by Len Levinson
The two lawmen walked down the middle of the street and came to the Silver Spur Saloon. Duane pushed open the doors, and every head turned toward him. Self-conscious, he made his way to the bar, placed one foot on the rail, vaulted into the air, and landed atop the counter.
Everyone stared at the angel of death standing above them. “We don't tolerate fighting in this town!” he hollered. “If you've got a disagreement, take it someplace else. Otherwise you're going to jail, and if you resist, my deputy and I can't be responsible for what might happen to you!”
They gazed at him with awe, curiosity, and contempt. “Who in hell's that young feller on the bar?” somebody asked drunkenly.
“That's the Pecos Kid.”
The saloon became silent, except for a cowboy with a handlebar mustache and a skeptical expression. “Nobody's puttin’ me in jail,” he declared.
Duane cracked out his Colt and pointed it at the cowboy's mouth. “That's where you're wrong.”
Beads of sweat broke out on the cowboy's face. The draw had been so fast, he hadn't seen it coming. “Yes sir.”
Duane pivoted and aimed at another cowboy. “How about you?”
“I'm not looking for trouble,” he said, holding his hands in the air. “I'm in town fer a good time— that's all.”
“Make sure it stays that way.”
Duane jumped down from the bar and holstered his gun. Derek Wright angled his head toward a table against the wall. “Let's have a drink.”
“We don't drink on duty,” Duane replied.
“ We don't? You didn't tell me that before I took the job.”
“If you want to get shot, go ahead and drink. I'll see that you receive a decent burial.”
The bartender poured two mugs of coffee, and Duane and Wright carried them to a table against the wall. Wright pushed up his brim with his thumb. “Where'd you meet the gal?” he asked.
“Friend of mine.”
“For a long time?”
A spark shot out of Duane's eye. “Leave her alone.”
“I thought you and she were just friends.”
Duane was becoming increasingly dubious about Derek Wright. “Are you working for Sam Archer by any chance?” he asked out of the blue.
Wright's right cheek twitched barely perceptibly, but Duane's Apache eyes saw everything. “Settle down, kid,” the ex-officer growled. “I'm not your enemy.”
“You ask a lot of questions. I can't help wondering why.”
“Just making small talk. What're you afraid of? The whole world isn't against you. Relax.”
Duane wondered if he was suspecting Wright unfairly. The twitch in the ex-officer's cheek could've meant anything. Wright had offered to help, which was more than anyone else had done. “Sorry,” said Duane. “This town's making me jumpy, I reckon.”
“Maybe it's time to move south. It's real nice in Monterrey this time of year. I was heading in that direction myself. Maybe we can travel together.”
“My next stop is the Pecos country.”
“There's nothing up there except scorpions and rattlesnakes.”
“I'm going to kill Sam Archer,” Duane replied.
“Who's he?”
“He paid a bunch of gunslingers to kill my father, and I'm going to shoot his lights out.”
“And you think I'm working for him?”
“Anything's possible.”
“I think I've been insulted.”
“Up to you.”
“Sounds like you're trying to follow in your father's footsteps.”
“If you're working for Old Man Archer, you can tell him this. I lived with Apaches for a spell, and know all the tricks. One night he'll wake up in his bedroom, and my gun will be pointed against his temple.”
“And then what?” asked Wright.
“You figure it out.”
“I didn't think you were a cold-blooded killer. Didn't you grow up in a monastery?”
“A long time ago,” Duane said, “but I'm no saint these days. Old Man Archer's going to pay for what he did to my father, that's all I know. You can warn him that I'm coming, and nothing will stop me.”
Cowboys and outlaws sprawled on benches in front of saloons, passing bottles and talking about what they'd do when the sun went down. Others sat alone, nursing their botdes, and a few appeared to be dozing.
One was a mean-looking outlaw in dusty trail clothes and a black leather vest. He was Jason Smeade, recently hired killer, and he watched Duane Braddock striding along the far sidewalk. It'll be dark soon, Smeade estimated, and he ain't even bein’ careful. I'll bushwhack him from an alley. The poor son of a bitch won't know what hit him.
Sam Goines pushed a wheelbarrow of manure across the stable as his boss entered through the front door. “What happened to Twilby's personal belongings?” asked Duane.
“It's in two burlap bags in the office, and his records're in the desk. I was planning to give his clothes to the church.”
“Don't give away anything until I say so.”
The office had a rough-hewn desk, ramshackle chair, and coatrack hanging at a crooked angle on the wall. Duane spotted two burlap bags near the desk. Upending them, he spilled old clothes, belts, and boots onto the floor, then searched through the rubble, but found nothing of interest or value.
He sat at the desk, opened the drawers, and found business records in a barely legible scrawl, a bag of dried-out tobacco, some cigarette papers, and a pair of socks rolled up. Duane suspected that Twilby was the missing piece of the puzzle, and that was why the old stablemaster had been killed. I wonder why he kept a pair of socks in his desk.
Absentmindedly, Duane picked up the rolled pair of socks. They were green, woolen, and scratchy. He unrolled them, while reflecting upon Twilby's furtive behavior. Like the blacksmith, he'd been cautious, but evidently not cautious enough. Duane's sensitive fingertips noticed a fabric stuffed into the toe of one sock. Curious, he probed inside and pulled it out. His eyes widened at a black bandanna with white polka dots unraveling in his hand!
He stared at it for several seconds, as implications sank through the tissues of his mind. Perhaps Twilby had been in the Polka Dots, and had sentimentally safeguarded his old bandanna in a designated spot. Duane visualized a younger, leaner Twilby riding with a wild outlaw gang across rolling desert wastes, and in front of them all, leading the way, was the leanest meanest Polka Dot of all: Joe Braddock himself.
Duane imagined a tall, wide-shouldered rancher slapping leather as he raced toward the Rio Grande, followed by his pards. A surge of righteous power passed from the riders into Duane, and he felt ennobled by their gallant fight. My father stood for justice against Sam Archer and the big money combine, but they killed him in the prime of his life, taking him away from his wife and baby son.
Duane pictured a small encircled band of men under heavy fire in the crags and gullies of the Sierra Madre Mountains. Bullets screamed around them, ricocheting off boulders, ripping them apart. But they fought on bravely, bleeding and hopeless. He saw his father with gaping wounds in his body, his life literally leaking away, struggling to hold the gun steady for one last shot.
Duane's eyes filled with salty tears. My father stood steady like a man, he realized, unlike those who slink away with tails between their legs. He battled for me and my mother and all the little people of the world. And the bastards gunned him down. Duane stared into space, as tears rolled down his cheeks. Mr. Archer, no matter what it takes, I'm going to hunt you down and kill you, I think.
The door opened, and Duane hastily stuffed the polka dot bandanna into his pocket. Derek Wright entered the office with a big smile and his hands in the air. “Don't shoot—it's only me. Something wrong?”
Duane hastily wiped tears from his face. “Got something in my eyes.”
Duane looked away as he rolled a cigarette with the sure, practiced movements of an old cowhand. He scratched a match atop the desk, puffed gloomily, and imagined another office, with wood paneling and fashiona
ble furniture, where rich men in fine Eastern clothing plotted the destruction of the Polka Dot Gang. I'm going to find those bastards if it's the last thing I do.
“You look like you're about ready to tear this town apart,” Wright said. “What's eating you?”
“There's some things a man doesn't talk about.”
“Sometimes it's best to get them off your chest. If you ever feel the need ...”
Duane interrupted him. “What's going on in the saloons?”
“It's Saturday night, and the town's full of cow-boys. I expect we'll have a few fights before long.”
Duane wanted to be alone. “I'm going for a walk.”
On the street, the ex-acolyte ambled aimlessly with his thumbs hooked in his belt and his hat slanted low over his eyes. He felt a compelling need to hop on his horse, head for the Pecos, and have a talk with a certain Mr. Archer. But I mustn't ride off half-cocked, he told himself. I'll have to lay careful plans, then hit the trail.
Ahead was Apocalypse Church, lights glowing through windows, doors open late for stray worshippers. Duane ascended the stairs and saw a small sprinkling of citizens in the pews. He sat in the back row, bent his head, and yearned for revenge. He recalled Saint Thomas Aquinas's doctrine of the just war, and now appreciated what the divine doctor of the Church had been indicating.
But a man's on thin ice when he sees himself as an instrument of God's justice, he acknowledged. Maybe my father really was an outlaw and what if he got what he deserved? Duane felt uneasy in the presence of the Almighty. He'd drawn his Colt too many times.
Then he recognized Alice Markham in a front pew, her head bowed in prayer. A feeling of contentment came over him, because at least he'd performed one decent act since departing the monastery in the clouds. She's not a prostitute anymore, because of me. I can't leave her just yet, because of Old Man Archer.
Duane reached into his pocket and took out the Polka Dot bandanna. It made him feel eerie, as if his father were nearby. He recalled the night he'd killed for the first time, behind the cribs in a small town named Titusville. An angry, loudmouthed drunkard had forced him into a showdown, and Duane imagined that his father had been behind him, guiding his hand in the classic fast draw.
The bandanna grew warm in his hand. Twilby had worn it, and Joe Braddock must've seen it with his own eyes. The bandanna carried his father's fierce fighting spirit, and tingled the son's fingertips.
Oh God, please help me avenge the murder of my father.
But how, he wondered, can I ask God to help me kill somebody? Duane felt torn between his feelings and the moral law. I'll go to the Pecos country, but I don't have to kill anybody, do I? Maybe I can have Old Man Archer arrested, but he's got judges in his pocket all across Texas.
“I was just thinking about you,” said the voice of Alice Markham.
It knocked him from his reverie. He arose beside her, and a powerful magnet seemed to draw him closer. She had a small upturned nose, a beguiling mouth, and those doleful eyes. “You look like the Madonna,” he replied.
“You're making fun of me.”
“I'll walk you back to the stable.”
Cowboys and outlaws strolled the sidewalks, as Duane and Alice moved among them. Light from saloons illuminated faces in the night, a wagon rolled down the middle of the street, and saddled horses jammed at hitching rails.
“If it hadn't been for you,” she mused, “I'd be a-workin’ right now.” She shuddered at the thought. “I don't know how I did it.”
“You'll never have to do it again,” he replied.
A shriek of woman's laughter could be heard from within the Last Chance Saloon. “You can't imagine what it's like to let strangers tetch you,” said Alice. “I made believe I weren't thar.”
The Pecos Kid and his woman were carefully observed by numerous eyes at that moment, and two belonged to Jason Smeade, sitting on a bench before the gunsmith's shop, which was closed for the night. Smeade was waiting for a time when Duane Braddock would be alone, tired, and with a few whiskies beneath his belt. Then, when the sheriff least expected it, Smeade would plant a bullet into the back of his head.
Just a few more hours, Smeade said to himself. And I'll be on my way to Hermosillo.
At the Last Chance Saloon, two cowboys were staring at each other from opposite sides of the bar. They had never seen each other before.
One was Buck Duluth of the Bar J, and the other was Frankie Magill of the Diamond C. They'd spent the last week herding cattle, eating beans, and sleeping four hours every night if they were lucky. Angry, frustrated, lonely, and thoroughly dangerous, they sipped whisky and glowered evilly at each other as other men played cards and held conversations all around them. For some reason, despite all the other cowboys and oudaws in the saloon, they had focused seven days of repressed rancor at each other. Then, finally, Dulutih got to his feet, hooked his thumbs in his belt, and hollered: “What the hell're you a-lookin’ at!”
“That's what I'm a-tryin’ to figger out,” yelled Magill from the far side of the saloon.
They strode toward each other, as everyone in the vicinity got out of the way, and the piano player ran down the corridor for help. Duluth and Magill came to a stop a few feet apart, and the crowd coalesced around them, grinning like a pack of coyotes in anticipation of blood.
“If yer a-lookin’ fer trouble,” Duluth said, raising his fists, “you came to the right place.”
Magill responded with a long, looping right toward Duluth's head, while Duluth shot a stiff left jab toward Magill's nose. Both fists connected simultaneously, and each was staggered by the other's blow. Dazed, they both wobbled backwards, shook the fog out of their ears, and prepared for the next charge.
“Hold it right thar,” said Bradley Metzger, who pushed his way to the front of the crowd. “You want to fight—do it outside!”
Duluth replied, “I'll fight whar I goddamn please.”
Bradley reached for his gun, but Duluth fast-drew his Colt and aimed it at Bradley's head. “Out of the way, you fancypants bastard, or I'll kill you.”
Bradley tried to smile, but it came out sickly. “Put that gun away,” he said.
“I'll put it away when I damn well please,” Duluth replied.
Bradley stepped backwards, as Duluth transferred his aim to Magill. “I ought to shoot you,” he said.
Suddenly, out of the night, a heavy metallic object crashed into Duluth's head. He collapsed onto the floor like deadweight, and a man in a blue shirt with a tin badge stood behind him, aiming a Colt at Magill.
“Let's settle down,” said Sheriff Duane Braddock.
Magill lowered his gun. “I ain't a-lookin’ fer no trubble, Mister Lawman.”
Duane held the Colt on him a few moments, then holstered it. The bartender poured him a cup of coffee, and the Pecos Kid carried it to a table against the back wall. Muttering friends of the unconscious cowboy ferried him out the door, as Duane sipped coffee. The saloon was crowded with outlaws and cowboys, and everyone was looking at him. It felt as if tiny needles were sticking into his skin. A waitress sashayed toward his table and asked if he wanted anything. “A steak with all the trimmings,” he told her out the corner of his mouth.
He rolled a cigarette and found himself thinking about the monastery in the clouds. Scholarly Benedictine priests had delivered brilliant discourses about Evil, but it was an abstraction high in the clouds. Down in the real world Evil was vicious, mindless, and all-devouring. If Christ couldn't save us, how can I?
A dark shadow approached, and Duane's fingers reached toward his Colt. It was Bradley Metzger who lowered himself onto the chair opposite Duane. “I reckon I ought to thank you. It ‘pears that you saved me a big fuss.”
Duane looked at the black eye, split lip, and puffed cheeks before him. They'd fought down and dirty to the bitter end two days ago, and now Bradley was apologizing? “I'd do it for anybody. Don't take it personally.”
“I owe you one. If I can help with anythin’, let m
e know.”
Bradley walked toward the back of the saloon, where he was swallowed by cigar smoke and piano music. If a man like that can apologize after I beat the daylights out of him, maybe there's hope for mankind, Duane thought. People aren't half bad if you give them a chance.
The waitress returned with a steak platter and set it before Duane. As he attacked it with knife and fork, stuffing gobbets of meat into his mouth, he noticed a short-haired black-and-white-spotted mongrel dog with a squashed bulldog face near his knee. It licked its chops and grinned at Duane as if to say: How's about a piece of steak fer old time's sake, pard} Duane sliced off the bone and tossed it to the dog, who caught it in its teeth and slunk away to the smoky depths of the saloon.
When Duane was halfway through the meal, a heavyset man with a short curly black beard and dirty silverbelly cowboy hat approached the table. He wore a gun in a holster and a knife in each boot. “Mind if I sit down, Sheriff Braddock?” he asked.
“Up to you,” Duane replied.
The man dropped to the chair opposite Duane. “My name's Arnold, and I've got a business proposition fer you.” He looked both ways. “I'd like to have somebody kilt. What's yer goin’ price.”
Duane stared at him.
Arnold winked conspiratorially. “I been in a few towns, and I've knowed sheriffs who kept little businesses on the side, if you git my meanin’.”
“The only business I have is a stable. You'll have to find somebody else.”
“I want the best, and that's you. They say every man has his price. What's your'n?”
“I wonder if I should arrest you.”
Arnold leaned closer. “You're the law in this town, Sheriff. You can arrest whoever you want, or you can look the other way. I knows that sometime a lawman don't like to come out and admit anythin’, so I'll slip you one hunnert dollars ‘neath the table, and you'll get the final hunnert after you shoot one son of a bitch who deserves to die anyways.”