Beginner's Luck (2 page)

Duane had read about far-off exotic lands, and now at last was free to travel anywhere. He was tired of reading books and singing in the choir, and didn't feel qualified to deliver sermons to men and women twice his age. He also wanted to get married as soon as possible, because strange internal physical events were occurring beyond his control.

The sergeant twitched his nose, opened his eyes, and looked out the window. “Thar it is,” he muttered. “ 'Bout goddamn time.”

The lawyer awakened next to him, a sleepy grin on his face. “Which way is the cribs?”

The stagecoach rounded a bend, and rocked on its leather thoroughbrace suspension. A whiff of chimney smoke wafted through the window, and Duane's mouth watered with anticipation of his next meal. He always seemed hungry, and hoped he could get a job before his money ran out.

He had no idea where he'd sleep that night. He had no poncho in his sack, not even a blanket. The abbot, furious at the outbreak of violence, unceremoniously chucked Duane out the front gate without supplies,
despite Brother Paolo's ardent protestations, citing Duane's age, inexperience, but the abbot refused to change his verdict.

Duane wasn't remorseful about leaving the monastery. He'd endured enough sanctimonious piety and ecclesiastical platitudes to last a lifetime, and didn't want to become a dried-out old buzzard like the abbot. But he still believed in God, the Gospels, and Holy Mother Church. You don't have to live in a monastery to be a good Christian, he told himself.

Something wild dwelled inside him, and he'd yearned for an active outdoors life. Many times, studying in the scriptorium, he'd wanted to run alone in the ponderosa pines, to let off steam, but all he could do was turn the page. In Ecclesiastes, he'd read:
In much learning, there is much sorrow
, and Duane couldn't agree more. Some writers said it one way, other writers declared it differently, but it all boiled down to one principle:
Honor truth, love justice, and walk humbly with thy God.
His only regret was that he'd never see poor, tormented Brother Paolo again. That devout ex-bandito had wagged his finger in Duane's face and said in a grave voice:
Beware the temptations of the secular world. At first it looks like a garden, but then it becomes an oven.

Across the seat, Lester Boggs drew his gun out of its holster, spun the cylinders, and returned the weapon to its position of meditation on his hip. Then he bit off a fresh chunk of tobacco and worked his jaws like a cow.

The stagecoach arrived at the edge of the town, and Duane perceived outlines of two- and three-story wooden buildings, some with lamps glowing in the
windows. A dog ran out of the darkness and barked at the spokes of the stagecoach going round and round.

The driver steered onto the main street of Titusville, and the first building was a saloon, with horses lined up at the hitching rail, and raucous laughter floating through bat-wing doors. Next came a hardware store closed for the night, a barber shop, and then a private home with no lamps on. Men strolled on the planked sidewalks, wearing boots and wide cowboy hats, carrying guns and knives, smoking cigarettes.

Duane wanted to be manly like them, but he felt like an overgrown boy. The faint stubble of a mustache grew on his upper lip, but he'd never been alone with a woman since he entered the monastery. He was conscious of his monk's sandals, old brown pants, dirty white shirt, and no hat.

He was scared and exhilarated as the stagecoach rolled down the wide, potholed street. Three cowboys on horseback galloped past, waving their hats in the air, yipping and yelling like madmen. Duane stared at hotels ablaze with light, saloons full of roaring men, restaurants packed with diners, horses drinking from troughs. The tinkle of a piano came to his ears, and a woman laughed throatily in one of the saloons.

Duane broke out into a cold sweat, and felt uncomfortable in his hand-me-down clothes. In only moments, he'd be on his own in a strange town, but Brother Paolo had given him the basic guidelines:
Don't gamble, don't drink whiskey, and stay away from women.

Duane spotted a woman waving from behind the front window of the Cattlemen Saloon, her face garishly
painted, wearing a low-cut dress. He realized that she was a prostitute, and wondered what horrible circumstance had brought her to such a wanton state.

The mere thought of women made him feel as if he were covered with ants. He'd enjoyed disgraceful dreams about Mexican girls at Mass in the monastery, and reproached himself for licentious imaginings. A man should be more than a pig rutting among the sows, he maintained.

Meanwhile, his fellow travelers conversed in scurrilous tones about whiskey, women, and cards, the very items Brother Paolo had told Duane to avoid, and Duane coughed on the thick tobacco smoke roiling inside the cab. They were big, rough men, except for the salesman, who had smooth hands, big ears, and a beatific smile. “You know what's the best hotel in town?” he asked Sergeant Cutlowe.

“I ain't never been in Titusville afore, but a trooper told me that the best whores are at Miss Ellie's.” Sergeant Cutlowe turned toward Duane and shook his finger. “Now you stay out of there, boy. Yer too young fer that shit.”

Duane's ears turned red in the darkness, as the stagecoach veered toward an immense building that took up nearly the entire block. The sign above the porch said:

CARRINGTON ARMS

Lights blazed from its windows, spilling onto the veranda, where men drank leisurely at tables. Someone fired a shot on a nearby street, and Duane jumped three inches off his seat. The sergeant leaned toward
Duane. “You'd better git you a gun, Sonny Jim. “ Otherwise yer liable to git a bullet up yer ass. Some of these cowboys come to town after three months in a line shack, they git a few whiskeys in 'em—they go crazy as injuns. It's always best to be heeled, know what I mean?”

Duane nodded solemnly, as the stagecoach slowed in front of the hotel. He looked at his raggedy clothes, and feared that he'd appear outlandish to the citizens of the secular world. He knew he'd have to get some new clothes as soon as he found a job

The stagecoach came to a stop, attracting the attention of everyone in the vicinity, and on high floors of the hotel, guests looked down at the vehicle pulling up to the door, bringing visitors from beyond the mountains, along with newspapers, mail, merchandise, and warrants for the arrest of certain individuals currently on the dodge.

The stagecoach driver bounded to the ground, wiped his hands on his pants, and opened the door. Duane moved off his seat, squeezed through the narrow opening, and landed on the ground. He felt a crick in his back, and his right knee was sore as he unwound in front of the hotel. Lamplight glistened on his aquiline nose and high cheekbones.

He was fascinated by the ornately gabled hotel before him, the largest building he'd ever seen, and wondered if he had enough money to stay there. Reaching into his pocket, he took out his coins and counted them in the palm of his hand, as if hoping they'd gained interest during the trip, but they totaled the same old thirteen dollars and change.

“What're you doin', boy?” asked Boggs, who
exuded the fragrance of fermented beverages. “Don't show yer money in the middle of the street. There's people here who'd slit yer throat fer what yer got thar. Whar you stayin' tonight?”

“Don't know yet,” Duane replied, “but I figured I'd find out what they charge at the Carrington Arms.”

“The most ‘spensive spot in town—hell, you don't want to go near that place. My advice to you is look fer a boardinghouse run by a fat lady. That way you can be sure you'll eat good.”

“I was wondering how to find a job as a cowboy.”

Boggs took a step backward, placed his fists on his hips, and regarded Duane. “You don't look like no cowboy to me.”

“I'm not yet, but that's what I want to become.”

“Wa'al, there's lots of ranches around here, and one of ‘em might want a wrangler.”

“But I don't know how to ride a horse.”

Boggs stared at him in disbelief. “How come?”

Duane didn't want to admit where he was raised, so he shrugged and said mysteriously, “Been busy.”

The cowboy scrutinized him carefully. “Where's yer hat?”

“Haven't got one.”

Boggs examined him again, as if trying to reach a decision. “I ain't got no dinero either, but there's a feller here what owes me ten dollars. Suppose I meet you at the Crystal Palace in about an hour? I'll buy you a steak, and we can talk, okay?”

“That's all right,” Duane replied proudly, reaching into his pocket. “I can buy my own steaks.”

The cowboy appeared exasperated. “I told you to put yer money out've sight. Kid, you don't keep yer
wits about you, you won't have ‘em long. I'll be lookin' fer you by the chop counter at the Crystal Palace.”

Boggs walked away on his long bowed legs, and Duane felt as though a great man had just bestowed special honor upon him. He picked me out of the crowd, he thought, like John the Baptist finding Jesus, except that Boggs is a drunkard, and I'm the son of . . .

He didn't want to think about his parents, but had a story worked out in case anybody asked. He knew it was wrong to lie, but sometimes the truth was too brutal to contemplate. Maybe I can become a cowboy, and have some respect, he speculated. Duane watched Boggs lope along the boarded sidewalks, spurs jangling with every step, and he couldn't wait for dinner at the Crystal Palace. He wondered what to do with himself until then.

Meanwhile, the stagecoach driver passed the luggage to the shotgun guard, who handed it to passengers. The sergeant carried his belongings across the street to Sullivan's Saloon, and disappeared into the smoke and laughter behind the bat-wing doors. The driver sauntered toward Duane.

“Got someplace to stay?”

Duane cleared his throat, and tried to speak deeply, like Boggs. “I'll find a boardinghouse, I reckon.”

The stagecoach driver raised an eyebrow. “Ain't you got folks?”

“Killed in an injun raid.”

“They got a good parson in this town, name of MacDuff, and if you ever git the miss-meal cramps, I'm sure he'll give you a bowl of soup. He might even
have somebody in the congregation who can find you a job. Life is what you make it, boy. Don't take no shit from nobody.”

The driver patted him on the shoulder, then climbed back to the top seat of the cab. The horses strained as they pulled the stagecoach toward the livery stable. Duane stood in the middle of the street, dumbfounded that the highly respected driver had noticed him.

“Git out of the road!”

Hoofbeats pounded toward him, and he darted toward the sidewalk. Three cowboys galloped past, yipping and yelling down the main street of town, colorful bandannas flying in the breeze. Duane's eyes fell on a sign that said:

HATS

The store was closed for the night, but moonlight illuminated a display of headgear with wide flaring brims and crowns dented in numerous interesting configurations. Duane's eyes widened at the sight of a white ten-gallon sombrero with a neat dent in the middle of the crown. That's the one I'll buy, soon as I find a job, he promised himself.

He became aware of running footsteps, and turned toward a gang of boys not more than ten years old, charging toward him. Barefooted, filthy, ragged, they dove through the air, clutched at him. Something came down on his head, and he saw sunbursts.

He staggered on the sidewalk, trying to make sense of what was happening, when another boy smacked him in the cheek with a rock, and Duane
went sprawling backward. A hand groped into his pocket, as the rock hit him again.

“Won't go down,” one of the boys lamented.

A voice came from the other side of the street. “Hey—what's going on over there!”

A gun fired, and the boys scattered. Duane tripped over an empty whiskey bottle, fell to the floorboards, his head whirled. He rolled onto his back and looked up at a man with a bony angular face and a six-shooter in his hand. “You okay, kid?”

Duane touched his head, and blood came back on his finger. His nose felt smashed, and more blood showed. “What happened?”

The stranger had a thin black cheroot sticking out his teeth. “Guess they figured you had money.”

“I did.” Duane reached into his empty pocket. “And they got it all.”

The man was tall, in his forties, with blond hair and long sideburns, wearing a ruffled shirt with black string tie. Duane gave him his hand, and the stranger pulled him up. The stranger wore his six-shooter in a holster beneath his frock coat.

“I'm much obliged to you, mister.”

“You've got to get yourself a gun, boy.”

“I will, soon as I get some money. Do you know where I can find a job?”

“Not offhand.” The stranger looked Duane up and down, and his forehead became wrinkled. What's your name?”

“Duane Braddock.”

The friendly expression on the stranger's face changed to something more thoughtful, as he submitted Duane to another appraisal, noticing tattered
clothes and sandals. “My name's Clyde Butterfield. Where'd you say you're from?”

“Didn't say.”

Butterfield reflected for a few moments, absent-mindedly scratching his chin. “If I needed money in a hurry, I'd find a cowboy job.”

“Can't ride a horse.”

“Can you do carpenter work?”

Duane shook his head.

“Well, if you don't want to rob the bank, you might go to every saloon and restaurant in town, and ask if they need a dishwasher. Where're you sleeping tonight?”

“Don't know yet,” Duane replied.

Butterfield paused, as if making a decision. “Watch your step, kid. As soon as you get fifteen dollars, buy yourself a Colt.”

Butterfield touched his forefinger to the brim of his cowboy hat, and strolled off into the night. Duane watched him go, certain that Butterfield was an important man about town. He looked at me awfully funny, he thought, and I must be a disgrace in these clothes. Duane smoothed the front of his shirt, wiped blood from the corner of his mouth, and headed for the nearest saloon, to search for a dishwashing job. Nothing can stop a determined Christian, Duane reminded himself.