Beginner's Luck

by Len Levinson

  “I'll pay you back as soon as I get my first pay,” Duane said, backing steadily toward the door. “Good day, Mister Petigru. Perhaps I'll see you at the Lazy Y sometime.”

  The door closed, and Duane was gone. Petigru noticed that Vanessa appeared agitated, and could understand why a woman might find the young poppycock attractive. He waited until Duane was out of earshot, and then inquired: “Are you having a love affair with him?”

  “Don't be absurd,” she snapped.

  “You wouldn't be the first woman to commit indiscretions with a younger man.”

  “And you're not the first jealous fool in the world. You ran here in the hopes of catching me in a compromising situation with that unfortunate boy, and I find your manner insulting. If you don't mind, I think it's time you returned to your hotel.”

  He opened his mouth to reply, but she was already on the way to her bedroom. He heard the door slam, and then her muffled sobs drilled into his ears. He headed toward the vestibule, feeling guilty and defeated.

  CHAPTER 7

  DUANE WANDERED ACROSS THE ROLLING plain east of town, on the way to his rendezvous with Clyde Butterfield. Alert for Indians, rattlesnakes, and prairie dog holes, he held his gun with the hammer cocked, as his eyes perused the terrain relentlessly. On the azure horizon were bizarre rock formations resembling ziggurat temples of ancient Babylonia, and he knew that the land once had lain beneath an ancient sea, full of fish and gigantic crocodiles.

  How multifarious is God's creation, Duane thought, as his mind turned from aquatic life to the mad minute in the vestibule with the singing sensation of Titusville. His flings in whorehouses were mere physical exercises compared to what happened during the all-too-brief rapture with that magnificent lady. If I knew more about women's clothing, I would've had her naked on the floor, he thought confidently. This is what Wordsworth, Swinburne, and Tennyson wrote about—life can be poetry itself! He realized that he was in love for the first time in his life, and didn't know whether to be happy or puke his guts out behind a nearby cholla cactus.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” drawled a voice to his right.

  Duane spun around, aiming his six-shooter. The figure of Clyde Butterfield materialized out of the wilderness, sitting on a low rock, smoking a cheroot. “Lucky for you—I'm no injun,” he said. He jumped to his feet, and tramped toward Duane. “How'd the meeting go with Miss Fontaine?”

  “I had a piece of chocolate cake.”

  “Is that what they call it these days?” Butterfield led Duane off the trail. “It may be difficult for you to understand her, because you didn't experience the defeat of the Confederacy. Her world has cracked apart, and nobody's going to put it back to together again.”

  They came to a row of bottles and cans before a steep red limestone cliff, with a half-full gunnysack lying nearby. Butterfield puffed his cigar casually, and appeared distracted, when suddenly, like a puma, he sprang into action.

  Duane flinched, because it all happened so quickly. In a split instant, Butterfield passed from a lazy, dreamlike state to the classic draw. The sage reverberated with explosions, thick smoke blasted, and tin cans flew into the air, as bottles were shattered to bits.

  It was over as suddenly as it began, and Butterfield stood for a few moments like a statue, cheroot still clamped in his teeth, and gun pointed at his last target. Then he flipped the gun in the air, caught it behind his back, and dropped it into his holster. “It's ten percent talent and ninety percent practice. You can learn it all, if you pay attention. Shall we begin?”

  Vanessa watched Edgar Petigru recede toward the town that he owned, waited until certain he wouldn't return, then ran to the kitchen, poured herself two fingers of whiskey, and drank it down.

  She sat at the kitchen table and buried her face in her hands. What have I done? she asked herself. I nearly threw away everything, because I lost control of myself with that damned Duane Braddock. Another two minutes, he would've had my bloomers off! I was totally lost, and thank God Edgar showed up.

  Her face turned red with shame. There I was like the heroine of a cheap French novel, groveling on the floor with a man ten years younger than I. Duane must think I'm a common slut, the way he touched me, and I certainly didn't put up much of a fight. What was I thinking? And Edgar nearly caught us in the act! Oh my God, this can't be happening. Am I in love with Duane Braddock? Have I finally gone totally insane? I must never, under any circumstances, let that happen again. Do you understand, Vanessa, you idiot? Don't ever let yourself be alone with him again, she scolded herself.

  But she couldn't forget rubbing against his sinewy body, and when he'd grasped her breast, she'd nearly fainted with delirium. Stop thinking about him, she commanded herself, but somehow her breast continued to tingle for the rest of the day.

  Singleton entered the Blind Pig, and saw the gang seated at a round table in the middle of the floor, drinking whiskey and playing cards. They looked up expectantly as he pulled up a chair. “It's worse'n we thought,” he uttered. “He's teamed up with Clyde Butterfield, and they're havin’ some shootin’ practice on the sage. They're both fast, they got good eyes, and I don't think we can take ‘em both at the same time.”

  Smollett's small eyes smoldered with frustration. “We'll wait until Braddock is alone, and then we'll bushwhack him. Domenici, it's your turn to watch him. Don't let him out of your sight.”

  It was growing dark, as Duane and Butterfield walked back to town. They were silent, arms and shoulders sore. It had been three hours of draw and fire.

  “You've still got a long way to go,” Butterfield lectured, “and it might be a good idea to stay out of fistfights, because you could hurt your hand, and that can interfere with a clean draw.”

  They arrived at the edge of the settlement; lamps blazed in windows, streets were empty. Butterfield continued the seminar as they moved toward the saloon district. “Some men wear a glove to protect their shooting hand. I'd advise you to practice a minimum of one hour per day, for it's practice that separates the serious shooter from the joker.” Butterfield placed his hand on Duane's shoulder, as if about to supply the most profound lesson of all, and Duane strained his ears to catch every lofty syllable. “I've got to see a man about a horse. Catch up with you later.”

  The ex-gunfighter reminded Duane of the austere old abbot, as he disappeared into a murky alley. Duane turned around, and saw the Crystal Palace Saloon.

  It was nearly empty, as he made his way to the chop counter. He ordered a steak dinner, sat at a table with his back to the wall, and stuffed his face hungrily, while keeping track of everybody's hands.

  Butterfield had taught him to listen for the telltale mechanical click of a hammer being cocked amid other noise, and to hit the floor accordingly, regardless of what else was happening. Butterfield had also shown him many useful tricks and ploys of the gunfighter's trade, and Duane had glowed in the praise of his mentor. Now at last he had Mr. Colt to help him cope with the hardship of life in the secular world.

  Petigru sat in his office, studying his ledgers. Town-making was more expensive that he'd anticipated, and sometimes he thought that every citizen of Titusville was on his payroll, from carpenters to cowboys, to the president of the bank. If something doesn't happen within the next six months, I'll get a job emptying spittoons at one of my own saloons.

  He scratched his armpit nervously, and had a vague unsettled feeling concerning Vanessa and Duane. He'd pushed his way into an ordinary domestic scene, with no evidence of nefarious conduct, but she'd seemed flustered, her normally perfect coiffure slightly awry, a strange glint in her eyes. Something had happened between her and Duane, but what? Surely they didn't...

  Petigru was getting a headache. He reached for a pitcher of cool water flavored with whatever dead insect had flown into it, as his suspicion deepened like a great abyss. Were they doing it, when they noticed me coming?

  The more he thought about it, the more the pieces fell into place. God only knows how many lies s
he's told me. I'll bet she's making love behind my back with that ignorant twit. Well, I'll fix her, and as for the Pecos Kid, if he's not careful—I'll pay Saul Klevins to put a bullet between.his eyes.

  Duane pushed his empty plate away, swallowed his last few ounces of beer, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. I'll go to bed early, he said to himself. I want to be clearheaded and alert when I start my first day on the job.

  His eyes roved the saloon, as he approached the door. Any fast move or hostile word would send him diving beneath a table. Butterfield had pounded the truth of life into him relentlessly. Pay attention, or you'll end up on Boot Hill.

  Duane felt silly to be so extracautious, because one part of him considered Butterfield overly cynical. It's not that dangerous, Duane thought. Stay out of saloons, don't look for fights, and you'll be just fine.

  He pushed open the bat-wing doors, and nearly collided with a cowboy on his way in. “Watch whar the hell yer goin'!” the cowboy with the long lantern jaw and sandy mustache bellowed. “Well I'll be the son of an armadillo—if it ain't the Pecos Kid! Where the hell you been, boy?”

  Duane had finally found Boggs, his cowboy pard. “I was having some target practice with Clyde Butterfield. Which way you headed?”

  “I was a-hopin’ that somebody would buy me a drink in thar,” he replied. “You got any money on you?”

  “We start our new jobs tomorrow, and should be at the Lazy Y early. I think we'd better find a hotel and get some sleep.”

  “What the hell you want to sleep fer?” Boggs staggered on the sidewalk, and it was clear that he'd already enjoyed several drinks. “When you die, you can sleep ferever, but now you got to live, cowboy!”

  Duane opened his mouth to reply, when he heard a faint metallic click across the street. It was barely audible amid horses snorting and stomping at the hitching rail, conversations in saloons, and hoofbeats on the street. Duane looked at Boggs, and they both hollered at the same moment: “Get down!”

  They dove to the sidewalk, as the night exploded all around them, and lead whizzed over their heads, or slammed into the wooden sidewalk beneath them, sending splinters flying through the air. Duane rolled behind a water trough, a bullet blasted through the boards, and water spurted into his eye.

  Never before had he been under intense fire from all directions, and he found the experience petrifying, particularly since he hadn't the slightest idea of what was going on. “Keep yer head down!” Boggs shouted, stone-cold sober now, like the sergeant he'd been at Chancellorsvile. “Return their fire!”

  Duane drew his gun, thumbed back the hammer, and raised one eye above the trough. A gun fired on the far side of the street, and something warm blew a hole in his hat.

  “I said return their fire, goddammit!”

  Boggs pulled the trigger, his gun exploded, and smoke expanded behind the trough. Something prompted Duane to look up, and he was astonished to see a man at the edge of the roof, a gun in his hand, aiming down. Duane spun around and fired wildly. The man shot back, and hot lead slammed into the water trough beside Duane, who clenched his teeth, aimed more carefully, and squeezed the trigger. The gun kicked in his hand, and smoke obscured his vision for a moment, but a gust of wind cleared it away, and Duane saw the man roll lifelessly down the eaves, and land on the sidewalk. Duane stared at him, the second man he'd ever killed, and he didn't even know his name.

  “I said return their fire!”

  Bullets flew through the air like angry gnats, as Boggs perched stalwartly on one knee behind the water trough, firing at targets across the street. Duane emulated his position, as a bullet zipped past his ear, making him flinch. He saw muzzle blasts across the street, aimed at one of them, and fired simultaneously with Boggs. A second later there was a shriek in the night. “I'm hit!”

  “Let's get out of here!” hollered a deep rumbling voice.

  Duane fired at a murky figure fleeing down an alley, but couldn't tell whether he'd brought him down. He heard footsteps receding into the distance, and no more guns were fired on the far side of the street. Hoofbeats could be heard in the alley.

  “Keep yer head down!” Boggs ordered.

  Duane ducked behind the trough, and thumbed cartridges into his Colt. Moonlight fell on the waxy features of the man he'd killed, and he looked vaguely familiar, but Duane couldn't quite place him.

  “All clear out there?” asked a voice from the Crystal Palace Saloon.

  “Tears so,” Boggs replied.

  Boggs's shirt was soaked with blood. He holstered his gun, then sat heavily on the bench in front of the saloon. “Just like the goddamned war fer a moment thar,” he wheezed.

  Men drifted out of saloons, as Duane kneeled before Boggs. His cowboy pard had been shot in the shoulder. Boggs seemed in a trance, as his life's blood oozed out of him. “The most important duty of a soldier,” he murmured, “is ...”

  He closed his eyes, pitched forward, and Duane caught him before his face crashed into the sidewalk. Duane laid him down gently and rolled him over.

  “Is he dead?” asked a voice behind Duane.

  “Not yet,” Duane replied, “but somebody'd better get the doctor real fast.”

  Deputy Dawson strolled down the center of the street, gun in hand. “What the hell's going on here?”

  “Here comes our lawman,” somebody said snidely, “late as usual.”

  Duane unbuttoned Boggs's shirt and bared the ugly wound. Boggs was passed out completely, face pale, whites of his eyes showing. If it hadn't been for this man, Duane thought, I'd probably be dead right now. Will I have to look over my shoulder for the rest of my life, just because I shot some son of a bitch?

  CHAPTER 8

  DUANE SAT IN THE BUCKBOARD,A SHARPSbuffalo rifle cradled in his lap. The driver, a jolly fellow named Hank Atchison, slapped the reins across the backs of the horses, as he drove Duane toward the Lazy Y Ranch. “Injuns gener'ly don't attack less'n they think they're a-gonna win,” Atchison explained. “Keep yer eyes peeled whenever yer out here, ‘cause if you don't see ‘em first, yer daid.”

  Duane's eyes explored the terrain, as he realized yet again that the world was far more lethal than he'd previously imagined. He longed for the tranquil spiritual life, but could never return to the monastery now. The memory of Vanessa's lithe body warmed him in the cool spring morning, and he looked forward to seeing her in town next Saturday night.

  An arduous week lay ahead, because Boggs had told him that a new tenderfoot cowboy would become everybody's scapegoat until he proved himself worthy of their company. If I could plow through Saint Thomas Aquinas, I can handle anything, Duane tried to reassure himself, as the buckboard rumbled closer toward his highest career aspiration.

  Len Farnsworth hunched over his desk, writing feverishly.

  PECOS KID SHOOTS TWO COWBOYS

  OVER “LOOSE” WOMAN

  IN TITUSVILLE

  Duane Braddock, better known as the Pecos Kid, provided his own special brand of entertainment in our town last night, when he shot two outlaws to death on Main Street, in front of the Crystal Palace Saloon, which is open twenty-four hours a day, and serves exceptionally fine food.

  The object of their dispute evidently was a certain “scarlet woman” named

  Farnsworth paused, wondering what to call the fictitious woman, because he couldn't mistakenly use the name of a real lady of the night, who might shoot him for cheap revenge.

  The door opened behind him, and Edgar Petigru stormed into the office, a scowl on his face. “Don't you dare!” he shouted, as he marched toward the desk.

  Farnsworth shot to his feet, as Petigru grabbed the news story that he'd been working on. “Just as I thought!” Petigru said. “You're incorrigible, and the only way to stop you is drive a stake through your heart! I told you to forget about the Pecos Kid!”

  “But you don't understand,” Farnsworth replied, eyes dancing with headlines and deadlines. “We're creating a legend here in Titusville. When I'm finished, fo
lks all across this country will know about this town.”

  “They'll know it's a place to steer clear of!” Petigru replied angrily. “Have you gone mad? And what's this about a ‘scarlet woman'? You're not even telling the truth!”

  “If you knew the so-called truth, you'd be on the next stage out of town, Mister Petigru.”

  The New York tycoon was astonished by this completely unexpected remark. “What're you talking about?”

  Farnsworth spat into the cuspidor. “We've got a deputy sheriff who shows up in time to carry the bodies away, and Titusville has become a magnet for every hard case in Texas.”

  “Thanks to your insipid newspaper stories. The Pecos Kid? Don't make me laugh. You're going to get that boy killed.”

  “That'd be the best story of all,” Farnsworth said, framing the headline in his mind:

  PECOS KID GUNNED DOWN

  Petigru paced back and forth, hands clasped behind his back. “I simply cannot tolerate any more of this foolishness! The Titusville Sentinel is defunct as of right now! I'll send a messenger with your final pay later in the day! I'd appreciate it if you'd clear out of this office without delay.”

  Farnsworth pulled out his Colt, and said: “My name is on the lease, and it's my press. I brought it here on the back of a mule.”

  “I've heard that story a hundred times, and it's probably not true, either. Let's not forget that I'm the man who lent you five thousand dollars to get that rag of yours started in the first place.”

  “Pay you back when I get it, and if I never get it, that's business. I lost my shirt a few times along the road, too.”