Outlaw Hell (27 page)

He opened it, and his studious eyes fell on these words:

The Prince should read history and reflect upon the deeds of great men, studying how they conducted themselves in war, examining the causes of their victories and defeats, and
learning to emulate the former, while avoiding the latter.

Again it seemed as if the old courtier were talking directly to him. Duane tucked the book into his belt and strolled out of the stable. More horses had been brought to the corral while he'd been making the rounds, and a larger selection was now offered, as he'd anticipated. He rambled closer, rested his elbows on the top corral rail, and evaluated the horseflesh for sale.

His brief cowboy experience had taught him that the most important quality in a horse was long-range endurance. Good lines didn't necessarily indicate quality, and a healthy-appearing horse might die suddenly of a strange illness, while a well-behaved mount often was the worst choice of all. Buying a horse was mysterious business, and Duane tended to follow his gut instincts. He liked a certain wildness in the horse's eyes, because wildness was where endurance came from.

After several minutes of careful observation, he decided that the best-looking horse in the corral was a big russet stallion with a shiny black mane, solid lines, and skittish dancing. Duane climbed over the animal, pointed at the stallion's nose, and said: “Who belongs to this horse!”

“I do!”

A white-whiskered old man headed toward Duane, his hand extended, with a confirmed swindler's gap-toothed grin. “My name's Hodge,
and this here's Nestor. You got good taste in horses—I can see that. Why don't you take ‘im fer a ride?”

“What do you want for him?”

“A hundred dollars.”

“No horse is worth a hundred dollars.”

“He's not for everybody, that's fer sure. But if you've got the money, you can't buy a better horse in Texas.”

“If he's so good, how come you're selling him?”

“It's my bizness to sell horses, but I ain't inner-ested in nags. I caters to the connoisseur, if you gits what I mean.” The old man winked.

Duane examined Nestor's strong white teeth, and noticed his clear bright eyes.

“Only three years old,” the horse trader said. “This animal will give years of good solid service if you take care of him.”

“Where'd he come from?”

The old horse trader of the plains wrinkled his nose. “It ain't polite to ask a man where his horse came from, but ‘twixt you and me, he was confiscated by the cavalry from Apaches.” The horse trader lowered his voice. “I bought him on a special consignment from a friend of mines in the Army.”

Nestor didn't wear the Fourth Cavalry brand, and evidently had been sold with no official papers, while the thieving soldiers pocketed the proceeds. The trader marketed his wares in outlying border towns to well-heeled outlaws who wouldn't ask questions.

The trader bridled and saddled Nestor, while Nestor glanced at Duane warily out the corner of his eye. Nestor had been born on a ranch, raised by cowboys, stolen by Apaches, recovered by bluecoats after a series of running gun battles, and now was being sold again. All the faithful animal could do was try to make a good impression. Hodge led Nestor to the gate, and a cowboy opened it. Then Hodge handed the reins to Duane. “He's all your'n, but if you cripple ‘im, you pay for ‘im.”

The ex-sheriff adjusted the stirrups, then climbed into the saddle. Nestor danced to the side as Duane gripped the reins. He aimed Nestor toward the open desert, touched his spurs to the animal's flanks, and said: “Show me what you've got.”

Nestor walked out of town, glad to be free from the corral, but not especially pleased by the weight on his back. He cleared the outbuildings and broke into a lope, to loosen his limbs and get the old lungs pumping.

Duane thought the horse felt like steel springs beneath the saddle. Then Nestor gathered speed, working himself to a full gallop, as Duane accelerated past cactus and juniper, wind whistling around his silver concho hatband. Nestor stretched his long legs forward and put on a burst of speed, overjoyed to be on open land. He turned his head to the side to let a long stream of saliva escape his lips, then found an old wagon trail, turned onto it, and raced for the mountains in the distance.

Duane crouched low in the saddle, as wind whipped his black shirt and jeans. It felt as if Nestor could keep galloping eternally. What a horse! Duane thought exultantly. If a posse were following me right now, what's a hundred dollars against the hangman's noose?

Duane paid the dealer, put Nestor in the stable, and spent the rest of the afternoon gathering final supplies. He intended to depart after sundown, travel at night, and sleep during the day. Within a month, he'd be at the banks of the Pecos.

When his chores were completed, he strolled into the Apocalypse Church, found an empty pew, dropped to his knees, and clasped his hands together. He intended to pray for safe passage, but his mind went blank, unlike in his monastic days when he fell into religious ecstasies almost at will. I've become a worldly man, and I carry Machiavelli instead of the Bible. He pulled out the black leather-bound book, cracked it open, and read: “
Whoever organizes a state and makes its laws must assume that all men are wicked, and will behave wickedly at every opportunity.
”

This hombre really makes sense, Duane thought. First chance I get, I'm going to read this all the way through. “
The mob is always impressed by appearances, and the world is composed of the mob.
”

“I hope you're not planning to leave without saying goodbye, Mister Braddock.”

Duane saw the preacher's wife, Patricia Berclair, standing with a smile at the end of the pew. “How inspiring to see you reading your Bible when everybody else is getting drunk and boisterous.”

Duane raised himself from the pew and stood only inches away, hiding the title of the book. Her bosom heaved. She balled her fists and closed her eyes.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Of course I'm all right.” She smiled, and opened her lids. “Sometimes the desert air makes me dizzy.”

He wondered how desert air could make her swoon in a church with small windows, but grinned politely. “It's been nice knowing you,” he said. He became aware of a shadow in the doorway leading back to the sacristy. “Is the reverend about?”

“He's with his Bible class.”

“Please say goodbye to him for me. God bless you, Mrs. Berclair.” He took her hands in his, kissed her fingertips, then turned abruptly and walked out of the church.

She watched him go, her fingertips tingling with pleasure. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and whispered, “Thank you, Jesus.” Then she turned toward the doorway, noticing for the first time the shadow lingering there. Frightened, she turned to run, when the voice of her husband came to her ears.

“Thank you,” he said, emerging from the darkness, his wide pastoral hat covering his eyes.

He wore a cloak and carried something underneath
it, like a pistol or knife. “For what?” she asked cautiously.

“I thought you would leave with him,” he replied.

She looked at the bulge beneath his garments. “Are you planning to kill me, Herbert?”

He opened the folds and revealed his Bible. “I couldn't possibly harm you more than I have already,” he said earnestly, holding the scriptures in the air. “I was the most selfish man in the world when I asked you to be my wife, since ... I couldn't be your husband in reality. If you went with Braddock, you'd be perfectly justified, but I don't think I could've held up knowing that you were making love with him every night.”

“You're being silly,” she replied with a little laugh. “Why would he want an old lady like me when he can have any woman in town?”

“I've always thought you were the most beautiful woman in the world, Patricia. I know that he was taken by your charm.”

“Really, Herbert. What would I do with the Pecos Kid? Lawmen all over Texas are looking for him, and did you expect
me,
of all people, to go on the dodge? By the way, why aren't you in your Bible class?”

“I sent the students home so that I could spy on you. I honestly thought you'd throw yourself at his feet. How little I know you.”

“You should call your students back, because we don't want them to miss the Lord's holy instruction, or do we?”

His eyes filled with tears and he shook with a sob. He dropped to his knees before her, bowed his head, and said, “Forgive me, for I have doubted you. Forgive me, for I thought I was superior to you. Forgive me for thinking that God loved me more than he loved you. And forgive me most of all for being the most ridiculous, disgusting, and hideous fool in Escondido.”

She looked at him for a long time, her chin perched in her fingertips, and then replied thoughtfully, “I think I like you better this way.”

Duane sauntered toward the saloon district, unaware that he'd just helped improve a marriage. A chasm yawned in his stomach, and he thought he'd have one last good meal at the Last Chance Saloon before hitting the trail.

A little voice told him to pass the Last Chance by, but prudence offended his fundamentally rebellious nature. He pushed open the swinging doors of the drinking establishment, where outlaws from two nations were spread wall to wall, flaring sombreros beside wide-brimmed cowboy hats, with a derby or stovepipe hat tossed in for good measure. Bradley Metzger welcomed Duane like a lost cousin, slapped him on the shoulder, led him to a table in back, and forced its occupants to leave. “You can have this one, Sheriff,” he said. “I'll send a waitress right over.”

Duane gazed at Bradley Metzger's receding
back. Once, long ago, they'd punched each other in their faces, and now were almost friends. It's enough to make you believe in God, Duane said to himself.

A Mexican waitress with flashing eyes brought him a glass of whisky. “On the house,” she said. “My name is Conchita. Can I get you something to eat, Señor Pecos Kid?”

“Steak with all the trimmings, and an extra helping of collard greens, if you've got ‘em.”

She launched herself toward the chop counter, as Duane sipped whisky, his tension disintegrating in alcoholic fumes. He felt that part of his life was ending, with the next installment about to begin. I'll go to Edgewood first and visit my mother's grave. Maybe I'll find an old gal friend of my mother's who can tell me more about her, and who knows, a daguerreotype of Miss Kathleen O'Shea might be lying around.

Former deputy Derek Wright appeared in the aisle, his old Confederate cavalry hat tilted at a rakish angle. “Heard you're leaving town. Mind if I sit down?” Without waiting for an answer, he dropped to the chair opposite Duane. “Headed for the Pecos?”

Duane nodded slowly. “That's right.”

Wright sighed. “Let me tell you something, sonny jim. You don't have a chance against the Archers. They've got their own private army.”

“What's it to you?”

Wright appeared uncomfortable. “Just a li'l worried about you, damn fool kid.”

“Last time somebody was worried about me, I
found out afterwards that he'd been a friend of my father's. How about you, Derek? Were you a friend of my father's?”

Wright drew his head back as if someone tweaked his nose. “What a crazy damned thing to say. I wasn't even in Texas back in those days. Hey kid, I never rode with the Polka Dots or any other outlaw gang.”

Duane smiled sagely. “Are you afraid of the Archers too?”

Wright looked at Duane intently for a few moments. “The damnedest things come out of your mouth, but if I'm ever in the Pecos country, I'll put some posies on your grave.” Wright leaned forward, placed his hand on Duane's shoulder, and squeezed. “Don't be a horse's ass, kid. Go to Mexico.”

“Too hot in Mexico,” Duane replied. “I'm off to the Pecos soon as I finish supper.”

“I tried,” uttered the ex-cavalry officer. “Good luck, Pecos.”

Wright lurched toward the bar, and Duane wondered if the ex-officer had actually ridden with the Polka Dots in the old days. I know what kind of man Derek Wright is, and he'd go to the Pecos country too if he was me.

The saloon churned with horse traders and customers, while waitresses ran frantically about with trays of beer, whisky, and steak platters. Absent-mindedly, to pass the time, Duane drew his Colt and checked the loads. A gun can be used for both good and evil, he realized. Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord God.

He holstered the gun as Conchita arrived with the steak platter. She placed it in front of him, winked flirtatiously, and asked, “Anything else?”

“Not at the moment,” he replied.

“I'm new in town.”

“I'm on my way out.”

“You don't like it here?”

“I don't like it anywhere.”

“That is because you do not like yourself, Señor Pecos Kid.”

She walked away, tray balanced on fingertips. Duane picked up his knife and tested it against his thumb. It was razor sharp. Then he cut himself a thick chunk of meat. His mouth watered as he raised it to his mouth, when something moved in the corner of his eye. Duane's hand stopped in midair. A big shaggy dog with one blind eye was looking at him hopefully. “Okay feller,” Duane said. “You get the bone first, and all the rest'll be for me, all right?”

Duane sawed the massive bone away and threw it into the air. The dog leapt high, snatched it in his yellow fangs, dropped to the floor at Duane's feet, and commenced to gnaw. “Now it's my turn,” said the former sheriff.

A voluptuous figure approached down the aisle, as Duane was lifting the chunk of beef to his lips. “Do you always talk to animals?” asked Maggie, a wry grin on her face.

Duane set the fork down again. “I've had some of my best conversations with dogs and horses. They understand more than you think.”

She peered at his steak. “It looks a little raw. I'll get you another.”