by Len Levinson
Petigru looked down the barrel of the gun, the most convincing debating tool of all. “Surely you're not going to shoot me.”
“I will, if you don't get out of my office.”
“You'd be living in the gutter right now, if it weren't for me.”
“But I ain't,” Farnsworth replied, thumbing back the hammer.
On a far reach of prairie, the outlaws dug a grave for their fallen comrade, Ken Dominici, shot through the head last night in Titusville. Dominici lay on the ground stiff as a board, his black beard caked with blood, as Hardy worked the shovel.
Smollett sat nearby, his left thigh bandaged. While running away, he'd been clipped with a bullet from behind. The bushwhack had gone awry, due to the arrival of a friend of the Pecos Kid, and Daltry had been shot off the roof. The original gang of six had diminished to four.
Singleton had cut the lead out of Smollett's leg with his knife, and pain throbbed through his body, as he cursed the cowboy who'd diverted the Pecos Kid from the line of fire. Smollett, who was weak and dizzy and couldn't walk on his bum leg, felt as though his luck was running out.
Daltry spelled Singleton at the shovel, and Singleton sipped out of the canteen. Then he put on his eagle-feathered hat and shuffled wearily toward Smollett. “What do ya think?” he asked.
“Maybe we should put this behind us, and move on.”
“No matter where we go, we won't find a town with less law than Titusville, and that bank still looks good to me. I say we hit it, and move on.”
“What about the Pecos Kid?”
“Next time we'll kill him right.”
“I think he's more trouble than he's worth.”
“He killed three of my friends.” Singleton looked at Hardy, who was pressing his boot against the shovel's blade. “Hey—should we kill the Pecos Kid, or let ‘im off the hook?”
Hardy wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his arm, and thought for a few moments. “Kill ‘im,” he said. Then he resumed shoveling.
Mayor Lonsdale sat at his desk, eating a crumpet saturated with butter and raspberry jam, while studying a map of Texas. Maybe, when this is all over, the missus and me'll go to Austin, and become cosmopolitan folks.
The door to his office opened, and Petigru stood there, an expression of tribulation upon his distinguished New York features. “Come in, boy,” the mayor said, indicating a chair in front of his desk. “Care for a crumpet?”
Edgar flung his arms outward. “How can you talk about crumpets, you fool! We have no law here, and it's time we sent for the Rangers!”
Mayor Lonsdale smiled beneficently. “There's a lot that you don't know about Texas, Petigru. Don't ever call a man a fool to his face, unless yer ready to die.” The mayor cocked the hammer of his Remington and aimed at the stylish New Yorker. “Most unhealthy thing you can do.”
Petigru found himself gazing down the barrel of a gun for the second time that day. “It appears that the moral climate of this town has been deteriorating rather rapidly during the past several days. My editor has just threatened to kill me.”
“Were there witnesses?”
“I was alone, unfortunately.”
“If you need a good witness, let me recommend my cousin Carl. He'll go with you everwheres, testify to anything you say, and he'll only cost one hundred dollars a month.”
Petigru placed his fists on the mayor's desk and leaned forward. “I think I've got your whole damn family on my payroll, and it's my money that keeps you in crumpets, because I've bought most of this town from you!”
“And I researched the titles, too,” the mayor pointed out.
“Which means that they might not even have been yours legally!”
Mayor Lonsdale winked. “But I wouldn't worry about it if'n I was you, Edgar, because any doctor'll tell you that worryin’ does no good for the liver.”
Petigru dropped into a green leather chair in front of the mayor's desk. “Sometimes, when my spirits get really low, I think that you and all the others in this town have swindled me. I've supported carpenters, lawyers, cowboys, bankers, and even well-diggers. In a sense, this whole town has been a figment of my imagination.”
“But think of what'll happen when the railroad comes. We'll all be rich.”
“What if the railroad doesn't come?”
“Then we'll all move to our next opportunity, that's all.”
“But you'll be moving with my money, and I'll be flat busted!” Petigru wore a distraught expression, for he was voicing his deepest fears for the first time. Has a bunch of ignorant and uneducated bumpkins bamboozled me out of my fortune, and part of my mother's? They've sold me my own town in the middle of nowhere, and they've let me play king, but what'll happen when my money runs out?
Mayor Lonsdale looked like a fiendish little dwarf as he aimed down the barrel of his gun at Edgar, and closed one eye. “I think I know what's on yer mind, Edgar, and I can't say that I haven't expected it. If yer a-thinkin’ about leavin’ yer friends and neighbors in the lurch, you got another think a-comin’, ‘cause we won't stand for it.”
This was yet another blow to Edgar's delicate constitution. “Surely you're not going to hold me captive!”
“Hell no,” the mayor replied. “You can leave after you fulfill yer financial obligations.”
“I'm not paying another dime,” Edgar said adamantly. “You can take your damned town back—I don't want it!”
“Neither do we, because if the railroad don't come —this town ain't worth buffalo shit.”
The buckboard came to a stop between the barn and the main house. “This is it, Kid,” said Hank Atchison. “The bunkhouse is behind the barn. Just do as yer told, don't ask too many questions, and you'll git along jest fine.”
They shook hands, and Duane climbed down from the buckboard. Atchison flicked the reins, and the horses turned around in the yard, hauling the buck-board back toward Titusville. Duane stood next to the white picket fence and looked at the big barn.
Not a soul was in sight. He turned to the main house, a large two-story deserted wooden building. I guess that's where Mister Petigru lives when he comes out here, he thought. Duane tossed his bedroll over his shoulder, and headed for the bunkhouse. He had no idea what job they'd give him, and was prepared to shovel horse manure and sweep floors. I hope I can make friends with one of the cowboys, and he'll teach me how to ride, he said to himself.
The bunkhouse was a rectangular shack behind the barn, with smoke twirling from its chimney. Nearby was a hitching rail, a pile of wood, and a privy with a crude half-moon cut into its door. Duane inclined toward the bunkhouse, his new home for the forseeable future.
He opened the door, and a dozen pairs of eyes drilled through him. He was surprised to see cowboys sitting around, wearing hats, boots, and guns, with barely suppressed amusement on their faces. A bottle of whiskey sat on the table, near glasses and a deck of cards.
A man with a black handlebar mustache stepped forward. “I'm Jake Russell, the foreman. And this is ... Jethro.”
Duane looked into the battered features of the big drunken cowboy he'd fought on his first night in town. Oh no.
But Jethro grinned, as he shook Duane's hand. “You got a helluva punch, boy.”
Russell introduced Duane to the other cowboys, and Duane shook their hands. He was suspicious of their apparent affability, because Atchison had said that new cowboys sometimes died under mysterious circumstances, before being accepted by the bunkhouse. If that wasn't enough, Jethro was there as well, but somehow the great hulk didn't seem so antagonistic now that he was sober.
Russell said warmly, “Pick out an empty bunk, and the washbasin's in back. I understand that you don't know how to ride a horse?”
“That's right,” Duane admitted. “I don't.”
A cowboy nearby guffawed, and covered mirth with his hand. Duane looked at a mean bunch of armed desperados; some carried knives in sheaths attached to their belts, and others had them sticking out of their b
oots.
“We'll have to teach you,” Russell continued, “because you can't do this job less'n you can ride. But there's two schools of thought ‘bout larnin’ ter ride. One school says you start with gentle old nags, and work yer way up to the real horses, while the other school says a man should hop on the wildest son of a bitch in the barn, and ride ‘em cowboy. Which way d'you want, kid?”
This evidently is the first of their pranks, Duane realized. But I'm not going to break my neck to amuse them on a boring Monday afternoon. “If you don't mind, I'd like to start off with an easy horse.”
Russell turned toward his cowboy crew. “Why don't a couple of you boys go to the barn and saddle up Old Ned fer Mister Braddock. We might as well give him his first lesson naow.”
Edgar sat behind his desk, but no matter how he figured the numbers, he was deeply in debt to Mayor Lonsdale, Banker Holcomb, Councilman Finney, Judge Jenks, and numerous other citizens of Titusville, and he even owed money to himself as owner of the Carrington Arms Hotel.
He wasn't broke, but it was close. He could borrow more from his mother, but conscience wouldn't allow it. I'm stuck in this town, and my life is danger. The local bumpkins have been swindling me all along, and I underestimated them because they didn't speak like Wall Street lawyers! he chided himself.
There was a knock on his door, and he reached for his Colt. “Come in.”
Saul Klevins entered the suite, thumbs hooked in his gun belt. “You wanted to see me, Mister Petigru.”
“Yes, have a seat, Mister Klevins. Could I get you something to drink?”
“Whiskey.”
Petrigru scurried to the bar, filled a glass with his finest stock, and carried it to Klevins. “I'd like to hire you as my bodyguard.”
“'Bout goddamned time you seen the light,” Petigru replied. “It's a wonder you haven't been shot by now.”
Thank God there are people like Klevins in the world, Petigru thought. “What are your going rates?”
“Fer you, two hundred dollars a month.”
Petigru's eyes bugged out of his head, and he felt as though his gut would bust. “Two hundred dollars ...”
“Guess you ain't innerested,” Klevins said. He poured the whiskey down his throat, and headed for the door.
“Wait a minute!” Petigru hollered, jumping up from his desk. “Let's talk!”
“My price just went to two-fifty,” Klevins said, gripping the doorknob.
“I'll pay!”
Klevins smiled faintly, as he returned to the desk. “In advance.”
“Of course. Certainly.” Petigru kneeled in front of his safe, twirled the dial, and opened it up. Inside were stacks of paper money and bags of coins. Petigru counted out the amount carefully, as Klevins contemplated putting a bullet through the back of his head. This Yankee is even dumber than I thought, Klevins said to himself. Maybe I should take it all right now. Before Klevins could make up his mind, Petigru slammed the door shut, and turned the knob.
Maybe some other time, Klevins thought, as he accepted the money from Petigru's hand. “What'll my duties be, sir?”
“Protect my life and property, as circumstances require. Essentially, you'll be living with me. I'll have the clerk send up a cot for you. And you'll eat at my table, too, of course. There may come a point where I'll want to be alone, and I'll tell you to leave. I hope you won't take it personally.”
“I'm a perfessional bodyguard,” Klevins replied. “I don't take nothin’ personally.”
Duane saw a horse in the middle of the corral, with a cowboy on either side, holding the bridle tightly, a bandanna tied around the horse's eyes. Other cowboys sat on rungs of the fence, a row of spurs sticking out behind them.
“Why's the horse blindfolded?” Duane asked Russell.
Russell spat a gob of something brown at the ground. “Wa'al, Old Ned, he likes to get as much sleep as he can, and he can't sleep in the light, so we blindfold him.”
They came to the edge of the fence and looked over the slats. Old Ned was coal black, lean, and appeared skitterish, an unusual quality for a horse supposedly docile. The horse's tail swished back and forth impatiently, and he looked like a coiled spring ready to leap through the sky.
Duane was not the fool they thought, and he perceived a cowboy joke in the making. Old Ned is probably the most cantankerous horse in the barn, and these cowboys are here to see me get stomped. But he knew that he had to play along with their pranks to some degree, otherwise they'd never accept him. He looked at the horse's proud head and long, muscular legs. The animal reminded him vaguely of Vanessa Fontaine, with the same excitable energy. He remembered what Boggs had told him about hanging on with his heels, and becoming one with the horse. Duane's youthful optimism came to the fore, as he thought: Maybe I can turn this prank around, and have the last laugh.
Russell turned toward him. “You ain't backin’ out, are ya?”
“Hell no,” Duane replied. “Let's do it.”
He climbed over the fence and walked toward the horse, who perked up his ears and turned in his direction. The closer Duane came, the bigger and younger the horse became, and Duane wondered if he were being incautious. What if this horse bucks me, and I break my neck? he wondered. What the hell've I got myself into this time?
He looked around the corral, where cowboys watched him avidly from grandstand seats. It reminded him of an ordination ceremony in the monastery, with the same portentous gravity. He approached the left side of the horse, as Boggs had taught him. Swing yer arm fer balance, he heard the cowboy say in his ear.
Two cowboys struggled to control Old Ned, who appeared raring to go. Duane hesitated, because in a few seconds he'd be riding a cyclone. But he had to learn, and if this was the way God wanted it, he'd see it through. Maybe I can stay on his back if I hold on tight and go with his motions, he speculated.
He touched his hand to the side of the horse's immense neck. “Just hold steady, boy.”
Duane heard a snicker behind him, as he prepared to place his boot in the stirrup. If I can ride this horse, my troubles will be over, the orphan thought hopefully. “I'm ready,” he told the two cowboys.
“He's all yers,” one of them replied.
Duane thrust his toe into the stirrup, grabbed the pommel, swung his other leg up, and settled into the saddle. One cowboy handed him the reins, and the other cowboy removed the blindfold from Old Ned. Duane knew that his hat wouldn't remain on his head long, so he held it in his extended left hand.
The horse blinked his huge eyes at the world that suddenly had reappeared. He'd been worried that he'd gone blind, but now could see again! An uncomfortable weight sat on his back, and he didn't want it there.
Meanwhile, Duane wondered why the horse wasn't moving. Maybe he really is a docile old animal, he conjectured. I don't know anything about horses, and these cowboys wouldn't kill me for a few laughs, would they?
Suddenly Duane felt a violent kick in the butt, and next thing he knew, he was flying through the air. He performed an unintentional somersault, and landed on his head near the slats of the fence.
“Watch out!” hollered a cowboy.
Duane rolled onto his side and opened his eyes. Old Ned cantered toward him, and it was clear to Duane, even with his scant knowledge of horseflesh, that the animal had malice in his heart. He heard cowboys roaring with laughter, as he scooted beneath the fence. Old Ned came to a halt a few feet away, glaring at him through the slats.
Russell slapped Duane on the back. “Not a bad ride fer the first time, eh, boys?”
The cowboys gathered around, gleeful expressions on their faces, and Jethro slapped him on the back so hard, Duane nearly fell on his face. The Pecos Kid turned toward the corral, looked the horse in the eyes, and even Old Ned seemed to be laughing. You'll never ride me, you puny two-legged fool, he seemed to taunt.
Jethro pointed at the horse. “My God—I thank we made a mistake, Ramrod. That ain't Old Ned. That's Thunderbolt—meanest horse we got!”
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Russell widened his eyes in mock surprise. “I'll be damned, but I reckon yer right.” He turned toward Duane. “Sorry, but the boys got mixed up. We'll take Thunderbolt back to the barn, and bring out Old Ned.”
Sure, Duane thought, and the next horse'll be even meaner than this one. These cowboys won't stop until every bone in my body is broken. But maybe, if I really dig my heels in, I can stay on the son of a bitch. “Hold on, Ramrod,” he said. “I'd rather learn on a spirited animal like Thunderbolt, instead of a nag like Old Ned.”
Ramrod frowned. “I wouldn't push it too far if'n I was you. We had our little joke, and you fell fer it like a ton of bricks. Now we can git one of the tamer horses.”
“You said yourself that the best way to learn is to jump on the wildest horse in the corral.”
I was exaggeratin’,” Russell replied. “You keep after Thunderbolt, he's liable to kill you.”
I must impose my will on this animal, Duane realized. He looked into the horse's eyes, and Thunderbolt took three steps backward, then swished his tail and perked up his ears. Duane remembered the words of Lester Boggs, his cowboy mentor:
Ain't never been a horse, what couldn't be rode.
Ain't never been a cowboy, what couldn't be throwed.
Duane wondered whether or not he was insane, as he climbed over the fence. The cowboys grumbled among themselves, because the joke was being carried too far, and they didn't want anybody to get stomped. I'm going to ride this horse, Duane vowed, as he jumped to the ground in front of Thunderbolt. “Now take it easy, boy,” Duane said soothingly, attempting to approach the animal from his left side.
But Thunderbolt kept changing position, so that he could see Duane head-on. Duane gazed into the animal's immense bulbous eyes, and wondered what kind of intelligence lurked within.
“I wouldn't want anybody on my back, either,” Duane murmured to the horse, attempting to pat his mane.
