Outlaw Hell

by Len Levinson

  “If a wanted poster came from Austin with my picture on it, I wouldn't even be here. I'm hitting the trail soon as my horse rests up. No thanks, Mrs. O'Day.”

  “It's Miss O'Day. Have you noticed anything strange about this town, Duane?”

  “I never saw a nest of coyotes like this in all my days.”

  “You seen any children on the streets?”

  “I figured there weren't any.”

  “They're here, but they cain't go outdoors to play. There's too much stray lead flyin’ around, and we need a tough sheriff to put an end to it. There's decent folks left in Escondido, and we'd be mighty grateful if you took the job.”

  “This town is full of backshooters and bushwhackers. I wouldn't last a day.”

  “They're all scared of you now. You could do some real good here, make yer own laws if you want, and put together a nice little grubstake. How's about some whisky?”

  She poured a glass and handed it to him, and he sipped sweet mellow liquid, a notch above what she served in the bar. “The more I think about it, the worse it sounds,” he declared.

  “Maybe yer right,” she said reluctantly. “We got some real bad fellers in Escondido, no doubt about it. Yer young and I reckon you've got a lot to learn.” She winked. “The girls must go plumb loco over that purty face of your'n, ay cowboy?”

  Duane smiled faintly. “But they always leave after they get to know me.”

  “A gal looks fer a man who can take care of her, not git her strung up. You pull yer life together, you'll have all the gals you want. If it's one thing I know, it's women.”

  Duane examined the strange flamboyant creature before him. “You been in this business long?” he inquired.

  She puffed her cigar thoughtfully. “I was born in this business.”

  “Did you ever hear of my father, Joe Braddock?”

  She flinched barely perceptibly. “Long time ago, but I never met ‘im. They say he was one wild-ass son of a bitch once he got going, and you're a chip off the old block. Lots've owlhoots pass through Escondido, and you might meet somebody who knew ‘im from the old days.”

  “I already met one of them—Amos Twilby. Were you a friend of his?”

  “He was a customer. How'd he know your father?”

  “He got shot before he could tell me.”

  “He was a damned fine stablemaster, but I've always wondered where his stake come from. You know, if you wanted to ask about Joe Braddock, folks would feel obligated to answer a sheriff's questions. A sheriff could do pretty much as he pleased in a town like Escondido.”

  “You ever hear anything about Joe Braddock's woman?”

  “Joe Braddock prob'ly had a lot of ‘em, a good-lookin’ feller like that.”

  “If you never met him, how do you know he was good-looking?”

  “I'm just telling you what people used to say. Joe Braddock was a legend in the Pecos country, because he dared to buck the big ranchers.”

  “Some folks say he was an outlaw.”

  “Maybe he was. Hell, everybody's got an axe to grind. If the big ranchers who killed yer paw ever heard you been a-snoopin’ around askin’ questions, they might send vigilantes after you, too. But if you was a lawman, they wouldn't dare touch you. Think it over, cowboy. And if you want a girl for the night, just pick her out and take her upstairs, on me. It's a li'l fringe benefit of being a friend of Maggie O'Day's.”

  Duane sat in a dark corner of the Last Chance Saloon, sipping whisky and brooding over his first day in Escondido. After a lifetime of wondering about his father, he was finally meeting people with reliable information.

  Each had confirmed the others’ stories in varying degrees, but Duane was eager to know more. Maybe I can find somebody who was a friend of my father's, and there might even be an old woman who met my mother too. It's true what Maggie O'Day said: a sheriff can investigate anything he wants.

  Duane's eyes roved the half-empty saloon, as he searched for the fourth owlhoot, the one with the silver star of Texas on his belt buckle. Waitresses congregated at the end of the bar, exchanging jokes with the man in the apron. The Pecos Kid had been drinking all night, and everything hit him at once. His head swam, as Twilby, his parents, and Maggie O'Day danced through the corridors of his mind. He saw himself shooting the men who'd tried to bushwhack him, and felt as if he were choking on blood. Shuddering, trying to pull himself together, he remembered that he'd been searching for the Belmont Hotel when the shooting commenced. Exhausted, he tossed down his whisky, snorted, and headed for the corridor that led back to Maggie's office.

  A barrel-chested man in a narrow-brimmed derby hat blocked his way. “Whataya want?” asked Bradley Metzger.

  “Maggie O'Day.”

  “She's busy.”

  “Tell her I want to talk with her.”

  “I just told you she's busy, kid.”

  Duane didn't need a fracas in the wee hours of the morning. He was about to walk away when the door to Maggie's office opened. She poked her head out and asked: “What the hell's this?”

  “I wanted to talk with you,” Duane replied.

  “Come on in.” Maggie placed her arm across Duane's narrow waist and eased him into her office, while Bradley Metzger glowered angrily on the sidelines.

  “Have a seat, Sheriff,” Maggie said as she closed the door.

  “What's wrong with him?” Duane asked, aiming his thumb back at the corridor.

  “He's a goddamned fool. What can I do fer y'all?”

  “I'm on my way to the Belmont Hotel, unless you can recommend something better.”

  “You spend a night at the Belmont, you'll be a-scratchin’ fer the rest of yer life. There ain't a decent hotel in town, ‘cause decent people gener'ly don't come here, but maybe they would if we had better accommodations. Anyways, I've got a spare room at the end of the hall, and you can use it fer a few days. Be my guest. Why the hell not? If you want a gal, just pick her out on the house. A man like you deserves the very best.” She winked suggestively.

  “Too tired.”

  She tossed a key to him. “Room twenty, last room at the end of the hall.”

  Duane found himself in a labyrinth lit by oil lamps hanging from pegs molded into adobe walls. An outlaw and his maid advanced from the opposite direction, cuddling like Romeo and Juliet, although it was counterfeit love. Duane frowned disapprovingly as he came to an intersection of tenebrous passageways. He looked to his left and right, and suddenly didn't know where he was. His head spun. He felt disoriented and leaned his shoulder against the wall.

  A painted harlot approached through the corridor, her frothy black hair adorned with a red rose above her left ear. “You all right, Mister Braddock?”

  “Where's room twenty?”

  “I can take you there.” Her eyes brimmed with adulation, and she looked like a harlequin clown in the dim lamplight. “Yer a real man, Mister Braddock.”

  He spotted the scar beneath cosmetics on her right cheek. “Because I shot somebody?”

  “Because you stood up to ‘em, and din't let ‘em shove you around. I wish I was fast with a gun. Nobody'd ever mess with me again.”

  Duane looked her over as she led him down the corridor. She was surviving as best she could, just like the Pecos Kid. “What's your name?”

  “Alice Markham.”

  A new wave of dizziness struck him, his vision blurred, and he saw a halo glittering ethereally around her head. “Are you all right?” she asked. “Here's your room.”

  He fumbled for the key. She took it out of his hand and opened the door, and they entered a small adobe cubicle with a cot, dresser, and window. “Can I do anythin'?” she asked.

  Her tone of voice was unmistakable, it was on the house, and he had to admit that he wouldn't mind, but he couldn't perform ultimate love with someone he didn't even know. “Awfully tired,” he said, dropping to the edge of the bed.

  “Maybe some other time.”

  He waited a few seconds after she left, locke
d the door, pulled aside the burlap curtain, and peered at outbuildings, privies, and piles of trash gleaming in the light of the moon. Not a soul was in sight.

  He pulled off his boots, then unfastened his gunbelt and hung it over the bedpost. He drew his gun, held it in his right hand, and lay upon the bed. His eyes closed, while his Apache hearing searched the night for dangerous sounds. He heard wind whistling over rooftops, the distant howl of a cat in heat, and a clothesline slapping a pole, as he dropped steadily into slumber.

  Maggie O'Day lay with her eyes closed in her circular wooden bathtub, a glass of whisky in one hand, a panatella in the other. The hot sudsy water drew knots out of her muscles and soothed her troubled mind. Everybody knew the brassy ex-whore who drank and smoked like a man, but few ever saw the worried businesswoman who'd gambled her savings on the future of an out-of-the-way border town.

  She knew that outlaws couldn't maintain the local economy forever, and Escondido needed a stable population. But no serious investor would tolerate lead flying constantly through the air. The town needed law, Maggie knew, but nobody wanted to take on murderers and desperadoes and risk a bullet through the brain for a measly hundred dollars a month.

  She thought of Duane Braddock, the best prospect so far. She found him intriguing, but felt guilty for trying to convince him to become sheriff. Yet even vicious outlaws would think twice before taking on the Pecos Kid.

  Maggie was half-drunk, lazy, and lonely. She rested her head against the bathtub and entertained certain thoughts about the handsome young killer. She liked his silky blue-black beard, aquiline nose, and boyish smile. Maggie yearned for her vanished youth, when she'd slept with cute cowboys like Duane Braddock, and had even fallen in love with a few. But I'm just an old bag now, she mused, and he needs a gal his own age. Maggie knew that Duane hurt inside. Her maternal feelings swelled, and she wanted to take care of him. The poor kid didn't even know who his momma was.

  Duane was dreaming about Apaches in their mountain fastness when he heard a footfall outside his window. In an instant he was out of bed, gun in hand. He pressed his back against the wall at the sound of another scrape of boot sole, and his thumb cocked the hammer of his Colt as he sucked in his gut.

  Then, in the still of the night, the window blew out in a sudden deafening explosion. A blizzard of buckshot smashed into the bed where he'd reclined only moments before. His ears rang, and through the roar he heard footsteps in the backyard. He stuck his head outside and saw a figure running away. He aimed his Colt and fired, but the man disappeared around the corner of a building.

  The room was thick with smoke, the mattress demolished. Somebody pounded on the door. “What the hell's a-goin’ on thar!”

  Duane yanked open the door, and Bradley Metzger stood in the corridor, gun in hand. Feathers and bits of fabric fluttered about the room. “Almost got you,” Bradley said regretfully.

  Duane recalled the silver-buckled outlaw who'd escaped earlier. It must've been him, Duane thought. Then he remembered the young prostitute, Alice Markham, who'd helped him to his room. Maybe she had told him where he was.

  Other bodyguards arrived, guns drawn. They didn't ask questions, because the obvious mattress lay before them, riddled with lead. Their eyes turned to Duane, who was wide awake and ready to kill. He strapped on his gunbelt, pulled on his boots, and adjusted his black hat. Silently they watched him walk out of the room and down the corridor. Prostitutes and customers inspected him from doorways as he passed. He came to the saloon, where a few drunkards still congregated, and an outlaw was passed out at the bar. Duane drew his Colt as he approached the man in the apron. “Get me Alice Markham now.”

  Without hesitation, the bartender headed for the back rooms. Duane sat at a table against the side wall, closed his eyes, and gave thanks to the Apaches who'd taught him to listen for danger. If it hadn't been for them, he'd be on his way to the undertaker's parlor. He tried to calm himself with the commandment Thou shalt not kill, but it didn't accomplish the result he desired. Am I supposed to stand still and let these people kill me? How can I let some son of a bitch get away with shooting my father? What about justice and free will?

  Alice Markham emerged from the corridor, accompanied by a scrawny outlaw wearing a thick blond mustache. The outlaw patted her fanny, and she kissed his cheek. Then she headed for Duane.

  “You wanted to see me?” she asked in a throaty sensual purr.

  Evidently she figured he was next in line to her bedroom, or so it appeared. “Did you tell anybody where I was sleeping tonight?”

  She stared at him for a few moments, surprised by his question. “Why should I do that?”

  “Did anybody ask where I was?”

  “I never said a word about you, even to the other gals.” She appeared embarrassed. “I'm always a-gittin’ blamed fer things I din't do.”

  Duane didn't know whether to believe her or not. “Sorry,” he said, as he turned toward the door.

  He needed fresh air and room to think. Outside, the street was deserted, while a few drunkards were passed out on benches that lined the planked sidewalk. Duane held his gun ready to fire as he scanned alleys, rooftops, gutters, and water troughs. For all he knew, the owlhoot in the silver buckle was there, drawing a bead on him. He figured that the stable was empty, except for horses, so he climbed to the hayloft, stacked some bales of hay, and reclined behind them, gun in his right hand. I'll be safe here, he hoped. Tomorrow I'll get to the bottom of this, if there is a bottom.

  He closed his eyes, as his Apache ears listened for footsteps, or the click of a hammer. Floating before him in the darkness was the sallow death mask of Amos Twilby intoning solemnly over and again: “. . . yer a grown man, and you got a right to hear the truth.” Through the depths of a warm Texas night, Twilby's solemn chant rippled across Duane's soul.

  CHAPTER 5

  DUANE AWOKE BEFORE DAWN, HOLDING his gun ready to fire. Then he looked out the window at the first red sliver of sun peeking over distant mountains. It reminded him of when he'd dwelled among the Apaches, hunted wild animals, drank tiswin, and had incredible visions concerning his grandfather.

  Duane wished he could be back with the Apaches, living a pure life close to nature, but warriors were always returning from raids wearing Mexican and American clothing and carrying rifles, ammunition, and other booty that they'd stolen. Their entire culture was on the dodge, and it was only a matter of time before the Army hunted them down.

  Duane craved a normal life with home-cooked meals and honest ranch work. He'd loved his brief stint as a cowboy, but then he'd shot Otis Puckett, and his life had turned upside down ever since. When would the madness end? he often wondered.

  He found the washbasin, splashed water onto his face, and made his way toward the undertaker's house, as Twilby's chant continued to ring in his brain. “Yer a grown man, and got the right to hear the truth.” The undertaker lived on the east side of town in an adobe house, with window frames trimmed in white. Duane knocked on the door, and the tall, severe-looking trafficker in corpses opened it. His eyes widened at the sight of the Pecos Kid.

  “I'm here for the funeral,” announced Duane.

  Snodgras led him to a back room, where a plain wooden coffin contained the late Amos Twilby. The undertaker had bathed and shaved the corpse, dressed him in a suit, dyed his mustache, and powdered his nose. Duane was revolted by the transformation of his friend. Will I look like that when they bury me? Duane wondered.

  “Have you spoken with the parson yet?” asked the undertaker.

  “I'll see him at the cemetery.”

  “Reverend Berclair doesn't work that way. He'll have to palaver with you first, to make sure you're a good Christian. He takes his job seriously. He's not in it for the money.”

  Duane noticed four other corpses lying on tables nearby. One was Jones, the owlhoot in the brown hat whom Duane had shot in the Last Chance Saloon. Second was the owlhoot wearing the green shirt, and the next corpse was the one with the po
inty nose, both of whom Duane had outgunned in the street the previous night. Duane turned toward the fourth corpse, and his eyes dilated at the sight of the owl-hoot with the silver-star belt buckle, whom Duane had thought got away! “What happened to him?”

  “Bled to death. He was found behind a stack of firewood with a bullet in his leg.”

  So I got him after all, thought Duane, as previous conclusions flipped in his mind. “Wait a minute,” Duane said. “If a man gets shot in the leg like this, how long before he loses enough blood to conk out?”

  “The bullet severed his popliteal artery. I'd say fifteen minutes to a half hour.” Then the undertaker smiled proudly. “I studied to be a doctor before I became an undertaker.”

  Duane was struck by a disturbing new thought. If this outlaw died fifteen minutes after I shot him, then who tried to blow me to bits while I was asleep behind the Last Chance Saloon? A chill came over Duane. Is somebody who I don't even know trying to kill me?

  Apocalypse Church was a white house with desert swallows flitting about the steeple and belfry. Duane had never been in a Protestant church. Most Texans were Protestants, whereas Mexicans attended the Catholic churches. He glanced behind him, to see if a bushwhacker with a shotgun was lurking in an alley.

  The inside of the church was plain white, with no statues of saints, no candles burning, and no Jesus on the bare cross suspended behind the altar. A young woman prayed in the front pew, her shoulders bent in supplication before the Lord. Whoever she is, she really believes, Duane thought. He headed for the door that led to the parson's office, and the young woman's head spun around in alarm.

  “Didn't mean to scare you,” he said. “I was looking for the Reverend Berclair.”

  She was a frail-looking, pale-complexioned teenaged girl with black hair pulled to a ponytail behind her head, and she wore a gingham dress with a high collar. “Through there,” she replied, pointing toward a door.