Shadows of the New Sun: Stories in Honor of Gene Wolfe (25 page)

“Oh.” Simmons walked in silence for a few moments. “I can’t give it to you.”

“Why?”

“I buried it with him. His boots, too.”

“Naw, you didn’t.” The Kid sounded incredulous.

“I’m a man of peace, Mr. Pfluger. I think tools of murder should be put in the earth and forgotten.”

“Well, we’ll just dig it up, then.”

Mr. Simmons turned a horrified look upon the Kid. “That’s a grave! Holy words have been spoken over that spot. God himself would smite you.”

“God’ll forgive me. He knows you didn’t have permission to bury my gun.”

“You may not dig up that grave.” Mr. Simmons’s breath came fast and heavy now, his voice raspy.

Vasquez and I, trailing behind the Kid and Mr. Simmons, exchanged a look.

We reached the farmhouse and the Kid, still friendly, clapped Mr. Simmons across the shoulders. “You just go on inside and fetch me Uncle Thad’s sidearm. I don’t hold it against you for taking it. A farm like this needs defending. And you can keep his boots. But Chet here needs the gun, so you just go get it.”

Mr. Simmons moved as briskly as if the Kid had held a branding iron to his backside. But when he entered his home, he shut the door and we heard its bar fall into place, leaving us staring at a small squat fortress with heavily shuttered windows.

Then Mr. Simmons began shouting through a peephole in the door. “I’ve got my shotgun and your business on my land is done. I recommend you move on.”

The Kid cupped his mouth to shout back. “One Colt is not worth making enemies for, Mr. Simmons.”

“Move along, Mr. Pfluger, or I
will
open fire.”

That seemed clear enough, and we were indeed in the open. One Colt was also not worth dying for. So we mounted up and headed back toward town.

But we rode only until stands of trees blocked our view of Simmons’s land. We found a clearing in a small stand of trees a few yards off the road and elected to wait there for nightfall.

Each of us had been made suspicious by the same few facts. Mr. Simmons had been afraid that someone might learn he knew the identity of Thad Hobart’s killer, yet he was willing to anger three men who knew that secret. No dirt-poor farmer would bury a man in his boots and with his firearm when such things, if not desired, could be sold. Thad’s grave had not settled as much as a month-old burial should have, in my inexpert estimation.

Finally, there was the question of his daughter Eliza. In town, she had been described as well grown, of marriageable age. A mostly grown daughter is, in the absence of her mother, the woman of the house. She had not emerged to greet us, to offer us refreshment. Perhaps Mr. Simmons had ordered her not to show herself, for she might be pretty enough to incite violence from rough men. But this one minor implicit insult, added to the other details, made our curiosity even greater.

[Omitted.]

After dark we returned on foot to the farmhouse, and it was the Kid who conceived our plan. “You and Vasquez move quiet as lizards to either side of the door and wait. I’ll draw him out.”

We did so, and he crept off in the direction of the chicken coop. Minutes later, the noise of the chickens began to rise. To it the Kid added an authentic animal cry, a coyote’s whining howl.

There were no voices from inside the farmhouse, but of a sudden we heard the door being unbarred. It swung inward and the business end of a shotgun emerged, held in two strong hands.

I grabbed the barrels and swung them skyward while Vasquez stepped in and planted a blow of his fist to the man’s midsection. There was a tremendous expulsion of breath and the man fell, leaving me in sole possession of the shotgun. “Got him,” I shouted in the Kid’s direction.

Lantern light spilled out over the prone man, who was dressed in a long nightshirt. He did not seem so skinny as before. Too, his hair was darker, with no balding patch at its crown. Curious, Vasquez bent down to roll him onto his back.

The Kid hurried up just in time to see the light fall across the man’s features. This was not the face of Mr. Simmons. The Kid looked down upon him and voiced the man’s name. “Uncle Thad!”

We dragged Thaddeus inside and seated him, roughly I must admit, in the rocking chair by the unlit fireplace. Vasquez kept him covered with his revolver while the Kid and I went exploring. It did not take us long to discover Mr. Simmons and his daughter, trapped in the root cellar, a heavy hope chest and wooden crates dragged into place atop the wooden trap door that provided access to it.

Eliza Simmons was indeed pretty, a dark-haired farm girl of fifteen, clearly not intimidated by the presence of rough men in her house. She was most anxious to visit vengeance on Thad if only I would yield her father’s shotgun to her, which I would not.

Mr. Simmons explained. “Thaddeus has been here since the night I said he came with a bullet in his back. The bullet was a lie, a story he told me to tell. He kept Eliza under his gun and said he’d do her harm if I didn’t spread the story he told and write the letters he wanted writ.”

We turned our attention to Thad. He looked very uncomfortable, his once-handsome features now twisted into an expression of considerable unhappiness. He had put on some weight since I’d last seen him years before, a middle- aged thickening of the torso, but his hair was still dark. At this moment, his face glistened in the lamplight with perspiration, and his eyes sought ours in a plea for understanding. “I wasn’t going to hurt her none, despite anything I said.”

“I’m not going to promise not to hurt you,” Vasquez assured him. “Why did you bring us here, Thaddeus? Why have you condemned us to die at the hands of that thing?”

“I was the condemned one,” Thad said. “In a Louisiana prison. Awaiting execution. They came to me with a plan. I knew a lot of famous folk. They had a use for famous folk. I’d just tell a story, Thaddeus Hobart would be known to have been killed, I’d have some money to set up a new life in Quebec or one of the Frenchie islands in the Pacific Ocean, with no bounty over my head ever again. I’m still waiting for the money.”

The Kid, who had been pacing, ceased his ambulations and turned to Thad. “I’m your kin, damn you. Now I’m in a bind I can’t back out of.”

“I’m sorry, kid,” his uncle told him. “They insisted on you by name. You, Vasquez, Lamb, and others. They insisted.”

The Kid nodded as if mollified. “Well, I guess that’s all right, then.” Whereupon he drew his revolver and shot his uncle in the face.

I’ll admit it caught me almost as much by surprise as it did Thad. I can only imagine my own expression. Thad’s face registered astonishment, and then blankness as blood began to trickle from the hole at the bridge of his nose. Eliza offered up a brief shriek. I moved to catch her but she did not swoon.

Thad slumped, and then slid from the chair to the earthen floor.

The Kid turned to Mr. Simmons. “I think I told you I wanted his sidearm.”

Mr. Simmons hastened to fetch it. He returned with the gun, a wood-handled .45. With it Simmons brought Thad’s gun belt and boots.

We spent awhile digging up Thad’s empty grave and putting it to use as it had originally been described. Afterward, we said nothing over it, our last words to Thad having been uttered that afternoon. We returned to Salt Creek, a morose trio of men.

That, Morris, is the truth of the situation. We’re all going to die for the sake of honor and a lie. I will admit to feeling a touch melancholy.

But despite my self-pity, I remain your friend,

Chester

June 3, 1891

From Chester Lamb, Salt Creek, Republic of Texas 

To Morris Levitt, Chicago, Illinois, United States

[Omitted.]

I spent the last full day I would enjoy in this life in pursuit of my profession. I began asking questions about Renault and our situation.

I knew better than to ask about Renault’s history. The Frenchies had taken measures to obscure details of the careers of the Twelve Peers. My estimation was that this had been done to protect the paladins: The less that was understood about them, the lower the odds that anyone could ever visit revenge upon them.

I knew some of the details surrounding the death of Benjamin Franklin, for this is the sort of story that schoolchildren ghoulishly tell to their younger brothers and sisters, thrilled to know something bizarre about a historical figure. But to refresh my memory, I visited the local school and asked questions of a Mr. Wainwright, the schoolmaster.

Franklin, the inventive, inquisitive Founding Father, served as the United States ambassador to France during our own revolution and for a time afterward. He returned to France in 1790 at the behest of his friend, the Count of Mirabeau, who was staunchly allied with the revolutionists. Franklin, who provided counsel to the revolutionaries and sought international support for their cause, did not die with the count or the other remaining leaders, but was found some days later in a house in Passy.

The body of the great man was discovered in a salon room into which so many boxes and crates had been carried, then arranged into long rows and stacks, that the room was a veritable maze of passages almost too narrow to navigate. In one of these passages lay the body. Injuries to his chest and back, suggesting that a sword had been shoved through him, were clear evidence of the cause of his death. A calling card lay on the floor at his feet, bearing only the name
Renault
.

But the truly curious detail of death was what Franklin wore: a steel helmet, its visor utterly lacking eyeholes, and that locked into place on his head. The helmet had little defensive value, as it exposed his neck, mouth, and ears. This object earned Franklin the sad sobriquet of “the American man in the iron mask.” Historians, schoolchildren, and even authors such as Poe have speculated wildly as to why the killer locked the man into the helmet.

In light of my own appointment with Renault, I wondered if there was something in the event of the Franklin murder that would afford me some useful information, but, like countless others before me, I could divine nothing from it.

My other enquiries related to Renault’s movements in and around Salt Creek. I asked after every detail that could be recollected of the man.

He was indeed staying at Fort Cow, with his two ladies, Mlles Sophie and Laurette, as guests of the garrison commander. Frenchies for whom I bought a few drinks said that they did not believe Renault and their colonel were friends. Renault had presented papers to the colonel upon arrival and had subsequently been treated as an honored guest. Once his true identity had been revealed, Renault had been viewed with some fear by the Frenchies as well as the Texans.

It was said that he walked so quietly that floorboards did not creak under his feet. Knowing the stories of the paladins and their ability to steal into guarded fortresses, I had no doubt of the truth of this.

His wardrobe was limited. In Salt Creek, he always wore the same sort of gray suit, accommodating a gun belt. It was said that he had garments more suited to formal occasions but had never needed them in this rural town. His clothes, though stylish, were not unique. I had seen many people in town, including off- duty French officers and a few lofty-minded Texans, wearing similar ensembles. I inferred that one or more local tailors catered to French tastes.

From men who visited Bust regularly, I learned a curious fact. Renault, before his identity as Rey had been discarded, had joined many groups of card players and had been involved in many conversations. It seemed that those who spent the most time speaking with him grew weary of doing so. A German- born storekeeper, who was delighted when I conducted my conversation with him in his native tongue, explained it best: “It is as when I first came to Texas and was always surrounded by speakers I could not understand. I strained to understand, as if listening hard would make me grasp the English words, and I went to bed tired of mind, not just body, each night.”

Texas soldiers, defiantly drab in their brown roundabout coats and trousers, told me that Renault seemed to remain true to his French companions; he never cast an eye upon the local ladies.

During one of my conversations with garrulous soldiers, I saw, through the window of Bust, Renault himself walk past on the near sidewalk. Again clad in his grays, he was in the company of a young woman I had not seen before, this one golden-haired. She was equal in beauty to Ma de moiselle Sophie, and was dressed in the Franco- Mexican fashion in vogue in Ciudad de México. The cut of her walking dress was French from the lace that trimmed her sleeves and collar to the garment’s diminutive bustle, but the garment’s colors were Mexican: broad, vertical bands alternating between a potter’s red-brown and an earthy yellow, heavily printed with rosettes and other geometric designs. I inferred that this was Laurette.

Townsfolk changed direction or left the sidewalk altogether so as not to crowd Renault. I noted that Laurette, too, was a woman who did not smile in Renault’s company, and I wondered at that fact. Two beauties associated with a powerful, handsome agent of the world’s greatest power, and yet they seemed to experience no joy. Some minutes later, the soldiers having left my table, Mademoiselle Sophie herself entered the establishment unaccompanied, closing and lowering her parasol. Her own walking dress was white, so fine that it almost shone, with an abundance of lace at the neck and wrists. Her hat seemed to consist mostly of wide brim and was worn at a canted angle as if meant to help snow slip from a northern roof. The hound Mustard, unmoving, wagged his tail for her. She offered him the briefest of smiles before looking around the room and catching sight of me.

She approached my table. I stood, offering her a slight but cordial bow.

“Mr. Lamb, may I have a word?” Her English, unlike Renault’s, bore only the slightest of accents.

“Of course.” I moved to seat her, and then took to my own chair again. Tubb approached to ask if she wished something to drink, but her reply was a slight shake of her head and a barely detectable shudder.

When Tubb was gone, she returned her attention to me. “It seems you have little time left.”