Beginner's Luck (19 page)

He came to the edge of the settlement, where a scruffy little dog barked at him. Well-dressed ladies and gentlemen strolled on the sidewalks, while children played in yards, running, jumping, yelling.

He continued his quest for breakfast, and became aware that people were looking at him. He squared his shoulders and walked with a steady roll of his shoulders, like his spiritual advisor, Lester Boggs. Duane arrived at the Black Cat Saloon, and a man in an apron swept the floor, while a scattering of bleary-eyed cowboys enjoyed breakfast.

“That's him,” somebody said.

Duane trudged to the chop counter, and the Negro cook handed him a platter covered with steak, beans, potatoes, and biscuits. Duane carried the food to an empty table against the left wall, where no one could shoot him from behind, unless they had a cannon on the other side of the wall. He sat, speared a fried potato, placed it in his mouth, and opened the
dog-eared newspaper that had been lying on the table.

PECOS KID GUNS DOWN RIVAL

BEHIND BUND PIG SALOON

He stopped chewing, and his eyes bulged out of their sockets. What the hell is this? He read lie after innuendo after exaggeration with mounting indignation, and knew full well who was at the bottom of it, the heavyset, blond-haired reporter who'd “interviewed” him last night. Isn't it against the law to tell lies like this? Duane wondered. Is this what they call freedom of the press? That reporter's got to print a retraction, or I'll sue for defamation of character, if I live that long, he told himself. Why is it that every time I look around, things get worse?

Clyde Butterfield walked down a side street of Titusville, and he looked like he owned the town. The customary thin black cheroot was stuck in his teeth, and he wore a smile for all the world. It wasn't every day that he came to call on the most beautiful woman in town, and he believed that he still cut a fine figure of a man, considering his age. Although he'd deny it, he truly had killed eighteen men, some out of anger, some for money, and a few for the hell of it. But he'd got shot himself one hot August night in San Antone, and spent two years flat on his ass. It caused him to think of many things he'd never known before, such as the ultimate futility of all human endeavor, and since his recovery, he
had gone out of his way to avoid altercations.

He saw Miss Fontaine's house halfway down the block, knew that Edgar Petigru had bought it for her, and figured she was with Edgar for the money, because there wasn't much else that the Yankee had. You know what they say about money, Butterfield told himself. It'll make you act real funny.

He climbed the three stairs to the porch, knocked on the door, and struck a pose, one foot in front of the other, thumbs in his suspenders, cheroot in his teeth. The door opened, revealing a Negro woman in a white bandanna looking at him suspiciously.

Butterfield removed his hat and bowed slightly. “I wonder if I might speak with Mister Braddock.”

“Who?”

“Duane Braddock. I understand that he's a ... friend ... of Miss Vanessa's.”

“He ain't no friend of Miss Vanessa's, and he ain't here nohow.”

Butterfield bowed again, replaced his hat on his head, and made for the street. Now where would he be? Butterfield wondered. He knew that Duane had left Miss Ellie's in the middle of the night, and assumed that the kid had returned to Vanessa Fontaine. Maybe's he's passed out in a hotel, or maybe he's dead.

He understood Duane's predicament, for he, too, had been the target for lesser men struggling to rise above the morass of the mob. One lucky shot, and they're famous. Even Duane Braddock, who'd never fired a gun before in his life, had become the
Sentinel's
headline. The power of the press, Butterfield thought cynically.

The door opened behind him, and the Negro woman reappeared. “Sir?”

He spun around, with the reflexes of an ex-gunfighter.

“Miss Fontaine would like to speak with you, sir.”

I knew it, Butterfield thought vainly. She's admired me from afar, and wants to meet the other major celebrity in town. With a new spring to his step, he returned to the house, and was led by the maid to the parlor.

“May I get you something to drink, sir?”

“Whiskey.”

Butterfield sank into the plush chair, and noticed dainty curtains, lace doilies, knickknacks on shelves. Footsteps approached, and he rose to his feet and even removed his cheroot from his mouth, as he awaited the arrival of the most entrancing woman in Titusville.

She swept into the room, her eyes ablaze with barely concealed anger. “Mister Butterfield,” she said, holding out her hand. “I've heard so much about you, sir.”

He bent over and kissed her hand gallantly, for he was of the same class as she, the child of wealthy planters ruined by the rebellion, and he'd served on the staff of General Longstreet. Although he was an aging gambler and ex-gunfighter down on his luck, he'd worn the silver leaf of a lieutenant colonel on his collar, and General Longstreet frequently had asked for his advice. The general usually ignored it, but had asked anyway.

Vanessa sat opposite him, her posture erect, the perfect belle of the ball. Butterfield felt as if he were back in Dixie, and he didn't have to worry about how
he was going to pay his hotel bill at the end of the month.

“I hope you haven't been tricked by that nasty little Duane Braddock,” she said testily. “He's a very charming liar, and he's talked me out of a suit of clothes. I actually believed that he was a poor orphan who'd just escaped from a monastery, of all things. You wouldn't believe the lies that he told me. How much does he owe you?”

“Not a penny,” Butterfield said. “And in point of fact, he is a poor orphan boy who just escaped from a monastery. I know, because I happened to be there when he got off the stage. He didn't know where the hell he was, and before he figured it out, a bunch of brats robbed every penny he had.”

She leaned toward him. “Mister Butterfield, I don't think you appreciate how cunning he is. It appears that he's
really
bamboozled you, but I understand—he can be extremely persuasive. But just explain to me one thing: if he just escaped from a monastery, how come he's the Pecos Kid?”

“My dear Miss Fontaine—I was there. Duane Braddock didn't even know how to fire the gun, and I had to show him. He watched, he practiced, and he learned a little, but not much. The cowboy drew first, but fortunately for Duane, the cowboy was nearly blind drunk. Duane's no Pecos Kid, but that doesn't mean somebody won't shoot him one of these days.”

She struggled to maintain her composure, but his words slammed into her like battering rams. He came here last night, he wanted my help, and I threw him into the cold. My God! she thought, visibly shaken.

“Are you all right, ma'am?”

She smiled politely, for Charleston belles know how to hide emotions, too. “Thank you for coming here, Mister Butterfield. If you see Duane, I hope you'll tell him about our conversation, and convey to him my apologies for my beastly behavior last night.”

A sign hung over the sidewalk:

TITUSVILLE SENTINEL

Len Farnsworth

Publisher

Duane turned the doorknob, but the door was locked. He'd already checked the saloons, and didn't think the reporter would be in church. I want to look that son of a bitch in the eye and tell him what he's done to me. Duane kicked the door, the curtain inside moved an inch, a bloodshot eye peeked outside. The door opened, and the great publisher stood in his barefeet and long underwear. “I'll be goddamned,” he said. “Come on in, Pecos. Let's have some coffee.”

Duane looked him in the eye and said levelly: “You've made a lot of trouble for me, sir, and I might even get killed because of those lies that you wrote.”

“Lies?” asked Farnsworth, ushering Duane into the small office, which also served as his printshop, bedroom, dining room, and kitchen. “I gave you an opportunity to explain yourself, but you refused. However, if you want to make the next special edition, let me get a piece of paper, and I'll write everything verbatim.”

The room smelled of ink, molding paper, and stale
ideas. Duane looked at the newfangled Washington printing press nearly big as a man, and marveled at the wonders of the modern world. In only a day, you could flood a town with lies.

“Mister Farnsworth,” Duane began, struggling to keep his temper under control. “You said I'm a professional gunfighter, but I'm not. Now somebody's liable to shoot me, because of your dishonesty.”

Farnsworth snorted derisively. “Don't blame your troubles on me. You're in a fix because of your refusal to cooperate with the press. But thanks to me, you walk into any saloon in this town—somebody'll buy you a drink.”

“Or shoot me in the head. You
lied
about me, Mister Farnsworth. I'm not the Pecos Kid.”

“You're from the Pecos country, aren't you?” Farnsworth readied his pen. “What did it feel like, the moment your bullet struck Dave Collins in the chest? Did you experience elation, relief, or merely cold hate and lust for revenge?”

“I was happy to be alive, because it was the first time I ever fired a gun, and—”

Farnsworth pshawed. “Inexperienced shooters don't have hands as fast as yours, young man.”

“You've got to print a retraction, and tell the truth.”

Farnsworth raised his eyebrows. “Since the dawn of time, philosophers have chewed over what constitutes Truth, and as far as I know, no one's figured it out to this day. Do you claim to know?”

Duane realized that he couldn't prove definitively that he wasn't the Pecos Kid. “But you made it all up!”

“I certainly hope so,” Farnsworth said, as he
dropped to one knee before the stove. He stuffed old newspaper inside, added kindling, and scratched a match. Duane had thought that Farnsworth would apologize or beg for his life, but instead the reporter seemed pleased with what he'd done. Flames leapt out of the stove, and Farnsworth closed the door. Then he proceeded to grind coffee beans.

“You may not realize it,” Farnsworth said, “but I've done you a favor. Shoot a few more people, and somebody might write a book about you. You could be the next Buffalo Bill.”

“I don't want somebody to write a book about me, and to hell with Buffalo Bill. Your newspaper has placed my life in danger! Don't you understand?”

“Nobody lives forever,” Farnsworth retorted. “Even I, a humble journalist, could be shot by a disgruntled reader such as yourself. I'll bet, when you were on your way here, you thought about killing me.”

“That's true,” Duane said darkly.

“What a headline:
EDITOR SHOT BY THE PECOS KID.
Too bad I wouldn't be alive to write the story.”

“I lived in a monastery until two weeks ago. You can write to the abbot.”

“For all I know, you bribed him.”

“You can't bribe an abbot!”

Farnsworth raised his eyebrows. “Let me tell you, boy, that everybody has his price, even an abbot.”

“You didn't care about me at all! I was just another story for you!”

“Nobody understands the special problems of the press. My main goal is to make the
Sentinel
interesting, so that people will buy it, place ads, and increase my wealth.”

“And if I get shot, so much the better. THE PECOS KID GUNNED DOWN IN BROAD DAYLIGHT Another great headline, right?”

The door to the office opened, and it was Deputy Dawson, wearing a battered hat with the front brim pinned up. “Everythin' all right in here?” he asked, glancing suspiciously at Duane.

Farnsworth declared: “I was only interviewing the Pecos Kid. He claims that he never fired a gun before in his life. In all my travels, I've never met a gunfighter who had a sense of humor, until now.”

The deputy looked at Duane. “Stay out of trouble, boy, or I'll be on you like stink on shit.”

Deputy Dawson departed the newspaper office, Farnsworth poured water into his blue porcelain coffeepot, added ground coffee, and placed it on the stove. “You'd better watch out for poor Deputy Dawson. He has something to prove, and let's hope that he doesn't try to prove it with you.”

Jake Russell, ramrod of the Lazy Y, rode down the main street of Titusville, a bent cigarette sticking out beneath his black handlebar mustache. A wide-shouldered man of thirty-two, his head throbbed with pain, and he was nauseated due to too much food, drink, and carousing during the night. Now, in the cold light of day, the town had been reclaimed by churchgoers from miles around, who'd come to hear the customary Sunday fire-and-brimstone sermon at the New Titusville Church of Jesus.

Russell dismounted before the Carrington Arms Hotel, threw the reins over the hitching rail, and headed
for the lobby. I wish that son of a bitch Yankee would leave me alone. Russell felt that Petigru didn't know anything about ranching, but always was giving orders, changing his mind, and devising impractical far-flung plans. But Russell never complained, because he liked the extra twenty dollars a month he earned as foreman.

He crossed the lobby of the hotel, where a few guests were passed out on the furniture, bottles in hands, cravats untied, frock coats covered with spilled food and drink. The desk clerk nodded knowingly to Russell as the latter turned toward the stairs.

He came to the third floor, walked down the corridor, and knocked on the door at the end. Petigru, attired in a purple silk robe, a notepad in one hand, pencil in another, opened it. “Come in,” he said with a flair. “Fix yourself a drink.”

Russell headed for the bar, and wondered how a man could find happiness doing numbers, for that's generally what occupied Petigru whenever Russell was called on the carpet. The foreman poured himself three fingers of whiskey, and sat on a plush chair beside Petigru's desk. Petigru added the columns as if unaware that someone else were in the room. Luxury always made Russell uncomfortable, as if it were
too
soft and pampering. Looks like a goddamned woman's gown, Randall thought of Petigru's robe.