Devil's Creek Massacre

by Len Levinson

  “Your sorrow doesn't help me.”

  “I wish things could be different, but that's how it is.”

  “Your army was defeated seven years ago, and I do not understand what you are fighting for. Wouldn't you like to have a son like a real man?”

  “I'm a soldier,” he replied gruffly. “And soldiers don't make the best fathers. I might get killed on the next raid.”

  “Then don't go on the next raid. There is no law that says you have to.”

  “You should've been a lawyer.”

  “We could be happy if you would stop being a bandito.”

  “Do you know what the word ‘justice’ means?”

  “We have the same word in Spanish—justicia—so what?”

  “Don't you believe that people should fight for justice instead of pretending that everything's all right?”

  “Please do not preach to me about justice when your country has stolen part of mine.”

  He'd stumbled into dangerous territory, and all he could do was retreat. “I don't mean to preach, but there's something very important that you don't understand.”

  “The Confederacy? But I understand it very well, Ricardo. You lost, but you can't accept it.”

  “And you can't accept gringos annexing California either, right?”

  “Wrong. You gringos were stronger than us, you beat us, and I am not happy about it, but what can I do?”

  “You should fight back as best you can.”

  “We could never defeat the americano army in a million years, and neither will you.”

  He loved her defiance, and her mind was quick as a rabbit. Never had he known a woman with such a tempestuous spirit. What a mother she'd make for a son, he thought. “There are some things you can't forgive and forget.”

  “Jesus said we should forgive and forget everything.”

  “I wish we could stop arguing so much.”

  “I am not arguing. I'm telling you the truth.”

  “What makes you think you know the truth?”

  “It says so in the Bible.”

  “But the Bible was written by men.”

  “God was talking to them. Don't you believe that?”

  He sighed in the darkness. “I don't know what I believe anymore.”

  He was weakening, for the Confederacy was a mere idea, while she was a warm-blooded young woman. She pressed her breasts against him and touched her tongue to his ear. “If you want to believe in something, why don't you believe in me?”

  “I do believe in you,” he replied in choked voice. “In fact, I'm in love with you, Juanita.”

  “All I want is to be with you,” she replied. “Is that so wrong?”

  She pressed her lips against his cheek, and once again the stalwart company commander was hurled back by the power of a peasant woman. He hugged her tightly to him, thrills raced across his nerve endings, and the great noble rebellion disappeared into the whirlpools of time.

  Outside Lost Canyon, hiding behind a stand of cottonwood trees, Nestor glanced around constantly, alert for Apaches. His senses had sharpened since he'd been on his own, and he was confident he'd hear the Apache before the Apache heard him.

  He had plenty to eat, coyotes didn't bother him, and no snake wanted to get stomped by a horse. But he was lonely, and it appeared that his two-legged boss had died. The horse felt sad, because his boss had saved his life. Now he wanted to return the favor, but how?

  There was nothing Nestor could do to bring his boss back from the land of shadows. Nestor couldn't hang around forever, but neither did he want to become a cowboy's hoss. Born on a ranch, raised by cowboys, he'd always wondered about running with the wild ones, and now at last had the opportunity.

  He turned away from Lost Canyon and advanced into the night. The great herds lived in far-off valleys where two-leggeds seldom went, and he'd find them before long, he was certain. Good-bye, my generous friend. I'll see you in the shadow world when I, too, am gone from this range.

  Strains of fiddles and accordions wafted to the street as Vanessa Fontaine arrived in front of the Cutler mansion. She sat in the cab of a rented black shellacked carriage; the footman jumped down, opened the door, and bowed.

  “Wait until I'm inside,” she told him as she swept toward the flight of stairs. The door opened, and a butler appeared in a black-and-white uniform, an elegant smiling beetle. “May I take your coat, madam?”

  The music grew louder as she entered a large drawing room filled with purple velvet furniture. Fashionably dressed individuals littered the landscape while liveried servants carried drinks and hors d'oeuvres on rectangular ebony trays with inlaid silver handles.

  Vanessa felt uneasy in the presence of so many strangers, but no carpetbaggers, scalawags, or other Yankee sympathizers had been invited. It was her debut into Austin high society; she no longer felt the self-assurance of youth, but neither had she lost confidence in herself. The hem of her black gown glided over smoothly polished oak floors as she searched for her hostess.

  She passed carefully barbered gentlemen and well-manicured ladies while small children ran about in expensive clothing similar to that of their elders. A bar was set up against the back wall, next to a table groaning with delicacies. The orchestra played “The Yellow Rose of Texas” in the next room.

  A figure stepped out of the crowd, barring her way. He was five feet tall, potbellied, probably in his forties, immaculately tailored. “May I be of service, ma'am?”

  “I was looking for Mrs. Cutler.”

  “I'll take you to her.”

  Vanessa didn't want to hurt the man's feelings, although she towered over him. Side by side they made their way through throngs of guests sipping beverages, nibbling delicacies, and carrying on animated conversations.

  “I don't believe I've ever seen you before,” the short man said. “I'm Dudley Swanson, by the way.”

  “I'm Mrs. Vanessa Dawes, and I've just arrived in town.”

  “From where?”

  “A place I'm sure you've never heard of, named Shelby.”

  “Where is it?”

  “West Texas. My husband was in the army, but he was killed in action against the Apache.”

  “I'm so sorry to hear that,” said Dudley, although he didn't appear sorry in the least.

  Vanessa hoped to see an old friendly face from South Carolina, but the guests were unknown to her, with many gentlemen well on the road to serious inebriation. Near the far wall, beneath a painting of General Robert E. Lee, a crowd of guests had gathered about their gracious hosts. Vanessa noticed masculine eyes turning toward her, measuring her long legs, caressing her small upturned breasts with lust.

  Mrs. Cutler was a short dumpy woman with dyed red hair. “Ah, Mrs. Dawes,” she gushed. “How good of you to come.”

  Vanessa bent low and let the hostess kiss her cheek. Then Mrs. Cutler proceeded to introduce Vanessa to everyone in the vicinity. A sea of smiling faces passed by as Vanessa struggled to remember names.

  “Did you say that she was married to an ex-Yankee?” asked a jewel-bedecked old crone holding a trumpet to her ear.

  “She was formerly a Fontaine from Charleston,” replied Mrs. Cutler.

  “So why'd she marry a damned Yankee?”

  Sometimes elderly people believe that advanced years confer the right to be obnoxious, and the lady with the trumpet had embraced this view with great fervor. The room fell silent as all eyes turned to Vanessa. It was her moment, but she had no idea of what to say. Finally she pulled herself together, and all she could think of was, “My husband was sympathetic to the ideals of the Confederacy. That's why he chose a daughter of the South to be his wife.”

  “What'd she say?” asked the old lady, making a public spectacle of herself.

  A kindly niece repeated Vanessa's improvisation noisily into the trumpet as Vanessa continued to receive introductions. She smiled politely and curtsied flawlessly as they'd taught her at Miss Dalton's School in Charleston, but couldn't help rememberi
ng when she'd sung in saloons where rotgut whiskey went for fifteen cents a glass, and shootings frequently interrupted her great serenades.

  After introductions, the hostess moved on to other guests while Vanessa retreated into the shadows, covered the lower part of her face with her fan, and observed the guests. Young men conversed in one corner, young girls giggled in another, mature couples strolled about, discussing the great fashionable political and cultural issues of the month, while the biggest crowd gathered at the bar.

  It was like theater, where ambition, greed, and naked lust paraded before her, disguised by fashionable taste. Curiously, she felt no part of it, although she'd anticipated the party for weeks, hoping to meet somebody interesting.

  It all seemed rather dull to the former saloon singer. She'd had audiences of cowboys yearning for a glimpse of the celebrated Miss Vanessa Fontaine, and when she'd stepped onto the stage, they applauded so loudly, she'd thought the walls would collapse. They'd sung old Civil War songs together, but the grand ball was as measured and calculated as a society funeral. Vanessa smiled behind her fan, recalling smoky old frontier saloons from Nagodoches to San Antone. Her cowboy admirers had treated her like the Queen of the Golden West, life had been constant adventure, and she'd even witnessed killings before her very eyes.

  I can't flirt like a silly fifteen-year-old sparrow anymore, she thought, and it's never too late to grow up. Dudley Swanson carried two glasses of champagne toward her. She accepted one and said, “Thank you.”

  Bubbles ran up her nose as she sipped tart effervescence. She didn't dare ask for whiskey, although she preferred its dusky mellow kick in the pants. Maybe saloon life hadn't been so bad after all.

  “You look bored,” said Dudley. “Don't you like the party?”

  “I was thinking.”

  “Will you be staying in our town long?”

  “I'm not sure, because my life is a roulette wheel these days.”

  “Mine is a cartwheel, because I own a freighting business. Even as we speak my men are moving merchandise all across Texas.”

  Vanessa had talked to freighters and bullwhackers when she'd worked saloons, and knew that Swanson's hardworking employees were sleeping beneath their wagons in remote territories at that moment, with rain-storms and the threat of Indian attack, not to mention the occasional tornado, while their employer sipped champagne and wore a suit costing a freighter's month's pay.

  “When did your husband depart this earth?” asked Dudley.

  “About three months ago.”

  “Ah, you poor woman.”

  Dudley tried to appear genuinely sympathetic to her pretended woes, but she'd been out of high society so long, she couldn't think of anything appropriate to say. Just then, out of the blue, a deep baritone voice said, “Evening, Dudley.”

  Vanessa turned to a big hulking fellow with a jet-black mustache, around forty years old, with an insouciant half smile on his sallow face. Dudley shook his big paw, then made the introductions. “Howard Sutcliffe, maybe I present Mrs. Vanessa Dawes.”

  Sutcliffe bowed, took her hand, and kissed her knuckle. “I was admiring you from afar, madam, and thought I'd come for a closer look.”

  “Perhaps I'm more admirable at a distance, the greater the better,” Vanessa riposted.

  “You're too modest, madam. Why, I was just thinking, before I took my first step in this direction, that you were the most beautiful woman here.”

  “You're very kind to an aging widow, sir.” She fluttered her eyelashes in appropriate Charleston fashion and hoped she wasn't being ridiculous.

  “Howard is a lawyer,” explained Dudley. “He argues cases before the Texas Supreme Court.”

  “I also have very good ears,” added Sutcliffe immodestly. “I hear all the news. So you're the Mrs. Dawes thac everyone is talking about. I must say— you're far lovelier than I'd imagined.”

  She raised her fan to cover her vain smile. “Now I understand why you win so many cases, sir.”

  His eyes twinkled with mischief. “Some say I defeat my opponents through bribery, perjured witnesses, tampered evidence, and such, but one should not believe idle gossip.”

  He was a rogue, he made no bones about it, and she couldn't help liking him. “What regiment did you serve with in the war?”

  “I served as an undersecretary in the Department of the Treasury, because my muscles are in my mind, not my arm. Care to dance?”

  “I'm afraid not,” she replied.

  “I forgot—you're in mourning. You know, black becomes you. It makes you look sinister. Are you dangerous, Mrs. Dawes?”

  “Little me?” she asked innocently, although bloody scandals had surfaced twice in her past. “How can you think such a thing?”

  Dudley Swanson tried desperately to assert himself, but the conversation kept moving away. Finally Sutcliffe shot him a glance that said, “get lost.” Dudley coughed, fumbled, excused himself, and backed toward the bar.

  Vanessa looked at Sutcliffe with a mixture of fascination and disapproval. “That was cruel,” she said, her smile becoming a frown.

  “I'm don't want to share you, Mrs. Dawes. You should forgive the follies committed for your sake. Come, let us observe the dancers.”

  Before she could answer, he took her arm and was leading her to the next room. He seemed sure of himself, while she felt uncertain about everything. He obviously was rich, if he argued cases before the Texas Supreme Court, and wasn't that bad-looking, but there was something presumptuous and overbearing about him, as if he could have anything he wanted, including the former Miss Vanessa Fontaine.

  They came to the dance floor, a large room devoid of furniture, with a band at one end, and the crème de la creme of Austin's old Confederate aristocracy at the other, performing carefully choreographed dance movements in which participants seldom touched one another. Vanessa followed Sutcliffe to a dark stretch of wall; they turned to each other, and he said, “I don't like to be dishonest, despite my reputation, so I'll confess that I know all about you, Mrs. Dawes. I have an affiliation with the law firm that represented your interests in the probate of your husband's will, and discovered a curious fact, to wit: You had filed for divorce prior to your late husband's untimely demise.”

  She didn't like his manner, the more she got to know him, not to mention the tone of his voice, although he was correct in his facts. “It's not my fault that Apaches killed my husband,” she replied. “Despite what you may think, I loved Lieutenant Dawes when I married him.”

  “Of course you did, although there were certain rumors about another young man. I don't claim to be a gentleman, but I know how to button ladies’ dresses. May I?” He reached behind her neck and fastened her garment with deft manipulations of his fingers. “What a lovely neck you have, Mrs. Dawes. Like a swan. Do you think you might like to get married again someday, after official mourning has ended, of course?”

  “Not very likely,” she replied, “and thank you for buttoning my dress, but if you ever touch me like that again, without my expressed permission, I'll slap your face. Do I make myself clear?”

  He gazed into her unforgiving green orbs, then took a step backward. “Absolutely, and I apologize if I've been too forward. I guess it's the trial lawyer in me, but I know character when I see it, and you've got it aplenty. Poetry isn't my game, and I don't mince words like some you'll meet here tonight. I can't help thinking that you and I would make quite a team. Look at it objectively. We're both shrewd people who've been around the corral a few times.”

  “I'm not that ambitious,” she replied, “and unlike you, I adore poetry. It makes life worthwhile, regardless of how many times you've been around the corral.”

  “Women like you get men killed, because you're too beautiful for your own good. But you're a very fine example of your type, which you should take as a sincere compliment.”

  Vanessa struggled to prevent herself from smashing him in the face. “The death of my husband was a terrible tragedy, regardless o
f what you think of me. But your death would be quite another matter.”

  He smiled falsely, bowed, and strolled away nonchalantly, because he was rich and didn't give a damn. There was no shortage of beauties anxious to throw themselves at a rich lawyer, but Vanessa was rich herself, fortunately. Never, during six years of singing in saloons, had she met such a calculating and insulting individual. He'd be the ideal husband for me, she reflected cynically, except I can't stand the son of a bitch.

  She felt like a foreigner in the dancing parlor. Four blazing chandeliers beamed bright golden haze, and young gentlemen danced with their hands behind their backs, while ladies in hoop skirts twirled around them. The former belle of the ball guessed that some unmarried girls probably were pregnant, and a few gentlemen preferred to sleep with other gentlemen. Maturity enabled her to probe beneath the surface, an ongoing disillusioning process. Nothing was sacred anymore, and if a woman didn't have an income, she could end up giving herself to men like Howard Sutcliffe.

  A glass of champagne was suspended in her slender graceful fingers as she recalled her recently departed husband. Lieutenant Clayton Dawes had saved her from Duane Braddock, but what was so wrong with Duane Braddock? She'd left him, not the other way around, and broken his innocent heart.

  Lieutenant Dawes had seemed reliable, compared with Duane's immaturity and naivete. Vanessa had planned to spend the rest of her life on army posts with Lieutenant Dawes, attending tea parties and socials with the other officers’ wives, but then he'd been killed on a scout, and another dream vanished.

  She hadn't known, when she'd first tied the wedding knot with Lieutenant Dawes, that he'd harbored ill will toward Duane, and vice versa. Then the insanely jealous Dawes charged Duane with murder following a shoot-out where Duane had merely defended himself. Duane broke out of the army camp and had been on the dodge ever since.

  Duane needed me, but I let him down. Now circumstances have changed, and I can do any damned thing I want, such as buying a ticket on the next stagecoach west and searching for Duane Braddock.