by Len Levinson
“You had him, but you let him off the hook. If you'd stayed after him, you would've beat him, instead of the other way around.”
Duane recalled the initial stage of the fight, when he'd bloodied Jethro's nose, then stopped to assess the damage.
“If you ever hurt your man,” Butterfield confided, “finish him off, and think it over afterward. Want a smoke?”
“Don't smoke.”
Butterfield puffed his long, thin cheroot, gazing askance at Duane. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. “Get yourself a good meal, then find a bath and a hotel room. I'll meet you tomorrow night at the Crystal Palace, and we'll discuss your future.”
Duane looked at the coins, and thought he heard pity, or was it disdain, in Butterfield's voice. A flush of bad temper came over Duane, and he slapped Butterfield's hand. The coins went flying in the air, and Butterfield made a motion toward his gun.
Duane limped away, bending slightly to favor his aching ribs. He came to an alley, and absentmindedly turned into it. A group of cowboys threw dice at the side of the building, and everybody held a bottle. Duane sidestepped around them, and made his way toward the backyard. The shame of defeat hurt worse than the pain in his head and chest, and he ground his teeth angrily.
Butterfield was right, he admitted. I should've stayed after him, but I had to admire my handiwork, like an idiot. He came to the backyard, and saw sheds, privies, and piles of trash. No one was around, and he slipped into the shadows at the side of a building, sat on the ground, and wondered what to do next.
I've been in Titusville approximately four hours, and so far I've been robbed, beaten, insulted, and humiliated, he thought dejectedly. I'm supposed to be looking for a job, but instead I got into a fight with a man twice my size, and I could be the hero of the Black Cat Saloon right now, except I didn't have the guts to finish him off.
He recalled the moment he'd smashed Jethro in the nose. A few more solid punches to the head—that's all it'd require. I've been out of the monastery a week, and already I'm thinking of beating people, Duane thought ruefully. I can't be a very intelligent person, if this is the direction my mind takes.
For all I know, Jethro's an orphan, too, and something's hurting him inside, just like me. If I were a true Christian, I would've turned the other cheek. Maybe I should go back to the monastery, apologize profusely, take the vows, and become a brother, he speculated.
He recalled the serenity of the monastery in the clouds, where few people ever visited, and mountain winds whistled through the steeple of their little chapel. His life had been orderly, and he'd studied hard. That's where I belong, not this filthy hellhole, he said to himself.
He recalled the impression of Jethro's boot squashing his hindquarters, not to mention Jethro's fist crashing into his cranium. What about justice and free will? Duane wondered. Does he have the right to kick me in the ass, just because I'm in his way? I don't kick people in the ass. Somebody had to stop him, and it happened to be me!
He dropped to the next level of reflection. But he's so much bigger than I, and fighting is wrong in the first place. I've already broken countless commandments, and if I had a few dollars in my pocket, I'd probably wallow in prostitutes like the pig that I am.
I'm a sinner, he admitted. Just like every other poor fool in the world. I've just had the stuffing beat out of me, and I'm starving to death. I should've had a job by now, but I've been doing everything wrong.
He heard the sound of a wagon, and became still in the shadows. The conveyance approached through a far alley, and he could perceive lamplights flickering on its sides. In the moonlight, he saw the same fancy carriage he'd noticed easier, the one belonging to the singer, Vanessa Fontaine. The carriage appeared headed toward the rear of the Round-Up Saloon.
I guess he's going to drive her home, Duane thought. Maybe I can see her close up. He advanced across the yard, and dropped behind the first trash barrel. The driver appeared to be dozing, but the two horses’ ears perked up at the sound of Duane's muffled footsteps. Their huge luminescent eyes followed his progress around the perimeter of the buildings, until finally he came to a stop behind a stack of firewood near the rear door of the saloon.
She might not come out for another three hours, Duane told himself, and I'm supposed to be looking for a job. Just as he was about to head for the nearest saloon, he heard a peal of woman's laughter erupt from the depths of the establishment.
The sound sent a chill up his back, and he wished he had a clean, sweet-smelling woman to kiss. He recalled Vanessa Fontaine on the stage of the saloon, trilling her tale of love. He felt woozy. He rested his head against the firewood, and he took a few deep breaths to clear his mind.
His eyes fell on a trash barrel, and he thought, I'll bet it's full of steaks that the customers were too drunk to eat. I'll just wash one off in the horse trough and have me a meal. But then his eyes caught movement near the barrel, and his hair stood on end. Creatures with bright little eyes, plump furry bodies, and long skinny tails, scurried about, nibbling tidbits. Duane lost his appetite immediately.
The back door of the saloon opened. Duane raised his head above the firewood, and saw a man in a vest step outside, gun in hand, looking both ways. Another man appeared, holding the arm of Vanessa Fontaine. The men led her toward the carriage, as the driver jumped to the ground.
Duane realized that Vanessa Fontaine was tall for a woman, built on the slim side, just as he. Moonlight silhouetted her profile, revealing a gently curved nose and blond hair beneath the hood of her black cape. Duane had never seen anything like her among the girls who came to the monastery. They'd been farmers’ daughters in plain homespun dresses, but Vanessa Fontaine looked like a celestial creature from another realm.
She entered the cab, and the driver climbed onto his seat. He snapped his whip, and the matched white horses headed toward the street. Duane found himself moving toward the alley, following the carriage. He saw the outline of her head through the back window, and wondered what kind of person she was.
He drank water from the trough in front of the hitching rail, and felt stronger. I'll see where she lives, just for the fun of it, and then I'll come back and look for a job. Or maybe I'll go out on the sage and trap a rabbit.
He felt revived, as he moved along the sidewalk, passing men sleeping on benches, in alleys. One stalwart fellow was out cold in the middle of the sidewalk. Duane stepped over him, as the coach turned left at the next corner, and Duane followed like a lean hungry wolf of the night.
Lanterns on the carriage vied with the moon for lighting the way, but all other lamps were out in the increasingly residential street. They came to a neighborhood of larger homes and more spacious yards, with wagons and carriages parked outside. Some houses were neatly painted, with white picket fences, while others were in varied states of construction. This is a growing town, Duane realized. Lots of potential here for a man like me.
Duane slipped through the shadows, as cool night wind blew in from the sage. The carriage turned right, and Duane followed it to a narrow road with only a few houses. The driver pulled his reins back, steering toward a two-story, boxlike structure sleeping in the night. Duane hopped the fence, landed behind a bush, and a dog barked across the street. The driver climbed down and opened the door.
The wraith in black shawl emerged from the carriage, and moonlight glinted on her golden hair. She fairly flew to the front door, opened it, and was gone. A lamp was lit inside the residence, sending pale yellow rays through the windows. Duane heard something crash, as the singer rattled a string of outrageous curses in a strange lilting drawl.
A door slammed, and it seemed as if the whole house shook. Duane was fascinated by her behavior, for he'd grown up without women, and they were strange alien beings to him. The women who'd visited the monastery had been devout Catholics, whereas this woman evidently was Jezebel herself!
Duane felt nauseated, and weakness came over him. I've got to get something t
o eat, he reminded himself. The lamp went out in the house just as he was about to rise. He lowered himself as she burst onto the porch and ran toward the carriage, holding her skirts in the air.
The driver opened the door for her, and she said: “Hurry, because I'm late.”
She stepped into the backseat, the driver lashed the horses, and the sleek animals pulled the carriage away from the curb. Galloping hoofbeats could be heard, as the contrivance rumbled toward the center of town.
Duane's vision blurred, and only the rapid deployment of his hands prevented his face from crashing into the dirt. Black curtains fluttered before his eyes, and the tinkling of bells came to his ears. He tried to rise, but fell on his butt. I'm liable to die on her lawn, if I don't get something to eat soon.
His system weakened by inadequate nutrition, a vicious beating, and a few swallows of rotgut whiskey, he tried to stand, but his knees were wobbly. I'll never make it to town, and I'll bet her kitchen is stocked full of food. His mouth watered as he imagined sliced beef, roast chickens, fried potatoes, sliced tomatoes, mounds of rice, and pies bursting with apples and cinnamon. I wonder if her back door is locked?
Duane glanced around, and all was still. The nearest house was fifty yards away, completely darkened. Duane crept over the scraggly lawn, heading toward the rear of the house. He drooled uncontrollably, and felt like fainting. I'll only take food, and I'm sure she can afford it, he rationalized. You don't want me to die, do you, God?
Prodded by hunger, he arrived at the back door, twisted the knob, but it was locked from the inside. He tried to open a window, but it, too, was latched. Duane peeled off his tattered frock coat, wrapped it around a rock, and pushed it firmly against the window.
The glass broke, shards fell to the floor inside, and a dog barked across the way. Duane vowed to run if he saw a lantern, but the dog stopped barking, and passed to his whining phase. No lanterns could be seen. Duane returned to his broken window, reached inside, and flipped the latch. Then, slowly, he raised the window. He jumped into the air, bellied over the sill, and landed on the floor inside, next to the kitchen table.
A bowl of fruit was positioned on a doily in the middle of the table, and Duane grabbed an apple. He stuffed it into his mouth hungrily, chewing even the seeds. A tin breadbox on the counter became his next objective. He pried the top off, and saw a half loaf of bread with several corn muffins. He grabbed a muffin in his fist and mashed it whole into his mouth, chewing like a fanatic.
The doughy substance thickened in his throat, and he nearly gagged. He opened the front door of the wood icebox, groped inside, and his hand fell on half a chicken. He pulled it out and dug his fangs into the moist white breast. Chewing frantically, he darted around the kitchen, searching for liquid to wash it all down.
A sliver of light flickered on something in the hallway. Gnawing on the chicken, Duane proceeded down the hall to the next room, which had upholstered chairs, a sofa, and a fireplace. The twinkle came from the top of a cabinet crafted from dark wood.
He bent before it, and was amazed to see tiny statues of unicorns made from gold, silver, and crystal, with Vanessa Fontaine's necklaces and bracelets draped over their horns, while earrings sprawled among their hooves.
It looked like fairyland, and Duane stopped chewing for the first time since breaking into the house. He wondered what kind of mind would concoct such a show. She's a little girl underneath it all, he realized. For the first time, it occurred to him that she might have a mind. He took a step backward, to see what else the room held.
His eyes widened on a painting four feet square hanging above the dresser. He leaned forward and feasted his eyes upon the image of Vanessa Fontaine, wearing a blue gown, standing against a backdrop of red roses. The likeness was almost real, and her big blue eyes seemed to be saying, Please don't rob me. Her reproachful eyes drilled into him, and he felt guilty for breaking into her home.
He heard a key in the front door, and his hair stood on end. He froze before the painting of Vanessa Fontaine, as a dainty foot made contact with the vestibule. Duane dove behind the sofa, as her footsteps approached. She headed for her jewelry, muttered something dark and incomprehensible, and began clawing among the unicorns. “Where the hell's that necklace?” she murmured.
Duane peered around the end of the sofa, as she fussed and puffed at the cabinet, knocking over unicorns, opening drawers. He hoped she wouldn't look down, where he'd dropped a spare chicken bone. His heart beat like a tom-tom, and he broke into a cold sweat at the mere thought of jail.
Suddenly she went stiff, and he realized that she'd spotted the chicken bone, only a few feet from an apple core that he'd also lost track of. He pulled his head back swiftly as she spun around, eyes ablaze with fear. She pulled up her dress, whipped out a derringer, cocked the hammer, and said, “Who the hell's here?”
She's caught me, Duane thought, as his lungs emptied of air. Oh my God, if you get me out of this one, I'll go back to the monastery and sing your praise for the rest of my stupid existence. He heard her footsteps approach, and knew he was finished. “I didn't mean any harm,” he said weakly.
“Show me your hands, or I'll put a bullet into you—so help me, Jesus.”
He thrust his arms into the air, and she blinked in disbelief, her jaw agape. But she kept the derringer aimed with both hands at the center of his chest.
“Come out of there, and don't make any funny moves.”
He gazed into the over-and-under barrels of the derringer. “I wasn't going to take anything valuable. I haven't eaten since morning, and I was getting hungry. It was just some chicken, a few apples, and all your corn muffins. As soon as I get a job, I'll pay you back.”
All my corn muffins? Her forehead wrinkled with mystification. She glanced at the top of the dresser, where she kept her jewelry, and knew each piece intimately; they were her favorite possessions, but nothing was missing, not even a unicorn. She turned toward the young man, and he was pale, cadaverous, raw-boned, with long black sideburns and velvet eyes almost as beautiful as a woman's. Her eyes roved down his filthy garments, and his filthy feet dwelled in crude leather sandals. She glanced back at his face, and it looked as though someone had beaten the hell out of him recently. How old are you?” she asked.
“Nearly eighteen.”
“Where are your folks?”
Duane turned his eyes away. “Killed in a Commanche raid.”
He looks like a lost little kid, she considered, and those clothes are pathetic. She lowered her derringer. “All right—I won't call the deputy this time.”
Duane's hands fell to his side, and his face became contrite. “When I looked at your picture over there, I knew I shouldn't have come here. It was as if you were talking to me.”
“I was robbed in another town once,” she replied dourly, “and that's why I had the painting done. If anybody wants to take what's mine, I want him to look me in the eye.”
She still didn't know what to do with the burglar. He looked like a lost puppy dog. With a sigh of defeat, she raised the side of her dress, then dropped the derringer into its holster.
“You don't have any money at all?” she asked.
“Some boys robbed me.”
“Where were you going to sleep tonight?”
“The Sagebrush Hotel.”
He speaks well, she figured, and obviously has an education. “Where does your family live?”
“Everybody's dead,” he admitted.
“How do you exist?”
“I was raised in a monastery, and left a couple of weeks ago.”
A monastery? she wondered.
“I'll be on my way,” he said. “I'll also pay you for the window that I broke. Do you know of any jobs?”
“What can you do?”
“I thought I'd become a cowboy, but I don't know how to ride a horse.”
She smiled in spite of herself. No humbug could come up with a line like that, she figured. He appears innocent, untouched, special, and he w
as raised in a monastery? She couldn't help being curious about him. Dress him in decent clothes, he'd turn the heads of women old enough to know better, she concluded.
“You don't have to sleep outdoors,” she said. “I've got a guest room, and you can stay here.”
“Here?” he asked, wondering if he'd heard correctly. “With you?”
“Do you expect me to move out of my own home? But you'll have to take a bath first, because I can smell you all the way over here. Don't touch anything—I'll be right back.”
She swooped toward the door, the ends of her black silk shawl trailing behind her. I hope this isn't another mistake, she thought, but somebody's got to help a young person in distress. She approached the carriage, and her driver, Jed Wilson, opened the door.
“My plans have changed,” she said. “Tell Mister Petigru that I'm not feeling well.”
Jed nodded sullenly, then hoisted himself atop the cab. Vanessa returned to her parlor, where the young man stood with his hands behind his back, staring at her painting. He blushed, and his fluttering eyelashes devastated her. “Don't you have shoes?”
He shook his head, embarrassed by insufficient footwear and ripped raiment.
“You're a mess,” she said. “Come with me.” She led him to the kitchen, where the floor was littered with corn muffin crumbs, broken glass, and more chicken bones. “I've got some wood out back. Do you know how to light a fire?”
He was out the door before she could ask another question. She sat near the window, and said to herself: I hope this isn't going to be another mistake.
Meanwhile, in the backyard, Duane wondered if he should make a run for it. He was afraid she'd call the deputy, and he didn't want to end up in jail. Firewood was stacked neatly in a shed, and he loaded up his arms. He recalled her finely chiseled profile, rosebud lips, and long legs. How can I spend the night under the same roof with that woman, and not go berserk? he questioned.
