Nate Coffin's Revenge (23 page)

He shook his head as though he still did not comprehend. “Men such as ourselves always appreciate the ways of the world. This
incident
amounted to nothing more than a business arrangement. Señor Coffin needed, I think you would call it, a consideration. Yes, a consideration for which he was willing to pay a handsome price.”

“A handsome price?”

“Yes. So you see, so far as I was concerned, the woman amounted to little more than a job. A job easily performed.”

“Like all those other young girls who work in the Yellow Flower?”

“Exactly. Had everything gone as planned, by this time next week, Mrs. Savage would have been nothing more than a Nuevo Laredo whore available to anyone for the purchase price of a handful of pesos.”

“A handful of pesos?”

“A man must make a living. I have an extensive family. Many relatives. Their needs are great. But for the interference of you and your friends, I expected to make money off Mrs. Savage, coming and going.”

“Physical assault, savage rape, and turning women and young girls to the damnation of whoredom are hardly what any Christian person would call business as usual, or nothing more’n a job, you blaspheming son of a bitch.”

Figured we’d talked long enough. Covered my pistol with the throw pillow. Muffled first shot hit him dead center— about three inches above the notch in his breastbone. Like a doubled-up fist, the .45 slug knocked him backward into his bedding.

Shocked and surprised, he tried to suck air into uncooperative lungs—but to no avail. Evil skunk wheezed, coughed, and spit up an egg-sized wad of gore. Ripped his nightshirt back and fumbled at the black-rimmed, oozing hole with clumsy fingers that had turned into shovels.

Calm as a horse trough in a drought, I leaned a bit closer and said, “As my father liked to say, Señor, ‘You just went and committed an error in judgment that by God takes the cake.’”

As the horror of imminent death gained purchase in his already dying brain, he glared up at me, gritted his teeth, and took the second shot right between the eyes. Splatter of bone, blood, and hair made a hell of a mess on the bed’s hand-carved wooden headboard. Shot knocked his noggin backward into a pillow quickly ruined by the jumble of brain matter that leaked out the hole in back of his head.

Stood and gazed down at the corpse just long enough to make sure he was deader than Santa Anna. Taste of copper floated over the bed on a cloud of spent gunpowder. Air groaned its way out of Bejarano’s limp body for some seconds. When the sounds of approaching death finally stopped, I holstered my pistol. Figured there was no point wasting another .45 slug on his sorry ass.

Knew then, as surely as I know now, some softhearted, softheaded folks would condemn me for the way I’d dealt with Coffin and Bejarano. Those people have most likely never seen someone they loved, and held dear to their hearts, rashly murdered or appallingly violated. And until they do, the mushy-minded and feeble-brained can take their opinions and go straight to a burning, festerated Hell as far as I’m concerned.

Pitched the pillow aside, slipped out of an open window in Bejarano’s bedchamber, and disappeared into the night. A troop of yelling servants thundered up the stairs right behind me. I hit the street unmolested, and strolled back to Doc Bryles’s place like a man on his way to Sunday school. For the first time since the moment I’d found Dianna in Nuevo Laredo, felt like the world had almost righted itself in the heavens again.

EPILOGUE

AMID THE GENERAL hubbub generated by the murder of one of Laredo’s leading citizens, Boz and I said our good-byes to Ox Turnbow the next morning. Man allowed as how he missed his ranch and couldn’t wait to get back. Can’t say that I blamed him none. Old Ranger had fought well and fearlessly. Shook his hand, climbed into the wagon, and headed out. Boz lingered a bit longer. Turned and saw those brave souls hug and slap each other’s shoulders like brothers. ’Bout as much as you can expect from men as hard as those two.

Honest to God, felt like the trip back to Fort Worth lasted forever. Dianna improved not one bit and, according to her companion and my own observations, even appeared to get worse. ’Course we stopped several places along the way for two and three days at a stretch. Even visited with my mother in Waco for almost a week. Good woman tried to help, but nothing any of us did seemed to have the least effect on the injured girl’s mental well-being.

Once we made Fort Worth, I put her up in Blackstock’s Convalescent Home down on Throckmorton Street, not far from St. Stanislaus Catholic Church. Fancified doctor name of Buckholzer, who claimed to have been educated back East, tried his hand with her. He didn’t make any real progress either.

In the beginning, I did my level best to visit with the broken girl several times during any week that did not find me out beating the bushes for thieves and killers. And while Dianna’s physical injuries and overall appearance improved with the passage of time, nothing of this world appeared to touch her vacant, dead-eyed look.

Eventually, I sent for Dr. Hardin Q. Puckett, from over at Willow Junction. Given his Civil War experiences, and success with MaryLou Wainwright, thought sure he could help mend Dianna’s stricken mind. He stayed over and worked with her for more than a month. Refused to accept any payment for his trouble. Mighty nice of the man. Sadly, his valiant efforts all came to naught.

As my daddy liked to say, you can’t hold back time. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, months into years. Through considerable legal wrangling, and eventually by the personal intervention of Cap’n Wag Culpepper, I got myself declared executor of Dianna’s extensive estate so I could see to her proper care. Only once during all that time, worry, and turmoil did I see the spark of life return to that beautiful, broken girl.

Stopped in for a visit late one afternoon following a particularly difficult chase that took me all the way to Kansas and back. Gold-tinted light from the setting sun flooded the room and touched her stunning face like a lover’s kiss sent straight from God. Flopped into a chair beside her bed and, after some few minutes, must have dozed off. Awoke with a start and noticed that she was staring at me. First real response I’d seen.

Stunned hell out of me when she smiled, reached out, and caressed my hand. “Soon,” she said. “Not now, but soon, dear Lucius.”

Girl hadn’t spoken a word in all the years since the horror of Nuevo Laredo. You cannot imagine my happiness at the time. Unfortunately, she leaned back into her pillow and, as far as I am aware, never said another word for the rest of her life.

Almost exactly a year to the very day she last spoke to me, Dianna closed her eyes for the final time and died. Her nurses and doctors could do little but shake their heads. Typical of medical practice back then, they were properly baffled. Perplexed. Mystified. Had no idea what brought her to such a sad end.

Buried the beautiful Dianna in Fort Worth’s Oakwood Cemetery. Put a very distinctive marble angel at the head of the grave. Weeping creature kneels over her resting place to this very day. You can still see it—if you take the time to look. Had young William moved up from Salt Valley and placed in a spot beside her. Figured she would want him with her for their eternal rest.

Now, so many years later, here I sit beside a stoked-up tin stove, tears streaming down my leathery cheeks, trying to stay warm. Just a broken-down old Ranger, whiskey glass in hand, alone, with nothing left but my dreams and memories.

I’ve heard other antique people go on and on about how wonderful memories are. Can’t swear to that myself. Because, to tell the truth, friends, I’d trade
all
my memories for a mere fifteen minutes of lying in bed beside Dianna and the heavenly opportunity to taste her breath in my mouth again when she kissed me.

Would gladly give up my own life with both hands this very second for such a blissful prospect.