Outlaw Hell (14 page)

She stared at him in disbelief. “I think yer loco like everybody says.”

“You don't need to act like a harlot and sit on
the laps of old men if you don't want to.” He grabbed her hand. “Come on, let's go.”

She held back, as her painted face floated impassively before him. “I don't trust you.”

“You told me once that you didn't like your job. Well, people have to help people, like it says in the Bible.”

“Let me get this straight,” she said. “You've killed four men since you first came to town, and you're tellin' me about the word of God?”

“I don't claim to be an angel, but I'm trying to offer you a way out of the fix you're in.”

“How do I know you won't change your mind tomorrow morning, and then I'll need to beg Maggie to take me back. At least I got my own money here. If I go with you, I'll be beholden to you.”

Duane reached into his pocket, pulled out a handful of coins, and placed them before her. “It's yours,” he said.

Her eyes goggled at the sight of so much
dinero.
“Where'd you get that?”

“It's a long story.”

Duane heard approaching footsteps. It was the old white-haired man threading among drinkers and gamblers. A gunbelt showed beneath his opened frock coat. He appeared semi-inebriated, his stovepipe hat sat on the back of his head, and a food stain could be seen on his lapel.

“Miss Alice,” he said, “I do believe we made a certain business arrangement.”

Duane cleared his throat. “Miss Alice is no longer employed by this establishment.”

The old man, whose name was Dillard, ignored Duane's remark. He directed his gaze at Alice and said, “If you don't come with me, I'm afraid I'll have to speak with your employer. Where I come from, a deal is a deal.” He turned to Duane. “Just because you're the sheriff, you don't scare me one goddamned bit.”

The old man went for his gun, but his arm muscles had seen better days, his judgment was contorted by too much whisky, and his eyesight had deteriorated considerably over the years. Duane plucked the weapon easily out of his hand. The old man blinked in surprise as he tried to recover his balance.

Duane held him steady with one hand. “From now on, it's against the law for you to carry a gun in this town. And if anybody sells you a gun, or gives you a gun, he'll have to deal with me.”

“But. . . but. . . !” sputtered Dillard, as everyone in the vicinity laughed uproariously. The old man's face turned red with shame, as he headed for the door. “You haven't heard the last of Charlie Dillard!”

Duane handed the gun to Alice. “Know how to use one of these?”

“Just pull back the hammer and squeeze the trigger.”

“Go to your room and pack your things. If anybody gives you any trouble, blow his head off. I'll meet you here in about a half hour.”

She gazed into his eyes. “Mister, you ain't a-gonna let me down, are you?”

“If I do, you can keep the money.”

She closed one eye and wrinkled her nose. “I still think you've got somethin' up your sleeve.”

Maggie O'Day sat in her bath, sipping a glass of whisky, a scowl on her face. She couldn't stop thinking about young, handsome Duane Braddock in his tight black pants. “Maybe it's time I stopped drinking this stuff,” she said to herself.

She placed the glass on the floor, just as someone knocked on the door. “It's the sheriff,” said the gruff voice of Bradley Metzger.

“Send him in.”

“But yer nekkid!”

“I'm tired of arguin' with you. Next time you start up with me, yer fired.”

“You fire me, and you'll regret it,” he said irately.

“Send him in, and keep yer threats to yerself.”

The door slammed, and Maggie wondered what to do about Bradley. He's gettin' to be more trouble than he's worth.

Duane appeared with his hat in hand. “Sorry to bother you, ma'am, but I...”

She smiled alluringly, and as she reached for the bottle, her necklace of soapsuds lowered, revealing the tops of her pendulous breasts. Duane swallowed hard at the sight of those huge, tempting cushions.

“What's on yer mind?” she asked in a throaty burr.

“I'll be taking care of Alice Markham from now on,” he replied. “She doesn't work here anymore.”

Maggie appeared mildly disturbed, then retrieved her studied casualness. “I didn't think she's yer type.”

“She's not. By the way, Sanchez said he asked the gals about my mother, but none of them knows anything. Even Hazel Sanders's best friend is acting dumb. I don't know if Hazel was killed because of me, or what.”

“I've been in a lot of whorehouses,” replied Maggie. “Sometimes the gals fight among themselves, sometimes a pissed-off boyfriend shoots one of ‘em, and sometimes a bastard rides out of nowhere, knifes a gal, and heads fer the next town, to do it again. You look like you could use a bath.” She moved over to make room. “Want me to wash yer back?”

“Maggie, if I get into that tub with you, it'll be the end of me.”

He arose from the chair and expelled himself out the door, his head spinning with confusion. A woman old enough to be my mother has invited me to ... what? Maggie's skin had been smooth and pink, and she'd looked like a plump farm girl. Don't even think about it, he admonished himself. People will laugh if I ever took up with a woman old enough to be my mother.

He came to the main room of the saloon, but Alice wasn't there yet. A painted lady approached, swinging her hips lasciviously. “Anything I can do, Sheriff?”

“What room is Alice in?”

“Why do you want Alice, when you could have me?”

He looked her over and noticed that she was tall and thin like his first great love, Miss Vanessa Fontaine. “Her room number, please?”

“Yer no fun at all, Sheriff. Room sixteen.”

He made his way down the maze, passing couples on their way to trysts. He wondered what it was like to go to bed with one stranger after another for money. It must make a woman cold in her heart, he concluded, as he arrived at Alice Markham's door.

She opened it, wearing a plain cotton dress with no cosmetics, resembling the churchgoer, not the bawdy whore.

“I'll be ready in a few minutes. Have a seat.”

Duane sat at the edge of the bed and wondered how many men had slept with her. He was attracted by her tragedy and suffering, and couldn't bear the thought of a churchgoing woman selling her body to the highest bidder.

“This is the craziest goddamned thing I ever did,” she declared. “I don't even know you.”

He didn't respond, because he calculated that her suspicions were bottomless, and nothing he could say would change her mind. She placed her final few belongings into her carpetbag. “I'm ready,” she said.

He carried the carpetbag to the door, while she took one last lingering look around her room. Then
she followed him down the corridor, out of the whorehouse, and into her new life as first female student of the Pecos Kid.

Across the street, Charlie Dillard sat at the bar of the Desert Palace Saloon and morosely sipped whisky. He was a former stagecoach robber and cattle rustler who now earned his living as a gambler, traveling from town to town, playing the odds.

He never threw a coin into a pot unless he was reasonably certain he'd win. His excellent memory of what had been dealt provided him an edge over drink-addled cowboys or outlaws, and he never hesitated to use a fast shuffle if he thought no one was paying attention. He earned a good living, stayed in the best hotels, and wore fine tailored clothing in the latest styles from the East.

But now he was damned mad. Alice Markham had caught his attention, because she was younger than most whores, and he'd anticipated a night with her smooth firm body. But then Duane Braddock had stolen her away. Dillard lit a black stogie and blew smoke out the side of his mouth. Sensitive about his diminishing virility, he'd been humiliated publicly by Braddock in the Last Chance Saloon. Dillard would never be able to show his face there again, and it was the best saloon in town.

The older Dillard became, the more he lusted after young women. They made him a young buck again instead of an old fart. Their firm, upthrusting
breasts and smooth thighs were all that he lived for.

There wasn't a damn thing he could do about Braddock, because nobody would sell him a gun. He slammed the heel of his fist on the bar and muttered, “That goddamned Braddock bastard! Isn't there anybody in this town who's got the balls to stand up to him?”

The bartender stirred next to the cashbox where he'd been sipping a cup of coffee. “Are you a-lookin' to hire somebody fer the job?”

“Got a feller in mind?”

“There's bound to be somebody. Want me to pass the word around?”

Dillard flipped a ten-dollar gold piece onto the bar. “I'll be at the Belmont Hotel if anybody's interested in making a fast hundred dollars.”

The stable smelled of hay and horses. Sam Goines came out of his office, lantern in hand. His eyes widened at the sight of the young white woman.

“Miss Markham'll be staying here for a while,” Duane explained. “She'll be my student, and I might need to borrow some of your mother's books. Are there extra blankets?”

“I'll get some, boss.”

Duane lugged the carpetbag up the ladder to the loft, as Alice followed. “This is where you'll sleep,” he explained. “It may not look like much, but it's better than the Last Chance Saloon.”

She gazed out the window at the moon hanging
like a silver slipper in the blazing starry sky. What'm I doin' here, she asked herself. Meanwhile, Duane's eyes caressed her pert profile. She's not that bad-looking, but I promised I won't lay a hand on her, and by God I won't.

Sam joined them in the loft, blankets over his shoulder. He arranged a bed for Alice behind the barricade, then returned to the lower depths of the stable. Duane blew out the lantern, sat on his bedroll, and pulled off his boots.

Ten feet away, Alice stared at Duane's outline as he reclined in the darkness. I've put my life in his hands, and don't even know him. He's killed four men, they call him the Pecos Kid, but he's a churchgoer. Her experience with men was considerable and multivaried, but she'd never met anybody like Duane Braddock.

A faint snore emitted from his nostrils, as she undressed behind a pile of hay. Then, clad only in her underwear, she crawled beneath the blankets. If he comes over here, I prob'ly won't put up much of a fight, she thought with a secret little smile. Easier to deal with one man than twenty every night, so what'm I complainin' ‘bout?

There was a knock on the door at four in the morning, and Charlie Dillard opened bloodshot eyes. “Who's there?”

A deep voice came through the door: “I heer'd you want to see me.”

Dillard crawled out of bed, wearing striped cotton
drawers. He cocked the hammer of his Smith & Wesson, then opened the door a crack. A dark shadow wearing a cowboy hat stood in the doorway.

“I don't believe I know you,” said Dillard.

“Put that gun away.”

The man spoke menacingly. He wore a gun low on his hip, tied to his leg with a leather thong, gun-fighter style. He entered the room and closed the door behind him.

“I want fifty dollars in advance.”

Dillard couldn't make out the gunfighter's face in the darkness. “What if I give you fifty, you ride out of town, and I never see you again?”

The shadow grumbled something unintelligible as he headed for the door. Dillard grabbed his arm. “What's yer hurry? I was only makin' a joke. Here, I'll give you the fifty dollars.” The old gambler fumbled with his matches. “Let me light a lamp.”

The shadow plucked the matches out of his bony fingers and tossed them across the room. “Who d'ya want killed?”

“Duane Braddock, the sheriff. They call him the Pecos Kid.”

“Not fer long.”

Dillard reached into his pocket and pulled out some coins. He counted them in a ray of light peeking through the window, but the stranger was shrouded in darkness, hat low over his eyes. All Dillard could see was that he was of average height and average build.

“What's your name?”

“I ain't got one.”

“There's something I should tell you. Do you know that Braddock shot Otis Puckett a couple of months ago not far from here.”

The stranger harumphed. “Was only a matter of time before somebody killed that fat fuck. It don't make a hill of beans to me.”

Dillard passed him the coins, and their hands touched. The stranger's hand was callused and he had a rough manner. “I'll be back fer the rest in a few days.”

The stranger left the room. Dillard sat at the edge of his bed and wondered who he was.

The stranger crossed the lobby and opened the front door of the Belmont Hotel. He glanced both ways along the street that stretched before him. His hand stayed near his gun, and he smiled faintly as he played with the coins in his pocket.

The assignment had arrived in the nick of time. He'd been tapped out when he'd heard the bartender talking about the Pecos Kid. Now he had a pocketful of good times. Funny how life yanks a man around, he thought.

His name was Jason Smeade, a killer-for-hire on a vast frontier where a man notorious in one town would be unknown in the next. Smeade found his chestnut gelding in front of the Desert Palace Saloon, climbed into the saddle, and rode sullenly out of town. He didn't trust hotel rooms where enemies might sneak up on him as he'd snuck up on Dillard.

Wherever he went, there was always someone to pay for his services. He often was amazed by the hatred in the world, but felt none of it himself, nor love either. He killed calmly, professionally, and routinely, like a butcher. He never had a second thought, and remorse was unknown to him.

His horse plodded along, and Smeade held his gun in his right hand as he peered into windows for possible rifles and pistols aimed at him. He never knew when he might see a face from his past.