Beginner's Luck Read online

  The hand of the cowboy froze in the air. He turned, and the cold twin eyes of the shotgun stared back at him. It was a powerful argument, and the big cowboy went pale. “Din't mean no trouble, Gus.”

  “Take a walk, Jethro. Cool yer head.”

  Jethro sauntered toward the door, and Duane turned his vision toward the bartender, a real-life hero who'd just stood up for justice and the American Way of Life. The bartender noticed Duane, scowled, and waddled toward him. “This ain't no playground, boy. You don't drink, you can't stay here.”

  Duane flashed his friendliest smile, but the shotgun was aimed directly at him. “I'm looking for a job, sir.”

  “We don't need nobody.”

  Duane hitched up his pants, strode toward the front door, and his stomach felt like a cavern. The stench of tobacco, sweat, and ladies’ perfume hung heavy in the air. He turned toward the bar, and noticed a huge painting hanging above it of rosy-skinned naked ladies cavorting around a bathtub in a vaguely Turkish palace. His eyes widened at rosebud nipples, the curve of haunches, and previously hidden spots revealed to his curious eyes. The painting seemed like a window into a caliph's harem, so vivid were fleshtones and lines.

  He pushed through the bat-wing doors, and cool night air cleared his head. John of the Cross lived years on a few crusts of bread, so what'm I worried about it? I'll be all right, as long as I have faith in God, he told himself.

  The row of horses at the rail looked at him forlornly, waiting patiently for their respective riders. They wanted to go to the barn for uninterrupted sleep, because men were hollering, throwing bottles, and shooting guns constantly.

  Duane cupped his hands, and carried water from the trough to his lips. He gulped it down, and recalled Lester Boggs inviting him for dinner at the Crystal Palace. A smile broke over Duane's youthful face, but then he realized that he didn't know where the Crystal Palace was. I'll have to search for it, he thought.

  He poked his hands into his pockets, and strolled along the planked sidewalk, passing men seated on benches, sipping bottles of whiskey. In the street, other groups held conversations, with more whiskey bottles traveling from hand to hand. They're all drunk, and they're all carrying guns. No wonder there's so much shooting.

  He walked by a hardware store, a butcher shop, and a store named Miss Fifi's, a ladies’ dress shop, that were closed for the night. He came to the Black Cat Saloon, the Red Rose Saloon, the Line Shack Saloon, and ahead was darkness at the edge of town.

  He looked both ways, and no horses or carriages were in sight. He ran across the street. His left foot sank into a pile of muck halfway to his knee, and when he tried to extricate it, the suction wouldn't release him.

  Two white horses pulling the ornate black shellacked carriage turned the corner, heading straight for him. Duane angled his leg from side to side, yanked again, heard a slurp sound, and his leg came loose at last. He stepped back, as the carriage passed by, a lantern glowing on either side of the driver, room for only two or three people inside. Duane gazed at the strange conveyance, and a ray of moonlight fell on the face of a woman inside, her eyes scintillating in the darkness.

  She looked like the Madonna of La Salette, her golden hair covered by a black shawl. Her gaze fell on him, their eyes met, and then the prancing horses pulled her off into the night. He moved toward the far side of the street, and stared in amazement at the carriage. The window in back showed only one head, so she was alone. She must be a rich man's wife, or on her way to a late Mass. A wave of dizziness came over him, and he reached toward a post for support. I've got to get something to eat, before I fall down, he thought worriedly. He took a deep breath, and advanced slowly over the sidewalk. The carriage rolled toward the bright lights at the center of town, the driver hunched on his seat atop the cab. Duane remembered the rich lady's face—oval, sad, contemplative. She's an angel, he thought. Her husband is a lucky man.

  Duane wondered what it would be like to actually live with a beautiful woman, and sleep with her every night, performing all the delicious acts he'd dreamed about alone in the monastery. In his mind, life with a woman appeared more desirable than the Kingdom of Heaven itself. He felt a deep compelling need for feminine companionship, and knew he'd never be able to keep his hands off them. That's why he could never be a priest or brother. Women made him feel sweet inside, like the Christmas Midnight Mass.

  Ahead was a sign that said:

  CRYSTAL PALACE

  Duane contemplated a steak dinner with all the trimmings, as he barged through the doors. Before him appeared another huge drinking and gambling establishment, with a long bar on the left, another on the right, tables in the middle, and a big black stove in back, spewing black smoke into the air.

  The fragrance made Duane weak in the knees. Please Lord, let me find Boggs before I starve to death. He roamed among the tables, hoping to find the gnarled, weatherbeaten visage of his benefactor, but his heart sank with every passing moment. He saw a vast sea of cowboys, soldiers, freighters, gamblers, businessmen, and whores, but no Lester Boggs, cowboy at large.

  Maybe he was here and left, Duane thought unhappily. Or maybe he had a few drinks, and doesn't even remember his own name, never mind mine. Duane's features sagged with the realization that he was hungry, as food was gobbled noisily all around him, but none for him.

  His legs gave out, and he dropped onto a chair at a table with an empty glass beside a rusty tin can overflowing with cigarette butts. He wanted to be positive, but it wasn't easy with the miss-meal cramps. A few feet away, a man with a beard and an enormous gut slept next to a plate containing a half-eaten steak and a pile of oleaginous fried potatoes. Duane's mouth watered at the sight of the food. They'll throw it out with the garbage, but it could be a meal for me. I wonder if anybody'd notice if I . . . ? He glanced around, and everyone in his vicinity appeared busy with card games, arguments, and their own meals. One man rose unsteadily to his feet and hollered, “To Bobby Lee!”

  A roar went up from everyone in the saloon, as glasses were hoisted in the air, while others sprawled in drunken stupors, and wouldn't stir if a horse came crashing through the ceiling. His eyes focused on the half-gnawed steak beckoning to him from the plate. Duane had the peculiar sensation that his stomach was glued to his backbone, as he fretted on the chair, pondering the consequences of sin. It's better to starve than burn forever in the fires of hell, but does God really care about that piece of meat over there?

  He looked to the left and right, and everyone appeared preoccupied with card games, newspapers, great debates, or glasses of whiskey. Slowly, casually, Duane rose to his feet, whistled a tune, looked at the ceiling, sniffed the air, and then lunged for the piece of meat on the plate. He thrust it beneath his left armpit, and headed for the door.

  Oh God, thank you for the blessings of this meal, he said silently. If ever I get any money, I'll give half to the poor, I promise. He made his way among boisterous throngs, heading for the planked sidewalk outside, when a figure loomed out of the smoke before him. A hefty man in a fancy red shirt, wearing a gun, pointed his big sausage finger at Duane. “I saw that.”

  Duane wanted to flee in the opposite direction, but the man grabbed his lapel, reached under his armpit, and pulled out the guilty steak. “We don't like scavengers in here.” He tossed the steak into the nearest filth-encrusted spittoon, and putrid substances splashed onto the floor. “This ain't no charity ward. Get the fuck out've here.”

  The bouncer pushed him toward the door, Duane stumbled over his feet, received a solid kick in the posterior, and went flying through the air. He landed in the street next to a palomino gelding munching hay. The horse turned his great head and looked reproachfully at Duane, as if to say, If you hang out in saloons, what do you expect.

  Duane picked himself up from the muck and manure of the street. The bouncer's response seemed morally inadequate in the former acolyte's theological mind, and he felt like going back and giving him a piece of his mind. He may be bigger than I, but
so was Jasper Jakes, he thought angrily.

  He pulled a pebble from beneath his toes, as deep hunger radiated from his stomach. He knew he had to find a job quickly, otherwise he was going to starve to death. He heard the faint sound of a woman singing across the street in the Round-Up Saloon. Duane was sensitive to the timber of the human voice, for he'd sung religious songs practically since he could walk. He found himself captivated by the purity of her tone, not to mention her delicate phrasing. Distracted from his concave stomach, he wondered what she looked like.

  He waited for five cowboys on horseback to pass, then crossed the street. He couldn't discern the words of the song, but she sounded as if she'd lost something valuable. The window was covered with grime, and Duane rubbed a clean spot with the palm of his hand, then leaned forward and peered into the saloon.

  It was similar to the previous ones he'd seen, with one important difference. Instead of a chop counter in back, it had a stage, and on it, standing beside a man plunking a piano, stood a woman with a familiar and haunting face.

  It was the Madonna of La Salette whom he'd seen earlier in the carriage, her face framed by long blond hair. She gesticulated gracefully with dovelike hands, wore a long green and white dress with flounces and tassels, and sang the sad tale of a soldier who died gloriously in the war.

  Duane forgot his hunger, as he stared at the golden goddess with the dulcet voice. It was as though she were revealing the innermost secrets of her heart, her voice flowing like ambrosia out the doors of the Round-Up Saloon. “She's so beautiful,” Duane whispered.

  “Ain't that the truth,” said a voice next to him.

  Duane turned to a short cowboy with a long black beard, wearing a tattered hat, the inevitable flask of whiskey in his hand.

  “Who is she?” Duane asked, returning his eyes to the vision of heaven warbling on the brightly lit stage.

  The cowboy spat something brown and grisly onto the sidewalk. “That's Vanessa Fontaine, and you ain't got ‘nough money to smell her underwears, so fergit it. She's the girlfriend of the richest man in town.”

  “Is she a prostitute?” Duane asked, surprised.

  “Ain't they all?” The man raised the bottle in the air. “Care fer a snort?”

  “I don't drink.”

  “Whydahellnot?”

  “They say it's bad for you.”

  The man pounded his hairy fist against his chest, and it sounded like a bass drum. “I been a-drinkin’ since I was borned, an’ I can still whup my weight in Commanches. Here!”

  He held out the bottle, and Duane didn't want to insult the cowboy, but neither did he want to drink the devil's potion. A few drops can't kill me, he rationalized, curious to know why men craved whiskey.

  He reached for the bottle, and let a small amount roll over his tongue. It tasted odd, not bad at all, but then suddenly a hidden match set it aflame. His eyes watered, he coughed, and the cowboy snatched the bottle from his hand, lest he spill a drop. Blinded with tears, Duane collided with someone walking swiftly from the opposite direction.

  “Git out'n my way!”

  Duane was pushed hard, and felt himself flailing through the air. He crashed into the hitching rail, somersaulted over it, and landed in the water trough. The horses shied back, jolted from their night torpor, as Duane's head bobbed to the surface. He spit out a stream of water, looked at the man who'd tossed him aside like a pile of old rags, and wasn't surprised to note that it was Jethro, the same brute who'd thrown him against the wall of the Longhorn Saloon about an hour ago. Jethro pushed open the doors of the Black Cat Saloon, and disappeared.

  Duane sloshed water onto the planked sidewalk, as he climbed out of the trough. It reminded him of when Jasper Jakes had insulted him before everyone in the dining hall. If somebody stood up to this cowboy, the way I stood up to Jasper Jakes, he thought heatedly, maybe he'd stop pushing people around. Duane felt the temperature rise beneath his soaking clothes. I'm not going to let him, or anybody else, push me around ever again, and I don't care how big they are, he vowed.

  Duane hated to be treated like garbage, because it confirmed his worst doubts about himself. He wasn't afraid of bigger opponents, because he'd learned that they move slowly, with much wide-open territory, but if they landed a solid shot, you're out like a light. Duane shoved open the doors of the Black Cat Saloon, and stepped out of the light from the back. It had no stage, and Jethro stood at the bar, quaffing a mug of beer. If he thinks he can push me around, he's got another think coming, he hissed silently. He'll regret the day he ever set eyes on me. Duane didn't feel like a poor little orphan boy anymore, but a young stud looking to kick ass.

  Duane was infuriated by the insult, and his rational thought processes clicked off. He headed for the bar, passing poker players, newspaper readers, and men selling horses and cows. Resentment oozed out his pores, as his eyes fixed on the big cowboy at the bar. I'll smack that mug of beer down his throat, Duane thought, prodding himself onward. Nobody tosses me into a horse trough and gets away with it. By the time he reached the bar, he was ready to roll. He grabbed Jethro's shoulder, spun him around, and whacked the mug out of his hand.

  Cold bubbling liquid flew through the air, spraying over nearby customers, who fled out of the way. Jethro took two steps backward, blinking, wiping stinging beer out of his eyes. The Black Cat went silent, as every eye turned toward the bar.

  They saw a big, broad-shouldered cowboy and a slim, disheveled young man soaking wet and dripping onto the floor, although it hadn't rained for a week. The spectators stood for a better view, because it looked as though the main attraction was about to begin.

  Jethro had been drinking since noon, and didn't believe he'd ever seen Duane before. He raised his paws, an expression of malevolent evil coming over his face, and then he lunged toward Duane, but Duane dodged quickly to the side.

  Jethro tried to follow Duane, cocked his left hand, and prepared to throw a jab, but simultaneously lowered his right hand slightly. Duane spotted the opening, and shot a straight right over the top, with all of his one hundred and fifty-three pounds behind it. His fist streaked forward, landed on Jethro's nose, as cartilage crunched, and blood spurted beneath Duane's knuckles.

  The crowd roared, Jethro reeled backward, and Duane was astonished by the effectiveness of the blow. He stared at Jethro, who appeared confused, wiping blood off his nose with the back of his hand. Duane happened to notice the immensity of Jethro's shoulders, his barrel chest, and hamlike fists. What a punch I must have, Duane pondered.

  Meanwhile, Jethro's face flashed deep, insatiable vengeance. Duane realized, with mounting concern, that his opponent was no overgrown schoolboy, but a gigantic fully matured beast with mayhem in his heart. For the first time since landing in the water trough, Duane put himself into perspective.

  Jethro launched a right toward Duane's head. Duane raised his arm to block the blow, and it felt like a sledgehammer. His brains rattled in his head as he tried to dance away, his shoulder feeling dislocated. Jethro stalked him, a determined expression on his countenance, and blood dripping from his nose. He feinted a left jab, as Duane tried to dodge out of the way, and walked into a right cross like the freight train from St. Louis.

  Everything went black. Duane heard bells and birds, and when he opened his eyes, he was lying on his back in a puddle of bilious substances spilled from the nearby spittoon. The immense gnarled face of Jethro appeared above him, and Duane felt himself being lifted into the air by the front of his shirt.

  Jethro raised him slowly, while drawing his right fist back for the final blow. The crowd watched in morbid fascination at the cowboy giant and the limp young man in his grasp. Duane knew what was coming, but was paralyzed by the earlier blows.

  “You little fuck,” Jethro snarled. “I'll teach you to mess with me.”

  The fist zoomed forward, and grew larger in Duane's eyes. It landed on Duane's cheek, and Duane's lights went out once more. He soared through the air, crashed against the bat-wing
doors, and landed with his face in a pile of muck at the curb, where he lay still for a long time.

  CHAPTER 2

  “YOU ALL RIGHT, KID?” Duane opened his eyes. He lay in the street, and it felt as if a balloon had take up residence underneath his left cheek. “Where am I?”

  “You just got the shit kicked out of you.”

  Duane tried to focus on a skull-like face with a cheroot stuck between the teeth. It looked familiar, but it definitely wasn't the face of Brother Paolo. Duane glanced around, expecting to see familiar monastery buildings, but instead saw the main street of Titusville. His ribs felt broken, and his head throbbed with pain.

  “You're not going to die on me, are you?” the face asked. “Don't you remember me? I'm Clyde Butterfield, and I told you to buy a gun. You'd better get out of the street before a wagon runs you over.”

  The dapper gentleman helped Duane to his feet, and maneuvered him toward the sidewalk. Duane's legs were uncoordinated, he felt sick to his stomach, and an elf pounded a chisel into his brain. He dropped heavily onto the bench in front of the Black Cat Saloon. Butterfield withdrew a flask from inside his frock coat and held it out to Duane.

  “I don't drink,” Duane said, as he located new agony in his neck.

  “Wake you right up.”

  Duane's head was full of fog, and the sidewalk undulated before his eyes. He took the flask, tipped it back, and swallowed a small amount. For the first three seconds, it was mellow and smooth, and then became liquid flames down his throat. He coughed, hacked, and spit up blood.

  “To tell you the truth,” Butterfield said, “I'm surprised he didn't kill you. He hit you so hard, I thought your skull would bust apart.”

  Duane touched his nose to make sure it still was there. His jaw felt loose on its hinges, and he was certain that his rib cage had been caved in. “Naw, he didn't kill me,” Duane replied, trying to be brave, but he winced, and his voice came out in squeaks. It hurt when he breathed.