Outlaw Hell (26 page)

Duane was hurt by her remarks. “I don't hate you at all, and in fact, I've always liked you.”

She squinched her face like a hurt little child. “You think I'm trash because you caught me with a certain somebody, isn't that right, Mister Pecos Kid? I know what's in yer mind. Since that happened, you barely talked to me.”

He shook his head in despair. “Somebody's trying to kill me, but everybody thinks it's nothing for me to worry about. You're the only person in town that I can trust, because you were with me when the stable was set afire. But you don't want to be my friend because once I mentioned somebody's name by mistake.”

“You made me feel cheap.”

“I didn't do it on purpose.”

“You're just making excuses. The truth is you don't think I'm good enough for you.”

I could argue with her till the end of time, and still not change her mind, he said to himself. He threw up his hands and headed for the door. Women are nothing but trouble, he told himself, as he made his way down the corridor.

Carpenters hammered a new corral on the site of his former stable, and retrieved horses were hobbled and waiting patiently for their new home. Unfortunately, no one had seen hide nor hair of Steve. I guess we weren't that close, Duane lamented. I'll have to try harder with my next horse.

He no longer had obligations in Escondido, and the time had come to hit the trail. But first he had to refit for the ride to the Pecos, and he had to buy the new horse. Maggie doesn't really need a clerk, he

suspected, but she hired Alice because that's what I wanted. Maggie O'Day is the best friend I've got in this town.

Duane returned to his office and made a list of things to do. His remaining wealth totaled approximately three hundred dollars, and the town owed him a month's wages. That ought to get me to the Pecos with plenty of room to maneuver.

There was a knock on the door, then Reverend Herbert Berclair walked numbly into the office. “I've got to talk with you,” he said in a disembodied voice.

“Have a seat, Reverend. What's on your mind?”

The pastor placed his fists on Duane's desk, leaned forward, and peered into Duane's eyes. “Have you been making improper advances to my wife?”

Duane nearly fell off the chair. No man had ever said such a thing to him before. “What makes you think that, Reverend?”

“Because she's madly and hopelessly in love with you, you fool.” The parson sighed and went slack on the chair.

Duane vaguely remembered the odd behavior of Mrs. Berclair when he was alone with her in the shed. What is it about me that makes people think I'm a low-down skunk? “Surely you know that your wife would never do such a thing, Reverend Berclair.”

“Animal lust has ruined many a good man and woman,” the reverend replied. “The devil comes in
infinite disguises, as I'm sure you know. I thought of killing you, Mister Sheriff, but you're not guilty either. I thought of killing myself, but the scriptures tell us that suicide is evil. So are false promises and ill-gotten gains. Do you know what I'm saying, Sheriff Braddock?”

“Not in the least,” Duane replied.

“I have committed a terrible crime against God and my beloved wife, and you must punish me. Beneath my coat, I have my old Army Colt. I'm going to draw it and shoot you for the estrangement of my wife's affections. You will be obliged to defend yourself, and all my worries will be over.”

The pastor drew the Colt, and Duane couldn't jump over the desk in time. All he could do was haul iron, but he couldn't shoot the only man in Escondido who'd gone to divinity school. Both men aimed the creations of Colonel Colt at each other and waited for something to happen.

“Go ahead,” goaded Reverend Berclair, an uncertain smile on his face. “Shoot me.”

“I can't kill an innocent man.”

“Try.”

“Impossible, and you're not a murderer either. Put away the gun and try to be reasonable. You're not setting a good example for your flock.”

“I can't kill you, and can't kill myself either,” the preacher moaned. His Colt hung down his side as he shuffled unhappily out of the sheriff's office. Citizens and bystanders gazed at their parson curiously
as he moved jerkily along the planked sidewalk, a sorrowful expression in his half-closed eyes.

T
HE HORSE SHORTAGE CONTINUED, WITH
prices for available mounts doubling and tripling. Then word was received that fresh horses would be offered for sale by local ranches at the end of the month. Duane waited for the animals to arrive, made plans, and gathered equipment.

He visited the gunsmith and negotiated a slightly used no-frills .44 caliber Winchester Model 1866 with brass receiver and 24-inch barrel for accuracy at long distances. Then he crossed to the general store and purchased sturdy black leather saddlebags, an extra shirt, a blanket, and a poncho. He carried his belongings to the desert and stashed them in a cave.

He sat cross-legged in gullies for hours, shaded by cottonwood trees, and contemplated the long, harsh, hazardous journey before him. His body had become soft due to excessive food and drink during his aimless nights in Escondido, so he placed himself on a regimen of running up and down mountains for long periods each day, as when he'd lived among the Apaches.

Escondido wasn't a total loss, because now at last he knew who his mother was.
Kathleen O'Shea.
He'd wanted to question Dolores Goines further, but didn't dare endanger her life. I'll find out everything I need to know in the Pecos country, he promised himself.

He didn't know what form his vengeance would take, and possibly Sam Archer wasn't even alive anymore. No matter what I do, it won't bring my father and mother back. The former acolyte had killed previously only in self-defense, and couldn't imagine holding a gun calmly to a man's head, then pulling the trigger. It was opposite everything he'd been taught by learned priests and brothers. I'll worry about it when I've got Sam Archer cornered, he thought.

He suspected that the killer had left Escondido after the fire, since no further attempts had been made on his life. Meanwhile, freighters arrived from the north with loads of lumber, and the reconstruction of the stable began. Duane sat on a bench across the street and smoked one cigarette after another as he watched the building materialize
before his very eyes. Outlaws and wastrels worked as carpenters, and Duane learned that they weren't completely worthless after all. Occasionally Maggie would step out of the Last Chance Saloon, issue a stream of curse-laden directives, and return to her smoky gloomy tavern.

Duane spent most of his time on the desert traveling from spot to spot so no one could anticipate his position. Sometimes he had the uncomfortable sensation that someone was stalking him, but he moved in a zigzag fashion, maintaining a low silhouette.

The only thing standing between him and old man Archer was a horse. Occasionally he thought of stealing one but didn't want to add horse thievery to his other low crimes and misdemeanors. At night he sat in the hills and gazed at the twinkling lights of Escondido in the distance, occasionally hearing the flat notes of the off-key pianist in the Last Chance Saloon. The only person he missed was Maggie, and he resolved to have a long talk with her before leaving for the Pecos country.

He slept in a cave like a coyote. The shrouded ghosts of Amos Twilby, the blacksmith, Hazel Sanders, and Marty Schlack paraded through his dreams, their mournful dirges disturbing his rest, as their poor lost souls cried for vengeance.

A
T THE END OF THE MONTH, HORSES
arrived for sale in Escondido, accompanied by wild-eyed cowboys, cigar-chomping ranchers, and sharp-eyed traders. Customers gathered from miles around to attend the auspicious sale, colored ribbons hung between buildings, and the piano player from the Last Chance Saloon pounded his keys on a platform constructed in the street before that great emporium of sin.

The horse fair was a gala event in the humdrum life of Escondido, and the leading performers were the horses themselves, from proud sleek prancing stallions to worn-out old nags a few strides ahead of the glue factory.

The merchandise was herded into the corral, as hawkers extolled the virtues of their animals, while ignoring their faults, such as no teeth, spavined limbs, and the desire to stomp a man to death.

Duane was spotted in the crowd at mid-morning, and folks gawked at him respectfully as he made his way toward the corral. Self-conscious, he tried to ignore unwanted attention as he appraised horses. He immediately spotted good prospects, but there'd be more of a selection later in the day, for horses still were arriving even as he leaned languidly on the top corral rail. He decided to have a talk with Maggie O'Day, then return later and make his choice.

He passed a lanky, clean-shaven deputy who scrutinized him anxiously, but Duane continued moving along. When they write the history of Escondido, Duane thought, maybe they'll remember I was first sheriff. He entered the Last Chance Saloon, nodded to Smiley the bartender, saluted Bradley Metzger, winked at the girls, and knocked on the door of Maggie's office. She bade him enter, and he sat on the chair in front of her.

She reached forward and touched his bearded chin. “You look like a mountain goat. Where've you been?”

“Nowhere, and after I buy a horse today, I'm gone. I'll miss you, Maggie. If it hadn't been for you, I'd probably be dead right now.”

“You'll probably be dead anyway, if you go to the Pecos country. Why look fer lead, Duane? I was you, I'd lay back and find a rich old gal to take care of me.”

Her eyes twinkled mischievously, but he pretended not to notice. “How's Alice doing?”

“She'll be awful hurt if you don't say goodbye to her. I think the gal's in love with you.”

“It's a funny thing about love,” Duane replied. “People say they love you, and a few days later they love somebody else.”

“I cain't argue with that, but it ain't healthy to live alone.”

“I can't see where it's hurt you.”

“Just because you cain't see, don't mean it ain't that.”

“You've been good to me, Maggie. I'll never forget you.”

“Oh yes you will
,
” she replied in her throaty worldly voice.

He kissed her cheek, backed out of her office, and found Alice Markham in a smaller room down the hall, sitting at a desk covered with paper, adding up numbers. She looked at Duane, dropped her pen, recovered it, and fingered it nervously.

“I'll be leaving sometime today, Alice. I've come to say goodbye.”

A teardrop appeared in her left eye which she wiped away hastily. “Good riddance,” she replied.

“There's something I've got to do, but I'll come back someday.”

“Horseshit,” she replied.

“A lady shouldn't cuss.” He pecked her cheek, then smiled warmly, but she looked like a disappointed petulant child. He backed out the door and
headed for the stable. It pained him to be desired by someone he couldn't love back. Despite the passage of time, for reasons he couldn't fully articulate, his heart still belonged to Miss Vanessa Fontaine, worst bitch of them all. One part of him hoped he'd never see her again, and the other prayed she'd arrive on the next stagecoach.

The new stable had been constructed similarly to the previous one, with horses lined in stalls along unpainted walls. The office was located in the same spot, and Duane found Sam Goines behind the desk.

“Thought I'd say goodbye,” Duane told him, holding out his hand. He looked around, to make sure no one was within earshot. “Thank your mother for me.”

Sam Goines shook his hand. “Good luck, boss. Thanks for bein' a gentleman about that little thang that happened in the loft.”

“Don't know what you're talking about,” Duane replied. He noticed the box of old books in the corner. “Mind if I take something to read along with me?”

“The books belong to you, boss.”

Duane found the volume he was seeking atop the pile:
The Prince
by Niccolo Machiavelli.