Ghost Town: A Novel

by Coover, Robert

  While gazing up at this display, he stumbled upon an old toothless Indian sitting alone on a flat stone before a small heap of glowing red embers. Nearly trod on him before he saw him there, a medicine man by the looks of him, though it could just as well have been an old squaw with shriveled dugs. This person, also staring up at the swarm of stars overhead while sucking on a long-stemmed pipe, made no sign of greeting but did not seem surprised that he’d come upon him or her in this manner. Whut do they say, oletimer? he asked. Whut do the stars say? The Indian slowly turned his or her head and peered at him, seated up there on his mustang like something growing out of its back. After a long silent time, the Indian said: They say the universe is mute. Only men speak. Though there is nothing to say. Then the ancient turned away and fell silent again, tending the embers, whose whole purpose seemed to be to provide for the relighting of the pipe from time to time. Probably would have been better if he’d let it go at that and continued on his way. Instead, he traded a strip of buffalo jerky for a few puffs on the pipe, and the next thing he knew everything was spinning around (now he could read the sky; it was like a kaleidoscopic shuffle of dirty pictures going on up there) and the old Indian was making off with his horse and all his goods. Though he was seeing double, he managed to bring the thieving savage down with a single shot to the back of his head as he was galloping away by firing both pistols at the same time. He wasn’t sure if both bullets made the same hole or if he’d shot two Indians, but he didn’t stay around to figure it out, being fairly spooked by now by the astral spectacles he was witnessing. He whistled his mustang back and heaved himself up into the saddle (it was as though he had shrunk some, it was like climbing a mountain, and he had the impression that the horse helped him somehow) and, arms wrapped round its thick neck, he made his way away, head down, from that wild stony place. It was probably about then that the ache to get back to civilization set in.

  Of which by now he’s had his fill. Something to be said for the desert after all. His view of it, draped butt-high over the back of the horse, an old trailworn snuff-colored cayuse, is mostly of the ground passing under the creature’s plodding hoofs, and it strikes him that survival in the desert probably depends on attending fiercely to such details and avoiding the long view of the horizon, which can suck the gaze right out of a person’s eyes. The horizon’s a sight he suffers but rarely now, and then only upside down from under the horse’s belly whenever his head bobs in that direction. It’s a disconcerting perspective, making him feel suddenly untethered, having to hold on to the horse’s rough hairy body not to fall backwards into the sky, so he often closes his eyes when it bobs into view. And it is with his eyes closed like that in dread of being roofed by the barren desert that he hears nearby the muffled cry of a woman.

  He rears up in surprise and falls off the horse. This hurts considerably, especially through the middle parts, though it’s fuzzed in with all his other hurts, pain being mostly what his body’s made of at this time. He lies there on the stony ground for a moment, curled up, doubting he’ll ever be able to straighten out again, listening to the woman’s rodentlike whimpering, but not for long; he hasn’t come across many women out in these parts and so is sufficiently provoked by the very novelty of it to raise himself up and have a look. It’s the village schoolmarm, bound and gagged on the ground a few paces away from him, measuring in the old manner from a time when he could still walk. Now he crawls toward her on his belly, sidling his way over like a broken snake might. Yu awright, mam? he gasps.

  She glares at him, struggling against her bonds. Her wrists and ankles are hogtied behind her back and her gaping mouth is stretched wide around a reddish sweat-stained neckerchief, much like one he used to have, knotted tightly behind her ears. Clumsied by his own injuries and his shyness, he fumbles with the kerchief, but she shakes her head and jerks her body at him, grunting urgently now and glancing fearfully off toward the horizon, as though there might be no time to lose. He tries to turn her over on her stomach, but she seems pinned fast to the ground: he raises one hip out of the way and sees that she is lashed to what look like traces of old rusted railroad tracks, buried in the sand. He brushes the sand away to get at the knots and feels her supple flesh beneath the black dress bounce back against his hands and then stiffly recoil. Beggin yer pardon, mam, he says, and brushes away a bit more, his pains subsiding. She takes one sniff of him, glances at the filthy pink bloomers, and turns away in disgust, looking as if she might throw up. He has to reach under her to get at the knots that have parceled up her hands and feet, the ropes tough as plant roots and buried deep, and it is only after he has been working on them for a time that he registers fully just where his hands are, for he has not thought soberly upon the schoolmarm’s bottom before, nor the place down there of the parting of her thighs, now pocketing his busy raw-knuckled fists, even though he does have some notion of the black webbed tangle it might be wrapped in, got from some former time. When, to get at a rope end, he burrows a bit deeper, she arches her back away from his hands in alarm, bumping his knees with her belly, but he means her no harm, nor has he any desire to take advantage of her, for he thinks of her as the most innocent and virtuous creature on earth, and even her bottom is not so much a bottom in his mind as the pedestal from which, straight-backed and true, her virtue rises. Just where that notion of a rising pedestal has come from, of course, is all too manifest, given the split and tattered condition of Belle’s bloomers, and he turns his backside to the marm so as not to abuse her with the plain and miserable sight of it. Sorry, mam, he says, unsheathing his bowie knife and straddling her, but them knots is too tight to untangle, I’m gonna hafta cut em. So hole still, I dont want yu gittin poked.

  Her eyes widen at the sight of the knife (in truth, though the question has been on his mind all night, he can’t tell what color they are, for what he sees mostly is the piercing blackness of the pupils), and she goes limp. Even her bottom feels more like a bottom now to the back of his hand as he grips her four fettered limbs down there to hold them steady, and her half-raised hip, which his member is stiffly grazing as though to plow a furrow in it, is a womanly hip in spite of its thick black wrap, pliant and gently rounded, a comfort to his gaze and to his touch. He works the blade carefully in under the ropes between her wrists and ankles, grateful for the time it takes, then with a single upward stroke severs them. The rope ends shrivel back into the sand and the train tracks disappear, but his fullest attention is on the schoolmarm, who seems—so pale and tearful, a limp bundle of the most immaculate and vulnerable softness—too faint to rise. He staggers to his feet, his manhood wagging cheerfully in the blazing sun, not much he can do about that, and tenderly lifts her up, just as a train comes roaring up out of the far horizon and goes thundering past, knocking him back with the mighty violence of its passage. And then as soon as it has come it is gone again. He can hear it bearing away into the distance and as though wheeling around some bend he cannot see, and then he cannot hear it any longer. He sets the marm down and, still gazing off toward the empty horizon, cuts away the rag that gags her. If thet warnt the dangedest thing I ever seen, he says.

  Saw, she replies sharply, spitting the gag away, and she slaps him. A real cracker that makes his teeth rattle. Then she mounts his horse sidesaddle and leaves him there, alone on the empty desert, without another word. He rubs his cheek, watching her as she quickly diminishes and then vanishes over the horizon. Never could understand women.

  His face is still stinging from the schoolmarm’s slap when the town rolls up under his feet again and the saloon chanteuse leans out of an upstairs window to holler down: Whuddayu doin back here, stranger? I thought yu’d skedaddled. Yer mug’s up all over town!

  Reckon I jest caint stay away, he says drily. It’s true, he sees his face on WANTED posters nailed up everywhere, though the one hung on the jailhouse hitching rail over by the old buckboard is more like a rear view of his desperate escape from the stables: HOSS THIEF! it says. REEWARD! DAID OR KIC
KIN! Except for the orange-haired chanteuse framed by her lace-curtained window, there is no sign of life in the dusty town, nor even a hot wind to stir the gallows ropes or rock the saloon signs. It is empty and silent, yet everything seems tautly edged in the shadowless light of high noon as if the whole town were mined with dynamite. He’s in no shape to draw on anybody, but his hands are tensed over his gunbelt out of an old gunfighter’s habit, which is the only habit he respects. Whar is everbody? he asks.

  Dunno. Probly out lookin fer yu, badman. Guess thet wuz some damn stag party. I must say yu do look mighty appealin, standin out thar in the street with yer weepon stickin out like yu wuz aimin t’ambush us all. Mebbe I should oughter come down thar’n hang my wet pussy on it a spell, jest so’s it dont git dried out in the sun.

  Well I wuz wonderin ifn mebbe yu still had my britches sumwhars.

  I think I seen em about. Stay whar yu are, honey. I’ll hunt fer em’n brang em down.

  Staying where he is, there in the middle of his own portrait gallery, makes no practical sense, and he anticipates Belle might have notions about that reward money or else further marital designs, but in a wide-open ramshackle town like this, made out of a few boards and a bit of tin, it’s not easy to find a place to hole out in unnoticed. What he settles on finally is his own jailhouse, where he might best defend himself until everything gets explained. So he limps heavily over there, dragging his bad leg behind him like a laden travois, and finds them all inside waiting for him. They kick his feet out from under him, strip him of his weapons, and give him a thorough hiding with their fists and boots, gun butts and wooden legs.

  We’da hung yu straight off, yu dodrabbid no-good thievin varmint, but on accounta yu wuz wunst a lawman, yu’ll git a trial, fair’n square, and then we’ll hang yu.

  Dont do me no favors, he groans, and rolls over to hug his pain, and they kick him some more. He feels like he’s breathing directly through a cold painful hole in his chest, and he notices then that he’s no longer wearing his badge. Must have fallen off back in the stables. Or maybe before. Can’t remember when last he saw it.

  They drag him by his feet to a cell and heave him in, but there’s another person in there. Looks to have been dead for three or four weeks. When he points this out to them, a bespectacled old humpback, who might once have been his deputy, one of them anyway, kicks at the body and says: Musta been a malfeasant some other sheriff roped. Fergot t’feed him, I reckon. They pick up the corpse and throw it out into the street and then they lock him up in there and hang the key on the far wall, which is otherwise covered with the photographs of dead people, everything from hollow-eyed babies to bullet-ridden bandits and heaped-up massacre victims.

  The present deputy, a tall ugly man with long greasy hair like knotted iron rope and a random scattering of gold teeth, settles into a creaky swivel chair with a pipe and bottle and deck of cards while the other men clamber out into the darkness, headed for the saloon and arguing about how the reward money is to be divvied up. What he regrets now, curled up there on the cell floor, is that he didn’t hop that train when it roared through. Wasn’t thinking. Not about that. What a woman will do to you. Not that it would have made much difference. One night after a saloon bust-up, he recalls, he got thrown into jail with a famous trainrobber due to hang at dawn. In the town whar I growed up, the trainrobber told him, they wuz all this fuckin storifyin. Yu couldnt hardly git clear of it. I wuz afeerd I’d hafta spend my whole goddam life insida cock’n bull cooked up by other people. Mostly dead people. So thet’s why I come out here. Yarn my own dyin, as yu might say. Well pears like yu done it, he said, for he was young and wild then and he admired the man. The trainrobber, however, stared at him like he was the village idiot. Like fuckin hell, he said.

  He’s still there on the floor and growing used to it when the saloon chanteuse turns up with a clay crock full of baked beans. Aint he a purty mess, she says, looking in on him. Them duds is plain revoltin. Take em off him, deppity, I’ll warsh em up fer his hangin exhibit.

  I aint touchin them filthy bloomers, Belle.

  Yu dont hafta. Jest git me his hat and boots and thet buckskin shirt.

  The deputy scratches his armpits thoughtfully, then hollers at him: Shuck them duds, yu jasper, and throw em out here fore I shoot yer fuckin ass off!

  Go t’hell, he mutters, and the deputy lets off a shot that burns his ear. Probably put a hole in it.

  Keerful, deppity. Yu’ll spoil him fer the hangin. Open up, I’ll git them things off him.

  Yu wouldnt be pullin nuthin funny, would yu, Belle?

  I’d like t’pull his funny little nuthin out by the ruts, deppity, ifn thet’s whut yu mean. This here’s the two-timin dog whut left me standin at the altar—yu wuz thar, yu seen it. Hell, I caint wait t’see the shifty sumbitch swing. Now open up’n lemme at him.

  Humph. Awright, he says. He can hear the key clanking in the lock. But I’m keepin my gun on yu alla same.

  Well jest dont open up no new holes, I caint find enuf hard men in this town t’service the ones I got. She sets the dish of beans on the floor and kneels down beside him, flashing her naked under-parts at him. I brung yu sumthin t’eat, honey, she says suggestively, and the thing between her legs seems to blow him a wet kiss. He turns his head away. Yes, there has definitely been some damage done to that ear. The chanteuse straddles his legs to work his boots off and massages herself on the hairy parts there, then unbuckles his gunbelt and pulls his shirt off over his head. Yu’re really up agin it, hero, she whispers, breathing heavily. Yu got more troubles than a rat-tailed hoss tied short in flytime.

  I’m glad t’hear it. I wuz afeerd everthin wuz gonna be awright.

  Whuddayu sayin t’him, Belle?

  I tole him he wuz a rat fer stealin thet hoss and he’d be flyin high in short time. Now yu jest dig inta them beans, short-timer, and wait here till I brang these things back t’yu.

  I aint goin nowhars.

  Yu bet yer ass yu aint, says the deputy, locking up again. The chanteuse, he sees, has her free hand in the deputy’s pants.

  Yu’re near as ugly down thar, deppity, as yu are up top, she says.

  I know it. Yu hankerin fer a poke, Belle?

  Aint I always, she moans, nuzzling in under his spidery hair to chew on a thick lump of scar tissue that was probably once part of an ear. Yu go on playin with thet piece a gristle, deppity, and keep it lively till I git back with the kid’s duds.

  She seems to go out the door and come right back in again, though it’s not like that, he knows, because meanwhile he’s found the hacksaw in the pot of beans and has been removing the window bars while his keeper’s had his back turned, sucking from his whiskey bottle and playing solitaire by lamplight. The bars, he’s discovered, are just old wooden fenceposts tarred black; he could have punched them out.

  He drops the hacksaw back into the crock of beans as the deputy rises boozily from his chair and staggers over to unlock the cell. Yu got a awful purty stink about yu tonight, Belle.

  Well yu kin have a lick in a minnit, deppity. Jest lemme git these here togs back on thet scoundrel, I’m sicka seein him walk around near stark nekkid like thet. It aint civvylized.

  His buckskins, he sees, have been dyed black. They wuz too dirty to warsh, she explains, I hadta color em. She has also brought him a broad slouch hat, gloves, neckerchief, and boots, all black as well. Even the longjohns are black. She peels the tattered pink bloomers off him and tosses them out the cell door: Here, go sniff these whilst yu’re waitin, deppity! The man, cross-eyed with drink, catches them, peers at them woozily, turns green, and stumbles out the door to vomit in the street. While he’s gone, the chanteuse, tugging the longjohns up and snuggling his bruised eggs in with particular tenderness, whispers: They’s a hoss and weepons waitin fer yu outside thet winder, darlin. Now haul the resta yer livery on and git outa here whilst me’n the deppity says our prayers. I’ll meet up with yu later.

  But whar—?

  Dont worry,
handsome, she grins. I’ll find yu. Yu caint git lost.

  A lot of things happen and then he’s alone and forsaken on the desert again, sprawled out under the black canopy of night, starving, parched, hurting too much to get up and move on but a dead man if he doesn’t. Not a calamity out in these parts of course, the more serious concern being the loss of his hat and boots on the wild gallop out of town on the back of the black mare. That creature, after effecting one rescue, has tossed him here and abandoned him, flat out, useless, and in need of another, on what an old furtrapper come down out of the mountains once called the dry skin of the ineffable, which back then he thought was a Sunday way of saying the unfuckable.

  One of the things that happened was that, while Belle serviced the drunken deputy behind his desk (We dont want thet wild desperado gittin over-roused, do we, she said with a wink his way, pushing the ugly man down out of sight), he picked up his boots and crawled out of the cell window, which turned out to be a story higher in the back than out front; he could see the horse waiting for him down below with his gunbelt over its rump, so he just let go and dropped, slapping into the saddle like a ball into a leather glove. It hurt but not as much as he’d feared, though probably the most recent punishments he’d endured had set new standards. But if the horse, a shapely coal-black thoroughbred, was willing to play catch with him, she was less inclined to take him anywhere, impassively ignoring his most desperate urgings. He wheedled, kneed her, clucked his tongue in her ear, snapped the reins, commanded her in a barking whisper to giddyup, smacked her haunches, and cursed her like the black devil she was, but she only turned her head and looked at him wistfully, or else in reproach or disappointment.

  Over at the saloon meanwhile a brawl had broken out, a fight over the reward money as best he could make out, or maybe they’d been gambling for it and someone had cheated, and it was now spilling out into the street. There were fistfights and gunfire and thrown bottles and chairs and the shattering of windows and mirrors and, mixed in with it all, a drunken agitation for a lynching boiling up: It’s thet goddamn hoss-thievin ex-sheriff whut’s fucked us up! Lets go drag the mizzerbul whelp outa thar’n string him up! Yo! He’s ruint this town! C’mon! Lets git the sumbitch! But still, even as the turmoil spread ominously in his direction, the mare just stood there, stock-still, eyeing him melancholically over her shoulder, and he began to wonder if maybe the saloon chanteuse, more embittered by her thwarted wedding party than she was letting on, had set him up for something even more harrowing than a legal hanging. Git goin, damn yu! he cried, but the contrary thing wouldn’t. He felt like braining her with something, but she was all he had so he gritted his teeth and leaned forward and stroked her sleek black neck and begged her earnestly to fetch him out of this hellatious dusthole before it was too late, whispering in her erected ear that it was just the two of them now, his fate was in her hands—or hoofs, better said—and if she wanted to stay and get killed like a damfool, well, he could abide by that, for him it was better to get shot up out here in the street than to swing like sausage from a rope, but there was no need for her to suffer such grievous shit, no need for either of them to, because there was still time and plenty, but they had to step lively—and pronto!—and as he talked she began to paw the ground and snort and toss her head and he told her she was the most beautiful horse he’d ever seen but he wouldn’t care if she were the ugliest whangdoodle in all creation, he’d still love her, if only she would kick up her heels and hightail her sweet arse out of here, and the next thing he knew they were miles away, streaking through the desert night so fast it was all he could do to hold his seat, his eyelids pinned back, teeth bared behind blown-open lips, the new hole in his ear whistling, his clothes ripping in the wind. Then, as suddenly, they stopped and he somersaulted right on over the mare’s head with his forward momentum, landing where he lies now, flat on his back, staring up at the indifferent stars, hatless, bootless, unarmed, and unable to imagine ever rising again, the mercurial black mare long since vanished into the night, as though, having brought him this far and dropped him, her job was done.