Apache Moon

by Len Levinson

  Big Al stuffed the cabbage into Marshal Stowe's shirt pocket, the lawman never said a word, and both knew that the deal had been cut. “Give me a description of Braddock,” Stowe replied, “and would you have a daguerreotype of your daughter lying around?”

  Duane and Phyllis spent the morning in their little hidden spot in the desert. There was nothing to do except be together, and that's how they spent most of the time. Finally, in midafternoon, Duane said, “Maybe we should move out. If we don't find water soon, you know what'll happen.”

  They broke camp, packed their few belongings, and saddled their horses. Their faces were covered with dust and perspiration, and they hadn't bathed since Shelby. The next few days would be the most difficult and hazardous of their lives. She took off her hat, wiped her forehead with the back of her arm, and said, “My father told me once that if you get into a fight with injuns, make sure you save the last bullet for yourself.”

  They rode their horses out of the small protected area and encroached on the open desert. In the distance, mountain ranges and lone buttes were silhouetted against the pale blue sky. Sparky ran to the point as Phyllis steered her horse closer to Duane's. She said, “If I don't make it, just remember that I loved you, and I always will, whether I'm in this world or the next.”

  He grinned. “Hey, cowgirl, don't get morbid on me. Someday we'll tell our grandchildren about how we crossed Apache territory together, when we were young, loco, and running from John Law.”

  Marshal Dan Stowe made his way toward the bunkhouse, his belly full of beef and potato salad prepared by Martha Thornton. He couldn't stop thinking about what a man could do with two thousand dollars. I'll go to Frisco, or maybe back to Michigan to see the folks. I could buy some nice farmland or a cabin in the woods.

  His mind filled with possibilities, for he was a man of many dreams, none of which had come true. One of his fondest long-held ambitions was a trip to England, where his ancestors had lived. A man could have a big time in London on two thousand dollars, or he could invest in stocks and triple his money in a year. Marshal Stowe read newspapers avidly and knew about industries springing up all over America, as towns followed railroads into previous uncharted territory. Fortunes were being made every day, and men like Cornelius Vanderbilt and William Backhouse Astor were richer than most kings.

  The bunkhouse was filthy, beds unmade, clothing flung everywhere, cigarette butts on the floor, and pictures of women nailed to the walls. “Anybody here?” he asked.

  An old cowboy hat craned around the corner. “Who ya lookin’ fer, Marshal?”

  “The ramrod.”

  The cowboy came into view, wearing a dirty blue-and-white-striped apron. “He's on the range with the rest of the crew, but I'm the cook, and I'm the onliest one who stayed behind, outside of the guard. My name's McSweeny, and I ain't wanted fer nawthin’, far as I know.”

  “If you're the cook, then you must know Duane Braddock.”

  “I knew ‘im about as well as you can after a-livin’ in this bunkhouse with ‘im fer about a month. Braddock kept by himself, and weren't the most talkative person I ever knew.”

  “Did you see him shoot Otis Puckett?”

  “I was a-standin’ about as far from Puckett as I am from you right now, and it was self-defense all the way. Puckett braced Duane, not the other way around. If Duane didn't haul iron, he'd be pushin’ up daisies right now. Then that no-good skunk Jay Krenshaw tried to shoot Duane in the back, but Duane was a-ready fer a trick. The Kid's fast—no doubt about it—but he din't start the fracas. I'll swear to it on the Bible, and so will every other man in this bunkhouse, includin’ the ramrod.”

  “If he was innocent, then why'd the lieutenant arrest him?”

  McSweeny shrugged. “Because Duane used to go with his wife, if yer know what I'm a-sayin’.”

  “While she was married to the lieutenant?”

  “Afore she met the lieutenant, and most of us think he was jealous of Duane.”

  “Sounds like all the women in this area went loco over Duane Braddock.”

  “No tellin’ what a woman'll like, but you wouldn't want to rile him, no sir. I've never seen a temper like Duane Braddock's once't he gits a-rollin’. He damn near beat Jay Krenshaw to death about a week afore the shootin’. Never seen nawthin’ like it in all my days. Busted his nose, broke his jaw, and knocked out all his front teeth.”

  “How'd he outdraw Puckett?”

  “He was just a leetle bit faster. But that's all it took.”

  “It's quite a story,” the marshal allowed. “Braddock gets out of a monastery and a few months later he's shot all these people? It doesn't add up.”

  “Things was peaceful afore Duane showed up, but since then we've had two funerals, and God only knows where the boss's daughter is right now.”

  “What was she like?”

  “Sweetest li'l thang in the world,” the cook replied, a smile coming to his face. “She set her cap fer Duane Braddock right after he got here, and by gum, she got ‘im. They was a-plannin’ to git married, and Duane would've ended up with the Bar T someday, but now—God only knows what'll happen to ‘em.”

  Marshal Stowe smiled skeptically. “I still don't get it. Otis Puckett was supposed to be one of the fastest guns alive and an ordinary cowboy outquicked him? I heard something about a dog that bit him.”

  “Naw, the dog din't bite him. It's just that Duane Braddock has got the talent. It's somethin’ a man is borned with, and you can't larn it no matter how many schools you go to. I'll tell you somethin’, Mister Marshal. You ever run into young Duane Braddock, you'd better talk real slow. Otherwise, he's liable to shoot yer lights out.”

  The sun hung like a pan of silver in the clear blue sky, and the desert reflected its shimmering heat. Duane and Phyllis rode through an oven filled with cactus flowers and birds as they scanned for signs of Apaches. The redskins could be anywhere, and one of their favorite tricks was to bury themselves beneath the ground, and you wouldn't see them until they were all over you.

  Duane glanced at Phyllis, who sat solidly in her saddle, covered with perspiration, her white cowboy hat held in place with a leather neckstrap. He'd warned her that the journey would be harsh, but she'd come along anyway, for reasons he couldn't completely fathom.

  His shirt was plastered to his back, he hadn't shaved since Shelby, and his throat was parched. He hoped they'd hit a water hole soon because less than one canteen of water remained. The sun enervated him, but he didn't dare droop in his saddle. Hunted by the Fourth Cavalry, surrounded by Apaches, low on everything, he didn't want to look bad in the presence of his woman. So he straightened his spine, held his elbows close to his waist, and proceeded erectly across the sage as buzzards circled high in the sky, waiting for them to fall.

  The sun sank toward the horizon as Marshal Dan Stowe tethered his horse to the hitching rack in front of Gibson's General Store. He looked to his left and right, then pushed open the door. He found himself in a midsize room with a bar in back and tables everywhere. A few cowboys sat at one of them, playing cards, while a man in an apron washed glasses behind the bar. “Help you?”

  “Whiskey.”

  The bartender filled a glass half full, and Marshal Dan Stowe knocked it back.

  “Know where I can find a room for a few nights?”

  “I think Mister Gibson's got somethin’. Lemme find ‘im fer you.”

  The bartender disappeared behind the sheet of cloth that was the doorway to the rear of the building. Stowe rolled a cigarette, lit it, and blew smoke out the side of his mouth. Then he turned around, leaned his elbows against the bar, and looked at the interior of the stark saloon. Men had carved their initials into tables, chairs, and unpainted planked walls. Cigarette burns were everywhere, and cuspidors slopped onto the floor. It was the typical little whoop-and-holler, except it didn't have a painting of naked women over the bar.

  “Marshal?” asked a short roly-poly man with fluffy white chin whiskers. “My name's G
ibson, and I hear yer a-lookin’ fer a room. You wanna come this way?”

  Stowe tossed the rest of the whiskey down his throat, then followed Gibson into the corridor behind the bar. They came to a parlor furnished with sturdy upholstered chairs, with a picture of Robert E. Lee mounted above the fireplace. At the end of another hall, Gibson opened a door.

  It was a small cell with a bed, dresser, chair, and rear window overlooking a backyard with sheds, privies, and piles of wood. They negotiated the price, while the shopkeeper appraised the lean sorrowful-looking marshal. “Reckon I know why yer here,” Gibson ventured.

  “I have a warrant for Duane Braddock's arrest, if that's what you mean.”

  “I din't know a man can get arrested for defendin’ himself in Texas.”

  “Were you there the night of the shooting?”

  “Saw the whole goddamned thing from beginnin’ to end. It was quite a show, let me tell you. I never seen a hand move so fast in my life.”

  “How'd it start?”

  “If'n I'm a-gonna tell ya that, I'll have to go back to the day Jay Krenshaw was borned. He was an ornery cuss all his life, but his daddy owned the second biggest ranch in the territory, and folks put up with him as best they could. Well, one day Duane Braddock showed up, and he waren't the breed what tolerates other people's shit. Jay got a little rough with ‘im one day out on the range, and Duane nearly busted Jay's haid open. Jay thought he'd even the score, so he hired Otis Puckett to shoot Duane. One Saturday night Puckett walked into my saloon and told Duane to go for his gun. Everybody thought Duane had come to the end of his road, but he shot Puckett ‘twixt the eyes.” Gibson placed his forefinger on his forehead, to show the exact spot.

  “Why'd Lieutenant Dawes arrest Duane?”

  “Good question,” replied Gibson mysteriously.

  “I understand it had something to do with a woman.”

  Gibson said nothing and backed toward the door.

  “This is an official investigation,” the lawman reminded him. “If you withhold information, you can be prosecuted for obstruction of justice.”

  “'Course it was over a woman—what else? And she used to live in this very room.”

  Marshal Stowe looked at the plain unpainted walls and the blue muslin curtain. “What was she doing here?”

  “She come to this town with Duane Braddock—she was his woman then. They was supposed to git married, but then Lieutenant Dawes come along, and she married him instead. A few weeks later, the soldiers built her a house on the edge of the army camp, and she and her new husband had fights that you could hear all over this valley. Then she broke up with Dawes, but she's still a-livin’ in the house right now. They say her daddy was one of the richest planters in South Carolina afore the war.” Mr. Gibson winked lasciviously. “I reckon you'll want to talk with her, Marshal, but you'd better watch yer step. We don't see women like Vanessa Dawes very often in this part of Texas, and yer liable ter fall in love with her, too.”

  The sun kissed the mountain range in the distance, casting long shadows across the sage, as Duane and Phyllis approached a circle of heavy foliage. It looked like a water hole, an ideal spot for an Apache bushwhack. Darkness fell rapidly, and one of the horses might break a leg in a gopher hole if they didn't stop soon.

  They drew closer to the foliage, and Sparky's head appeared beside a clump of strawberry cactus. He was grinning, which meant that the coast was clear. Duane and Phyllis advanced among the trees, and the temperature dropped perceptibly. Ahead, twinkling in the last light of day, was the water hole. Duane held his Colt in his right hand as he glanced about, to make certain no Apaches were creeping up on him. The horses came to a stop in front of the water and lowered their great heads to drink.

  Duane and Phyllis climbed down from their saddles and waited for the horses to finish. It grew darker every moment, and they didn't want to spend the night next to a water hole. They could hear Sparky dashing through nearby underbrush, dutifully scouting the area.

  Duane touched his lips to Phyllis's sweaty forehead, and she melted against him. He touched his palm to her glorious rump.

  “Don't get any ideas,” she said.

  “If there are Apaches in the vicinity, I'm sure they would've found us by now.” Reluctantly, he removed his hand. “We'll move off a ways.”

  “Maybe we can take a quick bath.”

  Just then Sparky exploded into the clearing, obviously agitated about something. His body shook nervously, he licked his lips, and his eyes seemed to say, Follow me.

  “He's found something,” Duane said. “Let's see what it is.”

  Duane yanked the rifle out of its scabbard, and Phyllis drew her Colt .44. They followed Sparky among Biznaga cactus and Standley rosebushes as the desert grew dark, Venus twinkling impudently in the sky. A coyote yowled in a far-off cave as Sparky plunged ever deeper into the oncoming night.

  Duane's legs felt bowed, after long hours in the saddle, and his high boot heels pushed him forward, giving him a cowboy swagger. Phyllis followed, gazing at his long legs. Despite danger, hardship, and Apaches, she wanted to perform certain acts that could probably get her arrested in Texas. Meanwhile, Sparky stopped at the edge of a reddish-purple Krameria shrub and pointed his nose at the lower branches. Something dark and human was lying among the dried leaves. Duane wouldn't have noticed if Sparky hadn't pointed it out. The Pecos Kid and his woman dropped to their knees beside the shrub. They saw long black pigtails and a buckskin dress covered with blood.

  “It's an Apache squaw,” Duane said. He touched her shoulder and she felt dead. “She must've got hit in the shooting we heard this morning.” He rolled her over and his eyes widened at the sight of a little boy in her arms.

  Phyllis reached for the child, and his skin was warm. He was approximately three or four, wearing his little breechcloth, moccasin boots, and a red bandanna around his head, and he, too, was covered with blood. She pressed her ear against his chest. “He's alive.”

  The boy was well formed, brown as a nut, and limp as a noodle, with his eyes closed. There was no discussion about whether or not to help him. Duane picked him up tenderly and carried him toward the water hole. Phyllis paused a moment with the woman and noticed a necklace lying in the dried blood. The boy might want some memory of his mother someday, Phyllis thought. She untied the leather thong that held it together, put it into her pocket, and realized that she was alone.

  Duane was out of sight as Phyllis perched beside the dead Apache woman. The victim appeared in her mid-thirties, with a round face and slanted eyes. “May the Lord have mercy upon your soul,” Phyllis whispered. Then she turned and ran back toward the water hole.

  Marshal Dan Stowe walked down the only street of Shelby, heading toward a house at the edge of town. The night was cool, and he wore his black leather vest over his white canvas shirt, with a blue bandanna wrapped around his neck. A cheroot was stuck in his teeth, and his fingers hooked the front pockets of his jeans.

  A blanket of diamonds covered the sky, the moon nearly full. Marshal Dan Stowe thought of distant worlds and the paths of history. Sometimes he felt as if he'd lived two lives: first as an officer in the great Civil War, and the second was his current life. He'd participated in the most massive cavalry battles in the history of the world, and once General George Armstrong Custer had shaken his hand, but now his hand had accepted a bribe like any other crooked lawman, judge, or jurist.

  Stowe wanted to return the money, but whenever he reached that decision, he thought about beautiful women with colorful parasols strolling alongside the Thames. All his life he'd wanted to go to the land of Robert Louis Stevenson, Sir Walter Scott, and Charles Dickens. I'll bring Big Al's daughter back home either way, so it's not as if I'm selling my country down the river, or helping a real criminal to escape.

  He approached a lopsided house and recalled the business at hand. Lieutenant Dawes was on a scout, but the lawman hoped to talk with Mrs. Dawes about the ticklish situation that had surfaced i
n the course of the investigation. According to the testimony of important civilians, it appeared that Duane Braddock was arrested because he'd been planking the lieutenant's wife. The lawman smiled sardonically as he rapped his knuckles on the door.

  It was opened by a soldier with a nose like a potato, wearing a white apron, with his sleeves rolled up. The first thing the soldier saw was the badge on Marshal Stowe's vest, and an expression of terror came over his face because he was wanted for armed robbery in Baltimore.

  “I'd like to speak with Mrs. Dawes on official business.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  The soldier turned abruptly and nearly collided with a tall, willowy blonde who appeared in the vestibule. “Who is it, Private Cruikshank?”

  Stowe removed his hat. “Marshal Dan Stowe, and I'm here to ask you a few questions, ma'am.”

  She looked at him with the eyes of a woman who knew the secrets of managing men. “Right this way, please.”

  Stowe followed her into a small parlor filled with makeshift furniture. She was slim, with exquisitely carved high cheekbones, her golden hair falling to her shoulders, and nearly as tall as he. Marshal Stowe realized that Mr. Gibson hadn't exaggerated when he described her as a great beauty.

  “Have a seat, Marshal,” she said. “Can I get you something to drink?” Without waiting for an answer, she poured a glass of whiskey. Then she sat opposite him, crossed her long, lissome legs, and asked, “What can I do for you?”

  She spoke with a cultured Southern drawl, and he realized that she was a former belle. “As you've probably guessed, I'm here concerning Duane Braddock.”

  She smiled faintly. “He's probably in Mexico right now.”