by Len Levinson
“Just stay still fer one second,” Dave said, “and I'll knock yer block off.”
Duane stopped dancing, and made himself a stationary target. Dave wound up and threw a hard left jab to Duane's nose, but Duane darted to the side, firing a jab into the pit of Dave's stomach. Dave was wide open, and Duane's fist buried to the wrist into soft belly flesh. It was the identical spot that Duane had hammered before, and all the wind expelled from Dave's orifices. The cowboy keeled over, and Duane caught him with a left hook to the head. Dave dropped to his knees, trying to clear his brainpan, and Duane flashed on Sally Mae reviled like Mary Magdalene. Before Duane could stop himself, he kicked Dave squarely in the face, and the cowboy flew onto his back.
Duane heard shuffling behind him, and spun around. Dave's three cowboy friends were coming for him. With a wild, inarticulate cry, Duane charged. They were surprised to see him coming, and that was all the time he needed to bash the face of the cowboy on the right, but the other cowboys crowded around, throwing punches. Duane was whacked in the mouth, clubbed on the ear, and sent reeling. He tripped over his high boot heels, and fell on his side.
They came after him angrily, trying to kick his head off. Duane grabbed one boot, twisted, and that cowboy teetered into the muck.
“Whip his ass!” somebody shouted.
All four cowboys surrounded Duane, who struggled to fend off blows from all directions. A spur ripped his new pants, a silver ring cracked him in the mouth, and another fist collided with his ear, causing him to hear bells pealing in the monastery in the clouds.
Duane recalled the words of Saint Paul: Even if you are angry, you must not sin, but it didn't have much relevance to the situation. He knew that he had to achieve something spectacular, otherwise they'd murder him. All the frustrations and muffled longings of his orphan's predicament detonated inside him, and he went berserk.
Plunging into their midst, his arms flailed and boots winged through the air. Duane took a punch to the eye and another to the mouth, as he stood toe to toe with four men and slugged it out. He was in a frenzy and felt no pain, as cowboy spectators cheered him on. Duane smacked somebody in the nose, broke another cowboy's front tooth, and kicked Dave in his most tender spot. Dave went down like a ship in the night, gripping his groin and howling, as one of his cohorts caught Duane with a solid right to the temple.
Duane saw fireflies, and his legs wobbled. The next punch lifted him off his feet and sent him flying through the darkness. He landed on his back, and tried to rise, but a boot zoomed out of nowhere, and clipped the top of his head.
Everything went black, as Duane rolled onto his side. He lay on the incline toward the stream, the crowd of cowboys circling around.
“Stomp ‘im, Dave,” one of the cowboys said.
“Stomp ‘im, hell,” replied Dave, yanking a gun out of his holster. “I'm a-gonna put a bullet in his head.” He thumbed back the hammer and aimed at Duane's forehead.
“Don't move,” said a voice to his left.
Dave turned and saw a bow-legged cowboy aiming a Colt at him. “You better mind yer own business,” Dave growled. “This ain't yer fight.”
“Ain't no cause to kill ‘im,” said Lester Boggs. “Holster yer iron, or I'll put one ‘twixt yer eyes.”
Dave thought for a few moments, then dropped his gun into his holster and spat at the ground. “If I ever see that kid again, I'll kill ‘im.”
“Let's git greased,” replied one of his cohorts, wiping blood from his ear. “This is a-gittin’ to be a pain in the ass.”
The battered warriors placed their arms around each other's shoulders, and headed toward the nearest crib, while the crowd stared at the figure lying with his face on the ground.
“Feisty little son of a bitch,” somebody uttered.
“He sure gave ‘em a run fer their money.”
“Looks like he's daid.”
The new cowboys huddled around, as Boggs rolled Duane onto his back. Duane's face was streaked with blood, and the whites of his eyes showed.
“Anybody know who he is?” someone asked.
“He's my pard,” Boggs replied, pressing his ear against Duane's heart. “He's still alive. Maybe one of you fellers should git the sawbones.”
They raised Duane by his hands and legs, and carried him toward the stream. Lamplights reflected on tiny wavelets, and a cool breeze blew in from the sage. They laid him at the water's edge, filled their hats with water, and spilled it over Duane's face, but he didn't move a muscle.
“You sure he's alive?” somebody asked Boggs.
“He was a few minutes ago. Give ‘im more water.”
The cowboys refilled their hats, then poured cold water over Duane, washing blood from his pallid features. Duane groaned, and moved his head a half inch to the side.
“He's coming back,” announced Boggs, dipping his hat into the stream.
He dropped more water over Duane's face, and Duane opened his eyes slowly. His first thought was that he was drowning, and he sputtered frantically, trying to rise. Another hatful of water struck him in the face, and he gasped, coughed, and spit.
He blinked, and saw himself in the center of a ring of cowboys, all gazing intently at him. His ribs felt broken, his ham bone ached, and his face felt like raw meat. He didn't even know his name, or where he was.
He gazed past the legs of the men, and saw the cribs in the distance, lights shimmering behind dirt-caked windows. He recalled the loss of his virginity, and before he could relish his elevation to manhood, he'd got into a brawl with four cowboys.
“Yer lucky to be alive,” said a heavy set man with a white mustache. “One of ‘em kicked you in the head so hard, I thought yer brains fell out.”
“Maybe they did,” Duane replied, spitting something foul and bloody from his mouth, and he hoped it wasn't his tongue.
“You're one crazy son of a bitch. What's yer name?”
Duane perched on his knees at the side of the stream, and splashed his face with water. It appeared that one of his teeth was chipped, and his left eye was so puffed, he could barely see out of it. He worked his jaw, and it felt somewhat out of line. He was woozy, and wondered if he'd ever be normal again.
“Here,” said a voice beside him.
Duane saw a bottle of whiskey in the hand of the man with the white mustache. Without hesitating, Duane accepted it, pulled the cork, and took a swig. It went down like molten lava, and the sudden shock jolted him toward a more comprehensive awareness of his situation. Slowly, laboriously, he rose to his feet, drank another swallow, and handed the bottle back. “Much obliged.”
“You look like you might make it, after all. What you say yer name was?”
Boggs stepped forward, a big smile on his face, as his eyes focused on the bottle in the man's hand. “His name's Duane Braddock, and we come here together. I was a-mindin’ my business, a-waitin’ fer him, when it sounded like all hell broke loose, and you boys know the rest. Mind if I have a drink?” Boggs deftly plucked it out of the man's hand and leaned back. His Adam's apple bobbed twice, and the quantity in the bottle diminished considerably.
The crowd dispersed, as cowboys drifted back to the cribs. It was just another incident in their violent lives, and the time had come to return to the business that had brought them to Titusville in the first place. They laughed, slapped each other on the shoulders. Duane realized that all cowboys weren't bad, but they all weren't good, either.
He felt strangely euphoric, as if he were older and more wise. “Boggs, do you think we can rent a horse this time of night, so you can give me some riding lessons?”
“I think you took too many shots to the head, kid. Besides, the first lessons on ridin’ a horse should be got afore you ever sit on one, so yer prepared. How's about a saloon?”
Vanessa Fontaine sat before her mirror, applying cosmetics to her cheeks. Every year it takes a little longer, she mused. She didn't slather herself with grease and powder like the saloon girls, but merely heightened the
color of her natural features, outlining her eyes, so that cowboys in the farthest reaches of the saloon could see her dramatic expressions. She knew that they worked hard, and the only fun they had was on Saturday nights, when they came to town. Most were Confederate Army veterans, and she felt special affection for them, despite their constant drinking and brawling.
Unfortunately, she was utterly miserable. She knew now that she could never be happy with Edgar, no matter how many houses he bought her. Eventually they'd live in New York City, and go to the opera every night, but something always would be lacking.
Her encounter with Duane had convinced her that she could never be content with a man for whom she didn't feel at least a modicum of passion. I'm not sleeping with Duane Braddock, she told herself. It's not good for me, it's not good for him, and it's wrong from every conceivable point of view. She grit her teeth and forced the thought out of her mind.
Duane and Boggs sat at a table in the middle of a small smelly room known as the Blind Pig Saloon. Located off the main street, it featured the cheapest rotgut whiskey in town, and the oldest, most broken-down prostitutes that Duane had ever imagined in his wildest nightmares.
“They got a shack out back,” Boggs explained. “Fer a quarter, these gals'll do anything, and when I say anything, I mean anything.”
Duane pressed the cold wet bandanna against the knot on his head. His hat hung down his back, his shirt was torn, and several teeth felt loose in his mouth, but somehow Duane felt a strange contentment. So this is why men drink, he mused. In the scriptorium, Duane had seen the reproduction of a painting by Hieronymus Bosch, and it reminded him of the grotesque scene in the Blind Pig Saloon: men and women with red faces pawing each other shamelessly, quaffing alcohol, and squealing with delight.
Boggs hung his hat on a peg, leaned back, and propped his long, skinny legs atop the table. “This is probably as good a time as any to give you yer first lecture on horses. First of all, you got to take care of yer horse like he's yer child, make sure he gets enough to eat, brush ‘im down onc't in a while, and you got to show ‘im that you care about him, otherwise he'll git mad at you, and a horse can keep a grudge just like a man.”
“How come all those horses are saddled out there in the noise all night, where they can't get any sleep?”
“How do you know they can't sleep?”
“How much sleep would you get if you were tied to a hitching rail next to saloons full of men hollering constantly, getting into fights, and throwing bottles around.”
“A horse—he don't give a damn.”
“If I had a horse, I'd put him in a stable where he'd be dry, with good food to eat and clean water to drink, not like those troughs full of cigarette butts and whiskey bottles.”
“Horses like cigarette butts, and as for whiskey, I once knew a horse . . . but you won't believe me, so fergit it.”
“Are you going to tell me that you knew a horse that drank whisky?”
“Well, I did. I'm not sayin’ that he went into a saloon and ordered a bottle, but you put some in a bowl, he'd lap up every drop. And it didn't seem to bother ‘im at all.”
What kind of man would give whiskey to a horse? Duane wondered. “Is there anything else that I have to know before I actually climb on a horse?”
“You know what reins are?”
“You pull them in the direction that you want to go, or pull back when you want to stop.”
“Yer way ahead of the game, I can see that. The only other important item is spurs. If you ever see a horse with a lot of scars, you know he's been ridden by a low-down dirty skunk. A man uses his spurs sparingly, sort of as a nudge more'n anything else. Horses're smart, they know what you want, and it's just a matter of gittin’ ‘em to do it. Don't be afraid of ‘im, ‘cause they'll see it right away. Make sure you smooth out the blanket afore you put the saddle on, and don't tighten the cinch too much, or too little.”
“What if the horse tries to throw me?”
“All you can do is hang on with yer heels, and sooner or later he'll settle down. You might get throwed a few times, but don't let that stop you. Hell, even ‘sperienced cowboys like me get throwed from time to time. Hold the reins tight with one hand, and let yer other hand hang loose, fer balance. It's a test of will between you and the horse, and you got to outlast ‘im. There's an old sayin’:
Ain't never been a horse what couldn't be rode Ain't never been a cowboy, what couldn't be throwed.”
Boggs is so logical, Duane thought, and he's got an answer for everything. How fortunate I am to have such an experienced man to lead me through life. Why, I'd still be a virgin, if it weren't for him.
“The Spaniards brought the first horses to Texas,” Boggs continued, “and nearly every horse you see is descended from them mangy critters.”
He even knows the history of horses, Duane considered, scratching his jaw in deep thought. Maybe he never studied Saint Thomas Aquinas, but he sure as hell knows the cowboy business.
“When you shoe a horse, you turn yer back to ‘im, hold his foot ‘twixt yer legs, and hammer in the nails. But first you got to trim his hooves with yer knife. It's a hard job, and if you slip, you can cripple ‘im fer life. We get a job on a ranch, I'll show you how it's done.”
Somebody shouted on the far side of the saloon. “You son of a bitch! Put yer hand in me pocket again, I'll shoot yer ass!”
At the bar, two men faced each other a few feet apart. They were dirty, desperate-looking drunkards with red noses and long, tangled beards.
“What the hell're you sayin'!” the other one bawled. “You better take that back!”
“You better kiss my ass!”
Both men went for the guns, and everyone in the vicinity ran for the door, while the rest hit the floor. Duane was on his way down, when he heard a shot ring out, and the saloon filled with gunsmoke. Women screeched, and two more shots were fired in rapid succession.
“I'm hit!” someone yelled.
Boggs grabbed Duane's shirt. “Let's git out of here.”
Duane felt himself being dragged toward the back door in a wave of squirming, grunting bodies. Somebody threw a chair through a window, and then jumped through.
“Call the deputy!” screamed the bartender.
But nobody wanted a confrontation with that gentleman, and the cowboys stampeded like a herd of cattle, hurling Duane outside.
“This way,” said Boggs, pulling Duane across the backyard. “Don't stop fer nawthin’.”
The voice of the bartender came from inside the saloon. “He's daid!”
A man can die in a second, Duane realized, as he followed Boggs across the courtyard. Duane recalled Brother Paolo warning him about the secular world, and now he understood his spiritual advisor's urgency. He found himself yearning for monastic tranquillity, where a man's dreams and prayers couldn't be eliminated by the pull of somebody's trigger.
They came to Main Street, ablaze with lights from saloons. The competing melodies of pianos, fiddles, and accordions could be heard from a variety of directions, and all the hitching rails were occupied by long rows of horses. It was Saturday night in Titusville, and the roof was about to blow off the town.
“We got any money left?” Boggs asked, narrowing his eyes on Duane's pocket.
“I think we should turn in, and look for jobs first thing in the morning.”
Boggs leaned from side to side, thumbs hooked in his belt, knees pointed outward. “Tomorrow's Sunday. Cain't we have one last slug afore we goes to bed?”
This man wants to corrupt me, and maybe the devil has sent him for that purpose. Duane prepared to say no, when he heard a lilting voice emanate from the Round-Up Saloon.
“You all right, boy?” Boggs asked.
“Let's have a drink at the Round-Up,” Duane replied.
A crowd gathered in front of the saloon, pushing and elbowing through the door. Vanessa's voice floated over their heads, and Duane felt enchanted by the dancing melodies.
“W
e're filled up!” hollered a voice inside. “You cowboys come back some other time, hear?” He wondered how to get in.
Duane dropped to his knees, then crawled among men's legs, trying to reach the door.
“What the hell's goin’ on down there?”
Somebody kicked him in the ass, but he continued to scurry along like a lovesick hound dog, and then dove through the opening at the bottom of the bat-wing doors, nearly colliding with the leg of a table.
He arose behind the table, and saw her standing in the lamplight, singing about a wounded Confederate soldier dying amid cannon fire on the banks of Bull Run. Duane was struck by the sorrow in her voice, but that didn't stop him from undressing her shamelessly in his imagination. If I could place my hands on that woman, it would be the pinnacle of my life, he thought wickedly.
His mind filled with salacious images of himself and Vanessa Fontaine in a big feather bed. He imagined himself kissing her most secret places, and having her wrap her long, sinuous legs around him. Temperature rose inside his clothing, and he loosened his bandanna. Why should I sleep in the Sagebrush Hotel, when I can spend another night in her guest room, and maybe . . .
The best seats at the Round-Up were occupied by local notables, and among them perched Edgar Petigru, attired in a black suit with black bow tie, as if attending the Academy of Music in Manhattan. He even carried a black cane concealing a sword, designed to protect gentlemen against New York street urchins, but also useful against the Titusville variety.
Edgar was accustomed to the world's foremost singers, dancers, and musicians, all of whom traveled to New York City in the course of their illustrious careers. He'd seen Lester Wallack in She Stoops to Conquer, Edwin Booth, King of the Tragic Actors, as Hamlet, and the celebrated Carlotta Carozzi-Zucchi as Leonora in Il Trovatore. He prided himself an expert on the performing arts, and it was from that lofty height that he considered Vanessa's performance at the Round-Up Saloon.
