Power in the Blood (60 page)

Leaving Nevis Dunnigan’s “studio,” as the artist referred to it, Tatum wandered up one street and down another until evening, then paid for a meal with the few dollars he had earned by posing. Curiosity rather than any urgent need for money had caused him to apply for the work when he saw a small advertisement placed in a newspaper. It had been an interesting experience in its way, but he was not willing to pose again. He might have reconsidered, had the other model been returning, but Dunnigan had told him the young man with the missing finger had come and gone, his artistic purpose served.

Finished with his meal, Tatum again took to the streets, strolling aimlessly in the dark until he found himself far from his usual haunts. He had wandered almost to the edge of town, and was somewhere near the railroad tracks; he could hear boxcars being shunted and coupled in the dark, and smell the acrid odor of coal smoke, and was just about to turn and retrace his steps toward brighter lights when he heard a low coughing from some brush nearby.

Investigating, he found a tramp asleep in a shallow ditch. The tramp was filthy, ragged, and coughing in his sleep. Tatum was offended by such shabbiness, such disregard for the sartorial arts; he himself spent a considerable amount of his aunt’s money on clothing of the latest cut, and delighted in the figure he presented, from his narrow-brimmed hat to his elastic-sided boots and dog-headed cane. The tramp was an insult to man, to the world at large, with his unshaven cheeks and busted-out boots, and Tatum conceived a great dislike of and contempt for him as he stood above the quietly coughing figure.

The cane was raised as if lifted by another arm, some invisible appendage not connected to Tatum. He felt the arm lift his cane, felt it bring the golden dog down hard upon the flimsy hat, felt the cranium give way with surprising ease, and he heard the coughing stop. He thought at first it had been no more difficult to kill the tramp than break an egg, but then the fellow’s eyes opened and he began to shout, so Tatum was forced to silence him with repeated blows, laid on by his own arm now, and laid on with a will, until the head and face below him became an indistinct smear of blood and bone.

When he was convinced the job had been completed, Tatum hurried away, sweat running down his sides. He calmed himself as the scene was left behind, then became a little hysterical, laughing at the tramp’s pathetic efforts to defend himself, never more than a spasmodic clutching at the air. Really, it had been a fine thing he did, ridding the city of so degenerate a specimen of rude humanity. Arriving home, Tatum was annoyed to find embedded in the wood of his cane a human tooth.

Work on the new play kept Noble isolated from the players, and from his wife. Hortense had never seen him so consumed by a project; he would not discuss the nature of the piece, wouldn’t even hint at the plot. He did go so far as to let her know there was no role in it for herself, a fact that stunned Hortense; Noble’s plays had always included a plum part for her.

She asked, “Is there a role for Marcie?” and Noble told her no. “For any female?” she asked, and this time Noble paused before answering.

“No, but so far they haven’t begun their murderous rampage. I suppose I could include you and Marcie later on, when some rancher’s wife and daughter are being slaughtered. Yes, you could plead for your lives and they would laugh at you before cutting your throats.”

“Noble! What beastliness are you creating? Ranchers? No one wishes to see a play about ranchers. Where would the interest lie? And slaughter? Cows, Noble?”

“Not cows, my dear—humans, yourself and Marcie among others. There will be several dozen in all. I’ll have to devise a way of splashing blood around that won’t create too much mess, or stain the costumes permanently.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Hortense, I am revolutionizing the theater. This play will become a cornerstone of the new American drama. This is something rooted in reality, actual occurrences so recent they have been included in the newspapers.”

“Newspapers?”

Hortense was aghast. She had never read any part of a newspaper except for theatrical reviews, and even then she only consented to scan those articles that concerned plays she herself was appearing in. The rest of the newspaper was for common people, not artists like herself and Noble.

“You must explain yourself this instant,” she said. “I fear for your sanity, with this talk of ranchers and blood.”

“My dear, this play is not about ranchers. Such ranchers as will appear are incidental to the main thrust of the plot, which basically is about two Indian brothers.”

“Indians! Noble, how can you even think to dabble in such low stuff …?”

“Not just any Indians—Panther Stalking and Kills With a Smile! Raised in the church, then stolen away and taught to kill without mercy in the way of their kind.”

“What! What! Noble, you are demented.…”

“It was their grandfather who did it. I haven’t been able to find out his name, so I’ll call him Flaming Arrow, and there’s another fascinating character, the one who let Flaming Arrow into the mission to steal his grandsons away. I’m calling him Augustus Chillington, and he won’t be aware of the consequences of what he did until later, when he learns what the brothers have become. His own family is killed by them, you see. He’ll swear vengeance and track the redskins down single-handed and bring them to justice, to set right the unconscious wrong he perpetrated in the first place. It’s a wonderful story, Hortense. I have some doubts about the ending, though. In actual fact the brothers bit open each other’s necks and bled to death.… Hortense?”

Noble’s wife slid gently to the floor.

27

He entered the bank in a highly nervous state, then could not find his voice, even though his gun was already out and aimed at the teller. Drew felt himself freeze, and wondered if it was too late to back out before matters went any further.

“Yessir, yessir …,” said the teller, understanding that the silent man with the gun was a robber. Drew felt his heart sink as cash was scooped from the drawers for him; the robbery had begun, and there could be no going back now. He forced himself to thrust a canvas bag under the teller’s bars, and the money was clumsily stuffed inside.

There were no other customers in the bank, and just the one teller. Drew could hear someone moving around and coughing in an office to the rear, oblivious to the theft occurring mere yards away. Drew felt he had chosen wisely for his initial foray into crime; the bank was in a small mountain town west of Denver. He did not expect the haul to be large, but he did anticipate easy pickings and no interference from lawmen; he had established before entering the bank that the town had no marshal, just a part-time constable currently laid up in his home with a bad case of gout. The teller was being cooperative, and the manager, if that was who the cougher was, remained in his office. Everything was proceeding as it should, and Drew began to feel his throat loosen as the prospects for success grew.

“Hurry,” he said.

“Yessir, that’s all there is, I’m sorry.”

The bag was returned to him, disappointingly flat, but it could be that the bills were of large denomination.

“About how much is this?” Drew asked.

“Oh, around three hundred, I guess.”

“Well, thank you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I wouldn’t really have shot you.”

“Yessir.”

“I just need the money.”

“Yessir.”

“Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, sir.”

Drew walked out of the bank, then turned around and went back in. The teller had not moved. The same dry cough came from the office.

“I forgot to tell you not to make a fuss, and don’t come after me with a gun, because then I’d have to shoot back.”

“Yessir.”

“I’m a good shot. You’d get hit.”

“Yessir.”

“Well, so long.”

Drew mounted his horse and began riding slowly out of town. He turned in the saddle once to reassure himself that the teller had done as he asked, and was relieved to see that the sidewalk in front of the bank was clear, in fact the whole street was tranquil, virtually unpopulated. It had been easier than expected. Next time he wouldn’t freeze up. He might restrict himself to the smaller towns until he was more comfortable with the role of robber, though, just to be sure nothing went wrong.

Drew felt his horse lurch beneath him before the sound of the shot reached his ears, and the sound was unmistakably that of a buffalo gun. His horse was sinking beneath him, simply collapsing onto its buckled legs, and Drew had to jump clear before it fell on its side. He could see no wound, but blood was gouting from its mouth. Looking back, Drew could see someone standing outside the bank, reloading what looked like a Sharps fifty-caliber. It was not the teller, so it must have been the cougher. The bullet had entered his horse’s anus and plowed straight through into its chest; the next bullet would be for him.

He began to run, ducking and weaving to present a difficult target. A horse was tethered outside a store further along the street, but before Drew could reach it the buffalo gun boomed again, and that horse also sank to its knees, shot through the belly. It began to scream, and the sound unnerved Drew so much he dropped his canvas bag. There were people on the street now. Drew could hear the man in front of the bank yelling about the robbery, and see his arm pointing. People were looking at him. He felt sick to his stomach. There had to be another horse that he could steal and ride away from such embarrassment. It seemed like the right time to yank out his pistol to prevent anyone from thinking he could be stopped, but this act also went astray when Drew fumbled his grip and dropped the Colt. He had the presence of mind to pick it up before dashing into an alley.

There seemed little else to do than leave the town on foot, his access to any available horses having been removed now that the citizenry were alerted to the presence of a robber among them. If he could reach the cover of the trees he had a chance to escape, but the trees had been thinned considerably during construction of the town, so real cover lay more than a quarter mile away. Drew’s high-heeled boots were not made for running, and he had covered less than half the distance when he heard hoofbeats behind him. Turning, he saw two men on horseback, both armed. He would have to shoot them or be captured, and if he shot at them they would shoot back, and most likely kill him right there, since they outgunned him.

Drew aimed his pistol, but could not pull the trigger. The men separated to present two targets, both still beyond accurate pistol range. They reined in, and one put a rifle to his shoulder. Drew decided surrender was his only choice, and dropped his gun to raise both hands in the air. The rifleman seemed not to be interested in capturing him alive, and sent a bullet beneath his armpit. The second man was shouting at the first to stop firing. Drew didn’t know what to do in the face of such ungallant behavior. While the men argued, the second riding to rejoin the first, still shouting, another bullet was aimed at Drew, this time penetrating the hem of his jacket. Angry now, he picked up his gun and emptied all six shots at the man with the rifle. To Drew’s consternation, the man toppled from his horse and lay on the ground. The horse danced sideways, then was still. The second man had turned and was riding back toward the town, a fact that stunned Drew; the fallen rifle could have been snatched up and fired again before Drew had time to reload, but the rider clearly was no longer in any mood to apprehend him. Drew ran to the horse, took hold of its reins and picked up the rifle. The man on the ground was not dead; one of Drew’s bullets had struck him in the stomach, and he lay groaning with the pain of it, his eyes unfocused. Drew mounted the horse and rode away, teeth chattering with fear and shock.

After nightfall, many miles from his bungled first attempt at robbery, Drew knew he would have to either approach his new line of work with a completely different attitude or give it up. In future, he must enter his chosen bank with expectations of encountering real trouble when he left, and of being obliged to open fire without hesitation, should that be necessary. He toyed briefly with the notion of abandoning all efforts of a criminal nature, then rejected it; to give in after just one try would have been cowardly. He thought of the man whose horse and rifle he had stolen, and felt a twinge of guilt for having given him the kind of wound that almost always resulted in death, but he reminded himself that the man had shot at him after Drew raised his hands in surrender, so the absence of that man would not leave the world a poorer place. Drew was lost under the full moon, headed in no particular direction, so long as it was away from the scene of the day’s events. He was without money, had been separated from his only change of clothing, left behind in the saddlebags on his dead horse, and had just seven bullets remaining in the loops of his gun belt, but Drew faced the distant morning with a renewed sense of certainty. He had begun badly, but was determined to become an expert, the best bank robber since Jesse James.

His aunt was nearly penniless, but had kept the news from Tatum for as long as she could, fearing his temper when he learned he could no longer take money from her. She had given and given to her dead sister’s boy, until there remained little to give, unless she sold her house, the thing she valued most. No, she must not surrender that, no matter how much he bullied her. Without her house, she would have nowhere to live, nor any reason to keep on living. She would resist such a forlorn end, even if this meant looking the devil squarely in the eye.

Her moment of defiance came just one day after her resolution. Tatum approached her for money, having last seen her four days earlier, under identical circumstances. She told him no. Tatum required several seconds to digest this. He cocked his head a little to one side, like an intelligent dog, and asked that she repeat what he thought she had just said.

“I cannot give you any more money.”

“And why is that, dearest Aunt?”

“I have no more to give. I am poor. I have nothing.”