by Len Levinson
Cochrane smiled confidently, performed a perfect about-face, and headed toward his hut, leaving Duane standing alone on the far side of the canyon. Duane wanted a favor, so he ran woodenly after him, and said, “I'd like to ask you something, sir. Could I start getting in some shooting practice?”
“Sure, just as long you don't hit any of my men by mistake or on purpose. I always figured you for a gun-fighter, and now the truth comes out.”
“I'm no gunfighter,” Duane replied. “It's just that I intend to live for a long time.”
“Don't we all. Shoot all you want, and by the way, don't forget to show up at the meeting.”
Vanessa was admitted to a small office in back of the Black Cat Saloon. Dan Cunningham, proprietor, sat behind his desk, a grossly obese man with a long mustache, a round flabby face, and beady eyes that looked her up and down. “What can I do for you?” he asked in a cold businessman's voice.
“Aren't you even going to invite me to sit down?”
“Sit—stand—do as you like, but I don't have much time.”
She placed her fists on his desk, leaned forward, and peered into his dull gray orbs. “You behave as if you're doing me a favor, but the shoe is on the other foot. Most of your customers are Civil War veterans, and I know all the good old songs they love to hear. Once I start singing them, you'll be surprised how quickly your establishment will fill with patrons. I am Miss Vanessa Fontaine—perhaps you've heard of me—and I'm not unreasonable in my requests for recompense. What do you say?”
Cunningham narrowed his eyes, and a grin came to his lips. “Women walk into this office every day with the same story. They want to be singers, and they've got the greatest voices in the world. But what'll they do for me? That's what I want to know.”
She raised an eyebrow. “What do you want them to do for you?”
He didn't reply, but the insinuating leer on his lips said everything. Vanessa was tempted to smack his face, but instead smiled and said, “Sorry, but I'm not a prostitute. You should think with your wallet for a change, sir. You hire me, plaster my name around town, and sweep the saloon, you'll sell so much whiskey you can buy all the prostitutes you want.”
He puffed his black cigar. “You're a tall drink of water and you've got a big mouth. All right—I'll give you a chance. You can open tonight, and stay as long you keep bringing in the business.”
A map of Texas and Mexico was nailed to Cochrane's kitchen wall as the outlaw band huddled around their leader, waiting for him to begin. Cochrane carried a pointer carved from the branch of a cottonwood tree, and stood in the light of an oil lamp hanging from the ceiling.
All the outlaws were there, and even Juanita had been invited. Duane hung toward the back of the crowd, determined not to get sucked into illegal shenanigans regardless of how they coerced him.
“We might as well begin,” said Captain Cochrane, his voice businesslike and confident. “As you know, this will be our most complex raid so far, and most lucrative. It's time we made a major contribution to the treasury of the New Confederacy.” He narrowed his eyes as he leaned toward them.
“On the fifteenth of every month, a wagon departs Fort Richardson, carrying payrolls and other monies for forts throughout the Fourth Cavalry command. It is variously estimated that the monies amount to approximately a quarter of a million dollars. For the rest of the month, they drop off pay at posts and commands, and then return to Fort Richardson to prepare for the next delivery.” Cochrane pointed to a region about a hundred miles south of Fort Richardson. “I propose to intercept the wagon here. It's a little-known spot called Devil's Creek, where they stop to rest and water their horses. We'll strike at sundown on the appointed day, recover the money, and be gone before the Yankees know what hit them. Your own personal shares will be approximately five thousand dollars each. Are there any questions so far?”
Sergeant Beasley raised his hand. “How many soldiers will we have to contend with?”
“Twenty to thirty troopers with rifles and pistols, plus a few Indian scouts.”
Beasley shook his head vehemently. “Don't like the sound of that, especially the Injuns. They'll smell us comin’ a mile away.”
Cochrane smiled indulgently. “People sometimes confer supernatural powers upon Indians, but if the bloody savages are so all-powerful and all-knowing, why are they surrendering left and right all across the frontier? The Indians won't even know we're there, and don't forget that the pay wagon has stopped at Devil's Creek a hundred times, so they're not expecting anything. You know very well that small units frequently defeated larger ones during the war—I could give you hundreds of examples. Besides, the Yankee soldiers of today don't have much fight in them, and most'll run at the sound of the first shot.”
“I still don't like the odds,” Beasley insisted. “We need at least five more men. Sir, I don't want to be disrespectful, but this doesn't sound like such a hot idea.”
“I understand your concerns, Sergeant, but we'll make liberal use of dynamite, and I've left nothing to chance. It'll be worth more than ten of our usual jobs, and this is the legacy that I want to leave the Confederacy.”
Cochrane looked like an officer standing beside the map, and Duane imagined him in a tailored gray cavalry officer's uniform, with polished brass buttons, a yellow sash, shiny black knee-high boots, and his trusty saber at his side. Duane fantasized the other irregulars attired in the uniforms of the Confederate Army, with stripes on their sleeves and medals on their chests. Duane became aware that everyone was looking at him curiously. While daydreaming, he'd missed something.
“Well?” asked Captain Cochrane. “Haven't you been listening? I asked if you were going on the raid with us.”
“I already told you there's something I've got to do.”
The outlaws grumbled, displeased by the response. Dr. Montgomery stepped forward, a frown on his normally placid face. “We've placed our lives on the line for you, young man, and you can't find it within your heart to give us a hand?”
“I'm not a gunfighter or an ex-soldier, and I'm not interested in breaking the law. Sorry.”
“What law?” asked Cochrane. “The Yankees have no dominion over you unless you give it to them. Do you consider yourself subject to the Yankee government?”
“I'm an American citizen,” Duane replied. “That's all I know.”
There was silence, then Duane heard an angry snort from Johnny Pinto. “It don't have nawthin’ to do with bein’ an American citizen. I think he's just a goddamned coward.”
The ugly word singed Duane's ears as he turned toward Johnny. “People who say coward are usually the worst cowards of all,” he replied.
“Easy for you to say, ‘cause you know I won't hurt you. Yer so sickly and all.”
“I'm sickly and you're stupid, but I'm getting better every day.”
Johnny's pupils dilated. “Izzat so? Well, since yer gittin’ better every day, maybe you and me ought to settle this like men afore long, all right?”
“Up to you.”
Johnny turned toward the others. “You all heard him.”
Cochrane broke the silence. “If you're going to be staying with us that long, Duane, you might as well come on the raid. You don't have to draw your gun if you don't want to, because God forbid that we should drag a wanted outlaw such as yourself into our sordid life of crime. You can be the quartermaster, and free up Walsh for active duty. It'd be a big help to us, and we'd really appreciate it.”
“That's right,” said Walsh, absentmindedly stroking the mole on his cheek. “I for one ain't afraid to fight the damned Yankees. We've done a lot fer you, boy, and you got a short memory. That day we rode to save yer worthless ass, we could've been ridin’ into the whole damned Apache nation. But we took the chance to help another white man.”
Dr. Montgomery smiled indulgently. “How can you refuse to look after our horses and supplies for a few measly days?”
Duane couldn't say no. After all, they had saved his miserab
le worthless skin, no doubt about it. “I'll have to think it over, but I'm not getting into gunplay, and I don't care how many times you insult me or make me feel guilty.” Duane turned toward Johnny Pinto. “And I'll take care of you after we get back.”
Johnny Pinto made an impulsive threatening motion toward Duane, but saw a Colt aimed at his nose. It happened so quickly, Johnny blinked in surprise, then smiled, showing teeth yellowed by tobacco. “You're not as sick as you look, eh, Mr. Butterfield? But you won't fight me hand to hand and man to man. Afraid I'll dirty yer pretty face?”
Duane aimed down the barrel of his Colt at Johnny Pinto. “In about one month you and I are going to fight, Johnny. Then we'll see whose face gets dirty.”
Vanessa Fontaine applied cosmetics to her cheeks in a small musty storage area behind the Black Cat Saloon. Converted into her dressing room, it had a big framed mirror with a crack down the middle, four dented brass lamps, and a broken-down couch for her to languish upon between shows. The time neared for her opening-night performance, and Cunningham had papered San Antone with posters that said:
BLACK CAT SALOON
LIMITED ENGAGEMENT
THE DULCET VOICE OF
MISS VANESSA FONTAINE
THE CHARLESTON NIGHTINGALE
She'd devised The Charleston Nightingale from memories of Jenny Lind, the famous Swedish Nightingale, who'd visited Charleston during her triumphant 1850 American tour. Vanessa's parents had bought the best available first-circle seats on opening night, because Vanessa had studied music, and they wanted to show her the greatest singer in the world. The performance became the most extraordinary artistic experience of young Vanessa's life, and afterwards she'd wanted to become a great singer like Jenny Lind. She studied harder than ever, everyone told her she was wonderful, and she decided to get married to the nicest young man she'd ever known. Then the war broke out, Beauregard died at Gettysburg, the South was destroyed, and music became the only practical skill she had left. Those damned Yankees, she thought bitterly. Oh God, please forgive me for hating them so.
There was a knock on the door. “It's time, Miss Fontaine,” said McCabe.
She looked at herself in the mirror one last time, satisfied that her cosmetics were perfect. Then she threw her black shawl over her bright red satin gown and opened the door. She could hear Cunningham's baritone at the end of the hall. “And now, gentlemen, may I present for your entertainment pleasure . . . the lovely lady we've all been waiting for . . . the famous Charleston Nightingale . . . Miss Vanessa Fontaine!”
Applause trembled the timbers of the Black Cat Saloon as Vanessa made her way down the corridor. At its end, she handed the shawl to McCabe. “I hope they don't throw tomatoes,” she said.
“Just toss ‘em back,” replied McCabe with a grin. “Good luck.”
She stepped onto the stage; the saloon was jammed from bar to doorway, and Vanessa viewed the outlines of hats worn by cowboys, gamblers, lawyers, farmers, and other forms of masculine frontier life. She waited until the clapping died down, then folded her hands together and said in her inimitable purr, “Good evening, gentleman. I know that many of you were in the war, and so was I. With your kind permission, I'd like to sing a few songs from those great days.”
Without piano accompaniment, standing alone in front of them, she held out her arms, filled her lungs with air, and began to warble one of the most popular songs of the recent conflict, “The Southern Soldier Boy.”
“Bob Roebuck is my sweetheart's name,
He's off to war and gone;
He's fighting for his Nannie dear,
His sword is buckled on. . . .”
Her gentle voice wafted about the smoky saloon, and men could smell magnolia blossoms, taste mint juleps, and feel the power of King Cotton surge through their veins. Vanessa transported them to the lost kingdom that existed south of the Mason-Dixon Line seven years ago, when their hearts were young and jubilant.
“He's fighting for his own true love,
His foes he does defy;
He is the darling of my heart
My Southern soldier boy.”
She sang the chorus, then plowed through the first verse once more, capturing them in her memory web. It gave her a lift to know that she could still dazzle an audience, despite the stupidity of her personal life. Although they were gathered in a cheesy San Antone saloon, it felt like a ballroom on the banks of the Ashley River, or a log cabin in the Alabama piney woods. Vanessa could evoke the tragedy of old Dixie clearly, because its flames still burned brightly in her not-so-innocent heart.
Once she'd loved a Southern soldier boy, too, and he should've been a poet, but he fell beneath the hooves of federal cavalry, and something in Vanessa fell with him. Perhaps it was her heart, but the world was never the same for her after Gettysburg.
There wasn't a dry eye in the house, and that included the eyes of the Charleston Nightingale as she threw herself into the final chorus of the her song.
“He is my only joy
He is the darling of my heart
My dearest Southern Soldier boy.”
The saloon exploded with applause as Vanessa took her first bow. Coins rained upon the stage, a hurrah went up from the gang at the bar, while an enthusiastic music lover jumped up and down near the door so he could get a better look over the sea of hats before him. Vanessa knew that she could do anything with them, and God had given her a special grace, though she hadn't yet divined its purpose. She drew herself erect and scanned their nostalgic faces, searching for a certain pair of high cheekbones and green eyes, but the Pecos Kid wasn't there, and all she could do was get on the with the show. Maybe in the next town—who knows? she thought, as the crowd quieted. Then she began her next Civil War classic, “A Georgia Volunteer.”
Every man in the saloon had lost a brother, friend, or comrade in the Rebellion, and together with the Charleston Nightingale, remembered, mourned, and glorified the blood sacrifices to their noble cause. A few men sang with her, others stared into space, while some were passed out cold on their tables. Cunningham stood in the shadows and rubbed his hands together in anticipation of the take at the end of the night. She can stay as long as she wants, he determined, and maybe I'll up her salary before she decides to go somewhere else. This dizzy Southern belle is going to make me dirty rotten filthy stinking rich!
Duane lay on his cot, unable to sleep. Against his interests, he'd agreed to participate in a raid on a Fourth Cavalry pay wagon, of all things. Now that he was alone, with time to reflect, he saw that his hosts had cleverly manipulated his feelings of guilt and obligation.
The last thing he wanted was to shoot somebody in the Fourth Cavalry, and he had forebodings of new pitfalls during the Devil's Creek robbery. There was no way he could weasel out of it, because a man was only as good as his word. He tossed and turned, but somehow the criminal enterprise loomed in his mind and kept him awake. Duane had never stolen anything in his life, except for a couple of horses, but soon would participate in a major robbery against the Fourth Cavalry. If Colonel MacKenzie, commander of the Fourth, ever figured out that the Pecos Kid was mixed up in it, Duane Braddock might have to live in Mexico until he was a gray-bearded old man.
Just when he was regaining his health, a new pile of trouble had been dumped onto his lap. No matter what he did, or how fervent his prayers, his life continued to deteriorate. He wondered if God was trying to teach him a lesson, or if he was just a dumb, wandering kid that people tended to push around.
He couldn't help recalling the certainties of the monastery in the clouds. His most serious concern had been getting to choir practice on time. Some days, while singing Gregorian chants, he'd felt transported to heavenly realms, but then the devil tempted him with pretty Mexican girls, and he surrendered unconditionally.
I have no character, always take the easy way out, and I don't stand up for my principles. The cot creaked beneath him as he tried to find a comfortable spot. Why was I born to a mother and father wh
o got themselves killed?
The world seemed out of balance to Duane, and he'd never fall asleep unless he could think of something pleasant. He searched for radiance through the tunnels of his mind, and eventually came upon a memory of his first great love, the former Miss Vanessa Fontaine.
It soothed him to recall her long elegant body, those incredible Celtic cheekbones, eyes like chips of ice, and the naughtiest pink tongue ever devised. Duane had experienced powerful religious ecstasies at the monastery in the clouds, but they'd been nothing compared with the reality of Miss Vanessa Fontaine.
Why do I think of her so often? he wondered. We were only together about two months, and it really didn't mean a damned thing at all. I'm sure she's forgotten all about me, and she's probably pregnant, so why doesn't she leave me alone?
Vanessa Fontaine paraded past gentlemen drunkards gathered the length of the bar, and they pounded their hands enthusiastically. Like the Queen of Sheba, she headed toward the batwing doors, followed by her faithful McCabe, his hand inside his coat, fingers resting on his Spiller & Burr. Vanessa could have her pick of men in the Black Cat Saloon; the knowledge of it stoked her feminine pride, and perhaps on another night, who could say what might develop?
“Buy you a drink, Miss Fontaine?” asked a goatee and big purple cravat.
A gentleman opened the batwing doors, and his eyes said, “Please take me home with you.” She gave him a wry smile as she stepped into the cool night air. Thanksgiving was coming, she was far from home, following a young ex-lover into the Apache homeland, but too late to turn back now.
A horde of admirers, glasses of whiskey in their hands, followed her back to the hotel, providing protection like intoxicated knights of the roundtable. The evening had witnessed a triumphant return of Vanessa's singing career, and any doubts she'd had about her talents were dispelled. Moreover, she truly enjoyed being the talented and charming Charleston Nightingale instead of the gloomy and morbid Widow Dawes.
