Unlucky

My

horse didn't look the best. No wonder, after all, I only paid $5 for it, and the seller, Manilla Joe, threw in a saddle and spare shoes. I didn't think I'd ever use them, though, as the animal looked like it would only last a day or two, but you shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. Joe advised me to stop every few yards for a few hours, but I didn't have time to waste. I was wanted dead or alive, and for a crime I didn't commit. Well, maybe I did, but definitely unintentionally and by accident. Anyway, I had to leave Colorado as quickly as possible, and the sooner the sooner.

The horse snorted and stopped. I asked him to continue on his way, but he didn't listen. So I dismounted and drank some water. I gave the horse some too, but he didn't seem particularly grateful. I only had a few kilometers left to Pueblo, but I was too tired to walk. I sat down on a rock and sighed, hoping to arouse remorse in my horse. Nothing happened. The animal had clearly decided to rest a little longer, because despite my protests, it lay down on its side and fell asleep, demonstrating it with loud snores. What could I do? I lay down next to it and also fell asleep.

Voices woke me.

"Is that him?

" "Without a doubt.

" "And if not?

" "Then he'll apologize later.

" "Apologize? But for what?

" "For his teeth."

A blow landed on my jaw before I could fully awaken. Then a second, a third, and I dozed off again. I was brought back to reality by the fact that the horse I was riding was limping, and with every step I bumped my face against its flank. I quickly realized I was tied up and slung over the horse's back like a sack of potatoes. I looked around as best as my rather uncomfortable position would allow and realized I was being escorted by two men. They weren't badly armed, but they weren't the best dressed either. I don't know why, but they looked like bounty hunters to me.

"Where's my horse?" I asked.

"A horse?" one of the escorts, the fatter one, asked in surprise. "I didn't know it was a horse. What do you think, Jimi?"

Jimi thought for a moment.

"I have no idea what it was," he finally said. "But it definitely wasn't a horse."

We rode on. My head was knocking against the horse's ribs, and I noticed I was missing a few teeth. To make matters worse, I didn't like the fact that we weren't heading towards Pueblo at all, but rather the opposite—probably Denver, where I would undoubtedly soon be hanging.

"I'm not comfortable," I said at one point. "Yes, we know, "

Jimi said.

We stopped under a rock that looked like a nice place to spend the night. It was getting dark. The fatter of the men, whose name I gathered was Hank, pulled me from my horse and threw me to the ground.

"Careful," Jimi admonished his companion.

"Dead or alive," he replied in a neutral tone.

"True enough."

The men lit a fire and began preparing dinner. The smell of beans and beef wafted throughout the area, but they weren't about to offer me anything. I was in a rather uncomfortable position, so I rolled over, my back to the two men.

"He's offended," Hank said, and Jimi laughed. At least they had a sense of humor, I appreciated that.

After the meal, the men began to discuss who would be the first to keep watch. Hank was the one to do it. Jimi settled down for sleep, wrapping himself in a thick blanket. Hank threw the same one on his back, grabbed his big shotgun, and, lighting a cigarette, sat down on a rock near the fire and just as close to my humble person.

"I'm cold," I said, as the chill gripped my battered body.

"I'm sorry," Hank replied, but I couldn't bet he was actually sorry.

"Are you gentlemen bounty hunters?" I asked after a moment, changing the subject.

"You could say that," the man agreed.

"How much was the asking price for mine?" I asked, curious.

"$200.

" "$200?" I said, surprised. "That's not much.

" "But still."

Hank didn't seem particularly talkative, but I needed a moment of conversation. Perhaps one of the last of my life.

"I'm innocent," I said.

"I understand," Hank replied.

"I'll tell you what happened," I offered.

"I don't want to.

" "But it will keep you awake on guard duty."

"Okay," the man said, though without much enthusiasm. Nevertheless, I began to speak.

"I was born on March 12, 1897, in Short Cut, near Milwaukee. My mother—

" "Is that even remotely relevant?" Hank interrupted, picking his nose.

"Not really," I admitted, and, not wanting to bore my impatient listener, I moved on to a much more recent time. I went back just a few weeks, when I visited Denver to meet John Portrait, an old friend who had a lucrative deal to offer me. John, however, never showed up. There were rumors that the Indians had scalped him after he sold them two broken rifles and several bottles of weak tea disguised as whiskey in exchange for fourteen buffalo hides and two not-so-bad squaws. Unfortunately for me, I decided to stay in town for a while—to play cards, to have a little fun. One evening, in Fat Jack's saloon, I beat Fat Jack in a game of poker. My hand was going as well as ever. Fat Jack was clearly not pleased with this turn of events, because he pulled out a revolver and fired six shots at me. One of the bullets pierced my hat, the others missed their target by several meters, shattering bottles behind the bar and wounding or killing random patrons. I decided not to make any special demands for my money, and besides, I knew nothing about running a saloon, so, fearing for my health, I left the establishment as quickly as possible. I went to the hotel where I was staying, but before I got there, I came across a beautiful woman standing under a streetlight. I thought she was a whore, so I offered her a few dollars. She became indignant and slapped me across the face, then explained that she was waiting for a certain John Portrait, with whom she had arranged to conduct some lucrative business. I apologized, then enlightened her as to the probable cause of my friend's absence, and she became very upset. I invited her to my room, this time discreetly avoiding the subject of money and offering her a sip of hot coffee or something stronger if she wanted it. She accepted the invitation.

III

Hank had fallen asleep. My story clearly held little interest. I checked my bonds. I'd been professionally bound—but it's always nice to be dealing with professionals. I looked around for something that might help me free myself. The glowing embers from the fire seemed most suitable, but to reach them I'd have to roll right next to the dozing Hank, which seemed rather risky. I had nothing to lose, though. A moment later, my hands were burning, and Hank was whistling through his nose as if nothing had happened. Freeing my hands, I untied my legs. I stood up, stretched my aching bones, and approached Hank as quietly as I could. With a quick movement, I yanked the shotgun from his hand. He didn't even wake up; he was such a sound sleeper. Or maybe he was just tired, poor guy. I'd shot him first. Jimi leaped to his feet at the sound of the shot, but before he could reach for his weapon, he was already greeting St. Peter. I quickly assessed my situation. I now had three horses, provisions for the journey, and two more kills under my belt. I loaded blankets and a gun onto my horse, mounted the second, and set off toward Pueblo. I had a perfect sense of direction; my father was from the countryside.

Fourth

Pueblo greeted me with a stray bullet. One of my horses fell lifeless to the ground. Immediately, a man ran up to me and began apologizing. He explained that he had just been dueling with another man and shot so hard that the bullet went through the other man, ricocheted off into a nearby stable, and even hit my steed. Since dueling was illegal in this town, he thrust a few dollars into my hand as compensation and disappeared. I recovered from my shock, repacked the necessary items from the dead horse onto the one I had left, and headed for the sheriff's office.

The sheriff was fifty years old and had a cataract over his left eye. He looked pleasant, except he was dead. A trickle of blood was dripping from his mouth. I was about to leave when a young man in a plaid shirt and a silver star appeared, clearly a deputy sheriff.

"It's a nuisance with these bandits," he said apologetically when he saw me. "That's the fourth sheriff this month. That's why I'd rather stay deputy," he added with a smile.

He cleaned up the old sheriff, washed his hands, and sat down behind a large wooden desk, probably imported from Tsarist Russia sometime in the past.

"What brings you here?" he asked, taking over as sheriff until a new one could be chosen.

"My name is Billy Ray Cyrus," I lied, because in reality, my name was completely different, but I wasn't about to share that fact with the deputy sheriff, no matter how nice he seemed. Especially since I noticed my own name on the wanted poster board just above my likeness, which, fortunately, wasn't very good.

"Glad to meet you," the boy replied, extending his right hand toward me. "Richard Gere.

" "I've come for the reward," I said.

My plan was simple and incredibly cunning, or so I thought.

"A reward?" Richard Gere asked. "For what?

" "For who?" I corrected him. "I killed Dick Hook; he's lying at the bottom of the South Platte.

" "Dick Hook?" the deputy asked. "And who is that?"

I pointed to my own likeness on the wanted poster.

"That's him. A wanted murderer," I explained. "I was carrying his body as evidence, but the current swept it away while crossing the river.

" "It happens," Richard Gere admitted. "Unfortunately, without proof, I won't be able to pay the reward.

" "Fortunately," I said immediately. "I have his papers.

" "Oh," the deputy asked. "That's something."

I handed him my own papers, and he began to study them. Then he stood up, walked over to a large safe, opened it with an almost equally large key, extracted $100 from a roll of bills, and handed it to me.

"Does half the reward satisfy you?" he asked. "You know, you could have found those papers or something."

I started cursing the current in the South Platte River, but finally, with feigned reluctance, I accepted the money. As I was leaving, I noticed a sheriff's deputy tearing down a wanted poster with my picture on it.

I was clean.

A

few days later, I reached Santa Fe, from where I planned to take a stagecoach toward El Passo, Mexico. God forbid, I tempted fate. Too many people in the West might recognize me. However, I stayed in Santa Fe longer than I initially intended, thanks to my friend John Portrait, whom I had met in one of the saloons.

"They said you were dead," I said, after I'd recovered from the shock of seeing him and after we'd embraced.

"They're saying all sorts of things," John replied, looking at me closely. "For example, that you killed twenty people. Including my friend, Klaudia Szmidt."

I remembered a beautiful woman I'd met a few weeks earlier under a streetlight in Denver and invited to my room. I ordered a bottle of whiskey and decided to tell everything to John Portrait. I could trust anyone, if not him. Completely.

" "Klaudia Szmidt was penniless and devastated," I said, sipping occasionally. "It's not good for a woman in a strange city to be penniless and devastated, because she might get into trouble." So I invited her to my room for coffee, and she accepted. She'd already told me about how you were going to open a clothing store in Denver together. Unfortunately, she never got to see you, and besides, the news of your death spread.

"Indeed," John explained, "I had some trouble with the Indians, I had to run away. I'd paid a few men to spread the word around that I'd ended up badly. I was planning to come back when things calmed down. The Indians aren't very merciful; they drink too much.

" "One word at a time," I continued, "Claudia and I ended up in bed. She drank a little, and on top of that, she felt very lost. You know how it is with lost women and beds. During that passionate night, the woman died. I realized after her teeth clamped down on my manhood and wouldn't release it. When I tried to free myself, I almost became a woman. I realized Claudia had simply choked. Now you know why they call me Big Dick, even though I'm not tall at all."

John grunted in embarrassment, and I slapped him on the back, thinking the whiskey had caught in his throat. I did it too hard, though, and my friend hit his head on the table. Bad enough that he smashed his Scotch glass with his forehead, the glass piercing his brain, sending it flying all over the saloon. My God, bad luck continued to haunt me. Just like when I panicked and left the room with Klaudia Szmidt dead inside and came across those two drunks. I just wanted to pass them, but I accidentally hit one with my spurs. He staggered, grabbed his friend by the jacket, and they both tumbled down the stairs. I ran downstairs and found they'd broken their necks. At the sound of falling bodies, the hotel owner ran out of the reception with a kerosene lamp in his hand. He blocked my exit. I didn't have the nerve to struggle with him, so I punched him in the stomach, knocking the lamp out of his hand. He managed to escape from the burning hotel, but the dozen or so remaining residents, mostly intoxicated, failed. That's the whole story. Knowing I might not be able to explain it all, I jumped on my horse and fled town. On the way, my horse trampled an old woman and broke a leg myself. Fortunately, Manilla Joe lived nearby, and I knew he could sell a decent horse for a small fee. Of course, I got the worst one.

VI

I took one last look at the dead John Portrait, then ran out of the saloon, mounted my steed, and sped off into the darkness. Behind me, I heard gunfire. I had to expect pursuit. So I took my course, and under cover of darkness, circling the city, I returned to Santa Fe. I decided to hide in a barn for a few days. Or not, with my luck, it was ready to burn down by some stray fire. So I left my horse tied to a tree just outside the town entrance and, trying not to attract attention, I set off down the main street as if nothing had happened. Eventually, I reached a small saloon, rented a room, and went to bed.

The next day I awoke fresh and rested. I ate breakfast downstairs and returned to my room. Everything seemed fine until I heard a pounding on the door.

"Open up! It's the Sheriff of Santa Fe."

I ran to the window. The welcoming committee was waiting for me downstairs. Without thinking, I scrambled under the bed. A moment later, someone kicked in the door, and strong hands pulled me from my tenuous hiding place. I didn't argue; I'd had enough of this.

VII

"It wasn't him," I heard as I woke up from a prophylactic punch to the jaw. I thought that if my life ever normalized, I'd still be missing a tooth.

"So why was he hiding?" asked a second voice. I opened my eyes. Three men were standing over me, one of them wearing a sheriff's star.

"Who was hiding?" I played dumb.

"Don't play dumb," the one with the star admonished me.

I explained that I often slept under the bed because I suffered from Lycopesicon Esculentum Phileo. From what I gathered, it was a dislike of tomatoes, but I was hoping the sheriff wasn't particularly erudite.

"What does a dislike of tomatoes have to do with sleeping under the bed?" asked the sheriff, a wiseass fucking idiot.

"It's part of the therapy," I replied almost immediately, trying not to let on how disconcerted I was.

"Never mind," the sheriff said with a wave of his hand. "That's not him anyway."

It turned out they were looking for a gold smuggler who (of course!) was supposed to be hiding in the saloon where I happened to be staying. Luckily for me, I was much shorter, thinner, and had more brown hair than him. The sheriff asked me a few standard questions about what I was doing here and what I was doing for a living. I lied a little and told the truth a little, and finally left me alone. The entire procession left my room, clearly dissatisfied with the results of their raid. I barely made it to dusk, feeling a bit uneasy nonetheless, and under cover of darkness, I left the saloon. The horse was tethered where I'd left it. Upon seeing me, it snorted in a friendly manner and accidentally kicked me in the groin.

VIII

I reached El Passo with some difficulty. Along the way, a snake bit me, my horse died, and I nearly broke my legs falling from a rock I was climbing to cross Santa Padre Pass. Finally, however, I reached a dusty El Passo street, and the laughter of playing Mexican children accompanied my entrance to town. I was so tired that I don't quite remember how I managed to reach some seedy tavern, where I ordered a tequila and fell asleep on the table.

IX

I woke up in a clean bed. The sun was shining outside, streaming into the tidy room and tickling my nose. Someone was placing a cold, wet compress on my forehead. I struggled to open my eyes. The beautiful Klaudia Szmidt was leaning over me, caring.

"I died," I said.

X

"How could you leave me like that?" Claudia reproached me during breakfast, which we ate on the terrace of the cozy hacienda.

"I was convinced you'd suffocated," I explained for the umpteenth time.

"I simply fainted from the shock, Big Dick.

My God, it's all so confusing." As I panicked and left the burning hotel in Denver, Claudia was just regaining consciousness. With horror, she realized the room she was in was engulfed in flames. Without thinking, she jumped out the window. Luckily, she landed on the head of a man who happened to be passing by. The impact broke his spine and he fell from his horse. Claudia, reluctantly, remained on the back of her mount, which bolted forward in panic. The woman didn't know how to ride, so she didn't even think about stopping her steed; she clung to its mane, trying desperately to stay in the saddle. The horse raced forward until it collapsed from exhaustion. And it collapsed only here, in El Passo. Claudia unhooked the saddlebags from its side and, to her surprise, found a mass of gold inside. It had most likely fallen on the head of a gold smuggler, the very one the sheriff from Santa Fe was after. Without a second thought, she decided to settle in a pleasant Mexican town. She bought a cozy hacienda and opened the clothing store she longed for. Although, instead of elegant dresses, it sold sombreros and ponchos, Claudia was happy nonetheless. And to make matters worse, I showed up; she found me unconscious in the bar where she used to stop for a glass of whiskey after closing her shop.

11

Soon we were married. A few months later, six children were born to us. Claudia didn't survive the birth, but perhaps that was for the best, because a few days later, while lighting a cigarette, I dropped a match, which ignited the oil lamp, and within moments, our entire hacienda burned down. Between God and the truth, Claudia's shop burned down the hacienda, and the entire town. Knowing it would be difficult to explain all this, I loaded my children onto my horse and fled the burning city. My destination was Panama, but I don't remember whether I reached it, as I've currently lost my mind and am living in a hospital for the insane run by the Sisters of Charity. My children visit me sometimes, but unfortunately, I don't recognize them.