The Night Listener and Others

by Chet Williamson

  The hotelier’s eyes grew wide, and his face even more pink than before. “No sir. You stay away from them two. Bad medicine, both of ‘em. Some of the other things you hear said about them, why, I wouldn’t even repeat to a Christian gentleman.”

  Through the door came box number twelve, and its bearer let it drop onto the straw mat floor with a weary sigh. “That’s all of ‘em,” he said, extended his hand for the silver dollar that Eustace deposited therein, and left the room.

  “Hope you have a good stay,” said Barkley. “We got a fine restaurant downstairs, and the saloon is open till midnight. You need anything, just pull that cord on the wall.”

  “Now that you mention it,” Eustace said, wiggling his toes, “do you have a bootblack in town?”

  Rather than go through his trunks to find another pair of the several he had brought, he waited until his shoes came back, and in the meantime removed his soiled socks and washed his feet in the basin. Freshly shod, he descended to the restaurant, a surprisingly comfortable room that could have been uprooted from New York’s west side, had it not been for the more rowdy clientele. Eustace ordered a steak with potatoes, and watched the people, some of them cowboys surely, finish their meals and pass through the swinging doors into the saloon side of the building, from whence came the strains of ragtime music and frequent hearty shouts.

  His meal finished, Eustace joined the throng, sitting at a table well away from the bar, where the most active customers sat and from which the loudest yells (often good-natured curses) emanated. He suspected that the sherry he nursed had been sitting on some dusty under-shelf for many years, as it seemed to have turned to a syrupy vinegar.

  He had just made up his mind to take a chance on the beer, when he heard a familiar voice behind him. “You’re askin’ about the Buggers.”

  Eustace turned and saw the wizened old gentleman who had carried his trunks. “I beg your pardon?”

  “The Buggers. The ones youse talkin’ about with Barkley.”

  “Do you mean the Broggers?”

  “I calls ‘em as I sees ‘em.” Without being invited, the man sat across the small table from Eustace. His aroma, as before, told Eustace that he was less than fastidious in his toilet habits. “You wanta see ‘em?”

  A thrill ran through Eustace. “Olaf and Frederick?” he said breathlessly, and the man made a face. “Yes, I would like very much to meet them.”

  “I can take ya there. Fer a price.”

  “Where?”

  “Terry Peak. They place is north o’ there.”

  Eustace nodded sagely. “Yes, Mr. Barkley mentioned Terry.”

  The old man shook his head disgustedly. “Not Terry, not that little sh_thole in the wall. I’m talkin’ Terry Peak. You wanta go there?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do.”

  “How much it worth to ya?”

  “Well, I, I—”

  “Ten dollars?”

  “Well, yes, of course, I’d be willing to pay ten dollars.”

  “All right then, you be in back of the hotel at five o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  “Five o’clock?” It was a bit early. Eustace seldom broke his fast before nine.

  “It’s near ‘bout eight miles to there, and I start workin’ for Barkley at seven.

  It’s then or never.”

  “Well…” Eustace thought about the cold and darkness of five o’clock in the morning, then thought about a land “where none of the feebly voiced restrictions of society were to say him nay,” of handsome young rogues living under a sky as blue as an outlaw’s eyes, of high cheekbones sculpted by the Western wind, of taut muscles roiling beneath skin bronzed by the Western sun, of Olaf and Frederick.

  Only they wouldn’t be called that, would they? No, they would be Oley and Fred, the Brogger Boys, scourge of the West, with passions as fierce as the country that bred them—passion for the land, for adventure, and for other, more secret cravings that they might never have suspected, but that could be awakened…

  “Yore skin’s jes’s soft ‘n purty—”

  “Whut?” The old man grimaced. “Whut you say?”

  Eustace cleared his throat. “Five o’clock will be just fine.”

  He was unable to sleep at all that night, since he could not find the alarm clock that he was sure he had packed, and he did not want to inform the front desk that he was to be awakened so early, as that might have aroused Barkley’s interest. Even had he been able to find the alarm clock, his excitement was too great to permit slumber. He was, however, able to uncover the clothing that he had purchased in New York especially for this occasion. The outfit consisted of a checkered shirt, a leather vest, a pair of hand-tooled boots (not overly ostentatious), and rugged dungarees, to be held up by a belt that matched the subtle pattern etched on the boots. He sponge-bathed thoroughly before dressing, and made certain to wear his softest under-clothing.

  Just before five o’clock he added the final touch—a large, white, soft-brimmed hat with a leather band. He tilted it on his head until he fancied the look was jaunty enough, then took a deep breath and walked down the back stairs and out into the biting morning cold.

  He had expected to find the old man there with the hotel wagon, so was quite surprised to find instead his cicerone astride one horse and holding a second by the reins. “Whutcha starin’ at?” the man asked. “Mount up ‘n let’s go.”

  “You want me to…ride that?”

  The man stared at him for a moment. “Whut you want to do? F_k it?”

  “But…what about the wagon?” said Eustace, stammering both from fear and the cold.

  “Can’t take a d_mn wagon where we’re goin’. Now mount up and stop funnin’ me.”

  “But I can’t ride!” Eustace admitted.

  The old man shook his head. “Sh_t,” he muttered, and spat in the dust.

  A brief lesson in equestrianism ensued, and in another five minutes Eustace was seated astride the horse, one white-knuckled hand gripping the saddlehorn, the other holding tightly to the reins. “Jes hold on to the b_st_rd,” the old man said, “and he’ll follow me—and keep that d_mn foot in the stirrup!”

  Once Eustace learned the folly of bouncing upward while the horse was sinking earthward, the comfort of the ride increased, and within a few miles he found that he was actually enjoying the motion, although the area of his anatomy that straddled the saddle was beginning to feel a marked tenderness. After five miles of riding, however, the tenderness became undeniable soreness as the old man turned off the main road onto a stony trail on which the speed of the mounts was not reduced to compensate for the increased irregularity of their route’s surface. In short, Eustace ached unbearably in his manly parts, and it was only by keeping the beauties and glories of what lay before him in his mind that he was able to curb his whimpering as his horse’s foot slipped once again, jostling him painfully.

  After what seemed an interminable ride through spindly trees and over an infinity of boulders, they came out upon a small plain between the trees and what looked to Eustace like a tall mountain. “See ‘at cabin up air?” the man called back to him.

  Eustace squinted through the morning haze and was able to distinguish a small building nestled amidst the trees at the base of the mountain, which he rightly assumed was the aforementioned Terry Peak.

  “‘At’s it,” said the man, and turned his mount so that it came back to Eustace’s. “Got my ten bucks?”

  Eustace nodded, took ten dollars from the change purse in his vest pocket, and handed it to the man. “Aren’t you going to take me up and introduce me?”

  “Innerduce ya? Yer funnin’ me agin.”

  “But you’ll wait here, won’t you?”

  “Wait? Wait fer whut?”

  “Why, for me, of course! How will I get back?”

  “You come, didn’t ya? You get back the way you come.”

  “But I…well, I really wasn’t paying attention.”

  “Sweet J_s_s Chr_st in a g_dd mn wh_rehous
e!” his guide ejaculated. “F_kin’ h_ll, ain’t you got the f_kin’ sense God give a f_kin’ goat? Just follow the f_kin’ trail, fer cr_ssakes! The horse’ll getcha back. G_dd_mn dudes…”

  The man dug his heels into his horse’s sides and started to pick his way back down the trail. Eustace watched him go, feeling suddenly lost and alone. What if the Brogger brothers were not at home? He sincerely doubted that they would have a menial with whom he could leave a card.

  Still and all, it was rather early, and he wondered if they had even risen yet. Perhaps it might be better, he considered, to wait for a short time until he observed signs of stirring within the brothers’ humble home. Finding such a course sensible, he attempted to urge his steed onward toward the cabin, but no matter how he tried to persuade it, it refused to stir, and he decided his only recourse was to dismount and walk the remaining distance.

  The dismounting, however, was more easily said than done. Unable to recall how he had come to be sitting on the horse in the first place, Eustace was able to disentangle himself from the Laocoön-like web of harness and stirrups by disengaging both feet and pushing himself slowly backward until he slipped off the rear of the mount. Reaching the earth, he attempted to keep his footing, but was unable to, and the seat of his dungarees came into oblique contact with the steaming pile of droppings the weary steed had evacuated but a short time before. Wiping himself as clean as possible with leaves, Eustace took the bridle and led the horse to a nearby tree, where he tied it with a square knot, and then started to walk toward the cabin.

  As he drew nearer the modest abode, the picture came strongly to his memory of himself, dressed very similarly, walking toward the hole-in-the-wall of Jack Binns, for, after having escaped the lustful clutches of Texas Bill Wyatt, Maria, instead of returning to Deadwood to inform the law of all she has suffered, returns instead to Jack’s hideout:

  “Her heart pounded as she neared the cabin, knowing that her own true love, dangerous as he might be to the rest of the world, was within.”

  And Eustace’s heart pounded now, pounded with excited anticipation as the cabin grew nearer. There was no smoke rising from its stone chimney, and no noise from within. Though he was tempted to look through one of the uncurtained windows, his Eastern gentility restrained him from doing so, so he merely sat on the natural stone stoop that served this Romulus and Remus of the range as a front porch, readjusted his trousers so that he ached only mildly, and waited.

  It was not until he sat down on an unmoving surface that he realized just how tired he was. A night without sleep and eight miles of hard riding had exhausted him, and he allowed his head to droop, his eyes to close, and he slept and dreamed.

  He dreamed of a vast prairie, of Olaf Brogger or Jack Binns (they were of course identical) standing at his side, their arms around each other’s waists, of looking into Olaf/Jack’s clear, honest eyes, of Jack/Olaf ‘s leathery but soft lips opening to speak, of the words coming out like the scent of wild roses on the free wind—

  “Vat the h_ll is this?”

  When Eustace opened his eyes he knew he must have slept for more than a few minutes, for the sky was far brighter and the sun further up in the sky. He blinked several times to adjust his eyes to the additional illumination, and realized that the voice he had heard had not been in his dream.

  “Who’re YOU?’’ The words were harsh and guttural, spoken with a hooting accent Eustace had never heard before. He looked up and saw, glaring down at him, a pale-bodied man wearing only a pair of red flannel drawers. A mop of tousled blond hair capped a stubbled face deeply fissured with pockmarks.

  “Olaf?” came another voice from inside.

  “Some stranger out here,” Olaf called to the one inside, and examined Eustace quickly with his eyes. “No gun, though. Vat you here for?”

  Eustace stumbled to his feet, stepped off the stoop, doffed his hat, and made a short bow with his head. “You’re Olaf Brogger?”

  “Who vants to know?” The man was shorter than Eustace had expected, but had a chest like a barrel.

  “My name is Eustace P. Saunders. I’m an illustrator from New York City.”

  The door slammed open, and another man whom Eustace took to be Frederick Brogger came outside. His hair had a reddish tint, his face was as scarred as his brother’s, and he wore a night shirt, from beneath whose hem could be glimpsed the end of his dangling member. Eustace glanced away quickly. “Who’s this?” Frederick asked.

  Eustace reintroduced himself, trying to keep his gaze only on the men’s faces.

  “Vat you mean an illusdrader?” asked Frederick.

  “I draw pictures. For magazines and books.”

  “I saw a book vunce,” Olaf said. “Our mother had a book.”

  “Shut up, Olaf,” Frederick said, punctuating the command with a blow to the arm.

  Eustace noticed that Olaf did not even wince. Oh noble and brave lad, Eustace thought, it is as I had thought—an artistic temperament restrained by a crude and unfeeling sibling. A rough Esau to your kindly Jacob.

  “So vat you vant here?” asked Frederick.

  “I thought I might…draw your pictures.”

  “Vhy?”

  “I had heard…that is to say, in Deadwood…that you were, um, rather rustic and free individuals.”

  “They vould say anything about us in Deadwood,” Frederick said, splitting a morning gobbet of phlegm into the dust. Then a look of shrewdness came into his cratered face. “You pay us to draw our pictures?”

  “Well, yes, I’d be happy to.”

  “You haf money‘?” Olaf asked.

  Eustace smiled tenderly at the lad. “Yes, of course.”

  “Who come out here vith you?”

  Why let them think he had been guided? Much more romantic, after all, for him to have sought them on his own. Besides, he didn’t even know his old guide’s name. “No one,” he prevaricated. “I came alone.”

  The two brothers nodded in unison. “So,” said Frederick. “You vant to draw now?”

  “Well, actually I haven’t brought any materials along. I really wanted to meet you first, get acquainted. I think it’s very important to know one’s subject before beginning work. I mean to say, I do a great deal of research before I—”

  “Research?” Olaf said, his bushy eyebrows furrowed.

  “Yes, research, uh, gathering background information, um…” My, Eustace thought, this was not going smoothly at all. Then the image came to him, and he smiled. “Scouting the trail, so to speak.”

  “Scouting the trail,” Frederick repeated, and nodded. “Come inside. Mister Illusdrader. Ve haf coffee.”

  Eustace followed the two brothers into the cabin, the furnishings of which consisted of a small table, two chairs, and, near the fireplace, a bed with a mattress of straw ticking on which blankets were tossed at random. Pegs on the wall held a modest assortment of clothing, as well as several rifles, and rough-hewn shelves contained a few dishes and some cans of food. Piles of gear whose purpose Eustace could not guess lay in the corners. “Sit down,” Frederick said, gesturing to the bed while he and Olaf each took a chair.

  At first fearful that his smeared dungarees might stain their bed, Eustace hesitated, but when he observed the condition of the bed, he felt that the traces of horse dung remaining on his trousers could do no further harm, and sat. For a long time the men only looked at each other without speaking, and although Eustace was uncomfortable in the silence, it at least gave him leisure to observe the Brogger brothers.

  Olaf was by far the more attractive of the pair, stout and well muscled, and although his face was pitted by smallpox scars, there was a regular handsomeness about his features, and the brightness of his hair, even in its uncombed and unwashed state, was stunning. The same blond shade was evident in the hair of his chest, particularly in the tufts about his nipples Frederick, who was apparently oblivious to the nakedness of his nether parts, his legs spread in seeming unconcern of his lack of modesty.

&
nbsp; “Olaf,” Frederick said finally, “get us some coffee.”

  The lad obediently went to the fireplace, removed a blue enamel pot from a hook, and poured the steaming liquid into three chipped and cracked cups. The first he gave to Frederick, and the second he took to Eustace, who made sure to touch the dirty but strong fingers that gave him the cup. Whatever message of masculine friendship was sent was also received, as Olaf paused, and looked deeply into Eustace’s eyes, a look that thrilled him to the marrow of his bones. Things seemed, he thought, to be going rather nicely after all.

  Olaf sat down, and they drank their coffee and continued to look at one another. Finally Frederick spoke again. “Vat you looking at Olaf for?”

  Eustace snapped his head around toward the older brother. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’re looking at Olaf. You’re looking at him as if he were a vooman.”

  “Oh…oh no. I’m sure you’re mistaken.”

  But Eustace was wrong. Frederick was not mistaken. Frederick knew the look because he had felt it on his own countenance many times before. Unbeknownst to Eustace, but hinted at among the denizens of Deadwood and Terry, Frederick and Olaf, unable to find solace or a romantic nature among the looser women of either town, had for a long time resorted to comforting each other by the very homoerotic means of which Eustace had only dreamed.

  Frederick’s eyes narrowed. “You know. Mister Illusdrader, maybe you’re right. Maybe vith your pretty clothes and your pretty smell, it’s you who vants to be the vooman.”

  There was a way to come to this, Eustace thought, but surely not so bluntly. It made it all seem so very cheap, so utterly sordid. “I’m awfully sorry, but I have no idea of what it is you’re talking about.”

  “How much money you got. Mister Illusdrader?” Frederick asked.

  Eustace looked to Olaf for help, but the lad’s keen, brave eyes were fixed on the dirt floor. “I…well, perhaps fifty dollars or so. With me. Why?”

  “Because I think ve maybe take it from you vithout you drawing our picture. And then maybe ve shoot you and put you in the voots for the bears to eat, yah?”