by Len Levinson
He gazed into her eyes. “The fire wasn't an accident, Maggie. I saw somebody with a match and took a shot at him, but he got away. I wonder who he is. You got any idea?”
She thought for a few moments and said: “No idea a'tall. But if somebody was a-tryin’ to burn me down, and I couldn't figger out who he was, I'd move out of town and forget the whole mess. There's only so much you can do.”
Duane knew she spoke the truth, but once again logic lost out to his rising temper. The thought that someone would go so far as to burn him had made a powerful impression. “I'm not running away,” he said stubbornly, “and I almost caught the son of a bitch tonight. Sooner or later he'll make a mistake, and then I'll nail his ass to the wall.”
Duane knocked on the door, and Alice Markham's face peered through the opening. She smiled uncertainly. “What's wrong this time?”
“I'm going to sleep on the desert,” he replied, “but I expect to be back in the morning for your usual lessons.”
She placed her hand on his. “I have to ask you a favor. I hope you're not gonna tell anybody about . . . well ... a certain someone and me. If word gets around, they just might lynch us both. You know, sometimes you're a little simple, and you talk too much.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” he replied.
He walked out the back door of the Last Chance saloon, and the first rays of sunlight struck him like an arrow between the eyes. He lowered the brim of his hat and headed for the open desert, glancing back numerous times. He passed beyond the town boundaries and soon found himself on hard-packed dirt and grama grass.
He moved in a semicircle, then doubled back and erased his steps. Then he headed off on hilly terrain to the east of Escondido. The more he thought about the identity of his killer, the deeper the quandary became. Upon finding a stream, he took off his clothes and bathed. Then he washed the clothes and put them back on. He found a rock nearby and lay atop it like a big black lizard, letting warm morning rays dry him off.
I wonder where my nemesis is, and if he's thinking of me. He's getting discouraged, but won't give up easily. I wonder if he'll kill me before I figure out who the son of a bitch is.
Duane slept most of the day, then returned to Escondido in the late afternoon. Across from the church, he saw the sign that said General Store.
Duane had passed the establishment many times late at night when it was closed. He noticed that dolls and dresses were displayed in the window during the day, alongside cans of beans and cheeses suspended from the ceiling.
A stout Mexican wearing curly black mutton-chop whiskers stood behind the counter, and Duane recognized him from the saloons. The Mexican noticed Duane's tin badge, smiled, and held out his hand. “I am happy to know you, Señor Sheriff. What I can do for you today?”
Duane shook the shopkeeper's beefy hand. “I guess you heard about the stable burning down, and . ..”
The shopkeeper interrupted him. “You must need new clothes, yes? I have just the thing.”
The shopkeeper turned, but Duane grabbed his arm. “I'm here about another matter. Have you sold anybody a barrel of coal oil lately?”
“I sell coal oil all the time, Señor. This town would be dark at night without my coal oil.”
Duane examined the shopkeeper carefully. “Have you ever been to the Pecos country?”
“What for?”
“Who's your best customer for coal oil?”
“The Last Chance Saloon.”
Duane left the store and headed for the Last Chance Saloon, but on his way saw a sign suspended over the sidewalk that said:
GUNSMITH
JAMES BURKETT
WE CARRY ALL MAKES.
Duane remembered that he needed to buy ammunition. Inside the shop, two hard-looking hombres gazed at a rifle lying on the counter. “Seventy dollars,” said the proprietor, “and it'll earn that much in buffalo hides the first week.”
The hombres turned around, saw the tin badge, and looked at each other significantly. “We'll come back later.”
They lowered their sombreros, stalked out the door, and Duane inclined toward the gunsmith. “Guess I just scared away a couple of customers.”
“They'll be back,” replied Burkett. “What can I do for you?”
It occurred to Duane that this was the same man who'd helped carry Twilby's corpse on the night the former Polka Dot got shot. “I'd like a box of cartridges for my Colt.”
The gunsmith placed the merchandise on the counter and quoted the price. Duane paid, opened the box, and stuffed cartridges into the black leather pouch on his gunbelt.
“Anything else?” Burkett asked.
“Where were you at two o'clock this morning?”
Burkett appeared surprised by the sudden question. “In bed. Where else? Why do you ask?”
“Somebody set fire to my stable last night, and I'm trying to figure out who it was. No offense intended.”
“If you don't believe me, ask my wife. Why would I set fire to your stable?”
“Don't take it personally. I'm asking everybody the same questions. I'd wager that just about everybody who comes to Escondido stops at your shop sooner or later to buy ammunition. Who, in your opinion, is the strangest man in Escondido?”
Burkett meditated a few moments, then pointed his finger at Duane. “You.”
Duane found the richest woman in town seated behind her desk, adding a column of numbers. She looked up as he dropped into the chair before her.
“You look like you slept in your clothes,” she said.
“Where do you keep your coal oil?”
“In the storeroom.”
“Do you make notations of what comes in and goes out?”
She picked up a ledger. “What the hell d'ya think I do behind this desk all day?”
“I'm trying to find out where the coal oil came from that burned down my stable. Maybe somebody stole some from you.”
“I'm the only one with a key to the storeroom, and nobody's broke down the door as far as I know. If you want to look, foller me.”
She led him down the hall and unlocked a thick wooden door. Inside were canned goods, bags of beans, barrels of whisky, and a side of beef hanging from the rafters. In a far corner sat five barrels of coal oil. Maggie compared them to the ledger. “Nothing's gone from what I can see.”
“How does coal oil come to this town?” “A bullwhacker brings it once a month with his shipment of supplies to the general store, and the rest of us buy what we need. If yer a-gonna account fer every barrel of oil in Escondido, you've got quite a job. It might be easier to just git out of town.”
The Silver Spur Saloon had a few customers that mid-afternoon, and a big black dog gnawed a bone in the corner. The bartender looked at Duane sleepily as Duane knocked on the office door, pushed it open, and found Sanchez sitting behind his desk, reading a Spanish newspaper and drinking whisky out of a coffee cup.
“Sorry your stable was burned down last night,” Sanchez said sadly. “What a terrible thing to hoppen, no?”
“Would've been worse if I didn't wake up in time, and by the way, where were you about two in the morning?”
“It is my regret to tell you that I slept alone. Perhaps I am not the great lover that you think.”
“Where do you keep your coal oil.”
“In back of the saloon.”
“Take me there, please.”
“Why?”
Duane pointed to his tin badge.
Sanchez groaned as he took a ring of keys from a drawer in his desk. “We have hire you to protect us, but who will protect us from you?” He led Duane down the dark passageway that smelled like stale perfume, ancient smoke, and dirty clothing. In the backyard, Sanchez inserted a key into the lock of the storage room. It contained three barrels of oil standing side by side like sentinels. “When's the last time you looked in here, Sanchez?”
“Who the hell knows?”
“Would you know if one of your kegs was missing?”
> “I have better things to do than count kegs of oil,” Sanchez replied haughtily.
“Like what?”
“You have made me very tired, Señor. I am going to sleep.”
“Wait a minute. Isn't this the spot where Belle Watkins was killed?”
Sanchez appeared hurt. “How can you mention such a thing? You know it pains me to think of my poor dead girls.”
“Who has keys to the back door?”
“Me.”
“What about your bartender?”
“When he has need, I give them to him. The rest of the time they are on my belt.”
The more questions Duane asked, the more imponderable the riddle became. I can talk to every person in town, and still be right back where I started. But the damned killer has to make an error sooner or later, and I'll be ready when he does. Later in the afternoon, after checking oil in a variety of business establishments and homes, Duane found himself standing in front of Apocalypse Church. He found the rectory and knocked on the door. It was opened by the preacher's wife, whose eyes widened at the sight of him.
“Didn't mean to disturb you, ma'am, but I was wondering where you keep your oil.”
“In the shed back there.” She pointed, and her finger quivered slightly.
“Could I have a look?”
“I'll get the key.”
She plucked the ring off a peg near the door, then swung it back and forth in her hand awkwardly as she led Duane across the backyard. Duane thought there was something peculiar about her, or maybe she was slightly daffy, like some of the brothers and priests back at the monastery in the clouds.
She unlocked the door and beckoned for him to enter. Crates and boxes were stacked to the rafters, but in one corner sat a keg of oil. “There it is,” she said, a quaver in her voice as the wind slammed shut the door behind them. They were alone in the small enclosed space.
“Did you have two barrels yesterday?” he asked.
“What a strange question,” she replied.
“The person who started the fire last night used a keg of oil, and I'm trying to figure out where he got it.”
“Not here,” she replied. Then a curious expression came over her face. “I just remembered something. I don't know if it's significant, but I saw somebody last night just before the fire. He was headed in the direction of the stable, carrying a big object in his arms, come to think of it.”
It was Duane's first lead all day, and he paused to savor its possibilities. “Where were you when you saw him?”
“In my bedroom facing the backyard. I couldn't sleep, and happened to be looking out the window. I thought my eyes were playing tricks, and maybe they were. It's hard to know at night.”
Duane imagined the darkened backyard. A moving shadow could be a cloud passing the moon, or a man with a keg of oil in his arms. Again, the more information he gathered, the more intractable the solution became. He became aware of heavy breathing nearby. “Are you all right, Mrs. Berclair?”
“Not feeling well,” replied she.
She raised her hand to her head, her eyes went white, and she fainted dead away at his feet. Duane stared at her for a few moments, then dropped to his knees and pressed his ear against her breast. She moaned softly.
“I think you need fresh air,” he said.
He thrust his arms underneath her, lifted her, and was about to head for the door, when it was flung open violently. Parson Berclair stood in front of them, eyes bulging out of his head. “What're you doing with my wife!” he demanded.
“She fainted. Don't ask me why.”
Duane carried her limp body across the yard into the rectory, as the parson fumed behind him. Duane laid her down on the sofa. Her husband tried to spill a few drops of brandy down her throat, but instead it dribbled over her chin. “She's coming around,” said the parson.
She fluttered her lashes and sighed, and her eyes opened. “I'm all right now.”
“She's been feeling poorly lately,” Parson Berclair explained. “Women problems, I suppose. By the way, what were you doing in the shed with my wife?”
“I was trying to find out if any oil was stolen, because the fire at the stable was set with oil. Where were you last night at two o'clock in the morning, Reverend?”
“In bed of course.”
Duane turned toward the parson's wife. “Is that so, ma'am?”
Her faced turned red, and her eyes darted about excitedly. “My husband and I sleep in separate bedrooms,” she said.
Duane gazed at her in surprise, as the truth of their marriage sank in. Then he turned toward the preacher. “You can't prove your whereabouts at two o'clock this morning, in other words.”
“Why should I have to?”
“You don't, but I'm trying to solve a certain problem, and I'd appreciate your help. Perhaps it's best if I left you alone for a while and came back later.”
Duane careened toward the door and was outside before they could say anything. It was the strangest thing he'd ever heard: married people in different beds. What's the point of getting married? he wondered. I guess their souls are on a higher plane than mine.
He continued asking questions door to door for the rest of the afternoon, and made a mental note of every keg of oil in town. He learned the demoralizing truth that most men in Escondido were bachelors who slept alone and couldn't prove their whereabouts in the wee hours of the morning.
At dusk, he arrived at the undertaker's house. Although he had no proof, something in his gut told him that this was his man, especially since the undertaker's house was in the part of town where Patricia Berclair had seen the figure passing in the night.
Snodgras opened his front door and was attired in his customary black suit. “I figured you'd get here sooner or later, Sheriff. You want to see my oil keg? Right this way.”
He opened a door to the storeroom in back of his house. A keg sat against the far wall, along with bottles and jars of chemicals. Duane lifted the keg and estimated that it was half full.
“If you listen close,” the undertaker said tauntingly, “maybe the keg'll tell you who set fire to your stable last night.”
“Where were you at two o'clock this morning?”
“Home asleep.”
“Alone?”
“You're getting to be a pain in the ass around here, boy. This was a decent town before you showed up. We had our occasional murder, but we didn't have a sheriff asking personal questions. Maybe we should abolish the office altogether. I liked it better the old way.”
“I'm still the legally constituted sheriff,” Duane said, “and let me tell you something. Last night, before the fire was set, a reliable witness saw somebody on the way to my stable from this part of town. He was carrying a keg of oil, and I'm not saying it was you, but you'd better hope he's not you.”
Snodgras preferred to treat the threat lightly. He scratched his bald head, and said with a grin, “If you shoot me, since I'm the only undertaker in town, I wonder who'll bury me?”
“Me,” replied the Pecos Kid.
Duane sat in the Last Chance Saloon, slicing a thick steak charred on the outside but red in the middle. I have no proof that the undertaker's done anything illegal. And maybe I'm prejudiced because of his grisly profession. What if I'm threatening an innocent man?
A Mexican bandito stomped down the aisle, wearing a huge white sombrero, drooping mustaches, and tight black pants with wide flaring cuffs and silver conchos sewn down the seams. He stopped in front of Duane and said, “Mind if I sit down, Señor Sheriff?”
Duane nodded. The bandito sat, looked around casually, then leaned toward Duane and said, “My horse is outside, Señor Sheriff. He is saddled and I am ready to leave Escondido. I was praying to Santa Maria for good luck on my journey, when she asked me to tell you something that happen to me last night.”
The bandito glanced about again, to make sure no one was drawing a bead on him. “I was on my way to the Belmont Hotel when a man—I could not see his face�
�offered me two hundred dollars to kill the sheriff, you. I told him no, he ask why not, and I say because the sheriff is too fast for me.”
The bandito shook his hand as if it was wet. “You are the fastest I have ever seen, Señor, and I am not so slow myself. Perhaps you have heard of me—they call me El Pancho. Let me give you a leetle advice from one who wishes you no harm. Get out of town. Why? Look here.” El Pancho opened his shirt and showed a purple scar at the top of his left pectoral muscle. He grasped Duane's hand, brought it to him, and pressed it against the scar. “Can you feel it?”
Beneath the callused surface, Duane's fingertips discerned a jagged lump of lead.
“Sometime, when it rains, it hurts like hell,” said El Pancho. “The doctors tell me it is poisoning my blood, but they do not cut it out because it is near an artery. It could have been avoided if I was not drunk as a pig in a certain cantina in San Pedro.” El Pancho smiled. “Maybe Santa Maria is talking to me, or maybe I am just one crazy hombre, no?” El Pancho buttoned his shirt, then winked. “Watch your back, amigo. And keep your head down.”
El Pancho stalked toward the door, his Mexican spurs clanging, his big sombrero pulled over his ears, a legendary Mexican gunfighter on his way toward his next opportunity.
Patricia Berclair kneeled in the front pew of the church, praying for divine assistance. Her experience in the shed with Duane Braddock had unnerved her mind. They'd been alone, he'd touched her arm, and she'd been on the verge of ripping his clothes off! Only a thin tissue of God-fearing devotion had held her back. She would have disgraced herself, for what?
There was something about him that made her want to jump out of her clothes and dive atop him. The thought of lying naked in bed with him caused her to sob in heartfelt anguish. Duane Braddock had forced her to comprehend that her marriage was a sham, she really didn't love her husband, and she desperately needed a real man before she died of shrunken unfulfilled longing.
“Give me strength, Lord,” she whispered. “I am a weak vessel beset with temptation.” She thought of Duane Braddock's broad shoulders, well-formed lips, and aquiline nose. He had eyes that she could gaze at until the end of time. Lethal, beautiful, and in need of a woman's love, he'd stood only inches away. She imagined the taut muscles of his body pressing against her. Her head swam as she took a deep breath and tried to regain her equilibrium.