“Danny, come on, we don’t want no trouble on the first day we are in town, do we?”
Danny continued to stare at the skull face of Harley, but Harley showed no expression of any kind, no anger, fear, or anxiety. Danny was a little surprised how the man could be so confrontational, and yet show no expression. Perhaps with no hair, and his skin drawn so tight across the bones of his face, it might be that the man could not show expression even if he wanted to.
“It’s too late for that, sonny boy,” Harley asked. “You done stepped into it. You got more trouble than you can handle.”
“More than I can handle?” Danny said angrily. “I’ll show you how much I can handle. I’m about to whip you like a rented mule!” He put up his fists.
Harley turned toward the two young men and showed his first expression. He smiled, though it was a smile without mirth.
“You don’t understand, do you, boy?”
“Oh, I understand all right. I understand that I’m going to leave you with a broken nose, black eyes, and a fat lip. As ugly as you are, that can only improve your looks.” Danny laughed at his own joke.
“Uh-uh,” Harley said. “If we’re going to fight, it’s going to be for real.” He stepped away from the bar, flipped his jacket back, exposing a pistol which he wore low, and kicked out, in the way of a gunfighter.
“Mr. Harley, there is no need for this now,” the bartender said. “I’m sure these boys would apologize to you if you asked them for it.”
“Aplogize? Apologize to this ... walking scarecrow? Why the hell should we apologize?” Danny asked.
“Cowboy, don’t you know who this is?” the bartender asked, his voice reflecting his shock. “This is Wes Harley.”
“Wes Harley? Is that name supposed to mean something?” Danny asked.
“Oh, God in heaven, you don’t know do you?” the bartender said.
“Don’t know what?”
“Who Wes Harley is,” the bartender said.
“I expect you’re talkin’ about this skull-faced piece of cow dung here,” Danny said.
“Danny, come on, let’s go,” Andy said. “I don’t have a good feelin’ about this. This ain’t worth one of you dyin’ over.”
“It ain’t goin’ to be one of us, sonny,” Harley said. “It’s goin’ to be the two of you.”
“You’re crazy, mister,” Andy said. “We just come in here for a drink. We’re goin’ to leave now and just pretend none of this happened.”
“It’s too late,” Harley said.
“We ain’t drawin’ on you,” Andy said.
“Oh, I think you will,” Harley said. “The fiddler is already playin’ his tune, the dance has started, and here we are, the three of us, standin’ out on the dance floor.”
“Mister, you are crazy,” Andy said. “We ain’t goin’ to get into no gunfight with you.”
“Yeah, you are,” Harley said, his voice a quiet sigh.
Andy turned to the others in the saloon. “Do you people see what’s going on here? Are you goin’ to let this happen?”
“It ain’t our fight, boy,” one of the others said.
“Danny?” Andy’s voice broke in fear. “We can’t do this.”
“Looks to me like we don’t have no choice,” Danny replied.
Danny started his draw and seeing that, Andy drew as well.
With a smile that made his face look even more skeletal, Harley drew, the gun appearing in his hand as if by magic. Danny was so shocked at the speed of the draw that he hesitated for an instant. Had he not hesitated, he might have had a chance, but Harley got two shots off so fast it sounded as if it were only one. Danny pulled the trigger on his pistol, but the bullet went into the floor. Andy didn’t even get a shot off.
Harley was calmly sipping his whiskey by the time one of the sheriff’s deputies arrived.
“I might have known it would be you,” the deputy said.
“They drew first.”
“I’m sure they did. Just as I’m sure you goaded them into it,” the deputy said.
“I might have teased them a bit about bein’ from Texas,” Harley said. “Didn’t know they was goin’ to take it so hard.”
The deputy stepped over to look down at the two young cowboys.
“Damn, Harley, they’re just kids. Who are you going after next? Grade school kids?”
“Won’t be any of your concern who it is, Deputy. I got a telegram today, offerin’ me a job.”
“Somewhere else, I hope.”
“Yeah, somewhere else,” Harley said.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Gothic
Sally was in New York City, sitting on the windowsill of the third floor of one of the Greek revival row houses on the north side of Washington Square. The apartment belonged to her Aunt Mildred, and Sally had come to New York to spend a couple weeks with her. It was late March, a cold and gray day with steely sunlight that illuminated, but did not warm the city. Spring had already begun, but the pedestrians walking on the sidewalk below wore heavy coats and scarves. From this elevation they were a never ending flow of black figures, rather like a stream of ants on the march.
She heard the distant rumble of an El train and the clatter of an omnibus, and wondered about so many people on the move. Who were they ? Where were they going? What lay ahead of them?
What lay ahead for her?
She had already made the decision for her own future, and had announced it to her family with great passion and intensity. She was going West. She was going West to teach school, and to see some of the country she had only read about.
Her parents were completely opposed to the idea, and sent her to New York on a visit so Aunt Mildred could “talk some sense in to her.”
To Sally’s surprise and relief, Aunt Mildred did nothing to try and dissuade her. In fact, she disclosed the secret that she had once had a strong desire to move to San Francisco, to see what was on the other side of the countr y.
So, without Aunt Mildred to dissuade her she was left to her own thought and reason. Was she making a mistake? Should she go West? Or should she stay safe, comfortable, and stable in Vermont, where her father was wealthy, and a “respectable” marriage would occur some day, with an “acceptable” man who was a moneyed member of society ?
If only she knew what was the right thing to do.
“You are making the right decision,” Smoke said. “Come West. Marry me. We will grow old together, and you will have all the comfort, love, and security you will ever want. And you will have something else. You will have excitement, not the dull future Vermont holds for you.”
“I will come, Smoke,” Sally said. “I will come West and I will marry you.”
Sally woke up, and for a moment, had no idea where she was. Was she at her aunt’s apartment in New York? No, that’s not possible. Smoke isn’t someone in a dream. Smoke is real.
But where is Smoke?
She reached over to touch him, but he wasn’t there. As she tried to raise up to look for him, a sudden ache in her side brought her back down sharply to lie on her back on the hard surface of the examination table. She moved her hands around her, feeling the edges.
Yes, an examination table.
But where was Smoke? She vaguely remembered talking to him earlier.
“Mrs. Jensen, try not to move,” a soft, calming, and reassuring voice said.
“Who are you?” Sally asked. “Where am I?”
“I am Doctor Gunther. You are in my office.”
“Why?”
“You have been shot. Remember?”
Sally was quiet for a moment. “Yes. I remember. Where is Smoke?”