by Len Levinson
The ex-soldiers snapped to attention as if on guard at the Confederate White House in Richmond. Cochrane drew himself erect, hands stiff down his sides, and intoned, “Pursuant to the authority vested in me by my commission as a captain in the Confederate Cavalry Corps, I order you, Duane Braddock, to be shot to death for treachery in the face of the enemy. Carry out the execution, Sergeant Beasley.”
Dr. Montgomery cleared his throat. “It is customary, in these matters, to let the prisoner make a final statement.”
Cochrane scowled, because the last thing he wanted was another tirade from Duane Braddock, especially one energized by the prospect of his certain demise. “Do we have to?”
“It's traditional.”
The natural conservative strain in Cochrane carried the day yet again. “Sergeant Beasley, remove the gag, please.”
“Yessir.” Sergeant Beasley stepped forward and pulled the gunnysack off Duane Braddock's head, tousling Duane's black hair. Then Beasley removed the gag, untied the blindfold, and took a step back. “Have you got anything to say, varmint, before we carry out the verdict?”
Duane Braddock was pale and blinking like a newborn bird. Slowly he turned toward Cochrane and said in a hoarse whisper, “You're the guilty one, not me.”
“I've heard enough, Sergeant Beasley. Put the gag back on him.”
A terrible screech rent the afternoon air. Cochrane spun around and was appalled to see Juanita running toward him barefoot, skirts flying in all directions, wild fury in her eyes, blood on her lips. “Stop!” she shrieked. “You are all murderers!”
She appeared headed for Duane, and Cochrane moved to intercept her. “Get back!” he yelled.
“Murderers!” She sallied straight for him, and he realized that he couldn't punch her again. So he got low, sprang, and tried to tackle her, but she kicked him in the face, leapt over him, collided with Duane, wrapped her arms tightly around him, and hollered, “If you want to shoot this gringo, you will have to shoot me first!”
Her words reverberated off mountains, and everyone stared at her in alarm. Duane was at the outermost extremes of sanity and became an interested spectator at his own firing squad. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.
“I'll take care of the bitch,” said Beasley as he headed toward Juanita.
“Leave her alone!” Cochrane pushed himself off the ground, his bleeding nose creating a bright red mustache. He stalked toward Juanita and said, “Woman, you'd better stop interfering. Get away from here at once, or I'll slap you down!”
“You feelthy bandito!” she yelled back at him. “How could I ever think of marrying someone like you? Let me tell you something else you do not know. When you shoot me, you will be shooting your child, too, but we are not afraid of you. You are the one who should be afraid of God!”
Cochrane was feeling peculiar again. I'm going to be a father? Before Gettysburg, there was hope of glory, but now dishonor arrived from every direction. He examined Duane Braddock's perfect, unscarred face as Juanita hugged him firmly. Is she in love with him? Cochrane wondered. Maybe the child she's carrying is Duane's, or maybe she's not pregnant at all.
Cochrane brought his face to within inches of hers. “Get away from here,” he growled as he grabbed her arm. But she held on to Duane more tightly, baring her teeth like a wild desert creature. Cochrane struggled to pry her loose; she wouldn't let Duane go, but Cochrane was stronger. She grabbed a handful of Duane's shirt, and it tore open as she was yanked away from him.
The crucifix gleamed in the morning sun, and Cochrane's eyes widened at the sight of it. He reached forward, tore the beads off Duane's neck, and threw them into the dirt. Juanita took the opportunity to dive onto Duane again, embracing him tightly.
The irregulars looked at each other impatiently, because they were keyed up for the firing squad. “Why don't we just shoot both of ‘em together?” asked Beasley.
“Yes—why don't you?” asked Juanita. “You are all cowards, you shoot a man who is tied up, and now you want to shoot an unarmed pregnant woman. If your mothers could see you, they would be sick!”
Cochrane pointed at Duane accusingly. “He nearly got us all killed, and if you want to die with him, that's your choice to make.”
“I hate you!” she proclaimed. “The whole bunch of you would not dare face this man if he had a gun in his hand. You call yourself soldiers? Don't make me laugh, you maricones!”
The irregulars blushed, while Cochrane appeared on the verge of apoplexy. Meanwhile, Duane saw a chance to live. It was a long shot, but worth one last desperate try. “She's right,” he uttered hoarsely. “There isn't a man jack among you who'd dare fight me fairly.” Duane looked Cochrane in the eye. “And that goes for you, too, bushwhacker. You're a brave soldier when the odds are on your side, but I wonder how you'd hold up in a real fight. It's no wonder the South lost the war, with men like you for officers.”
Something glowed in the dirt, and Cochrane saw Christ lying topsy-turvy beside a clump of grama grass. Devil's Creek troubled him, his woman hated him, and the very foundations of his life had been called into question. All he could do was fall back on the customs of his people. He drew himself to attention once more and looked down his nose at Duane. “I'm sick of your insults, and I demand satisfaction. Beasley, untie the prisoner.”
Beasley wrinkled his brow. “What the hell fer?”
“Because I've just given you an order.”
“You lettin’ ‘im go?”
“In case you haven't been listening, he's challenged me to a duel.”
“But he's a fast hand—he'll shoot you down.”
“Do as I say.”
“But sir . . .”
“I'm still in command here, Sergeant, and this is still the Confederate Cavalry Corps.”
Beasley cogitated for a few moments. “Yessir.” He stepped forward and roughly untied Duane, who shook out his fingers, worked his shoulders, then bent down and picked up the rosary, which he dropped around his neck.
“Sergeant Beasley,” said Cochrane, “give him your revolver and holster.”
“But sir!”
“Sergeant Beasley—your insubordination is starting to wear on me. Would you please do as you're told?”
Beasley grumbled and growled as he unstrapped his holster, then he passed it to Duane. Juanita stood to the side fearfully, because someone was going to die, her man or his friend. Duane strapped on the holster and felt the old reassuring weight against his right leg. “Mind if I make sure it's loaded?”
“Long as you face the other way,” replied Cochrane.
Duane drew the Remington and spun the cylinder, its balance different from his Colt, but loaded and well cared for by a conscientious soldier. Duane eased it into its holster, then turned toward Cochrane, who stood gaunt and pale in the morning light.
“I'm ready when you are,” declared Cochrane.
It fell silent behind the bunkhouse, and the irregulars looked at each other in alarm. Events were taking an unpredictable course, and soldiers aren't the most flexible people in the world. Juanita stood uncertainly, one fist near her mouth, astonished by the results of her uncontrolled ranting and raving. She wanted to stop them, but felt drained, conflicted, and pregnant with life itself.
Duane had become his old self now that a gun rode on his hip, but he didn't want another killing on his record. “You don't have a prayer against me,” he told Cochrane. “Why don't you let me ride out of here, and let's forget the whole damned thing?”
Cochrane listened impassively. “You're not riding away from treachery, and you're not getting away with insulting an officer. If you won't draw, you'll force me to make the first move. Is that what you want?”
Duane peered into Cochrane's eyes across the space of ten feet. “You want me to kill you, right?”
Cochrane felt uneasy as he noticed the crucifix dangling at Duane's throat. Something told him every word Duane said was true, because he couldn't live with himself any longer.
He glanced at Juanita, saw pity on her face, and felt like a fool. The contradictions and compulsions of his past overwhelmed him like a tidal wave, and with a mad laugh, Cochrane went for his gun.
Duane was unwilling to kill him, but had no alternative. His famous fast hand whacked out the Remington, and he fired as Cochrane was thumbing back his hammer. The Remington exploded, and the round socked Cochrane in the chest. The company commander appeared surprised, took a step backward, and looked at Duane whimsically. Duane was wearing a blue uniform; they stood on the battlefield at Gettysburg, cannon fired, and soldiers grappled around him. A smile came over Cochrane's face; he dropped to his knees before Duane, and tried to raise his gun for a final shot. “I have always done my duty as an officer,” he whispered.
Then he fell onto his face and lay still. Juanita sobbed, dived atop him, and rolled him over. The front of Cochrane's shirt was covered with blood, his eye closed, scarred face finally at peace. Tears flowed down Juanita's cheeks as she wailed uncontrollably.
The strength drained out of Duane's legs; he sank to his butt on the ground, an expression of awe on his face. He'd just killed again, this time a former friend, and felt as if he were choking on blood and gore.
“Get him, boys!” said Beasley.
The remaining outlaws drew on Duane, but Duane rolled out swiftly as an Apache, lead splattering dirt and grass in all directions. The Pecos Kid dodged and fired two quick shots, striking Beasley and Walsh fatally. They toppled to the dirt; the other irregulars flopped onto their bellies, and Duane ran zigzag toward the bunkhouse. The irregulars fired wild shots at his receding figure, then he fell out of sight around the corner.
The irregulars looked at each other questioningly as their commanding officer and first sergeant lay dead in their midst. Accustomed to following orders, they didn't know what to do. Cochrane sprawled in Juanita's lap, and her lips moved imperceptibly as she prayed for him, tears running down her cheeks. Meanwhile, the Pecos Kid was at large in the vicinity.
Ginger Hertzog, who'd served under General A. P. Hill, turned to Cox, who'd fought in the famed Laurel Brigade. “He's on his way to the stable, and maybe we can head ‘im off.”
They were soldiers to the core; their commanding officer had been cut down before their eyes, and their path appeared obvious. Hertzog assumed command and ran with Colt in hand toward the corral while the irregulars followed him between the bunkhouse and a storage shed. At the end of the alley, they spread into a skirmish line and proceeded cautiously toward the corral, searching for the Pecos Kid in every cranny and crevice of the backyard.
“I wonder whar he went?” asked Hertzog, sniffing the air. “You don't think he'd try to get away on foot, do you?”
A bundle of long tan-colored dynamite sticks flew around the side of the bunkhouse, and the irregulars dropped to the dirt. Dynamite exploded violently, flinging Hertzog through the air. Before he landed, more dynamite fell upon the outlaws; powerful thunder rocked Lost Canyon, then rolled across the open desert.
Duane crouched behind the bunkhouse as dust and smoke cleared. Irregulars lay still in and around holes blown into the ground, similar to soldiers they'd bushwhacked in Devil's Creek. Duane advanced toward them, gun in hand, and saw a few bodies twitching on the ground, while others would never move again.
Duane was aghast at the carnage he'd wrought. He dropped to a sitting position, felt nauseated, and wondered whether to put the Colt to his head and blow his brains out. I'm no better than they, he surmised, and who am I to judge them, but is it wrong to defend myself? Again, he recalled the words of the old Jesuit Jean-Pierre de Caussade. If we are truly humble, we will ask no questions about the road along which God is taking us.
Dr. Montgomery shuffled onto the scene, carrying his little black bag full of surgical implements. Silently he dropped beside Hertzog and examined his wounds. “Dead,” he muttered.
Duane had to get away from the bodies. Like a sleepwalker, he returned to the yard where Juanita wept over Captain Cochrane's pale and stiffening corpse. The sorrows of the world sat heavily upon Duane's young shoulders, and he wondered how to continue living. At least Captain Cochrane didn't have to face ambiguities anymore.
Duane felt like crying, because Cochrane had been a friend of sorts. He wanted me to kill him, because he couldn't live with twisted honor. Duane recalled the former company commander striding about Lost Canyon, a sterling example of a military man, but loyal to a fault, perhaps. Duane admired and disapproved of Captain Richard Cochrane, but Cochrane had turned Duane loose in a roundabout manner, then gone down like a soldier.
Captain Cochrane had taught Duane one valuable nugget of soldierly wisdom, and Duane would never forget it. No matter how severe the opposition, or how confusing the battlefield, a soldier keeps advancing toward his objective. But a man must make certain beforehand that his objective is just, and therein lay the rub. There was always a rub, unfortunately. Duane took off his hat, wiped his forehead with the back of his arm, and looked around. “We'd better get the hell out of here. Where do they keep the shovels?”
Juanita stared blankly into space, rocking Cochrane's corpse back and forth in her arms like Michelangelo's Pietà. Dr. Montgomery appeared around the corner of the bunkhouse, carrying his black bag. “I can't do anything for them,” he said in a lazy singsong voice, as if he'd taken leave of his senses.
“Maybe it's time to do something for yourself,” replied Duane. “Let's bury the captain and hit the trail.”
“There's nothing for me in the Yankee world,” muttered Dr. Montgomery gloomily. “I'm not going anywhere.”
“You give up now,” replied Duane, “Apaches will get you. They'll tie you upside down on that wagon wheel over there, and light a fire underneath your head. If you can't stand Yankees—and to tell you the truth, some of them are awful pains in the ass—why don't you find another band of guerrilla soldiers? They say that Mexico is full of them.”
Dr. Montgomery smiled ruefully. “I ought to shoot you, but you'd beat me to the draw. Or maybe I should do nothing, because you gave the captain a fighting chance. Possibly you're right, he wanted to die. Devil's Creek was too much for him, and perhaps I should put a bullet through my own head, too, because it's what I deserve. You're young, but at least you've got the courage of your convictions. Do you understand any of this, or have I gone completely mad?”
“We don't have time to go mad,” replied Duane. “The Apaches will be here before long, and we've got to bury the captain so that coyotes don't get him. Where are the shovels—and Juanita, you'd better pack any supplies we might need. You can make your novenas on the trail, and while you're at it, say a few for me.”
CHAPTER 12
THE OLD CONCORD STAGECOACH traveled west from Fort Clark, escorted by a dozen cavalry soldiers and a Gatling gun bolted to the floor of a wagon. The lone column passed through a mountainous region with crags and bluffs that could conceal Indians, but the troopers stayed alert at all times.
Vanessa sat in the cab with other travelers and passed her time dozing and thinking about Duane Braddock. The Devil's Creek Massacre had undermined her faith in him, but she'd decided it was a case of mistaken identity. Unfortunately, the U.S. government didn't agree, and was negotiating with Mexico about sending an expeditionary force south of the border to hunt down the Pecos Kid.
Sometimes Vanessa guessed that Duane was the worst thing that ever happened to her, except for the Civil War. She tried to plan ahead, but fretted over Duane fleeing across lawless Mexico. The Fourth Cavalry would shoot him on sight, but Mexico was a big country, and Duane spoke Spanish fluently. Maybe he could elude them.
McCabe's Spiller 6c Burr rested in a new custom-crafted black leather holster on her hip, like a piece of exotic jewelry. The derringer was poised in its holster attached to her garter, while the sawed-off shotgun lay on her lap for special effects. I don't want to be an old lady rocking in my chair in some moldy hotel room someday, with a comical little dog to drool on my carp
et. How could I look at myself in the mirror if I abandoned love?
She had money to finance the journey, and for the first time in her pampered Southern-belle life, felt confident about her ability to survive Texas. Maybe I don't have swift answers, but I know all the good old songs, and any decent Southern gentleman can be expected to help a lady in distress, I think.
Duane Braddock, I'm on your trail. Mexico is immense, but I've got plenty of time. One of these days I'm going to find you, and I wonder what you'll say when you see me next time around?
In the Sierra del Tlahualilo, not far from the Rio Grande, Tandor the Apache sat alone on a cliff, gazing intently at a herd of mustangs running wild across the valley below. One seldom saw such a spectacle, hundreds of horses at full gallop, and Tandor figured it was a horse religious ceremony, for why shouldn't the animals have their own mountain spirits to guide them?
Tandor leaned forward, shielding his eyes with his hand, and focused his bright eyes on a big russet stallion with a black mane at the head of the stampede. In the past, the warrior had observed wild horses fighting among themselves with hooves—that's how they chose their leaders, so the horse leading the pack had defeated his rivals the hard way. The brave warrior saluted the horse from his perch in the sky. Enjuh. It is good. The animal appeared vaguely familiar, but Tandor couldn't place him, though their paths had crossed not long ago.
Brave Nestor now carried no saddle or rider as he sped along gloriously, his great heart thundering with the power of the universe. He reached his long legs forward and propelled himself rapidly over a carpet of delicious food.
Sometimes Nestor recalled his old cowpoke friend, the one who'd brought him apples and raisins, but the friend was gone to the shadow world, and Nestor had become horse king. Perhaps we will meet again in epochs to come, thought Nestor as he charged onward, exultant with freedom, tail flickering in the slippery wind.
The herd raced past a row of cottonwood trees, while beyond them, in a small clearing, the bleached rickety bones of a man gleamed in bright sunlight. His clothing had been taken by Apaches, and numerous creatures winged and furred had feasted upon his gristle. He had no headstone, and no one to mourn for him. Here lies the remains of Johnny Pinto, the man nobody loved.