Peaceable Kingdom (mobi) Read online

  She turned on the lights. They were klieg lights. So that suddenly he was in the spotlight.

  A 35mm camera stood on a tripod in the corner of the room.

  The king-size bed was covered in plastic.

  Thick plastic.

  He knew when the guy behind him pushed him onto it.

  He tried to scream but one of them stuffed a dirty white rag into his mouth and tied it off with a white silk scarf while the two other men grabbed his wrists and hitched them to the bedposts, and then to his feet, not even bothering to take off his wingtips first, working very efficiently as though they did this all the time and he looked up and saw Greta’s sister, the image of her younger self holding up two four-inch stainless-steel fishhooks for him to see, putting them down on the night table and picking up a bone handled razor, showing him that, and then Greta at the beautiful antique bureau touching up her lipstick in the mirror, stripping slowly down to her filmy black bra and panties cut high on the hip just the way he liked them, putting on the black half-mask, the same as her sister was wearing now and turning, the scalpel gleaming in her hand.

  “What do you think?” she said. “Can we go ninety minutes?”

  The guy behind the camera nodded.

  “Sure. If you’re careful.”

  Greta smiled. The generous lips smiled down at him. While Howard thrashed uselessly on the bed.

  “You see, Howard. The real thing does exist. Only you’re not going to get it mail-order.”

  The camera whirred.

  The clapboard clapped.

  Greta walked into the frame.

  “Action,” she said.

  Luck

  The night was moonless and quiet save for the crackling of the fire and the liquid tiltback of the Tangleleg whiskey which they passed between them and Faro Bill Brody drawing hard on his Bull Durham and the moans and heavy breathing from Chunk Herbert and the snort and paw of horses and the voices of the men. Their talk had turned to luck, good and bad. The men were of the opinion that theirs had taken a far turn for the worse this day for who could have guessed at Turner’s Crossing that the stage would be filled with lawmen and citizens with guns drawn and ready and a posse just out of sight behind them. They had robbed the same stage at the same place at the same time of day three weeks running and never known a problem.

  Now Chunk Herbert lay propped against a juniper tree with a chunk of skull missing big as a silver dollar and his brains held in place by the dusty left arm of Canary Joe Hallihan’s shirt. Canary Joe himself had gone un-shot. So had Faro Bill Brody to Joe’s way of thinking though Faro Bill kept complaining about the two ragged holes in the right-side brim of his hat—but then what could you expect from a man who’d taken his name from a damnfool frenchie card game dealt by box-springs instead of a righteous human being? Kid Earp had taken a ball to the calf and likely would be limping awhile.

  “You still got to figure we’re lucky compared to some,” Joe said. “Chunk excepted, ’corse.

  “I heard of a lot worse luck.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” said The Kid. The Kid was not a kid and no one could remember when he ever had been and no relation to the Earp Brothers either though he liked to affect some mystery about that.

  Never you mind who my relations been.

  “You remember Thimblerig Jack? Best man with a pea and walnuts I ever seen. You spend your whole day, you ain’t gonna find that pea under them three walnuts ’less Jack wants you to. Hands faster’n a rattler hits you. And charm? Man could cheat you out of your entire stake and damn if you ain’t thankin’ him for havin’ a fine old time by the finish of it. Then ’long come that Indian.”

  “What Indian?” said Faro Bill.

  “Big Ute halfbreed name of Jim Murphy. Brings his squaw into town one morning and Jack’s got his game all set up on a barrellhead outside Knott’s dry goods store and Jack stops her, puts a hand to the squaw’s shoulder, he wants to show her a game or two. And this Indian’s pretty fast himself. ’Fore you know it he’s grabbed Jack’s hand and slammed it down on the barrellhead and the Bowie’s out and Big Jim Murphy’s choppin’ fingers.”

  The others considered.

  “That’s not luck,” said Faro Bill. “He should’ve known.”

  “How? Mostly an Indian will knuckle under. He just picked the wrong Indian, that’s all. Most Indians are plain sneaky, most are cowards.”

  They passed the bottle and stared into the fire. Behind them Chunk groaned.

  “You say somethin’, Chunk?” said the Kid.

  “Don’t be foolish,” said Canary Joe.

  “I thought he said somethin’.”

  “So did I,” said Faro Bill. “Sounded like ‘Lily’ or ‘Liddy.’ ”

  “Weren’t nothin’,” said Canary Joe.

  “Anyhow, I’ve heard of worse luck,” said Faro Bill. “Heard about it years ago from a damned old Mountain Man name of Thomas Curry.”

  “You knew a Mountain Man, Bill?” said The Kid.

  “Sure did. Met him at the Bucket of Blood Saloon over in Johnston City. Liked to gamble and won more often as not. Some strange breed, those old timers were. Hell, you could barely understand him for the listening. He’d be sitting behind a pair of aces and say something like, ‘well, hos! I’ll dock off buffler, but then if thar’s any meat that runs that can take the shine outen dog, you can slide.’ ”

  “What’s that mean, Bill?” said the Kid.

  “ ‘Well, m’friend, I’ll except buffalo, but then if there’s any meat afoot better than dog, you’re crazy.’ ” Some old gent, he was. But did you ever hear about the ‘Lost Dutch’ Meyers Mine, Kid? Dutch was a prospector out Montana way, struck gold somewhere along the Big Horn with a couple of buddies and erected themselves a cabin so’s they could work the river. One morning Sioux attacked and when the smoke cleared Dutch was the only man of three left alive. Fled south to save his sorry scalp. Hit town and sold some pretty fine nuggets, spread word of his find. And that was most unwise, ’cause one of the boys he told was a fella name Bob Heck who backshot Dutch dead and then went out to do a little prospecting on his own. Never did find gold though, since by then the Sioux had burnt the goddamn cabin to the ground so there was not a thing left to mark the spot. Bob Heck got the noose and nobody got the gold. Now there was a pair of damned unlucky fellas.”

  “How’d they know Sioux burnt it?”

  “S’cuse me?”

  “If nobody found the cabin, how’d this Thomas Curry know it was Sioux what burned it down?”

  Faro Bill shrugged. “Mountain Men just know things, I reckon.”

  “I can go you one better on bad luck,” said Canary Joe. “Only that you won’t believe me.”

  “Give it up anyhow,” said the Kid. “We got time.”

  “We ought to build this fire,” said Canary Joe. “Gettin’ kinda low and Chunk there needs his heat.”

  “What Chunk needs is a damn priest,” said Faro Bill.

  Canary Joe ignored him and rose stiffly onto legs he reflected were probably too old for owlhootery anymore and stepped out into the rich dark behind the four tethered horses to gather what scrub and dry broken timber he could find. The others stared whiskey-dazed into the fire. The Kid took a pull and handed the bottle to Faro Bill who drank and handed it back again. The Kid kicked a twig into the flames and watched it burst and crackle.

  “How long you figure he’s got?” said the Kid.

  “Chunk? How long’s it take the soul to flee. God damned if I know.”

  “You think he can hear us?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Spooks me to think that maybe ol’ Chunk can hear us talking ’bout his likely demise.”

  “Don’t talk about it, then.”

  “All right. I won’t.”

  They passed the bottle and moments passed silent and sullen as kicked dogs until Canary Joe returned to the fire with some old sunbleached logs pale as bones under his arm and dragging with his other hand a tangl
ed pile of scrub across the dry hard-packed earth. He dropped the scrub and then the logs which clattered like tenpins. Joe turned to Chunk behind him.

  “You say somethin’, Chunk?”

  “Now you’re hearin’ him,” said the Kid. “This time I ain’t heard a thing.”

  “Thought I did, yeah.”

  “And you call me foolish.”

  “You are foolish. Most foolish man I ever met.”

  “Who was it planned this damn robbery? Who was it got us all shot up? I don’t recall doin’ it nor Faro Bill nor Chunk neither.”

  “Gentlemen,” said Faro Bill, “we can resolve this. Heads Chunk spoke or tails he didn’t.” He produced an old smooth featureless silver dollar.

  “Faro Bill,” said Joe, “I take it back and I want to apologize to the Kid here. You are the most foolish man I ever met bar none. You want to gamble on the way the wind blows.”

  “Done that too.”

  “I don’t doubt ya.”

  He cracked some scrub and fed it to the flames, knelt and cracked some more.

  “You want to know what I know about luck? Real bad luck?”

  “Sure.” Faro Bill passed him the bottle. He drank it down to near-empty, settled down crosslegged and passed it to the Kid.

  “Happened to me years ago when I was just a boy, I’d just come west. I was sittin’ in Tuttle’s Saloon in Newton, Kansas one night and of course we had us a game on. I didn’t rightly know the players. I was new to town and lookin’ for cattlework though not too hard as yet, arrived as I was just the day before. But these boys were a good enough bunch, I could tell that. Four of us. Lotta laughin’. Nothin’ serious. We’re drinkin’ Snakehead Whiskey, I remember. You ever had a taste?”

  “Not that I recall,” said Faro Bill.

  “Six rattlesnake-heads to the barrell. Tastes like the Devil stirred it with his own boot. Anyhow we’re playin’ and I’m losin’ when in walks this mean-looking dirty little fella, his shirt all stained with tobacco juice, Colt on his hip, hat looks like it’s been chewed by bears. Walks over to the bar which I’m facin’ thank the lord and orders a drink and drinks it and then another and then turns and eyes the room.

  “Other fellas I’m playing with don’t appear to notice this boy at all, they’re busy with the cards. Only me and that’s just ’cause I’m facing him. So that when he orders and downs that third one I’m the only one sees what he’s gonna do, I can see it plain in his eyes way before he draws and takes his stance and by the time he starts firing at our table I’m under it, trying to get my own gun off my hip but I’m just a kid myself, I ain’t no pistolero, and by the time I’ve got it out he’s shot two of the players in that game and the third, his chair’s gone over with him in it and he’s scramblin’ across the floor toward the door.

  “Fella looks at me and I know my day’s arrived. Not even time to push over the table for cover and he’s ready to fire and I’m still fumblin’ around down there and the only thing that saved my ass that day was the bartender and the shotgun behind the bar, I’m tellin’ you. Blew that little fella halfway across the room. I had pieces of that kid in my hair, boys. And I can smell the stink of him to this day.”

  He piled three logs on the fire. They immediately began to smoke.

  “Mise’ble excuse for hardwood,” he said.

  “I don’t follow you,” said Bill. “What’s that got to do with luck?”

  “Gettin’ to that. When things was quiet again we walked over and had a look at him, those of us who could walk. He’d shot two of the boys at my table dead, we never did know why. Anyhow the barkeep who’s name was Brocius turned this fella over and you could have seen daylight through the hole in his chest and somebody said, that’s Little Dick West, and somebody else said it couldn’t be, Little Dick West was shot dead in Witchita more’n a year ago. But the first fella, he insisted, said he knew Little Dick by sight, said that boy was bad luck wherever he went and that he’d personally managed to steer clear of him plenty of times, in Abilene, in Dodge, in Tombstone. He’d seen him shoot a man like a yella dog on the streets of Tombstone.

  “The second gent, he insisted too. Little Dick West was shot over a year ago in a Witchita whorehouse, he said. He knew it for a fact and there were other boys in the saloon who said they’d heard the same now that you mention it. Little Dick took two in the chest in Witchita. One even knew the name of the fella who shot him, McLoughlin I think it was, a farmer. Whose house burned down ’bout a month later. With McLoughlin and his wife and kids in it.

  “Never could resolve that argument at the time. But it was Brocius the barkeep who killed him so that it was Brocius along with the sheriff who dragged him out to the street to wait on the mortician. Dead man’s heavier than you’d think and Brocius had some weight on him and by the time he’s through he’s puffin’. Now, Tuttles’ Saloon has three stairs from the porch to the street, just three. And Brocius is on the second stair when his leg slips out from under him and then next thing you know he’s lying across them stairs with his feet pointin’ east and his head turned ’round on his neck in a westerly direction.”

  “Dead?” said the Kid.

  “Dead,” said Joe.

  “That’s pretty bad luck, all right,” said Faro Bill.

  “I ain’t finished yet. Couple years later I’m riding into Abilene one evenin’. Naturally I’ve forgot all about what happened at Tuttles’ Saloon by then and I’ve had a few pulls on the Tangleleg along the trail from the Circle P to town so I’m not payin’ much attention and it’s only when I’m hitching up to the rail that I notice ain’t nobody on the street but me and two other fellas squared off maybe twenty yards away. And before I can even duck for cover they’re drawn and firing ’till both their guns are empty and I can smell gunsmoke all the hell over where I am and there ain’t but one man standing.

  “Townsfolk start appearin’ like rats out of a burnin’ barn, crowding ’round this big heavy fella standing in the street reloading his pistol calm as you please, one hellova target and not a scratch on him, and this little fella bleeding into the dust, dead as dead can be. They go over and somebody says, I’ll be goddamned! that’s Little Dick West! and somebody else says, nah, they buried that backshootin’ back-stabbin’ sonovabitch Little Dick West over in Witchita some few years back and soon there’s an argument goin’ on that sounds awful familiar to me. So I walk over for a look. You say somethin’, Chunk?”

  “That time I heard it too,” said Faro Bill.

  “Me too,” said the Kid. “Coulda been one of the horses snortin’, though.”

  “Ain’t the horses you fool,” said Canary Joe. “Sounded like ‘I-ill’.”

  “He sure as hell is that,” said the Kid.

  “Go on with the story,” said Faro Bill.

  “Let’s have some more of that Tangleleg, Kid.”

  “Hell, it’s all gone, Joe.”

  “You got another bottle in your saddlebag, Kid. I saw you put it there.”

  “Dammit, Joe. I was savin’ that for trail-whiskey.”

  “Won’t be no trail for you, you don’t find me that bottle.”

  The Kid stared hard across the fire at him a moment as though considering him serious or not serious and then rose heavily and unsteadily to his feet and disappeared into the dark and they could hear the horses’ hooves scuff and paw the ground at this disturbance to their slumber. Canary Joe piled scrub and the last three logs on the fire and waved away the billowed smoke. Faro Bill Brody rolled and lit his Durham. When the Kid returned he had the bottle open and drank once long and defiantly before sitting down again. He passed the bottle to Joe and settled in.

  “So as I was sayin’, I go for a look.”

  “Was it Little Dick?” asked the Kid.

  “Hard for me to say at the time, Kid. Though later I did develop an opinion. Tobacco stains on his shirt were right. Chewed-up-lookin’ hat was right. ’Bout the right height and weight. Problem was there was a ball in his right eye and a
nother in his cheek some few inches down that played all hell with his good looks. He was dirty, though, even before he hit the street. That you could tell.

  “Anyhow, the crowd’s still standin’ there arguin’ ’bout is he or isn’t he but me, I need a drink. Wouldn’t you fellas? I maybe seen Little Dick West shot dead in Newton, Kansas and now I’m maybe seeing him shot all over again. Kind of thing unnerves a man. So I head for the saloon. I’m just stepping through the doors when I hear another shot and turn and look and there’s the crowd movin’ away in little waves like when you toss a pebble into a gone-still pond and at the center of this partic’lar pond’s the shooter, the big fella, and he’s on his knees. And then I watch him fall and then he’s squirmin’ face down in the dirt.”

  He took another pull from the bottle and passed it to Faro Bill.

  “What happened?” said the Kid.

  “Shot his goddamn balls off,” said Canary Joe. “Holstering up his Remington Model Three. Don’t know how in hell he done it but he managed. Few hours later, word in the saloon was he’d died from loss of blood.”

  “Hot damn,” said the Kid. “That’s some yarn all right. You want to pass me that bottle, Bill?”

  “Ain’t over yet,” said Joe. “Not quite. Six months, maybe seven months later I’m in Witchita, on my way to nowhere in partic’lar, just driftin’ through. There’s a noose back in Montana with my name on it but I ain’t worried. I’m in Rowdy Joe Lowe’s dance hall, drinkin’ and eyein’ the ladies, thinking about a little recreational expenditure that night if y’know what I mean. Now, ’member I said Little Dick West was suppos’d to’ve been shot dead in Witchita?

  “The first time,” said the Kid.

  “That we know of,” said Faro Bill.

  “Shot by a farmer whose place burned ’bout a month later, with him in it. See where I’m goin’ on this?” said Canary Joe.

  “I think so,” said Faro Bill. “You’re going to tell us you’re in there eyeing the ladies when in walks . . .”

  “When in walks Little Dick West. That’s right. Stands directly beside me at the bar and orders whiskey, nice as you please. And this time I’m sure. I’m damn sure. There ain’t no ball in his cheek or his eyeball this time. He’s so close I can smell him and he don’t smell good. It’s the same damn hat and the same damn tobacco juice all over his shirt and the same damn Colt he pulled in Newton.