by Len Levinson
Doña Consuelo recalled Duane lying in the cave, a bullet in his leg. Duane represented ecstasy, whereas Don Carlos was a fine gentleman of the old school. Doña Consuelo was forced to admit that she preferred the ecstasy. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I can't leave him.”
Her remark struck Don Carlos like a slap in the face, and Spanish anger filled his veins. “You're trying my patience,” he said testily. “Are you really prepared to die for this vagabond killer? How'd you like to be crushed to death beneath tons of rock?”
“You must love me very much, to want to kill me.”
“Correct,” he replied.
She swallowed hard, and the little voice in her ear said, Don't you think your child should have a say in the matter? “There's something I haven't told you, Don Carlos,” she began. “You may be interested to know that your heir is sleeping in my belly even as we speak.”
His ears perked up. “You're pregnant?”
She nodded, and made her mysterious smile. Don Carlos felt as if the Pinta, Niña, and Santa María had fallen onto him. He gasped, coughed, and nearly choked to death, as he clutched his throat. “Are you lying to me?”
“You kill me,” she replied, “you kill your son or daughter too.”
“You mean Braddock's son or daughter.”
“Legally I am married to you. The boy, if he is a boy, will be the son that you've always dreamed of.”
Don Carlos was seldom at a loss for words, but his tongue felt welded to the roof of his mouth. He tried to peer into her uterus, to see the next of the proud Rebozos, born of the magnificent Doña Consuelo. As for the baby's father, no one had to know the truth. “Let's make a deal,” said Don Carlos. “I'll let the gringo go free if you come back and have my child. I will give you my word and anything else you want, including your own hacienda.”
“And after the child is born?”
“You may go wherever you want, and I'll never bother you again. If you really love the gringo, it seems a small price to pay for his life, no? And yours too, for that matter, although you don't seem to care much about it these days. I give you the word of the Rebozos, but if you choose to be stubborn, I shall proceed to destroy you and your gringo Romeo. Think it over carefully, my dear Juliet. Three lives hang in the balance here, and you can save them all.”
Doña Consuelo shivered, terrified by the destructive power of love. Don Carlos had guns and dynamite, while her only resource was a boyfriend with a hole in his leg. “You're a swine to do this to me, Don Carlos. I will curse your name forever.”
“And I will curse yours, so we're even.”
She knit her brow in contemplation. A year without Duane would be better than seeing him dead, and the little creature within deserved a chance at life. “All right,” she said grudgingly. “I have your word that you won't kill Duane Braddock?”
Don Carlos raised his right hand. “On the bones of Don Diego de Rebozo, I swear it.”
“Would you let me say goodbye to him?”
“I'll give you a half hour, and I hope you won't let him talk you into dying for him.”
She returned to the pueblo, her heart heavy. She didn't know how to tell Duane the truth, because he was capable of rash acts. He sat in the room, tying a rag torn from an old shirt around his calf. “I took the bullet out myself,” he said, holding it up. “What did your husband have to say?”
She kneeled in front of Duane and looked into his eyes. “Listen carefully, querido mío, because we are in a very bad situation here. My husband is madly in love with me, unfortunately, and is willing to kill the three of us, if I don't go back to him for a year, and give him this baby.”
“But it's my baby!” countered Duane.
“It is going to be a dead baby, unless we accede to the demands of Don Carlos. He is perfectly capable of blowing up this pueblo onto our heads. I have decided that it's better for all of us to live than die, and after a year, you and I can be together again.”
“You'll never come back to me,” he said in a low voice. “You'll get used to your big feather bed and your maids, and you'll forget about this poor old cow-poke who loves you so much.”
A tear came to her eye. “Let's not argue with each other, querido mío, because we have only a few more minutes left together. Kiss me, and don't make it worse than it is.”
He clasped his arms around her, but was dizzy from pain. Together, they dropped to the blanket, and lay on their sides, her breasts pressing his chest. “I don't know how I can live without you for a year,” he said.
“It's not so long. We can meet in any border town that you name.”
“I'll come for you, but I'm afraid you'll change your mind.”
“Never,” she replied. “I'll wait for you forever, and I swear it on my baby's life.”
CHAPTER 12
DOÑA CONSUELO ROCKED FROM SIDE TO side as her horse plodded across the desert. She turned in the saddle, and gazed longingly at the jumble of crags in the distance, as sand devils rose to the sky. She imagined Duane limping painfully, saddling his horse, and preparing to leave on his mission of vengeance.
It will be a long year, she realized, and many things can happen. She recalled a passage from I Corinthians:
Love bears all things,
believes all things,
hopes all things,
endures all things.
She prayed that her man wouldn't be killed in the final reckoning, and feared that she'd never see him again. Maybe the gringos will put him in jail, or perhaps he'll become a saint, for there still is the seminary student in him. What a strange man is the father of my child, she ruminated, as she touched her palm to her belly. Please spare his life, Madre Mía.
Duane couldn't stop thinking about Doña Consuelo, as if his heart were riding in her saddlebags. He saddled his horse glumly, tied on the bedroll, threw over the saddlebags, and climbed into the saddle. “Let's move it out,” he said to Midnight. “We're on our way to Escondido.”
Not that shithole, Midnight seemed to reply, as he worked his way down the narrow mountain path.
“Got an old friend there,” explained Duane, “and I happen to know that the stable has a roof that doesn't leak.”
If we make it that far.
Duane's left leg was numb, and he feared amputation. Maybe I can find a doctor, he thought hopefully. Besides, lots of men get around all right on peg legs. They'll give me whiskey, tie me down, and saw it off. But what's a leg when true love is concerned?
He felt as though an elemental portion of his being had disappeared, as every step carried her and their child farther away. In a year, that old fart will twist her head around, and I'll never see her again. When the chips are down, no woman worth her salt will ever leave her child.
Doña Consuelo lay alone in the tent, while Don Carlos slept among vaqueros near the chuckwagon. The blankets seemed cold, clammy, and dead, and she wondered how she could exist without her man. I've fallen in love, she surmised, and only God can help me now.
She placed her palms on her stomach, and felt the tiny being feeding on the juices of her body. You must always be brave, act honorably, and never be afraid to love, whether you're a little boy or a little girl. Then your father and mother will be proud of you, and you will truly be our child.
Duane slouched in his saddle as Midnight carried him across a vast cactus plateau. It was two o'clock in the morning, and Duane was contemplating his lost love, when he caught a flicker of light down the road.
He halted Midnight, pulled his spyglass, and focused on a small conglomeration of buildings straight ahead. There was nothing but trouble in towns, but he worried about his leg. Maybe they've got a doctor, he thought hopefully, although the town appeared too small to support such a prominent and distinguished gentleman.
Duane nudged Midnight toward the lights, although he wasn't in the mood for violence. Constant throbbing pain could affect the classic fast draw. All towns of the same size appeared similar, and he could expect a stable, canti
na, church, and store. If it's not Saturday night—should be peaceful.
He rode down the one and only street, where three horses were tied in front of the cantina, while a stagecoach rested alongside the stable. He steered Midnight toward the cantina, climbed down from the saddle, looked about cautiously, then limped into the ramshackle structure.
It held a table of cardplayers, a few drinkers at the bar, and a solitary bearded gentleman sitting in the corner, looking out of place. Duane made his way to the man in the apron, who filled a glass with mescal. Duane flipped him a coin, sipped fiery refreshment, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and said, “You don't happen to know where I can find a doctor, do you?”
The bartender pointed to the man in the corner. “You are lucky, because there is one right there. He arrived a few hours ago on the stagecoach.”
Duane dragged his foot across the floor, and was dismayed to see that the medical practitioner was passed out cold, a half bottle of mescal in front of him. I don't need a drunkard, decided Duane. He was turning away, when the doctor opened his eyes. “Did you wish to speak with me, Americano?”
“I was shot in the leg,” replied Duane, “and I'm afraid it's infected. Can you take a look or are you too drunk?”
“Drunk?” The doctor placed his hand on his breast. “Of course I'm not drunk. I was only resting.”
A wave of alcohol fumes struck Duane in the face, but the old soak was the only assistance available. Duane pulled off his boot, then lay face down on the floor. The doctor brought the oil lamp closer, knelt beside him, brought his eye close to the wound, and said: “Hmmmm.” He opened his little black bag, pulled out a pair of tweezers, and poked the instrument into the wound. “Looks all right to me. Just a matter of time till it heals. This is going to hurt.” The doctor poured mescal into the wound, but no sound escaped Duane's lips. The doctor dabbed the mescal with a white cloth. “What's your name?”
“José.”
“You look familiar, José. Have we ever met?”
“Not that I recall.”
The doctor tied on the bandage. “Try to stay off it, and let nature take its course. Where are you from, José?”
“Tejas.”
“You are a desperado, no? Well, I always charge desperados more. Fifty pesos, please.”
Duane paid him, then returned to the bar, relieved that he didn't need leg amputation, but not trusting the medical advice entirely. “Hit me again,” he told the bartender.
“Hold it right there,” said a voice behind him. “Don't move a muscle, or I'll kill you.”
Duane had become distracted, permitting someone to creep up on him. The Pecos Kid tried to smile. “What's the problem, friend?”
“Hold ‘em high, and if you try somethin’, yer a dead son-of-a-bitch.”
The man came behind Duane and pulled Duane's Colt out of its holster, then removed the knife in his boot. “You can turn around, but do it real slow, and don't make no fast moves.”
Duane saw a tall blond gringo standing in front of him, holding a gun aimed at his chest. “I guess you don't reckernize me, but we run into each other in Zumarraga. I couldn't get into position fast enough, then you left town. There's a five-hundred-dollar reward on yer ass, and I'm a-gonna claim it.” The bounty hunter reached into his pocket and took out a wanted picture with Duane's sketched unshaven face on it. “Whoop dee do—looks like I'm rich!”
Duane recalled the blond gringo from Zumarraga. “I always wondered what kind of polecat would become a bounty hunter.”
“Just walk to yer horse, Mister Pecos. And no funny moves, if'n you don't mind.”
Duane wondered if there was a trick or ruse he could use to escape. Naked before a loaded gun, he knew it wouldn't be easy, but he'd rather die than get locked in a cell.
“I'm a-gonna tie you up,” said the bounty hunter. “Lie down whar you are, put yer hands behind yer back, and don't make no funny moves, cause I'll pop you right in the ear.”
“I'd like to know your name,” said Duane.
“None of yer fuckin’ business. Git down and do what I say.”
It was bare ground in front of the cantina, covered with gobs of spit, cigarette butts, and a splash of something that looked like vomit. Stark desperation assailed Duane as he lowered himself to the ground. The bounty hunter bent to slip a hitch over one wrist, and the Pecos Kid knew it was now or never. In a sudden Apache explosion of muscles and sinews, he was up and spinning, grabbing for the bounty hunter's gun hand.
The gun fired, its flash blinding Duane, and the ground blasted three inches from his left ear. The bounty hunter was knocked off his feet, then Duane twisted the gun out of his hand, turned the barrel swiftly, and aimed it at the bounty hunter's nose.
The bounty hunter smiled nervously, showing large white teeth. “Looks like you got the drop on me.”
“Hand me my gun real slow, butt first.”
The bounty hunter took the gun by the barrel and held it out to Duane. “Guess yer as rough as they say, Mister Braddock.”
“Guess I am.”
Duane couldn't shoot him in cold blood, but didn't want a bounty hunter on his trail. “Listen to me carefully,” said Duane. “I've killed to defend my life, and I'll kill you too, Mister Bounty Hunter Man, if I ever see you crawling up on me again.”
The bounty hunter bravely tried to smile. “Yes sir.”
“Stand in the middle of the street, and don't get funny on me. You give me a reason—I'll blow your damned fool head off.”
The bounty hunter obeyed orders as Duane aimed his Colt at him. Duane climbed into the saddle, backed Midnight into the street, and rode toward the bounty hunter, still levelling the gun. Midnight stopped in front of the bounty hunter, and Duane said, “Nobody's ever going to lock me up, and you can tell that to any lawman. If you ever see me again, you'd better start running. Got me?”
The bounty hunter nodded solemnly, as he gazed down the barrel of the most profound argument in the world. “Yes sir.”
Duane pulled Midnight's reins to the side, and Midnight raised his front hooves high in the air. Then he turned, Duane gave him some spur, and the horse broke into a gallop, carrying the Pecos Kid swiftly into the night.
The bounty hunter stood in the middle of the street, watching horse and rider disappear. Then he sighed in relief, shook out his arms, and returned to the cantina.
All eyes were on him as he approached the bartender, who filled a glass without being asked. The bounty hunter's name was Hank Grimble, and he gulped the contents down. Then he placed the glass on the bar, and said, “That was too close for comfort.”
The bartender nodded in agreement. “I wonder who he was?”
“In Texas, we call him the Pecos Kid. He's supposed to be one bad hombre, and I guess that's so.”
“You owe your life to him, señor. If it had been me—I would have killed you.”
The bartender filled another glass, and Grimble's hand trembled as he carried it to a table against the wall. He sat, stared into space, and tried to understand what happened. One moment he'd had the Pecos Kid pinned, and the next he was looking at the business end of a Colt .44. He'd heard stories about the Kid's uncanny speed, but figured it was the usual exaggeration. The bounty hunter took off his cowboy hat and wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve. Maybe it's time I found another line of work.
Duane rode all night, slept the next day, and hit the trail at sundown. He continued this schedule for the next several days, as he advanced toward his native land.
In dreams, he held Doña Consuelo in his arms, but he awakened to find himself alone, with flies buzzing his nose. He maintained a constant watch on his back trail, in case a certain blond head turned up unexpectedly. His behavior was furtive, secretive, and ready for anything. He slept with his Colt loaded but uncocked in his right hand.
Sometimes, drowsing in the saddle, he recalled his all-too-brief weeks with Doña Consuelo de Rebozo. The longing refused to depart, and he realize
d that he cared for the Spanish noblewoman deeply. Someday we'll be together again, my darling, he swore, while another part of his mind wondered if he'd ever see her again.
The closer he drew to the Rio Grande, the more he found himself thinking about America. I'll change my name, and become just another cowboy drifter fool. Nobody'll notice me if I stay out of trouble, but when have I ever stayed out of trouble?”
One night, he stopped at a water hole surrounded by green oaks, cottonwoods, and swales of grass. He knew that such tempting sites were the most dangerous places for white eyes, but it was dark, and he wasn't expected. He stopped Midnight, listened, and asked, “What do you think, feller?”
Midnight twitched his ear. Looks okay to me, pard.
They'd been getting along better, as they'd spent more time together. Duane dismounted, led Midnight to the water, loosened the cinches, and then filled the canteens. Next, the fugitive took off his hat, thrust his head beneath the surface, and raised it swiftly. Dripping wet, he tied canteens to the saddles, checked Midnight's hooves, and made sure nothing was chafing the animal's hide. He was about to climb back into the saddle, when he noted a poster nailed to a nearby tree.
Wouldn't it be a kick in the ass if that's my face over there? he asked himself, as he led Midnight toward the document. But after several more steps he noticed that nobody's image had been drawn on the poster. Instead, it consisted of the following message:
Appearing nightly
the famous, one and only
MISS VANESSA FONTAINE
“The Charleston Nightingale”
Last Chance Saloon
Escondido, Texas
CHAPTER 13
MAGGIE O'DAY LOOKED UP FROM HER desk, as the door opened. It was Miss Vanessa Fontaine, fifteen minutes before her next performance. “I've reached a decision,” said the Charleston Nightingale. “This is my last week.”