by Len Levinson
“God didn't start the Civil War. It was either the Southerners who fired on Fort Sumter, or the Northerners who forced them into it, but don't blame it on God.”
Duane noticed Dr. Montgomery on the far side of the table, motioning for him to simmer down. Duane had stepped into an argument between his host and hostess, thus committing a major social blunder. Should I apologize? he asked himself.
Cochrane smiled at Duane indulgently. “You're a funny kid, and you don't mince words, just like Juanita. Whatever she says, I know it's the truth as she sees it. Lying is the most terrible insult that I can imagine.”
“Personally,” replied Duane, “I think murder tops the list.”
Cochrane gazed at him thoughtfully for a few moments. “How strange . . . you were raised in a monastery. Why'd you leave?”
“Mexican girls came to Mass on Sundays, and I started to think about getting married.”
“There's a Mexican girl at the far end of the table whom I love with all my heart, and all she ever does is criticize, nag, and insult me at every opportunity.”
“He is such a cold-blooded gringo,” Juanita announced. “You just heard him say with his own mouth what he thinks of women. The truth is that he doesn't like men any better, but he needs them for his robbing and killing.”
“We never kill civilians unless it's necessary,” corrected Cochrane. “Please don't make us worse than we are.”
“I should leave you, but I love you too much. That is the tragedy of my life.”
Cochrane turned to Duane and smiled. “Mexican girls aren't happy unless they're tragic. It gives them an excuse to go to church and light candlesticks. They all secretly want to be nuns, I think.”
Juanita turned toward him, her eyes narrowed to slits. “I do not like you doing these things, because I fear that one day you will be killed.”
“You're wrong as usual,” Cochrane replied.
Juanita slammed her fist on the table. “You see how he is?” she asked Duane. “Oh, what am I doing with this man? Maybe he is right, and I should be a nun.”
She rose from the table and stormed into the next room, leaving the three men in awkward silence. Cochrane cleared his throat and drawled, “I apologize for my wife's behavior, but she's very excitable. If you'll excuse me for a moment . . .”
He headed toward the room into which Juanita had disappeared, leaving Duane and Dr. Montgomery sitting at the table. The doctor motioned with his eyes toward the door. He and Duane grabbed their hats and slunk away from the warring household.
“I should've kept my mouth shut,” Duane admitted as he hobbled toward Dr. Montgomery's cabin.
“They were fighting long before you ever showed up,” replied the doctor, “and they'll be fighting long after you're gone. Yet, difficult though it seems, they love each other. You may consider me vulgar, but even as I speak they're probably ripping off each other's clothes. It's a form of brain sickness, but who am I to criticize? Sometimes I question what we're supposed to be accomplishing here myself.”
“Where do you keep all the money that you've robbed?”
The doctor looked at him askance. “You're not interested in stealing it, are you?”
“I was just curious.”
“We've always suspected that one day a spy might show up. You're not he, I don't suppose?”
“I've got better things to do than spy, and I've got enough money of my own anyway. Have you ever stopped to consider what most Texans think of people like you?”
“Their stupid opinions don't matter to me in the least. And please don't ask again where the loot is hidden, because your health might suffer another relapse. I hope you won't be offended, but we live by the articles of war, and that means we're authorized to form firing squads. Have you ever seen a firing squad?”
“Never,” admitted Duane.
“It's a quick painless death, from what I've seen, but the hours leading up to it are most disagreeable. If you're as smart as you seem to be, you'll stay off the ridges. Get my drift?”
The travelers were led to a small room with four inches of straw on the floor. “It may not look like much,” the proprietress said cheerily, “but we sweep it every morning, then shovel in fresh straw.”
How sanitary, Vanessa thought as she entered the dank, damp room. A diminutive iron stove sat in the corner, providing no discernible heat. The men inclined toward one side while the only woman headed for the other. No blankets were provided, never mind sheets. Vanessa removed the long black wool overcoat from her trunk, spread it on the straw, sat upon it, and removed her shoes. She lay on the straw, covered herself with the coat, propped her head on her purse, and wondered if one of them would try to rape her in the course of the night's events.
They all seemed honorable men, but a rapist wouldn't carry a sign announcing his intentions. Her bodyguard arranged himself on the nearby straw, providing Vanessa with a small margin of safety, although she didn't trust him completely yet. Reaching into her purse, she pulled out her tiny gold-plated derringer, then recalled Duane Braddock sleeping every night with his Colt in his right hand, ready to fire. I hope I don't shoot my toe off, she thought as she gripped the derringer firmly and closed her eyes.
Something itched her hip, probably a wayward louse, but she barely paid attention. She listened to the groans and sighs of her fellow travelers, plus other bodily sounds best not enumerated, punctuated by the steady pit-pat of rain leaking through the roof. Vanessa slipped down the precipitous slope toward slumber as a heavy drop of water landed on her nose and splattered over her face. But she was already fast asleep, dreaming of Comanche warriors slouched in their saddles, riding steadily across the vast unknowable sage.
Cochrane reached for Juanita, but his arms closed around an empty blanket. He opened his eyes; it was morning, and something rustled in the kitchen. A smile came over his face at the anticipation of eggs, bacon, beans, and hot black coffee.
I ought to marry her, he thought, recalling certain highlights of the night. It wasn't because she was more beautiful than other women, or more accomplished in the bedroom arts, but her raw animal passion astonished and pleased him considerably. He didn't think he could return to an ordinary woman again.
She continued puttering, but he didn't smell coffee or hear pots and pans. He rolled out of bed, wrapped his nakedness in a blanket, and opened the door. She was packing her few belongings into a bedroll and spun around as he approached. He waited for an explanation, but she turned away and continued to prepare for a journey.
“Going somewhere?” he asked.
“I am leaving you,” she replied.
“How?”
“You are going to give me a horse. I have worked for you so long, I think I am worth one horse, no?”
“Why are you leaving me?”
“Because you do not love me anymore.”
“How can you say that, after last night?”
“If you loved me, you would make a family with me. But I am just somebody you stick your thing into whenever you feel like it. I am going back to the cantina, because at least there the men were honest about what they wanted. It is not hard for a rich man like you to find another woman.”
“But I don't want anybody else.”
“One day your men will ride back and tell me you are dead. Then what will I do?”
“Fine another hombre.”
She was silent for a few moments, then a tear rolled down her cheek. “So that is what you think of me. The truth has come out at last. Well, maybe I will start looking for another hombre right now. It has been nice knowing you, gringo.”
She headed for the door, but he moved to intercept her. “The Apaches will get you before you go five miles. Did you know that horses are their favorite food?”
“Take your hands off me,” she said in a deadly tone.
“I'm not letting you go.”
She struggled to get away, and they wrestled with each other in the kitchen.
“Leave me alone,
” she snarled.
He was stronger and more skilled at combat, so it wasn't long before he pinned her to the wall. “Let's talk about it,” he said.
“I am tired of talking with you. You can hold me as long as you want, but one day I will escape. And I will never love you again, so help me God.”
Her voice was tremulous, she spoke with the deepest conviction, and the hairs stood up on the back of his head. This was no ordinary kitchen squabble. “But you know how much I need you, Juanita.”
“Prove it.”
He couldn't say the words she wanted to hear, because he couldn't give up the Cause. “All right,” he said gruffly as he turned her loose. “Have it your own way.”
She hoisted the bedroll onto her shoulder and walked out of his life. He rushed ahead to open the door while she marched outside without even looking at him.
He felt as though his heart would stop. Life without her seemed valueless, empty, and pathetic, but he tried to hold on. Hell, there are a million more where she came from. She disappeared into the stable as he watched from the kitchen window. He couldn't believe that he'd never sleep with her again. Memories of their lovemaking flooded his mind, and he felt bereft.
It wouldn't be a bad idea to live with her on a little estancia with children and mongrel dogs, he pondered. Maybe she's right when she calls me a cold-blooded gringo. Who'll cook my breakfast from now on? Who'll wash my clothes? When I feel discouraged, who'll cheer me up? He'd come to depend on her and never dreamed that she'd have the courage to leave him. She doesn't really mean it, he tried to convince himself. She thinks I'm going to cave in to her demands, but I'll find somebody else to cook my breakfast.
A shadow came over the door of the barn as she rode outside on the back of a horse with her bedroll tied behind the saddle. The Apaches will turn her into a slave, he evaluated, after they rape her brains out, and she damn well knows it. She's going a long way to make a point, but what the hell is it?
The answer came with stunning forcefulness. She knows that I'm in love with her, and she's playing her final trump card. Well, maybe we can cut a deal. He jumped into his jeans and ran barefoot out the door. She appeared not to notice him charging across the backyard, and when he grabbed the horse's reins, she refused to acknowledge his existence.
The horse looked back cynically, for human beings were the bane of his existence, always dragging him in one direction or another, and occasionally a poor horse would get caught in a shoot-out, with terminal results. José was his name, and he wished she'd get off his back, return to the stable, and let him catch up on his sleep.
Meanwhile, Cochrane looked at Juanita pleadingly. “Let's have a talk,” he said.
She shook her head staunchly. “We have talked enough.”
“We've been together nearly two years, and you've got to let me speak my peace.”
“Make it fast.”
“I want to go on one last raid, and then I'll do anything you say.”
“Haven't you robbed enough already?”
“This is the biggest one so far. I've been planning it for a year, and can't pull out now. But when it's over, I promise you that I'll buy us a little estancia wherever you want, we'll have children, and be together always. I mean it.” He raised his right hand and looked at the sky. “So help me God.”
“You will say anything to get what you want,” she replied coolly.
“If you love me as much as you say, you'd give me one last chance.”
“After this robbery is over, there'll be another one, because you cannot stop—you are un pocito loco. A fanático.”
“I've already raised my right hand and sworn to God Almighty. If that's not good enough for you, I don't know what I can do. Maybe you're just looking for an excuse to leave me. Well, you don't need an excuse. You can leave whenever you want.”
He walked back to their cabin, his shoulders squared, erect as a soldier, noble and splendid in Juanita's eyes. The exultation of victory filled her heart, and she gave silent thanks to the Mother of God, who looks out for wayward Mexican señoritas.
She slid down the side of her horse and ran toward Cochrane, her sandals slapping against the ground. He turned around, a smile broadening his face as he opened wide his arms. They clasped each other tightly, their lips touched, and he felt the bittersweet pain of defeat mixed with the promise of new victory.
“You will never be sorry about this decision,” she whispered. “I will be your woman forever, and if you die first, I will be your woman even beyond the grave.”
CHAPTER 6
VANESSA FONTAINE STROLLED down the main street of San Antone, passing an adobe barbershop, law office, and then three saloons in a row. Mexican and American women could be seen upon the sidewalks, and Vanessa thought she should be buying beans and tortillas among them instead of hunting for the Pecos Kid.
McCabe accompanied Vanessa on her walk, and thus far he'd been a solid faithful bodyguard. He slept close to her at night, but never attempted monkey business. The arrangement was turning out perfectly, and she congratulated herself on her good luck. The stagecoach trip to San Antone had been without incident, and she wondered whether the threat of Indian attack had been greatly exaggerated by the hysterical Texas press.
They drew near the sheriff's office, and she said, “I'll do the talking.”
McCabe opened the door, and Vanessa entered a room furnished with three wooden desks, a Lone Star flag nailed to the wall next to a map of Texas, and a tanned lean young man reading a newspaper. He had a lantern jaw, smoothly shaved cheeks, and a badge pinned to his tan rawhide vest. “Help you, ma'am?”
“Are you the sheriff?” she asked sweetly.
“The sheriff is out of town on official business. I'm Deputy Downey.”
“I'm Mrs. Vanessa Dawes, and this is my friend, Mr. McCabe. I'm searching for a certain gentleman who's wanted by the authorities, and I wonder if he's passed through the vicinity lately. His name's Duane Braddock, and some folks refer to him as the Pecos Kid.”
“Rings a bell,” replied Downey. He opened a wood cabinet, searched through stacks of paper, and came out with four official documents. He dropped them onto the desk, and on top was a wanted poster featuring a crude drawing of Duane Braddock, offering five hundred dollars for his capture, dead or alive. The small print at the bottom said that the Pecos Kid was charged with killing a federal marshal in Morellos. “What's Duane Braddock to you?” Deputy Downey asked, making a confidential smile.
“Friend of mine,” replied Vanessa.
Deputy Downey uncovered the next document. “It says here that he was elected sheriff of a town called Escondido, where he shot six men in cold blood. It got so bad the citizenry asked for the Fourth Cavalry to get rid of him. He sounds like a real hard case, and he's a friend of yours?”
“If Duane Braddock shot a federal marshal,” Vanessa replied, “the marshal probably had it coming.”
The deputy looked her up and down slowly. “The judge who issued this warrant didn't think so.”
Vanessa walked toward the map and looked for the town of Escondido. It was a tiny dot near the Rio Grande south of Fort Davis, approximately four or five hundred miles from San Antone. Anyone embarking on such a trip had better get ready for the Comanche homeland, followed by Apache ancestral territory. Vanessa wondered if she was up to it.
The deputy cocked his head to the side, and asked, “How well do you know Duane Braddock?”
“We were engaged once, so I guess you can say that I knew him rather well, and in my opinion he doesn't have a criminal bone in him. I don't know what these false accusations are all about, frankly, and I don't care. Have the Indians been peaceful west of here lately?”
The deputy shook his head no. “Injun depredations have been worse than ever, and there's practically no law at all once you get west of San Antone.” The deputy painted a knowing expression on his face.
“Thank you for the information.” Vanessa turned like a royal personage and hea
ded for the door. She landed on the sidewalk with McCabe, and together they headed back toward their hotel. “I guess we're going west,” Vanessa said. “Are you still with me?”
“Long as you keep payin’ my salary,” replied McCabe.
Duane could walk almost normally, but wasn't strong enough to run up and down mountains like an Apache yet. His mind was filled with new projects, such as practicing the classic fast draw. It wasn't a skill he wanted to forget, and next step was asking Cochrane for permission.
Cochrane's firm control of the camp had become increasingly apparent to Duane. Cochrane brooked no nonsense, and paradoxically, respect for the former cavalry officer hadn't decreased substantially since Cochrane had begged Juanita publicly not to leave him. Love makes fools out of us all, realized Duane.
He heard footsteps and turned to see Cochrane walking toward him, his wide-brimmed silverbelly hat slanted low over his eyes. “Don't shoot,” said the captain with a mocking smile as he raised his hands in the air. “Where are you headed?”
“Just taking a walk.”
“I'm having a meeting with the men tonight, after dinner. I'm going to explain our next raid in detail and thought I'd extend the invitation to you.”
“No thanks,” replied Duane. “I don't want to know anything that might give me lead poisoning.”
“You've heard everything else about us already, so what's the difference? You might find it interesting.”
“I've got my own plans. Sorry.”
“I think you'd better be there.”
It sounded like an order. “Why?”
“Because the men saved your life, and now it's your turn to help them.”
“When I draw this Colt, it's for self-defense only.”
“I wouldn't ask you to violate your principles. What kind of rascal do you think I am? The raid will be purely military, and you can care for the horses. I'll expect you at my place after dinner.”