by Len Levinson
“Maybe, but numerous witnesses have told me that he killed Otis Puckett and Jay Krenshaw in self-defense, and your husband had no business arresting him in the first place. I don't want to hurt your feelings, ma'am, and I know this is a delicate matter, but it's been suggested that he arrested Duane out of jealousy over you. Would you care to comment on that?”
“It's perfectly true,” she replied without a moment's hesitation. “My husband even admitted it to me, but I'm afraid we're not together anymore. I'm waiting for the lawyers to settle our divorce, and then I'll leave this sorry excuse for a town.”
Marshal Stowe looked her over carefully, wondering what her game was. She'd arrived in town with Braddock, then married Dawes, and now was on the loose again. The lawman had seen myriads of women in his life, but never one like this. He was too much of a gentleman to make an improper suggestion, so he said, “Do you think your husband would withdraw the charge?”
“Extremely doubtful, because he's a stubborn ass. Will you go after Duane Braddock?”
“I've got a warrant for his arrest, ma'am.”
“I hope it won't be necessary to use force, because I could find you thirty people who'd swear to his innocence. You can arrest him, but no judge would ever convict him.”
“I expect that's so, but I've got to bring him in anyway.”
The lieutenant's wife fidgeted with her hands, and her cool facade seemed to crack. Then she looked into the lawman's eyes and said, “Please try to be gentle with him, because he's really just a boy.”
She's still in love with him, Marshal Stowe realized, and felt a pang of jealousy. His eyes roved over her once more, then he appraised his own common appearance. Something told him that she'd never sleep with him no matter how much money he had or how many fancy suits. But she willingly gave that long, delicious body to Duane Braddock.
“I'll try to bring him in alive,” Marshal Stowe vowed, “but if he puts up resistance, I'll bring him in anyway I can.”
She smiled reassuringly. “You can reason with him, Marshal. He's not as loco as some say. I'd ask you to spare him for my sake, but we don't even know each other. Yet it would be a shame to kill a man for a crime he didn't commit—don't you agree?”
“It's true that we don't know each other, ma'am, but I'll do my best to spare him for your sake. However, let's make sure we understand each other. If he ever draws on me first, I can't be responsible for the outcome.”
“How is he?” Duane asked.
Phyllis pressed her ear against the little boy's chest. “Still alive.”
They bathed and wrapped him in one of Duane's clean shirts while his little breechcloth was drying. He didn't open his eyes while Duane and Phyllis took turns washing themselves. Then they prepared to move toward their campsite for the night. Phyllis climbed into her saddle, and Duane passed her the boy. She cradled him in his arms as Duane led the horses away.
Sometimes Duane wished that he'd never left the monastery in the clouds, but lust for Mexican girls who came to mass on Sundays had drawn him into the secular world. Shortly thereafter he'd met the former Miss Vanessa Fontaine, and everything had gone downhill. Now he was deep in Apache country, the possibility of a posse on his tail, and God only knew what difficulties the child might cause. He spotted a large cottonwood tree standing among a scattering of sage, cactus, and weeds. “This looks like a good spot,” he said.
Phyllis gazed tenderly at the Apache boy, and his eyelashes were fluttering. “He's coming to,” she said.
The little eyes opened to slits, and an expression of terror came over his face as he glimpsed Phyllis and Duane. Then he closed his eyes and went slack again. Phyllis passed him to Duane, and the Pecos Kid thought he looked like little Jesus in swaddling clothes.
Phyllis climbed down from the horse, pushed up the brim of her hat, and took the baby back. “If he dies, I don't know what I'll do.”
“Apaches are hardy people, according to what I've heard. I'm certain he'll survive.” But the boy was deathly pale, and Duane wasn't as certain as he tried to sound.
She made the bedroll, while Duane hobbled the horses, removed the saddles, and rubbed the animals down. “Thanks for carrying us so far,” he said to them. “If we ever get through this alive, the first thing I'll do is buy both of you some apples.”
He returned to the bedroll as Phyllis tucked in the boy. “I wish my mother were here. She'd know what to do.”
“Let's pray,” Duane replied.
They dropped to their knees on either side of the boy, clasped their hands together, and asked for divine assistance. When they were finished, Phyllis said, “I think we'd better sleep on either side of him and keep him warm with our body heat.”
It was a crimp in his plans, but some things were more important than placing his hands upon Phyllis's anatomy. So he pulled off his boots, unbuckled his gun belt, and placed his gun in his right hand. Then he lay against the boy, adjusted the covers, and closed his eyes. He was exhausted and fell asleep quickly. He dreamed about Apache warriors brandishing lances and singing victory songs as they rode across the endless Texas night.
It was nearly ten-thirty in the evening when Marshal Dan Stowe returned to his little room. He peeled off his shirt, washed in the basin, put on a clean red-and-blue-plaid shirt, then sat by the window, where he lit a cheroot.
The room was in the back of the one-story building that contained the saloon and general store, and Marshal Stowe knew that Vanessa Fontaine Dawes had sat in the identical chair on many a night, looking at the sage bathed in silver moonlight. He could feel her emanations and caught a whiff of her perfume.
How strange to find such a woman in a hellhole like Shelby, he thought. She wields charm like a cavalry officer wields his saber, and did everything possible to convince me of Duane Braddock's innocence while still remaining a lady.
But a lady doesn't run off with a young hothead who'd probably end in a noose. What could an eighteen-year-old ex-orphan have that would captivate a woman like that? Marshal Stowe felt jealous of the Pecos Kid, because he'd always coveted beauties like Vanessa Fontaine, but he was essentially a good-natured fellow, and a drink of whiskey every now and then helped the bitter pills go down.
I could go to London with two thousand dollars—what a hoot! Or I could invest in a railroad, buy a saloon, or start my own ranch. His mind raced with endless possibilities. He could even go to China, India, or Tahiti. Never had he possessed so much money in his life, and he felt a headache coming on from thinking about it so intensely.
He undressed, held the Remington in his right hand, and climbed into bed. The fragrance of Vanessa Fontaine's body arose from the mattress, and it titillated him to think that the golden-tressed beauty had lain in the identical spot. I'll talk to her husband when he returns from the scout and get to the bottom of this mess.
He closed his eyes but couldn't stop thinking about her. Her clothing was immaculate, every hair in place, her skin like unblemished white marble. She reminded him of a reproduction he'd once seen of a painting by Botticelli of Venus rising out of the sea. Evidently she'd been wealthy before the Civil War, but the South had been crushed, and the poor unfortunate woman had fallen a long way. The former Yankee troop commander wanted to save her, but no fire had ignited behind her eyes when she'd gazed upon him. She doesn't care about me in the least, he admitted ruefully, but at least I still have my honor, or do I?
He remembered the hundred dollars in his pants pocket and knew that he wasn't the upstanding lawman and ex-officer that he wanted to be. His innocence had been shattered long ago on vast battlefields covered with blood, gore, and body parts. It's not as if I'm letting an outlaw escape, he tried to convince himself. I've always wanted to go to England, and why shouldn't I? I've been through enough hell in my life, and it's about time I received my reward.
CHAPTER 2
DUANE WAS FAST ASLEEP WHEN SOME-thing suddenly slammed into his chest. He opened his eyes and was horrified to see a painted Apache sitt
ing atop him! Phyllis screamed as warriors held her arms, while other warriors snatched their guns away. Duane was pinned to the earth, and the Apache held a knife to his throat.
Duane gasped as the point of the knife was inserted into the first layer of skin. It had happened so fast, he wasn't certain if it was a nightmare, but he didn't dare move, otherwise the point would pierce his throat easily. His heart thrashed in his breast as he gazed into the face of the Apache warrior leering above him.
The Apache had a red stripe painted horizontally across his nose and cheeks, and wore a buckskin shirt. Around his head was wrapped a red bandanna. Duane heard Apaches speaking their strange guttural language. They rustled around the bedroll, making sounds of concern over the wounded boy.
Duane looked into the eyes of the Apache above him. “We didn't do it,” he said. “We just tried to help him.”
The Apache warrior spat in Duane's face, and it felt like acid against Duane's skin. He wanted to smash the Apache in the teeth but couldn't move. “Are you all right?” he asked Phyllis.
“That's a knife stuck in your throat, Duane. Just keep your mouth shut, and I'll handle this.” She smiled at the array of warriors swarming over the campsite. “Do any of you speak English? I'm the daughter of Big Al Thornton.”
A middle-aged Apache with a nose like an eagle stood in front of her. “Who is he?”
“My father, and many times Victorio stopped at his well.” She was dropping the name of a famous Apache chief, hoping it would save her and Duane. “My father is a good friend of the Apaches.”
The Apache spat at the ground. “No White Eyes is ever a friend of ours. What have you done to this child?”
“We found him, or I should say that our dog found him. We've tried to nurse him back to health.”
“I think you steal little boy.”
“Little boy belongs with his mother,” Phyllis explained. “But his mother is dead. The law is after us, and we don't need a boy to slow us down, but we couldn't leave him behind.”
The Apache thought that one over. Meanwhile, other Apaches were examining the boy and could perceive that he'd been given a bath, his wounds were dressed, and he was cared for. The Apaches conversed among themselves while Duane tried to remain calm. The point of the knife stuck into his throat, and a dribble of blood rolled down his neck. Somehow the Apaches had snuck up on them, but why hadn't Sparky warned them? He looked at the face of the Apache warrior pinning him to the ground, and he seemed a creature from another epoch. Duane felt certain that his minutes were numbered and closed his eyes. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with Thee.
There was a stir as a new group of Apache warriors appeared in Duane's peripheral vision. Another discussion ensued, with much loud talking and hand waving. “What's going on?” Duane asked out of the corner of his mouth.
“Looks like somebody important has arrived,” Phyllis replied.
It was a warrior in his mid-twenties, not quite as tall as Duane but with more meat on his bones. He wore a bear's tooth in a thong around his neck, and everyone deferred to him. The young Apache chieftain knelt beside the boy, and tears welled in his eyes. His lips trembled, and for a few moments he had difficulty holding himself under control, but it passed, and his face became expressionless again. He stood, turned toward the Apaches who held Duane and Phyllis, and barked an order. Duane felt the knife recede from his throat. The Apache climbed off him, and Duane could see the full campsite.
Apache warriors were everywhere, wearing war paint, carrying rifles, knives, guns, bows and arrows, lances, and clubs. They had a wild expression in their eyes and appeared more beast than human. Phyllis looked on the verge of apoplexy, while Duane's neck stung from the puncture wound.
The chieftain examined Duane and Phyllis coldly, and Duane couldn't find a trace of humanity on that placid visage. “What are you doing here?” the chieftain asked.
Duane tried to smile. “We're on our way to Mexico. The law is after us.”
“What have you done?”
“I shot two men.”
The chieftain pointed to the boy on the blanket, attended by Apache warriors. “That is the grandson of our chief. It appears that you have been kind to him. That is why you are not dead right now.”
“Somebody killed his mother,” Duane explained. “But it wasn't us. We heard shooting earlier in the day.”
The chieftain spat at the ground. “It was Jamata's band of renegades, and they will pay one day. You will come to our camp, and then we will escort you to Mexico, as payment for your kindness to the chief's son.”
“You speak English very well.”
“I went to one of your schools, and learned how to be stupid.”
The rancher's daughter decided that the time had come to observe social proprieties. “My name is Phyllis, and this is Duane,” she said to the chieftain. “What is your name?”
“Delgado.”
Duane found it increasingly difficult to smile. Apaches were fiendish, diabolical, and maybe, at the camp, he'd be burned at the stake, and Phyllis would be raped to death. Then a new thought occurred to him. “What happened to my dog?”
“He is dead.”
Duane was thunderstruck. “How come?”
“He would have warned you that we were coming.”
Duane felt a rise of anger but didn't dare let it show. His funny little mutt had become extinct, just like that. He wanted to pulverize the warrior who'd killed Sparky, but the law of the desert was the law of tooth and claw. Duane wished he could bury Sparky and say a little prayer, but the coyotes probably had him now, and he'd spend eternity in dog heaven. A tear came to Duane's eye, and a few of the Apaches chuckled.
Phyllis placed her hand on his shoulder. “Don't worry, you'll get another dog someday.”
The warriors burst into laughter, and even Delgado couldn't suppress a smile. “You cry over a dead carrier of fleas, White Eyes? How touching, no?”
Duane heard the sarcasm in his voice and felt like kicking him in the teeth. But Duane wasn't in a small-town saloon and knew that his life hung on a thread. “That dog was my friend,” he said simply.
Delgado thought for a few moments, then said something in his language. An Apache warrior carried the little boy toward a horse, and it appeared that they were about to leave the area. Phyllis rolled the blankets, while Duane prepared the horses for the trip. His guns and knife had been taken, and he felt naked. Phyllis tied the bedroll to the back of her saddle and glanced at Duane. “For a moment, I thought you were going to jump Delgado. Keep your hands to yourself, and maybe we'll get out of this alive.”
“I'm not looking for trouble,” Duane said. “But the sons of bitches killed my dog.”
“They don't like white people, as I'm sure you've gathered by now. Please don't provoke them.”
“They haven't given our guns back, and that's a bad sign.” He touched his fingers to his throat, where blood had coagulated.
“I thought you were a goner,” she admitted.
The Apaches climbed onto their horses as Delgado looked back impatiently at Duane and Phyllis. The two White Eyes mounted up and urged their horses forward. The little boy sat on a horse with an older warrior, his eyes closed, still unconscious, wet leaves plastered to the wound on his head.
Delgado shouted an order and the Apache warriors jabbed their heels into their horses’ withers. They turned in a westerly direction as warriors coalesced around Duane and Phyllis, placing them in the midst of the formation. Hoofbeats echoed across the desert as they headed for the Apache hideout in the distant hills.
The soldiers returned to Shelby before noon, and Marshal Dan Stowe waited for them to unload their wagons. Then he swallowed the remaining drops of whiskey in his glass, departed Gibson's General Store, and strolled to the camp on the outskirts of town.
The time had come to interview the arresting officer, Lieutenant Clayton Dawes. Stowe had learned that Dawes was a West Pointer, his father a retired general living in Wash
ington, D.C., and evidently there was money in the family. Dawes was estranged from his wife, the former Miss Vanessa Fontaine, whom he'd married approximately a month ago. Dawes also was drinking heavily, according to the scuttlebutt. His signature on a piece of paper had summoned Marshal Dan Stowe from San Antone, with a warrant for the arrest of Duane Braddock, dead or alive.
The lawman approached the canvas tents in neat rows, with soldiers rubbing down horses, cleaning equipment, and recuperating from a scout on the open range. Sometimes Stowe wished that he'd stayed in the army, but it had changed drastically since the war. Then, the men had been average citizens fighting for the Union, but the current crop of soldiers were criminals and failures from all over the world, with the officers frequently worse than the men. Their mission was to subdue Indians, and Stowe could find no honor in that. So he'd resigned his commission, become a common cowboy and then a lawman.
“Halt—who goes there!” The sentry stood before him, carbine at port arms.
“I'm Marshal Dan Stowe, and I want to speak with Lieutenant Dawes.”
Stowe was led to the largest tent in the area, whose front and rear flaps were open. He dimly made out the outline of an officer sitting at a desk, presumably writing the report of his scout while it was fresh in his mind. Stowe waited outside the tent while the sentry entered. He heard a muffled conversation, then the sentry returned.
“You can go in now, sir.”
Stowe ducked his head as the officer arose behind his desk. Lieutenant Clayton Dawes was in his late twenties, with long dark blond hair and several days’ growth of beard. He held out his hand. “I bet I know why you're here.”
“I'd like to talk with you about Duane Braddock,” the lawman replied.
“Have a seat. I'd offer you something to drink, but unfortunately all I have is water.”
Stowe reached into his back pocket, pulled out a silver flask, and tossed it to the lieutenant, who took a swig. “It's not bad,” the West Pointer said, “considering it was made in Fred Gibson's washtub. Have you spoken with that gentleman yet? I'm sure he believes, like all the other fools around here, that Duane Braddock is the victim of my jealousy, right?”