Outlaw Hell (25 page)

The bandito shook his hand as if it was wet. “You are the fastest I have ever seen, Señor, and I am not so slow myself. Perhaps you have heard of me—they call me El Pancho. Let me give you a leetle advice from one who wishes you no harm. Get out of town. Why? Look here.” El Pancho opened his shirt and showed a purple scar at the top of his left pectoral muscle. He grasped Duane's hand, brought it to him, and pressed it against the scar. “Can you feel it?”

Beneath the callused surface, Duane's fingertips discerned a jagged lump of lead.

“Sometime, when it rains, it hurts like hell,” said El Pancho. “The doctors tell me it is poisoning my blood, but they do not cut it out because it is near an artery. It could have been avoided if I was
not drunk as a pig in a certain cantina in San Pedro.” El Pancho smiled. “Maybe Santa Maria is talking to me, or maybe I am just one crazy hombre, no?” El Pancho buttoned his shirt, then winked. “Watch your back, amigo. And keep your head down.”

El Pancho stalked toward the door, his Mexican spurs clanging, his big sombrero pulled over his ears, a legendary Mexican gunfighter on his way toward his next opportunity.

Patricia Berclair kneeled in the front pew of the church, praying for divine assistance. Her experience in the shed with Duane Braddock had unnerved her mind. They'd been alone, he'd touched her arm, and she'd been on the verge of ripping his clothes off! Only a thin tissue of God-fearing devotion had held her back. She would have disgraced herself, for what?

There was something about him that made her want to jump out of her clothes and dive atop him. The thought of lying naked in bed with him caused her to sob in heartfelt anguish. Duane Braddock had forced her to comprehend that her marriage was a sham, she really didn't love her husband, and she desperately needed a real man before she died of shrunken unfulfilled longing.

“Give me strength, Lord,” she whispered. “I am a weak vessel beset with temptation.” She thought of Duane Braddock's broad shoulders, well-formed
lips, and aquiline nose. He had eyes that she could gaze at until the end of time. Lethal, beautiful, and in need of a woman's love, he'd stood only inches away. She imagined the taut muscles of his body pressing against her. Her head swam as she took a deep breath and tried to regain her equilibrium.

“Are you all right, Patricia?”

Her heart nearly stopped with fright and dismay. Her husband, Reverend Herbert Berclair, stood at the end of the pew. She became aware of her tear-streaked cheeks. “I'm fine,” she said.

“Doesn't appear that way to me, my dear. Who knows you better than I myself? I think we'd better talk about it.”

He led her to the parlor and prepared tea. Small windows admitted narrow shafts of bright sunlight, but the room was mostly dark and lugubrious. “Don't believe I've ever seen you so distraught,” he said, as he carried the teapot toward her. “Are you sick?”

She tried to smile. “I'm perfectly fine. Don't worry about me.”

“Of course I worry about you! Where would I be without your help, encouragement, and inspiration? My dear, you are the foundation of my very life itself. How can I soothe your unhappiness? Have I said anything wrong?”

She looked him over. He was a good man, but unfortunately excited no great passion in her. “It's not you, Herbert. I haven't been feeling well lately. Perhaps it's the weather.”

“You're accustomed to the finer things, but this is where God needs us. Did Duane Braddock say something improper when you were alone in the shed?”

“What makes you think that?”

“It was as if I'd caught you in the act of adultery with him. What happened?”

“Perhaps I'm coming down with the catarrh.”

He touched the back of his hand to her forehead. “You don't have a fever. I've been living with you four years, and know you as I know myself. I wish you'd tell me what's bothering you.”

She wanted to unburden herself, but feared unexpected consequences. “There's nothing to tell.”

“Sometimes I think I don't know you at all. Next thing you'll be having a squalid romance with poor, lost Duane Braddock.”

“How can you say such a thing, or even
think
it?”

“Well,” he said, scratching his nose, “I suppose a woman might find the lad possessed of a certain roughshod appeal. You don't view him that way, do you?”

“He's just a boy, Herbert. You're being absurd.”

“He's not
that
much younger than you.” Reverend Berclair narrowed his eyes and furrowed his brow. “I'm not the fool that you think, Patricia. Just because I spend my time in the Lord's ministry, it doesn't mean I'm an idiot. I think you have a girlish crush on Duane Braddock, but you're not honest enough to admit it to the man who loves you most!”

At that tense matrimonial moment, a dam cracked within Patricia Berclair's soul, and all the crippled passion of a thwarted life came ripping out of her throat. “Who needs this kind of love!”

Her scream reverberated off the fireplace, the candlestick, and the bare cottonwood cross nailed to the wall. He stared at her in consternation, as the truth sank through him.
I'm not really her husband,
he said to himself, as his face drained of color.

She regretted the words the moment they rolled off her tongue, but a stronger person dwelling within her had rendered the verdict. Reverend Herbert Berclair realized that a new woman stood before him, with unfamiliar fire in her eyes. At that moment, the parson believed that he'd lost her.

His throat clogged, his eyes widened with panic, and he threw a punch at the wall. The building shook, his hand shrieked in pain, then he realized that clergymen weren't supposed to be violent. Summoning his willpower, he modulated his voice and said: “Forgive me for my display of bad manners, dear Patricia. I guess I expected too much of you.”

She realized that she'd gone too far, and now the time had come to smooth everything over. “I'm sorry too, but I have a normal woman's feelings, I'm afraid.”

“Are you going to him?”

“I could never throw myself at a man,” she said
adamantly. “Moreover, I'd never disgrace you or myself. Besides, if I ever confessed my feelings to the poor lad, he'd ride out of town the next instant. He's not sophisticated in the least, and in many ways, is probably more religious than the both of us put together.”

Reverend Berclair smiled knowingly. “Love is blind, but let's attempt to keep our feet on the ground, shall we? He's killed seven men since arriving in Escondido, and some say he's the most dangerous gunfighter in this part of Texas.”

“But he's so frightened Herbert. You can see it in his eyes, and he's not imagining things. Somebody truly is trying to kill him.”

“Sometimes I wish he'd succeed,” the pastor said gloomily.

He didn't realize it, but his jealousy was pleasing her. They stood facing each other in the parlor, as if seeing each other for the first time. Then he cleared his throat. “I have a late Bible class, and hope you'll excuse me.”

She waited until he was gone, then reclined on the sofa and stared at the ceiling. Is my marriage over? she wondered. The new Patricia Berclair terrified her, and appeared capable of anything.

“I've been getting complaints about you,” Maggie said.

She was seated behind her desk, puffing a panatella, her flaming red hair tied with a maroon ribbon.
Duane sprawled on the chair in front of her, his hat slanted low over his eyes. “Is it the undertaker?”

“Him and a few others. They say yer a-bangin' in their houses without a warrant, a-makin' insultin' remarks, a-gittin' narsty.”

“I'm trying to find out who set fire to my barn. Am I supposed to forget about it?”

“The main thing is keep the people happy, Duane. That's what yer job's all about, remember?”

“But somebody's trying to kill me!”

“That's no cause to snoop around everybody's house and act like yer a-gonna shoot ‘em. Leave the people alone, especially the undertaker. A town like this needs an undertaker.”

“What do you know about him?”

“Not a hell of a lot. To tell you the truth, he scares the shit out of me.”

“Did you ever hear him talk about the Pecos?”

She shook her head.

“Does he sleep with any of the girls here at the Last Chance Saloon?”

“They won't go near ‘im.”

“Who's his best friend?”

“Don't think he's got one. He's like Death a-walkin' around on two legs.”

“What about the preacher? There's something strange about him.”

“A woman in my line don't talk to preachers, but his wife's said hello in the street a few times. You don't think the preacher's a-tryin' to kill you!”

“Maybe.”

Maggie didn't bat an eyelash. “I don't blame you, because I don't trust anybody in this town. I've told you afore and I'll tell you agin: If somebody wanted to kill me, I'd hop on old Paint and ride away. I'm not proud—hell no. If yer a-worrying ‘bout Alice Markham, I'll give her a job here as my clerk. I've been a-thinkin' lately that I shouldn't be a-doin' all this dumb paperwork anyways. I should be a-buyin' and a-sellin' real estate, and maybe it's time Escondido had a real honest-to-goodness bank.”

“If I hop on old Paint, who'll be the sheriff?” “I'll hire somebody, and a few deputies too. They won't be as good as you, but if you keep botherin' the townspeople, they'll fire you anyways.”

Patricia Berclair was kneading dough in the kitchen when her husband appeared in the doorway. “I've got to speak with you,” he said.

He was returning from Bible class, and this was their first encounter since the great revelation. She wondered if he'd pull a gun and shoot her, or drop to his knees and beg forgiveness for his emotional outburst. She'd never seen him so agitated. “Are you all right?” she asked, as she reached for the rolling pin.

He paced nervously back and forth behind the stove, hands clasped behind his back. “You and I have trained ourselves to search for deeper meanings in life, Patricia. The way I see it, we're the
only ministers in town, and the devil is trying to drive a wedge between us. Have you ever stopped to think that Duane Braddock might be an agent of Satan?”

She smiled faintly. “Are you trying to make a joke, Herbert?”

“We know that the devil is constantly trying to beguile us, and isn't it strange how Duane Braddock dresses in
black
most of the time. There's something cunning in his eyes—haven't you noticed? Perhaps he's hiding a pair of horns beneath his cowboy hat.”

Patricia stopped kneading the dough. She wiped her hands on a towel, looked out the window, and realized, for the first time, that her husband might be insane. “Are you speaking symbolically, Herbert, or do you really think he has two horns?”

“Not in actuality, because the devil is much more subtle than that. Isn't it interesting how he's working on your mind? I'd imagine that a holy woman like you would pose quite a challenge to him.”

“Pretty soon you'll be seeing little red devils underneath your bed, my dear. How do you know
I'm
not Satan's daughter?”

“I've seen your many good works, but the Evil One has come to you today, and you must resist him with all your heart. Otherwise you'll burn forever in the fires of hell.”

“You're becoming quite insulting. If you don't mind, I'd like to be alone.”

He retreated on his pegleg to his office and sat at his desk, drumming his fingers on the blotter, looking out the window. Five gaily tasseled hobgoblins danced merrily hand in hand amid the outbuildings, wearing funny hats. Ever since Vicksburg, Herbert Berclair had been seeing visions and hearing strange tunes in his head. Am I just another religious crackpot? he wondered.

The sight of Patricia in the shed with Duane Braddock had disorganized him deeply, for he considered her the fountain of his inspiration. Sometimes he thought himself cruel to have married her, but everything had been fine before Duane Braddock came along. The parson wanted to hate his rival, but Braddock was too young, naive, and polite to be despicable. Wouldn't the devil use such a guise, the better to cloud our minds? Reverend Berclair was afraid that Patricia would run off with Duane Braddock, despite her protestations. The parson loved his wife in a strange, antiseptic way, and believed that she cared for him similarly.

But she hadn't been wounded at Vicksburg like he. God had rendered him incapable of carnal love, while she was whole, brimming with life, and primed for adultery. A terrible thought surfaced in a deep cranny of his mind. I couldn't be a real husband, but married her anyway, taking advantage of her religiosity, forcing her to sin through my own craven selfishness. Perhaps
I'm
the agent of the devil, not Duane Braddock.

He opened the drawer of his desk, pulled out his old Colt Army revolver, drew back the hammer, and aimed the barrel at his ear. His finger tightened around the trigger, the Colt quivered in the air for several seconds, and then his finger relaxed. He eased back the hammer, returned the Colt to its position of meditation next to the pens, and covered his face with his hands.

I am the Evil One.

“What do you want?” asked Alice Markham through the crack in her door.

“I've got something to tell you,” said Duane. “Open up.”

“I'm busy studying.”

“It'll only take a minute.”

She opened the door. The desk was covered with books, and the small room reminded Duane of a monk's cell.

“I've got good news,” he announced. “You're going to be Maggie's new clerk.”

He expected a smile, a word of gratitude, and possibly a kiss on the cheek, but instead she set her stubborn jaw.

“Aren't you glad?” he asked.

She placed her hands on her hips. “You're the one who's glad. So you're finally getting rid of me. I know how much you hate me—don't think I don't.”