by Len Levinson
Butterfield returned to the table, carrying a bottle and two glasses. “On the house.” He sat opposite Duane, filled the glasses with whiskey, and pushed one toward Duane. “Happy days.”
Duane touched his glass to Butterfield's, then took a sip of smooth, silky whiskey. He and Butterfield sat in silence for several minutes, then Butterfield grabbed Duane's shoulder. “Don't let it git you down, kid. I know how you feel. My opinion, for what it's worth— it's better to die clean, than be a coward.”
Duane pondered that philosophy, and admitted that it made a certain sense. It would be humiliating to back down, and wherever you went, somebody might know who you were, point the finger, and make remarks.
“For a kid who says he's never fired a gun before,” Butterfield said confidentially, “you sure had a fast hand. Are you sure you haven't been bullshitting me?”
“If I'm bullshitting you, then I'm bullshitting myself as well. And I don't even know who that cowboy was, or anything about him.” Duane narrowed his eyes as he scrutinized Butterfield more carefully. “I can't help wondering why you stepped into the line of fire. You could've been killed, and you don't hardly know me.”
Butterfield grunted. “Life's too short fer questions, kid. Just keep this in mind: no matter how fast you are, there's always somebody a little faster.” He tossed down the remainder of his glass.
“They say that you used to be a gunfighter, Mister Butterfield.”
Butterfield paused, becoming more serious. “Long time ago,” he replied in an almost inaudible voice.
“Ever hear of an outlaw named Joe Braddock?”
“Met a lot've people in my day, kid. Can't remember them all.”
“He was my father, and I'm trying to find out who he was.”
“Why?”
“I never met him.”
“There are probably a hundred Joe Braddocks in Texas, who were outlaws. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll see about getting us laid.”
Butterfield arose from the table, and Duane realized that he'd pushed the ex-gunfighter too hard. Duane's mind was a jumble of images mixed together and folded over, as he watched Butterfield head for the door. It was difficult for him to believe that he'd actually killed a man, although the gun on his hip was proof that it truly happened. He drew the Colt and held it in the candlelight, so he could see it better.
It was the first time he'd really looked at its plain wooden grips and smoothly machined iron, a utility model with no designs or special flourishes, but it did the job. He raised it to his nose, and could smell the faint aroma of gunpowder.
The whiff brought the scene back in all its awful splendor. If the cowboy had aimed three inches to the right, Duane would be on his way to boot hill. Duane saw the cowboy stagger, clutching his stomach. A powerful, brutish man had become a hurt creature, without a will of his own, in the time it takes to draw and fire.
I beat him, Duane thought. He felt proud and guilty at the same time. I'm the son of an outlaw and a whore—the bad seed. And then he was forced to admit something that he'd been hiding ever since he'd left the monastery in the clouds.
The fight with Jasper Jakes wasn't the cut-and-dried affair that he liked to believe. It was true that Jakes had goaded him, but Duane could've walked away easily. The monastery wasn't a saloon, where you were expected to defend your honor, whatever that meant, with fists, guns, knives, broken bottles, or anything else you could lay your hands on.
He'd lacked the will to depart the monastery on his own, so laid into Jasper Jakes one afternoon, and then the abbot made the decision for him. I'm a schemer, he thought, and now I'm a killer. That cowboy might've had kids, and I made them orphans. He recalled a line from the Bible: How filthy and abominable is man, who drinketh iniquity like water.
A bartender carried a bottle of whiskey to the table, and said, “Mister Klevins sent this one over, sir.”
Duane turned toward the bar, and saw the fastest hand in the county raise a glass in the air in a silent toast to the newest gun in town. Duane lifted his own glass, swallowed a small amount, and noticed eyes turned in his direction; they were talking about him. Two days ago, when I first came to this town, nobody knew my name, he mused. Now I've killed a man, and who can say where it'll end?
In the dressing room of the Round-Up Saloon, Vanessa wiped perspiration off her face. She'd just completed another performance, and felt worn out. What did I do to deserve this miserable grinding life? she pondered.
She recalled happy days at the old plantation, a never-ending round of delightful activities, instead of the Round-Up Saloon. She reminisced about gala parties that lasted for days, with gentlemen and ladies arriving from all across the South, and even Governor Hammond would attend, not to mention Wade Hampton, wealthiest planter in South Carolina. Now it all had disappeared into the dustbin of history. There was a knock at the door.
“Come in?”
The door opened, and Edgar Petigru entered. “Have you heard the news?” he asked gaily.
“How could I hear any news?” she responded, a note of irritation in her voice. “I spend my life in this room.”
“It seems as though your little friend has just shot somebody.”
“Duane?”
He smirked. “I didn't know that you had more than one little friend. Of course it was Duane, poor, innocent orphan that he is, whose anguished story you related so movingly earlier in the day. Evidently he's a killer, and he flimflammed the other fellow into a gun-fight that he couldn't lose.”
“If this is your idea of a joke, Edgar, it's not funny.”
“No, it's your boy Duane, all right—gaudy cowboy hat and all. They say it was quite exciting. He behaved as though he'd never fired a gun before, then shot his man down. Even Saul Klevins was impressed.”
Vanessa looked at herself in the mirror. It can't be, he thought.
“What's wrong, Vanessa? You're not looking well. Can I get you something to drink?”
Duane sat alone in the corner of the Longhorn Saloon, pondering his conversation with Butterfield. The old ex-gunfighter was playing a peculiar game, and Duane wondered what it was.
He recalled how Butterfield had looked at him funny, after Duane had first arrived in town. And Butterfield stepped into the line of fire, risking his life to give Duane the benefit of his knowledge. I'll bet he knew my father, Duane thought. But for some reason, he won't talk.
A stout man in a frock coat, wearing a stovepipe hat, approached down the aisle, his face wreathed with a smile. He was midthirties, had a pinkish face, and removed his hat with a graceful sweep. “Howdy—my name's Farnsworth—reporter for the Titusville Sentinel. I'm also the typesetter, proofreader, and advertising manager, not to mention editor and publisher. Mind if I sit down?”
Duane opened his mouth to respond, but the reporter lowered himself onto a seat without waiting. “It's been a helluva Saturday night. According to unreliable sources, there've been fourteen saloon brawls and two shootings, including yours. What'd you say your name was?”
“I didn't say.”
“I arrived on the scene a little late, and you were already gone. They said that you pretended that you never fired a gun before, then drilled him through the chest with your first shot.”
Duane looked at the reporter, who resembled a fat, blond rat in a frock coat with a string tie. “I wasn't pretending.”
“I've worked on newspapers all across the frontier, and I brought my press to Titusville on the back of a mule, but I never heard of a man who never fired a gun before, and then takes out his adversary with the first shot. Somebody said you were Jesse James, but I saw Jesse once, and he's old enough to be your daddy. Why won't you tell me your name?”
Duane knew that his name wasn't a secret, and he hadn't done anything wrong, but felt uncooperative. “I want to be alone,” Duane said, thinning his lips. “If you don't mind.”
“Kid, there's something that you don't understand. The story'll get written whether you talk with me or not, b
ut at least I'm giving you a chance to tell your side.”
“The man egged me on,” Duane said, “and somehow I beat him. That's all there was.”
“Not the way I heard it,” wheedled the news hound. “They say he was drunk, and you suckered him into the fight.”
“Talk to the witnesses.”
“Some say one thing, and some say another. The rest aren't so sure. Certain rumors are flying, and I was just wondering if they're true. You weren't hired to kill that cowboy, were you?”
The accusation was so preposterous, Duane didn't know what to say. “I think you'd better take a walk, ‘ mister. You're making me mad.”
“What're you going to do—shoot me? You know what'll happen if you shoot a reporter? You'll decorate the southern end of a rope.”
“I said take a walk, mister.”
Farnsworth saw a wicked gleam in the kid's eye, and discretion was the better part of valor. “If that's the way you want it, Mister Whatever-Your-Name-Is, that's the way it'll be. Good night to you, and by the way, you'd better start watching your back. Some drunken cowboy might want to make his reputation by shooting the kid with the fast hand.”
The reporter meandered toward the bar, and Duane reflected on what he'd said. Somebody might want to make his reputation by shooting me? Duane looked to his left and right suspiciously. Then he sipped his drink, feeling confused by onrushing events. It seemed that only a few days ago he'd been in the monastery, and now he was a news item for sleazy reporters. Will I have to leave town? he wondered. But I don't have any money, and I've got a job at the Lazy Y. I wish I could've walked away from the gunfight, but that drunken cowboy wouldn't let me, he thought sadly.
“So thar you are!”
It was Lester Boggs ambling down the aisle, a quizzical expression on his face, his nose wrinkled incredulously. He sat on the chair opposite Duane and said: “What's this I just heard about you? They say yer a professional killer. You been bullshittin’ me, boy?”
“I'm not a professional anything.”
“They said you were as fast as Saul Klevins.”
“It was a lucky shot,” Duane tried to explain. “I never fired a gun before in my life.”
Boggs raised his eyes skeptically. “It don't make sense, kid. If you never fired a gun before, you'd be dead.”
“That's why I said it was luck.” The words spilled out of Duane's mouth before he could stop himself. “It felt as if my father was with me, moving my hand.”
Boggs looked at the bottle of whiskey next to the flickering candle. “I think you been drinking too much of that shit, kid. Mind if I have some?”
Without waiting for an answer, or obtaining a glass, Boggs pulled the cork and took a swig. “You sure had me fooled. I bet you know how to ride a horse, too. What kind've game're you playin'?”
“It's no game, and the worst part is somebody might want to shoot me, to make his reputation.”
Boggs moved closer, and raised an eyebrow. “What's yer real name?”
“You know what my real name is.”
Boggs nodded, then winked conspiratorially. “There's a sheriff a-lookin’ fer you, and you don't want to make it easy fer him. I understand, ‘cause I've gone by different names, too, and in fact, sometimes I forget which is real.”
It's no use, Duane thought. They won't listen to me, and there's nothing I can say to change their warped minds. It's like the reporter said: they believe what they want.
Clyde Butterfield strode jauntily toward him, the inevitable cheroot in his teeth. “It's all arranged at Miss Ellie's,” he said. “You're getting laid on the house, and so'm I. The girls can't wait to meet you.”
Boggs raised his forefinger. “What about me?”
“Who the hell're you?”
“I'm his horse-ridin’ perfessor.”
“We'll see if we can find somebody fer you to ride. Let's get a move on, boys, because we don't want to keep the ladies waiting. And I'll take charge of that bottle, if you don't mind.”
Butterfield scooped it off the table, and headed for the door in his long-legged, gangly gait. Duane followed him, curious about what other bounties the night would offer. He glanced at the clock above the bar, and it was nearly midnight. The most incredible day of my life, he thought. They came to the doors, and Butterfield blew them open with a mighty thrust of his hands.
Duane stepped outside, and the sidewalk debaters quieted as they stared at the kid with the fast hand. Duane, Butterfield, and Boggs walked three abreast, and everybody got out of their way. Duane recalled reading about the heroes of ancient Rome, when they returned to the Eternal City after a successful military campaign. In the general's chariot stood a little man paid to say over and over: “Remember, thou art but a man.”
But Duane didn't feel like an ordinary man anymore. Here I am with a famous ex-gunfighter and a genuine professional cowboy. If life isn't a joke, then what is it?
“Ho!” cried a voice on the other side of the street. “Wait a minute over thar!”
A long-armed man beckoned, and Duane perceived a tin badge on his rawhide vest.
“It's Deputy Dawson,” Butterfield said. “Don't pay him no mind, and maybe he'll go away.”
Deputy Dawson ducked beneath the hitching rail, and headed into the street. “Hold on, thar.”
Boggs frowned. “The son of a bitch has seen us. If there's anythin’ I hate, it's a lawman.”
“I'll do the talking,” said Butterfield, framing his widest smile as the deputy crossed the turd-befouled street. “Why howdy, Deputy. What can we do for you?”
Deputy Dawson ignored Butterfield, turning instead to Duane. “Your name Braddock?”
“That's right,” Duane said.
“I hear you shot a cowboy name of Dave Collins in back of the Blind Pig.”
Butterfield grinned, and held out the palms of his hands. “Self-defense all the way,” he interjected. “This young man wasn't even armed. He did everything he could to back out of it, but the other cowboy wouldn't let him off the hook.”
Boggs decided the time had come to add his testimony, although he'd been in bed with a prostitute at the time. “That's the way I saw it, too. The cowboy din't leave ‘im no way out.”
Dawson looked harshly at Duane. “They say yer a fast gun from the Pecos country, but I don't care how good yer supposed to be. You better stay out of trouble while yer in Titusville, or I'll clap you in jail. And if I can't handle you myself, I'll send fer the Rangers.” Dawson looked first at Butterfield, then at Boggs. “You boys had better stay out of trouble, too.”
“On our way to Miss Ellie's,” Butterfield explained. “Maybe we'll see you there later?”
Deputy Dawson scowled. “You may see me there later, but I'll be on my rounds—I ain't no customer, like some I could name.” He readjusted his ten-gallon hat, and moved into the street.
“Tetchy, ain't he?” asked Boggs. “Walks like he's got a broomstick up his ass.”
Butterfield replied, “He's got a townful of drunks on his hands, and somebody'll probably shoot him one of these days. I guess it sticks in his craw that they won't make him sheriff.” Butterfield placed his arm around Duane's shoulder, and moved him along the sidewalk, as Boggs kept up on the outside. “I've found out a few things about that feller you killed. Him and his pards weren't local cowboys, because nobody had ever seen them before. They were drifters, maybe owl hoots. You'd best keep your eyes open in Titusville, boy. You never can tell when that bullet might come with your name on it.”
The most expensive whorehouse in Titusville looked like any other freshly painted structure on the quiet street, except light glowed behind heavily draped windows, while the other buildings were darkened.
Clyde Butterfield guided Duane toward the front steps, as he continued his monologue. “I've been in whorehouses all over this country, and I was even in Frisco once, but the whores at Miss Ellie's are as fine as you'll see anywhere, and you don't have to worry about some galoot coming out of a clo
set with a lead pipe in his hands. Miss Ellie only attracts the finer class of clientele, such as lawyers, lawmen, and old bluffers like me.” With a dramatic gesture, Butterfield ascended the stairs. “Right this way, boys. Don't be shy.”
He knocked on the door, and a small window on the other side opened. Two suspicious eyes looked out, then the window closed. The door opened, and Duane gazed down a corridor covered with a red carpet, while red wallpaper adorned the walls. Duane and Boggs followed Butterfield inside, the door closed behind them, and Duane turned around.
Two men with guns guarded the door, just like in the cribs, but these wore ruffled shirts and string ties. They smiled at Duane, as if recognizing one of their own. I'm finally a real man, he realized. All I had to do was kill somebody.
A woman with long, straight black hair and a black satin dress materialized out of the shadows. “You must be Duane Braddock,” she said with a smile, extending her hand to him.
He didn't know whether to kiss her hand, shake it, or what? But she solved the dilemma by taking his fingers and squeezing. “Follow me, please.”
She led him down a corridor lined with burning candles, and it smelled like the nave of a church. His guide had substantial breasts, and her perfume swirled through his mind. She opened the door on a little parlor with a bottle of whiskey, a bucket of ice, and several glasses on a low mahogany table.
“Miss Ellie wants to meet you,” she said to Duane. “I'll get her.”
She departed, and Butterfield poured three glasses of whiskey. Duane pulled back the curtain. The houses across the street were shrouded in darkness, while the sky reflected light from the saloon district in the distance.
“Get away from the window,” Butterfield warned. “Somebody might take a random shot at you.”
The ex-gunfighter reached out and closed the curtain. Duane stepped back from the window, his precious anonymity gone. The door opened, and a brunette in a tight-fitting gown appeared, followed by a redhead and a little wizened old lady with painted eyes and purple lipstick, attired in a glittering sequined sky-blue gown. “So you're Duane Braddock,” the old lady said. “Wa'al, I'm Miss Ellie, and I'm pleased to make yer acquaintance. I heard that you was a handsome boy, and they sure wasn't lyin.” She turned toward Butterfield. “And it's good to see you again, you horny old goat.”
