by Len Levinson
“If you insist on killing this kid,” he replied, “we'll have to plan it carefully, because we simply cannot afford to lose any more men due to erratic gunplay.”
They glowered at him in the darkness, and he knew that they resented him, for they were the refuse and flotsam of a defeated lost cause, and he'd been a fancy-pants artillery officer. The demarcation between them remained clearly defined, and Smollett wouldn't be surprised if they shot him in the back someday.
“Let's turn in,” he said. “Tomorrow night at this time, if we all do as we're told, the kid'll be dead. Then we can get on with our business, which is robbing that damned bank.”
CHAPTER 6
SAUL KLEVINS WAS TWENTY-EIGHT years old, a former thief, fancy man, and bouncer. Like many other dishonest drifters, he tended toward erratic living habits, and during one of those scrapes, had discovered his unusually fast reflexes. Since then, he'd killed nine men.
He hated Sundays, because all the so-called nice people were out with their children, commandeering a town that only a few hours before had been the stomping ground of cowboys, gamblers, and outlaws. The noonday sun seared his eyes, he had a headache, and his mouth tasted foul. He lowered the brim of his hat as he trudged along the sidewalk, worrying about his low money supply.
He'd come to Titusville anticipating that somebody in the up-and-coming region could use a fast hand. But since his arrival, he'd earned nothing at his profession, and spent nearly all of his own money. No one was mad enough to hire a gunfighter—yet. Klevins wished he could stir up trouble, for the sake of his earnings.
He pushed through the doors of the Longhorn Saloon, made his way to the bar, and ordered a shot of whiskey, a bag of tobacco, some cigarette papers, and the latest edition of the Titusville Sentinel. He carried them back to the chop counter, ordered his customary steak and eggs, and rolled a cigarette while the food was cooked. Then he carried the platter to a table against the wall, opened the Titusville Sentinel, and the headline smacked him between the eyes:
PECOS KID GUNS DOWN RIVAL
BEHIND BLIND PIG SALOON
Fast Hand Has Arrived in Our Town
Citizens Warned
The notorious Pecos Kid claimed his first victim in Titusville last night, when he shot a drifter named Dave Collins in a ruckus behind the Blind Pig Saloon.
The Pecos Kid, whose real name is Duane Braddock, pretended to be inexperienced with guns, as he lured Collins into the showdown that cost the cowboy's life.
Klevins glanced up every few sentences, to make sure of everybody's hands, then returned to his perusal of the newspaper. According to the article, the kid with the lucky shot was really a famous gun-fighter! Klevins guffawed, as he shook his head in disbelief. These rubes'll believe anything.
It was the strangest town Klevins had ever seen, like a huge metropolis in the middle of nowhere. It had no industry, not much commerce, and most of the town's buildings were vacant. Klevins was three months behind his rent, and nobody cared. He'd seen towns come and go, and suspected that Titusville would probably go.
Petigru was the big money man behind the town, and also the most hated man in the county. The locals had sold him their land, lumber, cattle, and skills, and all the while kept telling him what he wanted to hear: the railroad is coming. But the Union Pacific didn't appear interested in Titusville, and Petigru could find himself a target when the bottom fell out. At that point, Klevins was certain that he'd have a lucrative assignment.
But the Pecos Kid was a new, unknown card thrown into the deck. Was he the dumb cluck that he appeared to be, or a clever flimflam man? Klevins had seen the shooting, and estimated that the kid would've been killed if Collins hadn't been drunk.
Klevins suspected that the Pecos Kid was the latest product from the imagination of Len Farnsworth, the shrewd local newspaperman, but many local fools would believe it hook, line, and sinker. Klevins searched the newspaper for his own shooting, but there was nothing at all.
Why them sons of a bitches—they cut me out of the newspaper. Klevins's self-esteem was hurt, and he simmered with indignation. If anybody wants a bodyguard, he'll hire Braddock, not me. That goddamn kid couldn't shoot his way out of a gunnysack, but he's in the limelight, while I'm in the shade. I ought to shoot them conchos off his hat. That'd wake everybody up about who's the real gunfighter in this town.
Duane opened his eyes, and once more didn't know where he was. He'd awakened in so many strange places, he was almost afraid to look around. He raised his head and reached toward his gun.
A prairie dog sat on his hind legs, examining Duane curiously. Their eyes met, animal and man, and each saw total incomprehension. The prairie dog, being the smaller creature, decided to scoot off. He left so suddenly, Duane wasn't sure he'd seen him in the first place. His next sensation was a dry tongue, and he realized that his stomach was an empty, echoing cavern.
The sun shone brightly in a clear blue sky, and the morning pleasantly warm. Time for breakfast, he thought, as he rose to his feet. His hat hung down his back, and had become crushed during his sleep, but he punched out the crown with his fist, straightened the brim, and it was like new again.
He saw the town in the distance, smoke arising from chimneys. Something heavy and unfamiliar hung from his hip, and he looked down at the Colt in the worn brown leather holster. He pulled it out, rested his forefinger against the trigger, and the events of the night came back with stunning clarity. I've killed a man, but it's not as if I shot him in the back. I'm probably headed straight for hell, but nothing I can do about it now, he thought.
He pulled back the hammer, blew out the dirt, spun the chambers, and looked down the barrel. A clump of something was in there, so he searched for a twig, passed it through the barrel, and the foreign matter fell out. He thumbed bullets into the empty chambers, but left one clear. Butterfield had counseled that precaution, otherwise he was liable to shoot his leg off.
He reached into his pocket, and only had three dollars and change left. He wasn't sure that he still had his job at the Lazy Y, after what transpired last night. He walked toward town, as events of the evening continued to agitate his mind, but he didn't feel awkward and youthful anymore. It was a new day, and he was a new man.
He came to the edge of the settlement, where a scruffy little dog barked at him. Well-dressed ladies and gentlemen strolled on the sidewalks, while children played in yards, running, jumping, yelling.
He continued his quest for breakfast, and became aware that people were looking at him. He squared his shoulders and walked with a steady roll of his shoulders, like his spiritual advisor, Lester Boggs. Duane arrived at the Black Cat Saloon, and a man in an apron swept the floor, while a scattering of bleary-eyed cowboys enjoyed breakfast.
“That's him,” somebody said.
Duane trudged to the chop counter, and the Negro cook handed him a platter covered with steak, beans, potatoes, and biscuits. Duane carried the food to an empty table against the left wall, where no one could shoot him from behind, unless they had a cannon on the other side of the wall. He sat, speared a fried potato, placed it in his mouth, and opened the dog-eared newspaper that had been lying on the table.
PECOS KID GUNS DOWN RIVAL
BEHIND BUND PIG SALOON
He stopped chewing, and his eyes bulged out of their sockets. What the hell is this? He read lie after innuendo after exaggeration with mounting indignation, and knew full well who was at the bottom of it, the heavyset, blond-haired reporter who'd “interviewed” him last night. Isn't it against the law to tell lies like this? Duane wondered. Is this what they call freedom of the press? That reporter's got to print a retraction, or I'll sue for defamation of character, if I live that long, he told himself. Why is it that every time I look around, things get worse?
Clyde Butterfield walked down a side street of Titusville, and he looked like he owned the town. The customary thin black cheroot was stuck in his teeth, and he wore a smile for all the world. It wasn't every day that
he came to call on the most beautiful woman in town, and he believed that he still cut a fine figure of a man, considering his age. Although he'd deny it, he truly had killed eighteen men, some out of anger, some for money, and a few for the hell of it. But he'd got shot himself one hot August night in San Antone, and spent two years flat on his ass. It caused him to think of many things he'd never known before, such as the ultimate futility of all human endeavor, and since his recovery, he had gone out of his way to avoid altercations.
He saw Miss Fontaine's house halfway down the block, knew that Edgar Petigru had bought it for her, and figured she was with Edgar for the money, because there wasn't much else that the Yankee had. You know what they say about money, Butterfield told himself. It'll make you act real funny.
He climbed the three stairs to the porch, knocked on the door, and struck a pose, one foot in front of the other, thumbs in his suspenders, cheroot in his teeth. The door opened, revealing a Negro woman in a white bandanna looking at him suspiciously.
Butterfield removed his hat and bowed slightly. “I wonder if I might speak with Mister Braddock.”
“Who?”
“Duane Braddock. I understand that he's a ... friend ... of Miss Vanessa's.”
“He ain't no friend of Miss Vanessa's, and he ain't here nohow.”
Butterfield bowed again, replaced his hat on his head, and made for the street. Now where would he be? Butterfield wondered. He knew that Duane had left Miss Ellie's in the middle of the night, and assumed that the kid had returned to Vanessa Fontaine. Maybe's he's passed out in a hotel, or maybe he's dead.
He understood Duane's predicament, for he, too, had been the target for lesser men struggling to rise above the morass of the mob. One lucky shot, and they're famous. Even Duane Braddock, who'd never fired a gun before in his life, had become the Sentinel's headline. The power of the press, Butterfield thought cynically.
The door opened behind him, and the Negro woman reappeared. “Sir?”
He spun around, with the reflexes of an ex-gunfighter.
“Miss Fontaine would like to speak with you, sir.”
I knew it, Butterfield thought vainly. She's admired me from afar, and wants to meet the other major celebrity in town. With a new spring to his step, he returned to the house, and was led by the maid to the parlor.
“May I get you something to drink, sir?”
“Whiskey.”
Butterfield sank into the plush chair, and noticed dainty curtains, lace doilies, knickknacks on shelves. Footsteps approached, and he rose to his feet and even removed his cheroot from his mouth, as he awaited the arrival of the most entrancing woman in Titusville.
She swept into the room, her eyes ablaze with barely concealed anger. “Mister Butterfield,” she said, holding out her hand. “I've heard so much about you, sir.”
He bent over and kissed her hand gallantly, for he was of the same class as she, the child of wealthy planters ruined by the rebellion, and he'd served on the staff of General Longstreet. Although he was an aging gambler and ex-gunfighter down on his luck, he'd worn the silver leaf of a lieutenant colonel on his collar, and General Longstreet frequently had asked for his advice. The general usually ignored it, but had asked anyway.
Vanessa sat opposite him, her posture erect, the perfect belle of the ball. Butterfield felt as if he were back in Dixie, and he didn't have to worry about how he was going to pay his hotel bill at the end of the month.
“I hope you haven't been tricked by that nasty little Duane Braddock,” she said testily. “He's a very charming liar, and he's talked me out of a suit of clothes. I actually believed that he was a poor orphan who'd just escaped from a monastery, of all things. You wouldn't believe the lies that he told me. How much does he owe you?”
“Not a penny,” Butterfield said. “And in point of fact, he is a poor orphan boy who just escaped from a monastery. I know, because I happened to be there when he got off the stage. He didn't know where the hell he was, and before he figured it out, a bunch of brats robbed every penny he had.”
She leaned toward him. “Mister Butterfield, I don't think you appreciate how cunning he is. It appears that he's really bamboozled you, but I understand—he can be extremely persuasive. But just explain to me one thing: if he just escaped from a monastery, how come he's the Pecos Kid?”
“My dear Miss Fontaine—I was there. Duane Braddock didn't even know how to fire the gun, and I had to show him. He watched, he practiced, and he learned a little, but not much. The cowboy drew first, but fortunately for Duane, the cowboy was nearly blind drunk. Duane's no Pecos Kid, but that doesn't mean somebody won't shoot him one of these days.”
She struggled to maintain her composure, but his words slammed into her like battering rams. He came here last night, he wanted my help, and I threw him into the cold. My God! she thought, visibly shaken.
“Are you all right, ma'am?”
She smiled politely, for Charleston belles know how to hide emotions, too. “Thank you for coming here, Mister Butterfield. If you see Duane, I hope you'll tell him about our conversation, and convey to him my apologies for my beastly behavior last night.”
A sign hung over the sidewalk:
TITUSVILLE SENTINEL
Len Farnsworth
Publisher
Duane turned the doorknob, but the door was locked. He'd already checked the saloons, and didn't think the reporter would be in church. I want to look that son of a bitch in the eye and tell him what he's done to me. Duane kicked the door, the curtain inside moved an inch, a bloodshot eye peeked outside. The door opened, and the great publisher stood in his barefeet and long underwear. “I'll be goddamned,” he said. “Come on in, Pecos. Let's have some coffee.”
Duane looked him in the eye and said levelly: “You've made a lot of trouble for me, sir, and I might even get killed because of those lies that you wrote.”
“Lies?” asked Farnsworth, ushering Duane into the small office, which also served as his printshop, bedroom, dining room, and kitchen. “I gave you an opportunity to explain yourself, but you refused. However, if you want to make the next special edition, let me get a piece of paper, and I'll write everything verbatim.”
The room smelled of ink, molding paper, and stale ideas. Duane looked at the newfangled Washington printing press nearly big as a man, and marveled at the wonders of the modern world. In only a day, you could flood a town with lies.
“Mister Farnsworth,” Duane began, struggling to keep his temper under control. “You said I'm a professional gunfighter, but I'm not. Now somebody's liable to shoot me, because of your dishonesty.”
Farnsworth snorted derisively. “Don't blame your troubles on me. You're in a fix because of your refusal to cooperate with the press. But thanks to me, you walk into any saloon in this town—somebody'll buy you a drink.”
“Or shoot me in the head. You lied about me, Mister Farnsworth. I'm not the Pecos Kid.”
“You're from the Pecos country, aren't you?” Farnsworth readied his pen. “What did it feel like, the moment your bullet struck Dave Collins in the chest? Did you experience elation, relief, or merely cold hate and lust for revenge?”
“I was happy to be alive, because it was the first time I ever fired a gun, and—”
Farnsworth pshawed. “Inexperienced shooters don't have hands as fast as yours, young man.”
“You've got to print a retraction, and tell the truth.”
Farnsworth raised his eyebrows. “Since the dawn of time, philosophers have chewed over what constitutes Truth, and as far as I know, no one's figured it out to this day. Do you claim to know?”
Duane realized that he couldn't prove definitively that he wasn't the Pecos Kid. “But you made it all up!”
“I certainly hope so,” Farnsworth said, as he dropped to one knee before the stove. He stuffed old newspaper inside, added kindling, and scratched a match. Duane had thought that Farnsworth would apologize or beg for his life, but instead the reporter seemed pleased with w
hat he'd done. Flames leapt out of the stove, and Farnsworth closed the door. Then he proceeded to grind coffee beans.
“You may not realize it,” Farnsworth said, “but I've done you a favor. Shoot a few more people, and somebody might write a book about you. You could be the next Buffalo Bill.”
“I don't want somebody to write a book about me, and to hell with Buffalo Bill. Your newspaper has placed my life in danger! Don't you understand?”
“Nobody lives forever,” Farnsworth retorted. “Even I, a humble journalist, could be shot by a disgruntled reader such as yourself. I'll bet, when you were on your way here, you thought about killing me.”
“That's true,” Duane said darkly.
“What a headline: EDITOR SHOT BY THE PECOS KID. Too bad I wouldn't be alive to write the story.”
“I lived in a monastery until two weeks ago. You can write to the abbot.”
“For all I know, you bribed him.”
“You can't bribe an abbot!”
Farnsworth raised his eyebrows. “Let me tell you, boy, that everybody has his price, even an abbot.”
“You didn't care about me at all! I was just another story for you!”
“Nobody understands the special problems of the press. My main goal is to make the Sentinel interesting, so that people will buy it, place ads, and increase my wealth.”
“And if I get shot, so much the better. THE PECOS KID GUNNED DOWN IN BROAD DAYLIGHT Another great headline, right?”
The door to the office opened, and it was Deputy Dawson, wearing a battered hat with the front brim pinned up. “Everythin’ all right in here?” he asked, glancing suspiciously at Duane.
Farnsworth declared: “I was only interviewing the Pecos Kid. He claims that he never fired a gun before in his life. In all my travels, I've never met a gunfighter who had a sense of humor, until now.”
The deputy looked at Duane. “Stay out of trouble, boy, or I'll be on you like stink on shit.”
