by Len Levinson
It is that fountain and that well
Where pleasure and repentance dwell.
It is perhaps that sauncing bell
That tolls all into heaven or hell:
And this is love, as I hear tell.
The beautiful lines evaporated in his mind as he drew closer to a small mining camp. Buzzards cackled as they ripped flesh from two forms sprawled on the ground. The stench struck Marshal Stowe’s nostrils, reminding him of battlefields covered with rotting corpses.
He fired his gun into the buzzards; they screeched angrily, spred mammoth wings, and leapt into the air. Marshal Stowe pinched his nose as he urged his horse closer. He noticed steel pots, clothes, boots, and the ax and realized that Apaches hadn’t killed them, because Apaches would’ve stolen everything in sight. And they sure as hell didn’t kill each other. Marshal Stowe examined the half-eaten corpses with the cold eyes of a frontline officer but couldn’t discern what had done them in.
The lawman examined the scene of the crime as his horse drank from the creek. Inside the tent he found blankets, buffalo skins, more clothing, canned food, tobacco, and whiskey. But he couldn’t find rifles, pistols, or cartridges.
He tried to reconstruct what had happened. Someone had evidently killed the miners, stolen their weapons, and taken any gold lying around. If the Apaches didn’t do it, who did? There was no trace of a third miner, and Turkey Creek wasn’t exactly a crossroads of the world.
But Marshal Stowe knew of one person who’d been headed this way. Did the Kid do it? he wondered. He studied the ground, but the tracks were blurred, and he didn’t have the eyes of an Apache. What if nice, polite Duane Braddock was the cold-blooded killer that Lieutenant Dawes suspected? Marshal Stowe scratched his chin in thought. It wouldn’t be the first time that one man was right, and everybody else wrong.
CHAPTER 11
ASTOUT MAN WEARING A BLOND BEARD and a green visor sat behind the counter in the Morellos Post Office, reading an old Harper’s Magazine. “Sir?” asked a voice.
The postal clerk glanced up and saw silver conchos gleaming atop a black cowboy hat. “What can I do fer ye?”
“Any letters for Duane Braddock?”
The postal clerk shook his head.
Duane strolled out of the post office. It had only been five days since he’d seen Phyllis, but he couldn’t help hoping that her letter would be waiting for him. There was nothing to do in Morellos except drink yourself to death, unless somebody shot you first. He hadn’t had one solid night of sleep since he’d arrived because carousing, shooting, and singing went on twenty-four hours a day. It was a wide-open town, with one sheriff trying unsuccessfully to keep the lid on.
The soles had worn through both of his Apache moccasin boots, and Duane didn’t have his woman to repair them. He crossed the street to Buckley’s General Store and found the same pleasingly plump lady working behind the counter, displaying a bolt of cloth for the perusal of a Mexican grandmother. “What can I do for you today?” the proprietress asked Duane.
“Pair of boots.”
“Have a seat and take off the ones you’re wearing. I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”
Duane looked at articles of men’s and women’s clothing hanging from the rafters amid crates, boxes, and advertisements showing fashionable ladies and gentlemen strutting about a city. The proprietress cut a few yards of cloth from the bolt, and Duane pegged her at mid-thirties, efficient, businesslike, an excellent advertisement for her wares. She spends her life pushing the merchandise, he realized.
After the Mexican woman departed, the proprietress approached Duane with two sheets of paper and a pencil. “Place your feet on these.”
She knelt before him and traced the outlines of his feet on the paper. Color came to her face, and she appeared flustered as she returned to her position behind the counter. “Are you part Apache?”
“My grandfather was an Apache. Do you own this place?”
“Are you planning to rob me?”
“I was watching while you were waiting on the Mexican woman, and I wondered who you were.”
“My name’s Arlene Buckley, and yes, I own this place. I’m alone here because my husband was killed by Apaches three years ago.” A chill came over the store as she opened a book that showed pictures of boots. “It takes four weeks, and you’ll have to pay half down.”
Duane reached for the money and tried to smile. Maybe I should shut up about my Apache grandfather.
“The cavalry’s a-comin’!”
Big Al Thornton perked up his ears at the sound of the guard’s voice. It was afternoon at the Bar T, he was working in the office, and most of his cowboys were riding the range. Grateful for the excuse to leave his desk, he put on his big cowboy hat, stuck a cigar into his mouth, and lit it. Then he made his way to the front porch, where he found his wife looking at a cloud of dust in the distance.
It wasn’t unusual for the cavalry to stop by the Bar T on its scouts through the area. The officers knew that they could water their horses, and Big Al always had a bottle of whiskey for the men in the ranks. Big Al placed his arm around his wife’s shoulder because they’d grown closer since their daughter had disappeared. Phyllis was an emptiness in their hearts that would never be filled.
The detachment rode closer, and Big Al spotted Captain Turner riding in front with the guidon. Apache scouts protected his flanks, while a squaw rode alongside Turner. Big Al and Martha walked side by side down the incline as the detachment rumbled into the yard between the barn and the main ranch house.
Captain Turner touched his finger to the brim of his hat. “Howdy, Mister and Mrs. Thornton. Thought I’d bring you a little present.”
Big Al and his wife looked at each other in mystification. Why would Captain Turner bring them a present? They turned toward him, while he was looking at the squaw. The squaw smiled faintly, and Big Al’s cigar fell out of his mouth. “It can’t be,” he whispered.
“But it is,” replied Phyllis as she climbed down from the saddle.
Her parents looked at her in astonishment. It was Phyllis, brown as an Apache, wearing Apache clothes, a bead necklace around her throat, a little taller, and more filled out in the bosom. They stared at each other for a few moments, then Phyllis rushed into her father’s and mother’s arms.
***
Marshal Stowe rode down the main street of Morellos, examining faces on both sides of the street. It was late afternoon, and he hoped that he’d see Duane Braddock before Braddock noticed him. He came to the stable, stepped down from the saddle, and waited for the man to shuffle closer.
“I’d like to leave my horse here.”
“Pick any stall you want, Marshal.”
Marshal Stowe leaned closer and winked. “I’m looking for a man about this tall”—he held his hand at Duane’s approximate height—“eighteen years old, black hair, looks like an Apache.”
“That could describe half the men in town.”
Marshal Stowe reached into his pocket and took out a five-dollar coin. “He arrived within the last week.”
“I don’t remember anything about anything.”
Marshal Stowe flipped the coin at the stable man. “Take care of my horse and give him all the oats he wants.”
Marshal Stowe ambled out of the stable, saddlebags slung over his shoulder. The first thing he saw was El Sombrero Saloon across the street. He dodged a crowd of Mexican vaqueros riding past, entered the saloon, and all eyes turned toward the tin badge. Three men lowered their hat brims over their faces, and one cowboy fled out the back door. Marshal Stowe stepped up to the bar, where the bartender was waiting, a bottle of whiskey and a glass in his hand. The lawman nodded, and the bartender filled the glass halfway.
“Where’s your gunsmith?” Marshal Stowe asked.
“On the other side of the street.”
The marshal tossed the whiskey down his throat, exhaled loudly, and threw coins on the bar. Then he crossed the street and came to the gunsmith’s
shop. Two customers stood at the counter while the gunsmith tried to sell them a used John Adams revolver. “Can I help you, Marshal?”
“I’ll wait until you’re finished.”
Marshal Stowe stood to the side of the window and looked into the street. He had a lawman’s hunch that Braddock might stroll past at any moment and then the fun would begin. Marshal Stowe loved the moment of arrest when the outlaw realized that the long arm of the law had finally caught up with him. Sometimes they reached for their guns, but Marshal Stowe was careful to get into position first. He didn’t want a face-to-face shootout with a fast hand.
The customers bought the John Adams revolver and departed. “If you want a good gun,” the proprietor said to Marshal Stowe, “that’s what I’m in business for.”
“Has a man been here within the past few days, about eighteen years old, trying to sell a batch of guns and rifles?”
“A lot of people pass through this place.”
“He looks like an Apache, with black hair and dark complexion. But he might be wearing white man’s clothes. He’s about this tall, and he’s got the kind of face that girls like.”
“I don’t remember every galoot what comes in here.”
Marshal Stowe grabbed the front of the gunsmith’s shirt. “He’s killed eight people that I know about, and he’ll probably kill more. I’m going to ask you one last time. Did he come here?”
The gunsmith replied softly, “He sold me some guns and rifles, then went across the street to Buckley’s General Store. That’s all I know.”
Marshal Stowe recrossed the street, dodging a stagecoach arriving from Chihuahua. He found the general store, where a buxom middle-aged woman waited on customers. “Anything wrong, Marshal?”
“May I speak with you alone, ma’am?”
“I’ll be right back, ladies.” Mrs. Buckley appeared alarmed as she led the lawman to her parlor.
“I’m looking for a man about eighteen, this tall, black hair, and he’s part Apache. I heard that he came here.”
Her face paled. “What’s he done?” she asked weakly.
“Murder and robbery. Do you know where I can find him?”
“I knew there was something dangerous about him, but what makes you think I know where he lives?”
“Maybe he mentioned where he’s staying.”
“There’s only one place in this town: The McAllister Hotel.”
“If you see the man I’m talking about, please don’t mention this conversation.”
Marshal Stowe moved swiftly down the sidewalk, his nose sniffing like a bloodhound. The Kid was in town, and the time had come to take him into custody. The former troop commander made his way to the sheriff’s office and found the door locked. Marshal Stowe cursed his luck as he lit a cheroot. But he knew that small-town sheriffs often were called away to robberies and murders in the surrounding area. Marshal Stowe realized that the Pecos Kid might leave town suddenly, and there was no time to lose.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered as he trudged down the block to the hotel. He wished he had somebody to watch the back door, but it wouldn’t be the first time he’d arrested a man on his own. He entered the hotel, and all eyes followed him as he approached the front desk. “Do you have a guest named Duane Braddock?”
“Never heard of him.”
“He might be using another name. He’s about this tall, black hair, eighteen years old, decent-looking.”
The desk clerk shrugged. “Hard to say.”
Marshal Stowe grabbed a fistful of shirt. “You know everybody in this hotel and what they had for breakfast. Braddock’s part Apache, and he’s a cold-blooded killer.”
“Never heard of him.”
“You’re under arrest for obstructing justice. Let’s go to jail.”
“Who’ll watch the hotel? I’ll be fired!”
“What room is he in?”
The clerk appeared defeated. “Room one-oh-six.”
“Is he there right now?”
“He comes and goes all the time, and sometimes uses the back entrance.”
“I’ll bet he does,” Marshal Stowe replied as he drew his gun. It reminded him of cavalry charges during the war as he plunged into the network of corridors. He knew that he might be killed in the next few minutes, but the murdered miners clinched it for the lawman. They were working hard, trying to extract gold from the ground, when the Pecos Kid shot them in cold blood and left them for the buzzards. From now on it’s him or me.
Marshal Stowe approached the room on his tiptoes. He stood with his back to the wall, reached around, and banged the heel of his hand on the door. “This is Marshal Dan Stowe. Open the door, or I’m coming in after you.”
There was silence. Marshal Stowe imagined the Pecos Kid trying to climb out the window. The lawman aimed his gun at the lock, pulled the trigger, and the corridor rocked with the explosion. Smoke billowed around him as he kicked the door open. The window was locked, bed unmade, washbasin turned upside down. There was no closet, and the Pecos Kid wasn’t hiding underneath the bed.
Where the hell is he? the lawman wondered. If he hasn’t left town, he’s probably in a saloon. He held the Remington in his right hand as he backtracked through the corridors. The gang in the lobby watched him curiously as he passed, and a crowd of curious onlookers had gathered outside. Word was spreading rapidly through town. John Law had arrived and he was looking for somebody named Duane Braddock.
Marshal Stowe held his gun tightly as he marched to the First Savings Bank of Morellos. Three customers were lined up in front of the teller.
“You can’t go back there, sir!”
“Official government business,” Marshal Stowe replied as he opened the gate. He crossed behind the teller, knocked on the door at the end of the corridor, and turned the knob. The manager sat behind his desk, his eyes widened in alarm, and he reached for the gun in his top drawer, but his hand froze when he saw the tin badge.
“I’m Marshal Dan Stowe, and this is an official investigation. Has anybody brought you gold nuggets within the past week?”
“It’s our policy not to divulge the business of our clients.”
“You’re under arrest for receiving stolen gold and for being an accomplice to murder.” Marshal Stowe aimed the gun at him. “Please come with me.”
The bank manager blanched. “What murder!”
“The murder of two miners back in the desert. Let’s go.”
“Wait a minute. All I did was buy the nuggets. He didn’t tell me that they were stolen.”
“Which way did he go?”
“I didn’t notice.”
Marshal Dan Stowe walked out of the bank and headed for El Sombrero Saloon. His plan was to visit every drinking establishment in town until he found Braddock. He carried the Remington ready in his right hand as he entered El Sombrero, dodged out of the light, and examined the crew before him.
They were the usual wary bunch of drunkards, desperadoes, and fools, but he couldn’t find the Pecos Kid among them. He backed out of the saloon, walked a few doors down, entered the Black Cat Saloon, put his back to the wall, and studied the patrons, but no Duane Braddock materialized. Then he proceeded to investigate the remaining saloons in town, while the crowd followed at a safe distance. It looked like a shootout was in the offing, and bets were made with odds heavily in favor of the lawman.
Marshal Stowe couldn’t find Braddock in the next three saloons, and the last stop was the Wheel of Fortune Saloon. There was no place else where Braddock could be, and the lawman was ready for a showdown. But no Apache-looking cowboy drew his Colt as Stowe threaded among the tables, placed his foot on the rail, and leaned toward the man in the apron. “Double whiskey.”
The bartender filled the glass, then Marshal Stowe carried it to a table against the left wall. He sat heavily, pushed back the brim of his hat, and sighed. Where’s that little son of a bitch?
He tried to think strategically as he sipped whiskey. He’s headed deeper into Mexico, but
I’ll follow him to Patagonia if I have to. No longer was there doubt in Marshal Stowe’s mind, and gone were considerations of Trafalgar Square at sunset. The Pecos Kid killed the miners, stole their gold, and took their weapons—no doubt about it. He’d fooled the good folks in Shelby, but he didn’t fool Lieutenant Dawes and he’s not fooling me.
He swallowed more whiskey, which settled him down. He realized that he’d been running around Morellos like a madman, without any clear plan. I wonder where he’ll turn up next? The best way to outthink an outlaw was to analyze all that was known about him. Marshal Stone noticed saloon patrons glancing at him nervously and realized that the town was worried about his next move. I’m liable to start a riot if I keep on this way.
He relaxed in his chair and continued to drink whiskey. If I were Duane Braddock where’d I go? The bastard son of an outlaw and an unknown prostitute had been orphaned at an early age, raised in a monastery, and started screwing everything in sight as soon as he returned to the world. Everybody, even Lieutenant Dawes, had said he was a charmer, and he put on a big show of being religious.
Marshal Stowe sat straighter in his chair as a new thought occurred to him. His brow wrinkled with thought, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and his pinched nose twitched with the excitement of the chase. Why didn’t I think of it before?
He rose, gun still in hand. Everyone watched the lawman cross the floor, spurs jangling with every step. Outside, housewives looked through their windows at the commotion in the street. Marshal Stowe felt enlivened by the prospect of a dramatic arrest. “You folks’d better stay out of the way,” he said in the booming voice of a former troop commander. “There might be gunplay.”
He aimed the Remington straight ahead as he walked along the sidewalk, followed by the crowd at a safe distance. He knew that he might make a mistake and they’d laugh at him afterward, but he believed that if you understood an outlaw’s mind, you’ve got him beat. The lawman turned onto another street and made his way toward the outskirts of town. He came to a scattering of adobe homes surrounding a large white adobe church with a steeple and a big cross on the front door. The sign said IGLESIA DE SANTA MARIA.