Devil's Creek Massacre

by Len Levinson

  But there was one fly in the ointment: the Pecos Kid hadn't shown up to see the show. She wondered if he'd seen her name and rode in the opposite direction, or maybe he was hiding down Mexico way and didn't know she was in San Antone.

  She arrived at a large flat one-story adobe hotel, and her praetorian guard came to a stop behind her. She blew them a kiss, they applauded, and she bowed low on the planked sidewalk. Then McCabe opened the door; she entered a carpeted lobby and plunged into the dark corridor beyond.

  She and McCabe arrived at their suite of two adjoining rooms. He'd been assigned the one in front, with Vanessa in back. It was a far cry from the Arlington in downtown Austin, and Vanessa's bed had a permanent excavation in the middle, but at least everything was clean superficially.

  As Vanessa was about to enter her personal room, she heard McCabe say, “Good night, ma'am. I'd like to say that you put on a helluva show, and I never knowed you could sing so good.”

  His praise was genuine, and he'd never said anything complimentary before. “I couldn't have done it without you,” she replied graciously, “because you make me feel safe.”

  She entered her room, closed the door, removed her gown, and hung it in the closet. Then she washed her face and hands in the basin, changed to her nightgown, blew out the candle, and crawled into bed.

  She felt exhausted, frustrated, and doubtful concerning her sanity. McCabe's footsteps rumbled on the far side of the door; they'd spent every day together since Austin, a strange enigma sleeping a few feet away, but thus far he'd been a gentleman, and he'd even appreciated her singing.

  McCabe didn't interest her particularly, like her servants back at the old plantation. He did his job and that's all she cared about. Her most compelling concerns were for the so-called Pecos Kid. Is Duane Braddock worth this effort, she asked herself, or am I just a pathetic weak woman who needs young men and public admiration to make me feel worthwhile?

  One morning, over eggs, bacon, grits, and coffee, Duane Braddock asked Dr. Montgomery, “Have you ever heard of a woman named Vanessa Fontaine?”

  Dr. Montgomery cocked an eye. “Rings a bell, but I can't be sure.”

  “She's from Charleston, and last I heard, she was married to a lieutenant in the Fourth Cavalry.”

  “I recall visiting a relative in Charleston once,” began Dr. Montgomery, “and saw a fair number of belles. They thought the sun rose and set between their legs, and some of them were so pretty, I thought that it did set between their legs. If you've fallen in love with a Charleston belle, you have my deepest sympathies. They were the most spoiled women that the world has ever produced.”

  Duane helped Dr. Montgomery with the dishes, then the doctor left to see a sick cow. Left to his own devices, Duane filled a gunnysack with empty cans and bottles, then lined them on a plank suspended by two barrels behind the bunkhouse. He took twenty paces backward, assumed his gunfighter's stance, and prepared for his first fast draw since being shot by the Apaches.

  He bent his knees, hunched his shoulders, and poised his right hand above the worn walnut grips of his Colt. Then he took a deep breath, his hand darted to his gun, and his muscles felt jerky and foreign. The lethal weapon fell into his hand, he drew it quickly, thumbed back the hammer, and fired in one smooth motion. An empty bottle shattered like a rainbow in the bright morning sunlight.

  “Not bad,” said Cochrane, strolling into the yard. “Where'd you get that fast hand?”

  “I'm way slower than usual,” complained Duane. “I wonder if I'll ever be like I was.”

  “I've been shot a few times, and made a complete recovery. Don't rush things and you'll be just fine. Say, do you think you can teach me to shoot faster?”

  “The principles are simple,” explained Duane. “It's better to aim low than high. It's not the first shot that counts, but the first accurate shot. Practice makes perfect. That's it in a nutshell.”

  Cochrane faced the bottles and cans, worked into his gunfighter's stance, but it didn't appear correct to Duane's critical eye; the officer was too stiff and mechanical. Then Cochrane reached for his Remington, snatched it out of its holster, thumbed the hammer, and fired. A can went flying into the bright blue sky.

  “Not bad,” said Duane.

  Cochrane fired again, gunfire echoed off Lost Canyon, and a crowd of irregulars gathered to watch, among them Johnny Pinto, thumbs hooked in his gun-belt, head cocked to the side. Cochrane ran out of cartridges, then it was Duane's turn again. Duane dropped into his gunfighter crouch, his hand suddenly snapped to his Colt, and this time his muscles were oiled by recent experience. The gun leapt into his hand; he fired once, twice, thrice, and tin cans went toppling through the sky. Then he tossed the gun up, caught it behind his back, spun around, and drilled an empty vinegar bottle. It exploded into bits, he thumbed back the hammer. Click; out of ammunition.

  The crowd applauded lightly, except for Johnny Pinto. Captain Cochrane looked at Duane with new respect. “I've never seen anything like it in my life,” he confessed.

  Duane thumbed cartridges into shiny iron sleeves as Johnny Pinto scuffled closer. “Ain't it strange how Butterfield can shoot like a whole man, but he ain't healthy enough to fight with his fists like a real man?”

  Duane smiled thinly. “You'll get your chance before long, Johnny. Are you in a hurry to get beat up?”

  A few outlaws snickered, and Johnny believed that Duane was making fun of him. “I'll rip yer fuckin’ haid off,” he swore.

  Their eyes met, and a silent vow was made. Everybody knew that when the fight came, it would be a humdinger.

  “How long till yer better?” asked Johnny.

  “A few more weeks,” Duane replied. “Until then, stay away from me.”

  “You don't tell me where to go, varmint. I go where I want.”

  Johnny saw the hollow eye of a Colt .44 looking at him and stepped back in surprise. Again, Duane had pulled a lightning draw. Johnny tried to smile. “You took me by surprise.”

  “One minute you're here,” Duane replied, “next minute you're gone. Step lightly around me, cowboy. That's all I've got to say.”

  “You wouldn't dare shoot me in cold blood!”

  Duane pulled the trigger, and lead flew through the crown of Johnny Pinto's hat. For a moment Johnny thought he'd been shot in the head, and he staggered dizzily from side to side. Then he took off his hat and inspected the bullet hole, as everyone laughed. His face turned bright red; he'd never been so humiliated in his life and wanted to choke Duane Braddock to death, but Duane Braddock still held the Colt on him.

  “You owe me a new hat,” Johnny said.

  “Be glad you're still alive,” replied Duane. “And get the hell away from me. Next time I'll aim for your heart.”

  Johnny Pinto considered retreat a sign of weakness, but had no viable alternative. He put one foot behind the other and backed off, holding his hands where Duane could see them. “I'm going to beat the piss out of you someday,” he said evenly. “But you'll probably weasel out of that one too.”

  “There's no backing out, Johnny—for you or me. I'll see you in a few weeks.”

  Duane waited until Johnny was a fair distance away, then holstered his Colt. If there was one thing Duane didn't like, it was bullies. Johnny was the typical loudmouthed birdbrain, but this time he'd leaned on the wrong cowboy. He's spoiling for a fight, mulled Duane, and am I going to give it to him.

  Target practice continued, irregulars took turns firing at bottles and cans; it sounded like a thunderstorm in Lost Canyon. Duane noted Juanita approaching, pulling a strand of black hair from her eye. “You are some shooter, but you had better watch out for Johnny Pinto. One day when you least expect it, he will be behind you.”

  “Maybe one day I'll be behind him.”

  Juanita shrugged. “If I were you, I would kill him while I had the chance.”

  “Could you really kill somebody, Juanita?” he asked, out of curiosity.

  “What makes you think I haven't
?” she replied.

  “I'm sure the nuns have taught you better.”

  She snorted derisively. “If you go to hell, don't have five mortal sins—have ten mortal sins, and make them good juicy ones.”

  Now Duane understood why Cochrane had abandoned the Civil War for her. She had a compelling point of view, a figure built for comfort, and saucy sparks in her dark brown eyes. They say that when Catholics break away from the church, they really go loco.

  Gunfire echoed across the ridges as outlaws honed shooting skills. Captain Cochrane loaded his gun as he neared Duane and Juanita. “What are you talking about so earnestly?” he asked, a touch of jealousy in his voice.

  “Johnny Pinto,” replied Juanita. “He is the most evil man here.”

  Cochrane raised his eyebrows. “But he's a damned fine soldier. War has its own rules, and I'd make a pact with the devil himself if I could strike a blow against the Yankees.”

  “Sometimes I think you already have made a pact with the devil, Ricardo.”

  He looked askance at her. “What's that supposed to mean?”

  She didn't reply vocally, but her expression said it all. With a barely perceptible toss of her shoulder, she turned and headed toward her hacienda.

  Duane and Cochrane gazed at her retreating figure. “What a woman,” Cochrane said.

  “You can say that again,” replied Duane.

  “She always hits me where it hurts most.”

  “Don't they all?”

  Both men chortled. “Don't get any ideas,” Cochrane said, “because she's mine.”

  “I'm no bird dog, and I've got my own woman troubles. You ever heard of a Charleston belle named Vanessa Fontaine?”

  “What'd she look like?”

  “Tall, blond, kind of pretty?”

  “That could describe half the belles in Charleston. You can't tell me about Charleston belles, because my mother was one of them. I truly believe that the only person I've ever been afraid of was my mother. She would've been a great general, because she was utterly remorseless in everything she did.”

  “Sounds a lot like Vanessa Fontaine.”

  “Well, you know what the old soldiers say. The best way to forget one woman is find another as soon as possible.” Cochrane leaned closer. “We're going to Ceballos Rios in about a week to buy ordnance. If I were you, I'd pick out a nice religious Mexican gal like Juanita while you're there. I tell you, she'll make you happier than any spoiled ex-Charleston belle.”

  “Sorry, but I'm not going to any towns until I'm fully recovered. I don't take chances, as I'm sure you understand.”

  “You won't have to take chances because you'll be riding with us, and we'll look out for you.”

  “I'd rather look out for myself.”

  “You don't trust us?” Cochrane frowned. “I don't want you here with Juanita while I'm away. The thought of two Catholics scheming and plotting is enough to freeze my blood. Nobody'll dare mess with you in Ceballos Rios if you're with me, because I do a lot of business there. It's a Comanchero town, and I can promise you a grand time. They have some of the prettiest Mexican gals you'll ever see, so wipe that unhappy expression off your face. You're behaving as if I'm going to put you before the firing squad. I'm doing you a favor and you can't even see it.”

  “What if I say no?” Duane inquired.

  “You won't,” replied Cochrane.

  Vanessa had given McCabe the night off so he could settle his business prior to departure for Escondido. She curled on her bed with a map, pot of tea, and biscuits from the local bakery. The next leg of her trip was to Fort Clark, a far more hazardous route than the ride to San Antone.

  Her path led through land contested by Apaches, Comanches, and Kiowa, while the Fourth Cavalry was spread thinner than paper. But I'm sure the Indian menace is exaggerated, she tried to convince herself. Everyone knows they just use poor Indians to sell more newspapers, right?

  There was a knock on the door, and Vanessa reached for the derringer on the desk. Who could it be at that time of night? She thumbed back the hammer. “Yes?”

  A woman's voice came to her through the wooden planks. “My name is Rosalie Tyler, and I live down the hall.”

  Vanessa opened the door a crack and aimed at a short stout brunette in her late thirties or early forties standing in the corridor, a big friendly smile on her face. “I've heard that you're an army wife.”

  “I was,” Vanessa confessed. “My husband was killed by the Apaches.”

  “My husband is Major Marcus Tyler, and we're staying in this hotel along with some other army people. The major suggested I invite you to have a drink with us.” Rosalie placed her hand over her mouth, as if about to confide a secret. “We're going to a real saloon together, can you imagine?”

  Rosalie spoke with a Northern accent, but looked like she enjoyed a good time. “Are you stationed in San Antone?” asked Vanessa.

  “No, we're on our way to Fort Clark with a detachment of cavalry. They're camped on the edge of town, perhaps you've seen them about.”

  Vanessa recalled seeing bluecoat soldiers on the streets of San Antone. She didn't want to pass time with damned Yankees, but their destination was the same as hers, and maybe she could hitch a ride. “I'd be delighted to accompany you,” Vanessa said graciously. “Let me get my shawl.”

  Why do I let people talk me into things? Duane wondered as he headed for the outhouse. The last thing I need is a Comanchero town. I should've insisted on my right to stay here, but that damned Cochrane bamboozles me every time.

  It was after supper, dishes had been washed, and the time had come to prepare for bed. Duane neared the outhouse when its door opened and Johnny Pinto appeared.

  Both men scowled as Duane unlimbered the fingers of his right hand. Johnny Pinto walked straight toward him, and Duane had to get out of the way before he was run down.

  “You fuckin’ coward,” Johnny uttered in a low voice. “I wonder how yer a-gonna wheedle out of yer fight with me. But our trails will cross again someday, and then I'll see what yer made of.”

  “You won't have to wait long. I promise.”

  “A promise from you ain't worth a fiddler's fuck.”

  Personal insults felt like daggers through Duane's orphaned heart. They stared at each other, and Duane disliked Johnny with a passion as incomprehensible as love. It wasn't Johnny's unpleasant appearance, or even the foul stench arising from his body, but his hateful spitefulness toward the world. Both men dismissed each other from their presences and continued in their previous directions.

  Duane returned to Dr. Montgomery's hut while thinking of his upcoming war with Johnny Pinto. Duane had studied pugilism at the monastery in the clouds, because his former spiritual adviser, Brother Paolo, had been a professional boxer prior to taking vows. Johnny was shorter than Duane, with less of a reach, so that meant fighting long range, and never clinching under any circumstances. Duane wanted to smash his fist into the middle of Johnny Pinto's face.

  Why do I detest him so? Duane asked himself. Isn't it a sin to hate like this? But Johnny Pinto had attempted to intimidate Duane, and the Pecos Kid had to draw the line. Duane pressed his fingers against the scar on his stomach. It was tender, but a few more weeks ought to heal it fine. Johnny Pinto, you'll never insult anybody again after I finish with you. There's no lesson like a good whupping, and that's what you're going to get from me.

  The officers and ladies walked beside the San Antonio River as lamps within adobe huts nearby lit their way. Plunking pianos could be heard from the saloon district, along with an occasional hoot or gunshot.

  The leader of the expedition was Major Marcus Tyler, Fourth Cavalry, and junior officers, plus their women, hung on his words as he described the history of the region. “The Spaniards have been coming to this place since the 1600s, and in 1718, the presidio of San Antonio de Bexar was built by the Mexican Army on this very spot. It became the most important Spanish and Mexican settlement in Texas prior to the Revolution.”


  He referred to the Texas Revolution of 1835, not the American one of 1776. Texans viewed their state as a special country within America, because it had been independent under Sam Houston for a few brief years. Vanessa walked among the women, a black cape covering her green velvet dress. It felt strange to be with normal Americans instead of the drunkards at the Black Cat Saloon.

  They headed back toward their hotel, Vanessa waiting for the opportunity to ask if she could accompany them to Fort Clark, but the amateur historian was continuing his lecture. “Straight ahead you can see the Alamo itself, where Davy Crockett, James Bowie, Bill Travis, and four hundred other Americans were slaughtered by Santa Anna on March sixth, 1836. It was the turning point of the war, for Texans fought with new determination afterward. They remembered the Alamo, and six weeks later defeated Santa Anna at San Jacinto, proving once again that the morale of soldiers is more important than mere quantity.”

  The old Catholic mission was shrouded in shadows, with no hint of the bloodletting that had taken place less than forty years ago. Flowers were planted on either side of the entrance, with cottonwood trees in the yard. Davy Crockett, Jim Bowie, and Bill Travis fought hand to hand and man to man against overwhelming masses of Mexican soldiers on that very spot, while the fate of Texas hung in the balance. Vanessa admired the hard-bitten heroes, and her heart swelled with pride in America. This'd be a great country if it weren't for the Yankees.

  They stopped at the Zapato Viejo Saloon on their way back to the hotel, and sat at a round table in a corner. A Mexican waitress brought them a round of drinks, and the officers’ wives gazed with amazement at real cowboys, vaqueros, and gentlemen in suits all talking at the same time, as a terrific din filled the low-ceilinged establishment. It featured no stage, only a chair in the corner, where a Mexican guitarist in an immense sombrero and red garters on his arms picked a lively tune.