The Adventures of Nicodemus Legend
Legend In His Own Mind
Act One: The Science of Perils
In the center of the street two figures stood motionless as the wind danced dervishes around them. The meek townsfolk cowered behind the storefronts and raised boardwalks, holding their breath while they looked on in fear. On this day, a day of destiny, death walked in the sleepy streets of Sheridan.
The lean, dark figure of Terrible Tom Malloy cut a sharp shadow that stretched away from the westering sun. At his hips hung a silver revolver. His right hand hovered near the pearl-inlaid handle, black-fingered gloves flexing slowly as he stared toward the man he had vowed to kill. In his left hand he held the long blonde hair of Crissy Sloan, the trading-post keeper's innocent beautiful young daughter, twisted around his fingers as if he held a leash. She struggled to get away from him, but his grip was like iron. She covered her face with one hand, to hide her tears that she feared would be the death of the man she loved.
That man stood a ways down the street, his booted feet barely touched by Terrible Tom's out-stretched shadow. The prairie wind whipped the man's coattails around his narrow hips, rippled the man's hair beneath the brim of his white hat. The fabric of his yellow coat snapped and leaped in the playful wind, leaving his hands that hung at his sides clearly visible. He carried no gun.
He didn't need a gun. He was Nicodemus Legend.
Bent carefully over his manuscript, sharpened stylus held in a firm but graceful grip with his long fingers, Ernest Pratt considered what eloquent phrases he should use to compose the final scene. Idly, he tapped his lower lip with the pencil, then a gleam came into his eye. He jabbed the sharpened lead down onto the paper to capture his brilliant idea...
"Ouch! Be careful, Ernest!" His desk suddenly moved violently, scattering his papers across the bed sheets.
"Sorry, m'dear," Pratt purred, tenderly kissing the damaged area, surreptitiously smoothing the graphite smudge on the fine silk garment his companion was almost wearing. "The perils of creative literature, I'm afraid. No damage done."
"Well, when I agreed to help you finish your book," Henrietta said, her husky voice and long vowels sending trills of excitement to Pratt's brain, "I didn't realize how... involved... I'd have to be. I thought you just wanted a little... inspiration." She turned and batted her long eyelashes at him.
"Henrietta, my sweet Henrietta. There are three things an author needs to write a good book. A sharp pencil, some quality paper, and the unyielding support..." Pratt delivered more kisses to the sensual curve of Henrietta's shoulder, working his way toward her ear... "of a high quality writing surface."
Henrietta laughed as Pratt's mustache tickled her neck. "I've been told that I was 'high quality' before, Ernest, but this is the first time I've ever been called furniture."
Pratt smiled and worked his way back down her shoulder. "Aren't you glad I'm not a blacksmith? Then, all I'd need is a hammer, a horseshoe, and a nag upon which to nail it..."
Henrietta laughed and twisted around, throwing Pratt off of her back so that he slid off of the slippery silk coverlet and landed gracelessly upon the floor in the center of his scattered papers. "You are a cad, Mr. Pratt. You ain't half the gentleman that Nicodemous Legend is."
Pratt gave her one of his winningist smiles. "If you'd prefer the company of Nicodemus Legend, I can arrange that, you know. He is a close... personal... acquaintance of mine." Softly, he captured one of her dainty, stockinged feet and began to nibble on her ankle.
"Mine, too," the woman laughed throatily, "and you'll never finish that book of yours if you keep getting distracted like this." She pulled her foot out of his hand and slowly caressed his chin with her toes, then placed her heel against his heart and gave him a gentle shove to send him on his way.
"Ah! The story of The Life of Ernest Pratt. Kicked in the heart by every beautiful woman he has ever met." He gave a long, suffering sigh, then began to gather his papers together. "You're right, darlin'. Back to work for me." Casting one last, longing look toward the beauty lounging on the bed. "You inspire me, my muse of the prairie. Let me just go and polish this pesky paragraph... to finish articulating this exciting adventure; then I think I shall dedicate myself to writing something a little different... perhaps a rousing romance?" He stepped out of the door, then leaned back in to add, "I shall definitely need your invaluable assistance for that story."
He closed the door with a snick, then yelped as someone touched his shoulder. His papers and pencil were sent flying out of his hands again.
"Janos! Are you trying to give me a heart-attack? What are you doing lurking in the hallway?" Pratt bent down and retrieved his papers a second time.
Janos Bartok glared haughtily down at his partner. "Ernest! Really! Aren't you supposed to be working?"
Straightening up swiftly, his arms full of wrinkled papers, Pratt gave his friend an ironic smile. "Believe me, I was working! And if you don't believe me, ask Miss Hen... ah-Hem... never mind! A gentleman never tells. What do you want?"
"I have come to collect you. Apparently in your zeal to finish your latest piece..." Bartok glanced toward room number five and cleared his throat,"... your latest manuscript, that is... you seem to have forgotten that we have an appointment. You were supposed to help me test the new descent parasol."
"I didn't forget. I have been avoiding you," Pratt said honestly. He opened the door to his room with his elbow, laying his as-yet-unfinished manuscript on the table. "It is essential, see? that I finish this book before you force me to test any more of your experiments, as it is unlikely that I will survive to write anymore."
"Ernest, you know I would never ask you to do anything dangerous..."
"What about the Bartok Explosive Package? You told me I was going to be in a moving picture and the next thing I know, I wake up next to the bones of a dead man, trying to kiss Skeeter! And what about the time that I tested that bullet-resistant vest... I got shot in the chest!"
"That wasn't my fault! I wasn't shooting at you; that was Mr. Hickock's bandit, that horrible Mr. Jack McCall. And the vest worked, by the way; in fact, it saved your life! I don't see why you are getting so upset, Ernest. It is your job to do these things."
Pratt froze in the motion of pouring himself a drink. "My job? My job? No, no-no-no,..."
"Yes, it is your job. My scientific discoveries have helped to make Legend what he is today. The least you could do is assist me in the development of them."
"No, the 'least' I could do is what I am doing now," Pratt quipped. He raised his glass to his nose and took a savouring sniff of the liquor, then downed it with a snap. "Ah-ah!"
Bartok frowned at his friend. "If you'll forgive me for saying so, you aren't exactly behaving like Nicodemus Legend. What if someone were to see you drinking whiskey, or... carrying-on with a woman of ... questionable repute?"
Pratt poured himself another drink. "Her repute is not in question... everyone knows that Henrietta is a... a kind and giving woman."
"Well, she'll be giving you the kind of reputation that could cost Nicodemus Legend his good name. It is your job to keep Legend alive, both in reality and on the page. And, as it is the only job that you have, one would think that you would pursue every avenue of profit available to you."
Pratt set his glass down with a clink. "'The only job I have...?' My job, professor, it to write books. Remember me? Ernest Pratt, not-so-intrepid author of the adventures of Nicodemus Legend? Writing books," he repeated slowly, "that is my job. Actually, I have two jobs, since thanks to you, I am now two completely different people. Thanks to you, I am also Nicodemus Legend. His job is to sell the books I write. Not to die wilst attempting to fly sans wings... or by becoming a human projectile!" Pratt fished around in the pocket of his vest until he came up with a fresh cigar.
Even Janos Bartok's patience had a limit. "You're being unreasonable, Ernest. I will interpret your stubbornness as eagerness to finish your book. But after you are done, Ramos and I could really use your help." Bartok seized the doorknob just as Pratt struck a match to light a cigar. "I can see that pigs will fly before you come to your senses. Good day, Mr. Legend!" he added with an ironic bow. He closed the door softly behind him.
Pratt ran to the door and yanked it open, shouting down the hall, "There's an idea, Janos! Why don't you use a real guinea pig instead of trying to turn me into one!"
Bartok stopped and executed a graceful turn on his heel. "Don't be ridiculous, Ernest. A guinea pig is far too small to simulate the weight, height, and mass of a man your size. Besides, that would be cruel to the animal."
"It would be cruel to make me do it, but that's never stopped you before!" Pratt slammed the door, wincing as room trembled. The chandelier jingled slightly, swaying.
Pratt puffed on his cigar, but it had gone out. "Darn! That was my last match!" He patted his pockets anyway, cigar clenched in his teeth. His eyes were drawn upward by the swaying of the gas-light chandelier. Grabbing a chair, he stood upon the seat and balanced himself by grasping the chandelier. He couldn't quite reach the flame with the cigar in his mouth, so he placed one foot on the chair back and the other on the table, pulling himself up to the flickering flame.
Downstairs, Bartok was just tipping his hat to a lady as he allowed her to cross the threshold before him, when a crash sounded somewhere above. The ceiling shook, sending down wisps of dust. Bartok ran back upstairs, thrusting the door open to find Pratt sprawled among his (again) scattered manuscript pages, lying on top of the remains of a chair and table. A smouldering cigar was still clenched in his teeth.
"Maybe testing your experiments is safer than doing my job," Pratt mumbled. He spat out the cigar and groaned.