Bad to the Bone Read online

  Maggie puffed her cigar skeptically. “That's what you say every Monday.”

  Vanessa sat on the chair, her back ramrod-straight. “I'm at the point where I'm losing respect for myself, so I'm taking the next stage east—sorry. If Duane Braddock shows up after I've gone, tell him I'm in Charleston. If I'm going to be a singer, I might as well get serious about it. I think I'm ready for concert halls.”

  “I agree—you've got too much talent fer this li'l border town,” replied Maggie, “but yer still a woman in love, and I don't believe yer a-goin’ nowheres.”

  Vanessa narrowed her eyes with determination. “I'll never stop loving him, but I'm so sick of Escondido—I'm ready to scream.”

  “This town's sure ain't got much,” Maggie agreed. “I'd be a damned fool if I said otherwise, and I plan to leave myself someday, but one of these nights—I can feel it in my bones—young Duane is a-gonna show up. Hell, he's long overdue, and it might even be tonight.”

  There was a knock on the door. “Time to make the announcements, Miss O'Day.”

  Maggie strode toward the saloon, pushed through the crowd, and climbed onto the stage. Then she launched her introduction, while Vanessa waited in the shadows, hoping that Duane would be there, but it was always the same, and she was tired of letdowns. I've never been so unhappy in all my days, she confessed to herself. The only thing to do is hit the trail, otherwise I'll go mad in this ratty little border town.

  She heard Maggie speak her name, and the saloon echoed with outbursts of joy and expectation. Miss Vanessa Fontaine squared her shoulders, went up on her toes, and advanced theatrically toward the stage, as a wide path of admirers opened for her. They winked, smiled, licked their chops, drooled, burped. Some had eyes like saucers traced with red ink. She landed on the stage, bowed, and scanned their faces, looking for him amid peals of homage and praise. But he wasn't there, as usual, so all she could do was quiet them down, make her usual preliminary remarks, and after they were properly quiet, she placed one palm in the other, and performed:

  “Way down upon the Swanee River

  Far, far away,

  That's where my heart is turning ever,

  There's where the old folks stay . . .”

  Her voice wafted across the saloon as she drew them skillfully into her fantasy web. She knew which songs calmed them, and what pepped them up, playing an audience like a virtuoso violinist. Then, during the chorus, she spotted a certain tall, bearded cowboy wearing a black hat with a silver concho hatband standing near the bar. Her voice caught in her throat momentarily, but she recovered quickly, and the polished performer continued the final stanza:

  “All the world is sad and dreary

  everywhere I roam;

  oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary,

  far from the old folks at home.”

  Vanessa felt faint as she took her first bow. It can't be, she told herself. She brought herself to full height, and glanced toward the bar, but the cowboy was gone. This damned town and all that mescal are driving me loco.

  Coins rained onto the stage, a stagecoach driver hooted, a cowboy whistled, and somebody threw an empty bottle of mescal into the fireplace. Vanessa bowed again, then waited patiently for them to simmer down. Lots of cowboys wear beards, she told herself, and you can buy a silver concho hatband anywhere. The applause diminished, she filled her lungs with air, and began her next selection:

  “Many are the hearts that are weary tonight,

  Wishing for the war to cease

  Many are the hearts that are looking for the right

  To see the dawn of peace.”

  She liked to look every patron in the eye, because she wanted them to know that she was searching too. Then, against the right wall, she spotted a pair of green almond orbs beneath the same silver concho hatband. It was the bearded young man again, a glass in his hand and a half-smile on his face. Her mind subtracted the beard, she glanced at his shoulders, and realized that she was looking at her former fiance, the notorious Pecos Kid!

  Other patrons were glancing at their ex-sheriff, although Miss Vanessa Fontaine was supposed to be center of attention. The Kid stood confidently, resting his right hand on his Colt .44. I wonder if he's here to kill me! she thought, as she sang:

  “We've been tenting tonight on the cold camp ground,

  Thinking of days gone by,

  Of the loved ones at home who gave us a hand,

  And the tear that said ‘Goodbye.’'”

  She came to the end of her song, took her bow, and the rafters trembled with ovations, but when she raised her head, the Pecos Kid was gone. She followed the attention of her audience, and now he sat at a table with his back against the wall, and his eyes spiked into her brain. Vanessa smiled gaily, and said: “I'd like to dedicate my next song to an old friend. I wronged him once, and I pray that someday he'll forgive me.” She raised her arms, and sang:

  “The same canteen, my soldier friend,

  The same canteen, I say

  There's never a bond, old friend, like this—

  We have drunk from the same canteen.”

  The saloon was silent, except for her lilting voice. Duane feasted his eyes upon her, as he relived the pleasurable pain of his romance with Miss Vanessa Fontaine. He'd already spoken with the bartender, who'd told him that she'd become a widow, and more importantly, hadn't been with any men in Escondido. Why is she here? Duane asked himself. She hasn't been following me, has she?

  It was difficult for him to believe, because he knew how selfish and disdainful was Miss Vanessa Fontaine. But what other reason would bring her to Escondido? His rapturous nights with Doña Consuelo faded in his mind as he gazed upon tall, slim, golden-tressed Miss Vanessa Fontaine, the woman of his dreams, performing onstage at the Last Chance Saloon.

  “It was sometimes water, and sometimes, milk,

  Sometimes applejack, fine as silk

  but whatever the tipple has been,

  We shared it together, in bane or bliss,

  We have drunk from the same canteen.”

  She paused at the end of the song, and the saloon was so quiet the breeze could be heard against windows. Then she touched her fingers to her lips, blew Duane a kiss, and bowed.

  The saloon burst with tumultuous hurrahs, because everyone had shared a drink with a friend or lover, and Vanessa knew well how to set the scene. Even the Pecos Kid was on his feet, clapping hands enthusiastically, trying to whistle between his teeth like a cowboy, but failing miserably.

  I've been dreaming about that long tall sally ever since I met her, he told himself, and tonight she'll be mine. At that moment, on the very pinnacle of exultation, he felt something cold and metallic press behind his left ear, as a voice said harshly: “Move a muscle, and yer dead!”

  Duane froze, his heart nearly stopped, and he realized with sinking heart that he'd relaxed at the wrong moment yet again. Miss Vanessa Fontaine was staring at him with her mouth hanging open, and all eyes turned toward the strange scene unfolding against the wall.

  “Raise your hands,” said ex-sheriff J. T. Sturgis, crouching and aiming his Remington at the Pecos Kid.

  All Duane could do was reach for the ceiling. The veteran of Pickett's charge took the fugitive's Colt and Apache knife. “Turn around real slow.”

  Duane eased toward a man with a solid jaw, mustache, round nose, and steely gaze. “My name's J. T. Sturgis, and yer under arrest fer the murder of Saul Klevins, Otis Puckett, Jay Krenshaw, and the Devil's Creek Massacre. You give me the least bit of trouble, I'll shoot you where you stand.”

  A commotion broke out nearby, forcing Sturgis to take his eyes off Duane for a critical moment. Patrons were drawing their guns, and even Miss Vanessa Fontaine had her faithful derringer in her hand, while Maggie O'Day came at Sturgis from the right with a sawed-off shotgun in her hands. The next thing Sturgis knew, something grabbed his throat, and a powerful force slammed him to the floor, knocking the wind out of him. When he opened his eyes, he saw the ba
rrel of a Colt pointed at his nose, and the face of the Pecos Kid hovered above him. “Who the fuck are you?”

  Maggie explained: “That's J. T. Sturgis, and he used to be sheriff hyar. But I fired him, and now he wants the bounty on yer head, Kid.”

  Sturgis looked up at Duane. “There's warrants fer yer arrest all over this territory, but I'm the only person in Escondido who believes in the law.”

  “I ought to kill you,” replied Duane, “but instead I'll have to lock you up.”

  “Go ahead,” snarled Sturgis, “but I'll git out someday, and I'll foller you to the end of the earth, ‘cause somebody has to bring you before the bar of justice.”

  “I'd rather go before the bar of this saloon,” Duane replied. “Why don't you let me buy you a drink?”

  “You don't charm me, Mister Pecos Kid. I know all about the Devil's Creek Massacre, and a few other things.”

  “I was at the Massacre,” allowed Duane, “but I was a prisoner of the outlaws, and didn't have anything to do with it. I guess you don't believe me.”

  “Yer damned right I don't, because I knows a killer when I sees one. Yer baby eyes don't fool me one bit.” Sturgis balled his fists as he glowered at Maggie O'Day, Vanessa Fontaine, and the audience at the Last Chance Saloon. “If you don't help me, it makes all of you accomplices. If anything happens to me, you'll have a lot to answer fer.”

  Maggie roared: “This son-of-a-bitch wants to hang everybody in sight! He thinks he knows what's right, and everybody else is wrong!”

  Duane aimed his Colt at Sturgis. “Get going.”

  Sturgis headed for the door, his face red with frustration and embarrassment. He'd been defeated once more, and felt the compelling need to redeem his failed life. Desperate, humiliated, he noticed an old drunkard standing in his path, a cocked gun in his hand, apparently on the verge of passing out. A remote chance beckoned, and perhaps if Corporal Sturgis had continued to charge Cemetery Ridge, he might've led the old 9th Virginia to the summit, and turned the tide at Gettysburg. Isn't life made of chances and small turns of fate? he asked himself, as he lunged for the revolver.

  Duane hollered: “Don't!”

  But Sturgis was already in motion, swinging the revolver around. All Duane could do was open fire at point-blank range, and the saloon filled with the judgment of Colonel Colt. One bullet struck Sturgis in the chest, another smacked him in the mouth, and he was dead before he hit the floor.

  Duane stood like a statue with the gun aimed straight ahead, hat low over his eyes, smoke arising from his Colt .44. Nobody dared say a word. Then Maggie O'Day stepped forward, the double-barreled shotgun in her hands. “Welcome home, Kid. It's been a long time.”

  The notorious outlaw cocked an eye, as he holstered his gun. “I need a drink.”

  “Foller me.”

  Duane turned toward Vanessa. “Is your show over?”

  “It is now.”

  Duane remained poised for danger, but saw admiration, awe, and the morbid fascination of crowds as he made his way toward the corridor. Maggie opened the door of her office, and Duane sat beside Vanessa in front of the desk. The Pecos Kid turned toward his former lady love and said: “How're you doing?”

  “My late husband has left me a small fortune.”

  “What're you going to do with it?”

  “Spend it on you.”

  Maggie settled her ruffled skirts behind the desk and shook her head with dismay. “Just like a woman, give everything she's got to a man, and you can't trust ‘em as far as you can throw the Last Chance Saloon.”

  “But I didn't leave her,” explained Duane. “She's the one who left me.”

  “I made a mistake,” Vanessa replied, “but maybe I needed to be apart from you, to realize how much I really needed you.”

  Duane looked her in the eye. “I wouldn't trust you as far as I can throw the Last Chance Saloon.”

  Vanessa noticed a new maturity and confidence in him, and he appeared a dangerous rascal in a beard, except for his beautifully formed nose, red lips, and those overwhelming eyes. “You're not trying to tell me that you've been pure since you've last seen me, Duane Braddock.”

  He couldn't lie, but a blush came over his face.

  “Just as I thought,” said Vanessa. “He's been screwing his way across Mexico.”

  Maggie puffed her cigar. “Neither one of us is an angel here, so let's cut the horseshit.” She looked at Duane. “What's up?”

  “Is the cavalry in the area, by any chance?”

  Maggie shook her head. “The only law in this town is you, if you want yer old job back.”

  “No, thanks, because I'm on my way to the Pecos Country.”

  Maggie and Vanessa glanced at each other, because both knew the import of that remark. Duane intended to avenge the murder of his parents, kill or be killed, winner take all.

  “I don't suppose there's anything I can say to change yer mind,” said Maggie, “so let's have that drink.”

  She pulled a bottle and three glasses out of the bottom drawer, poured, and said, “Here's to the Pecos Kid.”

  They touched glasses as the door opened. One of the waitresses stuck her head inside. “Bartender wants to talk with you, Miss O'Day.”

  Maggie left the office, and the two ex-lovers were alone for the first time since Vanessa had told Duane that she was marrying another man. “Do you hate me very much?” asked the former Charleston belle.

  “I don't hate you at all, and as a matter of fact, I've never been able to forget you.”

  His words were a balm on her heart, and she found herself sitting on his lap. “We were so poor, I couldn't bear it any more,” she explained.

  “Sounds like money isn't a problem anymore. After I'm finished in the Pecos Country, we'll tie the knot.”

  “If you return,” she reminded him. “I'll bet there's a telegram on the way to Mister Archer even as we speak, telling him you're in Escondido.”

  “In my line of work, it's best to stay in motion.”

  “Not without me.”

  “You'd better think it over, Vanessa. It might get hotter'n hell in Edgeville.”

  “I'm not letting you get away a second time, after all the trouble I went through to find you. Besides, it's always best to travel with a woman, because a woman makes a man appear legitimate. They're expecting a vagabond cowboy called the Pecos Kid, not a well-dressed businessman with his elegant, cultivated wife.”

  Duane was thrilled by the feel of her tall figure in his lap, and he couldn't keep his hands off those long scrumptious legs. “Is there anyplace where we can be alone?”

  “My room is down the hall.”

  They made their way through the labyrinth, passing cowboys and prostitutes also on amorous rounds, and finally ended at the door of Miss Vanessa Fontaine. She unlocked it, and he reached for her arm before she could light the lamp. She turned toward him, their lips brushed, and then his hands were all over her, as small sounds emitted from her throat.

  With trembling hands, the lovers undressed in pale light streaming through the window. He caught a glimpse of her tall, white elegance disappearing beneath the covers of the big brass bed, and seconds later he was with her.

  Their bare bodies touched, and the artery in his throat throbbed as her familiar svelte configuration melted into his. They rolled over the bedspread, bruising each other's lips with reckless passion. Finally he held her beneath him, gazed into her eyes, and said, “I've dreamed of this moment, but never thought it'd really happen.”

  “I wondered if I was chasing a fantasy, but I prayed every night, and here you are.”

  They embraced in the darkness, their bodies became one, and the bed muttered a silent protest, as coyotes howled mournfully in the Sierra Madre mountains, and Midnight drowsed at the rail in front of the Last Chance Saloon.

  The great black beast knew that his boss had forgotten him again, but his lot was no different from any other mount in Escondido, and at least he had a trough of clear water. I'd b
etter rest while I have the chance, thought he. Crazy two-legged son-of-a-bitch always lands in trouble, and he'll probably get me killed one of these days.

  The melancholy Hamlet of horses dozed fitfully, as stars glittered above the little town of Escondido. Laughter erupted at the bar of the Last Chance Saloon, where a cowboy at a nearby table won the next deal, while across the backyard, a few hundred yards away, J. T. Sturgis lay naked on a cold slab in the undertaker's office.

  The room was dark, for the undertaker was enjoying certain acrobatic acts in a bedroom behind the Last Chance saloon. Sturgis hadn't been bathed or undressed, and appeared as when he'd fallen, with the same expression of wonderment and relief on his distorted features. Here lies a brave soldier who died in pursuit of his duties, as he saw them in his heart. The moon shone impartially on death, love, and lost illusions, as Texas spiraled through the cosmos, heading toward a bright new morning.