Devil's Creek Massacre Read online

  Duane couldn't tolerate Johnny Pinto's taunts anymore. He should wait another two weeks until his wounds were fully healed, but Johnny had spat upon him, the supreme insult. Duane was confident that he could receive a good solid punch to the guts without fainting, or so he hoped, and Johnny should be punished for his murderous ways. “Up to you,” he said.

  Johnny Pinto wanted to laugh with joy. “Wait a minute—does that mean yer a-gonna fight me right naow with yer fists?”

  Duane handed his hat to Cochrane, then proceeded to unbutton his shirt. Johnny Pinto had his answer, and his excitement mounted as he saw fresh purple scars emerge on Duane's body. Johnny knew how to dig punches to a man's body, among other saloon tricks. He passed his hat to the old Mexican, then unbuttoned his own shirt.

  The night air was cold and bracing against Johnny's sunken chest. Johnny lacked the muscle development of Duane, and looked vaguely like a lizard as he worked his shoulders and kicked his ankles. Johnny knew about the knee below the belt-line, the thumb in the eye, and once he'd bitten off half of a man's ear. He raised his hands and said, “I'm ready when you are, Mr. Pecos Kid. What a dumb fuckin’ name.”

  Duane was tempted to pound Johnny's head through the ground, but instead recalled the training that Brother Paolo had provided. The first rule was never fight emotionally, and second was a boxer must impose his will upon his opponent. Johnny Pinto's spittle still burned Duane's cheeks, the insult singed his heart, and Duane Braddock raised his fists into the high position taught him by Brother Paolo.

  Cochrane, Beasley, Walsh, and the other members of the gang stood among the crowd of Comancheros. There was no referee, no ring, and no rest between rounds. Some spectators held bottles of whiskey and placed bets in rapid-fire Spanish. Johnny Pinto advanced sideways, holding both fists at chest level, wrists slightly bent. He was going to take the fight to Duane, so Duane danced lightly to the side, realizing with dismay that his speed was off. He tried to convince himself that it wouldn't impede his defense, yet Brother Paolo had taught him that speed was as important as power and accuracy of punches.

  Johnny shifted direction, in an effort to block Duane's path, so Duane darted back toward his previous direction. Johnny stopped, made an exasperated expression, and said, “I thought you wanted to fight.”

  Duane flicked a stiff jab at Johnny's face. Johnny didn't see it coming; it caught him flush on the nose and drove him backward. Johnny raised his hands to protect his head, then Duane threw a long looping left hook under Johnny's elbow and into his kidney. Johnny muffled a scream as he stood toe to toe with Duane and hurled a solid shot at Duane's midsection. Johnny's aim was true, and his fist buried itself into Duane's belly scar.

  Duane darted to the left, gasping for breath and hoping he had no internal injuries. He changed direction again, realizing that he wasn't well enough to fight, but he'd seen an opening in Johnny's defense. Johnny Pinto was the kind of fighter who lunged, so Duane bounced lightly, feinted a left jab, and threw a clean whistling right lead at Johnny's ear. It connected; Duane skipped out of the way, and Johnny attempted to hammer Duane's scar, but Duane was long gone.

  Johnny realized with sinking heart that he was slower than Duane, but he always had a puncher's chance. He crowded toward Duane, keeping the pressure on, hoping to open Duane up. He'd seen Duane wince painfully after the stomach punch, and knew what to do.

  Johnny jumped in front of Duane and threw a jab, but Duane kept dodging away as if he wore steel springs in his boots. Johnny tried to cut him off, but Duane launched another jab into Johnny's already bleeding nose. The blow jarred Johnny's brain, but he had the presence to hurl a quick counterpunch, which landed in the cool night air.

  Johnny turned in the direction Duane had gone, when another punch landed on his nose, and it felt like a spear driven into his skull. He raised his arms to cover his bleeding proboscis, and a series of new blows smashed into his kidneys. He took a step back, threw a wild punch, ducked, and got walloped by a zooming uppercut.

  Johnny's head snapped back, he lost his balance and fell onto his ass. A roar went up from the crowd, and he blinked his eyes, trying to understand what was happening. He was so dazed he'd forgotten his name.

  A shirtless black-haired man danced in front of him, Mexicans jabbered noisily, and the clinking of coins could be heard. Johnny was getting the shit beat out of him, and Cochrane wore a half smile of pleasure on his face. Johnny had to turn the fight around, and the best way was get inside Duane's defense, work that belly, and cut him down to size. Call it courage or pigheaded stupidity, but Johnny Pinto drew himself to his feet.

  He found Lopez standing before him, an expression of mercy on his features. “This has gone far enough, eh, compañero? Why don't you walk away while you still can?”

  “Out of my way,” Johnny said levelly.

  Lopez stepped back, and Johnny advanced on Duane. His plan was to dive onto Duane, suffer whatever punishment would hit him, and wrestle Duane to the ground. Then, in the rough-and-tumble, he'd rip open those scars with his bare hands.

  Duane danced in front of Johnny, flicking out his jab. Johnny dived underneath it and reached for Duane's legs, but Duane wasn't there, and Johnny landed painfully in the dirt. He spun around, covering his face with his arm, because he feared that Duane would kick him in the face.

  Instead, Duane was keeping his distance, constantly in motion, chin tucked behind his shoulder, hands protecting his face. Johnny rolled to his feet and wiped dust off his jeans. “You ain't a fighter—yer a runner. Why don't you stand still and fight like a man?”

  Johnny raised his hands and threw a jab at Duane's lips, but Duane moved his head three inches to the left while simultaneously hooking Johnny to the kidney. It was another painful shot. Johnny hooked back, but Duane caught the punch on his arm, ducked underneath a right cross, and threw an uppercut at Johnny's solar plexus. It connected on target; Johnny was momentarily paralyzed, and then it felt as if a horse had run into him.

  Duane clobbered him across the snoot yet again, and Johnny reeled back, his lips pulped. He growled angrily and ran into another straight right. The next thing Johnny Pinto knew, he was lying on the ground, his eyelids held open by Lopez's thumbs. “Are you all right, señor?”

  “Get the fuck away from me.”

  Johnny pushed Lopez away and lurched to his feet. He staggered first to the left and then to the right as crickets and birds chirped inside his head. He knew that he couldn't outbox Duane no matter what he did, but wasn't ready to give up. “This ain't no fair fight,” he said, “'cause yer a professional fighter. But I've got somethin’ right here that'll equal us out.”

  He reached behind his back and yanked out his bowie knife, then brought it around and held the blade straight up. “You got the sand to handle a real fight?” he asked.

  I should quit while I'm ahead, considered Duane, but I'll never back down to this pig, and I don't care what he pulls on me. Duane had been trained in knife fighting by the Apaches themselves, and believed that he could defeat any white man easily. Clenching his teeth, he reached to his boot and withdrew his Apache knife. It had a carved wooden handle and an eight-inch razor-sharp blade.

  “From now on, no rules,” Johnny said.

  “Now just a moment,” Cochrane declared at the edge of the crowd. “Knife fights can be pretty bloody. Maybe the both of you'd better cool down.”

  “Nothin’ to cool down fer,” said Johnny. “Unless shithead over thar wants to give up. Otherwise I'm going home with his ears in my back pocket.”

  “You're not going anywhere,” Duane replied, holding his knife in front of him and getting low.

  Johnny was swelling around the eyes, his face had been busted up, and his nose flattened. He'd piss blood for the rest of the month, but Duane didn't feel sorry for him as he looked for likely openings. The Apaches had taught him that speed is everything in a knife fight.

  Johnny feinted his blade toward Duane, but Duane was tense as a puma about to
strike. Then Johnny shouted and shoved his knife toward Duane's belly, but Duane danced to the side and whipped his edge through Johnny's forearm. Blood spurted out, the blade had sliced to the bone, and Johnny couldn't suppress a howl. Duane saw three openings, but chose not to kill Johnny at that moment.

  Tendons had been severed, and Johnny's knife dropped from his numbed right hand. Lips quivering with pain, he bent his knees and picked it up in his left hand. He didn't have to say anything—his eyes told the story. He was prepared to kill Duane Braddock or die in the attempt.

  He grunted like a bull as he charged Duane, slashing his knife at Duane's face, but the Pecos Kid dodged gracefully and lopped off a chunk of Johnny's left forearm. Johnny screeched mightily, and all he could do was adopt a defensive pose. But Duane didn't attack. Blood poured out of Johnny's arteries and veins, and his torment was nightmarish. Johnny could barely see, everything spun around him, his face was pallid, and he tried to find his opponent; then his knees gave out, he dropped to the ground, and in spite of himself, a sob escaped his lips.

  The schoolmaster's son struggled to hold back tears, but agony urged him onward, and his ravaged pride added the final touch. His face contorted by suffering, his body sagged, and the stump of his nose slammed against the ground as he passed out due to loss of blood.

  Dr. Montgomery cut two lengths of fabric from Johnny's jeans, and fashioned tourniquets around Johnny's arms. Then he reached into his saddlebags for needles and thread. “Could somebody bring me some hot water?”

  Lopez barked orders in Spanish, and Comancheros scurried back to the cantina. Duane wiped his blade on Johnny's jacket, then stuffed the knife into his boot. He felt unsteady on his feet; the fight had sucked strength away, and he still wasn't fully recovered from his wounds.

  He wanted to sit, and the only place was in the saloon. He headed in that direction; the crowd opened a path, and he was joined by Cochrane. “That was some fight.”

  Duane made his way toward the table, sat with his back to the wall, and felt like a dirty beast. How do I get into these situations? he asked himself. I was bored at the monastery, but at least I wasn't knifing people. Why can't I turn the other cheek like a decent Christian?

  Cochrane sat opposite him and shook his head disapprovingly. “It was a mistake to let Johnny Pinto in the gang. He's good with a gun, but he's kill crazy.”

  Lopez arrived with a bottle of mescal, which he placed noisily on the table. “I have heard of you before, Señor Braddock,” he said. “The americano army is looking for you, no?”

  “Reckon so,” replied Duane as he reached for the mescal. He filled his glass half-full and took a swig. It went down smooth as velvet fire, warming his belly, easing his mind. Meanwhile, the crowd drifted back to the saloon, and everyone was looking at him. The irregulars returned to the table and sat in respectful silence. Duane wanted to sleep, but a perverse part of him enjoyed the attention. He held his head a little higher. “What've they got to eat in this damned place,” he snarled. “I'm hungry.”

  He refilled his glass and took another gulp, because he wanted to escape his mind. The ex-acolyte took no pleasure in cutting a man, and always felt sick when the excitement was over. He guzzled mescal, wanting to blot out the memory of Johnny Pinto bleeding and weeping, Johnny's arms immobilized by skillfully aimed slashes. How can I do these things? Duane asked himself. Why don't I back off from trouble?

  “You all right, Kid?” asked Cochrane.

  Duane didn't feel like talking, and everybody in the cantina was looking at him. He felt like a celebrity as he took another swallow of mescal. If anybody deserved to get the shit beat out of him, it was Johnny Pinto, he determined. I won the fight, but here I am carrying on as if I lost. Johnny Pinto shot a man, and maybe I was God's own instrument of divine justice, although every atrocity had come from people who thought God was whispering special announcements into their ears.

  The mescal glowed warm in his belly, he was starting to relax, and the cramped cantina took on a golden glow. A pretty Mexican waitress in a short dress placed a platter of food in front of him, and he gazed at cheese and beef enchiladas, chili stew, beans, and a salad of avocado pears. He picked up the knife and fork and began to dine. His stomach felt as if he were starving, and brightly colored lights popped inside his eyeballs. He often experienced hallucinations and strange visions when drinking mescal, so he refilled his glass and enjoyed a few more swallows. To the victor belongs the spoils, he concluded as word spread throughout Ceballos Rios that the Pecos Kid was in town.

  Johnny Pinto lay on a cot in a small room. Both arms throbbed with pain, he was suffering the worst headache of his life, his kidneys felt as if iron spikes had been driven into them, and his lower lip had been split wide open. He'd never been beaten so badly in his life.

  Afternoon sunlight streamed through the window, and someone sat beside him. “Who's there?” he asked thickly.

  “Jim Walsh. How're you feelin’, Johnny?”

  “You can see fer yerself, cain't you?” Johnny gritted his teeth, the pain was so bad. “You got somethin’ to drink?”

  “Mescal.”

  The smooth cool mouth of the bottle touched Johnny's battered lips, encrusted with dried blood. Johnny swallowed as much as he could, then dropped back onto the pillow. Never had he taken such a pounding. He couldn't breathe through his nose, and it felt as if his jaw had been dislocated. He'd always believed that he was one rough hombre, but Duane Braddock had kicked his ass royally, no two ways about it. Johnny could make no excuses.

  “I'll leave the mescal with you,” Walsh said. “You'll be all right, Johnny. You just fucked with the wrong cowboy, that's all.”

  Walsh walked out of the room, and his footsteps receded down the corridor. Johnny was a solitary invalid in a Comanchero hotel, while the others were having a party at the cantina. The fall from grace had been merciless, and Johnny was stunned by its velocity. But Johnny's greatest hurt wasn't his shattered nose or torn forearm ligaments. Before, men had groveled before him, whereas now they rejoiced behind his back. Probably got what was coming to him, they said.

  Johnny didn't know if he could ever hold his head up again. It galled him to admit that Duane Braddock was a better fighter, relegating Johnny to the second-class position again, as when he'd lived with his crazy old bookworm father, laughingstock of the neighborhood.

  As a child, Johnny Pinto had thrown tantrums until his weak-willed parents gave in to him. He'd developed a hateful, spiteful, envious view of the world, perhaps because his father preferred books to the company of his son, and his mother was a frightened child herself. But whatever the reason, and maybe there was no real reason, Johnny Pinto was an extraordinarily dangerous entity as he lay suffering in a Comanchero hotel.

  He bit his lower lip in an effort to fight the pain. Both arms felt submerged in molten iron, his ribs ached increasingly, and he believed that his kidneys would never be the same. He ground his teeth together angrily, setting off jabs of pain inside his skull. He wished he could pass out, but somehow remained fully conscious. He didn't have strength to raise the bottle of mescal to his lips. Wherever Johnny went, there'd be somebody who'd seen him get his ass whipped by Duane Braddock.

  Johnny cringed beneath his light blanket. He didn't like folks to see his weaknesses, because that would give them advantages. He suspected enemies and threats everywhere, and believed most people were against him because they were jealous. That's why a man had to be strong and not tolerate horseshit.

  As long as Braddock is alive, I'm a joke, realized Johnny Pinto as a tear dripped out of the corner of his eye. I'll pay Duane Braddock back for this no matter what it takes. He's not getting away with it, but I can't just walk up to him straight-on, because the same thing'll happen. No, next time I'll set everything up in advance. It won't be easy, but I'll act like a new man, and be friendly around Braddock, to put him off his guard. I could even apologize for being a rotten son of a bitch. If I have to lie, I'll be the best
liar in the world. If I have to kiss somebody's dirty boots, I'll turn it into a game. I'll smile when I'm mad and be nice to old ladies and babies, though I don't give a shit about them at all. I'm going to nail Duane Braddock, so help me God. It won't be tomorrow, and not the next day either. But in a few weeks, when I can move my arms again, Duane Braddock will be a-goin’ to a funeral—his own.

  Johnny Pinto felt a trickle of new strength as revenge took shape in his convoluted mind. I'll come up behind him and put a chunk of lead into his dome. Or maybe I'll hide a charge of dynamite under his bunk. There are many ways to kill a man, and rat poison ain't a bad idea either. I'll be so nice, I won't even recognize myself, and then, when he least expects it . . .

  An army stagecoach rumbled west of San Antone, sending up a long plume of dust. It was surrounded by a military escort of ten troopers on horseback and followed by a wagon containing guns and ammunition for Fort Clark.

  In the cab, Vanessa Fontaine sat among three officers’ wives conversing merrily while McCabe was silent and withdrawn as usual. The steady rattle and clank of weapons and equipment could be heard, the air was sweet and clean, and two soldiers rode shotgun atop the cab.

  Vanessa's companions exchanged thoughts about children, recipes, family matters, etc., matters of little interest to the Charleston Nightingale. But she listened politely anyway, made an occasional remark, and gazed out the window at cholla and nopal extending to scatterings of bluish-gray mountains in the distance. The land appeared inhospitable, yet a herd of cattle grazed peacefully not far away.

  She recalled Duane talking about the cattle business during their brief weeks together. Barren rocky west Texas had fascinated him, and he'd planned to buy his own ranch soon as he saved the money. It was the dream of every hard-drinking cowboy, and perhaps one in a thousand made it come true. Vanessa had considered Duane too young, naive, and confused to get ahead in a world dominated by ruthless business interests.