by Len Levinson
Jones dropped onto the chair, rested his hand on his gun, and said, “I nearly shot some son of a bitch just now.”
Their leader was Harold McPeak, thirty-five years old, former sergeant in the Confederate Army, also wanted for a variety of offenses. He wore a green shirt and had a bony face with large ears. “What happened.”
“He said somethin’ he shun't.”
McPeak appeared annoyed. “I thought we were supposed to stay out've trouble.”
“Was I supposed to lie down and die?”
“You were supposed to be here an hour ago.”
Jones looked around and grinned. “It don't look like a bad place to wait. Everybody says it's the best saloon in town. I need a waitress. Hey ... bitch!”
She had black hair to her shoulders and bright red lips. “Yes sir?”
“Gimme a whisky.”
She removed a glass from her tray and placed it before him. “Fifty cents.”
He tossed the coin onto her tray with one hand and pinched her ass with the other. She forced a smile, but there was fury in her eyes. “Thank you, sir.”
Jones sipped the whisky, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His clothes were ill-fitting, and he wore an egg stain on his dirty white shirt. “Where was we?”
“We was supposed to be talkin’ about the next job, but yer late. If you can't be on time, you'd better start a-lookin’ fer another gang.”
“Okay . . . okay,” Jones said. “I'm here. What's the deal?”
McPeak smiled, and said in a low tone: “Boys, we're a-gonna hit the sweetest little bank you ever saw. It's in a town called Shelterville, about five days east of here, and they got this nice old sheriff who wouldn't hurt a fly, plus lots of good church folk who'd hide at the first shot. We'll ride into town one by one in the mornin’, meet at the bank around noon, and when I give the word, we'll hold ‘em up, blow the safe, and head fer Mexico. We'll be out of sight before they know what hit ‘em. Now, the way I see it...”
McPeak explained the details of the robbery, but Jones was distracted by a young man sitting in the middle of the floor, the same kid he'd seen earlier at the Desert Palace Saloon, who'd supposedly shot Otis Puckett. Jones felt annoyed by the young stranger, for reasons he didn't care to understand. Jones had a broken nose, a scar on his forehead, and puffy lips. The only girls he ever got, he had to pay for, cash on the barrel head. He'd never been in love in his life.
McPeak's voice droned onward, as Jones continued to glower at the young man. There was something about him that contrasted sharply with Jones. Jones had been raised in Baltimore and had fought other urchins for bits of garbage to eat. He'd never made a conscious decision to steal—it had always come naturally—and he recognized no law save his own best interests. He felt insulted by the young bearded man talking with the old stablemaster on the far side of the saloon.
McPeak stopped his dissertation abruptly, then turned toward Jones. “What'd I just say?”
Jones ignored his question. “See that kid in the black shirt. He's got everybody thinkin’ he shot Otis Puckett.”
“Hey, ain't he the same one who was a-sittin’ at this table?”
“Sure was,” said McPeak.
“Maybe he did shoot Otis Puckett,” said the fourth man, the one with the pointed nose, Dick Mundy. “Puckett got shot a while back, I heard.”
“He did?” Jones was surprised. “Are you sure?”
“I heard some cowboys a-talkin’ about it. He was gunned down by a galoot called . . . lemme think ... the Brazos Kid?”
“How about the Pecos Kid?” asked Jones.
Mundy snapped his fingers. “That's it ... the Pecos Kid. His name's Craddock or Braddock or something like that.” He turned toward the young man. “Sure don't look like much.”
“Acted like a skeered rabbit,” said McPeak. “Hard to believe he shot Otis Puckett. I'd say it's horseshit.”
“'At's what I think,” replied Jones. “He's too purty fer his own good, and I don't like a man who trades on somebody else's reputation. I ought to go over there and kick his ass.”
The more Jones stared at the so-called Pecos Kid, the angrier he became. Jones wanted to be admired, but it was always the other galoot who received the sweetest fruits, while he gnawed weeds. Stealing, killing, and fighting were his principal interests, and he had no regrets.
McPeak placed his hand on Jones's shoulder. “We don't want no trouble.”
“It'll only take a minute.”
“I just gave you an order.”
“Shove it up yer ass.”
Jones rolled to his feet, hooked his thumbs in his belt, and sauntered toward the table. He felt most alive when a good fight was in the offing.
Then Mundy arose from the table. “I don't want to miss this. To tell you the truth, I never liked that kid when I first see'd him.”
“He looked a little simple to me,” added the third outlaw, Cassidy. “Let's make him dance to the tune, boys.”
McPeak, their leader, wore a disappointed expression on his weatherbeaten visage. He couldn't send them to the stockade, and his sergeant stripes didn't mean anything in Escondido. Guess I'll have to go along with it, he thought philosophically, as he followed them across the saloon. They can kill anybody they want, long as they help me rob that damned bank.
Duane leaned across the table and gazed into his new professor's eyes. “Suppose a lawman gets a wanted poster with your face on it. Does he look for you right away, or just nail the poster on the wall and forget it?”
Twilby sat with his legs crossed, holding a cigarette between his fingers, a twinkle in his eyes. “Depends on the lawman. Some're lazy, others like the glory, a few're in it fer the money, and some're even outlaws theirselves. If yer worried about ‘em a-lookin’ fer you, it depends what you did. If it's real bad, they might even send the Fourth Cavalry after you.” The old stablemaster shook his head. “You don't ever want to git on the fightin’ side of the Fourth Cavalry, boy. What're you wanted fer, if'n you don't mind me a-askin’.”
Duane leaned closer, and uttered: “I killed a federal marshal, but it wasn't my fault.”
Suddenly the table exploded in his face, and he went flying backwards. He landed on his back, went for his gun, and heard a voice say, “Don't move.”
Duane's hand froze. He looked up and saw the bully in the brown cowboy hat with the three owl-hoots who'd stolen his previous table. Duane blanched white, but held himself steady, tried to smile, and said, “What's wrong?”
Jones stepped forward and looked down contemptuously. “Are you the feller what says you shot Otis Puckett?
“Who's Otis Puckett?”
“Are you gittin’ smart with me, boy?”
“Not me, sir.”
“I ain't no goddamned sir. I hear that you claim to be the Pecos Kid.”
“You heard wrong.”
“Are you talkin’ back to me Craddock, or Braddock, or Shmaddock, or whatever yer damn name is?”
Duane realized that nothing would pacify the owlhoot. The Pecos Kid was being challenged again, and the only thing to do was make a stand. “I ain't a boy.”
“Well, you sure as hell ain't a man either.”
“You can say anything you want, since you've got a gun in your hand while my hand is empty. But give me a fair chance, and I'll show you who's a boy and who's a man.”
Jones was surprised by the back talk. His law was the code of the gutter and he preferred to prey on the weak and defenseless. But a Baltimore guttersnipe can't back down publicly. “Are you saying that you want a little duel?” he inquired with a wry grin.
“Unless you intend to shoot me in cold blood, without a chance!”
“He's right,” said the old stablemaster of the plains, who stood a few feet away. “You got to give ‘im a play. Ain't fair to shoot a man in cold blood like that.”
If Jones had been alone, he would've blasted the young man to smithereens, but he had to show outlaw valor before his peers. “Al
l right,” he replied. He holstered his gun, then beckoned to Duane. “I ain't killed nobody yet tonight, and it might as well be you. Let's go. On yer goddamned feet!”
Duane raised himself from the floor. He didn't have time to speculate on what Saint Ambrose would say about moral implications, as he faced Jones and unlimbered the fingers of his right hand. “Mister, I don't know you, and I don't want to kill you. As far as I know, you don't know me. Why don't you let me buy you a drink?”
Jones raised his eyebrows, because he thought Duane had shown the coward's stripe. “A few moments ago, you was a-challengin’ me to a gun-fight. Change yer mind so fast, Mister Pecos?”
“There's nothin’ to fight over,” Duane replied. “What's wrong with you?”
It sounded like a new insult to the ex-Baltimore street urchin. Jones stiffened, and poised his hand above his Remington. “I'm ready when you are.”
Duane didn't want to draw first, because of possible legal ramifications. His sharp Apache-trained eyes watched his opponent's hand closely. “Mister,” he said, “I'm going to tell you something, and you'd better listen closely. It's true. I shot Otis Puckett. My name's Duane Braddock, and you don't have a prayer against me. But I don't want to kill you. Why don't we forget the whole thing?”
Jones scowled, becoming more unsure of himself, but the slime of the Baltimore gutter still flowed through his veins. “Sounds like humbug to me,” he declared. “I say yer a lyin’ sack of shit. What're you a-gonna do about that?”
Duane realized the time had come to stop making excuses, because nothing would stop the man. “What're you gonna do?”
Somebody laughed, and Jones thought a joke had been made at his expense. Warped anger billowed through his brain as he reached for his Remington. His finger touched the ivory grip at the same instant that Duane's Colt fired. A bullet pierced Jones's heart, and his lights went out instantly, but he was still on his feet, gun in hand, ready to fire. Everybody stared at him in morbid fascination as he collapsed onto the floor.
It was silent in the saloon, acrid gunsmoke filled the air, and everyone's ears rang with the shot. Duane aimed his gun at Mundy, then at Cassidy, and finally at McPeak. “Any of you boys want a piece of me?”
The three outlaws glanced at each other, and Duane saw calculation in their eyes. They were wondering how they could take him in tandem, so he dropped his Colt into his holster, assumed his gunfighter stance, and said, “Go ahead, if you've got the sand.”
They hesitated, then backed away slowly, to fight another day. All eyes turned toward the young angel of death in black jeans, black shirt, and black hat with silver concho hatband. “Must really be the Pecos Kid,” somebody said.
Duane backed toward the rear door of the saloon, as everyone got out of his way. He reached behind him, turned the knob, and landed outside. Cool fragrant desert air struck him. He looked at the sky and decided that Steve was going for a ride whether he liked it or not. He was heading for the stable when the saloon door opened behind him. He spun around and aimed at the figure advancing through the night.
“It's only me,” said Twilby. “Where the hell you a-goin'?”
“Some little cave in the middle of nowhere, because every time I come to a town, there's somebody who wants to fight me. I've got so much blood on my hands, I'll never get clean again. Why don't people leave me alone?”
The old stablemaster scratched his chin thoughtfully, like Saint Jerome the scholar. “I guess men git jealous of you. Yer kind've good-lookin’, and some folks don't like who they are.”
“Are you jealous of me, Twilby.”
“I can live with myself, but some fellers can't. Are you really the Pecos Kid?”
“It's just a name some dirty, lying newspaper reporter gave me.”
“Who taught you to shoot like that?”
“Clyde Butterfield. Ever heard of him?”
“Sure did. They say he was one of the craziest sons of bitches who ever came to Texas. How'd you know ‘im?”
“He just started talkin’ to me on the main street of a town called Titusville one day. Turns out he knew my father.” The last sentence was out of Duane's mouth before he could stop it.
“Who's yer father?”
“Just another cowpoke. Nobody special.”
Twilby took a step backwards and cocked an eye. “He wasn't the boss of the Polka Dots, was he?”
Duane was at a loss for words, but recovered quickly. “I thought you never heard of the Polka Dots.”
“When you first asked me, fer all I knew, you could've been John Law. Sure I heard of the Polka Dots, and yer Duane Braddock, eh? Well, the Polka Dots was famous up in the Pecos country. I saw yer father onc't in a little cantina down Tampico way. He was thar with some of his boys. If I'm not mistaken, that's when Clyde Butterfield was a-ridin’ with ‘im.”
“You saw my father?” Duane asked. “You don't understand ... he went away when I was one year old, and I don't know anything about him. What was he like? Did you palaver with him?”
The old stablemaster chuckled. “It's a long story, so let's sit down and have us a whisky.” He placed his arm around Duane's shoulder and led him down the alley. “By the Jesus, they said yer paw had a fast hand too. A lot of people really liked ‘im, but some, well ... it's too bad what happened to the Polka Dots.”
Duane couldn't resist the opportunity to learn more about his father. Like a moth drawn to flame, he followed the old stablemaster across the street to the Silver Spur Saloon. It was half the size of the Last Chance, thoroughly filthy, with a bar on the left, tables to the right, dance floor in back, no chop counter, and several elderly prostitutes. Twilby bought two glasses of whisky at the bar, then carried them to a table against the back wall. They sat and raised their glasses as word spread through Escondido that the infamous Pecos Kid was in their very midst.
Twilby leaned toward Duane and said, “I never knew yer father, or Clyde Butterfield, but everybody used to talk about ‘em in the old days. Joe Braddock and Clyde Butterfield was in the Mexican War, and when it was over, they decided to go into business together with a bunch of other ex-soldiers. Texas was wide open then, and if you put yer brand on a steer, it was your'n legally. There wasn't many big ranches, and a lot of cowboys lived in the open with their chuckwagon, if they had a chuckwagon. But we had no law a-tall, and lots of feuds started over cattle. To make a long story short, some rich ranchers said yer paw and his men was rustlers, and tried to arrest ‘em. A range war broke out, and the big ranchers hired fast hands from all over Texas to hunt down yer paw and his boys. They caught ‘em in the Sierra Madre Mountains, and that was the end of the Polka Dots, but to this day, a lot of people in the Pecos country say the Polka Dots was innocent. ‘Course, you'll find others who'd say they was killers, horse thieves, and cattle rustlers.”
Duane was taken aback by this news. “I thought my father had been hung.”
“Not the way I heard it. They shot him like a dog.”
The image burned into Duane's mind, his father shot full of holes, writhing on the desert sands. “Do you remember the names of the rich ranchers?”
Twilby wrinkled his brow. “Don't right recall.”
“If you remember my father's name, how come you don't remember the people on the other side? Are you afraid I'll go there and start trouble?”
“You show up in the Pecos country sayin’ yer Joe Braddock's son, you'll git shot on sight. Get it through yer thick skull, kid: there's nawthin’ you can do to bring yer paw back.”
“Did you ever hear anything about Joe Braddock's woman?”
“Joe Braddock had one in every town. I meant no offense, but that's how it was.”
“What towns?”
“If'n I tell you, you'll ride thar first thing in the mornin’. And you'll kill somebody, or somebody'll kill you. You can't look backwards, boy. Life is what you make it.”
“But I don't remember my parents at all. It'd mean a lot if you'd just tell what you know.”
Twilby arose from the table before Duane could react. Duane watched the stablemaster go, and meditated upon the revelations just accorded him. Twilby had confirmed certain rumors and scraps that Duane had gleaned since leaving the monastery, but contradicted others. Duane was pleased that his father had gone down fighting instead of getting legally lynched on the main street of somebody's town. A man was an outlaw or hero depending on what side of the gutter you're standing on, Duane told himself.
An ancient painted harlot approached, placed hands on her bony hips, and winked lewdly. “You look lonesome, cowboy.”
“Not tonight. Sorry.”
“Don't you like girls?”
“Not interested right now.”
She wore gypsy earrings and a rhinestone necklace, and the tops of her wrinkled smallish breasts were visible. She had three black stumps remaining in her mouth. “I'll show you a real good time.”
“I'm sure you would, but I'm waiting for somebody.”
The whore opened her mouth to reply, when a shot rang out behind the saloon. Duane yanked his gun and dived to the floor, and was joined by other outlaws and waitresses on the way down. The bartender peered fearfully out the back window. “Looks like somebody got shot!”
Duane aimed his gun before him, hammer back and ready to fire. Whores, outlaws, and vaqueros arose cautiously around him. The bartender opened the rear door and looked toward the privy. Then he moved cautiously toward the dark figure bleeding on the ground in front of it. “It's Amos Twilby!”
Duane pushed through the crowd, gun in hand, heart beating wildly. He erupted outside and saw the bartender kneeling over a prostrate figure on the ground.
“Shot in back of the head,” the bartender said. “Wonder what kind of low-down varmint'd do a thing like that?”
Obviously he'd been bushwhacked from behind. But why? Duane kneeled beside the grisly shattered head of his newest friend, and felt nauseated, his brow furrowed with confusion. It made no sense. “What'll happen to him now?” Duane managed to ask.