Bad to the Bone (22 page)

“Yes,” he said softly, letting her womanly warmth thaw the knotted rage in his soul.

“I was thinking about something, and I hope you won't laugh, but—have you had many girls?”

“A few.”

“A good-looking boy like you, you can probably get any one you want, no?”

“I'm not as experienced as you might think.”

“I've only made love with Don Carlos, but you're so different.”

Duane looked away uneasily. “I feel as if I've ruined your life, Doña Consuelo. I did everything I could to get you, and once I even tried to make you drunk on mescal.”

“I wanted you to get me from the first moment I saw you,” she told him. “And you will never be alone again, as long as I'm alive.”

Don Carlos fretted on his canvas cot, because he knew precisely what was happening at that moment. The young lovers were alone, with the jealous husband far away, and Don Carlos tasted acids rising in his throat. He knew the story too well, because he also had tasted the heady bouquet of illicit love, as well as the ambrosia of marital bliss. He knew the mating game through all its permutations, and considered his twenties the finest time of his life.

But his twenties were over, while Doña Consuelo was at the beginning of hers. He imagined her engaged
in carnal delight, while he scratched and twitched alone on his cot. He knew the commitment that she brought to love, the tiny sounds that escaped her lips, and the exquisite contortions of her body.

Don Carlos felt old, paunchy, balding, and no longer in robust health by any means. He knew that young lovers could satisfy physical appetites for hours and even days on end, with only an occasional meal and drink of water, because that was his own experience during his career as a Casanova.

His very sophistication in love was an additional source of misery, because he understood well the language of seduction. He felt imprisoned inside his canvas tent, so he rolled out of bed, pulled on his boots, strapped on his Whitney, and donned his black leather riding jacket. Then he made his way to the embers of the fire, passing vaqueros sleeping on the ground all around him. He looked at the three-quarter waxing moon poised in a sky drenched with stars. The identical moon shone on Doña Consuelo in another man's arms, and Don Carlos nearly doubled over with pain.

He couldn't stop thinking about Doña Consuelo with her shapely legs wrapped around Duane Braddock, and decided to blow his brains out. He reached for the Whitney, thumbed back the hammer, held the barrel to his right temple, and touched his finger to the trigger.

He imagined them kissing and clutching deliriously, while she'd performed the same sinful acts upon Braddock that he, Don Carlos, had taught her. His finger tightened around the trigger, and then, in a flash of logic, he saw the ramifications.

They'd say the old fool killed himself because his wife had run off with a younger man. His suffering would
provide comic relief for vaqueros drunk out of their minds in cantinas, and the caudillo didn't want to be remembered that way.

He removed his finger from the trigger, eased the hammer forward, and dropped the Whitney into its holster. Be a man, not a fool, he advised himself. My ancestor was a
conquistador,
and I must set an example for those who look up to me.

Don Carlos would have preferred to fall on his knees and cry like a baby, but that was unacceptable for a caudillo. He had to find his wife, to make sure that she hadn't been kidnapped, and he had to shoot Duane Braddock.

Don Carlos hoped that his wife had gone mad, rather than having fallen for another man. I should have locked her in a closet, he said to himself, but he could never be cruel to Doña Consuelo, despite his outbursts. I must do what's expected of me, he vowed. Whatever happens, I cannot disgrace my name.

D
OÑA
C
ONSUELO PEERED OUT THE FRONT
entrance of the cave, the ornate Colt in her right hand. It was another sunny day, the desert shone like gold, and a condor flew over the mountain pass.

Doña Consuelo felt at one with herself and the world, not missing her bathtub in the least. Duane had found a stream not far away, and she took a bath every day, washed their clothing, and sunned herself naked on the rocks, with Duane often joining her.

Their diet consisted of fresh roast meat supplemented with a variety of roots and nuts. After three weeks on the dodge, she felt like part of the desert, instead of sweet little Doña Consuelo, too refined to perform useful tasks. She wouldn't object to living in the rough forever, because at last she was getting what she needed.

But there was one major drawback: the Apaches. Because of them, she and Duane lived in constant fear of getting massacred. She pulled her head back into the cave and sat with her back to the wall.

She wished Duane could take her on jaunts, but she didn't know how to move quietly, and Apaches might hear her. She'd never dreamed that she could be so happy, but sometimes felt uneasy, and occasionally was nauseous. Can I be pregnant? she sometimes asked herself.

Duane scrambled across crags and ridges like a mountain goat, as he familiarized himself with the terrain around the cave. There were deep sudden gorges, high cliffs, and narrow passageways, not to mention small caves with animal turds on the floor. He could find no sign indicating that Apaches had been in the vicinity recently, and hoped it stayed that way.

He stopped at regular intervals, to look and listen for Apaches, and then spotted a cave a quarter of the way up a mountain to his left. It appeared that he could reach it over a steep incline strewn with boulders. He climbed the approach, drew closer, and heard a growl from within. “Sorry,” he said, backing away. “Didn't mean to disturb you.”

It sounded like a bear, and the Pecos Kid promptly descended the side of the promontory, because not even a .44 slug could penetrate a bear's hide. Duane came to a patch of wild lavender and soapweed on the way down, and was surprised to see a low passageway in its shadow. The opening wouldn't be visible unless someone stood a few steps away.

Duane stuck his head inside, and noted that the passageway inclined upward, leading to what looked like another small-mouthed cave. Duane crept closer, wondering if the cousin of the other bear lived there. He raised his head, but was greeted by no hostile sounds.

He peered into the cave, and it didn't look like more than crawl space. He got down on his hands and knees, inched inside, and hoped that the mountain wouldn't collapse on top of him. The space enlarged, showing a chamber larger than the one in which he currently resided. Duane found the usual pellets of animal excrement, and a dark hazy mass at the rear. Yanking his gun, advancing closer, he saw that it was another passageway. He edged himself into its dark convoluted turns, and said to himself, wait a minute—there's liable to be a mountain lion at the end of this thing.

He lit a match, and it was dark rock all around him. He felt a mild stab of panic, as if walls were crushing him to death, and decided to get the hell out of there. But I wonder where it leads? he asked himself. The narrow alley continued, and he'd heard legends about a mountain of gold somewhere in the Sierra Madre. Maybe it's straight ahead, Duane postulated. If any lion messes with me, I'll shoot his lights out.

With the Colt in his right hand, he crawled into the darkness, pausing every few lengths to look around. Then he noticed a faint glimmer coming from the other end. Have I come all the way through the mountain? wondered Duane.

He crawled toward the light, the passage widened, and he saw the opening straight ahead. Arising in a vast domed vault, it reminded him of a cathedral, with another crack at its far end. He got down on his belly, inched
forward, and his eyes widened at an incredible sight.

About two hundred yards away, a deserted crumbling pueblo settlement nestled against the side of the next peak. Some sections leaned in odd angles, while others had collapsed totally. Duane wondered where the Indians had gone, as he moved down rock steps leading to the ground. The pueblo was at the edge of approximately twenty acres of grama grass, inside a cluster of mountains, the perfect hiding place.

He advanced toward the pueblo, and had an eerie feeling that Olmec and Toltec gods were watching him. He examined crags and precipices for Apaches, because the silence was peculiar, like a special little hidden world.

He entered the pueblo, and found a rectangular room with a firepit in the corner, and strange objects scattered on the floor: clay urns, the stonecarved head and headdress of a warrior, and a ceramic baby with slanted eyes and fat lips. The walls were covered with drawings that looked like warriors, maidens, and high priests. Duane didn't know what to make of it. He explored several more rooms, finding additional statues and figurines. Dropping to one knee, he picked up a clay vessel in the shape of a frog.

Duane felt dazzled by the totally unexpected appearance of another world. Where did they go? he wondered. And why? He estimated that the artifacts came from ancient epochs of Mexico, and wondered if he were the first person to see the lost pueblo since the days before the Conquistadores.

He snooped about for signs of intruders, but nothing human had been there for years. He located a natural spring not far from the pueblo, and it filled a pond where Consuelo could bathe.

It's our paradise, and nobody else will ever stumble onto it, because it's so damned hard to find. Hell, we could spend the rest of our lives here, and even raise a family.

Don Carlos sat in his tent, smoking his last cigarillo. He wore a gray beard, his eyes were black coals, and his paunch was rapidly disappearing. He and his vaqueros had been wandering the desert nearly a month, as Lázaro lost and found Braddock's trail repeatedly. It was slow painstaking progress, and Don Carlos wondered if he should go home. Surely a month of intensive search was sufficient to wipe out any stain on the Rebozo family escutcheon.

But Don Carlos still missed Doña Consuelo, and couldn't give up the chase yet. She might be behind the next mesa, or in the next town, he said to himself. Perhaps she'll realize that Duane Braddock is just a boy, whereas I am the fellow for whom she's really yearning.

Don't deceive yourself, said a little voice in the corner of his ear. You may cut a fine figure of a man, but you're just an old fogy to her. Yet hope burned faintly in the nobleman's breast, despite common sense and all indications to the contrary.

The tent flap was thrown aside, and García stuck his head inside. “The half-breed is back.”

Don Carlos put on his hat and stepped into the cool January afternoon. They were camped on the usual cactus-strewn plateau with mountains in the distance, but the vistas of Mexico never failed to fascinate Don Carlos. The half-breed rode toward him, sitting erect in his saddle, and Don Carlos couldn't help admiring him,
because Lázaro seemed to thrive on the desert.

Lázaro stopped his horse in front of Don Carlos, then descended from the saddle, and bowed slightly. “I have picked up their trail,” he said. “They have gone into the Sierra Madre mountains, and I have a good idea where. I think that we should move closer, but not too close. Then I will examine the area myself, while the rest of you wait nearby. Sooner or later I will see them. They cannot bide forever.”

“How long?” asked Don Carlos.

“I might find them in a day, or it might be six months.”

“Six months!” exploded Don Carlos.

Lázaro spoke no words, but his silence seemed to be saying:
she's your wife
—
not mine.

Don Carlos could feel the eyes of the vaqueros upon him, and their fierce pride demanded vengeance. I can't give up now, he thought, especially since Lázaro has found their trail. “García—direct the men to prepare for departure first thing in the morning. Lázaro will tell you the direction of our march.”

It was Saturday night at the new enlarged Last Chance Saloon, and Maggie O'Day puffed a cigar as she walked down the corridor to Vanessa's room. She knocked on the door—no answer, so she turned the knob.

Miss Vanessa Fontaine sat on her upholstered chair, sniffling into a handkerchief. Her cosmetics were smeared, and the last show would begin in five minutes.

“Are you sick?” asked Maggie O'Day.

“Leave me alone,” replied Escondido's foremost entertainer.

“But it's time to go to work!”

Vanessa shook her head, and made a soft sobbing sound.

“What's wrong?” asked Maggie, becoming alarmed.

“I don't feel well.”

“You'll have plenty of time to sleep after the show.”

“I can't go on.”

Maggie placed the back of her hand against Vanessa's forehead, but the Charleston Nightingale didn't have a fever. “Is there pain?”

Vanessa sighed. “He'll never show up, and I'm wasting my time.”

Now Maggie understood the nature of the illness. “I ain't a-gonna argue with you, but you've got a roomful of mean sons-of-bitches out thar, and some of ‘em's come a long way to see you. If you don't sing at least one song, they'll tear this goddamned place apart, and besides, Duane said he'd stop when he comes over the border. I'm sure he'll keep his word.”