Outlaw Hell (28 page)

“I like it that way. This is my last supper in Escondido, Maggie. When I finish here, I'm on my way north.”

“You've put on quite a show, Duane,” she said, “and I'll miss you. Say, why don't you take little Alice with you? I passed her office a while ago and heard her crying.”

“Maybe she was crying for somebody you don't know about.”

“She talks about you all the time. I guess she wasn't happy in the business, but it's better than starvin' to death. You might look down on old Maggie O'Day, but I give my gals three square meals, and what they make of the job is up to them.”

“I don't look down on you, Maggie. You're the nicest lady I ever met.”

She blushed, searched for a change of subject, and her eyes fell on the floor. “What's wrong with the dog?”

“He's eating the bone that I just throwed him.”

“Looks like he's daid!”

The dog lay still with the bone in his mouth, his tongue hanging out, eyes glazed over. “Hey, are you all right?” Duane prodded the dog with his boot, but the animal didn't respond. A faint white foam smeared the animal's lips. Duane beheld the animal in astonishment. “I do believe you're right. Maybe he had a stroke.”

“Pore ugly son of a bitch,” said Maggie tenderly.
“He's been livin' off other people's plates fer five years. I'll find somebody to carry ‘im away.”

She set off in search of Bradley Metzger, as Duane lifted the dead dog tenderly and laid him on the table. The ex-sheriff examined the animal carefully, and the only thing unusual was the white stuff on the dog's mouth. Duane lowered his nose to the steak and sniffed a faint medicinal odor. His brow wrinkled with disbelief. Did somebody just try to poison me?

He arose from the chair, checked the position of his Colt, then scanned the crowd for Conchita. He saw her at the far end of the saloon, taking a drink order from a group of blackjack players. Duane threaded among tables and touched his hand to her shoulder.

“Anything wrong, Señor Braddock?”

“Somebody just tried to poison me, I'm afraid.”

She let out a coy laugh. “The food here is not
that
bad.”

He took her hand and led her to the dog lying on the table with his white tongue hanging out. “I tossed him the bone, and he died straightaway. You didn't put any special sauce on, did you?”

“I carried the steak directly from the chop counter, Señor. There was no sauce on it that I could see.”

“Come with me.”

They headed for the chop counter, where a Negro cook in a bloodstained white apron was flipping steaks and frying potatoes laced with onions.
The fragrance permeated the saloon, but Duane's appetite had vanished with the dog's expiration. He tucked his head underneath the counter, came up beside the cook, and examined the work area at close range.

“What's up, boss?” asked the Negro, beads of perspiration on his ebony forehead.

“What's your name?”

“George Goines.”

“You didn't try to poison me just now, did you George?”

The cook appeared surprised. “Why'd I do that?”

“You tell me.”

“This steak was butchered this morning. I only used a little salt and pepper.”

Duane looked at him closely. His reaction appeared genuine, and he was a Goines, which predisposed Duane to trust him, but there was no way to be sure. Duane returned to the far side of the chop counter, where Conchita was waiting. “Did you carry the steak directly to my table?”

“I had to stop at the bar.”

Duane glanced in that direction. A crowd was gathered in front of the brass rail, but Smiley wasn't visible. Duane drew his gun, approached the area from the side, and looked behind the counter. The bartender who never smiled was gone.

“Where's the bartender?” asked Duane.

“Ran out back fer a minute,” replied the nearest drunkard.

Duane headed toward the rear corridor, as
Maggie and Bradley Metzger appeared at its entrance. “What's your hurry?” asked Maggie.

“Have you seen the bartender?”

“Ain't he behind the bar where he belongs?”

“No.”

Maggie was confused and looked to Bradley for help. Duane ran down the corridor to the rear of the building, pushed open the rear door, and aimed his gun into the backyard. Then he cautiously stepped toward the privy. So it's been the bartender all along, he deliberated. He was in front of me all these weeks, watching me coming and going, stalking me, pouring me whisky, and trying to kill me. Anticipating the showdown, Duane knocked on the door of the privy. “Come out with your hands up, or I'll shoot you through the door.”

“What the hell's goin' on hyar!” replied a baritone voice. The door flew open, and a beer-bellied horse trader stepped out, buttoning his fly. “Who the hell're you?”

“Sorry,” Duane said. “Made a mistake.”

“Goddamn,” said the drunkard, wobbling toward the saloon. “A man can't take a piss in this town without somebody a-threatenin' his life!”

The ex-sheriff searched the backyard for traces of the bartender. Where would I go if I were he? His brow wrinkled in thought, and a possible solution came to mind. He ran down the middle of the street, gun in hand, as loungers wondered what was wrong with the Pecos Kid. Duane charged into the stable, paused in the darkness, and said: “Sam?”

He was answered by hoofbeats exploding toward him down the center aisle. It was Smiley, the bartender, still wearing his white apron and putting spurs to his horse, his gun aimed at Duane. Duane saw the evil bartender's grin of shame and leapt out of the way. The gun fired and floorboards splintered near Duane's feet. Duane dived out of the way, landed on a pile of hay, rolled, and took a wild shot at the bartender riding toward the door. Smiley was on the street before Duane could fire again.

Duane rushed toward Nestor, scooped a bridle off a peg, and positioned the bit in Nestor's mouth. “I don't have time for a saddle,” Duane said, “so I'll have to ride you Apache-style.”

Duane jumped onto Nestor's back, wheeled him around, and nudged him toward the door. Nestor burst across the floorboards, then charged outside and galloped at top speed down the middle of the street. Townspeople were gathered on both sides, entertained by the spectacle of the ex-sheriff chasing the bartender of the Last Chance Saloon.

Nestor's hooves pounded the ground steadily, carrying Duane onto the desert. Duane saw a dot of white in the night ahead, the bartender's shirt and apron. Nestor loved to run free, with the bit loose in his mouth and not too much weight on his back. Duane hung on with his knees as the horse plummeted through the night, gaining steadily on the bartender, who glanced back fearfully and fired a haphazard shot.

Duane crouched low against Nestor's undulating
black mane, as the russet stallion leapt over a cholla cactus, saw his quarry turn right, and angled to cut him off. Sharp needles scratched Duane's pants and Nestor's legs, but the spirited animal loved a good race. Smiley aimed another inaccurate shot as he rode for the hills or anywhere else where he could make his last stand.

But Nestor was gaining rapidly on the bartender, and Duane readied his Colt for a shot. “Stop, or I'll plug you!” he hollered.

“Never!” replied Smiley, punctuating his reply with another bullet whizzing harmlessly through the air.

They sped down an arroyo, their hoofbeats echoing off rows of cottonwood trees. The bartender tried to aim at Duane, but his horse was in motion and the bullet went astray. Duane could see stark terror on the bartender's face.

“You don't have a chance!” Duane hollered. “Stop!”

“Damn you to hell!” bellowed the bartender.

They were ten feet apart, and Smiley rode with his reins in his teeth as he feverishly reloaded his gun. Then he turned around and tried another shot. The yellow flash illuminated the night instantaneously, but Duane kept coming. He was six feet behind Smiley, and could shoot him in the back, but a dead bartender spoke no tales.

Duane pulled Nestor's reins toward Smiley's horse, but Nestor was as close as he wanted to go. Duane raised one boot onto Nestor's bobbing back and dived through the air. He landed on the bartender,
tore him out of the saddle, and together they fell toward blurred cactus beneath them.

They landed, jostled, and rolled over, and when the dust had cleared, Duane was on top, pressing the barrel of his Colt against Smiley's sweat-stained forehead. “Why'd you try to kill me?” Duane asked between clenched teeth. “And you'd better tell the truth, because I ain't playing.”

Smiley gasped for air, thinking his hour had come. His eyes were bloodshot and his tongue lashed the air. “I did it fer the money!” he screamed. “Don't shoot!”

“Who paid you?”

“If I tell you, he'll kill me!”

“If you don't tell me,
I'll
kill you!”

The bartender seemed at war with himself. “The man who gave me the poison,” he hissed.

“Tell me his name, or you're a dead man.”

“I'm a dead man anyways!” shrieked the bartender.

He gave a mighty pitch, managing to upset Duane's balance. Duane fell to the side, as Smiley dived for the gun he'd dropped. He scooped it up, pointed to his own temple, and closed his eyes.

“Don't shoot!” Duane shouted.

Smiley snarled, then pulled the trigger. Blood, brains, and bone flew in all directions. Smiley grinned victoriously as he sagged toward the ground. Duane didn't have to feel his pulse to know he was dead. Disappointed and disgusted with himself, Duane searched the bartender's pockets, finding keys, a tobacco pouch, wooden
matches, and a hundred dollars in coins. I'll search his room, Duane thought, but where does he live?

Duane realized that he knew nothing about Smiley the bartender, yet Smiley had known everything about him. Who had paid him to do the job? Nestor returned, a solemn expression on his face. Duane decided to leave the bartender for the buzzards, so he climbed onto his new mount and headed toward the bright lights of Escondido.

If that poor dog had chewed on somebody else's steak bone, he'd be alive right now, Duane acknowledged, and I'd be lying on the floor of the Last Chance Saloon with white stuff on my lips. What kind of poison was it? How did it come to Escondido? Do they sell it in the general store, or does somebody in town make it? Duane flashed on rows of chemical bottles in the undertaker's office.

He'd been suspicious of the undertaker from the moment they'd first met. There was something diabolical about Snodgras, but Duane had ascribed it to his macabre profession. The undertaker definitely has poison in his house, and I think it's time I had a little talk with him.

But I shouldn't persecute a man who may be innocent, Duane cautioned himself. Just because he deals in dead bodies, that doesn't mean he's killing them too. And just because he has chemicals, he requires them in his profession. But I haven't seen chemicals anywhere else. If he's allied with Smiley,
he probably left town by now, or maybe he's hiding, waiting to spring another bushwhack.

Duane drifted into Escondido behind sheds and privies, avoided the saloon district, and approached the undertaker's house from the rear. A lamp burned in the parlor, and all was silent as Duane climbed down from Nestor's bare back. Then he tied the animal to a tree, drew his Colt, and snuck silently toward an open window.

He saw the undertaker pacing back and forth in the parlor, hands clasped behind his back, wearing black pants, white shirt, and black suspenders. Duane raised his face above the sill, aimed his gun at the undertaker, and said, “Howdy.”

The undertaker blanched, and appeared as though his worst nightmare had come true. Then he pulled his shoulders up and tried to compose himself. “What are you doing lurking beneath my window, young man?”

“I've come to pay you a visit, Mister Undertaker Man.”

Duane raised his leg over the sill and climbed into the parlor, his gun aimed at the undertaker's chest. “Guess what? Smiley told me that you paid him to poison me.”

It was humbug, but seemed to be working. The undertaker's lips quivered with barely concealed emotions. “I never paid him to poison you or anybody else, and I don't care what he said!”

“I saw bottles of chemicals in your laboratory. You know how people die, and I wouldn't be surprised
if you help them sometimes. How much is Old Man Archer paying you?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Snodgras replied, his eyes darting about excitedly.

“Raise your hands high.”

Snodgras followed orders. Duane patted him down, searching for a hidden derringer, but found nothing except a small pocketknife. Duane aimed his gun at the undertaker's nose. “I wonder if you're the low-down skunk who took a potshot at me when I was riding on the desert a few weeks ago.”

“Not me,” replied the undertaker, gazing at the barrel of Duane's gun. “I knew you were loco, but not
this
loco.”

“Are there poisonous chemicals in your office?”

“Of course. I'm an undertaker and my work requires them.”

“Have you noticed any missing?”

“As a matter of fact ... I have,” Snodgras said shakily.

“You'd better start telling the truth.” Duane pressed the barrel of the Colt against the undertaker's nose, squashing it down.

“Don't shoot!” the undertaker screamed. “It wasn't me!”

“Liar,” Duane replied, as he tightened his finger around the trigger.

Sweat poured down Snodgras's face. He gasped for air, and his eyes crossed as he stared fearfully at Duane's Colt. But Duane couldn't shoot him in cold blood, and his latest bluff appeared a failure.
Maybe he was innocent after all, Duane speculated, his conviction wavering. He loosened his finger on the trigger, and the undertaker realized that he'd been given a reprieve. “This is an outrage,” he said in a quavering voice. “I'm an innocent man.”

“There's an old Apache trick that I learned a while back,” Duane replied. “You take a man onto the desert, wrap green rawhide around his head, and stake him in the sun. The rawhide contracts and crushes his skull in a slow agonizing process, and maybe, while it's going on, you'll tell me who you're working for, what he paid you, and where I can find him.”