by Alan Watts
Quint lowered the gun and released the pressure from his throat.
He slid down the wall, coughing and spluttering, both hands massaging his neck.
“Where’d she go?”
“I don’t know.”
The gun was back, this time on the end of his nose.
Seeing two barrels through crossed eyes, Brady gasped, with visions of his brains coming out the back of his skull, “She was looking at the map, said she was going to Holly Springs to meet somebody.”
***
Quint’s eyes flicked to the side, as he took the gun away from Brady’s nose. He grinned, seeing the town marked, and knew that with the skull and crossed bones printed by it, she was luring him there for a very good reason.
It was deserted, and had been for more than fifty years, since a well had poisoned all but a few with cholera, and then driven them out.
He shoved Brady into the map and said, “I’m going to take a few things.” He looked at him earnestly.
Brady laughed as if in nervous recognition that it looked as though he would live. He trailed behind Quint, rubbing his hands together, as though sucking up to his favourite customer.
Quint took a new gun belt, this one hand stitched, with loops for fifty bullets, which he filled, before slipping it around his waist. He threw his jacket to the floor and replaced it with a cream coloured duster that hung almost to his ankles.
He grabbed a handful of cigars and dropped them in his shirt pocket, before walking over to the till.
“Open it.”
Brady gulped and Quint saw beads of sweat across his upper lip. Quint lowered his hand, with deliberate slowness, to his gun.
“I said…”
“OK, OK.”
Brady held his trembling hands up in defeat, pressed one of the large brass keys and the drawer shot out.
Without a trace of expression, Quint took every note he could see. He folded them in half and the wad disappeared into one of his pockets. Quint looked at the sick-looking man in front of him, winked, and lit a cigar before going back the way he had come.
***
Sam and Billy watched, from where they had been concealed the whole time, after following Quint when he had left the hotel.
Billy muttered, “What a stinkin’, low down…”
“Save your breath. It’s them that gets even, that wins. Anyway I know this guy Brady, and there’s none more deservin’. He’d take his grandma’s last cent if she wasn’t lookin’. Come on. At least we know where he’s headed.”
By now it was almost dark. They ducked down and made their way along the splintered wall that formed the back of the range.
Sixty-five
As Billy and Sam were following Quint to the railway station, Lil Smith stood in a motionless train, with Robert, after pulling the emergency cord, with assorted luggage around her, where it had tumbled from overhead racks.
She had been sitting in the cramped, smoky compartment for three hours, with men darting lecherous peeks, and their frumpy wives nudging them, glaring daggers.
Amid the light tan of her face, her eyes shone like coals.
She heard one of the women, a particularly portly one, mutter, “Brazen hussy!” before kicking her small, sweating husband on the ankle.
Sometimes the giggling faces of children appeared over the backs of the seats in front, before disappearing as quickly.
Other passengers were muttering among themselves, because Holly Springs was a place that nobody ever talked about.
“What’s your trouble, ma’am?” the ticket inspector asked.
“I need to get off. I’m expecting to meet somebody here.”
Her accent brought more odd looks.
He was about to warn her of the five-dollar fine, but then his eyes wandered down to her pistol belt and thought better of it.
“You’ll die if you stay.”
“I’ll die if I don’t. But at least here, a man will die with me.”
Without another word, she lifted the suitcase and disembarked, feeling the chill of the coming night.
Then, as she held Robert’s hand, and her other hand settled on her gun, she watched as the train trundled off.
***
Eighteen hours later, on another train, Quint grinned to himself, not knowing Samuel Sullivan and Billy Tweed were sitting in another compartment, waiting for the train to stop.
Sam, who had left Sylvester in the care of his sister, was smoking another of his pipes, a bone one that had turned buttery yellow over the years.
Billy, who had been telling him exactly how he thought it best to tackle Quint when they got there, felt as though he’d been slapped in the face, when Sam cut him short by saying, “I want you to stay on the train, go back the way you came, and wait for me.”
He took his pipe from his mouth and pressed the bowl with his thumb. He looked into the boy’s eyes as smoke trickled through his teeth.
“But…”
“Forget it. You don’t stand a chance against Quint. He’s fast…”
“But I hate him. It’s not the money…”
Sam smiled as he nodded sagely. “Go on. It’s the principle.”
“Well… yeah! I suppose it is.”
Sam struck another match, plied it to the bowl and said between puffs, “Boy, let me tell you a sad, but true fact of life. You can be up to your asshole in principles, but them and scruples never paid for bread on the table, beer in your belly or a low woman, and so far in my fifty-five years, no amount of prayin’ bought ’em either. It’s a hard ol’ world out there, and only money gets you things, ’cept o’ course, breedin’, respect and affection. Thems you earn.”
He took a fountain pen and an old envelope from his top pocket.
“I’m going to write here what I think is sound advice, which you may take or leave as you please. But remember one thing.”
He stabbed the air with the stem of his pipe.
“Of all the people you have met so far in your life, you may trust me the most. I’ll not turn my back on you, boy.” He wrote silently for about a minute, while Billy watched on, sometimes glancing out at the unfurling countryside.
The sun was high in the sky, so it must be nearly midday. Sam finished writing just before they heard a squealing noise as the train’s brakes were applied so suddenly, Sam found himself in a tumble of arms and legs on the floor, cursing.
Billy was still fixed where he was, with his back pressed into the seat, laughing as he saw Sam getting up, and dusting himself down.
Then he caught a glimpse of the envelope, where it had fallen and four of the words rang on his ears as Sam snatched it up.
… for your own good…
Whenever he had heard that expression before, it had always been as a harbinger of disappointment, pain or loss.
This time was no different, as he caught a glimpse of his fist as it swung up like lightning under his jaw.
The world went black.
***
Sam looked down at Billy’s unconscious form, shaking his head at the thin dribble of blood running from the corner of his mouth. He adjusted his hat and tapped out his pipe in the palm of his hand.
He folded the envelope into quarters and tucked it into the boy’s top shirt pocket, half poking out, so he couldn’t miss it and muttered, “As I said, it’s for your own good.” He lowered the window, looked out, and could see they were just short of Holly Springs.
He knew that Quint had pulled the emergency cord.
What he did see at once, as it was directly opposite, was the communal grave of the town’s cholera victims, with a simple marker placed upon it to commemorate them.
He opened the door on the opposite side of the train, so it would hide him, and climbed down onto the baking rails of the oncoming track, hearing the engine going torrr, tishhh, torrr, tishhh, torrr…
An oily smell came to him on the breeze.
He looked up and saw faces peering out; a preacher, whose pince nez fell from hi
s nose, crossing himself, and in the next carriage, a small boy pulling his mother’s sleeve and pointing.
Sam crouched down to see beneath the train as it started to move, with its chimney sending back a sulphurous smog. He wanted to see Quint’s legs, so he could anticipate his next move, but couldn’t see anything except the opposite bank.
He looked behind himself and saw an old storage hut, the door long ago bashed in, hanging against the mildewy inner wall on one rusty hinge.
He stepped inside, just as the train passed. Through the shattered window, where he kept back in the shadows, Sam saw Quint about two hundred yards off, drawing his gun, as he made his way past an old goods train in a siding.
He watched as Quint stopped at the end of the crumbling waiting room, with the town’s name above it, the last letter S hanging upside down.
Beyond this, was the dead world itself.
***
Quint thumbed back the hammer on his gun. In the silence, broken only by a wisp of wind, the clicks sounded deafening.
Wherever she was, she was a dead woman, unless she gave him the money without a fuss.
Robert was watching from a room above the dress shop, where he had been told he must stay, whatever happened.
He had been told not to go near the window under any circumstances, but couldn’t resist the temptation.
He could see the brim of Quint’s hat; not that he could concentrate very hard.
The room smelt of the dead.
He kept thinking a rotting hand would touch his neck, and every so often, he flinched round, thinking something had moved.
He forced himself to look at the suitcase instead.
It stood in the middle of the empty street, alone.
He watched as Quint peeped round.
***
Quint swallowed hard, unsure whether she could see him or not, though he knew it was a trap. He saw how tempting it would be to simply run, grab it, keep on running, and risk her picking him off from wherever she was hiding.
He nearly did, until he remembered what Brady had told him of the tin cans and how she’d demolished five in six from ten paces.
He regarded his other surroundings, the terraced wood and brick buildings that lined either side of the street and the boarded sidewalk before them, with crumbling rails for tethering horses.
An old wagon, with Acme Guns and Saddlery painted on the side, stood outside a ladies’ dressmaker, with the faded title Lesley’s Dress Emporium over the shattered window. From inside, he saw the pointed yellow eyes of a cat, as it watched from amongst rubbish that had blown there.
There was a chapel at the far end, with closed doors at the front and about forty feet above, a single bell in a belfry. The building had once been white, but was now faded, with yard long strips peeling here and there.
A sign next to the door read, Find salvation, not in the bottle or the gun, but in the house of the good Lord.
He drew back, out of sight, irritated. Where was she?
He looked from window to window, rooftop to rooftop, and even beneath some sections of the sidewalk. They were elevated by as much as two feet above the ground, though he found it hard to believe she would dare venture there, because of snakes and spiders.
Directly ahead of him was the town barber. The name of the business, H Pettigrew Tonsorialist & Dentist was painted in swooping high letters on the large front window, one of the few not broken. The front door, partly glazed, was closed too, which meant she was unlikely to be hiding inside, as she couldn’t shoot through any of it without attracting attention and ruining her aim.
He braced himself and ran full pelt towards it, half-expecting the crack of a pistol shot. Nothing happened.
He bounded up onto the sidewalk and kicked the door open in mid-flight. It swung back on its hinges, knocking over a hat-stand.
He quickly closed it, knowing he would be hard to see through the glass, because of the reflection, and was struck instantly by the stale smell as he looked at four chairs with their backs to him. Three were a faded maroon colour, the leather cracked and fissured with age and damp, but the fourth was a washed out black. This was the dentist’s chair, a little like the one he had been strapped into by his wrists and elbows, when he was nine, to have a rotten tooth yanked out with pliers.
He released the hammer on his gun and listened hard, his eyes now on the suitcase again, this time in the reflection of one of the mirrors.
Somebody’s nerve had to give.
Sixty-six
Half a mile away, Billy Tweed opened his eyes and groaned as he held his aching jaw. A silver spike of pain waxed and waned in the centre of his skull.
He pushed himself up and spat out a mouthful of blood. He wiped his lips on his sleeve, as he remembered what had happened, as anger filled him. He had really liked, trusted and respected Sam Sullivan, and couldn’t believe that, like Quint, he too had stabbed him in the back.
He saw something in the corner of his eye. He plucked the note from his shirt pocket and read it at a snail’s pace, remembering that Sam had scribbled it before knocking him out.
Boy, by the time you read this note, you will be many miles away. You have a lot of growing up to do, and a lot more to learn. I’m sure that one day, you’ll make something of your life, but you’ll never do it from a pine box. You already know the world is an unforgiving place. That is why I had to bushwhack you. It was for your own good. Trust me one last time, and meet me back at the railway station at noon tomorrow.
Sam
Sinking back against the slats of the seat, Billy crunched the note up and tossed it to the floor, thinking hard, but relieved too, knowing that perhaps he could trust him after all… though if he got himself killed…
***
In Holly Springs, long minutes had passed and still nothing had happened.
Robert was still watching.
He could see the suitcase remained where it was, with dust devils dancing around, while tall weeds in the street and on the sidewalks rustled and twisted in the wind. He heard the wind whistling and thrumming through cracks and holes in the buildings too, and down the alleyways in between.
The cat meowed as it darted down one of them, while a crow cawed from atop the chapel.
No sound was spookier though, than the next one Robert heard. The bell in the chapel was tolling.
***
Sam had heard it too, and ducked back. He was watching from the same place Quint had stood, at the end of the waiting room. He was hidden as best he could be, but still felt conspicuous. He knew it had to be her and peered around once more, as Robert and Quint watched from the shadows.
***
Quint walked to the door and stood watching the suitcase again, as the ringing continued.
If it was her pulling the rope, he knew she would never hit him, except by fluke, as the chapel was at least two hundred yards away. He opened the door and swallowed hard, as he walked onto the sidewalk. His hand flexed over his gun. His heart thudded as he stepped onto the street.
He started walking. The bell continued to toll, even as his hand closed around the grip.
He picked up the suitcase and carried on walking, knowing in his heart of hearts that something was terribly wrong, but unable for the life of him to put his finger on it.
Then a shot came from nowhere. The bullet hit the clasp of the case and bits of metal and fabric flew off. With the shot came the cry of birds and the tolling stopped abruptly.
The case flipped open, and although he’d half expected it, his heart still sank when not a single jewel or bank note fell out.
It wasn’t empty though. There was a roll of paper.
As he stooped to pick it up, he wondered how had she managed to ring the bell and prove such outstanding marksmanship from so great a distance.
The mystery was solved when a man stepped out from behind the waiting room, pointing a Remington.
He was vaguely familiar, as was his voice. “Clever dame,” he said. “Kno
ws character at a glance.”
Quint laughed, though his grin froze as another voice to his side said, “Yes, and a very careful one too.”
Quint glanced in the direction of the barber’s, to see her pointing her gun from the hip, while her hair flowed in the wind.
***
She was just as shocked as Quint by this stranger’s sudden appearance, but said to Quint, as she stepped off the sidewalk, “You could have had half the money for helping me, like the gallant gentleman I thought you were.”
He had been looking at the open case, dejectedly, but when he looked up, she could see the question burning in his eyes.
He had to know.
“It’s all in a safe,” she told him. “Every last penny. A long, long way from here, where you’ll never get it.”
Sam dissolved into more laughter, while Quint threw the case down and kicked a nearby rock. It bounced off the side the Acme Guns and Saddlery wagon.
His right hand moved towards his gun, while his left squeezed the roll of paper.
There was a click as Lil cocked her gun. His hand moved away, fingers twitching.
“Unroll it and read,” she told him. “Aloud, if you please.”
He hesitated, squeezing the paper even harder. She pointed her gun straight at his head. He let go of all but the top, which he held between finger and thumb, and it unfurled like a university diploma.
His eyes widened, as he gazed at a fair likeness of himself.
Then he began to read, his voice faltering and tight with both anger and humiliation.
“Wanted by the White Star Line… for the theft from persons aboard RMS Titanic…”
