Robert Coover - Ghost Town

Sorry, mam. Caint hep thet. But I’m mighty obliged. She frowns down upon him, her thin unpainted lips pressed together. There is a tiny black beauty spot on her cheek, set there, it would seem, though it’s probably but a mole, to complement her long black dress. Fer whut yu done fer my laig, I mean.

Did, she says sternly. I am obliged for what yu did for my leg.

Yes’m. He closes his eyes. Yu’re welcum.

When he opens them again, he finds himself stretched out in black satin and for a moment he thinks he’s in a coffin. No, no, I aint dead! he gasps, trying to rise.

Shore yu aint, sheriff honey. The saloon chanteuse is sitting at her dressing table powdering her breasts. He falls back into the bed, feeling like he’s been kicked below by a horse. Beyond the open windows where lace curtains hang limply in the midday heat, he can hear creaking wagon wheels, the blacksmith’s hammer, booted feet treading wooden sidewalks, curses, whinnies, shouts, the occasional gunshot. These sounds seem aimed at him, of no more duration than his need of them, and maybe, in the way that towns talk to sheriffs, they are. Though it wuz tetch’n go fer a time, sweetie.

I wuz havin a fearsome dream. Ifn it wuz a dream. Seemed so real.

Looked purty arousin from whut I could see.

I wuz layin out on the desert. Dyin. All alone. And some wolves come by. Whole pack of em.

Dont tell me. They et yu up.

I thought they wuz gonna. And I couldnt do nuthin about it. But they didnt. They jest sniffed at me and then they all lined up thar’n sucked whar I wuz hurt and lapped at my, y’know, my manly part, like cows at a salt licks. I wuz afeered ifn I moved they’d bite it off so I hadta lay stone still.

Whenever sumthin like thet happens t’me, I git itchy all over and hafta sneeze sumthin awful.

Thet werent exactly my problem.

No, but not unlike. She winks at him in the mirror, hefts her breasts one at a time, rouges the tips. Well anyhow, thet explains how I found yu, all swoll up and ravin like yer brain wuz cracked, buckskins cut t’ribbons and peed on by some filthy animule, musta been them wolves. Yu wuz a real morbid spectacle, dearie; the whole town lined up t’witness yu when I brung yu in.

I dont member none a thet.

Course yu dont. Yu wuz stock outa yer haidbone. But outa yer pants too and cuter’n a chipmunk. I shooed the buzzards off and throwed yer dazzlin carkiss over the rump of my hoss and brung yu right down main street; we done a whole parade, flags flyin, fireworks, brass band’n all, it wuz more fun than a injun roast. Whut wuz most byootyful, though, wuz when yu ast me t’marry yu.

When I whut—?

Course, bein so recently widdered, I hadta think about it fer a minnit or two—

Belle! We aint hitched—?!

Well not yet, darlin, but the preacher’s due here any second. I bought myself some special underbritches fer the occasion yu’re jest gonna love. I’d show em to yu, but it’s bad luck t’see yer bride’s—

But, Belle, I caint do thet! It — it — whut kin I say? — it dont go with the job!

Fiddlesticks. I’ll git yu a new job. Yu kin play the pianner.

I dont know how t’play the pianner.

I’ll larn yu.

I dont wanta be larnt. She brings her ruby-tipped breasts over for him to kiss. He turns his head away. Belle, dammit, this aint right, I jest aint the settlin-down kind.

Yu’ll git used to it, lovey. Anyways it’s too late, yu done promised.

But yu said yerself I wuznt right in the haid.

Dont matter none, promise is a promise. Breakin one mebbe aint a capital offense around here, but the punishment fer it aint a purty thing t’watch. She leans over him and tickles his ear with one of her painted nipples. Now c’mon, handsome, give em a little smack. From now on, they’re all yer’n. Or mostly all yer’n.

There’s a rap at the door. It’s open! shouts Belle, still bent over him with a pap in his ear, and in comes a lanky bald man with a goatee, one eye sewed shut by an ugly scar, a monocle in the other, bowler and Bible clasped at his crotch, and his collar turned backwards. Howdy do, dear friends, he says. I’m here t’hack up the connubial rites.

We’re nearly almost ready, revrend, soon’s I’ve smeared on my fixins.

Other townsfolk crowd in through the doorway. Hey, Belle! We decked it all out like yu ast! It’s lookin wondrous conjugular down thar!

Thanks, boys! They’s heaps a vittles, and the drinks’re on me’n the sheriff t’day! I need a pair a yu t’hep me git my dearly betrothed down thar as he aint too ambulatory, but the resta yu kin go down and git started!

Yippee! they shout, throwing their hats in the air and clattering back down the stairs, the preacher whooping right along with them.

A squint-eyed old fellow with a foot-long beard and a pegleg stays behind with a thinly mustachioed rustic in a crumpled tophat, and while Belle goes back to her dressing table to pin the ruby in her cheek, they come over to haul him out of the bed.

Now wait up, fellers, I think we should probly oughter hole off jest a bit, he says. I caint even stand proper yet.

Thet’s jest cuz yu’re nervous, sheriff, says the top-hatted oaf as they drag him out from under the quilts and coverlets. The fellow has one arm in a sling or else not there at all, and his thread of a mustache, he sees, is branded on. Everbody’s nervous on his weddin day.

Belle, I know yu’re wantin t’git right at it, says the pegleg, but shouldnt he have some pants on? Anyhow leastways fer the cerymonies? He’s desprit unsightly down thar, it kinder turns my stomach.

I aint finished patchin em up, says the chanteuse, wiggling her hips into a velvet and silk wedding gown. And they stink purty bad. He’ll hafta go like he is.

Well aint yu at least got a ole skirt or sumthin t’hide him in?

I aint wearin no skirt, he says flatly.

And I aint marryin no cowboy in one neither, says Belle, buttoning up.

Awright, gimme it then, he says. I’ll wear it.

How about yer ole pink bloomers, Belle? Them ole-fashion long-laigged ones with the gap in the back?

Shore. Dont know ifn they’re clean or not, but they’re backa the dressin screen. They dump him back on the bed and the old-timer clumps over there, his pegleg hammering the wooden floor as if trying to split the boards.

The one-armed yokel goes to help Belle with her buttons, so he pulls himself to the edge of the bed, intending to throw himself off. Can’t crawl very far, sore as he is, but he figures he just might make it to the open window and take his chances out it.

He figures wrong. Whoa thar, sheriff, says the lout with the branded lip, and he strolls back casually and with his single arm flips him over and ropes his wrists behind his back all in one easy motion. No need t’git all ramparageous. Tyin the knot aint the end a the world.

The old graybeard comes thumping back, and though he twists and kicks and bucks, they succeed in fitting him out in Belle’s glossy drawers, tight as they are on him, the old fellow holding him down while the younger one ties up the little ribbons at the knees into bows. Haw! Aint he cute!

Yu got them things on him fore t’aft, deppity, remarks the chanteuse, flouncing the ruffles on her gown. His bizness is hangin out.

They wouldnt go on tother way, Belle. We’da hadta shove his doodads up inside him. But it’s awright. Saves time later on.

Yu my deppity? he asks the peglegged oldtimer.

Shore, sheriff, he says, buckling the gunbelt around his middle, while the other fellow works his boots on him. Dont yu reckanize me?

He had a rough time out thar on the desert.

Musta done.

Okay, port him on down, boys, I’m ready’n rarin!

Wait a minnit! Ifn yu’re my deppity, I got a order t’give yu—