Bad to the Bone (5 page)

N
EXT MORNING, APPROXIMATELY TWO
hundred miles to the north, a dusty stagecoach rolled down the main street of Escondido, a bustling town on the American side of the Rio Grande. No one paid special attention to the conveyance, because Escondido was the site of much trading activity, most of it illicit, between Texas and Mexico.

In the cab, among the other passengers, sat a tall blonde woman named Miss Vanessa Fontaine. She was dressed in a lavender mohair dress trimmed with blue velvet, with a white crepe de chine scarf. She gazed sullenly out the window at adobe buildings lining both sides of the street, and horse manure lying in the middle, along with whisky bottles, scraps of paper, bones of animals picked clean by dogs, and various other items too misshapen to recognize.

Miss Vanessa Fontaine was a lady of the world, and nothing fazed her, not even a filthy little border town. She pulled her head inside the window and looked at her fellow passengers: a cowboy, a lawyer, and a traveling salesman who'd been her company since Fort Stockton.

“It's not much,” said the salesman, whose name was Charlie McPheeter, “but you'd be surprised the amount of traffic that passes through a town like this, and they all need hardware to replace somethin' that's broke. If yer innerested in money, it's a damn fine town, but if yer worried about a stray bullet a-flyin' over yer head, yer in the wrong damned place.”

The lawyer replied: “Half the residents are wanted by the Mexican or American authorities, and as far as I know, there are no lawyers in Escondido. It's wide open for a fellow like me.”

“We'll all be a-suein' each other inside of a week,” drawled the drunken cowboy, who was sprawled in the corner, a bottle of something in his hand.

The lawyer sneered at the oafish fellow, but Vanessa considered the cowboy the most interesting passenger on the stagecoach, because he was exactly what he appeared to be, and made no bones about it.

The stagecoach came to a stop before a large hotel, and on the veranda, a vaquero with a cigar in his mouth strummed a guitar. Someone opened the coach door, and a wave of sundust entered the tiny enclosed cab. A hand grabbed Vanessa's wrist, and before she could do anything, it pulled her out the door.

“Howdy,” said an American cowboy with a stubbled chin, his shirt unbuttoned to his waist. “You're just about the best-lookin' woman I've ever saw.”

She looked at him reproachfully, and he released her, took a step backwards, and smiled unsteadily. “I meant no harm, miss. It's just that yer beauty bowled me—”

She turned away in the middle of his sentence as if he didn't exist. Atop the cab, the stagecoach guard threw down a bag to a gentleman in a green visor. Vanessa looked at the squat desert town while a crowd of beggars formed around the stagecoach. Men gazed at her from the sidewalk, her golden hair catching every ray of sun. “Can anyone help me with my bags?”

“Will I do?” asked her cowboy traveling companion, whose name was Pyle. “I'm a-lookin' fer a job.”

“Do you think you can carry those bags for me?”

“Yes ma'am,” he winked lewdly, “and if thar's anythin' else you want, don't hesitate to ask.”

She glanced at him skeptically. “Such as?”

“You know.” He slowly ran his tongue across his upper lip.

“You drunkard—if you were ever alone with a woman, you wouldn't know the first thing to do. I'll see you in the lobby, and don't leave anything behind.”

Everybody in the small, cramped chandeliered lobby stared as she crossed to the desk, where the young clerk, attired in a suit with a string tie, awaited her. “Ma'am?”

“I'd like the best suite of rooms in the hotel.”

“We only have one kind of room, ma'am.”

“Then I guess you'll have to knock down a few walls for me, because I need my elbow room. I am Miss Vanessa Fontaine, and perhaps you've heard of me.”

“Who?”

Vanessa heard the voice of Pyle. “They calls her the
Charleston Nightingale, and she's supposed to be the best singer west of the Pecos.”

The desk clerk vaguely remembered hearing something about a Charleston Nightingale who sang in saloons. “Yes ma'am, anythin' you say.” He spun the register around. “Sign here.”

Pyle admired her languid form as she bent over the desk and scratched her name with the quill pen. Then she strolled down the corridor, followed by her new servant carrying two suitcases in each hand, his tongue hanging out.

The room was far too small for Vanessa's tastes, with a window that opened on a corner of the backyard. The bed was graced with the customary cavern in the center, a dresser, and a wood chair. A scrap of Mexican blanket was nailed to the wall for decoration, and the narrow space carried the faint odor of whisky, tobacco, and men's sweat. She opened the window, pulled back the shades, and made way for the arrival of her suitcases.

“A real nice room,” said Pyle, as he put the luggage down.

She handed him the coins. “Please stop leering, for God's sake. Why do you get so drunk?”

“What the hell else is there to do?”

He slammed the door on his way out, and she heard his footsteps recede down the hall. Then she untied her bonnet, hung it on the bedpost, removed her boots, stretched out on the plain blue bedspread, and stared at the ceiling. What have I done to myself this time? she asked herself.

Beneath her confident facade, she entertained serious doubts about the enterprise on which she was
embarked. Her journey had begun approximately three months ago in Austin, and she was searching for a certain young man with whom she'd enjoyed an all-too-brief love affair. According to newspaper reports, Escondido was the last spot where he'd been seen.

Somehow, Duane Braddock continued to intrigue her, although she'd previously considered him far too young for her best interests. Miss Vanessa Fontaine was thirty-one, a former Charleston belle spoiled by a doting father. She'd survived the great Civil War by the skin of her teeth, and now was chasing an alleged outlaw across the Texas landscape, for reasons she didn't want to contemplate.

Duane Braddock wasn't her first love by any means. Her first beau had been killed in the War of Northern Aggression, and then there had been certain dalliances, for she'd surrendered to loneliness at certain low moments of her career. In retrospect, Duane had been her second true love, and the only one still alive, as far as she knew. She hadn't been able to forget him, although she'd dumped him in favor of an Army officer who'd subsequently been killed in action against the Apache.

I'll get a bath, and then go looking for Duane, she thought. If he's not in Escondido, I'll catch the next stage to Charleston, and start living like a person for a change. It's ridiculous to pursue a mere boy to the far ends of the frontier, especially since he probably hates me for jilting him. It's time I came to my senses and gave up this pointless and insane quest.

She often wondered why she couldn't forget Duane Braddock, but there'd been something decent and honorable about him; he was unlike the usual saloon rat that one encountered on the frontier. Sooner or later
I'll tire of hunting for him, she acknowledged, but until then, I'd better get on with that bath.

Miss Vanessa Fontaine didn't fall in love every day, and she could no longer accept substitutes. Until something better came along, or she became bored, she intended to remain on Duane Braddock's trail.

Dozing in the saddle, Duane heard popping sounds in the distance. It sounded like a gun battle straight ahead. His first instinct was ride to the nearest hill and see what was going on, but then his Apache mind took over—Apaches believed in riding away from the sound of shots, not toward them.

Duane was immobilized by indecision yet again, while Midnight came to a halt, awaiting orders. It sounded like a small war, and the safe solution would be to take cover until the fighting blew over, but youthful curiosity won out yet again.

He spurred Midnight toward an eminence that might provide a view. Whatever it is, Duane warned himself, I'm not going to poke my big nose into it. The sun beat down on Duane, birds flitted among cactus and juniper trees, and something bit the back of his neck. He smacked the beetle with the palm of his hand, then flicked it away with his fingernail.

Midnight reached the summit, and Duane rested his forearm on his pommel as he leaned forward and studied the scene spread before him. It appeared that a stagecoach was running wild in the distance, its driver and guard shot by a gang of Mexican banditos who were still in hot pursuit, while other Mexicans on horseback tried to fight the banditos off.

Duane reached into his saddlebags and pulled out an old brass spyglass stamped C.S.A. He spit on the ends, polished them with his bandanna, and raised the instrument to his eye. The horses pulling the stagecoach appeared seriously spooked, and a woman was trapped inside the cab, which was in danger of tipping over.

Banditos and vaqueros fought a desperate running gun battle around the stagecoach, but a man can't aim straight on the hurricane deck of a horse. Duane trained the spyglass on the woman, and detected stark terror on her features. The stagecoach could strike the wrong rock at any moment, lose a wheel, and that would be the end of one Mexican señorita. Duane didn't even stop to think about it, but nudged his spurs into Midnight. “Let's go save her, boy.”

Midnight loped down the rise, getting into the spirit of the chase. If there was anything he loved, it was running flat out with the bit loose in his teeth and not much weight on his spine. The horse accelerated as Duane tucked the spyglass into his belt, yanked his Colt, and crouched low like a jockey boy, presenting low resistance to the wind. He might be shot in the next few moments, but the Pecos Kid couldn't live with himself if he laid back while a woman got killed.

Midnight galloped at a right angle to the stagecoach, as Duane intended to cut it off farther along the trail. The banditos and the stagecoach defenders were heavily engaged, not paying any attention to the lone rider speeding across the desert. Volleys of fire echoed off sandstone cliffs, as banditos sought to break through the protective cordon around the stagecoach. Duane thought that it must be carrying gold, and that was why the banditos were trying to steal it.

Midnight burst through a thicket of paddle cactus, sharp needles tore Duane's jeans, and he came into view of the banditos and vaqueros. Wind flattened the front brim of Duane's hat as Midnight plunged onward, kicking up stones and clumps of grama grass. Duane leaned forward, working his body with the motions of Midnight, urging the horse to greater effort.

Midnight's hooves pounded the desert, and shots whizzed around Duane as he came abreast of the carriage. He turned and found himself looking at a pale young woman with lustrous black hair and panic in her eyes. She appeared on the verge of apoplexy, so he winked reassurance, and said: “I'm going to stop those damned horses if I can.”

Midnight pulled ahead steadily, a long lash of saliva escaping his lips. Duane holstered his gun as the big stagecoach wheel spun furiously a few feet away. The stagecoach driver lay dead in the boot, shot through the chest, while the shotgun guard was gone, and baggage bounced on the cage atop the coach.

Midnight gained on the sweating team of horses as Duane studied the complicated system of reins, harnesses, and traces. “Come on, boy,” he whispered into Midnight's ear. “We've got to catch the nigh leader.”

I know my job better than you, Midnight snorted, as he steeled himself for the final burst of speed. He'd come a long way, but so had the team of horses, and they were just nags as far as he was concerned. The black horse filled his great lungs with air and stretched his long limbs as he flew over the ground.

The thunder of massed hooves filled Duane's ears, along with the rattle and clank of the stagecoach at top speed. Duane glanced to the side and saw fire in the
bloodshot eyes of the horses. “Hey—settle down!” he hollered at them, but
-
only succeeded in frightening them further.

The air was filled with tumultuous sounds as Midnight rampaged onward, coming abreast of the nigh leader. “Just a little closer,” Duane said, as he raised himself in his stirrups.

This is as close as I'm getting, Midnight seemed to reply. The horse's withers nearly touched the flanks of the nigh leader, as the team of horses roared over the winding trail. Duane took a deep breath, knowing he should've stayed in bed that morning, and raised his leg over the saddle, poised to leap onto the nigh leader.

Unfortunately, Midnight cut away when he felt the weight leave his back, upsetting Duane's aim. The Pecos Kid landed against the side of the lead horse, and hung on for dear life as his feet hit the trail. He kicked hard, bolted into the air, and this time overshot his mark, landing in the complicated tangle of traces and harnesses between the two lead horses. He was on the way to death by stomping, but managed to grab two fistfuls of leather straps, and hold himself steady.

He gazed at hooves churning up the trail, as the traces kicked and jolted him like a rag doll. Inches from death, he made one last superhuman effort, and climbed to the back of the nigh leader. Nearly deafened by hammering hooves, Duane hugged the animal's belly with his legs, grabbed the reins, and pulled back with all his might.

“Whoa!” he bellowed. “It's all right now!”

The nigh leader drew his great head back in distaste and shook his head, slowing his gait, impeding the progress of the other horses. Duane gritted his teeth as he struggled with the reins, but it appeared that he had
them under control. Gradually the beasts slowed, their great chests heaving, as a cloud of dust swept forward, enveloping Duane.

He heard hoofbeats coming closer and didn't know if it was friend or foe, so he drew his Colt and thumbed back the hammer. The nigh leader came to a halt as a rider appeared through the swirling dust. It was a bandito aiming a pistol at Duane, and the Mexican fired first. Duane felt the warm slug pass his ear, then leveled his Colt and fired at a range of five yards. The cartridge detonated, and a red dot appeared on the bandito's white shirt. His eyes rolled into his head as he dropped out of the saddle.