Bad to the Bone (10 page)

“Tell him I'm busy.”

“You don't understand, darlin'. You might need the sheriff on yer side if yer boy Duane Braddock ever
shows up, because old J. T. will clap his ass in jail.”

“Nobody'll ever put Duane Braddock in jail,” replied Vanessa staunchly. “He'll die first.”

“That's why you'd better talk with the sheriff. Let him know that Duane ain't as bad as his wanted poster would lead you to believe. I'd say that Duane'll be here in another four-five weeks, and that's why we gotta start a-workin' on the sheriff now. Otherwise we're a-gonna have a shoot-out in Escondido, and God only knows who'll get killed.”

“I've talked to the sheriff already, and he's a hard case himself. What's your opinion of him?”

“Sturgis is mad as hell ‘bout somethin', but I'll be damned if I know what it is.”

“Send him in,” replied Vanessa, as she patted her face gently with a moist dab of white cloth. “I'll try to talk sense to him.”

The door closed, and Maggie's footsteps receded down the hall. Did Duane ever sleep with that old strumpet? Vanessa wondered. Presently there was a knock on the door, it opened, and a tin badge reflected in her mirror.

Sheriff J. T. Sturgis strode into the tiny dressing room, hat in hand. “Sorry to bother you, ma'am, but I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed yer performance. I was in the war myself, and we used to sing them same songs around the campfires. You sure brought it all back.”

“What unit were you with?” she inquired.

“I served under General George Edward Pickett.”

He didn't have to say more, because all Southerners revered General Pickett, who'd led the most famous charge of the war. “I was never a soldier,” admitted
Vanessa, “but the war came to me when we lived in South Carolina, and my home was burned by the damned Yankees. Confederate soldiers are all heroes as far as I'm concerned, and nothing's too good for them.”

Sheriff Sturgis balled his fist and bared his teeth. “The Yankees beat us, Miss Fontaine, but not because they were better men. They had more of everything and it weren't a fair fight, but we couldn't let them boss us around.”

“Certainly not,” replied Vanessa, and she wasn't acting one bit. “People say forgive and forget, and maybe they're right, but I'm afraid I can't forgive General Sherman for what he did to South Carolina, and I'll never forget Dixie land.”

“Neither will I,” replied ex-Corporal Sturgis. “And I want to tell you somethin' else. I think yer just about the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, and I was a-wonderin' why you won't let me buy you supper sometime.”

She smiled politely. “If you want to talk, pull up a chair and take a load off your feet. I have an hour till my next performance, and besides, you should know that I'm already spoken for.”

He frowned. “Braddock? But he's on the dodge, and I'm right hyar. Hell, I'll marry you tomorrow mornin' if you want. I'll even give you a baby. And you could do a lot worse, believe me.”

Vanessa wasn't surprised by his declaration, because men had been making similar admissions practically from the time she could walk, and it was a natural part of her environment, like the sun and rain. “I'm touched by your proposition,” she replied, “and you're certainly a fine-looking gentleman. Perhaps, in other
circumstances, who could say what might happen? But now I'm waiting for Mister Braddock to return. If you want to be my friend, why don't you do me a favor? When he arrives, I hope you won't start trouble. My intention is to hire as many lawyers as necessary to clear his name, because he really hasn't committed any crimes as far as I know.”

“Tell that to the trooper who survived the Devil's Creek Massacre.”

“How can you condemn a man on the basis of one eyewitness who was half dead?”

“They say that when you love somebody, you can't think straight about him,” Sturgis reminded her. “If Duane Braddock threw a baby off the roof of this building, and the whole town saw it, you'd say it was a mistake, and besides, the baby probably deserved it.”

“You've never met Duane Braddock, and all you know is hearsay. Why not let the legal process do its job?”

The sheriff grinned. “I
am
the legal process, and I've got a warrant for Duane Braddock's arrest, dead or alive. Nobody'll take this badge seriously if I let a known killer walk around scot free. I'm sorry, ma'am, but that's one thing I can't do.”

She raised a skeptical eyebrow. “A few minutes ago, you said that you'd marry me, but you won't do that little favor?”

“Ma'am, you're askin' me to violate my oath of office.”

“What if I were to give you a hundred dollars to look the other way?”

“I'm not the best sheriff money can buy,” he said bitterly.

“I didn't mean to insult you, but I'm absolutely
convinced of Duane's innocence. I've personally witnessed one of his alleged crimes, and he was only defending himself.”

“I'll bet he was only defending himself against that Army pay wagon too?”

Vanessa realized it was hopeless, but had to make one last try. “There's nothing I can do to change your mind?” she asked plaintively.

He looked her up and down, then his face grew red. It appeared that he wanted to say something, but refused to let it out.

“I'm sorry,” she told him, “but that I can't do.”

After supper, Duane wandered into the small village alongside the hacienda. He heard guitars, and a man sang plaintively not far away. Duane wondered if there was a cantina where he could have a drink and think things over. Something told him to hop on Midnight and ride the hell out of there first thing in the morning, before he made a fool of himself with Doña Consuelo. Maybe I should go with a prostitute and get this out of my system.

He noticed lamps shining inside a squat adobe building. The door opened, and two vaqueros appeared, wearing big sombreros on the backs of their heads. “Is this the cantina?” asked Duane.

“Sí, señor.”

Duane entered the small, dark enclosure, stood in the shadows, and reconnoitered the territory. A painting of the Madonna and child was nailed to the wall, the bar wasn't crowded, and Duane leaned his elbow upon it. “Mescal.”

The bartender was a dark-skinned Mexican with strong Indian features. “So you are the Americano who saved Doña Consuelo's life. On the house, señor.”

All eyes turned toward Duane, and once again he was center of attention, the role he detested most. But he couldn't crawl underneath the cuspidor, so he raised his glass in the air, and said: “To Doña Consuelo.”

No one could refuse a toast to the young lady of the hacienda, and all men raised their glasses to their lips. Duane advanced toward a table against the left wall, sat, and swallowed mescal. The other customers returned to their cards, newspapers, or conversations, as the Americano faded into the woodwork.

Duane toyed with the notion of seducing Doña Consuelo de Rebozo. What if I met her in one of those dark corridors when I return to the hacienda later tonight? Suppose I bent over and kissed her throat. I wonder if she'd call the guards, or maybe she wants me as much as I want her?

He realized that he was thinking disrespectfully about her again. Maybe I should ride away immediately, before I do something that I regret. Don't look for trouble, my friend. You've got more than you can handle as it is.

Duane scanned the cantina relentlessly, alert for trouble. He never knew when a bounty hunter or Pinkerton man would show up with a warrant for the arrest of the Pecos Kid. But the cantina was full of dark-skinned Mexicans like the bartender, and they reminded Duane of the Apaches. Will they be insulted if I ride away first thing in the morning, and not even say good-bye?

He remembered Doña Consuelo kneeling beside him, saying her evening prayers. I almost jumped on
top of her, and I wonder what silky things she wears underneath those long dresses of hers. I'll bet she goes wild when she gets naked, because it's always the nice girls who are the most wanton in bed.

I've got to stop thinking about her, he admonished himself, as he raised the mescal to his lips. And this is the best way to forget. He drained the glass, coughed a few times, then carried the glass to the bar and got a refill.

He felt lightheaded in the dark gloomy cantina, but it didn't prevent him from checking the position of men's hands. Occasionally he noticed somebody glancing at him, but the Mexicans didn't appear hostile. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending upon one's point of view, no prostitutes were in the small cantina. I'm in love with another man's wife—just what I need, he thought disgustedly. Vanessa Fontaine said she loved me, and she ran off with that damned army idiot. Phyllis Thornton said she loved me, and she went home to daddy. Love is a disease, and it looks like I've caught another dose. Doña Consuelo is a married woman, and I've got to stay away from her.
Whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.

On the other side of the saloon, a Mexican drifter named Miguel Torres was passed out cold at a table. He'd been drinking mescal for the past three hours, his pocket was empty, and he was oblivious to the world. He snored with his face in a puddle of spilled liquor, cigarette ashes, and an old deck of cards.

Vagabonds, vaqueros, and banditos passed Miguel's table, but one happened to bump him by mistake. Miguel
opened his eyes, and at first didn't remember who or where he was. Drunk again, he thought, as he pushed himself upright at the table.

It was late, he wanted to go to sleep, and planned to spend the night on the open desert, with one eye open for spiders, lizards, wildcats, and Apaches. His bleary eyes searched for an old companero to buy him one last glass of mescal, but then he noticed a gringo sitting alone against the left wall, peering into his glass. My God! thought Miguel. It can't be! He staggered to the bar, an expression of horror on his face.

“What is wrong with you?” asked the man in the apron. “You look as if you have seen a ghost.”

“It is worse than that,” whispered Miguel, as he pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “Do you know who is sitting over there—the gringo with the long sideburns down to here?”

The bartender squinted. “That is the man who saved the life of Doña Consuelo.”

“Maybe so,” said Miguel knowingly, “but he is also one of the most wanted men in
Tejas.
”

The bartender appeared surprised. “You have been drinking too much mescal, my friend.”

“No—that is Duane Braddock, known as the Pecos Kid, and he has killed nearly twenty men, and maybe more, no one can say for sure. I saw him shoot three with my own eyes in Escondido about two months ago. He is very
peligroso.
”

The bartender smiled indulgently. “But he is so young, and has the face of a baby. Are you sure he is the same gringo?”

“I would bet my life on it,” said Miguel, as a crowd of curious vaqueros formed around him. “Desperadoes
tried to ambush him on the main street, and he moved so fast—I never saw anything like it in my life. It was as though he was a
brujo,
and nobody could kill him.”

A big, brawny vaquero sitting at the bar scowled in disbelief. “That gringo over there? You cannot be serious, companero. He is just a boy.”

“He may look like a boy, but he does not kill like a boy. The whole Americano Army is looking for him, he is so bad. Sitting over there,
amigos,
is one of the worst killers who has ever been born.”

Duane became aware that vaqueros at the bar were looking at him, and guessed that he'd been recognized. It seemed that no matter where he went, there was always somebody who'd heard of the Pecos Kid. He didn't like the attention, so he tossed down the remainder of his mescal, adjusted his black cowboy hat, and strolled out of the small dark cantina.

A vaquero lay on the sidewalk, and Duane kneeled to see if he was alive. “Are you all right?” Duane asked, rolling the vaquero onto his back.

“Where am I?”

“If you're not careful, one of these drunkards is liable to step on you. Here—let me drag you into that alley.” Duane helpfully took the vaquero by the armpits and tugged him into the alley next to the cantina, where another drunkard snored loudly.

“Is there a
casa de putas
in this town?” asked Duane, as he lowered the drunkard's head to the ground.

“You will have to go to the next town.”

Women are always the problem, figured Duane, as he left the alley. They drive us to drink with their
damned shenanigans, and then we start shooting each other over them. Meanwhile, they act like innocent angels, with their every movement and article of dress calculated to drive us totally out of our birds.

He kicked an empty can that lay in his path, and it went sailing into the night, reflecting the light of the moon. But it's not women's fault entirely, he mentalized, because they're not even aware of the things they do. You can't blame them because they're pretty and cute, and they shake their fannies in that certain provocative way. It's how God made us, and we just follow our instincts, not much different from bulls chasing cows on the range, or eagles screwing high in the sky. It's the law of nature, and even Jesus admitted that it's not a perfect world.

He came to the outer grounds of the hacienda, and decided to ride away first thing in the morning, without saying goodbye to his hosts and hostesses. But he wanted to see Doña Consuelo once more. I know I don't have a prayer with her, and such a woman wouldn't look twice at a dumb kid like me. I'd rather get hit in the guts with an Apache lance than feel this way about a woman.

He stopped next to a juniper tree, weak in the knees, unable to accept what was happening to him. I was in love with Vanessa, then Phyllis, and now I'm going through the whole mess again, except I'm never going to get my hands on her.

He recalled that he'd reached the same conclusion about Vanessa and Phyllis, but had ended up in bed with both of them, much to the surprise of all concerned. But neither were married, while Doña Consuelo was a married Catholic woman. She would never in a
million years take off her pantaloons for a man like me, but maybe I'll hang around for a few more days, because you never know.