skin the olive tone of Mediterranean natives, his features accentuated by a narrow black mustache. He was handsome enough to tread the boards as a leading man of the stage.

His mode of dress was indeed French and current. From neck to ankle he was in iron- gray silks, a well-tailored suit, with silver buttons holding his waistcoat closed and a silver chain indicating the pocket that held his watch. Though his trouser cuffs largely hid his footwear, it appeared he was wearing boots of gleaming black leather. He deviated from proper fashion in three significant ways. He wore no hat on his head, none at all. His suit jacket was cut short. The reason for that was the better to permit access to the gun belt he wore, a polished black rig matching his boots. From its holster on his right hip protruded the ivory grip of a revolver.

The individual who followed him into the saloon, the one who had held the door for him, was a woman. She had dark hair arrayed in a tight coif and topped with a bowler hat. She was dressed as if for riding. Her fitted red silk skirt, its smallish bustle of the current style, matched her tailed coat. Her white blouse was high-necked and topped with a most delicate lace collar. The fairness of her skin suggested a diligent avoidance of the sun. Her bosom was full, her posture erect. She surveyed the room with dark eyes that, like a cat’s, demonstrated much attentiveness but did not betray her thoughts. The door she had briefly gripped swung shut behind her.