by Len Levinson
Sometimes Edgar had the notion that Klevins didn't like him, and might even shoot him in the back. Edgar had no firm basis for these thoughts, but experienced them nonetheless. Klevins carried an aura of untrustworthiness about him, which made Edgar distinctly uneasy.
Although Klevins appeared to be sleeping, he actually was wide awake, peering at Edgar beneath the brim of his hat. Klevins had laid plans throughout the week. On Monday evening, before Edgar locked the safe for the night, Klevins would slit his throat, steal the money, and be in another jurisdiction by the time Edgar's body was found.
Klevins knew that Edgar would go to the Round-Up Saloon later, to see Vanessa Fontaine. But this time he won't git rid of me so easy, he told himself. I'll have me a talk with the bitch, and maybe she and me can come to terms, especially when she finds out that I'm a-comin’ inter a large sum of money. Klevins smiled confidently beneath his hat. Her eyes'll light up when I tell her about the money, because whores have got cash boxes where their hearts are supposed to be, he concluded.
Duane crouched in the alley, watching the carriage approach on the darkened street. He was in the quiet part of town, far from the saloon district, waiting along the route Vanessa usually traveled to the Round-Up Saloon.
He wore his black pants, a black shirt, and a yellow U.S. Cavalry bandanna that he'd bought from one of the cowboys. Atop his head, at a jaunty devil-may-care angle, sat his hat circled with silver conchos. The carriage drew abreast, and he sprang out of the alley, dashed into the street, and jumped onto the running board. Vanessa pulled back in horror, one hand over her breast, for suddenly there he was, the identical person she'd been thinking about on her ride to work.
He opened the door, swung inside, and sat on the seat beside her. Their eyes met in the darkness, she hesitated, but Duane leaned forward and touched his lips gently to hers. She was shocked, enchanted, thrilled, overjoyed—a clutter of confusing emotions sweeping over her.
“I've been thinking about you all week,” he said.
“I've been thinking about you, too,” she replied, the words out of her mouth before she could stop herself. He touched his hand to her breast, and she didn't slap his face, as she knew she would. “Oh, Duane,” she breathed.
Their tongues touched, and he squeezed her breast gently. It was small, firm, pert, and his thumb could make out the outline of the nipple tucked away beneath layers of fabric.
“Don't do that,” she begged. “We'll be at the Round-Up soon, and we can't be seen like this.”
She made perfect sense, but he couldn't remove his hand, as though it were stuck by the strongest glue known to mankind. He felt her grace and strength, as their tongues did soft combat. She melted in his arms. His other hand roved beneath her dress, and she breathed heavily, as she tried to talk sense to herself. He's a young bull, he can't stop himself, but I'm more mature, and I'll have to do it. His hands were driving her mad, but somehow she was able to draw together her last remaining fiber of strength. “Please,” she begged. “We can't do it here.”
He heard the helplessness in her voice, and somehow her predicament reached the depths of his feverish brain. Reluctantly, he let her go, moved a few inches away, and his trembling hand pulled out his bag of tobacco. She adjusted her clothing in the darkness, her breast still heaving. “How long have you been smoking?” she inquired, as though they were taking a casual ride in the park.
He spilled half the tobacco onto his lap. “Do you think we can meet after you're finished work tonight?”
“I'll be home, and if you found time to visit...”
Duane despaired of rolling the cigarette, because he was far too maniacal. He threw the paper out the window, and said ruggedly, “I'll see you then.”
He pecked her cheek, caressed her breast again for good measure, and was out the door. She watched from the window of the cab, as the Pecos Kid disappeared into an alley on the far side of the street.
Dr. Robinson examined the man lying with his face on the table, a bullet hole in his leg. The slug had been removed crudely, but the wound was badly infected. The man had ridden out of nowhere, and claimed to've been shot by an Indian, but not many Indians had guns, and although Dr. Robinson's suspicions were aroused, he was bound by the ancient oath of Hippocrates to offer medical care to anyone, even possible outlaws.
Dr. Robinson was only twenty-six years old, with curly brown hair, and a diploma from the St. Louis School of Medicine. He leaned back, wiped his pus-stained fingers on his white apron, and said, “Too bad you didn't see me sooner, because it's quite infected. I can cut away the diseased flesh, and we'll see if it heals.”
“What if it doesn't?” asked Smollett apprehensively.
“Well,” said the doctor, “it might mean amputation ... or your life.”
Smollett swallowed hard. “When you cut that infection away, you'd better make sure you get all of it.”
“Do my best,” the doctors aid.
“You'd better do better than your best.”
The menacing tone in Smollett's voice was unmistakable, but no surprise to the doctor, who regularly was threatened by patients. “Would you like me to get started now?”
The door opened, and a young man in black pants stood there, wearing a silver concho hatband. “Can I see Boggs?”
“He's in the same bed,” Dr. Robinson replied, “and much improved.”
The young man passed through the office, and entered the next corridor. Smollett swung his legs around, stood, and pulled up his pants.
“Where are you going?” asked the doctor.
“Something I've got to do,” Smollett replied.
Duane entered the small room, and Boggs appeared asleep in the darkness. The curtains had been closed, and Duane reached for the chair. “Hold it— you son of a bitch,” croaked Boggs. “I got me gun aimed right ‘twixt yer eyes.”
“It's me,” Duane said.
There was silence for a few moments, then Boggs uttered, “You shouldn't creep up on a man like that.”
“I didn't want to awaken you.” Duane reached into his pocket, and flipped out a bottle of whiskey. “Have one on me, pardner.”
Boggs snatched it out of the air, and the blanket fell off his chest, revealing the tattoo of an eagle. He pulled the cork, leaned back, and guzzled noisily. “Best medicine in the world,” he said with satisfaction, as he handed the bottle back. “You sure look like yer full of piss and vinegar tonight. What's goin’ on?”
“It's Saturday night in Titusville, and the town's wide open. Can you walk?”
“A few steps.”
“Let's go to the Round-Up Saloon.”
“Don't know if I can make it that far. Last time I took a walk with you, I got shot.” Boggs made a few unsteady steps across the floor, and reached to the wall for support.
“I'll help you get over there,” Duane said. “Put your pants on.”
Jed Wilson entered the Round-Up Saloon through the back door. He detected the fragrance of Vanessa's perfume, for she'd walked through just a few moments ago, on the way to her first performance of the evening. Jed stepped into the main room of the saloon, slipped into the shadows, rolled a cigarette, and contemplated what he was about to do.
Certain tricks cause amusement, discomfort, or discord, but other tricks can get somebody killed, and it was this latter category that he was about to spring. His eyes roved toward the front tables, and he spotted Edgar Petigru sitting with Saul Klevins. I shouldn't do this, Jed thought, as he moved away from the wall. But I can't resist.
They looked up as he approached, and Petigru's complexion appeared a faint shade of green, his collar undone, eyes glowing with unholy light, while Klevins's hand slid down to his gun.
“I got news,” Jed said to Petigru. “Mind if I sit down?” Without waiting for a reply, Jed dropped to the chair opposite them, and placed his hands on the table, where Klevins could see them. “You asked me onc't to tell you if the Kid ever came sniffing around Miss Vanessa again, and ...”
Jed let his sentence hang in the air, as Petigru turned a deeper shade of green. “Well?” he asked testily. “What happened!”
“While I was a-ridin’ down the street, the Kid jumped in back with her, and if I din't know any better, I'd say he give her a screw right thar in the backseat.”
Edgar felt as if someone had reached into his chest and torn his heart apart. He was losing everything, and now even Vanessa was being unfaithful! Just like a rat deserting a sinking ship—the bitch took everything I gave her, but now that I need her, she's gone.
Edgar had been on thin ice all week, and was cracking beneath the strain. Somehow her treason loomed larger than his incipient poverty, because poverty harmed only his wallet, while this cut to the vitals of who he believed himself to be. He was vain, filled with false pride, and as he arose, he swore that he wouldn't let her get away with it this time. He stormed to her dressing room, knocked twice, and opened the door.
She sat at her mirror, and flinched in surprise. Annabelle jumped three inches in the air.
“Leave us alone,” Edgar said to Annabelle.
The servant left the room, as Vanessa scowled. “I've told you that I don't want you bursting in here like that!”
He pointed his trembling finger at her. “I ought to kill you!”
“Try it!”
Edgar was astonished to find himself staring into the two dull eyes of her derringer. It was the last thing he'd expected, and his mouth went dry. He tried to reply, but he'd never learned, in fashionable New York society, what to say to a woman pointing a gun at your heart.
“Get out of here,” she said, “and if you ever come at me like that again, I'll shoot you!”
He pointed his finger at her, and it trembled more than ever. “I know about you and the Pecos Kid— don't think I don't. So you just screwed him in the carriage, eh? I always knew that you were a dirty rebel slut beneath your ridiculous Southern belle pretensions!”
Her eyes narrowed angrily, as her finger squeezed around the trigger.
“No!” he screamed.
The night exploded suddenly with volleys of gunfire.
Ten minutes earlier, Duane and Boggs had emerged from the doctor's office, and were heading toward the Round-Up Saloon. Boggs's arm was draped over Duane's shoulder, and Duane held Boggs by the waist, as they moved along the sidewalk like strange upright Siamese twins.
Duane explained his cowboy week to his spiritual advisor. “I remembered all the things you told me, and they were a big help when I was riding that horse. I just dug in my heels and never let go.”
“I'm proud of you, boy,” Boggs said, deeply moved. “You was a good larner, or a good liar—I don't know which. There's a lot've people around here what thinks yer a humbug, y'know.”
“They think I'm the Pecos Kid.”
“Ain't you?”
“You arrived with me on the stagecoach, Boggs— don't you remember?”
Boggs cocked an eye suspiciously. “How do I know that wasn't part of yer game? I don't mean to insult you, pardner, but for all I know, yer bullshit all the way down.”
Even my own spiritual advisor doesn't believe me, Duane realized. Everybody thinks I'm a dangerous person, and it does no good to argue. I wonder how many other famous people were fabrications. Is Buffalo Bill really Buffalo Bill? he questioned. They approached the saloon district, and cowboys made way for the crippled man and his escort.
“What happened to him?” somebody asked.
“Maybe,” another voice replied, “he drank some of that turpentine at the Blind Pig.”
Like last Saturday night, streets and sidewalks were crowded with cowboys carrying guns, passing bottles, laughing, arguing, lying, and enjoying recreation on their way from one saloon to another, with stops in between at the whorehouses and cribs. Biggest crowd of all was in front of the Round-Up Saloon.
“Good evening,” said a voice in the night, as Len Farnsworth, publisher et al. of the Titusville Sentinel, approached.
“Get away from me,” Duane said. “I've got nothing to say.”
“I meant no harm, sir,” Farnsworth said, tipping his hat. “Just wanted to ask your opinion about Saul Klevins. Do you think you're faster than he?”
Boggs pulled his Colt, and aimed it at Farnsworth's face. “Leave this man alone, or I'll blow yer fuckin’ head off.”
Duane heard a mechanical click behind him, and for a moment was surprised, because Boggs was beside him, but then the full import of his sensory perception came through, and he dove toward the sidewalk, carrying Boggs along with him, as Boggs inadvertently fired his pistol in the air.
Duane rolled out when he hit the ground, as the street reverberated with gunfire. He landed on his belly, raised the Colt, and saw a heavyset man behind him, gun in hand, taking aim. The planked sidewalk exploded beside Duane's face, but Duane held fast and fired point-blank at the man's shirt.
Smollett felt as if someone punched him on the chest, and it was the last sensation he ever had. His lights went out, and he fell in a clump beside Duane, who glanced around excitedly, heart pounding in his chest.
The street and sidewalk had become deserted, except for four bodies sprawled about. Duane looked to his left and right, holding his gun ready to fire, because he was certain that somebody was drawing a bead on him. He'd killed one of his assailants, and one of the bodies was Boggs, but who shot the other two?
A tall, lean figure emerged from the nearby alley, twirling a gun around his forefinger, a cheroot sticking out of his grin. “How're you doing, Kid?”
“What the hell happened?” Duane asked, rising to his feet.
Clyde Butterfield removed the cheroot from his mouth. “I was walking along, minding my own business, and saw a stranger draw on you, so I shot him.” Butterfield flipped his gun into the air, caught it behind his back, and dropped it into his holster.
Duane kneeled beside Boggs, rolled him over, and placed his ear to Boggs's chest.
Boggs said weakly: “This is the . . . second time I took a ... walk with you, and second time ... I got shot. Remind me ... to take walks with .. . somebody else .. . from now on.”
“What the hell's goin’ on here?” asked Deputy Dawson, strolling onto the scene, gun in hand.
A hoot went up from a nearby alley. “It's Deputy Dawson—late as usual.”
A laugh rippled on the far side of the street. “You can always count on Deputy Dawson to show up after the last shot was fired.”
“I said, what the hell's going on here!”
“Wa'al,” Butterfield said, removing his cheroot from his mouth, “these cowboys here drawed on young Mister Braddock when he wasn't looking, but I happened to be walking by, and we managed to hold them off.”
Dr. Robinson arrived in a rush, carrying his little black bag. “It's one of my patients!” he cried, recognizing Smollett sprawled on the sidewalk. He knelt beside the outlaw, listened to his heart, and it was still. “Guess I won't have to amputate his leg.”
“This man's still alive,” Duane said, indicating Boggs.
The doctor mumbled about rebellious patients as he examined Boggs, while a few feet way, sitting behind the bullet-ridden water trough, his suit soaked with water, Len Farnsworth wrote his next headline:
PECOS KID STRIKES AGAIN!
“How's he doing, Doc?” asked the Pecos Kid.
The doctor examined the wound in Boggs's ribs. “He may live, and he may not.”
“Nothing like specificity,” Butterfield declared, removing the silver cigar case from his breast pocket, and holding it out to Duane.
“Don't mind if I do.”
The doctor grabbed Boggs's feet, and a cowboy standing nearby took his arms. The unconscious cowboy was carried off, followed by other men lugging dead outlaws. Meanwhile, Duane's brow wrinkled with mystification, as he stared at Butterfield puffing his cheroot.
“What's on your mind, Kid?” Butterfield asked.
“I was just thinking about something odd, Mi
ster Butterfield. Whenever I'm in trouble, you seem to show up in the nick of time. If it hadn't been for you, I'd be dead right now.”
“I'd do it for anybody. Let's have a drink.”
“I wonder who those cowboys were who tried to kill me.”
“Once a man gets a reputation with a gun, he tends to attract skunks.”
“I want to see how Boggs is doing,” Duane replied. “I'll meet you later for that drink.” He broke into a trot, following the procession to the doctor's office, and all eyes followed him down the middle of the street.
“He's prob'ly the fastest gun we've seen in these parts,” somebody said, “'cept maybe fer Saul Klevins.”
Maybe? Klevins asked silently, standing in the shadows beneath the eave. How can these fools even compare that kid to me? Why, fer Chrissakes, it was Butterfield who did the killin’, not the kid. Muttering to himself about the fickleness of the human race, Klevins drifted toward the door of the Round-Up Saloon.
Vanessa returned to her dressing room, sat in front of the mirror, looked at her face, and tried to make sense out of what had happened. Why are all these people trying to kill Duane?
There was a knock on the door, scattering her thoughts. “Who is it?”
The door opened, and Saul Klevins entered, hat cocked low over one eye, smiling confidently. She rose to her feet.
“I didn't say that you could come in, sir.”
He shrugged, as if he didn't care what she said. “I figgered it was time you and me had a talk.”
She was flabbergasted, because she couldn't think of anything that she had in common with Saul Klevins, whom she'd seen at a distance, and knew to be a gun-fighter. “I'm sorry, but I'll have to ask you to leave. I must prepare for my next performance, and there isn't much time.”
Klevins made no motion toward the door, but instead hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans and looked her in the eye. “Let's me and you understand each other, Missy. That Yankee boyfriend of yers is just about tapped out in this town, and he might even get killed, at the rate he's a-goin’. I was a- thinkin’ that you might need somebody to protect you, and I'm a-plannin’ to come inter big money in a few days, git my drift?” He made an obscene movement of his lips.
