Bad to the Bone Page 15

  “You must have overlooked something,” replied Don Carlos. “Did you search the barn?”

  “I have told you, sir, that we have looked everywhere.”

  “But a person cannot simply disappear.”

  “We have learned that Doña Consuelo has visited Conchita and given her some money. There were fresh hoofprints behind Conchita's house, and Conchita could not explain why they were there.”

  “How many horses?” asked Don Carlos.

  “Two.”

  “And you followed the tracks?”

  “They led into the desert.”

  “Please leave me alone.”

  The door closed, and Don Carlos slouched in his chair like a sack of beans. Then he arose, hooted like a bull, and smashed his fist into the wall, nearly breaking his hand. I am dishonored, he thought, and this can only be settled in blood. He looked at himself in the mirror, as his lips quivered with rage. They cannot get away with this as long as there is breath in my body. “García!”

  The door opened, and the sad-eyed chief of vaque-ros stood there. “Sir?”

  “It appears that Doña Consuelo has run off with the gringo. Round up the men, and load a wagon with supplies. Don't forget dynamite, because there might be trouble.”

  The normally reticent vaquero appeared surprised. “But.. .how many days will we be out, sir?”

  “As long as it takes to bring back Doña Consuelo, but I don't think they've gone far. See if you can find an Apache who knows how to track, and hire him. I'll pay one thousand dollars in gold to the man who brings back Doña Consuelo alive!”

  Duane and Doña Consuelo rode down the main street of the village, alert for trouble. A few vaqueros strolled dirt sidewalks, children played merrily in an alley, and a wagon was being loaded in front of the store. There was also a stable and cantina. “Seems safe enough,” uttered Duane.

  All Doña Consuelo could do was follow the Pecos Kid. They stopped in front of the rail, tied up their horses, and glanced around cautiously. “I'll do the talking,” said Duane. He strolled toward the door, then glanced behind him suddenly, in case a lost wandering lawman had spotted him. Then he opened the door and stepped out of the backlight, ready to draw and fire.

  Two vaqueros conversed with the proprietor, who stood behind the counter, working on their purchase order. The proprietor raised his eyes and gazed through thick spectacles at the newcomers. “May I help you?”

  “I'd like to buy some cartridges for a Colt .44, a blanket, a warm sweater for my wife, a shirt for myself, a tarpaulin, and some food.”

  “Matilda!” called the proprietor.

  A sturdy middle-aged woman with Indian features appeared from behind the curtain.

  “Take care of these customers.”

  Duane repeated his order, and then Matilda pored through the shelves. The proprietor scratched his pen on the order as one of the vaqueros roved his eyes up and down Consuelo's curves. A grin came to his grizzled lumpy face, and he said, in a voice barely above a whisper. “Señorita—why do you go with a boy, when you can have a man?”

  Doña Consuelo had never been spoken to in such a tone, and she looked at the man as if he'd just crawled out of a rathole. Meanwhile, Duane measured the vaque-ro carefully, because an insult had clearly been leveled, and according to the unwritten law of the region, massive retaliation was in order. But Duane didn't want trouble in a strange land, and decided to let the incident pass, noting that the vaquero had been drinking, and was unsteady on his feet.

  “What are you looking at, gringo?” asked the vaquero.

  Duane wanted to ignore him, but the orphan acolyte loathed bullies. “You're digging your grave with your mouth,” he replied.

  The vaquero stiffened. “Gringo, perhaps you want to impress your woman, but you had better be careful what you say, or I will kill you.”

  The other vaquero stepped between them, trying to smile. “Let us relax, my friends. There is no reason to fight, because fighting never proves everything.”

  “Out of the way,” ordered the other vaquero, as he lunged for his iron.

  Duane smacked his Colt, and it fired before his opponent's barrel cleared its holster. The small store filled with smoke, and the vaquero was struck center chest. He coughed drily, and then dropped in a clump to the floor, where a pool of blood widened around him.

  Duane flicked his gun barrel toward the other vaquero. “I'm not looking for trouble.”

  The vaquero raised his hands. “Neither am I, Señor.”

  Matilda placed the merchandise on the counter while Doña Consuelo stared at the corpse on the floor. She'd never seen a killing, and its suddenness had thrown her into shock. Duane counted out the coins, then filled his saddlebags with fresh cartridges. The proprietor wrote out a bill of sale, Duane pocketed it, then gathered up the remaining merchandise.

  “Vámonos,” he said to Doña Consuelo.

  As if in a dream, she followed him out the door. Duane was gratified to find their horses still tied to the rail. He chucked the saddlebags onto Midnight, while Doña Consuelo climbed into her saddle.

  They wheeled their horses, touched spurs to the animals’ withers, and galloped down the street, kicking up clods of muck, as residents gazed at them from behind windows. “Adiós, amigos!” shouted the Pecos Kid, waving his hat over his head, as he and his dazed consort disappeared over the first rise.

  In the general store, the remaining vaquero, whose name was Dominico, looked down at his friend. “When he drinks too much, he picks fights with people.”

  “Not anymore,” intoned the proprietor.

  “The gringo was very fast, no? I wonder who he is?”

  “I do not know,” replied the proprietor, “but a desperado like that—I would not give him six months to live.”

  Don Carlos stormed into the private rooms of Don Patricio, who had passed out cold. “Have you heard the news?” roared Don Carlos.

  Don Patricio opened one eye. “What news?”

  “Your idiot daughter has run off with the gringo!”

  Don Patricio stared at him in alarm. “You can't be serious.”

  “It's true—she's disappeared, and I'm going after her. Evidently she's lost her senses. That gringo will probably kill her, if the Apaches don't get them first.” “So that's what she wanted the money for,” blurted Don Patricio.

  “It's probably in Braddock's pocket by now.”

  Don Patricio struggled to understand. “I don't believe it—not my little Doña Consuelo.”

  “I'd thought she was a well-brought up girl, but evidently she has too much of your blood in her.”

  Don Patricio raised his chin two inches in the air. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Don Carlos realized that he'd insulted his old friend. He placed his hand on Don Patricio's shoulder and said, “I apologize, but I'm so angry, I'm almost beside myself.”

  “It does not sound like my daughter,” replied Don Patricio. “She must have forgotten everything that Holy Mother Church has taught her. How could she do such a thing?”

  Duane pulled back Midnight's reins, and the horse slowed on a playa covered with grama grass, palmilla, piñon, and scrub oak. Consuelo came to a halt beside him, sweaty and covered with alkali, her complexion blotched with exertion.

  “Still with me?” Duane asked.

  “You won't get rid of me that easily, señor. Perhaps my mind is playing tricks, but did you actually shoot that man back there?”

  Duane couldn't help smiling, despite their grim situation. “The vaquero was drunk, and he drew first. I hope you'll remember that at the trial.”

  “You were so fast—I never saw you reach for your gun.”

  Duane leaned toward her, squeezed her shoulder, and winked. “That's why they call me the Pecos Kid.”

  Don Carlos pounded on the door of the hut, and it was opened by Conchita, eyes wide with fear, her little son hugging her leg. The peasant woman couldn't think of anything to say as Don Carlos marched stal
wartly into her parlor. “I understand that Doña Consuelo visited you yesterday around sundown, and then she left with the gringo.”

  “I do not know,” Conchita replied unsteadily, avoiding his stare.

  “You are not so dumb as you look, so you had better tell the truth. What did she say?”

  “I do not remember, Don Carlos.”

  “Oh, yes you do.” He grabbed her arm, yanked his American-made Whitney Navy revolver, and aimed between her eyes. “I'm not going to ask again.”

  “Please sir ... have mercy.”

  “Did she mention me?”

  Conchita stared down the barrel of the gun. “No sir—she gave me some money for Pepito, kissed him, and said something about destiny. Then she walked out the back door, and I have not seen her since.”

  “Did she act. . . ?” Don Carlos tapped his head.

  Conchita sobbed. “I do not know, but I will give the money back, Don Carlos.”

  “What the hell do I care about your money, woman! Destiny, eh? Evidently my dear wife thinks she's in an opera by Verdi, but I shall bring her back to her senses!”

  The vaquero army stood at attention as Don Carlos strolled back to the hacienda. They had bedrolls, two wagons, tents, a chuckwagon, and enough ammunition to fight a war, not to mention two crates of dynamite. Don Carlos approached García, and said: “Where is the Indian?”

  “He is a half-breed.” García motioned with his head, and the nobleman saw a slight man dressed like a vaquero, but his complexion was dark and he had a nose like a buzzard. “Come here,” said Don Carlos.

  The half-breed stepped forward, his face betraying no emotion, as if carved out of basalt.

  “What is your name?”

  “They call me Lázaro, sir.”

  “Apache?”

  The Indian nodded in assent.

  Don Carlos looked into his eyes. “If you locate my wife, I will make you rich for the rest of your life.”

  “I have already found their trail.” Lázaro pointed to the desert behind Conchita's house. “There.”

  Don Carlos turned to García. “Tell the men to mount up.”

  García passed along the order as Don Carlos climbed onto his palomino stallion. He swung the beast toward the main gate of the hacienda, and rode to the head of the long column, where he joined García and Lázaro. Don Carlos turned in the saddle and examined his tough, desert-hardened vaqueros, men accustomed to living in the open, who loved to fight, and who accepted the law of Don Carlos. The nobleman raised his hand in the air. “Forward!” he commanded.

  Equipment clattered and horses’ hooves thudded against the ground, as the searchers passed through the main gate. Don Carlos sat in the saddle, his eyes narrow with rage. Never had he been so humiliated, or felt like such a buffoon. He wanted to loathe Duane Braddock, but how could any normal male resist a ripe peach like Doña Consuelo? And neither could he blame her, because why shouldn't she have a young virile man for a change?

  Don Carlos's anger turned inward, and he acknowledged that it was absurd to marry a woman young enough to be his daughter. Such bizarre acts are bound to bring dishonor to families, he realized.

  The half-breed pointed straight ahead. “That is their trail, sir.”

  Don Carlos couldn't see anything, but his eyes weren't so good anymore. A doctor had told him to wear spectacles, but Don Carlos didn't like how they looked. “Proceed,” he ordered.

  Lázaro steered his horse onto the day-old trail, and the vaquero army fell in behind. Don Carlos placed one fist on his hip and gazed regally at vast desert wastes dotted with clumps of grazing cattle. It might take a few days, he estimated, but I will find her if it is the last thing I do. If I know my little Doña Consuelo, I'm sure that she's having doubts about the whole dubious enterprise by now, and she'll probably be delighted to see me.

  Duane and Doña Consuelo stopped for a meal amid a pile of jagged boulders approximately ten feet tall, with Benson and Weniger cactus in the vicinity, plus plenty of grama grass. Duane hobbled the horses, as Doña Consuelo unpacked the food.

  She sat on a flat section of ground, cross-legged like an Indian, her voluminous skirt covering knees and ankles. Her hat was low over her eyes, protecting her from the bright glare, and she was covered with a thin film of alkali dust, as insects buzzed her ears.

  Doña Consuelo felt as though she were starving to death, and wanted to dig her fangs into the food, but etiquette required that she wait for her dining companion. He was scouting the campsite, carrying his rifle, behaving more like a furtive desert creature than a man. She'd seen only one facet of Duane Braddock at the hacienda, and realized now that she hadn't understood him at all. The shootout in the store had altered her evaluation drastically.

  She'd known that he was brave, but it's one thing to stop a team of runaway horses, and another to shoot somebody at point-blank range. A more prudent man might've kept his mouth shut, but not Duane Braddock. Doña Consuelo couldn't banish the killing from her mind. The most discomforting part was she'd felt a strange thrill when the bullet struck the vaquero. It troubled her to acknowledge that if the fight had gone the other way, she'd be the drunken vaquero's prize.

  Duane kneeled opposite her, looked around one last time, and lay his rifle on the ground. He was tense, alert, a desert cat rather than a man. He drew his knife, wiped the blade on his pants, and sliced off a chunk of meat.

  “Go ahead,” he said.

  She took the slice, held it in her dainty fingers, and bit off the end. A stack of cold dry tortillas sat in front of them, with a canteen of water. That was the meal, but Doña Consuelo wasn't complaining. She ate ravenously, as Duane admired her lips, the swell of her breast, her natural grace.

  “How're you holding up?” he asked.

  “I'm all right,” she replied. “What about you?”

  “Couldn't be better. You're not having second thoughts?”

  “Why do you keep asking that stupid question?”

  “I thought you might see us in a different light after a few hours on the desert.”

  “I do see you in a different light, and can't help wondering why you didn't simply ignore that drunken pig in the town.”

  “If I ignored him, he would've insulted me again.”

  “What if he shot first?”

  “He didn't.”

  “Perhaps in the future you should let me do the talking.”

  “It's all right with me. I don't claim to be an expert with drunkards.”

  He gnawed a fistful of beef, as his eyes scanned their surroundings. He was covered with dust, stubble showed on his chin, and he looked more outlaw than ever. A yellow bird flew overhead, examining them curiously, and then suddenly Duane was on his feet, whipping out his Colt .44.

  A jabalina pig walked nonchalantly across the far end of the clearing, paying no attention to Duane and Doña Consuelo. The fugitives resumed their meal, and no longer did Doña Consuelo ask what she was doing with him. They finished the meal, and he repacked their saddlebags. “Let's get rolling,” he told her.

  “I thought we could rest awhile.”

  “That's what we just did.”

  “Not even a few more minutes?”

  He pointed his finger at her nose. “Discipline is the key to survival on the desert. Now get on your horse.”

  “I thought we slept during the day, and rode during the night.”

  “Not after what happened in the store.” He turned down a corner of his mouth. “Let's understand something, Doña Consuelo. We don't have discussions about what to do, because I'm in charge.” He slapped her on the rear end. “Now get on your horse.”

  ***

  Don Carlos and his vaqueros rode down the main street of a small settlement, the odor of woodsmoke heavy in the air. The trail of Duane Braddock and Doña Consuelo had led them here, and Don Carlos wondered if the culprits still were in town.

  Vaqueros patrolled both sides of the street, searching for Midnight and Josephina among horses tied at
the rails. Don Carlos angled his mount toward the store, as a crowd gathered to see the arrival of the great caudillo. “It is Don Carlos de Rebozo!” called one of them.

  The Don was a local celebrity, and everybody wanted to say to grandchildren, Once, long ago, I saw Don Carlos de Rebozo. Like a hoary old warlord, he lowered himself to the ground. A vaquero took his reins, and the nobleman headed for the front door of the store. The proprietor stood in front of his counter, bowing slightly, awaiting orders. Don Carlos stomped toward him, looked him in the eye, and said: “I'm after two people, and I have reason to believe they were headed in this direction. One is a gringo, eighteen years old, approximately this tall—” Don Carlos held out his hand, “—and he usually wears black clothes. The other is a woman, twenty-one years old, approximately this tall, with black hair, very pretty. Have you seen them?”

  The proprietor nodded. “They were here this morning, and the gringo shot a man right over there.” He pointed at a stain on the floor. “A vaquero insulted the woman, and the gringo killed him.”

  Don Carlos lost his regal composure, but only for a moment. “The woman—did she appear unharmed?”

  “It was clear that she and the gringo had been riding for a long distance.”

  “How did she act? Was she a little loco, would you say?”

  “She was surprisingly calm, sir, in view of what had happened.”

  “Which way did they go?”

  The proprietor pointed. Don Carlos walked out the door, and found the half-breed in front of the store. “They went that way,” said Don Carlos, pointing ahead down the trail. “Move it out.”

  Lázaro headed for his horse as the caudillo faced García. “Order the men to mount up.”

  “Sir, the men had hoped you would let them have a glass of mescal for the trail.”

  “We don't have time for a party, García. I said order the men to mount up.”

  Don Carlos backed his horse into the dusty trail, then climbed into the saddle. He readjusted his hat, then straightened his backbone, took the reins, and looked like an old gray-mustachioed general as he led his men out of town.