Devil's Creek Massacre (9 page)

“She looked like she knows how to use it,” said a carpenter, whose hammer was jammed into his belt. “Goddamn, she was pretty, and she was a-wearin' widow's weeds, didja notice? I wonder how many
times she plugged her ex-husband, and what he did to deserve it?”

Duane dozed a few hours inside Dr. Montgomery's house, but reopened his eyes at the sound of footsteps. It was a curly-headed man in his thirties, with his tan cow-boy hat on the back of his head, freckles, and a toothy cowboy smile. “Howdy,” he said. “Ginger Hertzog's m'name, and there's somethin' I wanted to ask you. You're Duane Butterfield, and there used to be an old-time gunfighter name of Clyde Butterfield. You kin of his?”

“Never heard of him,” Duane replied. “What's he done?”

“Killed a whole lot of people. I heered that you ain't innerested in jinin' up with us.”

“There's something I've got to do,” Duane replied. “Sorry.”

Hertzog narrowed his right eye. “You ain't a Yankee lover, are you?”

“I love everybody, just like it says in the Bible.”

“If you love everybody, how come the Fourth Cavalry is after you? Did you shoot somebody?”

“What makes you think that?”

“Yer a wanted man, but you don't wanna commit yerself, eh? You know what they say about the middle of the road. All you find there is horseshit.”

“All you find on the sides are varmints waiting for something to fall.”

“What varmints?” A new voice intruded onto the scene, Captain Richard Cochrane in his high-topped cavalry boots.

Duane tried to speak first, but Hertzog beat him to the draw. “I din't know we had a Yankee lover with us.”

“Leave him alone,” Cochrane replied. “You don't argue with a man when he's been shot like this.”

“Maybe he deserved to get shot. Ever think of it that way?”

“Go back to the bunkhouse and stay away from this wounded man. That's an order.”

“Yes, sir.” Hertzog tramped away, muttering to himself.

Cochrane waited for him to move beyond earshot, then turned to Duane. “Why'd you rile him?”

“I didn't mean to, but I guess I don't hate Yankees enough to suit some of the men here.”

“You don't know any better,” replied Cochrane, “because you're too young to remember. But my irregulars and I remember all too well. The damned Yankees tried to take advantage of us at every turn before the war, and they brought it on themselves. Did you know they forced us to sell cotton to them for less than we could get on the London exchange? And please don't preach to me about poor downtrodden darkies. They would've been freed eventually without the need for war, because many leading Southerners didn't believe in the so-called special institution, including Bobby Lee himself, for instance. That may be hard for you to believe, but it's the truth.”

“Truth depends what side of the line you're standing on,” replied Duane. “As you said before, I didn't have anything to do with the Civil War. But I knew a woman once, and she couldn't let old Dixie go either.”

“Certain people in Boston and Philadelphia wouldn't let us solve our problems in our own way, at our own speed. The war was about Northern domination, not those poor ignorant darkies.”

“Just tell me one thing, sir. If Robert E. Lee, the
great hero of the Confederacy, could surrender, why couldn't you?”

“Bobby Lee was sixty-seven when he signed the surrender, but he should've stepped aside and let a young man carry on the fight. A few important generals like Wade Hampton and Nathan Bedford Forrest wanted to keep going, but finally they caved in too. In my not-so-humble opinion, I consider them traitors.”

Duane had become accustomed to tirades concerning the Civil War. Wherever he went, old veterans argued about this battle or that famous general. They'd been through hell's hottest furnace; it seared their lives, and Duane felt like a child compared with troopers who'd charged the mouths of cannon in the great Civil War.

“I don't know much about the war, to tell you the truth,” confessed Duane. “But I understand how you feel. I've got a score to settle too. People try to talk me out of it, but they can go to hell.”

“Exactly,” agreed Cochrane. “It's good to talk with a man who's got feelings, unlike those who compromise their lives away. What is it that you're trying to do?”

Duane paused a moment, then impulsively spilled the beans. “Both my parents were killed when I was a baby, because of one mean son of a bitch up in the Pecos Country. Folks tell me I should forget it, but it's easy to say when it wasn't your father and mother. I'm going back to Texas as soon as I heal, and I'm settling the accounts, one way or the other, the devil take all.”

“Congratulations,” said Cochrane. “You and I understand each other, Butterfield. We'll get along just fine.”

It was late at night, and Vanessa paced back and forth in front in her parlor, recalling her performance
at the Shamrock Star Saloon. She'd even surprised herself when she'd aimed her derringer at the bummer who'd obstructed her path. I would've shot him between the eyes, no question about it, she reflected. What is death but the end of all living creatures, no matter what decisions they make, how they live, or what they say?

She gazed at the derringer lying in the palm of her hand, smelling faintly of oil, its knurled walnut grips gleaming in lamplight. She'd never fired it in anger, but the ugly snub-nosed tool of death would stand between her and threats from strangers along the journey into Mexico. I'll pretend to be a saloon singer, because I might as well have some fun while I'm at it. They'll hang posters with my name in every town, and maybe Duane will see one of them. He might come to see me one night, and we'll get back together again.

There was a knock on the door, and Vanessa jumped three inches into the air. She'd scheduled no gentleman callers, so who could it be? She stood behind the door, the derringer in her hand, and asked, “What do you want?”

“The bartender at the Shamrock Star sent me.”

Vanessa put on a crimson shawl, covering the derringer in her hand, loaded and cocked. Then she opened the door on a stocky man of medium height, wearing a dark blue suit in reasonable repair, once-white shirt, and bright red-and-blue paisley tie. He carried a flaring flat-topped Mississippi gambler hat in his left hand. “Mrs. Dawes?”

“Have a seat.”

She examined him through the eyes of maturity, and he appeared a scoundrel, his smoothly shaven features decorated by a raffish half grin. “My name's McCabe.
The bartender said you was lookin' fer a bodyguard, and I'm applyin' for the job.”

“What are your qualifications?”

He reached into his frock coat and pulled out a .36-caliber Spiller & Burr. “I'm not afraid of a fight, and you can depend on me.”

She measured him as if he were a horse she was going to purchase. He appeared fairly healthy, substantially confident, and only a scoundrel would take such a job in the first place.

“You're hired,” she said, and he was momentarily startled by her decision. “Your pay is fifty dollars a month, plus room and board. The job will entail constant traveling, so go home and start packing.”

“Don't have all that much to pack, ma'am. I move around a lot on my own. Where we headed?”

“Mexico.”

McCabe leaned back in the chair and screwed up his eyes. “What's the purpose of this trip, if'n you don't mind me askin'?”

“I'm looking for an old friend named Duane Braddock. Ever heard of him?”

A puzzled expression came over her new bodyguard's face. “Seems I have, but I'm not sure. He must be an awful good friend.”

“Correct,” she replied, “and there's something you must understand. You're my bodyguard, but that's as far as it goes.” She revealed the derringer with an easy twist of her wrist and aimed down the barrel. “I'm not afraid to use this either.”

His face betrayed not one iota of emotion. “I'm only interested in fifty dollars per month, plus my expenses. What made you think different?”

He was a total stranger, and could be a wanted
killer for all she knew. “You've got the job,” she told him. “Your first assignment is to find out when the next stagecoach is leaving for San Antone.”

“Hold on,” he replied. “I hired on as bodyguard, not errand boy. Maybe we'd better get that straight right now.”

“Why should two people go to the stagecoach office, when one will do? If this is the way you're going to be, maybe I'd better find another bodyguard.”

He raised his hand and smiled. “Don't be hasty. I was just testin' you, and you passed. Wouldn't want to work for any skeered woman.”

“Are you wanted by the authorities?”

McCabe looked around with discomfort. “The damned Yankees claim that I committed a few acts of piracy during war.”

“You sound like my kind of man, Mr. McCabe.” Vanessa smiled for the first time since the interview began. “You may commence your duties immediately.”

D
UANE PUSHED HIMSELF unsteadily to his feet, every motion carrying new agony. Dr. Montgomery handed him a crooked cane fashioned from a juniper branch. They were on level ground, and Duane was about to take his first step since he'd fought the Apaches.

An invisible monster tugged his healing stomach muscles every time he moved. He took one faltering step, paused, and then attempted another.

“You're doing very well,” Dr. Montgomery said proudly. “The more you try, the better you'll be. I don't hold to those old-fashioned theories about a wounded man staying in bed all day long. Hell, that'll only make you weaker.”

“And this might finish me off completely,” Duane wheezed. He took another tentative step, tottered, but managed to right himself as something fragile ripped in his guts. “I opened a stitch, I think.”

“Don't see any blood.”

Duane probed his left foot forward. He'd lie down if he were alone, but didn't want to appear weak in front of the doctor. He advanced with great effort across the clearing, and all heads in the vicinity turned toward him.

He limped twenty feet; the pain grew severe, his left leg felt paralyzed. “I can't go on,” he said in a choked voice.

“Sure you can.”

“Something's going to bust at any moment.”

“Nonsense.”

It's not his body that was shot up, reasoned Duane as he pressed onward. “When do I get a break?”

“A few more feet. I've got a big reward if you make it, but don't ask what it is. You'll have to keep going to find out.”

The irregular soldiers watched, and Duane couldn't collapse before an audience, though he was sure his vitals were rupturing.

“That's enough,” said Dr. Montgomery. “Have a seat.”

A chair appeared beneath Duane; he dropped onto it, and never had his limbs felt so heavy, while his chest heaved with effort. A table was placed before him, and on it was a platter covered with slabs of meat, mashed potatoes, collard greens, gravy, beans, tortillas, and a pot of hot black coffee.

“Enjoy it,” said Dr. Montgomery.

Duane reached for the knife and fork. They might be outlaws, he considered, but they're good Samaritans as well, and I owe my life to them. There's decency in everybody, including outlaws. Thank you, Lord, for the bounty of this table, and also for slowing me down and forcing me to think more deeply about my ridiculous life.

Captain Cochrane approached the table as Duane finished his wedge of apple pie. “You look like a new man,” Cochrane announced in his deep booming cavalry officer's voice.

“Should be able to ride soon, and hope you'll sell me a horse.”

“But of course.” The ex-officer sat on the edge of the table and rolled a cigarette. “If you're headed for a long trip, you'll need some money, I reckon.”

“A traveler can always use money, that's for sure. What's on your mind?”

“We're going on a military operation and could use another gun. Your share would be five thousand dollars for a few days of riding. We won't be leaving for another month, so you might want to think it over.”

“Thanks for the offer,” replied Duane, “but I don't think I'll be going with you. As I told you before, there's something I've got to do.”

Cochrane smiled thinly. “If I offered you a regular job for five thousand dollars, you'd snap it up in a minute. Let's call a spade a spade. You think we're a bunch of thieves, am I right?”

“I don't mean to insult you,” replied Duane, “because you've been damned good to me, but when a man takes something that doesn't belong to him at gunpoint, it's known as armed robbery.”

“We're recovering what the Yankees have stolen from us. Why can't you understand that simple concept?”

“I doubt that the federal marshal in San Antone would agree with you, and he's the one I'm worried about. Sorry, but I'm having enough trouble with the law as it is.”

Cochrane pondered Duane's rejoinder for a few moments, then slowly and thoughtfully rolled a
cigarette. “You and I have fundamental disagreements about what's lawful and what isn't, but I loathe any form of surrender. The tragedy of the South is that she was betrayed by her leaders. Bobby Lee became a college professor, which is what he should've been in the first place. Wade Hampton and Nathan Bedford Forrest became cheap tinhorn businessmen while everything we fought and bled for was tossed into the trash pile. It's too damned bad that Stonewall Jackson got killed, along with Albert Sidney Johnston and good old Jeb Stuart. Our best, the ones who would've fought on, were lost in the fray, while opportunists live on and get richer every day.”

“I've always been curious about something,” said Duane cautiously. “If the South had so many brilliant generals, and so many good dedicated soldiers, how'd you lose?”

Captain Richard Cochrane of the Confederate Cavalry Corps gazed solemnly at the horizon. “We ran out of supplies, ammunition, and horses. In the final year, we looked like gray ghosts in rags, with the miss-meal cramps and no soles on our boots. All we had left was our good old-fashioned Southern pride, but we did our duty to flag and country, unaware that the worst blow was yet to fall, when we were sold down the river by our leaders.”

Cochrane shook his head bitterly, his eyes watered, then he looked away and declared firmly, “It's not a happy story, but it's not over yet. The one true fact of history—and even Machiavelli realized it—is you can't hold good people down.” Cochrane balled his fist, turned toward Duane, and looked him squarely in the eye. “One day, mark my words, the South will rise again!”

Well-dressed passengers boarded the Concord stagecoach as baggage handlers tossed luggage to their brethren atop the designated compartment. It was a bright sunny day, a crowd of children and well-wishers were gathered, and Vanessa Fontaine wondered if she was going out of her mind, instead of taking a stagecoach trip to San Antone with a man she didn't even know.

As if in a dream, she ascended the two steps and landed inside the cab. A salesman sat in front of her, next to a lawyer. She shifted her butt toward the far window; they tipped their hats and mumbled friendly greetings with the faint suggestions of lechery.

McCabe followed her, carrying a sawed-off double-barrel shotgun, while his Spiller & Burr .36-caliber revolver slept peacefully in a holster against his right leg. He sat next to Vanessa and was followed by a gentleman who looked like a schoolteacher, but could have been a doctor, perhaps even an ax murderer.

What have I done? Vanessa asked herself as the door closed. I'm going through this misery for a
man?
But I'll be fine once I get over the initial shock. After all, most stagecoaches arrive at their destinations without a scratch, don't they? If I don't find Duane Braddock, maybe I'll meet some other nice fellow.

The carriage jerked abruptly; Vanessa looked out the window and waved one last time to Lonnie Mae. A cheer went up from the crowd as the stagecoach rolled down the street. Panic broke over Vanessa, and she wanted to jump out the door and run for her life. Her stagecoach might be the one that didn't make it
through Comanche territory, and perhaps she'd be taken prisoner, spending the rest of her life as some warrior's squaw.

Why am I never satisfied? she wondered, swallowing hard as clomping horses pulled the stagecoach down the street. If another woman were doing this, I'd tell her she's an utter nincompoop. They came to the edge of town, and before them stretched the vast lawless sage. Vanessa tried to feel hopeful while next to her sat a personal bodyguard wanted by the Yankees for piracy, and God only knew what else.

What have I done? she wondered again as the stagecoach of fools rocked from side to side on its leather thorough brace suspension. The team of snorting drooling horses pulled the ornate vehicle onto open range, and the passengers looked at each other warily, because it was possible they'd die together in the days to come. This time I've gone too far, Vanessa thought as civilization, mercy, and Christianity fell behind the rear wheels of the stagecoach. There ought to be a law against people like me.

Late that afternoon Nestor spotted a herd of wild ones in the distance, grazing on an endless carpet of grass. They were the beasts of the range who ran without bridles and saddles, and no cruel two-leggeds kicked spurs into their withers.

Nestor was shy, afraid they wouldn't accept him, and feeling lonely. He didn't sleep well, because he was food to many different creatures. It would be easier if he could cooperate with others on guard duty.

If they didn't accept him, he'd go on his way alone. Maybe he'd let some cowboys catch him, because a
nice warm barn and plenty of oats were worth a certain amount of spurs.

He'd been living on grass and strengthening his instincts during the time he'd been on the loose. He could smell the herd and was certain they smelled him, too, as he loped closer, peering ahead through his huge eyes, as his ears listened for danger.

He approached the edge of the herd, stopped, and looked at them hopefully. The nearest horses stopped munching and gazed back for a long time. Then a big Appaloosa stallion took a few steps toward Nestor. Welcome, brother. We are the wild ones.

Nestor lowered his head as he advanced closer. They appeared skittish, light on their feet, with sharp glancing eyes and tremendous power radiating from their muscular bodies. Numerous pretty fillies were among them. Come join us, and be one with us.

They made way for Nestor, and he walked among them like an honored guest. They moved closer, touching him with their lips, snorting and snickering warmly. We are the wild ones, and we are on our way to the land of the sun.

Late that night the stagecoach arrived at a shack alongside a muddy trail west of Austin. The shotgun guard jumped down and opened the stagecoach door as passengers groaned, unfolded themselves from cramped seats, and headed outside. McCabe helped Vanessa to the soggy ground; it was pitch-black, and a chill was on the sage. She pulled her purple wool shawl more tightly around her shoulders.

The stagecoach stop was rough-hewn and lopsided, and its interior visible through cracks between the logs.
McCabe opened the front door, revealing scattered tables, a small bar, and a stove where a woman in a apron was flipping steaks. “Supper's ready!” she called. “Yer just in time.”

“Where can I get two whiskeys?” McCabe asked. “And fast.”

At the bar, a boy of fourteen upturned a jug and filled two glasses. McCabe carried them to Vanessa as other passengers stumbled into the warm dim-lit room. The aroma of broiling beef, sweaty clothes, garbage, and unwashed flesh filled Vanessa's nostrils. She sat at a table, rested her chin on her hand, and pondered, My God, what have I done to myself?

McCabe chuckled on the far side of the table, his white teeth gleaming in the light of a lamp suspended from a hook in the ceiling.

“You look plumb tuckered out, ma'am. I was just wonderin' if we're headed back to Austin.”

“Of course we're not going back. We just started.”

A lightning bolt rent the heavens as the cook's children served food and drink to the weary travelers; a light rain began to fall. He's right, I should return to Austin, Vanessa speculated, but do I want to spend my life lying on the sofa, reading Lord Byron, and being bored? I was made for better things, so why am I following a wanted killer to a place about which I know nothing, and sleeping in roadhouses not fit for self-respecting swine? How low I've fallen, all for the love of a man who may not even remember me anymore.

Several hundred miles away a much different meal was being served in a canyon that appeared on no official maps. Cochrane sat at one end of the table, and at the
other, Juanita ladled hearty beef stew into large wooden bowls. Dr. Jeff Montgomery and Duane Braddock were guests, facing each other midway down the table.

Duane's mouth watered at the fragrance arising from his bowl, but he couldn't begin until grace had been said. I might as well make the best of my stay with this outlaw gang, he figured. About time I took me a vacation.

Captain Cochrane folded his hands and bowed his head. “Lord, we thank You for the food that You have brought forth from the earth, and please help us defeat the Yankee invader. Amen.”

They proceeded to dine, their table illuminated by a hand-worked elaborate silver candelabrum purchased in Monterrey, while a framed portrait of General Thomas Stonewall Jackson hung on the wall. Duane was becoming increasingly devoted to Mexican food, and consumed his portion with great gusto as his tongue tingled with exotic Mexican spices. This is the way a man should live, he figured, instead of in saloons where a cook might spit in the soup, or a dead fly could be buried in your mashed potatoes.

On the other side of the table, Captain Cochrane watched Duane out the corner of his eye. The young man had been nearly dead, but now sat upright, his color coming back, and he appeared almost normal. “You're making quite a recovery, Duane,” Cochrane acknowledged. “You must have a strong constitution.”