The Killings of Stanley Ketchel (24 page)

T
hey were finished with the tenant house by midafternoon and headed back to Brazeale’s house, Ketchel at the reins of the wagon. They didn’t talk much. Bailey kept looking around as if trying to memorize every shrub and tree. He said he was going to miss this place. Ketchel said he believed him.

When they came to Brazeale’s house, Bailey hopped off the moving dray and said good night and that he’d be sure to say so long before he left in the morning.

When Ketchel got to the main house, she was ready to go get the things at the cabin. She had prepared his supper, a rabbit stew whose wonderful aroma wafted from the kitchen, and had put it in the warmer to be ready when they returned. As they drove to the cabin, Ketchel asked how she liked the ranch, and she said she
liked it fine, but of course she’d spent most of her life in this neck of the woods and so it wasn’t anything all that different for her. She guessed he’d seen an awful lot of different places, though, hadn’t he? Had he ever been to New York?

He talked about New York all the way to the cabin and she continued asking questions about it even as she gathered Walt’s and her belongings and he dismantled the bed. She helped him load the frame sections on the cart. He said she seemed pretty strong. She flexed her arms like a circus strongman and said, “Ozark girl, mister. Tough as that mule there.”

She was already back on the dray and he was about to shut the cabin door behind him when he spotted the Remington .22 propped in a corner and went back in and got it. He asked if Walt had shot the rat. She said they’d left a plate with some leftover greasy potatoes on the table, then lain awake for a long time, just listening. She struck a match every so often while he held the rifle ready to shoot, but after almost two hours the rat hadn’t shown so much as a whisker. So they went to sleep.

“This morning the plate was so clean it was like the rat washed it after he was done eating.”

Ketchel laughed along with her.

They got back to the house and unloaded the cart. They set the baggage and the rifle by the fireplace in the dining room, then lugged in the bed frame sections and she helped him to reassemble them and then they pushed the bed up against the back wall, a few feet from the kitchen door. They were both sheened with sweat. She poured two cups of water from a pitcher and handed him one. They stood close and drank and studied each other’s eyes.

He’s got it for you, girl, she thought. He might could be the one, the ride out. Her heart sped.

“You ever been in San Francisco?” he said.

“Me? I’ve never been farther west than Coffeyville, Kansas.”

“Coffeyville? That’s where it went bad for the Daltons.”

“Well, I don’t know anybody named Dalton, but it wasn’t a real happy place for me, either.”

And just like that, in the altered timbre of her voice and the change in her eyes as she remembered her time in Coffeyville, he knew who she was. Her mien of that moment made utterly familiar to him in countless whorehouses across the country.

All in that instant he felt profoundly foolish, sad in ways he couldn’t have explained even to himself, outraged that she should have the face and smile of the girl on the trolley.

Whoever that girl had been, this one could never be her.

And for the first time allowed himself the thought that whoever that girl had been, she could never have been Kate.

He felt heat in his eyes, an ache deep in his throat.

“Penny for your thoughts,” she said.

He checked the impulse to say something rude, was about to bid her good night and walk away, when she smiled that smile. And slightly shifted her stance so that her breasts stood higher.

He knew it for a whore trick. Well hell, he thought. And pulled her to him.

In less than a minute they were naked and in bed. She was nicely put together and awfully good at the deed, he had to give her that, and maybe all her show of enjoyment was fake and maybe not, it of course did not matter at all. All that mattered was the carnal balm of the moment. He thrust into her as if he would impale her to the bed, suckled at her breasts so hard she cried out even as she clutched him tighter, buried his face in her neck.

When they were done, she cuddled to him. Stroked his hair.
They were sweating and her skin was sticky on his. He got up and began dressing.

“Oh God, you’re right,” she said, gazing toward the window. “He’ll be here pretty quick now, it’s so close to dark.” She smiled the smile. “I guess we’re just a pair of reckless fools for love, huh? Taking such a chance.”

Then stopped smiling when she saw his face as he buckled his belt. He stood over the bed and stared down at her. Then pulled a thick roll of currency from his pocket and peeled off a twenty-dollar bill and dropped it on her bare stomach.

“It’s the smallest I got. I figure you owe me eighteen dollars change.”

She could not speak.

“I don’t know if that fool’s your pimp or your stooge or what the hell he is, and I don’t give a damn. Tell him whatever you want. If either of you care to stay on, you can, the place can use you both. But if you want to go, go.”

He went to his bedroom and put on his woods jacket and slipped the Colt into his waistband in front of his hip. Then went out and got in the wagon and drove to Conway to have a drink or two.

Feeling the way one does on learning of the distant death of someone dear.

W
HEN
W
ALT ENTERED
the house it was already full dark outside. The only light was in the dining room and the kitchen, where he found her stirring the pot of rabbit stew. He at once saw in her face that something was wrong and asked what it was. She said it was just a bad feeling she’d had all day. She couldn’t explain it, but she thought they’d made a mistake coming here. She wanted to go. They could get work somewhere else.

“Go?
But you…I thought you liked the place. You said you did.”

“I thought I did too, but I was wrong. I hate it, I want to go.”

He sensed there was more to it and kept asking what it was. She kept saying there wasn’t anything else, she just wanted to leave.

“Well, all right, honey, if that’s what you want,” he said. “It’s just, I thought…”

“Let’s not talk about it anymore. Let’s just go, let’s go tomorrow, okay? Can we?”

“Sure, honey, sure.”

“We can ride with Bailey when he goes to Conway. Go ask him if we can. Please. Go over to Brazeale’s and ask him right now.”

He did. And Bailey said of course they could go with him, just be ready to leave around nine o’clock. He asked what was wrong, if something had happened. Irritated by his own perplexity, Walt gestured impatiently and said, “We’re just quitting, that’s all. We had enough of this place. We’ll be ready when you come by.”

When he got back to the house, he ate supper and wanted to discuss the matter further, but she would have none of it. As soon as he was done eating, she latched the parlor door and they went to bed. He held her close, first in comfort, then gradually with other intentions. It was the last thing she was in the mood for, but she indulged him, if only to pacify him and get him to sleep all the sooner.

Walt was snoring deeply but she still lay awake when she heard the wagon’s low rumble and its creaking halt. She heard the front door open and close. Heard Ketchel’s boots on the parlor floor. Heard his bedroom door open and shut.

T
HE ROOM WAS
gray with dawn light when he shook her awake with a start.

“What?
What is it?”

“You tell me, goddamnit,” he said through his teeth. “What
is
it?” He had her hand mirror ready and held it in front of her face. She saw her own large and fearful eyes, and then, even in the weak gray light, saw the livid little splotches on her neck.

Oh, you son of a bitch, she thought. And you
dope,
she told herself. Why the hell didn’t you check?

“While the cat’s away, huh?” Walt said.

“No baby,
no!
Listen, listen. He…he…” She stifled her sobs with the sheet.

“He
what?
…Oh, Jesus Christ…Did that bastard?…Goddamnit, I’ll kill him!”

He started to get up but she caught his arm and held tight and whispered: “No, baby, no, he didn’t, he didn’t. I mean, he wanted to…I mean, he wanted to kiss me, see, but I said no, and he held me against the wall and he’s so strong and wanted to kiss me, that’s all he wanted to do was kiss me he said and he…he was kinda drunk, see, and I kept turning my head away and saying no, and so he…he was kissing my neck and such and…. He doesn’t even know he did this, I bet, I know he doesn’t even know. He was drunk, baby, he was drunk is all, but he didn’t do anything, not really, he didn’t
do
anything, he probably won’t even remember anything about it…. Please, Walt, don’t say anything to him, don’t…. He’s got that gun, baby, he’s got…. Let’s just leave, okay? Can we just leave? Say we’ll just leave…
please.”

He drew a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling, exhaling slowly.

“You pack us up and I’ll make breakfast,” she said. “Let’s do everything just like normal, all right? Just like normal. You won’t say anything to him and—”

“I ain’t afraid of him.”

“I know, baby, I know you’re not, but let’s not start any trouble, please. Everybody around here’s for him and nobody’s for us, so let’s just do everything like usual and then we’ll go away with Bailey. All right? Okay, baby?”

Walt shrugged and sighed. “Yeah, okay. If that’s what you want, honey, then that’s what we’ll do.”

H
E WOKE HAPPY
from the Johnson dream. The one where his punch landed on Johnson’s chin and felt just perfect. And Johnson started down….

Next time, oh man,
next time.

Then remembered the night before. He was sure she would want to leave and would talk hubby into it, give him some horseshit reason.

Then remembered the love nips he’d put on her neck and how the mug was bound to see them. Brother, was she in for it.

What if he braces you about it?

Him?
The mug nearly pisses his pants whenever I look at him. He may be dumb but he ain’t totally stupid.

Yeah well. You shouldn’t have done it. Not the nips.

What the hell, the whore had it coming. Thinking she could play me.

She can’t help it she’s a whore. And she couldn’t have played you in a hundred years.

She
thought
she could.

Who cares what
she
thought? It was mean and you did it for the lowest reason there is.

And what’s that?

You felt sorry for yourself.

About
what?
That she wasn’t the trolley girl? Hell, I knew that.

You’re sorry she wasn’t Kate. You’re sorry the trolley girl wasn’t Kate. You’re sorry none of them is ever—

Cut it out.

If you say so.

Oh,
man…

Tell her you’re sorry. Tell her and square it.

She doesn’t rate it.

Square it for
you,
man. It wasn’t jake and you know it.

All right, all right, enough of this bullshit.

He took the Colt out from under his pillow, where he tucked it every night, then got out of bed and laid the gun beside the washbasin on the dresser.

He washed and got dressed. He was about to go out when he caught sight of himself in the mirror. He took a fighting stance in front of it and began throwing punches, his fists moving in a blur and his head bobbing as he at once tried to hit himself and evade his own attack. He kept at it for several minutes before finally dropping his hands, his chest heaving. Then snaked one more punch at the fellow in the mirror who struck back in the same instant and neither of them flinched and both grinned bigger.

“Call it a draw?” They traded winks.

H
E WENT OUT
and across the parlor and into the dining room. There was a plate with leftover flapjacks and syrup at one of the places at the table, a mug with a little coffee still in it, a wadded napkin. Another place at the table was set with silverware and a cup and a fresh and folded napkin.

Goldie came out from the kitchen and looked at him without meeting his eyes. “Ready for breakfast?”

“You bet. I see hubby already had his. He tended to the horses?”

“He’s doing it now. I’ll get your breakfast.”

He sat down at the set place, his back to the kitchen door. She returned with a plate of flapjacks and sausage and a mug of smoky coffee. She still would not look at him directly.

“Awful shy this morning.”

“I’ll get you more butter.”

“Wait a minute, listen.” He turned in his chair, and she paused at the kitchen door and looked at him without expression.

“Ah…about last night, I just want to say I’m—”

“Don’t! Please. Let’s don’t talk about it, not ever.” She disappeared into the kitchen.

Well hell. If that’s the way she wanted it.

He’d eaten only a few bites when he heard the rear door of the kitchen open and close and the woman say, “Oh God, no.”

He looked over his shoulder to see Walt Hurtz standing in the kitchen door, holding the little Remington at the hip and pointed at him.

“Tell her you’re sorry, goddamn you,” Walt said.

“What?”

“Walt, please—” Goldie said. She stepped up beside him, her eyes frantic.

“
No,
he’s gonna tell you he’s sorry! Go on, tell her!”

“Sorry?” Ketchel said. “For what?”

“You know goddamn good and well for what, you son of a bitch! Now tell her! Say you’re sorry!”

Ketchel stood up and faced him. Walt backed up a step and raised the rifle to chest level. Ketchel gauged the distance between himself and the muzzle.

“Tell her, I said!”

“Quit yelling or you’re gonna get me sore.” He turned toward Goldie, shifting his weight and setting himself. “What’d you tell this moron?”

Walt cut his eyes at her and Ketchel lunged and snatched the rifle aside, Walt’s finger slipping off the trigger. He shouldered Walt hard against the door jamb and wrested the gun from him, then slapped him, dislodging his cap.