“You know that’d be stupid. Yes, you know that, don’t you?”
“Y-yes.”
“Good, good. Because I’m gonna give you just one warning: You reach for that rifle again, and this will happen.”
Clinch fired, destroying the man’s throat. The guard slumped to the ground, leaving a trail of blood smeared down the side of the carriage.
“Like I said—one warning.”
The members of Clinch’s gang were still busy ogling the shiny gold bars, so no one noticed until Michael was already off the horse and sprinting toward his mother’s open arms. One of the outlaws turned, spotted the boy halfway, and raised his gun to shoot.
“Jordy, put your gun down!” Clinch snapped. “He’s just a little boy.” Clinch causally strode back over to the gang, where he promptly backhanded Jordy across the mouth. The man collapsed into the dirt, wiping his bleeding face. “Now, let’s get one thing good and clear before you all start feeling too much of the gold fever,” Clinch continued with a commanding tone. “Nobody’s doing a goddamn thing with this haul until it cools down. We’ll head back to Old Stump, pick up Lewis and Anna, and then lay low for at least a month. Understood?”
The boys grunted a chorus of affirmatives.
And so Clinch’s gang rode away, leaving behind a wrecked carriage, its helpless driver, a traumatized family, and a bloody corpse.
The barn was far and away the largest in Old Stump—too large, in fact, for the farm it belonged to. Chester Cooksey had once owned vast amounts of adjacent farmland, until a particularly bad harvest season had forced him to sell off a large chunk of it in order to make ends meet. As a result, he was left with a lot of unused barn space. So, partly to help out a local citizen but mostly because it was the perfect location, the town of Old Stump tossed Chester a modest amount of compensation each year to allow the use of the barn for the annual dance. It was, Albert had noted many times, a great opportunity to once a year put on uncomfortable clothes and cram yourself into an enclosed space with all the people you see every single day.
And he and Anna were uncomfortably dressed indeed on that hot-as-hell, dry-as-fuck Friday evening as they strode through the entryway into the festively decorated barn. Colorful streamers hung from the rafters, lanterns were strewn here and there along the ceiling framework, and … well, that was about it. Great job, decorating committee. Way to reach for the stars, he thought as he shifted awkwardly in his itchy wool three-piece Sunday best. But, as miserable as he was, Anna appeared even more so. The dress she wore was the fashion of the day and looked as if it had been created by an apparel designer with an advanced brain tumor. It was hard to tell which layer was which, there were more bows than a rich kid’s wrapped Christmas gift, and the bustle on the rear stuck out almost four and a half feet.
“Well, this’ll be fun,” she deadpanned. “It’s nice to put on some loose, comfortable clothes and just relax, y’know?”
“Yeah, I love formal frontier dress,” muttered Albert. “How many foot undergarments are you wearing?”
“Let’s see, I’ve got two pairs of wool calf pantaloons, three pairs of Dutch socks, a set of bear-hide foot mittens, and a brace of wood-button overshoes. You?”
“Uh, I’ve got four pairs of Dutch socks, one set of sealskin ankle moccasins, two layers of Klondike heel officers, and a blanket-lined oilcloth foot coat.”
“I’m really comfortable,” she said, adjusting layer number 47.
“Me too. I’m glad I remembered the six items I somehow require to hold up my pants.”
He turned his attention to her rear end. “I like your bustle, by the way.”
“Thanks,” Anna said. “Yeah, I love that the most alluring fashion statement a woman can make today is to simulate a fat ass.”
“If I was a black guy, that’s the meanest trick you could play on me.”
“Especially ’cause, when you lift it up, it’s just a big metal cage.” She raised the back of her dress to reveal the bustle’s support system: a complex curved iron framework that resembled a warship under construction.
“Look at that,” said Albert. “You are ready to relieve the stress of the day.”
“Completely.”
Albert sighed and surveyed the crowded room. Despite the heat, everyone was dancing gaily, and looking as though they had no cares or concerns in the world. Albert himself was not so fortunate. His dreaded confrontation with Foy loomed roughly twelve hours away, and although he had made significant strides in his marksmanship under Anna’s adept tutelage, the outcome was still far from a lock. Over the past few days, he had even begun to wonder whether the potentially mortal price of the risk offset the gain. A week ago, such a thought would not even have occurred to him. He loved Louise with all his heart, but he was noticing tiny cracks in his resolve, and he did not understand why. His stomach still corkscrewed whenever he laid eyes on her, but it was now almost like a reflex: a whack on the funny bone. It was also a bit more fleeting in duration. There were even points during the day when his mind was elsewhere. There was no question that the thought of being without her was still abhorrent, but that feeling now presented itself in a slightly more … habitual way.
He shook off his thoughts. They were irrelevant. The gunfight was tomorrow, and there was no backing out now, lest he be branded even more of a coward. And why should he want to back out anyway? Louise was worth risking his life. She was his soul mate.
Wasn’t she?
“Well, this’ll be a fun way to spend my last night alive,” he said wryly.
“Hey,” she said, “you’re gonna be okay tomorrow. You’ve come a long way since the fair.”
He wiped a sheen of sweat off his brow. “Why the hell does everything in the West always have to be settled with violence anyway? This is the ’80s, for Christ’s sake. Let’s be civilized.”
Anna turned to face him and took both his hands in hers. They were surprisingly cool against the extreme heat of the room, and they felt good. “Do you trust me?” she said.
Again he had the nagging awareness that he knew very little about this woman, but when he stared into those confident hazel eyes, he felt that somehow it didn’t matter. He could trust her. “Yeah. I do.”
Anna pushed away a strand of hair that was hanging over her left eye.
One of her eyes is a lighter hazel than the other, he observed. He had been with her every day for the past week. How had he not noticed that until now?
“Good.” She smiled warmly, squeezing his hands. “If I thought you were gonna lose this gunfight, I’d make you call it off. Understand?”
He believed her. “Yeah. Okay.”
She really is very—
His thoughts were interrupted by Edward’s shouting. “Hey! Albert! Anna! Hi!” He and Ruth came bounding over to where they were standing.
Anna gently let go of Albert’s hands.
“They’re gonna start the sweethearts’ dance pretty soon,” Edward announced with excitement. “You guys wanna join? Oh, and how great is this band, huh?”
“Yeah, they’re fantastic,” Albert said drily. He cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted at the stage, “I just wanna point out that all your instruments were made for another purpose!”
The jolly group of musicians playing the washtub bass, the jug, the spoons, the comb, the saw, the dirt-shovel guitar, and the pie-plate banjo either did not hear him or chose to ignore the comment.
“Okay, let’s all line up for the sweethearts’ dance!” shouted the burly, red-faced master of ceremonies.
Anna did not waste any time as she grabbed Albert’s arm and yanked him toward the dance floor. “Come on!” she said eagerly.
“Oh, Jesus, no, I suck at dancing.”
“No one’ll notice; you suck at everything.” She gave him a playful wink and dragged him onto the dance floor with surprising strength.
Her enthusiasm was infectious and managed to partially cut through Albert’s layers of negativity. He felt helpless to
prevent the trace of a smile that crept across his face.
The smile evaporated as he saw Foy and Louise also step onto the dance floor, dressed to the nines and holding hands.
Foy spotted Albert immediately. “Well, hello there, sheepie.”
Albert stiffened. “Hello, Foy. Louise.”
“Hi, Albert,” Louise said flatly.
She looked beautiful in a light-blue evening dress with cream-colored lace trim. But something was missing. No matter what she wore, from frilly formal attire to everyday outdoor clothing, she always had a glow about her. That glow was absent tonight. Albert realized with a jolt that this was the first time since he’d met her that it was not present. Was something wrong with her?
“Tomorrow’s a big day, isn’t it?” Foy smirked cockily. “Care for a last dance?”
Albert was confused. “With you?”
“No.”
“Oh, you mean—yeah, no, we’re gonna dance. Anna and me.”
The burly master of ceremonies spoke again. “And now to serenade us for the sweethearts’ dance, our very own Marcus Thornton!”
The owner of Old Stump’s livery stables stepped into the glow of the kerosene footlights, his bushy moustache and wild hair making him instantly recognizable from afar. Marcus was well known throughout the town as a golden-voiced lothario, and the ladies in the room perked up as the band played him on with a jaunty intro.
“Ready for terrible, weird, stiff, traditional frontier dancing?” Albert said as he and Anna took their place among the other couples.
“Thank you, friends!” Marcus Thornton called out cheerily from the stage. “And now I’d like to serenade you with a lively tune by the great Stephen Foster! This is a request tonight from my friend and yours, Mr. Foy Ellison!”
Foy flashed Albert a grin that looked as though he’d rented a couple dozen extra teeth just for the occasion, as Marcus Thornton began bellowing the song in his deep, operatic baritone:
You men who are looking for love
Don’t ever give up in despair
For I’ll tell you a secret I know
To capture the hearts of the fair
Now, maybe you haven’t the looks
Or maybe you haven’t the dash
But you’ll win any girl anywhere
If you’ve only got a moustache!
A moustache! A moustache!
If you’ve only got a moustache!
You may be the lowest of low
With nary a glimmer of pride
But you needn’t be born of a king
To make any maiden a bride
No matter you haven’t the name
No matter you haven’t the cash
You can make any woman your own
If you’ve only got a moustache!
A moustache! A moustache!
If you’ve only got a moustache!
You may be as fat as a bull
You may be as ugly as sin
The ladies are shutting you out
You’re wondering how to get in
Well, here is a piece of advice
For making a hell of a splash
You can turn every head at the ball
If you’ve only got a moustache!
A moustache! A moustache!
If you’ve only got a moustache!
A moustache! A moustache!
Big moustache! Thick moustache!
My moustache! Your moustache!
How I love the word moustache!
A moustache! A moustache!
If you’ve only got a moustache!
“God,” said Albert. “I hate it here.”
Anna whispered to him conspiratorially, “Hey, what do you say I steal a bottle of whiskey and we hit the road?”
Albert’s shoulders slumped with relief. “I love that idea.”
She smiled and strode briskly across the room to the bar. “Your dick’s out,” she said to the bartender. He glanced down with alarm, at which point she grabbed a bottle from the countertop, along with two glasses. When he looked up, both woman and bottle were gone. Anna had never even broken stride.
But rather than heading back to Albert, she stopped at an empty table in the corner of the barn. She set both glasses on the table and quickly glanced over each shoulder. When she was satisfied no one was watching, she subtly removed a paper pouch from her sleeve. She emptied its contents—a small quantity of white powder—into one of the glasses. She tossed away the paper and scanned the room. Foy and Louise were seated five tables over. Anna made her move.
“Hi,” she said as she approached them. Foy looked up, bristling visibly when he saw who it was. “Listen, Albert and I are gonna split,” she continued, “but I just wanted to wish you good luck for tomorrow.”
“Thank you.” He smiled coldly.
“You’re welcome,” she countered with warmth. “So … I guess it’s weird knowing that a woman can outshoot you, huh?”
Foy leaned back, folding his arms. “If you don’t mind, my girlfriend and I are enjoying each other’s company.”
She plowed ahead. “But you know what the real kicker is? I can outdrink you too.”
Foy relaxed a bit, and she saw his confidence bubble up again. “That, I can assure you, is impossible.”
Anna flashed a mischievous smile as she held up the bottle and glasses, carefully obscuring the white powder with her hand. Without another word, she filled both glasses two thirds of the way and handed the tainted one to Foy.
She raised her glass to him. “Ten cents to the winner.”
He raised his glass in response. “Agreed.”
“One … two … three.” They pounded the whiskey like a pair of pros. But Foy finished first, slamming his glass down onto the table, victorious. Anna swallowed her last gulp and coughed as she set her empty down next to his. She frowned at it with a perfectly simulated air of abashment. “Shit,” she muttered softly, but with enough volume to reach Foy’s ears.
“Don’t feel bad,” he said with an ugly little smirk. “Alcohol doesn’t harmonize well with a woman’s frail constitution.”
“Guess not,” she responded matter-of-factly, tossing the coins onto the table in front of him. “Here you go. You can buy your girlfriend a brain.”
“Excuse me?” Louise straightened defensively.
For the first time during the exchange, Anna dropped her controlled façade. “You’re an idiot. You have the nicest guy in the world throwing himself at your feet, and you’re here with this complete asshole.”
“Who I go out with is my own business,” Louise said curtly. “So why don’t you mind your own, bitch?”
Anna shook her head in wonderment. “You know,” she said, “you have very lovely, very big blue eyes. No one would ever know you were blind.” Anna whirled around and strode away, her bustle swaying back and forth as it vanished into the crowd.
Although nearly every member of the population of Old Stump had gathered to participate in the dance that night, the one individual who was forced to abstain, thanks to the very nature of his profession, was Sheriff Arness. He stood sullenly at the potbelly stove across from his desk, slowly stirring a watery stew of beef and vegetables for his dinner. His wife had been trampled by cattle three years ago, and since then Millie the brothel madam had gotten into the habit of bringing him his meals as a sort of unofficial courtesy. Whether it was out of pity for his loss, or whether she had romantic designs of her own, no one knew—not even the sheriff—but he was nonetheless grateful for the kindness.
Tonight, however, Millie was whooping it up at the barn dance along with the rest of the town, so it fell to Sheriff Arness to cook his own dinner. To make the task even more disagreeable, he had to prepare enough for his prisoner. Seems downright stupid to waste good beef on a dead man, he thought bitterly. Lewis Barnes was being held for shooting the pastor’s son until a U.S. marshal could be dispatched to Old Stump to take him into custody. Lewis would get a trial, of course, but because of Pastor Wilson�
��s blood connection to a congressman, that trial would be primarily for show. Lewis Barnes would be executed before the month was out.
The sheriff ladled three spoonfuls of stew onto his own plate and then a single spoonful on a plate for Lewis. He spat a mucus-filled glob of saliva on top for good measure, then retrieved the cell key from his desk. Lewis was fast asleep on his cot against the far wall. Plate in hand, the sheriff cautiously unlocked the cell door. As soon as it was open, he pulled his gun out of its holster and aimed it at the slumbering prisoner. “Suppertime, you lazy prick,” he growled.
Lewis remained unconscious, his soft, rhythmic snores echoing off the walls of the sparse cell.
The sheriff slowly set the plate down on the floor. He straightened up again and stared at the sleeping man with distaste. “Goddamn waste of lungs.” He turned back toward the cell door—
—and was out cold before he even felt the blow.
It was as mild a night as the desert ever deigned to offer its human tenants, and the stars were out in theatrical plenitude. Albert and Anna sat on the uneven fence next to Albert’s farmhouse and swapped jolting pulls from the whiskey bottle.
Albert took a swallow and winced as the burning amber liquid blazed a trail from his throat down to his stomach. He shook off the intensity of the taste with a high-frequency shiver and turned to Anna. “I have that goddamn moustache song stuck in my head,” he complained.
“Just think of another song,” she suggested.
“I can’t; there’s only like three songs.”
“That’s true, and they’re all by Stephen Foster.”
“Ugh, yeah.” Albert grimaced.
“You don’t like his music?”
“I dunno, I’m … on the fence about it.”
Anna rolled her eyes at his pun. “Wow, now I hope you get shot tomorrow.”
Albert laughed and looked at her fondly. “Listen,” he said with sincerity, “whatever happens tomorrow … I just wanna say thank you. And y’know, this may be the booze, or your pep talk earlier, or both, but … I think I can do it. I can beat him.”
Anna gave his arm a squeeze as she took another swig of whiskey. “Like I said, you’ll be fine. And in case you haven’t noticed, you sound a lot more confident than that guy who pulled me out of the saloon not too long ago.”
Seth MacFarlane's a Million Ways to Die in the West Page 10
