by Len Levinson
He sat at the desk and contemplated his tin badge. It was the last thing he needed. He wondered if he was as loco as everybody said.
“Halp! Sheriff!”
Panicked voices came from the street. Duane drew his Colt. The door flew open, and a toothless man in a dirty apron entered, his face blotched with emotion. “One of the whores has got kilt at the Silver Spur!” The bartender ran his forefinger across his throat.
Duane was rocked by the news. Numbly, he followed the toothless man outside, where a crowd had gathered in front of the Silver Spur. Everybody looked anxiously at the new sheriff, expecting him to take charge, so he pushed his way through and entered the door. Inside the saloon, agitated cowboys and outlaws peered down the back corridor, from which a disheveled man with a mustache appeared. He saw the tin badge and said, “My name is Sanchez, and I are so glad to see you here.”
Aged prostitutes with skinny legs and potbellies watched Duane from doorways as he passed down the corridor at the side of Sanchez. They came to a small dingy room where a naked woman was lying on the floor, her head nearly cut off.
Duane was aghast. He'd never seen a woman who'd been murdered before, and what a gruesome crime it was, with blood everywhere, her head hanging at a grotesque angle. Everybody in the corridor was looking at him expectantly when he detected a faint bloody bootprint on the planked floor. “Who was she?” Duane asked.
“Hazel Sanders,” replied Sanchez.
“Who did it?”
“There was so many people coming and going tonight, it is difficult to say.”
Duane examined the bootprint. It had a pointed toe like the cowboy boots that he and most other men wore, including Sanchez.
“Was there an argument?”
“Nobody heard nothin’.”
“Who found her?”
“We din't see her fer a while, so I knocked on her door. It was open, so I came inside and this is what I see. Sometimes there is a bad hombre who drinks too much and pulls a knife. She looks so sad, like a poor dead little bird, no?”
Duane felt dizzied by the nearly decapitated woman lying beside him, never to move again. “Does she have any enemies that you know of?”
“Who does not have an enemy, Señor? But I do not think anybody would kill her, my poor little darling.”
Duane studied the whorehouse manager more carefully. “You haven't been fighting with her, have you?”
“I fight with all my girls, but it just means that we love each other.”
“Did she have a man?”
“His name is Marty Schlack.”
The Belmont Hotel was a jumble of adobe huts on the edge of town, and lights glowed dully from windows as Duane approached. He'd never investigated a murder before, had no idea how to proceed, and wondered how he'd gotten himself into such a grisly fix. The brutal murder of the prostitute had moved him deeply, but all he could do was follow through as sheriff of Escondido. He remembered a line from the Book of Job: How . . . abominable and filthy is man which drinketh iniquity like water.
The clerk wore a black vest and puffed a cigarette as he gazed curiously at the tin badge on Duane's shirt.
“Where's Marty Schlack's room?” asked Duane.
The clerk pointed down the hall. “Number eight.”
Somebody coughed hoarsely in a far corner of the hotel, as Duane made his way down the dark passageway. It seemed like a place to get a knife in your back at any moment. He placed his hand on the cool grip of his Colt as he rapped on the door.
There was a groan on the far side, then a low gnarled voice said, “Who is it?”
“Sheriff Braddock.”
The door opened, and a short man with long mustaches and an unshaven chin stood before Duane. “Since when'd this town have a sheriff?” Marty Schlack's breath smelled of alcohol, and a bottle stood like a lone sentinel next to the rumpled bed. He was in his mid-forties.
“I'm afraid I've got bad news for you, Mister Schlack. Hazel Sanders has been killed.”
Schlack looked as if he'd been punched in the stomach. He muttered and stuttered in confusion, and Duane calculated that his response appeared genuine. “Maybe you'd better sit down.”
Schlack sat at the edge of the bed and stared into space. His face was ashen and his hands trembled. “Who did it?” he asked weakly.
“That's what I'm trying to figure out. Did she have any enemies?”
“Not that I know of. Everybody liked Hazel.”
“Do you think it could've been Sanchez?”
“Sanchez got along all right with her. Why would anybody kill Hazel?”
“You tell me.”
“She never hurt nobody. I don't know.” Marty Schlack covered his eyes with his hands, as his body was racked by a sob.
Duane didn't think he was acting, but he'd met many clever humbugs in the brief months that he'd been gone from the monastery in the clouds. “If you remember anything, let me know. My office is next to the barber shop.”
Duane returned to the street, baffled and sickened by the murder. He hadn't realized, when he accepted the tin badge, that he'd have to solve a real crime. His only clues were a dead body and a faint bloody bootprint. Maybe a drunkard had done it, he reckoned. He'd try again someday, and get caught.
Duane needed a drink, and ahead was the Longhorn Saloon. He went inside. It was packed with outlaws, cowboys, and prostitutes, most talking excitedly about the recent murder. Three armed Negro cowboys imbibed quietly at the end of the bar, and a hush came over the saloon as Duane placed his boot on the bar rail. “Can I get a cup of coffee?”
“Sure thing, Sheriff.”
The bartender reached for the pot on the counter behind him, as Duane glanced at the faces surrounding him. I wonder if one of them is the murderer of Hazel Sanders. The bartender served the mug, and Duane carried it to a table against the wall. He couldn't imagine killing a woman, and for what? He had no notion whatever why Hazel Sanders had been killed. She had no enemies, but sure as hell didn't kill herself. There's a fiend loose in Escondido, and I, of all people, have to find him.
Duane glanced up from his coffee. A drunken cowboy in a white hat stood before the table and examined Duane with a supercilious smirk. “Are you really the sheriff?” he asked.
Duane looked him coldly in the eye. “What can I do for you?”
“Ain't you a little young?”
“Young for what?” Duane replied.
The white cowboy hat appeared amused. “To run a town.”
Duane whipped out his Colt and pointed it at the cowboy's right eye. “I've got a new jail down the street. How'd you like to be the first customer?”
The cowboy blinked, then his face went pale. “Looks like you got the drop on me.”
“Looks like I did.”
“Maybe some other time,” the cowboy replied, backing toward the bar.
“Up to you.” Duane holstered his gun as he returned to the chair. For all I know, that's the killer, he conjectured. He sipped thick black coffee and looked at the man in the apron taking a break at the end of the bar by smoking a cigarette. Duane carried the empty mug toward him for a refill.
“Did you know Hazel Sanders?” Duane asked, as the bartender poured more coffee into the mug.
“Sure, but I was a-workin’ here all night. Hope you don't think I kilt her.”
“Who d'ya think might've done it?”
The bartender shrugged good-naturedly. “Yer the sheriff, not me.”
Nobody's going to solve this killing for me, Duane realized. I have no business wearing this tin badge, because I haven't the slightest notion of what I'm doing.
Then, out of the blue, somebody bellowed: “What the hell's a-goin’ on hyar!” It was the same cowboy in the white cowboy hat, still looking for trouble. “How come thar's niggers in this saloon!” the cowboy demanded.
Duane leaned toward the bartender. “Who's he?”
The bartender narrowed his eyes as he perused the cowboy. “Just another son of a
bitch with a snootful of whisky.”
The cowboy hollered: “Hey bartender, git them damn niggers out'n hyar.”
The bartender held up his hands and smiled. “It's a free country.”
“Like hell it is.”
The cowboy gulped down the dregs of his whisky, then slammed the glass onto the bar. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and glowered at the Negroes. They tried to ignore him as they continued their conversation.
“Why can't niggers keep to their own kind?” the cowboy asked. “I din't go through five years of war so's I have to drink with niggers!”
The Negroes mumbled nervously among themselves at the end of the bar. They were outnumbered at least ten to one in the saloon. The cowboy in the white hat opened his mouth again. “Hey, niggers! Get the hell out'n hyar!”
He prowled toward them, followed by eight rough-looking cowboy friends in various stages of inebriation. The Negroes lowered their drinks to the bar, put their backs to the wall, and looked ready to go the distance.
The cowboy in the white hat came to a stop in front of them. “I don't drink with niggers,” he said. “Hit the fuckin’ trail.”
“Wasn't a-drinkin’ with you, boss,” replied one of them, trying to smile. “You was all the way down the other end of the bar.”
“I said hit the fuckin’ trail.” The owlhoot smiled thinly and rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet.
“You want us to leave, you got to make us, boss,” retorted the Negro, still struggling to smile. “There's more of you than us, but I'll tell you one thang. Some of yous're a-gonna die, if'n you start up with us.”
Hatred and fear crackled like forked lightning across the saloon. Men near doors ducked outside, and the man in the apron lowered his head behind the bar. Everyone else dropped to the floor, except one man. He wore a tin badge and was dressed in black jeans, with his sliver concho hatband gleaming through tobacco mists. “Let's settle down, boys,” said the new sheriff of Escondido.
The cowboy snickered. “Here's this shithead again.”
One of his pards replied: “Looks like John Law.” The pard sported a red feather in the hatband of his green cowboy hat. He turned toward the cowboy in the white hat. “You ever shoot a lawman, Zeke?”
“A few.”
Duane's hand hovered an inch above his gun grip. “You've got two choices,” he said evenly, trying to sound convincing and wondering if he was succeeding. “You can leave these cowboys alone, or you can go to jail.”
“There's one you ain't mentioned yet, Mister Lawman. You might end up in the cemetery.”
Duane slapped out his Colt before anybody could move. “You're under arrest,” he said to Zeke. “Get moving.”
Zeke had drunk three whiskies too many, and had a trick up his sleeve that had worked before. He dodged to the side, hit the floor, rolled over, and came up with his gun in hand. A shot rang out. A red dot appeared on Zeke's wrist, and he seemed to be paralyzed. Then Zeke began screaming hysterically. Smoke filled the air as Duane thumbed back his hammer for the next round. The man with the red feather in his hat had yanked his gun and was in the act of raising it when he noticed a Colt aimed at his gut. Red Feather smiled foolishly as he returned his gun to its holster.
Duane stood on one side, with the Negroes against the wall and the outlaws facing them. Zeke writhed and yelled in front of the bar, as blood dripped from his fingers to the floor. One of Zeke's friends, who wore a dirty yellow canvas shirt, stared angrily at Duane and said: “Mister, yer a-gonna pay for that.”
“We don't tolerate gunplay in this town,” Duane replied.
“You goddamned nigger lover! Yer prob'ly half a nigger yerself! You might have that tin badge on yer shirt, but there's more of us'n you, and we'll git you—you can bet on it.”
Duane watched the coalition form before him. He took a deep breath and said, “I think we'd all better settle down, gentlemen.”
Red Feather spat at the floor. “Settle down, my ass. You done shot my friend, and you ain't a-gonna git away with it.”
Duane thought he should open fire, but decided to talk it through. “You'd better relax, cowboy.” Then he turned toward the Negroes. “Might be best if you fellers moseyed on out of here.”
One of the Negroes replied: “I don't run from nobody.”
“This isn't worth dying over.”
“What do you know about dyin'?” demanded Red Feather. “I had two brothers who got kilt in the war becuzz of damned niggers, damned Yankees, and yellow-dog bastards like you!”
“You're starting to make me mad,” Duane replied.
“Who gives a shit?” Red Feather looked around in exasperation. “Why don't somebody shoot him in the back?”
Duane glanced behind him, but nobody was hauling iron. He stepped to the wall, so it would protect his rear, then aimed his gun at Red Feather. “You're under arrest too.” He motioned to the door with the barrel of his gun. “Get moving.”
“You ain't takin’ me nowhere's, kid.”
“If you don't do as I say, I'll shoot you where you stand.”
Red Feather laughed, and raised both of his empty hands in the air. “Go ahead .. . shoot.”
Duane couldn't shoot anybody in cold blood, and the cowboy had seen through Duane's feeble bluff. But Duane couldn't back down now. He stalked toward Red Feather, still aiming his gun at his head. Finally they were within arm's reach.
Red Feather laughed again. “You don't have the sand to shoot me, you goddamned pantywaist.”
Duane whacked the outlaw across the face with the barrel of his gun, and there was a crunch sound. The outlaw's eyes rolled into his head, and he dropped to the floor in a clump.
“Who's next?” Duane asked.
“Me,” said a voice behind Duane's back. “Don't move, because I've got you covered.”
Duane froze.
“Drop your gun,” said the voice behind Duane.
“Not on your life,” Duane replied.
“Then yer a-gonna die.”
A shot rang out, the saloon filled with gunsmoke once more, and Duane was amazed to discover that he was still on his feet. An outlaw in a black-and-white-checkered shirt lay on the floor, his gun a few inches from his hand, blood oozing from his chest. Duane knew he hadn't shot him, so who did?
A stranger in a wide-brimmed old Confederate cavalry officer's hat stepped out of the crowd, a smoking gun in his hand. He had a light-brown mustache, and a wry grin. “Howdy, Sheriff. Nice night, isn't it?”
“I'm much obliged to you, mister.”
The newcomer scrutinized the outlaws and cowboys arrayed before him. “It's pointless to die over three darkies, wouldn't you say?”
The three Negro men appeared seriously startled by the savage bloodshed. Their leader tried another smile, but it came out weird. “I don't want no whisky that bad,” he said. “Maybe it's time we was a-movin’ on.”
They headed for the door, as outlaws and cowboys made way. Duane realized that in the heat of the action, he'd stupidly exposed his back. He glanced at the stranger who'd saved his life, and wondered why. He'd never seen him before. The Negro cowboys disappeared into the night, and tension vanished from the Longhorn Saloon. Duane smiled at the stranger. “Thanks for the help, mister. It hadn't been for you, I might be dead right now. Buy you a drink?”
“Don't mind if I do.”
They headed for the bar, where the man in the apron was waiting with a bottle and two glasses. “On the house,” he said.
He poured whisky, then Duane and the stranger raised their glasses. The stranger said, “Here's to faster horses, younger women, older whisky, and more money.”
They touched glasses, then drowned their frazzled nerves. Duane pushed up his hat brim and rested one elbow on the bar. “What name're you going by these days?”
“I'm Derek Wright, and I believe you're Sheriff Duane Braddock, alias the Pecos Kid.”
They looked into each other's eyes, like flint on steel. “Just tel
l me one thing, Mister Wright. Why'd you save my life?”
“Didn't like the odds.”
“You could've died.”
“So fucking what?”
Derek Wright had square shoulders, a square jaw, and was deeply tanned. He'd spoken with the accents of an educated man, and Duane could visualize an officer in a tailored gray uniform with gold shoulder straps. “Looking for a job?”
“What've you got in mind?”
“Deputy sheriff. Pays seventy-five dollars a month, and you'd probably be sheriff before long, because I don't intend to stay in this town forever.”
“I wouldn't touch your job with a ten-foot pole,” replied Wright.
Duane examined his savior more closely. I wonder who he killed, or what he stole? Wright had deep lines around his eyes and the appearance of a man accustomed to sleeping under open skies.
“What'd you do in the war?” Duane asked.
“I served under General Jackson,” Wright replied laconically.
Stone knew of General Stonewall Jackson, one of the South's great heroes. “Did you ever meet him?”
“I was one of his staff officers.”
“What was he like?”
“He understood how to find an opponent's weak spot, and was the toughest, hardest, coldest man I've ever known.”
Duane had met many worn-out ex-soldiers since he'd left the monastery. It seemed as though Texas was full of them. Some had held high positions in the Confederate Army, and then became drifters in Texas, unable to return to normal life.
“I wish you'd take the job,” Duane said. “You'd probably be better at it than I. I don't know a damned thing about the law.”
Duane became aware of Wright inspecting him carefully. “I heard somebody say that you shot Otis Puckett.”
“It was a lucky draw,” Duane confessed.
“Where'd you get your fast hand?”
“I had a good teacher named Clyde Butterfield. Ever hear of him?”
Wright nodded solemnly. “We weren't exactly friends, but perhaps you could call us acquaintances.”
“He rode in a gang called the Polka Dots, back in the old days. You ever heard of Joe Braddock?”