Bad to the Bone Page 2

A vaquero and a woman entered the cantina as Duane headed for the door. The woman had wavy black hair, wide hips, and the vaquero's hand protecting the small of her back. As Duane drew closer, he became increasingly astonished by the sheer size of the woman's bosom. They must be awful heavy for her to carry around, he mused.

  “What are you looking at!” demanded an angry voice.

  The vaquero stared at Duane with undisguised rancor, and Duane realized too late that he'd been staring at the Mexican woman's breasts like a lecherous fool. The Americano smiled weakly. “I am sorry, señor, but I have drunk too much mescal, and I was on my way out of here.”

  “I saw you flirting with her,” the vaquero said angrily. “You do not fool me.”

  All eyes in the vicinity turned toward the confrontation near the door. “I meant no insult to you or your woman,” replied Duane. “It was a mistake.”

  The vaquero was four inches shorter than Duane, but with larger shoulders, a barrel chest, and thick arms. “It was no mistake, because I saw your shameless eyes.”

  He's drunk, Duane realized, as he wondered how to extricate himself from the situation into which he was sinking. “I was looking at her, but you should take it as a compliment. She is, after all, a beautiful woman.”

  The woman smiled broadly, while the vaquero noticed her response with dismay. Duane realized that he'd said the wrong thing again, as the vaquero raised both fists to the fighting stance. He's not going to punch me, is he? wondered Duane. The vaquero cocked his left fist and threw it toward Duane's head, but Duane timed it coming in, and easily ducked beneath it. Then he took a few steps backward, as the crowd coalesced around them. It appeared that the entertainment had arrived.

  The big-bosomed woman turned toward her vaquero and said reproachfully: “Leave him alone, Pablo. He is just a boy, and he meant no harm.”

  “He does not look like a boy to me,” Pablo replied, his eyes bloodshot from excessive mescal. “Do you like him?”

  “I do not know him—how could I like him?”

  “I saw the way you were looking at him, and he was looking at you!”

  The woman became pale. “But Pablo, it does not mean anything. You are always so suspicious.”

  A fiendish gleam came to Pablo's eyes. “I asked you—do you like him?”

  “But you know that I love you!”

  “I do not know any such thing, the way you flirt with men all the time. I'll show you what I do to men who look at you, and then maybe you will never flirt again.” Pablo turned toward Duane, raised his fists, and advanced with mayhem in his eyes.

  Duane backstepped, holding his hands down to his sides, not wanting to provoke anybody. “Now just a minute—let's not—”

  Duane was unable to finish the sentence, because a big, hairy fist was zooming toward his very nose. He dodged to the side, the fist whizzed harmlessly by, and Duane was on his way toward the door. But vaqueros and prostitutes were crowded around, there was no clear path, and Pablo darted nimbly to cut him off.

  Duane was the only gringo in the cantina, and he wanted to avoid showdowns. He steadied himself, turned toward Pablo, and said: “If I've offended you in any way, I apologize from the bottom of my heart. I promise never, under any circumstances, to do it again.”

  Pablo responded with a right toward Duane's mouth, but Duane danced away lightly, still holding his hands down his sides. I've apologized from the bottom of my heart, I promised never to do it again, and if that's not good enough for this son-of-a-bitch, I guess I'll have to fight him.

  But Duane realized he was in no condition to fight, as Pablo squared off again. The lone gringo was half drunk on an empty stomach, but adrenaline kicked in like a horse, causing his right leg to tremble, always the signal that he was getting into his fighting mode.

  “Señor Pablo,” Duane intoned carefully, “I'm going to tell you one last time. If you don't leave me alone, I'm going to start punching back. I don't know what the outcome will be, and maybe you'll kill me, but I promise you one thing, if you continue to press me, you will regret it.”

  The swarthy Mexican launched a long, looping overhand right at Duane's skull. Duane snatched his opponent's wrist out of the air, spun sharply, and threw him over his shoulder. The Mexican went flying over the bar, and crashed against the row of bottles beneath the mirror. Meanwhile, Duane headed for the door, and vaqueros in wide-brimmed sombreros made way. He reached the hitching rail, where Midnight dozed among other horses. “Wake up,” Duane said. “We're in trouble again.”

  Duane tossed the saddlebags over Midnight's ebony haunches, then kneeled and tightened the two cinches beneath Midnight's massive belly. He untied the reins from the hitching rail, and was placing his foot into the stirrup, when the door of the cantina opened and Pablo appeared on the dirt sidewalk. “Not so fast, gringo!”

  Vaqueros and their women crowded out the door to see the next installment of the fight. Duane wanted to jump onto Midnight and ride the hell out of there, but feared getting shot out of the saddle.

  “Were you trying to sneak away?” asked Pablo, gazing malevolently at Duane. Pablo had cut the side of his head on a broken bottle, and blood oozed into his thickly matted hair, as his sombrero hung on leather thongs down his back.

  “You shouldn't have followed me,” replied Duane, “but you won't listen to reason.”

  The Mexican lunged toward Duane, who was standing between Midnight and a strange horse, leaving little room to maneuver. Duane tossed a short right jab to Pablo's nose and it connected on target, but the Mexican kept coming. He grabbed at Duane's throat, but Duane took a handful of Pablo's hair, pushed his head into the muck, leapt over him, and landed in the middle of the street.

  Pablo growled as he arose, covered with mud and manure, stinking to high heaven. Meanwhile, a larger crowd was forming, and Duane spotted the blond American outlaw hanging in the shadows, watching the show. Pablo lowered his head, then charged Duane, flinging a wild hook at Duane's head, but Duane caught Pablo's wrist, pivoted, and let Pablo's forward movement carry him over Duane's shoulder.

  The Mexican dropped onto the ground, rolled over, and came up with a knife in his hand. “I am going to kill you, gringo!” he screamed.

  Moonbeams rolled along the seven-inch blade, and Duane took a step backward, for a knife raised the ante drastically. “Whoa,” he said to the Mexican. “Are you sure you want to die over something that I've already apologized for?”

  “You are the one who is going to die!”

  Pablo charged, slashing the blade toward Duane's face, but Duane darted to the side and stuck out his foot. The Mexican tripped over Duane's ankle, and landed on his face. This time he didn't get up so quickly.

  Duane decided that the time had come to appeal to the common sense of the crowd. “Señores and señoritas,” he declaimed, “if this man doesn't stop attacking me, I will kill him, or he will kill me. Doesn't he have a friend who can talk him out of it?”

  Nobody stepped forward, especially not the woman with large breasts at the edge of the crowd. It appeared that everybody was afraid of Pablo, who was raising himself off the ground, the knife in his fist. “What is wrong, gringo?” he asked. “Are you afraid to stand still and fight?”

  “Because I looked at your woman?” asked Duane. “You're acting like a fool.”

  Duane regretted the words the moment they'd left his mouth, but his nerves were jangled after three weeks in the saddle. Meanwhile, Pablo set his lips in a grim line, as his eyes narrowed for his next attack.

  “Señor,” said Duane. “If you come at me once more, I'm going to cut you, so help me God.”

  The Mexican got low and waved his blade from side to side menacingly. “Say your prayers, gringo.”

  Duane pulled his Apache knife out of his boot. It had a ten-inch blade crowned with a bear bone handle. He'd lived among Apaches for a spell, and they'd taught him the niceties of close combat with knives, rocks, fists, and anything else that might come to hand. He poised on the balls
of his feet, when the Mexican suddenly stopped, feinted to the left, sidestepped to the right, and thrust his knife up suddenly, its point streaking toward Duane's belly.

  Duane caught the Mexican's wrist in his left hand, stopping it cold, while stepping forward and touching the point of his knife to his adversary's throat. The iron point poked through Pablo's skin, and a dot of ruby red blood appeared.

  “Drop the knife,” said Duane.

  The blade stung Pablo, and it wouldn't take much to puncture his jugular. His fingers loosened, as his weapon fell at Duane's feet.

  “Señor Pablo,” Duane told him, “if you ever come near me again—you're dead meat. Do you understand?”

  Pablo sweated profusely, as blood trickled down his throat and made a blotch on his white shirt.

  “And don't think,” Duane continued, “that you'll sneak behind me someday, because I've got sharp ears, I shoot first, and ask questions later.”

  Pablo couldn't understand what had happened to him. He usually defeated other people easily, although he never picked fights with bigger men, of course.

  “I asked you a question,” Duane said, sticking his knife in another sixteenth of an inch.

  “I understand,” croaked Pablo reluctantly.

  Duane heard footsteps behind him, and thought he was under attack. He withdrew his knife, spun around, and saw an astonishing figure at the edge of the crowd. The newcomer was taller than Duane, and wore a black leather jacket, ruffled white shirt, and silver conchos stitched down the seams of his black wide-bottomed trousers. He had silver hair and a silver mustache, and Duane pegged his age at the mid-fifties. “What is going on here!” he demanded.

  A vaquero approached the personage and bowed. “Don Carlos, there was a fight. Pablo pulled a knife on that Americano, and the Americano nearly killed him.”

  Don Carlos's eyes flashed wry amusement, as he turned toward Pablo, who held his fingers to the puncture wound at his throat. “So you have been fighting again, eh?”

  “The gringo has insulted my woman,” Pablo replied. “He was trying to steal her from me.” The vaquero looked like a hurt little boy who'd just lost his mommy.

  Don Carlos turned toward Duane. “What is your side of the story?”

  “I was on my way to a restaurant, and happened to look at his woman. It was not an incident worth fighting over.”

  Pablo's eyes bounced about excitedly. “My woman is not worth fighting over?”

  Don Carlos chuckled. “Come now, Pablo. You are always angry about something, and maybe you are more trouble than you are worth. Go back to the hacienda, and I will speak with you later.” Don Carlos placed one hand on his hip and glanced among the assembled vaqueros. “Has anyone seen my wife?”.

  A vaquero bowed. “She left the church a half-hour ago, sir.”

  He must be the richest caudillo in the province, Duane thought. The Mexican nobleman had the physique of a young man, with a narrow waist and flat stomach. Just goes to show you that a cowboy doesn't have to get old when he's old, thought Duane.

  Don Carlos ambled away, surrounded by his vaquero bodyguard. The woman with large breasts pulled a handkerchief from within her bosom, and wiped blood from Pablo's throat. “Querido mío,” she said tenderly, “you must be loco, and perhaps that is why I love you so.”

  Duane scratched his head in confusion as they walked off arm in arm. He became aware of a short, pudgy Mexican standing beside him. “I am Fernando, and you are one fast son-of-a-bitch with a knife. Are you part Apache?”

  “That's right,” replied Duane. “What about you?”

  “I work for Don Carlos, and when I look at a woman, nobody gives a damn.”

  “I wonder what women see in men like Pablo?”

  Fernando showed the palms of his hands. “Nobody has ever explained love, señor.”

  “I'm hungry—do you know of a good restaurant? I'd be happy to buy you supper.”

  Fernando led Duane into an alley, as vaqueros in the street mumbled amongst themselves. Duane touched his fingers to the grip of his Colt as he searched the shadows for a bushwhacker. He knew he should get out of Zumarraga immediately, but was tempted by the notion of a good hot meal.

  “What can you tell me about Don Carlos?” asked Duane, as they crossed the backyard.

  “He owns this town and all the land around here for miles and miles.” Fernando winked as he waddled on his stubby legs. “And he has a pretty young wife.”

  “Where did he come from?”

  “His family has always been here, señor. He is descended from an officer in the army of Hernán Cortés.”

  Cortés was the conqueror of Mexico, a hero to his Spanish descendants, but not loved by the Indians. Duane and Fernando approached a rectangular adobe hut with bright lights in the windows. Fernando opened the door. Men and women were seated at tables in a crowded space redolent with the fragrances of tobacco, mescal, and chili peppers.

  Duane selected an empty table against the far wall, sat facing the door, and rolled a cigarette. Fernando motioned to the waitress. “I want a bowl of chili and a steak.”

  Duane noticed a face in the window, and it belonged to the blond American whom he'd seen earlier in the cantina. Now there's a man who knows what he's about, deduced Duane. I wonder who he is? The waitress was looking at Duane expectantly. “Bring me a plate of enchiladas,” Duane told her, “and do you have mescal?”

  The waitress headed for the kitchen as Duane lit his cigarette. He noticed everyone glancing at him cautiously, or staring in undisguised curiosity. “It's no fun,” he said to Fernando, “living in a country where people don't like Americanos.”

  “Well, your country has stolen a substantial portion of this one.”

  “But I wasn't even alive then!”

  “Do you think America should give Texas back?”

  Duane decided to change the subject. “What do you think of President Juárez?”

  “He is a great man,” declared Fernando, “and he will make Mexico a great nation.”

  Duane puffed his cigarette as he examined the other denizens of the restaurant, many of whom were casting glances in his direction. I'll eat my meal, then hit the trail, he determined. One of these Mexicans is liable to kill me if I stay in this village much longer.

  CHAPTER 2

  DOÑA CONSUELO DE REBOZO SAT AT THE end of her long dining room table, picking at roast chicken, stewed yams, and fried bananas. A silver rococo candelabra provided illumination, while a uniformed butler stood alertly in the shadows, awaiting her next request.

  Doña Consuelo had been attended by servants all her life, and considered them part of the decor. She gave them presents and gifts of money whenever the mood struck her, and if they stole pieces of silverware and articles of jewelry from time to time, far be it from her to make a fuss. Her husband could afford it, and she wasn't there to judge anybody. Doña Consuelo wouldn't say boo to a goose.

  She looked at the big grandfather clock against the wall, and wondered when Don Carlos would return. She missed his commanding presence, ringing laughter, and the clever remarks that he always made. He never failed to light up a room, he was the finest man she'd ever known, finer even than her father. It gave her comfort to know that Don Carlos de Rebozo was all hers till death them did part, according to vows they'd taken before Holy Mother Church.

  She hoped she didn't have to sleep alone that night, because she needed him more than usual, in the way a healthy woman sometimes needs a man. The butler, whose name was Alfonso, approached from the shadows and bowed reverently. “Would you like me to have your meal reheated, Doña Consuelo?”

  “I'm finished, and you may take it away.”

  “Coffee?”

  “No, thank you, and I don't want dessert. But leave the wine.”

  “As you wish, Doña Consuelo.” With deft hands, Alfonso cleared the table of everything except bottle and glass. He retreated toward the kitchen, leaving Doña Consuelo alone in the dining hall.

  Po
rtraits of Don Carlos's illustrious ancestors stared down at her from the walls, while a suit of conquistador armor stood in the corner, helmet attached, and holding a lance. Doña Consuelo felt honored, ennobled, and glorified to be married to one of Mexico's most illustrious families, but if she didn't produce a son soon, God only knew the result.

  Don Carlos didn't want a distant relative to inherit the Rebozo holdings when he died. No, he wanted a son of his own, but his first wife had been sickly, had failed to produce a child, and died from cholera. Don Carlos had mourned her death ten years, refusing to touch another woman, but then, at the urging of family members, he'd agreed to consider a girl of good family as second wife.

  The most beautiful women in Mexico had been paraded before Don Carlos's discriminating eyes, sometimes at dinner parties in private homes, other times at receptions in government palaces. Doña Consuelo would never forget the instant she'd first set eyes on Don Carlos de Rebozo. She'd heard of him, of course, for his family's lineage was even older than hers, but she'd expected a bald, wrinkled, and portly gentleman with teeth missing and tobacco juice on his mustache. Instead, Don Carlos de Rebozo had looked like El Cid in his immaculately tailored suit. They'd met at a reception for the governor at her uncle's mansion in Durango, and she'd been struck by Don Carlos's slender figure, full head of hair, and the intelligent glint in his eye.

  She'd thought such a man could never love a silly young thing such as herself, without a brain in her head, and possessing no skills for managing a household. Yet she knew that she was considered pretty, though she suspected not as pretty as most of the young ladies in attendance. The concept of flirting was repugnant to her sequestered religious nature.

  “Walk past him,” her mother had suggested. “You must show yourself to your best advantage.”

  “You sound as if you're selling a horse,” replied Consuelo. “If he wants to look at me, let him come over here.”

  As her mother fretted, Consuelo had sat in a plushly upholstered chair in a corner and watched, with smoldering eyes, as Don Carlos de Rebozo worked his way across the room. Finally he came to a stop in front of her, and her mother bowed low, making the proper introductions.