Shadows of the New Sun: Stories in Honor of Gene Wolfe (26 page)

I patted the pocket of my waistcoat where I kept my watch. “Twenty-two hours and a few minutes.”

“Would you care for more?”

“More time? Of course.”

“You can have it if you wish.”

“How?”

“In tomorrow’s duel. Simply do not fire on Renault.”

“And he will spare me?”

“Yes.”

“Why would he do that?”

“He admires your craft. Your profession.”

Ah. I was not in Salt Creek to die. I was here to report on this event, to lend it credibility with my skill and my reputation.

Ma de moiselle Sophie had not stated so exactly, so I concluded that she was not supposed to. My professional instincts would not allow me to leave such a momentous thing entirely unsaid, however. I fixed her with a stare. “And would Renault take it as a favor if I did not submit my next story? It concerns Thaddeus Hobart. Where he has been in recent weeks. How he is truly in his grave at last.”

She straightened, her posture going from perfect to rigid. It took a moment before she could entirely drive the look of surprise from her eyes. “Yes. He would.”

“If I am to write about Renault, using all my skill, I will wish to characterize him with scientific accuracy. Renault, and you, and Ma de moiselle Laurette.”

That earned me a brief laugh. “Renault cannot be described scientifically.”

“Many people I have spoken to”—a blatant lie, for I had not broached this subject with anyone—“wonder how it is that you and Ma de moiselle Laurette do not fall on one another like wildcats, competing for sole possession of Renault’s affections.”

Her sigh was barely audible. “The most lurid assumptions make the best conversation, do they not? Laurette and I are at peace with one another because Renault is neither my lover nor hers. He has never touched me.”

I might have been startled by her frankness, but she was French. I pressed on. “So he is a true gentleman.”

She did not reply. She changed the subject—returned it to its original course, rather. “May I report that you have accepted his offer?”

“I’m still considering it. It would seem to be a tremendous compromise of my moral character.”

She offered me a little Gallic shrug. “Yes. But all life is compromise. Only death is uncompromising. I will go now.”

I stood, and she made her departure.

Eventually I walked to my hotel, dined alone, and returned to my chamber to pen this letter and ponder my fate.

Morris, I cannot prevent the deaths of the Kid or Vasquez. They can do so by choosing flight and dishonor, but I suspect they will not.

I could flee as well, though I have not in all my life done so and would not cherish being correctly branded as a coward. And I have a second option for life. All I need do is fail to add my efforts to those of these two men of courage, and afterward advance the causes of the foreign power that has contrived to kill them.

Telling the actual truth of Renault’s manipulations in print will change nothing. Cowardice is cowardice. The French have us in a box.

This may be my last letter to you.

I remain, as ever, your friend.

Chester

June 5, 1891

From Henry Pfluger, Salt Creek, Republic of Texas 

To Morris Levitt, Chicago, Illinois, United States

My dear Mr. Levitt:

You do not know me. I am acquainted with your friend Mr. Chester Lamb. He knows me better by another name, that of the Baghdad Kid. I shared with Chet an unfortunate destiny, one I know he wrote you of, a destiny that was resolved just yesterday.

Chet may have told you that I am an unlettered man, which is God’s own truth, but I am speaking these words at various times to Mr. Cletus Simmons and to his most kindly daughter, Eliza, who are making them into proper English and putting them to paper on my behalf.

I regret to inform you that Chet is sore afflicted and may not survive what has befallen him. If he recovers, we will celebrate, but if he does not, I think it best that his friends know that he died doing admirable work. I would urge you, when Chet’s final disposition is known, to pass word of it to his people if you know them.

Two days ago was the day before our appointed meeting with the paladin Renault. Each of the three of us spent it in his own way. I chose disreputable company. Vasquez chose to wander out into the pastures surrounding Salt Creek and practice his gunmanship, a far more admirable choice than mine. Chet walked about Salt Creek asking questions and writing accounts that went on for page after page.

Yesterday was the day of the duel. In the morning, I awoke well in advance of the appointed time and, receiving no response from my knock at Chet’s door, descended the stairs to ask after his whereabouts.

I found him and Vasquez both in the dining room. Vasquez, it seemed, had just arrived. He was still standing, making no move to sit, and he was dusty and tired looking.

Empty plates on the table showed that Chet had eaten a final meal. Also on the table was a pasteboard box the right size to hold Chet’s writing papers. Chet was freshly shaved and cologned, dressed in his suit, like he was going courting, and he held a burlap bag before him. There were a few other folk in the room, watching Chet and Vasquez but pretending not to.

I greeted my fellow doomed souls with a big smile and cheerful words. “It seems like a fine morning to die, don’t it?”

Vasquez seemed neither perturbed nor annoyed by my bravado. Chet merely smiled. He withdrew a shotgun from the burlap bag. It was Mr. Simmons’s shotgun, which I had last seen two nights previously, but now it reeked as though it had been recently fired. I felt the others in the room stir nervously as the weapon made its appearance.

Chet set it on the table beside his box. “Yes, a fine day to die . . . or to live. Tell me, Kid, can you dance?”

I took the other chair at his table. I’ll confess I probably looked a mite confused. I told him, “Of course I can dance.”

He reached into his right vest pocket and withdrew his little derringer pistol, moving it to his left suit pocket. “Something European? Not a hoedown dance.”

From another man I might have taken offense, but this being my last day on earth, I decided to let his comment pass. “I can waltz,” I said. “A little.”

Now, from the burlap bag, he took another weapon. This was a Colt .45 with ivory grips. As Chet looked it over to assure himself it was loaded, I peered closely at it. This was Uncle Thad’s gun; I could tell because the filed-down hammer was distinctive, but someone had changed out Thad’s wooden grips for ivory. The new grips looked secure but had not yet been perfectly fitted to the butt.

This weapon Chet put in his right-hand suit pocket. While doing so, he told me, “You may be able to save our lives with that waltz.”

“That’s foolish talk,” I assured him. “No one was ever saved by a waltz.”

He ignored my words and handed the bag to Vasquez. “I won’t need the extra shells.”

Vasquez slung the bag over his shoulder. “I’ll be going,” he told us. He held out a hand to me. “If we don’t see each other again—”

I could feel my mouth hang open. “You running out on us, Vasquez?”

“No. I’m off to die my own way.”

“Oh. Well, that’s all right, then.” I shook his hand. “See you in Hell, compadre.”

“Good luck,” he said. He turned and left, his boots clattering across the wooden floor.

Chet pointed at his collection of plates. “Will you be breakfasting?”

“Naw, I shoot better on an empty stomach.” I did take a cup of coffee while he finished his own cup. And he spoke quiet-like so the other folk around would not hear, explaining what he wanted me to do.

“It’s simple,” he told me. “We’ll be conducting our duel inside Bust rather than outside. I found out in my investigations that he is very prompt, so we’ll get there in advance and make preparations. We will all talk at one of the tables for a short while. Then I will recommend that you dance with whichever of his ladies is present. You’ll lead her from the table and dance while Renault and I conclude our talk.”

I thought about where he was going with his plan. “So when I’m directly behind the Frenchie, I shoot him in the back? I don’t much like that.”

“No. It wouldn’t kill him in any case. And his companion, if she’s sufficiently loyal to him, might hurl herself in the bullet’s path; a tragedy. No, I want you to do this. I will slowly draw forth two guns and point them at the ceiling.”

“Renault will cut you down before you get the first one in hand.”

“I’ll bet you twenty dollars you’re wrong.”

“Done.” I shook his hand.

He went on, “Who do I pay when we’re both dead?” Seeing my expression of consternation, he went on. “I will fire the weapons straight up. At that moment, I want you to seize Renault’s companion, carry her outside, and shut the front doors—the main doors, not the swinging doors—behind you so no one can see inside. And I want you then to keep every soul outside for five minutes, on pain of death if need be, before you reenter. You must do this in spite of orders, pleas, or any sound you might hear from within.”

“No,” I told him. “Let a dude do my fighting for me? It ain’t manly.” Miss Eliza is now trying to fix my words so they will be more genteel, but “ain’t” is what I said and “ain’t” is what I meant.

“It’s very manly to eliminate a great evil,” Chet responded. “Even if you are not the one pulling the trigger. Do you want to be thought of as a man who died well, or a man who did a great good and lived to tell about it? And which of those two sorts of men do the ladies prefer?”

I’ll confess, he had a powerful argument. So I told him, “All right. But you have to write in a story that I weren’t chicken.”

“Done.”

Once our coffee was finished, we took the short walk over to Bust, Chet with his shotgun under one arm and his box full of papers under the other. He had his derby hat on but had no hand free to tip it to the ladies. Me, I found myself tapping the butts of my guns again and again to be sure they were still in place, though cords over the hammers held them so.

The people on the streets and sidewalks saw us coming. It turned my stomach, the way they put on faces of sadness but gathered around to see us be gunned down. It kind of made me think that I was like an actor or a cowboy for show and I had to think about maybe doing something more worthwhile if I survived. Like maybe run a bawdy-house.

When we walked into Bust, there weren’t many folk present. The piano player was not there, which would make it less likely that I would shoot him out of righteous anger. There were no bar girls present. I saw Tubb behind the bar, a dude who looked like a banker in front of him, and three cowpokes sat at one table. They all left off talking when we walked in. They just stared at us.

He didn’t need to, but Chet raised his voice to shout, “The Kid and I do not choose to permit any Frenchie to tell us where to die.”

The banker raised his beer and saluted us with it. “Well said.”

Chet went on, “So we choose to die here instead. We have no wish for you to witness our final agonies, however, so I will oblige you all to leave now. Or the Kid and I will shoot you.”

That was kind of a surprise, but I put my hands on my Colts. I also chose to look mean, though I know I look mean under most any circumstance.

All five men stared at us. They looked as confused as if Chet had been speaking Chinese. But they did not move.

I felt obliged to help them along. I drew my right-hand gun and aimed it down at that ornery hound. “Git, or he’s the first one to go.”

The men stood and left, carrying their cards and drinks. Tubb picked up his hound, the beast growling in his arms, and walked out.

When they were gone, Chet went into action. Seeing what he was about, I helped. He put his shotgun and his paper box on one of the back-wall tables, then closed the main doors. We went from window to window, drawing the curtains closed, casting the bar into deep shadow.

I set about lighting the lamps used at night. Cheat meanwhile went down the little back hall that gave access to the storeroom and back door, and I heard him unbolt that door. He returned and sat at the table he’d chosen, against the wall, directly before Simmons’s shotgun and his box. He waved me over and I sat beside him.

Time passed. Two, three hours, felt like, and I imagined I could hear the ticking of Chet’s watch, but he assured me that no more than two minutes had gone by.

The sound of talk rose from outside as the people of Salt Creek became impatient for someone to die.

Then the buzz of talk grew quiet again, and the door swung open. Miss Sophie preceded Renault in and then closed the door once he was through. Miss Sophie was all in black today, her hat looking like a funeral veil ought to be draped from its brim.

Renault took a slow look around the saloon, then stared at us, one eyebrow raised like he was about to ask a question.

Chet, cheerful, like this was a meeting of old friends, waved them over. “Come, sit with us for a minute before you kill us. It’s the civilized thing to do.”

Renault shrugged, and then moved to our table. He sat opposite Chet, beside the wall. It pleased me that Miss Sophie sat opposite me, giving me something nice to look at.

Renault looked at the shotgun and the box. “You are most peculiarly armed.” Like the other time, it was hard to make out his words.

Chet nodded. “Especially since you know that the shotgun’s not going to kill you.”

Renault nodded, too. “Yes.”

“Yet at this moment, you are in greater danger than you have ever known.”

“I do not think I am.”

“I’ll tell you why, Renault. But I don’t wish to distress your companion.” Chet frowned like he was thinking of something new. Then he turned to me. “Kid, do me this one last favor and ask Made moiselle Sophie to dance.”

“Why, surely.” I rose.

Now Miss Sophie spoke. “There is no music.”

“Aw, hell.” I held out my hand for her. “Even when the piano player’s here, there’s no music.”

She looked at Renault and he nodded. She took my arm and rose. I led her out into the middle of the floor and put my hands the way they were supposed to go for the waltz, though I hadn’t danced that way since I was fourteen and my ma was teaching me.