Bad to the Bone (6 page)

Duane jumped down from the nigh leader, ran to the cab, and opened the door. The Mexican woman cowered in the corner, aiming a shotgun at him. “One step closer,” she said, lips quivering, “and I'll kill you.”

“I'm here to help,” Duane replied. “Who d'ya think just stopped this stagecoach?”

Before she could answer, Duane heard a horse behind him. He spun and saw another bandito barreling toward him, aiming a pistol at his head. Duane fired first and missed; then the Mexican shot his pistol, and lead slammed into the side of the stagecoach two inches from Duane's cheek. The bandito tried to smash Duane in the head with his gun barrel, but Duane grabbed the Mexican's wrist, twisted, and dragged him out of the saddle. The Mexican bounced on the ground and tried for another shot, but Duane beat him to the draw. Colonel Colt spoke his verdict, and the bandito's throat was pierced by a bullet.

Duane glanced toward the team of skitterish horses, as they flinched beneath bullets whizzing in all directions. “Are you all right?” he asked the young woman.

“Watch out!” she screamed.

It was another rider charging through smoke and dust. Like the others, he aimed his gun at Duane, but Duane fired first, and the Mexican fell to the ground beside the carriage, a small hole in his forehead, and the back of his head blown off.

The Mexican woman turned a lighter shade of pale, and flopped backwards on the seat, her eyes going white. Duane crawled in with her and slapped her cheek lightly. “What's going on here?”

But she was out cold. He turned around, and saw that the banditos were riding away. He quickly reloaded his gun, as the woman came to consciousness behind him. “Who are you?” she asked in a sing-song voice.

“Just a drifter, and if I'm not mistaken, the banditos are headed for the hills.”

She looked out the window as he stood to the side, admiring her profile. Isn't this the woman I saw in Zumarraga? “You are right,” she said. “We have fought them off.”

A vaquero rode toward them, his gun aiming straight up into the air. “It is Pérez,” she told Duane. “Don't shoot.”

Pérez was covered with dust, and his left forearm bled profusely. “I think we had better return to the hacienda, Doña Consuelo. This is not a safe place to be.”

Her eyes flashed, and Duane admired her pouting lips from the sidelines. “No place in Mexico is safe from banditos, but I must see my mother. We are continuing onward.”

“But Doña Señora!”

“Direct your men to check the horses, and we might as well stop here for a meal.”

“We cannot stop here, Doña Señora,” Pérez said impatiently, “because we don't want the banditos to know where we are, in case they come back.” Then he looked at Duane. “Who are you?”

“Just happened along.”

“You are a very brave man, and you have saved Doña Señora's life. You'd better get that leg looked after.”

“What leg?”

Duane looked down, and was surprised to see a bullet hole through the center of his thigh. Somehow, in the excitement, he hadn't even noticed it, nor did he know where it had come from. Suddenly it felt as if a flaming Aztec spear had been hurled through his flesh, and he gasped in pain. “My God,” he thought, as he noticed his pantleg soaked with blood. The wagon spun around him, along with a crowd of vaqueros, not to mention the petulant lips of the woman whose life he'd saved. He blacked out and fell in a clump to the ground.

In late afternoon, Miss Vanessa Fontaine strolled the sidewalks of Escondido, carrying her parasol, while her Spiller & Burr .36 revolver slept peacefully in the hand-tooled black leather holster held to her waist by a black leather gunbelt. Cowboys, outlaws, vaqueros, and horse thieves examined her like diamond merchants with fine gems, as her eyes fell on a sign:

SHERIFF

It hung over the sidewalk, and on the inside of the window was pasted:

J. T. S
TURGIS.

She entered the sheriff's office, where a man of twenty-nine sat at the desk, a badge pinned to his shirt. He was reading the stack of documents that had arrived on the recent stage. He glanced at Vanessa, shot to his feet, and a big grin spread over his face. He had brown hair, a mustache, and roving eyes. “What can I do fer you, ma'am?”

She stopped in front of his desk and looked him in the eyes. “One of this town's former sheriffs was a friend of mine, name of Duane Braddock. I'm looking for him.”

“He ain't hyar,” replied the sheriff. “You a friend of his'n?”

“Why else would I be asking about him? Do you know where he went?”

“The only person who could tell you that is Maggie O'Day.”

Vanessa endured a bolt of jealousy, but maintained her perfect composure. “Who's Maggie O'Day?”

“She owns the best saloon in town, the Last Chance just down the street.”

“Was she his lady friend?”

J. T. Sturgis held up the palms of his hands. “I wasn't here when Braddock was in town—don't ask me. When last seen, according to the Fourth Cavalry, he was a-ridin' hard toward Mexico.” Sturgis winked. “How come a nice girl like you is a friend of the Pecos Kid?”

“If Duane Braddock ever shows up again, I hope you won't shoot first and ask questions later.”

“Depends on him. Say, why don't you let me buy you dinner tonight at the Last Chance Saloon?”

“I'm busy.”

“This is an awful dangerous town.”

Vanessa pulled her Spiller & Burr and sighted down the barrel at the sheriff's nose. “I'm an awfully dangerous woman.”

“That ain't loaded, is it?”

“It wouldn't make sense to carry it unloaded, would it?” With a smile, she holstered the weapon. “Don't worry, sheriff. I've never shot a lawman yet.”

The line reverberated across the sheriff's walls, as Miss Vanessa Fontaine swooped toward the door. The sheriff blinked in disbelief as she was swallowed by the shimmering Texas afternoon. She's a high-stepping filly, just the kind I like, considered the sheriff. I'm going to get into her pants if it's the last thing I do.

Duane Braddock gradually came to full awareness. He was sprawled on his back in the rocking stage-coach, his leg a cylinder of pain, and he gazed at the profile of Doña Consuelo de Rebozo staring out the window at vast expanses of sunbaked desert.

Her shoulder-length black hair needed combing, dust covered her Castilian features, and her skin was like fine Italian marble. She possessed a nearly perfect nose, without the hint of a bump in the middle, while her nostrils could have been carved by Michelangelo. Her high-buttoned silk blouse was decorated with crimson threads, and her skirt was golden brown brocade trimmed with side-pleated flounces. Unfortunately, she wore a rock the size of a robin's egg on her finger, which meant she belonged to another man. I wonder what it's like to sleep with a woman like that, mused Duane.

A soggy cloak of Catholic guilt dropped over him, as he caught his imagination
en flagrante
with a married
lady. He blushed, tried to find a more comfortable position, and she turned toward him, her sensuous lips forming a friendly smile. “How are you feeling?” she inquired.

“I think I'm still alive. Where are we?”

“On the way to my father's hacienda, because my mother's very ill. We'll take care of you till you can walk, and I'd like to thank you for saving my life. You are a very courageous man. What's your name?”

“Just call me Duane.”

“I am Doña Consuelo de Rebozo.”

“What do your friends call you for short?”

She thought for a few moments. “I don't have any friends.”

“How come?”

“I live in a remote place, and I guess you'd say my husband is my best friend, but most people call me Doña Consuelo.”

“A beautiful name . . . for a beautiful woman.”

She waved her hand impatiently. “You're delirious from loss of blood.”

“What happened to my horse?”

“He is tethered to the back of the stagecoach.”

With great effort, Duane poked his head out the window. Sure enough, Midnight lumbered along behind the coach, and Duane waved. “Thanks for the good work, feller.”

Midnight nodded, the usual depressed expression on his face. He always seemed unhappy, although Duane tried hard to treat him well. Duane pulled his head back into the stagecoach, and saw Doña Consuelo looking at him curiously. “Do you frequently talk with your horse?” she asked.

“He's the most interesting conversationalist I know.”

She couldn't help smiling, revealing straight white teeth like the finest ivory. “Are you an American out-law?”

He doubted that she was a Pinkerton man, bounty hunter, or U.S. marshal with a warrant for his arrest. “There are some people who think I've committed a few crimes, but it's not so.”

“Whatever you've done, my husband will reward you for your bravery—and you're going to be a rich man. We have plenty of room at the hacienda, and I'm sure you can use a vacation. I owe my life to you, and if there's anything I can do to make you more comfortable, please don't hesitate to ask.”

Vanessa Fontaine stood across the street from the Last Chance Saloon, wondering how to traverse the sea of mud, muck, manure, and something that looked like a dead bird. Escondido was without question the most disgusting town she'd ever seen. Across the street stood an immense saloon constructed of several adobe buildings jammed together behind a freshly painted false facade. A young harlot sat at a window on the second floor and knitted demurely, advertising the Last Chance Saloon as a whorehouse, while men passed back and forth between swinging batwing doors, trying to look up her dress. Absolutely revolting, thought Vanessa, as a dark shadow drew closer on the planked sidewalk.

“Help you, ma'am?”

It was Sheriff J. T. Sturgis again, tipping his hat, a sly smile on his face. I know what he wants, Vanessa
thought, but he's not going to get it. “How does one cross the street without hiring a ferry?” she asked.

“You either walk, or git carried. Since you prob'ly don't want to git your pretty boots dirty, I'd be happy to do the honors.”

She glanced away absent-mindedly, as he lifted her like a feather in his strong arms. Then he headed into the street, his tin badge about level with her left breast, while her rump rested in his muscular forearms. She decided that he wasn't bad-looking, if you appreciated the rugged sunbaked type (and she did).

“Have you changed your mind about dinner tonight?” he asked raffishly.

“No, thank you, but I can't help wondering—why would anybody want to become sheriff of Escondido?”

“I'm the meanest man in town, but I wouldn't be mean to you, Miss Fontaine. Besides, somebody's got to stand up fer the law, otherwise it's the end of the world.”

An idealist with a gun, she thought, as they came to the sidewalk in front of the Last Chance Saloon. He let her slide down his hands to the sidewalk, and she felt his hands run up her body. It was so erotic she nearly swooned, but Vanessa had been trained from infancy to maintain outward control; otherwise men would hound her into the ground.

“Thank you,” she said, adjusting her bonnet. “But I think hereafter that I'll be crossing the street myself.”

“As long as there's men like me in the world, women like you'll never have to walk nowheres. Say, you weren't planning to go into that hellhole, were you?”

“As a matter of fact, I'd intended to speak with Miss Maggie O'Day.”

“I'll introduce you to her, if you like. She's a friend of mine.”

Cowboys, vaqueros, outlaws, and banditos stopped what they were doing to watch the tall beautiful blonde being escorted by the sheriff toward the front door of the Last Chance Saloon.

“Would I like to get some of
that,
” murmured a thick masculine voice in the crowd.

Sheriff Sturgis pushed open the doors as if he owned the Last Chance Saloon, and every eye in the house turned toward the odd duo encroaching onto their midst. The sheriff's tin badge gleamed in the dimness of a large rectangular room as he led Vanessa among crowded tables. A bar was to the left, with a stage and small dance floor in back. Above the bar hung the usual lurid painting of a naked woman smiling at the men below.

“Who's the blonde?” somebody asked drunkenly.

“Tall drink of water, ain't she?”

Vanessa considered the interior unusually clean for a frontier saloon, with polished brass spitoons and no chicken or steak bones lying on the floor. The bar-tender wore a clean white shirt, and the waitresses appeared friendly, without too many teeth missing, all trying to comport themselves like ladies. Not a bad place after all, sniffed Vanessa, veteran of a career singing in saloons.

The sheriff led her down a corridor and knocked on the door. “Come in,” said a gruff voice on the other side.

The sheriff stepped to the side as Vanessa entered the office in her usual grand manner. A heavyset middle-aged woman with dark blonde hair sat behind the desk,
a glass of whiskey in one hand, and a thick black cigar in the other.

“Who the hell're you?”

The sheriff made introductions. “I'm sure you ladies have got a lot to talk over,” he said, “and there's a warrant I've got to serve, so I'll be a-wishin' the both of you goodday.”

The sheriff retreated, leaving the two women to look each other up and down. “Have a seat,” said Maggie finally. “What can I do fer you, Miss Fontaine?”

Vanessa sat on the plush green velvet chair in front of the desk and crossed her legs. “I'm looking for a man whom I understand was . . . friendly . . . with you. His name was Duane Braddock, and he was sheriff of this town.”

There was silence in the office as Maggie puffed her cigar thoughtfully. “So yer the one,” she said at last.

Vanessa was taken aback by her remark. “What do you mean?”

“He told me about the Charleston belle who became a saloon singer—am I right?”