by Len Levinson
A hundred months have passed, Lorena,
Since last 1 held that hand in mine,
And felt the pulse beat fast, Lorena
Though mine beat faster than thine
Rustlers, bandits, gunfighters, and cowboys looked prayerful as they intoned the simple rhythm. In Duane's imagination, their cowboy hats and rough canvas shirts were replaced by wide-brimmed campaign hats and gray uniforms with brass buttons. Lamplight flickered on their bronzed features, and Duane saw the pure poetry of their souls. They'd marched to war for dear old Dixie, shared danger and hardship for five long years, ran low on supplies and ammunition, suffered, bled, and finally were conquered, losing everything in the last cataclysmic struggle.
Duane couldn't help being moved by the emotions flooding through the ramshackle saloon. He knew that most Confederate soldiers hadn't been slavers, but they didn't want folks in Boston and Philadelphia telling them how to live. They had fought for Jeff Davis and Bobby Lee, went down to bitter defeat, and then drifted West, where the weight of Reconstruction didn't crush them so heavily into the ground.
Now they were gathered in the Desert Palace Saloon, reliving the great days of their lives. Duane's curious eyes fell on his former deputy singing among them, his old Confederate cavalry officer's hat on the back of his head. They accepted Derek Wright as a comrade in arms, while the Pecos Kid lurked on the far side of the room, always the observer, never part of the group.
A hundred months—’twas flowery May,
When up the hilly slope we climbed,
To watch the dying of the day
And hear the distant church bells chime
When the song came to an end, the saloon was still, and Smiley the bartender didn't dare pour a drink. All eyes were fixed on a time long ago when brave young men rode off to war, cheered by their women. Now they had a handful of nothing to show for their struggles, and disappointment was engraved into their faces. Somebody burped, and a bullwhacker rapped his knuckles on the bar, signaling that his glass was empty. Men dealt cards, or picked up their newspapers, but a few just stared into space, because they couldn't let go.
Somebody laughed at the end of the bar, as the saloon returned to its normal noisy ambiance. A few men got up from the table where Derek Wright sat, and Duane contemplated having a talk with his former deputy. Then he heard footsteps coming from the opposite direction. He turned toward a big burly man wearing a black leather vest, brown goatee, and brown cowboy hat.
“Mind if I join you fer a minute, Sheriff?”
“Just keep your hands where I can see them.”
The burly man sat beside Duane, turned down the corners of his mouth, and said, “I'm a-goin’ to shoot somebody tonight, and I'd like you to look the other way. Would you take twenty dollars?
Duane gaped at him.
“How's about twenty-five?”
“Mister,” Duane said, “you'd better hop onto your horse and ride out of town, otherwise I'll arrest you.”
“I din't mean to insult you, but twenty-five dollars is all I can afford.”
“If you're not gone within the next half hour, you'll be a guest in our jail. Hope you don't mind sleeping on the floor.”
The would-be killer peered into Duane's eyes. “If yer not in it fer the money, what the hell're you a-wearin’ that tin badge fer?”
“I ask myself the same question,” Duane replied. “Were you in the war?”
The man appeared surprised. “Fifteenth Georgia Infantry. Why d'ya ask?”
“You were a good soldier once, and now you're an outlaw. I don't get it.”
“I'm like the piano player, and I'm a-doin’ the best I can.”
The stranger arose from the table and headed toward the back door. The war must've warped their minds, Duane hypothesized. They saw too much blood and guts, they lost faith in God, and now they're reckless fools. His eyes fell on Derek Wright sitting at the big round table. How do I know he wasn't on the desert this afternoon? I wish there was one person in the world whom I could trust.
He wanted to palaver with Derek Wright, but couldn't let himself go. Here in the secular world, it's everybody pitted against everybody else, Duane realized. At the monastery, the priests and brothers tried to be decent men, unlike folks in Escondido who plot wickedness constantly.
Derek Wright stared at his glass of whisky, lost in his Civil War dreams. Duane felt ashamed for being cruel to him, but a resourceful fellow like Wright could always get along. Maybe I should go over there and ask where he was this morning.
Derek Wright looked up from his whisky. “What's on your mind, kid?”
Duane sat opposite him and asked: “Were you on the desert today?”
Derek Wright blinked in surprise. “How'd you know?”
“I was there too. You didn't mistake me for an antelope or a mule deer, and take a potshot at me, did you?”
“The antelope I shot is being served at the Silver Spur Saloon. It must've been an Apache who tried to shoot you.”
“An Apache wouldn't miss.” Duane looked into Derek's steely eyes. “I've been wanting to have a conversation with you for a long time, Derek. When we first met, you asked a lot of questions in a town where folks generally keep to themselves. Then you kept showing up at the wrong time, and today you were on the desert where somebody tried to bushwhack me. I know that you were an officer in the war, and you're an honorable man underneath it all, but how do I know you're not working for Sam Archer?”
Wright sucked a tooth for a moment, then replied: “I'm not asking you to trust me, and don't expect me to trust you. You know what they say about you, Mister Pecos? Only a matter of time before some real gunfighter shows up and shoots you.”
The ex-cavalry officer tossed Duane a skeptical glance, then downed the rest of his whisky, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, adjusted his old Confederate cavalry officer's hat on his head, and reeled away.
You can't tell people how you really feel, Duane concluded. Because they're all so tetchy. He noticed a leprechaun with a long reddish brown beard and cowboy hat, sitting on the far side of the table. “Howdy, Sheriff,” the leprechaun said jovially.
“Were you in the war with Derek Wright?” Duane asked.
“Oh hell no,” replied the leprechaun. “I was a cook in the Fifteenth Louisiana Infantry, but Derek Wright was an officer in the Stonewall Brigade. He's seen a lot of war.”
“Is he a friend of yours?”
“Let's jest say we know each other. What're you askin’ so many questions about Derek Wright for?”
“Do you trust him?”
The leprechaun didn't hesitate. “Anyday.”
“Why?”
“I dunno.” The leprechaun appeared flustered. “I never heard anybody say somethin’ bad about him, and besides, he was in the old Stonewall Brigade.” The leprechaun winked. “If you want to know more about Derek Wright, maybe you'd better ask him yerself.”
The leprechaun eased off his chair, along with the others who'd been sitting at the table, and Duane found himself alone, wondering about friendship, trust, and bushwhackers. Derek Wright has a good reputation, but that doesn't mean he's not working for Old Man Archer. And for all I know, that leprechaun tried to kill me today.
Duane glanced behind him, but no one was crouching with a gun in his hand. The sheriff adjusted his black hat low over his eyes, then strolled out the door. His eyes skirted rooftops, searching for a head and a rifle. He peered into alleys for the glint of moonlight on gunmetal. Whoever he is, he'll be extra careful next time.
Duane walked into the Last Chance Saloon, and his eyes fell on Derek Wright standing at the bar, one foot on the rail, drinking alone. Duane elbowed beside him. “Sorry if I insulted you,” he said. “Guess I don't know how to act around people.”
Wright shrugged. “You don't know any better, but don't keep asking me to prove something to you. The only person I have to prove anything to is myself.”
“I could still use a good deputy,�
�� Duane said. “If you want your old badge back, it's yours.”
“Worst job I ever had. Like asking somebody to shoot you.”
“Why'd you take it in the first place?” “There you go with your questions.” “You said it's a terrible job, but you didn't say no when I offered it to you.”
“I don't have to justify myself to you.” “People have been trying to bushwhack me since I hit town, and I want to figure out who. What's wrong with that?”
“Why are you still here? Go to Monterrey, Los Angeles, or anywhere you want, long as it's far away. Don't fight the world, kid. You don't have a chance.”
“There's more to this than a quick ride over the border, Derek.”
“You won't be around for Christmas, but I guess you'd rather get shot, because that's what'll happen if you go to the Pecos country.” Wright pulled his gun, drew back the hammer, and handed the grip to Duane. “Go ahead, take it. You might as well blow your brains out right now. Why waste time? Think of the wear and tear you'll save on your poor horse. Who cares about Christmas?”
Duane thought of candles, gaily colored wreaths, and special pastries for orphan boys at the monastery in the clouds. Maybe Derek is right, he considered. Why should I risk my life, and who cares?
In the smoky depths at the far end of the saloon, he imagined the Polka Dot Gang under attack from Sam Archer's hired guns. The bullets literally tore Joe Braddock apart, yet he fought on. There are things more important than Christmas, Duane decided, and I'm tired of arguing about it.
Duane downed the dregs of his glass, flipped a coin to the bartender, and headed for the door. He didn't even look back at Wright. He had nothing to say to the man.
Cool desert air soothed him as he walked down the main street of Escondido. I can't let my mother's and father's deaths go unpunished, that's all I know, and if Saint Thomas Aquinas doesn't like it, he can write another Summa Theologiae.
Duane found himself standing in front of the stable. Maybe I should just go to bed and sleep it off. The stable was pitch black, with rows of horses sleeping in the darkness. Duane heard furtive sounds in the loft, as his eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness. Horses shuffled in their stalls, and wind rattled shingles on the roof. Duane climbed the ladder slowly and held his gun ready to fire. Alice lay still in her bedroll against the wall, and a terrible foreboding came over Duane that made him rush to her side. She rolled over and looked at him in alarm, holding the blankets to her neck.
“Sorry,” he said. “Go back to sleep.”
“What's wrong with you?” she asked sleepily.
He heard something behind him and spun around, but there were only bales of hay. He advanced toward them, aiming his gun straight ahead.
“Is anything wrong?” Alice asked.
“There's somebody back here.”
Duane spotted movement in a pile of hay heaped in the corner. “Come out with your hands up, or I'll start shooting.”
The top of the pile elevated, and the naked body of Sam Goines stood like an ebony phoenix before Duane. Sam tried to smile bravely, but there was nothing he could say. Duane was flabbergasted, jealous, and possibly angry, but he wasn't sure. “Put on your clothes and go downstairs,” he said in a shaky voice.
“Don't blame it on her, boss. It's all my fault. Go ahead and shoot me if you want, but leave her alone.”
Duane motioned with the gun. “Get going.”
Sam Goines's clothes were at his feet. He put them on quickly and backed toward the ladder. “I hope you're not going to tell my mother.”
“I said get going.”
Sam descended to the stable, and Duane turned toward the blanket. Alice was hiding her head in shame, and Duane didn't know what to make of it. He'd never suspected that white women slept with Negro men, and wasn't sure how he was supposed to feel. Since leaving the monastery, he'd noticed that Negroes and whites generally kept apart, but evidently everything changed when the lights went out. Let he who is without sin cast the first stone. He climbed behind the bales of hay, sat on his blankets, and pulled off his boots.
A small girl's voice came to him from the far side of the loft. “Are you gonna throw me out?”
“Of course not. Go to sleep.”
“But. . .”
“You don't owe me explanations, and I'm not interested anyway.”
Duane stretched out on his blankets, held his gun in his right hand. The loft fell silent, and he stared at the peaked roof for a long time.
Patricia Berclair sat beside her bedroom window and gazed sleepily at the moonlit backyard. Her back and shoulders hurt from the belt, and she couldn't fall asleep. She didn't know what to think of herself. I've fallen in love with a man young enough to be my son and then I whipped myself like a religious maniac. What's wrong with me? But I must never, under any circumstances, make improper advances to Duane Braddock, she told herself. I will control my low appetites. I can do it, but still . . .
She felt a twinge of doubt. It's natural to have certain needs, but you don't have to act on them. She pictured herself squirming in bed with Duane Braddock, and wasn't so sure. I couldn't betray Herbert, or could I?
Her reverie was interrupted by movement on the far side of the yard. She became alarmed—they were in Apache country—but a cat stepped into the moonlight and Patricia relaxed. I thought I saw a man carrying something out there, but maybe it's time I went to bed.
She crawled beneath the blankets and closed her eyes. I'm not in love with Duane Braddock, am I?
Duane opened his Apache eyes when his Apache ears heard somebody approaching stealthily in the backyard. The Pecos Kid threw off the covers, moved silently toward the window, and smelled coal oil. He poked his head outside, and saw someone was lighting a match to the barn!
“Fire!” Duane shouted.
A shadowy figure fled as curtains of flame rose up the wall. Duane fired a wild shot, then the arsonist ducked around the corner of a building. The barn was constructed of dry old wood and was filled with hay. Flames raced along timbers, and Duane could hear crackling and sputtering all about him, as horses whinnied hysterically below.
Alice leapt out of bed, shrieking at the top of her lungs. Duane caught a glimpse of his nightgowned student fleeing toward the ladder. They descended rapidly, and were joined by Sam Goines on the main floor. Curls of smoke entered through cracks in the planks, as Duane and Sam struggled to free the neighing, stomping horses in the flickering firelight. Sam Goines grabbed the ledgers as Duane picked up the box of books, wishing he'd had the presence of mind to take his rifle, but it was too late now.
Flames cast bizarre shadows on the walls as horses stomped toward the door. Duane and Sam Goines followed them into the street, where townspeople were gathering in their nightclothes. Orange ribbons streaked up the walls of the rickety old stable, while bucket brigades formed to meet the dire threat to Escondido. Duane ran down the alley to the rear of the stable, where a barrel burned near the spot where the intruder had been. If I didn't hear him, he would've roasted three people, Duane figured. Who is this son of a bitch who's trying to cook me alive? He dropped to his hands and knees and searched for fresh tracks, but discerned a variety of confusing fragments. At the front of the stable, buckets of water splashed flames as clouds of fresh steam billowed into the air. Duane thought of his saddle, blankets, real estate, and other belongings going up in smoke.
There was a thwack and a roar, and the stable roof caved in, showering red sparks into the air. Duane passed buckets of water along as he scrutinized the faces around him. Townspeople, outlaws, women, and cowboys worked frantically, while a bunch of drunkards watched stupidly from the sidelines. Other citizens threw water onto buildings nearby, to prevent the fire from spreading.
This bushwhacker will burn down Escondido to get rid of me, Duane realized. The only way to catch a rat is to set a trap for him, but I'll have to be the bait, and what if he catches me instead?
The charred black skeleton of the stable stood stark an
d stinky in the wan dawn light. Duane and the exhausted townspeople stood before it, their clothes, hands, and faces stained with soot and perspiration. “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away,” said Pastor Berclair. “Praise be the Lord.” He turned toward Duane. “We have a guest room in the rectory, Sheriff. You're welcome to it.”
“But I'm not alone. I have my . . .”—Duane didn't know what to call Alice Markham—u. . . my student,” he finally expostulated.
The preacher couldn't suppress a frown, and his wife appeared scandalized. Maggie O'Day resolved the dilemma by stepping forward, a wry smile on her face. “We maintain a room for the sheriff and his student at the Last Chance Saloon.”
Everything Duane owned was gone, including Steve, who'd run off without a saddle and didn't appear ready to return. He's probably galloping with a big mustang herd, Duane thought. I guess he didn't like me as much as I thought. Duane followed Maggie back to the Last Chance Saloon, as townspeople gawked at him, his silver conchoed black hat hanging down his back, suspended from his neck by a black leather strap. Maggie hollered, “Drinks on the house!”
The saloon filled with weary cowboys, outlaws, and townspeople, as Smiley the bartender lined up glasses and filled them with whisky. Duane grabbed one and carried it back toward Maggie's office, which was empty. He sat on the chair in front of her desk and tried to figure out who'd set fire to his property. It was a puzzle more compelling than anything Abelard had ever written.
Maggie breezed into the office, sat in her chair, and reached for a panatella. “You and Alice can have room twenty till you git the stable rebuilt.”
“But I can't afford to build another stable.”
“I'll advance you the money. What kind of town would this be without a stable?”
