Beginner's Luck (22 page)

Duane drew his gun, thumbed back the hammer, and raised one eye above the trough. A gun fired on the far side of the street, and something warm blew a hole in his hat.

“I said return their fire, goddammit!”

Boggs pulled the trigger, his gun exploded, and smoke expanded behind the trough. Something prompted Duane to look up, and he was astonished to see a man at the edge of the roof, a gun in his hand, aiming down. Duane spun around and fired wildly. The man shot back, and hot lead slammed into the water trough beside Duane, who clenched his teeth, aimed more carefully, and squeezed the trigger. The gun kicked in his hand, and smoke obscured his vision for a moment, but a gust of wind cleared it away, and Duane saw the man roll lifelessly down the eaves, and land on the sidewalk. Duane stared at him, the second man he'd ever killed, and he didn't even know his name.

“I said return their fire!”

Bullets flew through the air like angry gnats, as Boggs perched stalwartly on one knee behind the water trough, firing at targets across the street. Duane emulated his position, as a bullet zipped past his ear, making him flinch. He saw muzzle blasts across the street, aimed at one of them, and fired simultaneously with Boggs. A second later there was a shriek in the night. “I'm hit!”

“Let's get out of here!” hollered a deep rumbling voice.

Duane fired at a murky figure fleeing down an
alley, but couldn't tell whether he'd brought him down. He heard footsteps receding into the distance, and no more guns were fired on the far side of the street. Hoofbeats could be heard in the alley.

“Keep yer head down!” Boggs ordered.

Duane ducked behind the trough, and thumbed cartridges into his Colt. Moonlight fell on the waxy features of the man he'd killed, and he looked vaguely familiar, but Duane couldn't quite place him.

“All clear out there?” asked a voice from the Crystal Palace Saloon.

“Tears so,” Boggs replied.

Boggs's shirt was soaked with blood. He holstered his gun, then sat heavily on the bench in front of the saloon. “Just like the goddamned war fer a moment thar,” he wheezed.

Men drifted out of saloons, as Duane kneeled before Boggs. His cowboy pard had been shot in the shoulder. Boggs seemed in a trance, as his life's blood oozed out of him. “The most important duty of a soldier,” he murmured, “is ...”

He closed his eyes, pitched forward, and Duane caught him before his face crashed into the sidewalk. Duane laid him down gently and rolled him over.

“Is he dead?” asked a voice behind Duane.

“Not yet,” Duane replied, “but somebody'd better get the doctor real fast.”

Deputy Dawson strolled down the center of the street, gun in hand. “What the hell's going on here?”

“Here comes our lawman,” somebody said snidely, “late as usual.”

Duane unbuttoned Boggs's shirt and bared the ugly wound. Boggs was passed out completely, face
pale, whites of his eyes showing. If it hadn't been for this man, Duane thought, I'd probably be dead right now. Will I have to look over my shoulder for the rest of my life, just because I shot some son of a bitch?

D
UANE SAT IN THE BUCKBOARD,
A
S
HARPS
buffalo rifle cradled in his lap. The driver, a jolly fellow named Hank Atchison, slapped the reins across the backs of the horses, as he drove Duane toward the Lazy Y Ranch. “Injuns gener'ly don't attack less'n they think they're a-gonna win,” Atchison explained. “Keep yer eyes peeled whenever yer out here, ‘cause if you don't see ‘em first, yer daid.”

Duane's eyes explored the terrain, as he realized yet again that the world was far more lethal than he'd previously imagined. He longed for the tranquil spiritual life, but could never return to the monastery now. The memory of Vanessa's lithe body warmed him in the cool spring morning, and he looked forward to seeing her in town next Saturday night.

An arduous week lay ahead, because Boggs had told him that a new tenderfoot cowboy would become everybody's scapegoat until he proved himself worthy of their company. If I could plow through Saint Thomas Aquinas, I can handle anything, Duane tried to reassure himself, as the buckboard rumbled closer toward his highest career aspiration.

Len Farnsworth hunched over his desk, writing feverishly.

PECOS KID SHOOTS TWO COWBOYS

OVER “LOOSE” WOMAN

IN TITUSVILLE

Duane Braddock, better known as the Pecos Kid, provided his own special brand of entertainment in our town last night, when he shot two outlaws to death on Main Street, in front of the Crystal Palace Saloon, which is open twenty-four hours a day, and serves exceptionally fine food.

The object of their dispute evidently was a certain “scarlet woman” named

Farnsworth paused, wondering what to call the fictitious woman, because he couldn't mistakenly use the name of a real lady of the night, who might shoot him for cheap revenge.

The door opened behind him, and Edgar Petigru stormed into the office, a scowl on his face. “Don't you dare!” he shouted, as he marched toward the desk.

Farnsworth shot to his feet, as Petigru grabbed the news story that he'd been working on. “Just as I
thought!” Petigru said. “You're incorrigible, and the only way to stop you is drive a stake through your heart! I told you to
forget about the Pecos Kid!
”

“But you don't understand,” Farnsworth replied, eyes dancing with headlines and deadlines. “We're creating a legend here in Titusville. When I'm finished, folks all across this country will know about this town.”

“They'll know it's a place to steer clear of!” Petigru replied angrily. “Have you gone mad? And what's this about a ‘scarlet woman'? You're not even telling the truth!”

“If you knew the so-called truth, you'd be on the next stage out of town, Mister Petigru.”

The New York tycoon was astonished by this completely unexpected remark. “What're you talking about?”

Farnsworth spat into the cuspidor. “We've got a deputy sheriff who shows up in time to carry the bodies away, and Titusville has become a magnet for every hard case in Texas.”

“Thanks to your insipid newspaper stories. The Pecos Kid? Don't make me laugh. You're going to get that boy killed.”

“That'd be the best story of all,” Farnsworth said, framing the headline in his mind:

PECOS KID GUNNED DOWN

Petigru paced back and forth, hands clasped behind his back. “I simply cannot tolerate any more of this foolishness! The
Titusville Sentinel
is defunct as of right now! I'll send a messenger with your final pay
later in the day! I'd appreciate it if you'd clear out of this office without delay.”

Farnsworth pulled out his Colt, and said: “My name is on the lease, and it's my press. I brought it here on the back of a mule.”

“I've heard that story a hundred times, and it's probably not true, either. Let's not forget that I'm the man who lent you five thousand dollars to get that rag of yours started in the first place.”

“Pay you back when I get it, and if I never get it, that's business. I lost my shirt a few times along the road, too.”

Petigru looked down the barrel of the gun, the most convincing debating tool of all. “Surely you're not going to shoot me.”

“I will, if you don't get out of my office.”

“You'd be living in the gutter right now, if it weren't for me.”

“But I ain't,” Farnsworth replied, thumbing back the hammer.

On a far reach of prairie, the outlaws dug a grave for their fallen comrade, Ken Dominici, shot through the head last night in Titusville. Dominici lay on the ground stiff as a board, his black beard caked with blood, as Hardy worked the shovel.

Smollett sat nearby, his left thigh bandaged. While running away, he'd been clipped with a bullet from behind. The bushwhack had gone awry, due to the arrival of a friend of the Pecos Kid, and Daltry had been shot off the roof. The original gang of six had diminished to four.

Singleton had cut the lead out of Smollett's leg with his knife, and pain throbbed through his body, as he cursed the cowboy who'd diverted the Pecos Kid from the line of fire. Smollett, who was weak and dizzy and couldn't walk on his bum leg, felt as though his luck was running out.

Daltry spelled Singleton at the shovel, and Singleton sipped out of the canteen. Then he put on his eagle-feathered hat and shuffled wearily toward Smollett. “What do ya think?” he asked.

“Maybe we should put this behind us, and move on.”

“No matter where we go, we won't find a town with less law than Titusville, and that bank still looks good to me. I say we hit it, and move on.”

“What about the Pecos Kid?”

“Next time we'll kill him right.”

“I think he's more trouble than he's worth.”

“He killed three of my friends.” Singleton looked at Hardy, who was pressing his boot against the shovel's blade. “Hey—should we kill the Pecos Kid, or let ‘im off the hook?”

Hardy wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his arm, and thought for a few moments. “Kill ‘im,” he said. Then he resumed shoveling.

Mayor Lonsdale sat at his desk, eating a crumpet saturated with butter and raspberry jam, while studying a map of Texas. Maybe, when this is all over, the missus and me'll go to Austin, and become cosmopolitan folks.

The door to his office opened, and Petigru stood
there, an expression of tribulation upon his distinguished New York features. “Come in, boy,” the mayor said, indicating a chair in front of his desk. “Care for a crumpet?”

Edgar flung his arms outward. “How can you talk about crumpets, you fool! We have no law here, and it's time we sent for the Rangers!”

Mayor Lonsdale smiled beneficently. “There's a lot that you don't know about Texas, Petigru. Don't ever call a man a fool to his face, unless yer ready to die.” The mayor cocked the hammer of his Remington and aimed at the stylish New Yorker. “Most unhealthy thing you can do.”

Petigru found himself gazing down the barrel of a gun for the second time that day. “It appears that the moral climate of this town has been deteriorating rather rapidly during the past several days. My editor has just threatened to kill me.”

“Were there witnesses?”

“I was alone, unfortunately.”

“If you need a good witness, let me recommend my cousin Carl. He'll go with you everwheres, testify to anything you say, and he'll only cost one hundred dollars a month.”

Petigru placed his fists on the mayor's desk and leaned forward. “I think I've got your whole damn family on my payroll, and it's my money that keeps
you
in crumpets, because I've bought most of this town from you!”

“And I researched the titles, too,” the mayor pointed out.

“Which means that they might not even have been yours legally!”

Mayor Lonsdale winked. “But I wouldn't worry about it if'n I was you, Edgar, because any doctor'll tell you that worryin' does no good for the liver.”

Petigru dropped into a green leather chair in front of the mayor's desk. “Sometimes, when my spirits get really low, I think that you and all the others in this town have swindled me. I've supported carpenters, lawyers, cowboys, bankers, and even well-diggers. In a sense, this whole town has been a figment of my imagination.”

“But think of what'll happen when the railroad comes. We'll
all
be rich.”

“What if the railroad doesn't come?”

“Then we'll all move to our next opportunity, that's all.”

“But you'll be moving with
my money,
and I'll be flat busted!” Petigru wore a distraught expression, for he was voicing his deepest fears for the first time. Has a bunch of ignorant and uneducated bumpkins bamboozled me out of my fortune, and part of my mother's? They've sold me my own town in the middle of nowhere, and they've let me play king, but what'll happen when my money runs out?

Mayor Lonsdale looked like a fiendish little dwarf as he aimed down the barrel of his gun at Edgar, and closed one eye. “I think I know what's on yer mind, Edgar, and I can't say that I haven't expected it. If yer a-thinkin' about leavin' yer friends and neighbors in the lurch, you got another think a-comin', ‘cause we won't stand for it.”

This was yet another blow to Edgar's delicate constitution. “Surely you're not going to hold me captive!”

“Hell no,” the mayor replied. “You can leave after you fulfill yer financial obligations.”

“I'm not paying another dime,” Edgar said adamantly. “You can take your damned town back—I don't want it!”

“Neither do we, because if the railroad don't come —this town ain't worth buffalo shit.”

The buckboard came to a stop between the barn and the main house. “This is it, Kid,” said Hank Atchison. “The bunkhouse is behind the barn. Just do as yer told, don't ask too many questions, and you'll git along jest fine.”