Outlaw Hell (11 page)

“Did you try to shoot me last night?” Duane replied, as he searched Bradley's eyes for the lie.

“If I tried to shoot you, I wouldn't miss,” hissed Bradley. “And if you didn't have that gun in yer hand, I'd kick yer ass all over this saloon.”

Sometimes a man had to draw the line, Duane reflected. Bradley itched for a fight, and Duane had to admit that he did too. Tense and anxious after the events of the night, he eased back the hammer and holstered his Colt. “Let's go.”

An expression of delight came over Bradley's face as he advanced down the narrow corridor, his left fist cocked for a skull-crunching blow, and his right pawing ahead, measuring the distance. Duane knew that a southpaw was defeated through maneuver, but there wasn't much room in the narrow corridor. Duane's spiritual advisor at the monastery, Brother Paolo, had fought semi-professionally prior to taking the tonsure, and taught Duane all the advanced tricks, clean and dirty, of fisticuffs.

The new sheriff of Escondido stepped forward cautiously, holding his left arm low, hoping to lure the bodyguard into overextending himself. Bradley saw the opening and shot his right fist forward, but Duane dodged out of the way, then launched a stiff right lead to Bradley's nose. Cartilage crackled beneath Duane's fist, blood spurted in all directions,
and Bradley was knocked backwards by the force of the blow.

Duane went after him, to finish him off, when the proprietress stepped between them and held out her arms. “You want to fight, go outside!” she hollered angrily.

Duane headed for the back door, prepared for a backshoot from Bradley, but the bodyguard preferred to tear him apart with his bare hands. They stormed outside into the bright sunny southwest Texas afternoon. Duane removed his hat and hung it from a nail stuck into the side of a tree, then unbuttoned his shirt. Bradley blinked like an owl in the bright sunlight as he took off his frock coat. “Sonny jim,” he said. “I'm a-gonna whup yer ass.”

Duane decided not to remove his gun, although it was heavy and would slow him down. Men working in the vicinity drifted closer to see the action, as others called to friends far away. News spread rapidly throughout town that war was about to commence behind the Last Chance Saloon.

Duane knew that he had to trick Bradley into throwing punches, and then counter. But Bradley knew what to expect now, and was wary of another headlong rush. Both men circled each other cautiously, giving each other angles and looking for openings, as onlookers crowded around.

Thanks to Brother Paolo, Duane was a well-schooled fighter. He knew how to keep his elbows close to his body, hide his chin behind his shoulder, and snap his punches. In addition, Brother Paolo had
taught him the science of lateral movement, how to guard against a thumb in the eye and head butts, and how to avoid the inevitable punch below the belt. Duane felt confident that he could outthink the bear-like bodyguard facing him with bad intentions in his eyes.

“When's the fight gonna start?” asked an old timer in the crowd. Another replied: “Looks like one's skeered and the other wants to run away.”

Bradley bent his knees and pawed with his right hand while loading up his left. Duane took a step to the side and buried his fist up to the wrist in his opponent's stomach. Bradley expelled air from all his orifices, took a step backwards, and threw his right fist forward. But Duane dodged out of the way, then smashed Bradley in the stomach with his left fist. Bradley lowered his arms, to protect a particular portion of his anatomy, and Duane threw a crunching right hook to the side of Bradley's head.

Bradley wasn't fazed by the blow, and responded with a digging left into Duane's kidney. It felt like a dagger, but Duane stood toe-to-toe with Bradley, smashed him in the mouth, whacked him on the ear, cracked him in the gut, and then danced away from Bradley's wild, flailing punches.

Bradley was furious, his lips pulped, left ear turning purple. He reached forward tentatively with his big right fist, but Duane went under it, slammed him in the gut, jabbed him in the mouth, and danced away. He believed that he had Bradley figured out, and it was only a matter of time until
Bradley fell. Cocky, vain, filled with false pride, Duane darted forward for another quick combination of devastating punches.

Instead, a hamlike fist appeared in front of his eyes. A moment later something crashed into his skull, and it felt like the Last Chance Saloon had fallen upon him. Bradley had timed him coming in and hit him with everything he had.

Duane landed on his wallet. A boot came streaking toward his face, and he couldn't get out of the way. The pointed toe connected with his cheek and tore it open, and sharp pain blotted out the afternoon. Duane jumped to his feet, dodged a left hook, ducked an overhand right, and walked into a left uppercut.

It straightened him like a ponderosa pine, then sent him sprawling backwards. No ropes stopped him, and he landed flat on his back, as pigeons sang madrigals inside his skull. Bradley stood a few steps away, thumbs hooked in his suspenders. “This is some sheriff we've got here,” he drawled.

The crowd laughed, and Duane felt shame roll over him like a load of cow manure. Brother Paolo had taught him never to lunge with his punches, but he'd thrown caution to the winds, and Bradley had made him pay.

“Sonny jim,” said Bradley, “I think it's time fer you to climb on yer horse and ride out of town. Otherwise I'm liable to rip yer fuckin' haid off.”

Duane wiped blood off his cheek, as wrath came on like a stampede of longhorns. He got to his feet, stepped toward Bradley, and flicked out a tentative
jab. Bradley picked it off easily and countered with a left hook, but Duane was gone, with Bradley off balance, leaning forward, wide open. Duane slammed him on the ear, cracked him in the mouth, harpooned him in the belly, then connected with a solid uppercut to the tip of the chin. Bradley went swaying backwards, but friends in the crowd grabbed his shoulders and pushed him back toward Duane, who worked Bradley's midsection for a spell, then went upstairs and hammered his head. Methodically, Duane took Bradley apart. Bradley's knees weakened, and he wobbled around the backyard as Duane's fists pounded him relentlessly. Bradley made one last desperate attack to turn the fight around, but Duane stepped deftly to the side, loaded up his right hand, and sent it streaking toward his opponent's chin. Bradley was lifted off his feet by the impact of the blow and landed on his back. His eyes were closed, and only his heaving chest moved.

Duane's arms were sore from punches he'd blocked, and blood oozed out of the cut on his cheek. Somebody passed him a bottle of whisky, and he rinsed out his mouth. Some of his teeth were loose, and his left eye was half-closed, but he noticed the assembled townspeople and outlaws viewing him with new interest.

“Who's next?” he asked.

Nobody said a word. An unfamiliar face handed him a bucket of water. Duane upended it over his head and washed the blood and dirt away. Then he put on his hat and slogged away from the battleground.
Outlaws, vaqueros, and gamblers made way for the new sheriff, and everybody realized that a new era of law and order had dawned on a certain little Texas border town.

Duane slept the rest of the day in the loft above the stable, his Apache ears tuned for danger. He awakened at ten o'clock at night, aching all over. He climbed stiffly down the ladder and found a muscular Negro approximately Duane's age studying ledgers in a small office at a corner of the stable. “You must be Mister Braddock. I'm Sam Goines . . . yer new stable man.”

Duane looked at him askance, because he appeared familiar. “Are you kin to Maggie's cook, by any chance?”

“That's my mother, Dolores Goines.”

Duane realized that Maggie had sent him there, and he'd probably been a slave too. “Where can I get a bath in this town?”

“I'll fix one up for you, suh. Maggie sent over some new clothes and sandwiches.”

Sam Goines pointed to a sack at the corner of the desk, but Duane's eyes were drawn to a wooden crate filled with books in the corner. “Where'd they come from?”

“I found ‘em under a pile of hay.”

The former acolyte was curious about the books. They were littered with dust and straw, and didn't look as if Twilby had been interested in them.
Maybe a professor on the dodge went broke and gave them to Twilby in payment for stable fees, Duane speculated. Haphazardly, he picked up a black leatherbound volume from the middle of the pile and wiped the cover with his sleeve. It said, in gold letters,
The Prince
by Niccolo Machiavelli.

“If you like books,” Sam Goines said, “my mother's got lots of ‘em that she's been carrying around fer years.”

The Negro sounded educated, with good diction. “Where'd you go to school?” Duane asked.

“The Freedman's Bureau.”

Duane had heard of the Freedman's Bureau. It had been formed by the federal government to assist ex-slaves. After Sam Goines left to perform his chores, Duane opened the book. A passage was underlined in black ink:
The way men live is so far removed from the way they should, that anyone who abandons what is for what should be will end pursuing his downfall rather than his preservation.

Duane flipped a few pages, and read:
Is it better to be loved than feared? The answer is that the most benefits would accrue to he who is both loved and feared. But since the two seldom appear together, anyone forced to choose will find greater security in being feared than being loved.

It seemed like Machiavelli was speaking directly to him. Duane recalled reading about the old Florentine diplomat at the monastery in the clouds, and knew that Machiavelli had been an advisor to the aristocracy of Old Italy but fell out of favor and
died in obscurity. Some historians considered him the epitome of wickedness, while others said the silver-tongued courtier had looked reality in the face and had merely spoken the truth. Duane searched for more advice that he could apply to his new job in Escondido.

A man striving in every way to be good will meet his ruin among the great number who are wicked.
You can't deny that, Duane agreed. In fact, it's exactly what happened to me. He touched the cut on his cheek, and it was caked with a scab. His left eye was nearly closed, his ribs ached, and teeth rattled painfully as he chewed a steak and onion sandwich. If I had any sense, I'd go back to the monastery and spend the rest of my life studying, praying, and singing Gregorian Chant. But unfortunately I don't have any sense.

D
UANE TOOK A LEISURELY BATH IN THE
light of oil lamps. He dressed in new black jeans with a blue shirt that Maggie had bought him, then pinned the tin badge above the left pocket. It was time to go to work.

Slipping outside, he saw a big crescent moon hanging over the rooftops of Escondido. He eased down the alley beside the stable, pressed his back to the wall, held his gun in his right hand, and peered at three riders approaching in the middle of the street, smoking cigarettes and staring ahead balefully. Along the street, saddled horses stood hitched to rails, illuminated by lamplight gleaming within saloons. Duane holstered his gun and stepped onto the planked sidewalk, listening for clicks of hammers being cocked.

He headed toward the Last Chance Saloon, his right hand near the butt of his gun, his black hat slanted low over his eyes, encircled with his hand-worked silver concho hatband. He pushed open the doors, and every eye in the house turned toward him.

“Looks like the new sheriff,” said a half-loaded cowboy at the end of the bar.

It was Friday night and the saloon was packed with the usual outlaw element plus cowboys and vaqueros from nearby ranches in town for a hot time. The bartender poured drinks rapidly, while waitresses carried glasses to patrons quaffing, gambling, arguing, and sleeping amid the constant tumultuous uproar. Then a man climbed onto the bar, pulled his gun, aimed it at the ceiling, and pulled the trigger. The saloon echoed with the explosion, as gunsmoke furled the air. “Let's put some goddamned life into this place!” he bellowed.

Bradley appeared in the doorway, his face looking like the Union Pacific Railroad had run over it. “Who fired that shot!” he yelled, but most patrons paid no attention to him. “Goddamned sons of bitches!”

Bradley yanked his gun and charged toward the bar as Duane entered the corridor that led to Maggie's office. Maggie looked up from her desk as he opened the door. She wore a purple satin dress. “What's the latest, Sheriff?”

“We ought to pass a law against firing guns in public places.”

“Consider it passed, and it's a damned fine idea. By the way, yer office is ready. You can go there
whenever you want. And if there's anythin' you require at the Last Chance Saloon, and I mean
anything,
it's on the house.” She winked suggestively, then placed the end of her pen in her mouth.

Duane leaned forward earnestly. “Are you sure you never told anybody where I was sleeping last night? Think it over before you answer.”