by Len Levinson
Deputy Dawson departed the newspaper office, Farnsworth poured water into his blue porcelain coffeepot, added ground coffee, and placed it on the stove. “You'd better watch out for poor Deputy Dawson. He has something to prove, and let's hope that he doesn't try to prove it with you.”
Jake Russell, ramrod of the Lazy Y, rode down the main street of Titusville, a bent cigarette sticking out beneath his black handlebar mustache. A wide-shouldered man of thirty-two, his head throbbed with pain, and he was nauseated due to too much food, drink, and carousing during the night. Now, in the cold light of day, the town had been reclaimed by churchgoers from miles around, who'd come to hear the customary Sunday fire-and-brimstone sermon at the New Titusville Church of Jesus.
Russell dismounted before the Carrington Arms Hotel, threw the reins over the hitching rail, and headed for the lobby. I wish that son of a bitch Yankee would leave me alone. Russell felt that Petigru didn't know anything about ranching, but always was giving orders, changing his mind, and devising impractical far-flung plans. But Russell never complained, because he liked the extra twenty dollars a month he earned as foreman.
He crossed the lobby of the hotel, where a few guests were passed out on the furniture, bottles in hands, cravats untied, frock coats covered with spilled food and drink. The desk clerk nodded knowingly to Russell as the latter turned toward the stairs.
He came to the third floor, walked down the corridor, and knocked on the door at the end. Petigru, attired in a purple silk robe, a notepad in one hand, pencil in another, opened it. “Come in,” he said with a flair. “Fix yourself a drink.”
Russell headed for the bar, and wondered how a man could find happiness doing numbers, for that's generally what occupied Petigru whenever Russell was called on the carpet. The foreman poured himself three fingers of whiskey, and sat on a plush chair beside Petigru's desk. Petigru added the columns as if unaware that someone else were in the room. Luxury always made Russell uncomfortable, as if it were too soft and pampering. Looks like a goddamned woman's gown, Randall thought of Petigru's robe.
Petigru finished adding the column of numbers, then put his pencil down. “Now what did I want to speak with you about?” he asked.
Russell was astounded. He called me in all the way from the ranch on a Sunday, and he doesn't know what he wants to palaver about?
Petigru stuck in his finger into his cheek. “Oh yes, I remember. Did you see the shooting last night?”
“I seen the second one, but not the first. I got into town late.”
“Then you know who Duane Braddock is, the so-called Pecos Kid. What'd you think of him?”
“He nearly got his ass blowed off.”
Petigru stiffened in his chair. “But... I thought he was a fast gun from the Pecos country!”
“He's just a dumb kid who got off a lucky shot. Pecos Kid, my ass.”
“Do you think it's true that he never fired a gun before?”
“Can't say fer sure, but Clyde Butterfield showed him what to do, and the other cowboy was nearly out on his feet. But I'll say one thing fer the kid. He was steady under fire, and that ain't easy.”
Petigru leaned toward his foreman. “I've hired Duane Braddock, and he'll report to you in the morning. But there's just one problem. He claims that he doesn't know how to ride a horse.”
At first Russell wasn't sure that he'd heard correctly. “Are you a-sayin’ that you hired a cowboy what cain't even ride?”
“Maybe you can teach him—he seems like a bright lad.” Petigru winked conspiritorially. “Put him in a line shack in the middle of nowhere, or give him something difficult to do. He pretends to be dumb, but he might be a humbug. If the side of a building fell on him, it wouldn't bother me. Know what I mean?”
Duane headed for the Cattlemen Saloon, found a table, and looked blankly at a painting of maidens cavorting in the palace gardens atop the bar. A waitress in a low-cut dress took his whiskey order, and then he lowered his eyes to see his companions of the afternoon, the usual gamblers, political debaters, drunkards, but the ranks were greatly thinned, without the tumult of the previous evening.
His eyes fell on the group at the bar, and he was surprised to see Saul Klevins looking back at him. The waitress returned with the glass of whiskey, and Duane sipped smoothly. A few tables away, men played cards with such concentration, it reminded him of prayer vigils in the monastery. What is it about poker that interests them so?
He swallowed the contents of the glass, inhaled through his teeth, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He thought about resuming his search for Lester Boggs, when he noticed Saul Klevins heading toward him, a bottle of whiskey and a glass in his hand. The fastest gun in the county sat opposite Duane without asking permission, pulled the cork out of his bottle, and filled Duane's glass. “Here's to the Pecos Kid,” he said out the corner of his mouth.
Duane couldn't refuse to drink to himself. Both men swallowed whiskey, sizing each other up at close distance. Duane thought Klevins looked like a hateful, spiteful demon, while Klevins loathed the sheer lines of Duane's jaw. Both men gazed into each other's eyes, and it was flint on steel.
“Did you jest get in over yer head last night?” Klevins asked. “Or are you in my line of work?”
“It was a lucky shot.”
“That's what I figgered, but some people say yer really a fast hand from the Pecos country.”
“A newspaper reporter dreamed that up. I was born in the Pecos country, but that's about it.”
Klevins bent to the side, so he could see Duane's six-shooter. “You had good moves fer a man who never fired one of them things afore.”
“Beginner's luck.”
“Don't believe in any kind of luck,” Klevins allowed. “You had a fast hand, but you act like a stupid kid. I don't get it.”
Duane realized that he'd been insulted, but wasn't ready to die. “I'm not stupid, but I'm not an experienced gunfighter, like you. I guess everybody in this saloon is afraid of you, including me.”
Is this kid trying to challenge me in some sneaky way? Klevins asked himself. This is just how he set up that cowboy last night. Something told Klevins to back off. “Maybe some other time,” Klevins said, arising from the table. “God only knows.”
He reminds me of a snake in the grass, Duane evaluated, as he watched Klevins return to the bar. The most dangerous man in town, the last person I want to know, and he doesn't like me. I wouldn't be surprised if he killed me one of these days.
Duane stared into the depths of his whiskey, as if it were a crystal ball. I'd better start practicing with the Colt, as soon as I finish the whiskey, he thought.
“I've been looking all over for you!” Clyde Butterfield sidestepped among the tables. “You're drinking pretty early in the day, aren't you?” The ex-gunfighter pulled back a chair. “I've got a message from a certain lady. She said she's sorry about last night, and she'd like you to stop by at your convenience.”
“I wonder what changed her mind?” Duane asked, mystified.
“She'd thought that you were the Pecos Kid, but I set her straight on that score.”
“But how do you know that I didn't bamboozle you, Mister Butterfield?” Daune asked perversely.
“Come to think of it, you were pretty good for a kid who said he never fired a gun before.”
“You saw how scared I was, but you doubt me anyway?”
“You didn't seem that scared.” Butterfield leaned closer and gazed into his eyes. “Who are you really, kid?”
“Even Saul Klevins thinks I might be the Pecos Kid.”
“You have to admit that it was an awfully good shot.”
Demoralized, Duane shook his head and sighed. “Everybody prefers an interesting rumor to the boring truth. There never was a Pecos Kid. I'm amazed at how gullible all of you are.”
Butterfield pulled out two cheroots. “Care for a smoke?”
Nobody had ever offered Duane a cheroot before, and he'd always wanted to blow smoke
rings in the air. He accepted one, and Butterfield lit it with a match. Duane's mouth filled with tobacco, as it scooted down his throat and felt like fingernails clawing his lungs. He burst into coughing, and Butterfield slapped him on the back. “The goal is not to produce the maximum amount of smoke.”
Duane tossed the cheroot into the nearest cuspidor. “I thought I'd get some target practice, and maybe you can give me a few pointers.”
“There's a place on the east side of town. We can go there right now.”
“Can I meet you in an hour?”
As Duane and Butterfield made plans for shooting practice, the outlaw called Hardy entered the saloon, his collar up and hat low over his eyes. Nobody paid any attention to him, and he appeared to be just another cowboy suffering from a hangover as he meandered toward the bar. He ordered a whiskey, then turned around and scanned faces. He picked out Duane and Clyde Butterfield at the corner table almost immediately.
Hardy and the rest of the gang had just arrived in town, and were searching for Duane. Now he'd been found, but Hardy had no intention of taking him on himself. He tossed whiskey down his throat, then headed for the door, to tell his outlaw brothers the good news.
Len Farnsworth sat at his desk, writing a new story:
PECOS KID THREATENS
PUBLISHER OF SENTINEL
Duane Braddock, killer of a cowboy named Dave Collins on Saturday night, brought his special brand of intimidation and brutality to this office today,
when he threatened to kill Leonard Farnsworth, publisher of Titusville's only newspaper.
The door behind Farnsworth opened, and he spun in his chair, expecting to see the Pecos Kid standing there, but instead it was the major investor in the Titusville Sentinel, wearing a Brooks Brothers suit, carrying his briefcase. “I've been meaning to speak with you about today's headline,” said Edgar Petigru. “What do you think you're doing? We don't want people to think that this is a lawless town. I thought we were in agreement on that.”
Farnsworth raised his forefinger in the air. “A colorful character like the Pecos Kid can make a town famous. People will come from all over the world to see him get shot, and maybe some will stay.”
“The point,” Petigru began, “is that nobody wants to get shot, least of all I myself. Please ... no more stories about violence. We want people to think this is a place where they can bring their families.”
“But Mister Petrigru,” Farnsworth replied, his eyes glittering with journalistic enthusiasm, “I can make the Pecos Kid as famous as Buffalo Bill. His story has all the ingredients—he's young, he's a killer, he was a priest, he ...”
Petrigru's ears perked up. “I didn't know that he was a priest.”
“Well, he wasn't exactly ordained yet, but...”
Petigru stared at him with undisguised contempt. “Farnsworth, you wouldn't know Truth if it fell on you, but I'm a busy man, and don't have time to argue with you. You print one more article about the Pecos Kid, or any other fighting in this town, and I'll have to fire you. Understood?”
“But, sir,” Farnsworth protested weakly, “what about freedom of the press?”
Vanessa examined herself in the parlor mirror, and saw faint wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, but they looked like major excavations in her critical view. The little bump on her nose had always been a problem, her complexion was losing its luster, and her body going soft here and there. I'm going to be an unhappily married woman for the rest of my life, but it's better than six nights a week at the Round-Up Saloon, she reasoned.
She had books, but didn't feel like reading them, and the Titusville Sentinel was a bad joke. Vanessa knew that every lonely cowboy in Texas would love to spend the day with her, and sometimes felt like giving herself to one of them, but cowboys were irresponsible drunkards, and where could it lead?
Vanessa wanted resolution of her problem, not temporary distraction. The thought of marrying Edgar Petigru depressed her thoroughly. Even if I move to New York, and attend the opera every night, I'll still have to go to bed with him, she thought.
Something gleamed in the street, and she sat straighter in her chair. A tall figure in black pants and a black hat with silver conchos strode amid frolicking children. It appeared that the Pecos Kid was about to pay Vanessa a social call!
She jumped from her chair, inspected herself in the mirror again, and pinched her cheeks to get color. It was Annabelle's day off, which meant she'd have to answer the door herself. She chewed her lower lip, because she was afraid of him, or herself; she wasn't certain which. All I can be is his big sister. What good could ever result from Duane Braddock and me? she rationalized.
His fist banged against the door. She composed herself carefully, then hesitated, took a deep breath, and opened the door. He stood hat in hand, red shirt unbuttoned at the collar, black hair showing on his chest.
“Mister Butterfield said you wanted to speak with me,” he said awkwardly.
“I'm so glad you're here, Duane. Please come in.”
Duane entered her home, and was seen by Mrs. MacGillicuddy across the street, and Mrs. Washington a few doors down, not to mention Jed Wilson in the barn, watching Vanessa's home in the hope that he might catch a glimpse of her walking around naked. Instead, he saw the outline of the Pecos Kid through the kitchen window. Jed took another sip of whiskey, pulled on his hat, and ran out the back door, heading for the Carrington Arms Hotel.
Meanwhile, in the kitchen of her home, Vanessa was cutting Duane a thick slice of chocolate cake. “I'm so sorry for the cruel things I said last night,” she apologized. “Like a fool, I believed what everyone told me. Where did you sleep?”
“On the sage.”
“My goodness—outdoors?”
Duane didn't reply, because she knew as well as he that the sage was outdoors. Instead, he sliced a forkful of cake and placed it into his mouth. The rich chocolate frosting burst against his tongue, an entirely new sensation, for he'd never eaten chocolate cake before. “This is really good,” he said, scoffing it up eagerly.
She saw the poor orphan boy deprived of special treats, and felt an overwhelming need to care for him, mother him, and even suckle him at her breast. Whatever happens, I mustn't spoil the special friendship that I have with this unfortunate young man, she tried to convince herself.
“Thank God for Mister Butterfield,” she declared. “He certainly set me straight. I'm so embarrassed by the cruel things I said to you last night. I hope you'll forgive me.”
“You were just misinformed, like everybody else.”
“But you did ... kill... that cowboy.”
The worm of doubt gnawed her mind once more. What if he's the most clever trickster to ever come down the pike? Maybe he fooled Butterfield too. What if he's really the Pecos Kid? she pondered.
He perceived her doubt, and his spirits sank once more. “It's a wonder I haven't been hanged yet.”
“It's the same for me,” she admitted. “I'm considered a scarlet woman, because I sing in a saloon and keep company with Edgar Petigru. He owns this house, he bought the dress on my back, and he pays my salary. It's not the happiest circumstance of my life, but I don't have any reasonable alternatives.”
“Why don't you leave him?”
“Where will I go?”
“I'll take care of you.”
She laughed sardonically. “But you have even less money than I. You can't even take care of yourself.”
“Tomorrow I'll start my new job,” Duane said. “Or we could go to another town.”
“Let me show you something.” She pulled him out of his chair, dragged him to the vestibule, and positioned him before the full-length mirror. “Look!”
They stood side by side, shoulders touching, and she saw a frantic, harried woman of a certain age, standing next to a young frontier Adonis, while his view was of a stunning regal blonde beside a disheveled and surly cowboy wearing a Colt slung low and tied down, gunfighter style.
She could feel his body heat
like a horse that had just galloped a long distance, and let her eyes rove shamelessly up and down his body, while he eyed her in the same desirous manner. He knew that he should be a gentleman, and return meekly to the table, but somehow couldn't prevent himself from reaching out and touching his fingers to her cheek.
A thrill passed through her, and she turned toward him, an expression of terror in her eyes. Whatever made me think I could be his big sister? He wrapped his arms around her waist, and touched his lips to her nose.
“Please don't, Duane,” she pleaded.
He knew that he should heed her request, but couldn't stop nibbling her ear. She shuddered against him, and a low moan arose from her parted lips. “No ... Duane . ..”
He touched his lips to her throat, reveling in the strong, lithe body writhing in his arms. This is what he'd dreamed about from the moment he'd met her, and now at last the dream had come true. Overwhelmed by mad animal passion, they sank to the floor, his warm breath on her throat. “No ...” she uttered, “no...”
He ran his hands over her body, and she ground her lips against his. Their tongues touched, his hand roved up the side of her leg, and suddenly footsteps came to them from the porch outside.
They froze in terror, romantic illusions shattering like delicate crystal. Duane fled to the parlor, tucking in his shirt, while Vanessa readjusted her hair in front of the mirror. The expected knock came, as she composed herself, opened the door, and nearly fainted dead away. “Why Edgar, dear—how kind of you to drop by.” She leaned forward and kissed his cheek.
He was flabbergasted, because he'd expected to find her en flagrante with the Pecos Kid. “Where is he?” Edgar growled. “I know he's here.”
“Of course he's here. Where else would he go in this ridiculous town?”
She took Edgar's hand and led him to the parlor, where Duane arose casually from a chair, holding out his hand. “Good to see you again, sir.”
Edgar was trying to recover from not catching them in the expected lewd position, while Vanessa opened a drawer in the nearby cabinet, and removed a handful of coins. “This is for you,” she said to Duane, “so that you can hire a wagon, and go to the Lazy Y in the morning. And I'd like you to stay in a decent hotel tonight, so that you don't have to sleep in the open.”
