Beginner's Luck (28 page)

Butterfield made one last effort. “What's ... a ... good ... man?”

“Why didn't you tell me that you knew him?”

“Best... you . . . don't. . . know ...”

Life deserted Clyde Butterfield, and Duane felt it fly away. A voice came to him from the far side of the street. “I'm a-waitin' on ya, kid.”

Duane's mouth hung open, and his face was streaked with tears. He looked down at Butterfield, who tried to save the son of his pard, although he was badly outclassed and way past his prime. Duane took a deep breath, rose unsteadily to his feet, and turned toward the fastest gun in the county. “I'm ready.”

“Then let's git it on!”

Both men moved to the middle of the street, and Duane was ready to go all the way. He knew he didn't have a chance, but maybe, just maybe, with a little help from God, maybe . . . He took one last look at the world, then spat into the dirt, spread his legs, and took the gunfighter stance that had been taught him by the man lying dead a few away. “I'll count to three, so make your big move whenever you feel comfortable, Mister Klevins.”

A new voice entered the arena. “Now just a moment!” It was Deputy Dawson, and he carried a
double-barreled shotgun into the middle of the street. He'd been watching from the crowd, and realized that if he didn't at least attempt to control the evening's bloodbath, they'd laugh him out of town. He aimed the shotgun in the general direction of Klevins, and then toward Duane. “Clear the street!”

A gun exploded, a cloud of smoke billowed, and Deputy Dawson was thrown to the side, where he tripped over his feet, and fell in a puddle of mud. Everyone stared at the deputy, but he didn't move. Titusville had become a lawless town.

“If'n I need a deputy,” Klevins said, “I'll ask fer one.” He holstered his gun, then returned his attention to Duane. “This is it, Kid. I'm tired of playin' with you.”

“Just listen to this, Mister Klevins,” Duane said, between clenched teeth. “You're the fastest gun in the county, but I'm right, and you're wrong, and if there's a God in heaven—you're going to die.”

Duane got into position again, and afterward the old-timers would say that he looked like the angel of death in the moonlight. But then out of the darkness of the crowd, a long black cape appeared, topped by golden hair. Vanessa Fontaine walked toward Saul Klevins and stopped a few feet away. “Mister Klevins,” she said, trying to hold her voice steady, “I'll do anything you say, if you'll let him go.”

Duane heard her voice, and shook his head angrily. “Vanessa—get out of the street!”

She pretended that she didn't hear, and continued to plead with Klevins. “I apologize if I've hurt your feelings. I know that it was callous of me. Let the Kid go, and we can leave this town together.”

Duane turned toward the crowd. “Will somebody please move this woman out of my line of fire.”

A group of cowboys from the Lazy Y grabbed Vanessa and pulled her back. She tried to fight, but they were strong and in such numbers, they swept her off her feet and carried her away.

“I'm tired of fuckin' with you, kid,” Klevins said, and went for his gun.

Duane darted to the right, and drew his Colt simultaneously. He snapped the barrel up, and steadied his aim, but Klevins fired first. The bullet whizzed past Duane's left shoulder, but the Pecos Kid bit his lower lip and pulled the trigger.

His gun exploded, the street filled with smoke, the crowd could barely see. Vanessa shrieked in dismay, because she thought she saw Duane go down, but he was only stepping forward, for another shot at the figure reeling up the street.

Saul Klevins had been hit in the pancreas, and foul excretions spilled into his bloodstream. The street spun around him. He was completely disoriented, and he tried to imagine what had happened, but didn't even know his name. What am I doing with this gun in my hand? he wondered, as black curtains fell over him.

Daune was aghast, as the famous gunfighter dropped before him. Duane's right arm was extended, Colt pointed at Klevins, who vomited blood onto the ground. I won, Duane thought, and felt as though a tremendous miracle had occurred, for how could he, a mere novice, shoot the fastest gun in the county?

He looked up, and saw the Milky Way blazing a path across the heavens. When he'd drawn his Colt, once again he'd experienced the uncanny feeling that
somebody had been behind him, the man with the black mustache, and in that blinding moment he knew that his father had rendered personal assistance from the depths of the spirit world.

Then he lowered his head, and his eyes fell on Clyde Butterfield lying in a pool of blood and dank water. Duane kneeled beside him. Gore was everywhere—the jaunty ex-staff officer a lifeless corpse, his hat fallen off, and thinning dark blond hair tousled on his head. Duane leaned forward, and tenderly closed his friend's eyes. “I'll never forget what you've done for me, Clyde,” he whispered. “May the Lord have mercy on your soul.”

“Here you go, Kid,” said a voice above him.

Duane saw a glass of whiskey proffered. He accepted, knocked the contents back, and looked around at cowboys from the Lazy Y, the gunsmith he'd met when he'd first come to town, Sullivan the shopkeeper, who'd sold him a dead man's boots, Edgar Petigru. Even prostitutes from the cribs had come to the center of town to see the showdown between Saul Klevins and the Pecos Kid.

“Guess yer the fastest gun in the county now, Duane,” said crippled Sally Mae.

Duane felt sick to his stomach, now that the full shock of events caught up with him. He turned away from them, and stumbled like a drunken man toward the darkness at the edge of town.

V
ANESSA FIDGETED IN HER KITCHEN,
WON
dering what had happened to Duane. It was three o'clock in the morning, and she'd drunk so much coffee, she could barely sit still. “I hope he doesn't do anything foolish,” she mumbled to the coffeepot. Absentmindedly, she raised the side of her robe and scratched her bare leg.

Two beady eyes watched, and they belonged to Jed Wilson. Mouth open and tongue hanging out like a dog, the Peeping Tom frowned with chagrin as she let the robe fall, covering her leg once more.

After the shooting, all performances were canceled at the Round-Up Saloon. Jed had driven her home, put the carriage away, fed the horses, and then crept to her window, where he gawked at her like a lovesick boy. “Looking for something?”

Jed spun around, and found himself facing the Pecos Kid. Jed was so frightened, he couldn't speak. “Please don't shoot!”

“What're you doing here?”

“Just takin' a walk. Din't mean no hurt.”

The back door opened, and Vanessa stepped outside. “Is that you, Duane?”

“Your carriage driver was looking through your window.”

“I've always thought that he did, but I've never been able to catch him at it.”

Duane aimed his gun at Jed's nose. “You're fired and if I ever see you around Miss Vanessa again, I'll kill you. Now get out of here, and don't ever come back.”

For a moment, Jed thought the Pecos Kid was going to put one through his left nostril. He ran away swiftly, and wondered when the next stagecoach left town. Duane watched him disappear into the night, and then holstered his gun. He and Vanessa looked at each other in silence, as a coyote howled mournfully in the distance.

“Care for a slice of chocolate cake?” she asked.

He followed her into the kitchen, where she cut a thick wedge, and served him a glass of milk. He sat at the table, pushed back his hat, and his black hair fell over his forehead.

“I thought a rattlesnake bit you,” she said.

“The only rattlesnakes that worry me are citizens of this town.”

He placed a slice of cake into his mouth and spoke while he ate: “I thought I'd never see you again. I swear—it was a miracle. May I have another slice?”

So polite, she thought with a smile, as she placed the entire cake before him. “I've always believed in miracles, although they generally happen to other peo ple.”

“That's the way it used to be for me, until tonight. Anyway, I thought that I should either return to the monastery, or marry you. To make a long story short, I've decided to marry you.”

She laughed nervously. “You shouldn't say things like that to girls, because one of us might believe you someday.”

He rolled a cigarette, spilling a substantial quantity onto the floor. “I think we should get out of this part of the country. I'll find a job as a cowboy, and you'll sing in the local saloon.”

“But—”

He interrupted her. “And don't give me any horse-shit about the difference in our ages.”

She thought for a few moments, not completely surprised by his roundabout proposition. “I won't mention it, as long as you never refer to me as
my old lady.
”

“Why don't we go to bed?”'

It wasn't the most romantic offer she'd ever received, but she still simmered from his earlier embraces. She wished they could have a little ceremony, with a preacher saying those special words, but life was complex, and sometimes a woman needed a
young
man. “You've got to promise that you'll never lie to me, Duane. That's all I ask.”

“You've got my word,” he replied, and hoped he wasn't lying.

She led him down the hallway to her bedroom,
holding the lamp like a torch. He hung his hat on her bedpost as she turned down the covers, and he couldn't help noticing the fine subtle curve of her hindquarters. The artery in his throat began to throb, although it was nearly four o'clock in the morning.

She finished her housekeeping, and appeared ill at ease. The time had come for The Grand Encounter, and both recalled a certain tempestuous carriage ride, and a mad grope in the vestibule. Duane hung his bandanna on the other bedpost, then sat on the chair and pulled off his boots. “Aren't you going to get undressed?” he asked.

She blew out the lamp, then untied her red silk robe, letting it slip from her shoulders. It revealed a pink flannel granny nightgown, and she lifted the hem over her shoulders. Duane stepped out of his pants, and perceived her long, slim nakedness in the moonlight.

He thought of all the nights he'd dreamed about her, and now at last they were alone, with all pretensions banished. They reached toward each other, embraced, and electric thrills networked his body. When he touched his lips to hers, he realized that a woman's flesh and blood was an irresistible argument against the cloistered life. They moved toward the bed, dropped down, and clasped each other warmly. He smothered her face with kisses, as she contorted against him. The mattress began to squeak, augmented by little moans and sighs.

He rolled her onto her back, and gazed at her white marble curves and hollows resplendent in the moonlight. Tumultuous lust crashed over him, as he touched his tongue to her nipple. She hugged his shaggy
head tightly against her, and felt the stubble of his beard on her sensitive emotions. “Oh Duane ...”

Her voice trailed into the night, blending with a breeze fluttering the curtains, and choruses of insects singing on the sage. Duane ran his tongue over her body as though she were a big piece of candy.

He opened his eyes in the middle of the night, besotted by love, her cheek on his chest, and he could feel her regular respirations. He turned his head toward the window.

The full moon floated over exotic horizon calligraphy, illuminating a vast, measureless range. It's a great land, and I've finally found my mate, he mused. We'll make it somehow, won't we? He gave her a hug, and she replied with a sleepy kiss against his chest, plus an affectionate little coo.

His eyes grew heavy, as if he were drifting to slumber again, but somehow, inexplicably, in the far-off endless vista, he saw the spectral outlines of two old gunfighters strolling along, sharing a bottle of whiskey, their arms across each other's shoulders, their wide-brimmed hats on the backs of their heads.

Duane couldn't perceive them clearly, but it appeared that the shorter gunfighter wore a black mustache, with silver conchos on his hat, while the lanky fellow maintained a head of thick blond hair, with a certain devil-may-care soldier's stride. Their hearty laughter rang in Duane's ears, as they congratulated each other merrily, passing the bottle from hand to hand.
I don't know who killed you, Daddy, but I'll find out someday. And you laid down your life for me,
Clyde, so I'll always bless your name.

Joe Braddock waved, and Clyde Butterfield saluted the infamous Pecos Kid, as the two ghosts danced together through the foggy ruins of time.

Jack Bodine is the pseudonym of an author who lives in New York City. This is his second western for HarperPaperbacks.