Bad to the Bone Page 8

  On the other side of the saloon, a Mexican drifter named Miguel Torres was passed out cold at a table. He'd been drinking mescal for the past three hours, his pocket was empty, and he was oblivious to the world. He snored with his face in a puddle of spilled liquor, cigarette ashes, and an old deck of cards.

  Vagabonds, vaqueros, and banditos passed Miguel's table, but one happened to bump him by mistake. Miguel opened his eyes, and at first didn't remember who or where he was. Drunk again, he thought, as he pushed himself upright at the table.

  It was late, he wanted to go to sleep, and planned to spend the night on the open desert, with one eye open for spiders, lizards, wildcats, and Apaches. His bleary eyes searched for an old companero to buy him one last glass of mescal, but then he noticed a gringo sitting alone against the left wall, peering into his glass. My God! thought Miguel. It can't be! He staggered to the bar, an expression of horror on his face.

  “What is wrong with you?” asked the man in the apron. “You look as if you have seen a ghost.”

  “It is worse than that,” whispered Miguel, as he pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “Do you know who is sitting over there—the gringo with the long sideburns down to here?”

  The bartender squinted. “That is the man who saved the life of Doña Consuelo.”

  “Maybe so,” said Miguel knowingly, “but he is also one of the most wanted men in Tejas.”

  The bartender appeared surprised. “You have been drinking too much mescal, my friend.”

  “No—that is Duane Braddock, known as the Pecos Kid, and he has killed nearly twenty men, and maybe more, no one can say for sure. I saw him shoot three with my own eyes in Escondido about two months ago. He is very peligroso.”

  The bartender smiled indulgently. “But he is so young, and has the face of a baby. Are you sure he is the same gringo?”

  “I would bet my life on it,” said Miguel, as a crowd of curious vaqueros formed around him. “Desperadoes tried to ambush him on the main street, and he moved so fast—I never saw anything like it in my life. It was as though he was a brujo, and nobody could kill him.”

  A big, brawny vaquero sitting at the bar scowled in disbelief. “That gringo over there? You cannot be serious, companero. He is just a boy.”

  “He may look like a boy, but he does not kill like a boy. The whole Americano Army is looking for him, he is so bad. Sitting over there, amigos, is one of the worst killers who has ever been born.”

  Duane became aware that vaqueros at the bar were looking at him, and guessed that he'd been recognized. It seemed that no matter where he went, there was always somebody who'd heard of the Pecos Kid. He didn't like the attention, so he tossed down the remainder of his mescal, adjusted his black cowboy hat, and strolled out of the small dark cantina.

  A vaquero lay on the sidewalk, and Duane kneeled to see if he was alive. “Are you all right?” Duane asked, rolling the vaquero onto his back.

  “Where am I?”

  “If you're not careful, one of these drunkards is liable to step on you. Here—let me drag you into that alley.” Duane helpfully took the vaquero by the armpits and tugged him into the alley next to the cantina, where another drunkard snored loudly.

  “Is there a casa de putas in this town?” asked Duane, as he lowered the drunkard's head to the ground.

  “You will have to go to the next town.”

  Women are always the problem, figured Duane, as he left the alley. They drive us to drink with their damned shenanigans, and then we start shooting each other over them. Meanwhile, they act like innocent angels, with their every movement and article of dress calculated to drive us totally out of our birds.

  He kicked an empty can that lay in his path, and it went sailing into the night, reflecting the light of the moon. But it's not women's fault entirely, he mentalized, because they're not even aware of the things they do. You can't blame them because they're pretty and cute, and they shake their fannies in that certain provocative way. It's how God made us, and we just follow our instincts, not much different from bulls chasing cows on the range, or eagles screwing high in the sky. It's the law of nature, and even Jesus admitted that it's not a perfect world.

  He came to the outer grounds of the hacienda, and decided to ride away first thing in the morning, without saying goodbye to his hosts and hostesses. But he wanted to see Doña Consuelo once more. I know I don't have a prayer with her, and such a woman wouldn't look twice at a dumb kid like me. I'd rather get hit in the guts with an Apache lance than feel this way about a woman.

  He stopped next to a juniper tree, weak in the knees, unable to accept what was happening to him. I was in love with Vanessa, then Phyllis, and now I'm going through the whole mess again, except I'm never going to get my hands on her.

  He recalled that he'd reached the same conclusion about Vanessa and Phyllis, but had ended up in bed with both of them, much to the surprise of all concerned. But neither were married, while Doña Consuelo was a married Catholic woman. She would never in a million years take off her pantaloons for a man like me, but maybe I'll hang around for a few more days, because you never know.

  An armed vaquero opened the front door, and Duane made his way down the long torchlit corridor, heading for his bedroom. He realized that she was sleeping somewhere in that very building, probably wearing a fancy satin nightgown. He wished he could join her, and slowly, gently, raise the hem. The mere thought made him pant with desire, and he felt as if his head would explode.

  She's probably screwing her husband right now, he figured. You can see how much she loves him, the way she hangs on his every word. Besides, marriage is one of the sacraments, and you mess with the sacraments, you're really in trouble. Just keep your hands to yourself, always be a gentleman, and never, under any circumstances, let yourself be alone with her.

  On the other side of the courtyard, in one of those darkened rooms, Doña Consuelo lay in bed, waiting for her husband to join her. She could hear him fussing in the next room, removing his corset, while she wore a gown of spotless white silk trimmed with blue embroidery.

  Doña Consuelo was despondent over her mother's steady decline, and feared that the old lady would die at any moment. The dutiful daughter felt alone, lost, and fearful of the future. Sometimes it seemed that her life was a sham, and she could find no good reason why she resided in the hacienda, while others slept in mud huts.

  Her husband entered the room, and she breathed a sigh of relief. He would comfort her with love, and banish unworthy considerations. Perhaps they could bring new life into the world, to replace the spirit of death that hovered over the hacienda.

  “Darling,” she said, as she reached for him.

  “I'm tired,” he wheezed, as he pushed her away gently. “It's been a long day.”

  She didn't say a word, and felt embarrassed by lust for her husband. He generously hugged her, kissed the tip of her nose, then rolled away and closed his eyes. Doña Consuelo ground her teeth together in the darkness, because she was twenty-one years old, and there was a certain something she needed. She knew exactly what it was, felt mortified, and squiggled to the far side of the bed.

  She felt strangely bereft, guilty, and confused. Perhaps I'm too hot-blooded for my own good, she deliberated. Maybe there's something wrong with my mind, since I want it so often. After all, my husband has a difficult life, he works from sunup till he goes to bed, and I mustn't make additional demands. Once or twice a month should be enough for any normal woman.

  She rolled over and viewed the finely chiseled profile of her husband in the moonlight. He had a head of hair like a lion, and even in repose was a sight to behold. He looked like a monument, and greatness radiated from his every pore. She moved closer, to get a better look at his regal countenance. Moonlight revealed pouches beneath his eyes, deep lines around his mouth, and that bag of loose flesh under his chin. He was becoming ancient before her very eyes, but she'd always been attracted to older men, because they seemed more confident.

>   Doña Consuelo was tempted to cuddle with her husband, but didn't want to disturb his sleep. She remembered their glorious wedding night, when he'd initiated her into the rites of love, and could feel his body heat radiating across the mattress. She wondered what would happen if she crawled on top of him, or performed some other disgraceful act, but couldn't bring herself to make the advance. Decent women don't beg for fornication like squealing cats in heat, she reproached herself.

  She rolled away and tried to calm down, but hadn't felt so rambunctious since she couldn't remember when. Actually, the uneasy feelings had begun long before her husband had arrived for supper. In the chapel, when she'd been on her knees beside the young gringo, she'd experienced certain unmentionable sensations. He'd appeared greatly agitated too, and she'd feared that he'd attack her, throw her onto the floor, and ravish her shamelessly.

  Now that she thought about it, he was the strangest young man she'd ever known, not that she'd met many. Duane Braddock moved with languid grace, but lacked the supreme dignity of her husband. The young gringo was strong and sinewy, tanned like an Indian, with flashing eyes and a self-conscious smile. Doña Consuelo experienced certain feelings that she refused to think about, so she wiped them out of her mind, rolled over, and tried to sleep.

  Her husband snored softly, while she insisted on thinking disreputable thoughts about a certain young man. What if he came up behind me right now, hugged me tightly, and kissed the back of my neck? Her body felt curiously alive, while her mind was plagued by Catholic guilt. Christ said if we commit sins in our mind, it's as bad as committing them in reality, she sermonized to herself, as she reached for the rosary that hung on the bedpost for just such an emergency. She took it in her hands, and began to rattle the beads in the darkness, as her husband slept beside her like a beached whale. “Hail Mary, full of grace . . . “she whispered to the night, as she struggled to overcome her deepest needs.

  Sheriff J. T. Sturgis returned to his office, troubled by his conversation with Miss Vanessa Fontaine. Despite her sweet voice and ladylike manners, her eyes hadn't flickered once with romantic curiosity, and she hadn't flirted the way a woman does when she wants a man. He realized with dismay that there was nothing he could say or do to make her love him.

  He looked in the mirror, but his face didn't seem so hideous. At least he was honest, and didn't view murder as an inconvenience to be overcome with lawyers. Sheriff J. T. Sturgis had strong feelings about justice, and believed that God had talked to him in the midst of Pickett's famous charge.

  In times of stress and confusion, he often relived those deafening minutes. His right hand trembled as he conjured the continual hail of massed Yankee rifleshots, cannons hurling razor-edged metal at the gray-uniformed warriors charging into the very maw of hell. Corporal J. T. Sturgis had thought he'd die at any moment, and even in the “Bloody Angle”, where heaps of dead soldiers lay everywhere, he had still maintained his headlong charge.

  It was slashing, slicing, and bashing eyeball to eyeball with Yankees from Maine and Vermont. He himself had been covered with blood and gore, and had been bellowing like a wild bull, until finally, barely perceptibly, he became aware that the center division was giving ground before the furious enemy onslaught.

  Sturgis's eyes filled with tears as he recalled close friends ripped apart all around him, as bullets had whistled past his ears. He'd run for his life, and somehow, amid unspeakable carnage, he'd made it back to Confederate lines without one scratch, a miracle whose significance he still was trying to plumb. As near as he could figure it, God had spared his life for a purpose, and J. T. Sturgis had to devote himself to holy work for the rest of his life.

  After Appomattox, he'd wondered how to fulfill his vow to the Almighty. Yankee injustice had continued during Reconstruction, in his opinion, so he'd joined the Klan, and when the Federal government clamped down, he'd drifted west, finally becoming a lawman. But his covenant with God had remained the same, to fight injustice in a violent and dangerous world.

  He saw himself as a knight of the round table, not an ordinary cowboy or hardware salesman. He'd hoped that Miss Vanessa Fontaine would become his queen, except she believed she was above the law, and actually had tried to bribe him with a few gold coins.

  Sturgis propelled himself from his chair, opened a drawer of his file cabinet, and riffled through documents, letters, and wanted posters. Finally he found the file on Duane Braddock, sat in the chair, and proceeded to read. The documents consisted mainly of communications from the Federal Marshal in San Antonio, and Fourth Cavalry headquarters at Fort Richardson. They listed Duane Braddock's many alleged crimes, and according to the latest count, the so-called Pecos Kid had killed approximately twenty-five men in Texas, and God only knew the tally from Mexico. According to a Fourth Cavalry directive:

  Duane Braddock is extremely skilled in the use of arms, and no officer should attempt to apprehend him alone. Braddock never hesitates to shoot, and has demonstrated high accuracy in the past. It's best to catch him unawares, and if you draw your gun in his vicinity, be prepared to use it.

  Sounds like a real bad egg, thought Sturgis. He raised his Remington, flipped the cylinder, and spun it with the palm of his hand. Then he snapped it into position and took aim at the front door. Come on, Mister Pecos Kid, or whoever else you think you are. If I could survive Pickett's Charge, I damn sure can handle one crazy trigger-happy kid like you.

  CHAPTER 5

  DON CARLOS SUCKED IN HIS GUT AS A manservant laced up the girdle. The gap seemed to widen every day, and Don Carlos was chagrined to notice yet again that he was becoming an old man with a pot belly, his worst nightmare come true.

  He looked at himself in the mirror, and loose flesh hung where straps of muscle had once bound his bones. He seemed constantly tired, but pushed himself hard, because he couldn't let it show. Men won't follow if you lack vitality, and nobody will respect you, he believed.

  He heard a splash in the next room, where his wife was bathing behind closed doors, attended by her maids. Don Carlos imagined streams of foaming liquid flowing across her smooth pink skin. It was immensely flattering to be married to a young woman, but Don Carlos was unable to conceal advancing age, and sometimes feared that people were laughing up their sleeves at him.

  Some days he felt better than any young man in the world, but other times his feet dragged and he found himself over the hill. Doña Consuelo should have a man her own age, he admitted to himself, but instead she's stuck with me. On the other hand, our marriage is based on deeply shared beliefs, not cheap physical attraction. We are soul mates, despite the difference in our ages, and she is the jewel of my heart.

  There was a knock on the door, and a moment later a manservant appeared. “Don Patricio would like to speak with you, sir. He says it is very important.”

  Don Carlos buttoned the shirt over his girdle, as his face turned purple due to constricted blood vessels. “Send him in.”

  The manservant departed, then Don Patricio advanced into the room. “I have learned something interesting about our house guest,” he said confidentially. “It seems that he went to the cantina for a drink last night, and a drifter recognized him. You may be interested to know that Duane Braddock is one of the most notorious pistoleros in America, and even the Americano Army is looking for him.”

  Don Carlos wasn't especially surprised by the news, because he'd never forgotten the knife fight in Zumarraga. “But he saved Doña Consuelo's life, and has been on his best behavior here.”

  “You're right—we can't ask him to leave. I'll have my servants keep their eyes open for missing articles.”

  “I think we should give him the benefit of the doubt, and besides, perhaps the drifter had drunk too much mescal, and confused Braddock with somebody else.”

  Don Patricio departed as a servant helped Don Carlos with his black leather riding jacket. Don Carlos looked at himself in the mirror, and was pleased to note his flattened stomach. What a sly one Duane Braddock tur
ned out to be, thought Don Carlos. But I don't care who he's killed, as long as he behaves himself around here.

  Don Carlos dismissed his servants, then entered the room where Dona Consuelo was enjoying her morning bath. She lay resplendent in her porcelain tub, a towel wrapped around her hair, as maids rubbed her skin with soft soapy wash cloths. “I'd like to speak with you alone,” he said.

  She glanced at him curiously, pink and sweet-smelling in the tub. “Leave us,” she ordered the maids.

  They departed, and she looked at her proud caudil-lo, his steely mustache carefully twirled, jaw like a block of granite, stomach repressed by 19th-century girdle technology. He opened his mouth and said casually, “I don't want to frighten you, but it appears that Duane Braddock is wanted for a series of murders in Tejas. Last night, he was recognized in a cantina, but your father and I have decided that we shouldn't say anything, out of regard for his bravery. Hopefully, he'll be gone in a few days, but be careful around him, understand? Perhaps you should never be alone with him, to be on the safe side.”

  Doña Consuelo was aghast. “He certainly didn't seem like a killer to me, and happens to be a very religious young man. We've even prayed together.”

  Don Carlos smiled indulgently. “You're an innocent child, and don't understand that some people can act decently while plotting the most horrendous crimes. No, we can't take chances with this fellow.”