Devil's Creek Massacre

by Len Levinson

  “Maybe, but I thought that most gringos were Protestants.”

  “I was raised in a Benedictine monastery. My mother was Irish Catholic.”

  “And you are a bandito, no?”

  “Not me. I've just got into an argument with the law, and the law appears to be winning. Soon as things settle down, I'm going back to the ranching business.”

  She looked at his silky jet-black beard and eyebrows. “They say that you are very brave, and they want you to join the gang.”

  “If I don't, will they let me leave alive?”

  “I think so, if it is up to Cochrane. He is a very honorable man, although he is basically a bandito. There is only one hombre here that you have to worry about.” She looked both ways. “Johnny Pinto. Do not ever turn your back on him.”

  “Thanks for the warning, and you can be sure I'll keep my eyes peeled for him. My the way, my name is Duane. What's yours?”

  “Juanita.”

  “What're you doing here?”

  “I am Cochrane's woman.”

  A hands-off sign lit up her ample bosom, and he silently swore never, under any circumstances, to make advances toward her. “How'd Cochrane get to be boss of this gang?”

  “He is a hero of your Civil War. The men respect him very mucho, except for Johnny Pinto.”

  “Sounds like this Johnny Pinto is more trouble than he's worth. Is he a soldier too?”

  “He is a killer, but they always need another gun. Cochrane thinks he is still fighting the Civil War.”

  “I guess there are some things a person can't forget.”

  “You talk just like him, but I am only his woman and what do I know? When he gets tired of me, he will throw me away.”

  She was on her feet in a sudden rustle of skirts, and the next thing Duane knew, she walked swiftly away from him. The rapidly changing moods of women never ceased to amaze him, as he admired her shapely rear axle assembly. I'm sure that Cochrane has his hands full with her, in more ways than one.

  The Austin Gazette maintained files of back issues stored in cabinets set near reading tables in the basement of its imposing building in downtown Austin. Reporters came to the files to check facts, unless they were too busy, and occasionally citizens were permitted to study records, provided they had the right connections. Vanessa Fontaine had prevailed upon Dudley Swanson to pave the way, and now found herself seated at a long oaken table in the basement of the Gazette, studying the public career of Duane Braddock, alias the Pecos Kid.

  Since she'd seen him last, he'd allegedly shot a federal marshal under mysterious circumstances in a Morellos church, of all places. Then he'd become sheriff of a tough border town, Escondido, where he'd killed at least a half-dozen other people. Reliable unnamed informants said he was part Apache, and a bloody legend was building concerning the Pecos Kid. When last seen, less than a month ago, he'd been headed for the Rio Grande with the Fourth Cavalry in hot pursuit.

  It was common knowledge that anybody who crossed the Rio Grande was fair game for Apaches, banditos, Comancheros, and the Mexican Army, not to mention rattlesnakes, scorpions, and poisonous lizards. I'll need my own private army if I want to go there, and I'm not that rich.

  Forget about Duane Braddock, you damned fool, she counseled herself. One of these days somebody else'll come along, and maybe he won't be wanted dead or alive.

  Duane opened his eyes on the sun sinking toward rocky crags of Lost Canyon. Cooking odors wafted out of the buildings; he felt mildly hungry and reached for his cup of milk. A dead fly was in it; he spilled it onto the ground and tried to get up.

  A terrible pain rent his stomach, and he was afraid that he'd opened the wound. He laboriously unbuttoned his shirt, but the bandage wasn't red. I'm holding together, he thought. He closed his eyes, relaxed on the chair, and uttered a prayer of thanks.

  A man of medium height approached, dressed in tight black pants. “So you're the galoot who nearly got hisself shot by Injuns,” the newcomer said.

  Duane disliked him instantly. “Are you Johnny Pinto?”

  The man appeared surprised. “How'd you know?”

  “Just a guess.”

  “I was the newest man in the gang afore you showed up,” Johnny said proudly. “Now yer the one who'll git the shitty jobs.”

  “You heard wrong,” replied Duane. “I'm not joining the gang.”

  Johnny Pinto scowled. “Don't like the sound of that. How do we know you won't bring the law on us when you leave here?”

  “I guess you'll have to trust me.”

  “I don't trust nobody, kid. What're you think I am?” Johnny laughed, showing yellowing teeth. He looked like a desert adder poised to strike. “Who're you runnin’ from?”

  “How about you?”

  Johnny Pinto pushed out his chicken-boned chest. “I killed about six men, fair and square.”

  “I'll bet,” replied Duane, unable to restrain himself.

  Johnny Pinto stiffened. “What was that?”

  “I'll bet you're real fast.”

  “Some say that I got the talent.” Haughty contempt came over Johnny Pinto's deeply tanned features. “You damn near got yerself kilt by Apaches. If we din't come along, you'd be in some buzzard's belly right now.”

  “You saved my life,” Duane said, “but don't push it.”

  Johnny giggled oddly, wrinkling his long thin nose. “I guess you know I wouldn't shoot a man who couldn't defend himself.”

  “At least not when there are witnesses around, right?”

  There was silence between them, then Johnny Pinto coughed up an enormous gob of brown phlegm, which he spat into Duane's cup. “When you get better, you and me should have a little talk.”

  “Up to you,” replied Duane.

  Johnny Pinto sauntered away, his two gun grips hanging outward, gunfighter style. Duane tried to convince himself that a former seminary student should turn his cheek like a good Christian, even though his great visitation of the Madonna had just been Juanita feeding him soup with a lantern behind her head. Duane didn't tolerate insults agreeably, hated bullies, and wasn't accustomed to backing down.

  For no particular reason, and without his volition, an image of Vanessa Fontaine sprang into his mind. She was standing before him, hand on her hip, looking back over her shoulder, smiling gaily. A mild throb of animal lust rocked Duane as memories of the marvelous Miss Vanessa Fontaine flooded his mind. He'd loved to look at her gorgeous face, the stage for a full repertoire of human emotions, some so compelling that he experienced powerful romantic feelings despite severe wounds.

  I must be getting better, he realized as he yearned for Miss Vanessa Fontaine. They'd been perfect mates, or so he'd thought, but he'd never gaze upon those pert breasts again. Vanessa Fontaine and I were brought together by God, fate, or the devil himself, but she thought I was just another dumb cowboy. I may meet other women in my life, but there'll never be another Miss Vanessa Fontaine.

  Around seven o'clock that evening, two matched black horses drew a black shellacked carriage down a narrow dirt street near the banks of the Colorado River. Mrs. Vanessa Dawes sat in the cab and gazed out the window at drunkards and bummers staggering along the planked sidewalk in front of hardware stores and blacksmith shops closed for the night. She wore a simple but dignified long black dress, black bonnet, and a long black cape, beneath which she held her derringer tightly in her fist. If anybody starts up with me, she swore, I'll shoot the son of a bitch.

  The carriage stopped in front of a crude wooden structure with no signs in front, only dim light shining through one small window. The driver, a tall spindly man, jumped down and opened the door. “Ma'am,” he said, his eyes pleading, “are you sure you want to go in there?”

  “Out of my way,” she replied.

  She stepped to the ground and saw three men sitting on a bench in front of the establishment. Two were passed out cold, and the other leered crazily at her. “I shall return in approximately ten minutes,” she told the driver. “If
you don't see me by then, go for help.”

  “But ma'am ...”

  She stiffened her resolve, pushed open the door, and stepped inside the Shamrock Star Saloon. It was thick with smoke, plus the fragrance of whiskey and other odors that she didn't want to think about. The patrons were the usual crowd of drunkards and fiends, the bar was to the left, and she headed toward it forthrightly, holding the derringer in her right hand, cocked and ready to fire.

  Men glanced at her curiously, some grinned suggestively, and others elbowed their companions to draw attention to the apparition descending upon them. The Shamrock Star was the bottom of the barrel in the cleanliness department, while its assorted denizens were bearded, tattooed, with scars on their faces, teeth missing, and the occasional ear partially torn off.

  Everyone made way except one lanky fellow with crooked blubbery lips and bright red cheeks. “Where you goin’, missy?” he mumbled angrily.

  “I'd like to speak with the bartender. Out of my way, please.”

  He teetered, licked his lips, looked her up and down, and said, “What if I don't git out'n yer way?”

  Vanessa had hoped it wouldn't come to this, but all she could do was whip out the derringer. “I'll kill you,” she said evenly, aiming at his nose.

  The saloon went silent as everyone stared at her. But the former Miss Vanessa Fontaine was accustomed to drunken males and knew how to deal with them. She advanced slowly toward her tormentor and his grin faltered as he gazed down the two eyes that were the derringer's over and under barrels. Finally she came to a stop in front of him and said, “Mister, your life doesn't mean a damned thing to me, and no jury would convict a lady of killing the likes of you. What's it going to be?”

  Her knuckle went white around the trigger, and the crude bummer stepped out of the way, his face a few shades paler. “Sorry,” he muttered drunkenly, a dazed expression in his eyes as he dropped back into his chair. The path was clear to the bar, where the man in the apron waited, a quizzical expression on his face. He wore a long handlebar mustache and a single gold earring, not to mention an old scar on his chin. “What can I do fer ye, missy?”

  “I want to hire a bodyguard of good character. If you run into such a gentleman, I'd be grateful if you'd send him to my hotel.” She handed the bartender a slip of paper with her name and address and a ten-dollar gold coin. “That's for your trouble, and there'll be another just like it if I hire somebody you send me. But I don't want any oafs, outlaws, or fools, do you understand?”

  The bartender winked, then quickly pocketed the gold coin. “You've got yourself a deal, ma'am.”

  Vanessa returned to the door as saloon patrons watched her progress with awe, fascination, and lust in their eyes. One of them opened the door, and she disappeared into the dark Austin night. It was silent in the saloon for several seconds after her departure, then a butcher of steers sitting at the bar with a mug of beer in his hand said, “I wonder who she was?”

  “Nothin’ in the world scarier than a woman with a gun,” replied the bartender.

  “She looked like she knows how to use it,” said a carpenter, whose hammer was jammed into his belt. “Goddamn, she was pretty, and she was a-wearin’ widow's weeds, didja notice? I wonder how many times she plugged her ex-husband, and what he did to deserve it?”

  Duane dozed a few hours inside Dr. Montgomery's house, but reopened his eyes at the sound of footsteps. It was a curly-headed man in his thirties, with his tan cow-boy hat on the back of his head, freckles, and a toothy cowboy smile. “Howdy,” he said. “Ginger Hertzog's m'name, and there's somethin’ I wanted to ask you. You're Duane Butterfield, and there used to be an old-time gunfighter name of Clyde Butterfield. You kin of his?”

  “Never heard of him,” Duane replied. “What's he done?”

  “Killed a whole lot of people. I heered that you ain't innerested in jinin’ up with us.”

  “There's something I've got to do,” Duane replied. “Sorry.”

  Hertzog narrowed his right eye. “You ain't a Yankee lover, are you?”

  “I love everybody, just like it says in the Bible.”

  “If you love everybody, how come the Fourth Cavalry is after you? Did you shoot somebody?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Yer a wanted man, but you don't wanna commit yerself, eh? You know what they say about the middle of the road. All you find there is horseshit.”

  “All you find on the sides are varmints waiting for something to fall.”

  “What varmints?” A new voice intruded onto the scene, Captain Richard Cochrane in his high-topped cavalry boots.

  Duane tried to speak first, but Hertzog beat him to the draw. “I din't know we had a Yankee lover with us.”

  “Leave him alone,” Cochrane replied. “You don't argue with a man when he's been shot like this.”

  “Maybe he deserved to get shot. Ever think of it that way?”

  “Go back to the bunkhouse and stay away from this wounded man. That's an order.”

  “Yes, sir.” Hertzog tramped away, muttering to himself.

  Cochrane waited for him to move beyond earshot, then turned to Duane. “Why'd you rile him?”

  “I didn't mean to, but I guess I don't hate Yankees enough to suit some of the men here.”

  “You don't know any better,” replied Cochrane, “because you're too young to remember. But my irregulars and I remember all too well. The damned Yankees tried to take advantage of us at every turn before the war, and they brought it on themselves. Did you know they forced us to sell cotton to them for less than we could get on the London exchange? And please don't preach to me about poor downtrodden darkies. They would've been freed eventually without the need for war, because many leading Southerners didn't believe in the so-called special institution, including Bobby Lee himself, for instance. That may be hard for you to believe, but it's the truth.”

  “Truth depends what side of the line you're standing on,” replied Duane. “As you said before, I didn't have anything to do with the Civil War. But I knew a woman once, and she couldn't let old Dixie go either.”

  “Certain people in Boston and Philadelphia wouldn't let us solve our problems in our own way, at our own speed. The war was about Northern domination, not those poor ignorant darkies.”

  “Just tell me one thing, sir. If Robert E. Lee, the great hero of the Confederacy, could surrender, why couldn't you?”

  “Bobby Lee was sixty-seven when he signed the surrender, but he should've stepped aside and let a young man carry on the fight. A few important generals like Wade Hampton and Nathan Bedford Forrest wanted to keep going, but finally they caved in too. In my not-so-humble opinion, I consider them traitors.”

  Duane had become accustomed to tirades concerning the Civil War. Wherever he went, old veterans argued about this battle or that famous general. They'd been through hell's hottest furnace; it seared their lives, and Duane felt like a child compared with troopers who'd charged the mouths of cannon in the great Civil War.

  “I don't know much about the war, to tell you the truth,” confessed Duane. “But I understand how you feel. I've got a score to settle too. People try to talk me out of it, but they can go to hell.”

  “Exactly,” agreed Cochrane. “It's good to talk with a man who's got feelings, unlike those who compromise their lives away. What is it that you're trying to do?”

  Duane paused a moment, then impulsively spilled the beans. “Both my parents were killed when I was a baby, because of one mean son of a bitch up in the Pecos Country. Folks tell me I should forget it, but it's easy to say when it wasn't your father and mother. I'm going back to Texas as soon as I heal, and I'm settling the accounts, one way or the other, the devil take all.”

  “Congratulations,” said Cochrane. “You and I understand each other, Butterfield. We'll get along just fine.”

  It was late at night, and Vanessa paced back and forth in front in her parlor, recalling her performance at the Shamrock Star Saloon. Sh
e'd even surprised herself when she'd aimed her derringer at the bummer who'd obstructed her path. I would've shot him between the eyes, no question about it, she reflected. What is death but the end of all living creatures, no matter what decisions they make, how they live, or what they say?

  She gazed at the derringer lying in the palm of her hand, smelling faintly of oil, its knurled walnut grips gleaming in lamplight. She'd never fired it in anger, but the ugly snub-nosed tool of death would stand between her and threats from strangers along the journey into Mexico. I'll pretend to be a saloon singer, because I might as well have some fun while I'm at it. They'll hang posters with my name in every town, and maybe Duane will see one of them. He might come to see me one night, and we'll get back together again.

  There was a knock on the door, and Vanessa jumped three inches into the air. She'd scheduled no gentleman callers, so who could it be? She stood behind the door, the derringer in her hand, and asked, “What do you want?”

  “The bartender at the Shamrock Star sent me.”

  Vanessa put on a crimson shawl, covering the derringer in her hand, loaded and cocked. Then she opened the door on a stocky man of medium height, wearing a dark blue suit in reasonable repair, once-white shirt, and bright red-and-blue paisley tie. He carried a flaring flat-topped Mississippi gambler hat in his left hand. “Mrs. Dawes?”

  “Have a seat.”

  She examined him through the eyes of maturity, and he appeared a scoundrel, his smoothly shaven features decorated by a raffish half grin. “My name's McCabe. The bartender said you was lookin’ fer a bodyguard, and I'm applyin’ for the job.”

  “What are your qualifications?”

  He reached into his frock coat and pulled out a .36-caliber Spiller & Burr. “I'm not afraid of a fight, and you can depend on me.”

  She measured him as if he were a horse she was going to purchase. He appeared fairly healthy, substantially confident, and only a scoundrel would take such a job in the first place.

  “You're hired,” she said, and he was momentarily startled by her decision. “Your pay is fifty dollars a month, plus room and board. The job will entail constant traveling, so go home and start packing.”