Outlaw Hell (22 page)

“What kind of rifle do you carry?”

The undertaker smiled embarrassedly. “I don't shoot the birds. I just look at them.”

“May I see your rifle?”

A scowl came over the undertaker's solemn visage. “What do you want my rifle for?”

“Official investigation.”

“I don't like the idea of somebody barging into my home.”

Duane spotted the rifle mounted on hooks above the fireplace. He took it down, and it was a .40 caliber Volcanic in superb condition, recently oiled. No odor of gunpowder could be detected down the barrel.

“What're you sniffing for, Sheriff?”

“Remember when Amos Twilby was bushwhacked and you asked where I came from? Where are
you
from, Mister Undertaker Man?”

“I don't like your manner, Sheriff.”

“Ever been in the Pecos country?”

“Why are you asking me all these questions?”

“How'd you like to go to jail today?”

“What's the charge?”

“Attempted murder.”

“Of who?”

“Me.”

The undertaker stared at him for a few moments, then smiled faintly. “You know what folks say about you? They say you're plumb loco, and maybe they're right.”

“The jail's empty,” Duane said, “but maybe I can find a backstabber to lock up with you, and I'll forget to confiscate the knife in his boot.”

“I think you're getting too big for your britches, young man.”

Duane whacked out his Colt and aimed at the undertaker's long chin. “Where are you from?”

“Des Moines,” the undertaker replied instantaneously.

“Were you ever in the Pecos country?”

“Passed through on the way here.”

“Ever hear of Sam Archer?”

The undertaker grimaced disdainfully. “Never, but let me point something out to you, Sheriff. We didn't hire you to intimidate honest citizens.”

Duane slowly holstered his gun, then tilted his head to the side and said soberly: “I'm keeping my eyes on you, Mister Undertaker Man. Watch your step.”

Patricia Berclair paced her bedroom, hands clasped behind her back, brow furrowed with thought. Am I going insane? she asked herself. Somehow, she couldn't stop thinking about Duane
Braddock in his tight black jeans and brown cowboy boots, carrying a big gun on his hip. It had begun when she'd first met him, as if someone had thrown a bucket of warm water onto her.

She felt itchy and wanted to run a hundred miles. Her brain seemed to be bouncing off the walls. Above the bed was nailed a bare cross, and she dropped to her knees. “Oh my God, save me,” she said.

She closed her eyes and thought of Jesus on the cross, but his features were Duane Braddock's. What does he have that excites me so? As a rule, she didn't think about men in a romantic way. Then Duane Braddock strolled into her life, with his strange crooked smile, wide shoulders, and the look of a cougar in his eyes.

She should've been doing housework or helping her husband in the office, but was instead imagining herself and Duane Braddock stark naked in bed. The devil was tempting her mightily, and she dug her fingernails into her arms to subdue the desire raging in her loins. Trembling, her knees weak, she collapsed onto the bed.

Duane Braddock needs someone to take care of him, she thought. Someone older, more mature, capable of deep understanding—me, for instance. But I'm married already, and besides, he's just a boy. Maybe I've been in this sinful little town too long and need a change. Perhaps I can encourage Herbert to take me to Austin, Houston, or anywhere but here. I need someone to talk with, like my mother
or Sally, her younger sister, who was also married to a preacher.

Patricia felt alone, forgotten, and like she was losing her bearings. She'd married Herbert to help him with his work, because she'd believed he was a great man. It wasn't a gross, disgusting physical marriage like most, but a union of mind and spirit based on shared convictions.

Captain Herbert Berclair had seen God on the battlefield of Vicksburg, and lost his lust in the brilliant illumination that claimed his left leg. He and his wife slept in separate bedrooms and never had seen each other naked. Patricia Berclair was a married woman of a certain age, but was still a virgin.

It hadn't been a problem before Duane Braddock showed up. Somehow she'd been able to subdue her deepest longings, but now was writhing on the bed, scratching her arms, and kicking her legs in the air. I've got to stop thinking about him, she admonished herself. But I can't!

She wished she had a whip so she could dominate herself. Maybe a belt would do. She took a thick black leather one from the closet and laid it on the bed. Then she removed her dress and stood in her bloomers in front of the mirror.

She saw no great beauty, her knees were knobby, legs skinny, breasts nearly nonexistent. She'd always thought her mouth too wide, her nose too small, and she bore a faint resemblance to a frog. Holding the whip in her right hand, she smacked it hard across her back, the sharp sensation making
her cry softly. Bowing her head, she flagellated herself repeatedly as she sobbed and shuddered in the darkness.

Light glowed through the window of the stable office, illuminating a wraithlike figure hovering over a book. Duane opened the door, as his student glanced up crossly. “I'm studying,” said Alice Markham.

“Don't you think it's time you went to bed?”

“The sooner I git edjicated, the sooner I can git away from
you.
I don't want to be somebody's ball and chain.”

“You've been in an awfully bad mood lately. It might not hurt to smile once in a while.”

Her lips pinched and she looked like she was going to say something awful, but instead she wrinkled her brow and returned to the book. He departed the office, troubled by yet another female. He didn't love Alice, had no intention of marrying her, yet desired her warm body. Now he understood why church fathers railed against physical passion. It made no sense, provided no peace, and led to disastrous consequences for men and women alike. Unfortunately, Duane couldn't defeat his heart's longings with mere logic.
It is better to marry than burn,
said the great Saint Paul, Apostle to the Gentiles.

Duane made his way to the saloon district, scanning constantly for bushwackers and backshooters.
He felt himself getting another headache from so much cogitation. Maybe I should have a drink of whisky and relax.

He angled into the Desert Palace Saloon, paid for a whisky, and carried it to a table against the back wall. There weren't many patrons, and he wondered if a bushwhacker was aiming a gun at him in the darkness. His skin felt covered with needles, and he broke out in a cold sweat. Somebody in this town is trying to kill me, and I wonder who he is.

Maybe it was a coincidence that the undertaker was on the desert at the same time as I, but maybe not. It could be this, or it could be that. The headache increased in intensity. Duane sipped whisky and tried to stop worrying, but his mind continued like an infernal devil machine.

A group of men broke into song on the far side of the room. There were eight of them out of tune and sitting at a round table. They appeared melancholy, with far-off expressions in their eyes, as they mouthed the words:

The years creep slowly by, Lorena;

The snow is on the grass again;

The sun's low down the sky, Lorena;

The frost gleams where the flowers have been

Men throughout the saloon joined the mournful old Civil War ditty. Duane had heard it sung in saloons before, for it was one of the most popular tunes of that great national catastrophe. Battleweary
troopers had crooned it around campfires, to remind them of loved ones far away, and couldn't seem to stop now that the fighting was over.

A hundred months have passed, Lorena,

Since last 1 held that hand in mine,

And felt the pulse beat fast, Lorena

Though mine beat faster than thine

Rustlers, bandits, gunfighters, and cowboys looked prayerful as they intoned the simple rhythm. In Duane's imagination, their cowboy hats and rough canvas shirts were replaced by wide-brimmed campaign hats and gray uniforms with brass buttons. Lamplight flickered on their bronzed features, and Duane saw the pure poetry of their souls. They'd marched to war for dear old Dixie, shared danger and hardship for five long years, ran low on supplies and ammunition, suffered, bled, and finally were conquered, losing everything in the last cataclysmic struggle.

Duane couldn't help being moved by the emotions flooding through the ramshackle saloon. He knew that most Confederate soldiers hadn't been slavers, but they didn't want folks in Boston and Philadelphia telling them how to live. They had fought for Jeff Davis and Bobby Lee, went down to bitter defeat, and then drifted West, where the weight of Reconstruction didn't crush them so heavily into the ground.

Now they were gathered in the Desert Palace Saloon, reliving the great days of their lives. Duane's curious eyes fell on his former deputy singing
among them, his old Confederate cavalry officer's hat on the back of his head. They accepted Derek Wright as a comrade in arms, while the Pecos Kid lurked on the far side of the room, always the observer, never part of the group.

A hundred months—'twas flowery May,

When up the hilly slope we climbed,

To watch the dying of the day

And hear the distant church bells chime

When the song came to an end, the saloon was still, and Smiley the bartender didn't dare pour a drink. All eyes were fixed on a time long ago when brave young men rode off to war, cheered by their women. Now they had a handful of nothing to show for their struggles, and disappointment was engraved into their faces. Somebody burped, and a bullwhacker rapped his knuckles on the bar, signaling that his glass was empty. Men dealt cards, or picked up their newspapers, but a few just stared into space, because they couldn't let go.

Somebody laughed at the end of the bar, as the saloon returned to its normal noisy ambiance. A few men got up from the table where Derek Wright sat, and Duane contemplated having a talk with his former deputy. Then he heard footsteps coming from the opposite direction. He turned toward a big burly man wearing a black leather vest, brown goatee, and brown cowboy hat.

“Mind if I join you fer a minute, Sheriff?”

“Just keep your hands where I can see them.”

The burly man sat beside Duane, turned down the corners of his mouth, and said, “I'm a-goin' to shoot somebody tonight, and I'd like you to look the other way. Would you take twenty dollars?

Duane gaped at him.

“How's about twenty-five?”

“Mister,” Duane said, “you'd better hop onto your horse and ride out of town, otherwise I'll arrest you.”

“I din't mean to insult you, but twenty-five dollars is all I can afford.”

“If you're not gone within the next half hour, you'll be a guest in our jail. Hope you don't mind sleeping on the floor.”

The would-be killer peered into Duane's eyes. “If yer not in it fer the money, what the hell're you a-wearin' that tin badge fer?”

“I ask myself the same question,” Duane replied. “Were you in the war?”

The man appeared surprised. “Fifteenth Georgia Infantry. Why d'ya ask?”

“You were a good soldier once, and now you're an outlaw. I don't get it.”

“I'm like the piano player, and I'm a-doin' the best I can.”

The stranger arose from the table and headed toward the back door. The war must've warped their minds, Duane hypothesized. They saw too much blood and guts, they lost faith in God, and now they're reckless fools. His eyes fell on Derek Wright sitting at the big round table. How do I
know he wasn't on the desert this afternoon? I wish there was one person in the world whom I could trust.

He wanted to palaver with Derek Wright, but couldn't let himself go. Here in the secular world, it's everybody pitted against everybody else, Duane realized. At the monastery, the priests and brothers tried to be decent men, unlike folks in Escondido who plot wickedness constantly.

Derek Wright stared at his glass of whisky, lost in his Civil War dreams. Duane felt ashamed for being cruel to him, but a resourceful fellow like Wright could always get along. Maybe I should go over there and ask where he was this morning.

Derek Wright looked up from his whisky. “What's on your mind, kid?”

Duane sat opposite him and asked: “Were you on the desert today?”

Derek Wright blinked in surprise. “How'd you know?”

“I was there too. You didn't mistake me for an antelope or a mule deer, and take a potshot at me, did you?”

“The antelope I shot is being served at the Silver Spur Saloon. It must've been an Apache who tried to shoot you.”

“An Apache wouldn't miss.” Duane looked into Derek's steely eyes. “I've been wanting to have a conversation with you for a long time, Derek. When we first met, you asked a lot of questions in a town where folks generally keep to themselves. Then you
kept showing up at the wrong time, and today you were on the desert where somebody tried to bushwhack me. I know that you were an officer in the war, and you're an honorable man underneath it all, but how do I know you're not working for Sam Archer?”

Wright sucked a tooth for a moment, then replied: “I'm not asking you to trust me, and don't expect me to trust you. You know what they say about you, Mister Pecos? Only a matter of time before some
real
gunfighter shows up and shoots you.”

The ex-cavalry officer tossed Duane a skeptical glance, then downed the rest of his whisky, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, adjusted his old Confederate cavalry officer's hat on his head, and reeled away.

You can't tell people how you really feel, Duane concluded. Because they're all so tetchy. He noticed a leprechaun with a long reddish brown beard and cowboy hat, sitting on the far side of the table. “Howdy, Sheriff,” the leprechaun said jovially.