by Len Levinson
He didn't have to explain, because Mexicans knew the Apaches well. She turned down the covers of the bed as he pulled off his boots. “You are not going to get under the covers with your clothes on, are you?” she asked.
“Guess not,” replied Duane, “but I'm awful tired. I'll probably go right to sleep.”
“Go ahead, if that is what you want. You are the guest here, señor.”
“Would you mind turning off the lamp.”
She turned the lever, and the room was plunged into darkness. He turned his back to her, removed his clothes, crawled quickly into bed, and rolled onto his back. Her garments rustled as she removed them, and Duane couldn't help feeling aroused. She was as lovely as Lopez had described, the exact opposite of Miss Vanessa Fontaine, but Duane was discomforted by moral implications. “Do you have anything to drink?” he asked in the darkness.
“Do you need to get drunk?”
“I don't feel right about this.”
“Please do not feel obliged to do me any favors. Maybe my next customer will be even more handsome than you, but I do not think so.”
She crawled into bed, brought her face closer, and touched her lips to his cheek. “Please do not speak anymore, querido mio. Let me do everything, at my own time. Maybe God has sent you to me, or maybe the devil, who can say? I will be a woman tomorrow morning, and we might as well have some fun while we are at it, no?”
CHAPTER 8
YOU CAN MOVE BACK TO THE bunkhouse, Johnny,” said Dr. Montgomery, washing his hands in the tin basin, “but Captain Cochrane wants to speak with you first.”
They'd returned to Lost Canyon two weeks ago, and Johnny Pinto had recovered limited use of his arms. He winced as he pulled on his boots, folded the cot, and placed it in the corner. “Thanks for all you've done for me, sir. I really do appreciate it.”
Dr. Montgomery was baffled by Johnny's recent change of demeanor. Johnny appeared genuinely humbled by his fight with Duane Braddock, as if he'd finally seen the light. “Glad to help you, Johnny. Keep up the good work.”
Johnny limped across the clearing, headed for Cochrane's cabin. He'd been kind and polite since Ceballos Rios, but his new role required unremitting effort against his natural tendencies. He could dress himself and get around, but his nose would never be the same, and two teeth had departed forever. He felt twinges in his kidneys as he knocked on the door of Cochrane's cabin; a voice within bade him enter.
Cochrane sat at the kitchen table, studying his map. “The doctor told me you were up and around, Johnny, and I thought we'd better have a talk. Take a seat.”
Johnny sat meekly and flinched at continual wrenching in both arms. Cochrane rolled up the map, then sat on the other side of the kitchen table, with a small cotton bag between them. “I'm afraid you can't ride with us, Johnny,” began Cochrane. “You placed us in danger when you fought with that Comanchero in Ceballos Rios, and we can't afford you anymore. When you're well enough to ride, you've got to leave here.” Cochrane leaned forward, and the scar on his cheek looked like the Snake River gorge. “If you ever betray us, make sure we're all killed, otherwise we'll hunt you down like a dog. You can go to San Francisco or New York, but you'll have to look over your shoulder for the rest of your life. Do I make myself clear?”
Johnny smiled and tried to raise his hand. “But sir—”
“Let me tell you something else while we're at it,” Cochrane continued. “The men held a vote, and the overwhelming majority wanted a firing squad. That's how seriously they take your little escapade. But you've served us well till now, and I've decided to overrule their verdict. We'll let you take your weapons, personal belongings, two horses, and five hundred dollars in gold”—Cochrane pointed to the cotton bag— “for services rendered.”
Johnny smiled, widening his eyes innocently. “Can I say somethin’, sir?”
“Make it fast.”
Johnny bowed his head submissively. “I want to apologize fer all the bad I done, sir. Hell, that pore greaser weren't hurtin’ nobody. I deserved to get the shit beat out of me, and I don't blame you fer not wantin’ me here. I was tryin’ to show what a big man I was, but Duane Braddock sure cut me down to size.”
Cochrane stared in disbelief at Johnny Pinto. “I've always been suspicious of sudden conversions, young man.”
“I knows how you feel, sir, but look at Paul in the Bible. He persecuted the Christians, then become a Christian hisself. God has punished me for my evil ways, but it's a blessin’ in disguise. Now I can change, and as fer the five hundred dollars, you can donate it to the Cause, because one day the South will rise again, with men like you to lead her. If you've nothin’ more to say, sir, I'll go back to the bunkhouse.”
Cochrane was flabbergasted by Johnny's declaration and didn't know what to make of it. “Dismissed.”
Johnny limped to the door, all his swagger gone, and he appeared truly broken by his experiences. Is this what redemption looks like? Cochrane wondered.
“I think he is lying,” said Juanita's voice on the far side of the room, after Johnny was gone. “I would not trust that rat-faced sum of a beetch as far as I could throw him.”
“He seemed sincere to me,” Cochrane replied. “Don't you believe people can have a change of heart?”
She stood beside the stove, her arms crossed beneath her ample bosom. “A leopard does not change his spots.”
“You state opinions as if they were facts, but you don't know whether Johnny's lying or not, or do you?”
“I would never take my eyes off that one, after what he has done. He is bad to the bone.”
“But people can renew themselves....”
“Not that one,” she said stubbornly.
Cochrane's university logic crumbled before her Aztec intuition, and sometimes he thought she had magical powers. “I believe in the possibility of change,” Cochrane insisted, “because I've changed so much myself since I've known you. I think we should at least give him the chance to prove himself. Maybe Braddock pounded some sense into his head.”
“Johnny's head is too thick,” she replied, “but he is very brave, and that is all you care about. I guess you will let him back into the gang before long, because you are not so smart as you think. But mark my words, one day he will make trouble again, and you will have no one to blame but yourself.”
Stoop-shouldered in shame, knees bent beneath the weight of his misery, Johnny Pinto entered the bunkhouse. The usual crowd was gathered around the table, but Duane Braddock wasn't among them. Johnny shuffled toward Sergeant Beasley and said, in a respectful voice, “Can I speak with you, sir?”
Beasley scowled suspiciously. “What's on your mind, Pinto?”
Johnny bowed his head and fixed his vision on a chicken bone lying on the floor. “I want to ‘pologize to you and the others fer all the trouble I've made. You prob'ly don't believe me, but I just thought I should say so.”
His left leg dragged behind him as he made his way to his bunk, where he painfully reclined. His
mouth tasted like ashes and he'd nearly gagged a few times, because he really wasn't sorry for anything. It was his long-range homespun revenge plot, but the black bile of repressed rage rose in his craw and his heart beat rapidly. Johnny Pinto was proud; it hurt him to grovel ignominiously, but he maintained his goal before his eyes: a clear shot at Duane Braddock's back. He tried to calm himself now that victory was within grasp.
The door opened and the bunkhouse fell silent. Johnny laboriously turned his head and saw Duane Braddock enter. Johnny's most difficult humiliation lay ahead, but he had to go through with it. He arose from his bunk, made his arduous way past the table, and then stumbled toward Duane Braddock's bunk.
Duane moved his hand toward his Colt as he watched Johnny Pinto draw closer. He was shaken by Johnny's appearance; the young outlaw seemed ten years older, and his old cocky swagger had been weakened by loss of blood. Duane arose from his bunk, examining welts and cuts on Johnny's face.
Johnny cam
e to a stop in front of Duane, gazed into his eyes sincerely, and said, “You beat me fair and square, but I just want to say I'm sorry fer the mean things I did, and I'll probably burn in hell ferever fer killin’ that Comanchero, but I'll never do it again. You taught me a good lesson, sir, and I thank you for it.”
Johnny teetered toward his bunk, and Duane gawked at his back in undisguised bewilderment. He wanted to believe Johnny, but something told him that the outlaw was a sick snake and he'd bite somebody again soon. I've got to watch him closely, Duane warned himself. He killed that Comanchero like it was nothing.
The stagecoach rolled through a valley filled with grotesque rock formations and thorny clumps of cactus. It was morning, next water hole straight ahead.
Major Marcus Tyler had joined the ladies in the carriage and was rhapsodizing about Texas. “I know it looks like hell's frying pan out there,” he said, gesticulating toward the window with his cigar, “but it's not as dry as it looks. One day, when we get the Indians under control, there'll be ranches and farms all over this land, with schools, churches, and army forts too.”
Vanessa examined the stark landscape, trying to capture the officer's vision, but it was difficult to imagine civilization on the inhospitable land. Maybe five hundred years from now, she thought.
“If 1 were you,” Major Tyler said to Vanessa, “I'd invest my money in west Texas right now. Between San Antone and El Paso the land is pretty much up for grabs. You could become a cattle queen, and if they ever build a railroad to San Antone, you could multiply your investments by a factor of ten.”
The prospect of so much money dazzled Vanessa. “But this land is a desert.”
“It might not look like much, but it grows nutritious grass for cattle and horses. There'll be a ranch on this very spot one day, mark my words, and it can belong to you, Mrs. Dawes. Can't you see the poetry in this vast empty space?”
Major Tyler had begun his next sentence when an arrow pierced his throat just above his blue collar and pinned him to the back wall of the carriage like a butterfly in a display case. Vanessa blinked—it was another bad dream—while the other women screamed hysterically, shots were fired, and a war whoop erupted nearby. The stagecoach gathered speed. Vanessa dived to the floor with the other women, Major Tyler's bleeding corpse sagged on top of them, and McCabe aimed his sawed-off shotgun out the window.
Hordes of painted Comanches charged toward the stagecoach; soldiers fired back steadily, but they'd been taken by surprise. A Comanche warrior broke through the defensive line and rode straight toward McCabe, a lance poised in his arms. McCabe took aim, pulled both triggers, and the powerful kick jolted him backward as the Indian was blown off his charging war pony.
“Keep your heads down!” McCabe bellowed, as he reloaded the shotgun with steady hands.
Vanessa cowered on the floor with other women and the dead soggy former cavalry major. Somebody hollered atop the cab—perhaps the driver getting hit. McCabe could cover one window, but the other was wide open. Vanessa saw the emergency; she was terrorized, but didn't want to die without fighting back. She gathered her courage, uttered a prayer, gritted her teeth, and raised her head. “Give me your revolver,” she said to McCabe.
“Keep down, ma'am,” McCabe replied, as he aimed at another Comanche who'd broken through the cavalry escort. McCabe pulled both triggers, there was a terrific explosion, and the Indian leaned crazily to the side, red dots covering his chest as he toppled to the ground.
Vanessa yanked the Spiller 8c Burr out of McCabe's holster, thumbed back the hammer, and saw a Comanche approaching the far window. She lunged toward the opening and fired wildly. To her amazement, the Comanche fell off his horse and bounced a few times, performing macabre somersaults. Her face drained of color; she'd killed for the first time, and a sergeant raced alongside the stagecoach, a Colt. 44 New Army revolver in his right hand. “What happened to Major Tyler?” he roared.
“He's dead!”
The sergeant veered away from the stagecoach while calling Captain Crawford's name. Somebody crashed into Vanessa, knocking her over. She turned around, and her eyes widened at McCabe, an arrow through his skull, dead as a mackerel. Vanessa raised her hands to her ears and screeched along with the other women. Blood was everywhere, guns fired close by, and an arrow missed her nose by two inches, ramming into the wall of the stagecoach. She dived to the floor, certain that death was imminent, and then something unbelievably horrible happened.
The stagecoach lurched, collapsed sideways, and threatened to turn over. Vanessa and the other women yelled their tonsils out and jumbled against each other as the vehicle tipped to its side. McCabe's corpse landed on the bottom, the women fell atop him, and the dead major landed on top, as the stagecoach slowed to a stop.
Vanessa was tangled in the arms and legs of McCabe, Major Tyler, and the other women. She fought herself loose, found McCabe's shotgun in the melee, climbed to the window, and poked the weapon outside.
Her heart nearly stopped as a Comanche warrior galloped toward her, aiming his rusty old pistol into the cab. She pulled both triggers of the shotgun, although she'd never fired one before. It blasted, she hadn't braced herself adequately, and was thrown back into the cab as the Comanche was riddled with tiny pellets. A moan escaped his lips as he eased off the bare back of his war pony and collapsed in a pile before the stagecoach.
Vanessa didn't know how to reload the shotgun, so she drew the Spiller & Burr. The Comanche lay still, limbs twisted, in front of the stagecoach. It was him or me, reasoned Vanessa, and it damned sure wasn't going to be me.
The cavalry soldiers took positions around the stagecoach while painted savages rode in a circle, brandishing their weapons and singing war songs. Meanwhile, dismounted Comanches fired bows and arrows from a distance, but the massed disciplined shooting of the soldiers was keeping them at bay. The bewildered and blood-bespattered women climbed out of the stagecoach, and Mrs. Marcus Tyler appeared in a state of shock. Vanessa forced her to kneel in the lee of the stagecoach as arrows and bullets zipped through the air over their heads. Mrs. Bumstead had recovered Major Tyler's service revolver and was looking at it curiously.
“Just thumb back the hammer like this,” demonstrated Vanessa, “and pull the trigger. But make sure you don't shoot one of us by mistake.”
“You women—get down!” hollered Captain Crawford. “Here they come, men! Hold steady, and fire at will!”
A dozen warriors on horseback were trying to breach the defensive perimeter, singing war songs, death songs, and anything else they could remember to pump them up for the hazardous venture.
The soldiers rapid-fired, but they were thin at that end of the defense. Comanches fell off the backs of their horses, but others kept marauding onward. Captain Crawford glanced about nervously, fearing to weaken one sector to strengthen another, when an arrow shot through his stomach. The gallant captain tried to yank it out, then collapsed onto the ground and became incoherent.
Command devolved to young Second Lieutenant Bumstead, who'd been a student at West Point only seven months ago. “Maintain your fire!” he ordered. “Hold fast!”
More Comanches parted company with their horses, but three broke through the defense and headed toward the wagon where rifles and ammunition were stored, not far from the stagecoach. One of the younger warriors spotted Vanessa's golden hair shining brightly in the sunlight, and he decided that the white-eyes beauty would be his prize. Crying victoriously, the lust of the devil in his groin, he pulled his war pony's reins to the side and kicked its ribs hard.
The animal shifted direction and bore down on Vanessa, who was tempted to run for her life, but he'd simply scoop her up and carry her to his tipi. So she held steady, closed one eye, and aimed at his bobbing torso, looming larger every moment The warrior was cruelly handsome, but Vanessa wouldn't be taken against her will. “Yaaahhhhhh!” he screamed, reaching down for her as she pulled the trigger.
The Spiller & Burr kicked up and to the left
, her ears rang with the report, and the Comanche sagged to the side. His war pony continued driving toward Vanessa, she dodged out of the way, and the Comanche fell atop her, knocking her off her feet.
She rolled over him, pushed him away, saw the ugly hole in his chest, and shrank back. It was as if time stopped; she'd killed again, and no one would ever bring him back. Everything moved in slow motion; a wave of dizziness passed over her, she examined herself for wounds, but the blood belonged the dead Comanche; it glistened in the morning sun.
The shooting diminished as disappointed howling warriors rode off to fight another day. Vanessa rose to her feet, holding the Spiller & Burr tightly in her hand. The dead Comanche lay at her feet, and she tried not to think about him. Soldiers gathered around, led by Lieutenant Bumstead. “It's all over,” he said. “Are you all right, ladies?”
“I'm fine,” replied Vanessa in a faraway voice. She sat heavily on the ground, shook her head in abhorrence, and burst into tears.
Duane watched Johnny Pinto hobble stiffly across the clearing that separated the cabins. He looked like a pathetic dying old man, his skin sallow, pain distorting his already disagreeable features. Duane decided impulsively that the time had come for a talk. His feet were moving before he could stop them, and it didn't take long to catch up with the invalid. “Johnny, let's you and me palaver awhile.”
Johnny stopped, settled his balance, and smiled. “Yes, sir.”
Duane placed his hands on his hips and angled his head as he stared into Johnny's eyes. “Are you putting on an act, or are you really sorry for what you did?”
Johnny looked down sadly. “It's hard to believe if you've never gone through it yerself.”
“Gone through what?”
“To look at yerself from the outside, and see that you been a dirty, sneaky polecat all yer life. As it says in the Bible, you shall know a tree by its fruit. You've seen me at my worst, and that's why you can't imagine me at my best.”