Devil's Creek Massacre Page 5

  She made final touches to hair and makeup and hoped no one would notice the tiny lines engraving beneath her eyes. She couldn't wait forever for the right man, and sometimes a lady of a certain age must lower her standards. I'll look for a gentleman closer to my age on this jaunt. Life isn't over for me yet, or is it? If I can't enjoy the same happiness as my maid, there must be something wrong with me.

  It was evening in Lost Canyon, and Cochrane sat at his kitchen table, perusing maps and puffing his corncob pipe. He was planning another robbery, didn't want to be disturbed, and appeared totally concentrated, as if Juanita weren't alive.

  His ability to dismiss her utterly was hurtful to her pride. She threw on her serape, slipped out the door, and saw the full moon glowing brightly overhead. It was easier to walk around the canyon, collect her thoughts, and pray to El Señor than be with Cochrane when he was planning robberies.

  She walked with her arms behind her back, wondering what would become of her. Cochrane could throw her away like an old shoe, or maybe he'd be killed on one of his raids, and then where would she be? Maybe she'd have to strike up a liaison with one of the other unattached outlaws.

  She knocked on the door of the doctor's hut, and that esteemed gentleman appeared, his eyes brightening at the sight of her. “Ah, the most beautiful woman in the world,” he said gallantly. “Come in and take a look at my patient. He seems to be coming along quite well.”

  She advanced toward the figure lying on a cot. Like most Mexican women, she'd been raised in the Catholic Church, and the patient reminded her of a plaster statue she'd seen of Jesus in his holy sepulcher, after his crown of thorns had been removed. The patient's nose was straight, well formed, and bespoke nobility to her peasant eyes. He had arched eyebrows, pale lips, and tousled black hair that she wanted to run her fingers through. “He does not look as if he is breathing,” she said. “Are you sure he did not just die?”

  “He's getting better every day. Put your ear to his heart and listen for yourself.”

  “No, thank you.” He looked dead to her, and she crossed herself. If he had color in his cheeks and a few more pounds, he'd be very handsome. She wondered what hue his eyes were.

  A moan escaped his lips, and Juanita turned toward the doctor in alarm.

  “He's coming around again,” said the doctor. “Maybe I can feed him broth.”

  The patient tried to move, his lashes fluttered, and Juanita saw that his eyes were green. Dr. Montgomery arrived with his pot of broth, sat on the far side of the patient, and held out the spoon, but the patient was so weak he couldn't pucker up. Half the liquid spilled into his mouth, the rest dribbled down his chin, and Juanita wiped the stain away deftly with a towel. The doctor spooned more broth into the patient's mouth; the patient's Adam's apple bobbed slightly, then he made a choking sound. The doctor pulled back as the patient's eyes appeared to be focusing on Juanita.

  The doctor leaned over the wounded man. “Can you tell us your name?”

  The patient struggled to speak, but his lips barely moved and no sound came out. The effort was too much for him, his eyes closed, and he went slack again.

  “He gets stronger every time I feed him,” the doctor said. “I tell you—youth can conquer anything.”

  “Except unhappiness,” she replied.

  He appeared surprised by her response. “Aren't you happy, Juanita?”

  “I have been much worse,” she replied. “We cannot always have the things we want, I suppose. This young man reminds me of a statue I have seen of Jesus. But he is probably a bandito, yes?”

  “Probably,” the doctor agreed. “Looks part Apache.”

  “He is opening his eyes again!”

  The face of the Madonna floated above Duane, love and concern on her face. He wanted to say a Hail Mary, but somehow was unable to move his jaw. Helpless, weak, confused, he felt something warm and delicious on his tongue and struggled to swallow it down.

  “Can you hear me?” asked a voice.

  Duane didn't know where it was coming from while the Madonna wiped his chin. He saw the roof of a building and a brass lamp vaguely out of focus. It occurred to him that he'd been asleep for a long time.

  “What's your name?”

  Duane wasn't sure he was alive. He managed to swallow some broth, it trickled down his throat, time moved slowly. He remembered a shoot-out with Apaches.

  “Just relax,” said the voice. “Try to take as much of this broth as you can.”

  The Apaches had shot him to pieces, he'd died, and now he was . . . where? He tried to look around, but it hurt too much to move. Another spoonful poked his lips, he worked to open up, and more warm broth poured into his mouth. Common simple acts appeared difficult, he'd never been so weak, and realized with dismay that Sister Death was just around the corner, rubbing her hands together with anticipation and glee.

  But the Madonna hovered above, compassion radiating from her soft eyes. “The more you eat, the sooner you will get better,” she said.

  In his delirium, Duane Braddock was convinced that the Mother of God was administering the very ambrosia of life itself. It rolled over his tongue, trickled down his throat, and regenerated bones and muscles. A halo surrounded her head, he heard the singing of angels, and felt ecstasy within wrenching pain. When her hand touched his forehead, his brain became pleasantly warm.

  “The color is coming back to his cheeks,” she said.

  Duane yearned to understand the conversation, but terrific winds roared in his ears, his guts were boiling in oil, and worst of all, he still couldn't remember his name. Perhaps I'm in hell, he suspected. The Madonna grew fangs, her eyes bulged out, blood dripped from her maw. He tried to get away from her, broth went down the wrong tube, he was racked by a weak cough, and then passed out cold.

  “He's alive,” said the doctor, listening to the patient's heart, “but looks like he just had a relapse.”

  “Maybe he ate too much.”

  “He looked afraid for a moment there.”

  “Maybe he thought we are the law. I wonder what he has done.”

  “Must've been awfully bad to make him travel across the desert alone.”

  “Perhaps he is John Wesley Hardin, no?”

  “I've met John once, and this isn't he.”

  “You met John Wesley Hardin? What was he like?”

  “Nicest feller you'd ever want to know. His main problem was he was usually white and right.”

  Juanita decided not to question further, because the irregulars despised Negritos, and probably, when she wasn't around, made remarks about Mexicans too. It was the least attractive of Dr. Montgomery's characteristics, but otherwise he seemed a good man. Besides, she wasn't sure herself how to behave toward Negritos.

  “It is getting late,” she replied. “I must get up early tomorrow, for I have very much to do.”

  The doctor stood beside her, an expression of concern on his face. “How have you been feeling lately, Juanita?”

  “I am fine.”

  “But you look so sad at times.”

  “No normal person could be happy living like this, Doctor.”

  “You knew what we were when you joined us. Why'd you come?”

  “Because what I had was much worse. We are living like wild dogs here.”

  “You don't understand what we've been through,” he replied.

  “Let me tell you something. I was born in a very poor town, and a young girl like me, we get two choices. Be a puta in a dirty cantina, or be a maid and let rich people treat you like dirt. So I became a maid, but do not tell me about what you have been through, doctor. I have seen a few things, too, but unlike you, I am not mad at anybody. I just want to be happy.”

  A cold expression came into the doctor's brown eyes. “If you don't mind, I'd prefer not to discuss this further.”

  “I am sorry. I did not mean to offend.”

  She kissed his cheek, and he was struck by the warmth and softness of her lips. There was a swirl of skirts,
and she on her way to the door. Dr. Montgomery poured himself half a glass of whiskey while reflecting on the just concluded scene.

  Sometimes he thought himself mad to live like an outlaw, but how could a Virginian be happy with Yankee conquerors grinding their boots into the necks of good Southern gentlemen and ladies? Dr. Montgomery could hang his shingle in a town where no one ever heard of him, but it carried the stench of capitulation. Dr. Montgomery hailed from Savannah, directly in the path of Sherman's army. His family's home had been burned to the ground, and his blind sister perished in the flames. Dr. Montgomery couldn't forgive and forget, and as far as he was concerned, the Appomattox Courthouse was a minor and forgettable aberration in the long distinguished career of General Robert E. Lee.

  Most of the irregulars slept in a crude makeshift shack with double-stacked bunks at one end and a kitchen on the other. At night the old soldiers sat around the table, played cards, read books, drank whiskey, and talked about the good old days. They hadn't accepted Johnny Pinto yet, so that dangerous outlaw preferred to wander alone through Lost Canyon, beneath brilliant stars, with cattle lowing in the distance. He was confident that the irregulars would ask him to join the inner circle after he'd earned their respect, which he determined to do at the very next robbery.

  The one thing they admired was guts, and Johnny Pinto would show them what he had. He loved the frenzy of mortal combat; violence was his best friend, and the irregulars provided the most fun he'd ever had. That's why he'd swallowed his pride and asked to remain with them. Since then he'd kept his temper and ambition under tight rein, but it was only a matter of time before Johnny Pinto would blow up like a sack of dynamite.

  Johnny Pinto was the son of a long-bearded schoolteacher whose idea of fun was reading books. Bored, restless, and anxious to be respected, Johnny had settled on a strategy of planned physical aggression. He was slim as a whiplash, liked to wear skintight clothes, and his upper lip was obscured by a scraggly black mustache. More than anything else, he didn't want to be a sickly bookworm like his disgusting weakling father.

  As for his mother, she'd been her husband's sniveling servant. Even as a boy, Johnny Pinto had recognized that his parents were different from those of his friends. Regular people looked down on his father, because his father had been an Abolitionist prior to the war, but too delicate for a uniform. The other kids had ridiculed young Johnny, and that's when he'd begun his career as a brawler. To his surprise and everybody else's, he'd often defeated bigger boys. For the first time in his life, he'd won attention and esteem. He'd graduated to gun-play when he became a teenager, and it wasn't long before he'd committed an armed robbery in a small east Texas town. He'd been apprehended by a local posse and served one year in a hellish private prison before knifing a guard and escaping into the night. He'd been wanted by the authorities ever since.

  The moon floated over the valley as Johnny Pinto headed back to the bunkhouse. He passed the doctor's house and became curious about the patient whom everybody was fussing over. He angled toward the door, knocked, and the doctor appeared, frowned involuntarily, then faked a smile. “Howdy, Johnny— what can I do for you?”

  Johnny Pinto's brown eyes spotted the doctor's initial distaste, but he smiled anyway. “How's the patient doin'?”

  “See for yourself.”

  Johnny stepped lithely into the doctor's parlor, where the patient lay near the far wall. “Has he come to yet?”

  “A few times,” the doctor replied. “I think he's going to be fine.”

  “He don't look fine to me.” Johnny bent closer. “He's white as a sheet, fer chrissakes.” The young out-law touched the back of his hand to the patient's cheek. “I think he's dead already.”

  The doctor grabbed Johnny's arm indignantly. “Get your hands off him! You can't just walk in here and handle the patients. That's a human being there, not a side of beef.”

  Johnny Pinto looked around to make sure they were alone. Then he turned toward the doctor and narrowed his eyes. “Let me tell you something, sir. You ever grab me like that again—I'll punch you right through the fuckin’ wall!”

  The doctor pointed toward his own chin. “Try it.”

  It wasn't the response that Johnny Pinto anticipated, and the last thing he wanted was a beef with the doctor, Cochrane's best pard in the gang. Johnny forced a smile. “I couldn't punch you, Doc. I like you too much.”

  “It's a good thing,” replied the doctor, glancing down.

  Johnny Pinto followed his eyes and was astonished by the sight of a Colt aimed at his belly. “Hey—what's that for?”

  “Don't you dare threaten me, young man.”

  Johnny Pinto raised his hands and smiled charmingly. “But I was only kiddin’. Yer too serious.”

  “You don't fool me, Johnny Pinto. It's only a matter of time before you get what's coming to you.”

  Johnny Pinto grinned. “Dinero—that's what's coming to me. Sorry I upset you, but take good care of the patient, and if you need a gravedigger fer yer patient, feel free to call on Johnny Pinto.”

  Johnny touched his finger to the brim of his hat, then flew out the door. In the darkness, the smile erased from his face. The gang was the closest thing he had to a family, with Cochrane the father he wished he'd had, while Dr. Montgomery was his Dutch uncle. Johnny Pinto felt more at peace with himself since he'd joined the gang, but it wasn't easy to take orders.

  He opened the bunkhouse door, and everybody went for his gun. They relaxed when they saw him, but he said nothing as he made his way to his bunk, sat on its edge, and pulled off a boot. A terrible odor permeated the smoky atmosphere. Johnny Pinto lay on his bunk with all his clothes on, puffed up the pillow, and relaxed.

  “Hey—Pinto!” called Beasley, sitting at the table with the old-timers. “Ain't you even a-gonna wash yer face afore you go to bed?”

  “What for?” replied Johnny. “They say too much water weakens a man.”

  Beasley snorted derisively. “I've never been able to understand how a grown man could be afraid of a few drops of water.”

  The gang at the table laughed, while Johnny Pinto wanted to crawl underneath the floorboards. He hated personal criticism—his father had been expert at it— but this time it was Sergeant Beasley mouthing off, a big fat pain in the ass, and Johnny had to tolerate him if he wanted to remain in the gang. He racked his brain for a clever retort, but nothing came to mind. All he could do was pull on his boots, stroll sleepily past the table, and go outside.

  He found the washbasin, splashed water onto his grimy hands and sooty face, then used the common towel. He was annoyed to be meek like his detestable father, but needed the gang more than they needed him. I can put up with anything to get what I want, he decided.

  He returned to the bunkhouse, passed the table, and waited for somebody to say something. Sure enough, Sergeant Beasley spoke again. “You might want to take a bath tomorrow, kid. You smell like horseshit, you know that?”

  Johnny Pinto spun around, nearly tripping over his own feet. “If that's how you feel about it, Sarge, I'll take a bath right now.”

  He continued toward his bunk, searched through his saddlebags, and pulled out an old wedge of soap. Then he headed for the door, hoping that no one would say anything. A grin was plastered on his face as he reached for the doorknob, and next thing he knew, he was outside.

  The grin vanished instantly in the cool night air. Why're they always picking on me? he wondered. I don't smell any worse'n any of them. They're jealous ‘cause they know I'm a better man than the whole bunch of ‘em put together, and one of these days I'll prove it. He who laughs last laughs best.

  Juanita gazed at Cochrane bent over his maps. It was all he did when home, and they never took walks or went on picnics like ordinary people. He glanced up as she crossed to the washbasin, then returned to his work as if she weren't there. I'm just the person he sleeps with, she thought, and if it wasn't me, it'd be somebody else. When he says he loves me, it's just words.

>   Sometimes she thought she should get pregnant, but had no assurance he'd marry her. Accidents happened and she might possibly be pregnant even then, because she'd been oddly out of sorts lately.

  He glanced at her. “Where have you been?”

  “I saw the hombre who has been shot. He was having broth, and the doctor said he is getting stronger.”

  “Did he say his name?”

  “He could not talk.”

  “Maybe in a few days he'll tell us how many men he shot.” Cochrane laughed darkly as he stretched his arms to the ceiling. “I'm getting sleepy. Let's go to bed.”

  That's the way it went every night. They went to bed at his convenience, screwed each other's brains out, and would have little to do with each other until it was time to go to bed again. Sometimes it felt like prostitution to Juanita.

  They washed at the basin, undressed in the darkness of the bedroom, and crawled naked into bed. He embraced her beneath the flannel blanket, kissed her lips, and she tried to get in the mood. He noticed something wrong immediately.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “I am not feeling well.”

  He moved away, trying to gauge her mood this time. She'd been sulking lately because she wanted a husband, family, and an estancia to call her own. Sometimes he thought of returning her to the cantina where fate had introduced them, but he'd have the identical trouble with any woman he chose. Besides, he'd grown fond of her. She was a far cry from the giddy giggling belles he'd romanced in Charlottesville during his previous incarnation. He touched his lips to her warm fragrant shoulder. “I'm sorry.”