So Brave, Young, and Handsome (13 page)

“You think she’s a actress?” he wondered, when he found speech possible. “You think they let you stroll in and watch while they run the camera?”

“Go ask.”

He rose and went down the hall to the bathroom and returned twice to request my razor and comb.

“You don’t need to shave,” I said.

“Sure I do—look here.” And leaning up to a lightbulb he pointed out a few dozen brown feelers exploring along his jaw. It occurred to me once again that Hood Roberts wasn’t all that much older than Redstart—neither his face nor his judgment were fully formed, an apprehension that would keep me soft toward him in the coming days, when so many others were howling for his life.

That evening I asked Glendon whether he believed the fog that encapsuled his boat on the Sea of Cortez was a maneuver of God Almighty to pursue him into the arms of justice. We’d purchased a bag of sugared pastries for Hood and were walking in the twilight toward the vacant parade grounds of the Hundred and One. I thought my question might be a dangerous one—who doesn’t dread what God might be up to in our pivotal moments?—but he answered with a straight yes and we walked on.

“Do you fear justice, Glendon?”

“Yes, I do,” he replied, so simply that I realized I feared it too.

“Do you wish you had gone back, then? Back to Blue?”

“Yes, but I didn’t do it,” he said, adding, with a wry glance, “fear seems my bedrock principle, wouldn’t you say?” His regret was strong enough he wrote Blue a repentant letter with the help of ruined Crealock, whose Spanish in the heartfelt regions surpassed Glendon’s, yet it must not have been a satisfactory letter since Blue never replied. “One day you will have to go back in person,” Crealock told him, yet Glendon knew that to return anytime soon would likely cost him his liberty. His crimes in the country of Mexico were a horde memorized by authorities. Cattle were only the beginning; trains in those provinces were creaky affairs open to an inventive bandit who took joy in his craft. The performance of theft came to Glendon with such little difficulty he considered it a kind of gift. He was a fastidious bad man who scarcely touched his victims. Spoils appeared as though conjured in his pockets. This talent plus his aptitude for deflection made him nearly untouchable by
policia
, though he proved quite human the day
the Porfirian officers blew his boat out from under him on the Sea of Cortez.

“They had a short cannon set up on the beach,” he said. “I came around that point not fifty yards from shore and there they were—I gave them a laugh, that’s for sure.”

“A cannon? For one American bandit?”

“Well, there was a sporting element to it. They were betting how many shots it would take to hit the boat.”

“How many did it take?”

“Seven or eight. When they started finding the range I jumped and swam for it, but they kept firing till they sunk her. That was a little mean, I thought.”

Reaching the edge of the parade field, we beheld a puzzling sight. Before us stood half a dozen slim wood pedestals. They were elegant, carved like the Doric columns outside libraries, but what caught the eye were the orange glass spheres resting on them. The size of large citrus, they seemed to gather what light there was in that doleful setting.

“What are these, Monte—are they fine art?” Glendon asked.

“No idea,” I confessed. Strangely, the spheres didn’t seem out of place, but then the whole ranch under that alien cloud resembled one of Goya’s mesmeric notions.

“Well, they’re pretty little moons,” said my friend. Something about the unlikely ornaments seemed to touch a disconsolate note, and he added, “I’ll admit something to you, Becket: I am sick of being chased.”

“Siringo has gone to South Dakota,” I reminded him.

Glendon laughed as though Siringo were the least of it.

We stood quietly before the row of globes. I wanted to raise one in my palm. As in a storybook I reached for the nearest bauble, only to have it vaporize before me like an enchanted thing.

The slap of a gunshot arrived a second later.

The shock of that sound is with me still—it smacked and prickled as I stood confused, watching an orange cloudlet rain over the grass.

“Why, they’re targets,” Glendon mused, as another of the little globes turned to a column of steam. In panic I threw myself to the ground.
Slap
came the sound of the shot.

“Drat my eyes,” said Glendon; he couldn’t see who was shooting. Neither could I, once I’d gained the courage to poke my head up and look around. As we crouched, the remaining four spheres burst and drifted over the lawn, each followed by its tardy black-powder concussion. Then a distant slack shape I’d taken for a sleeping dog rose and stretched and became our confident marksman.

Despite a fast gait it took him a long time to reach us. I’ll admit to some nerves at his approach. Among noted riflemen there is reputed to be a predatory quality—the great Crockett is said to have moved like a panther even when going out to get the mail. That’s what this fellow reminded me of, all buckskinned and moccasined, though there was something un-Crockettlike about him too.

“Why, it’s a woman!” I said.

Yes, she heard me, for I received a wounded glance.

“Good day, miss, you are most impressive,” said Glendon.

The woman stopped where she was—a big supple woman. She said, “Saints above, tell me it ain’t Glen Dobie!”

“I guess it’s me, all right,” said Glendon, though he was fidgety and plainly had no idea who this woman was now trotting forward in a state of high emotion.

“Glen, it’s me! Darlys DeFoe,” she declared.

“Darlys?” he said, as wonder and relief settled on him.

Darlys DeFoe dropped her long buffalo gun to the turf like a willow stick and leapt upon Glendon forthwith.

He was staggered a moment by her attention and heft—she was kissing his cheeks and his forehead and mouth. Getting hold of her arms he removed her gently saying, “Darlys, meet my friend—”

“Jack,” I put in.

Glendon’s eyes rolled. “Jack was about to lay hands on that globe when you shot it. You gave us a scare, Darlys.”

“I’m Darla now,” said she, and so she was, on the handbills and circulars we’d seen pasted up or blowing the streets: Deep Breath Darla, Queen of the Long Shot. She was at that time the Hundred and One’s beauteous lady sharpshooter; since Annie Oakley, every Wild West Show in the world had one.

“I ain’t seen you since the train stopped in Marquez,” said Glendon, as kindly as possible, holding Darlys DeFoe at arm’s length. “All this time I kind of pictured you in Virginia or Alabama—someplace genteel.”

“Things went otherwise for me, Glen.”

“Well, you’ve got a job and are famous good at it,” Glendon replied. “Don’t you think I saw the handbills? Darlys, you’re an attraction!”

Darlys DeFoe blushed, the tragic old moonbeam; seeing that blush I had an urge to pull Glendon aside and warn him somehow, but it would’ve done little good. Glendon was already walking with Darlys toward a lit tavern at the edge of the grounds. The old girl was waltzing along like an ingenue, if you can picture an ingenue with a large-bore buffalo gun in her knuckly hand; but Glendon, I noticed, had his hands in his pockets and was talking with easy rapport, as though she’d been a man.

“I married Rory—that’s what tripped me up so bad,” she told us. “Rory Day. I met him in Kansas City just a few days after you put me on that train, Glen. I thought he would be nice to me, but no. The only nice thing about Rory was his teeth.”

“Well, I don’t blame you—you’d just come from Hole in the Wall,” said Glendon. We sat in a beer-stained booth in what was called the President’s Tavern and overlooked the parade grounds and prairie beyond. “Nice teeth must’ve seemed like enough,” he added.

She looked gratefully at my friend.

“On the other hand,” he said, “didn’t I pay for you to go all the way home?”

“I didn’t go, Glen, I’m sorry. My papa had that cheese shop, you know. If I had gone home it would’ve been a long life of wrapping cheese. Rory swept me up and we got married in a week. He had ideas. He taught me to shoot baubles from half a mile away. It’s harder than it looks.”

“Where’s Rory these days?” asked Glendon.

“He got drunk and fell in the river.”

“Darlys, I’m sorry.”

“Oh, he was drunk most of the time by then. It ain’t like I wanted him to die, but he thumped me around enough. When he turned up in the river I found I could bear the pain.”

Sudden disclosures of a private nature embarrassed Glendon—he looked so awkward Darlys hurried to change the subject. “There’s another old friend of yours here, Joe Barrera. Have you seen him?”

“José? Truly?”

“He’s always down at the stables—you should go look in on him.”

“He won’t be glad to see me, though,” said Glendon.

“Why not?” I asked. “Is he a relic from your days in the train business?”

Glendon smiled. “Far from it. José is a cousin of Blue’s. He had a concertina and could play it like an orchestra. He brought it to our wedding, in fact.”

Darlys said, “Did you marry again, Glen? Where have you spent all these years?”

“I build rowboats; it’s pleasant work. I don’t pine for those old days,” he said. “No, I didn’t marry.”

“Do you ever see anybody? Do you see Cawley or Jip?”

“No one from that time,” said Glendon.

“You never much cared for Jip,” she said, with a teasing inflection.

“I did like him, but Darlys, he was bad to you.”

“I remember his smile. He was awfully funny—I never had another man who made me laugh like Jippie.”

“Well, that’s all right,” Glendon reflected. “It’s proper to remember what was good. But look, you’ve turned things to your advantage now. Tell us about your act here.”

She was, as the handbills claimed, a long-shot artist. She could hit a grapefruit at a thousand yards—“Well, you saw,” she said to me, pleased at having shot that target from under my hand.

“What’s this Deep Breath business?” Glendon asked.

“That!” She waved her hand. “Jos Miller gave me the name—he used to carry out a chair and watch me practice. Lord, I enjoyed it. I couldn’t hardly miss when Jos was there. He’d watch the targets with a spyglass. He always said that once I pulled the trigger there was time to take a deep breath before the bullet struck.”

“That’s a top-quality talent, Darlys,” said Glendon.

She reached into her jacket for a pair of brawny spectacles. “I got to use these, now. Sometimes I miss even so. Last month I missed four times in a row. I got laughed at, and Jos Miller heard about it. He already cut my pay. If it happens again I’m fired.”

We sat in the tavern watching heat lightning play above the earth.

Darlys said, “How come you did that, anyway, Glen? Took me out of the Hole and put me on the train?”

The question surprised him. “Why, because you asked me to, Darlys.”

“Did I?” She was disturbed, unable to recall this.

“Yes, you did.” Glendon smiled. “You were such a sweet girl, what could I do but comply?”

Blushing, she replied, “What would you do for me now, Glen? Any prettiness I had is gone. Were I to ask, what would you do for me now?”

“Whatever I could,” he answered, at which she got up and kissed the top of his head and strode out of the tavern.

“Poor Darlys,” said Glendon, as we watched her go. “It’s a shame about her eyes.”

“I suppose it is.”

He rounded up on me. “You haven’t much sympathy for her, I think.”

I replied, “Her difficulties are of her own making. Maybe she ought’ve gone home to the cheese shop in the first place.” The truth is, I felt more than a little impatient with Darlys DeFoe. Glendon had already rescued her once—it seemed likely to me she was hoping he would now rescue her again. Aware of sounding coarse, I pressed on. “She ought to start thinking about her next act.”

Glendon looked at me with reproach. “Maybe she’s tried that, Monte. Maybe she don’t have a next act in her.” He rose from the table and laid down some coins. He said, “Maybe you ought to have some understanding of this.”

It was as near as he ever came to reminding me of my own transitory moment as an attraction, featuring my own long shot,
Martin Bligh
. How hard I’d looked for the elusive next act! How hard I was looking still!

Well, Hood was in love. No doubt you guessed it the second he peered out the window at the agile señorita—I guessed it myself and had it confirmed when he wafted in late.

“Fellows, wish me well, I am in love,” he said, from his blowsy elevation.

“Is
she?
” asked Glendon.

“She will be,” Hood replied.

“What’s her name?” I inquired.

“Alazon. Mr. Becket, you saw her—she’s a rose, you got to admit.”

We got little sleep that night, at least Hood and I didn’t. He was bursting with that girl and insisted on reporting his evening to me moment by moment. Down he went and sure enough they had the cameras running. The film was called
Sign of the Red Men
. It featured a young jawline of German extraction named Ern Swilling. He said it
Svilling
, and many at the Hundred and One were betting honest dollars on his future—that you never heard of Ern was fate’s joke on Ern. Anyway Hood went down and crossed the street holding a china teacup in his right hand. I saw that with my own eyes, from the window. The teacup confused me until he admitted stealing it from a display in the tiny lobby of the boardinghouse; he was looking for flowers but found none. Entering the building he didn’t see Alazon right away. A few people stood within a floodlit set of mock walls resembling the inside of a ranch cabin—the clever Ern, a pallid girl called Selma playing his beloved in the film, and a fellow Hood described as “bitten and weaselly” who jabbed a forefinger into his palm for emphasis when
speaking. This was the director of the movie and the butt of many gags among the cast, though when I spoke with him later he seemed like any craftsman pursuing distinction against large odds. Drawn by soft talk, Hood spotted the girl with a Mexican boy his own age. A handsome tall lad with an effortless laugh—yet Hood suffered less than one minute of excruciating jealousy because when the girl saw his tentative advance she left her caballero with his sentence unfinished and came and looked up into his face.