by Len Levinson
“I'm very grateful,” the priest said with a little bow. “I am Father Diego. May I know your name?”
“Just call me Joe. Sorry if I scared you, but there's more killers and crooks out here than you can shake a stick at. Want me to help you with that bread?”
Before the humble priest could reply, Duane was reaching for the wooden bowl. He emptied flour into it and mixed it with water. “Do you have any sourdough?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Too bad, ‘cause sourdough gives it that special taste.” Duane kneaded and rolled biscuits, then placed them in the Dutch oven. He'd observed cooks during his brief stints as a cowboy after leaving the monastery in the clouds. “Shouldn't take long. Which way're you headed, Father?”
“San Antone. Are you a Catholic?”
“Yes sir, and I was raised in a Benedictine orphanage. I wonder if you'd hear my confession after the biscuits are done.”
“We shouldn't wait to confess,” replied the padre, “because we never know when our Lord will return. I'll watch them to make sure they don't burn.” He raised his hand and made the sign of the cross. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.”
The young man appeared embarrassed, and the padre sought to reassure him. “There's nothing you can tell me, my boy, that I haven't heard a hundred times before. Go ahead, make a full confession, and I will absolve you in the name of Jesus.”
Duane clasped his hands and bowed his head. “My last confession was approximately six months ago. Since then I'm afraid I've ... ah ... shot a few people.”
The desert fell silent, as Father Diego stared at him. “Excuse me, but did you say you'd shot a few people?”
“Self-defense every time, Father. They pushed me into it.”
“Self-defense every time? It is difficult to believe, no?”
“I don't know what it is about me that bothers folks, Father, but they're always trying to take advantage, and am I suppose to let them?”
The priest thought for a few moments, then nodded sagely, for he'd heard many strange confessions during his ecclesiastical career. “Do you have anything else to add?”
“Well,” replied Duane, lowering his voice, “I've ... ah ... fornicated with a few women.”
“I suppose they attacked you, and tore off your clothing?”
“I know what you're thinking, Father. That I start everything in the first place. But I swear I don't. It just sort of happens.”
“Holy Mother Church teaches that all events are caused. Where did the killings take place?”
“Texas,” Duane replied.
“I meant what kinds of places?”
Duane frowned guiltily. “Saloons most of the time.”
The priest waved his arms dramatically. “Aha, you see? What do you expect in saloons, a Holy Hour? Stay out of saloons, and sin no more. I'm sure that's where you meet the women too, no?” “Yes,” replied Duane.
“Do you have anything else to confess?”
“Well,” Duane began, “I might've stolen a few horses here and there.”
“You're not sure?”
“It was dark.”
“Not as dark as your heart, I'm afraid. Young man, you simply cannot go on like this. Thou shalt not kill.”
“What about when somebody shoots at me?”
“It is your duty to avoid sinful situations. Use your mind instead of your weapons of violence. You must view every man, no matter how low, as a brother, and every woman as the Mother of God, not a creature put on earth to satisfy your deezgusting lustful appetites. I will ask you to say one Rosary every day for the rest of your life. Do you have a rosary?”
“I used to have one, but I lost it.”
“I'm sure that's not all you have lost.” The priest rummaged in his saddlebag, and pulled out a black-beaded rosary. “It was made by Mexican nuns, and you should carry it with you always, to remind yourself of Christ's great love for you. The biscuits are almost finished, so let me absolve you.”
The priest intoned ancient prayers and made the sign of the cross. “You are a very bad man,” moaned Father Diego, shaking his head disapprovingly. Then he examined the biscuits and peered inside the pot of coffee. “I hope you'll stay and have breakfast with me.”
“I've already had breakfast, Father. Thank you anyway.” Duane reached into his pocket, pulled out a twenty-dollar double eagle, and tossed it to Father Diego. “May the peace of God be with you, sir.”
“And also with you.” The padre opened the pouch attached to his belt, dropped the coin inside, then lifted the Dutch oven off the coals. “Which way are you headed, stranger?”
There was no answer. Father Diego turned around, but the black-garbed cowboy had disappeared.
Alice Markham looked out the window and saw an adobe wall across the alley. Her new room reminded her of a prison cell, not that she'd ever been locked up. She had a cot, chair, mirror, and bottles of cosmetics lined on the crude wooden dresser. But at least she had a roof over her head, she thought, trying to cheer herself up.
She felt trapped. But it hadn't always been this way. She'd grown up in Ohio, daughter of a hard-scrabble farmer, who died of an illness that turned his skin yellow, leaving a wife with seven mouths to feed. Alice's mother soon married another farmer who was always mad at somebody, usually his stepchildren. Then mother became sick, they had a bad crop, and someone stole their cow. It was decided that the oldest children should leave and find work. Alice wasn't educated enough to be a schoolmarm, but did the best she could. Every month she sent money to her mother, but her life was one man after another, their faces blurred before her eyes, and she loathed herself totally.
She'd thought of destroying herself, but still hoped something good might happen someday. Alice was struggling to get ahead, but never managed to accumulate much. She'd heard business was booming in Texas, and worked her way south, with stops in Saint Louis, Dallas, and Camp Wood. Her latest move had delivered her to dirty little Escondido.
Alice hated to sleep with strangers and pretend that she enjoyed it. She desperately craved normal life, but what man would marry a former prostitute? She didn't have answers to questions that nagged her constantly, but wasn't ready to surrender her dreams either. If Maggie O'Day can drag herself up, so can I.
Alice looked at herself in the mirror, and noted that her profession was taking its toll in faint threadlike wrinkles about her mouth and eyes. She was a sensitive romantic soul forced to sell her most precious possession for a pittance, but she could see no avenue to improve her situation, and refused to beg. Stuck in hell, all she could do was pray for a miracle.
That night she had to work as a gaudy harlot yet again. Some customers would be old enough to be her father, others would smell of horses, and one might cut her face for the fun of it. She leaned closer to the mirror and perused the scar on her cheek.It had come from a straight razor in the hand of a trooper from the Fourth Cavalry. If she hadn't pulled back in time, he would've taken her head off.
Alice would carry the scar to her grave, and no cosmetic could cover it adequately. Sometimes she considered it grotesque, but other times saw it as a badge of honor. Alice Markham was an odd mixture of defiance, shame, and tarnished innocence. She didn't trust anybody, not even her own mother.
She sat in front of the mirror and smeared cosmetics on her cheeks and lips, as night came to Escondido. Gradually the pallid country bumpkin became a painted Jezebel with a naughty gleam in her eyes. “When you're a whore,” she whispered to the face in the mirror, “every night is Halloween.”
CHAPTER 3
THE PECOS KID RODE DOWN THE MAIN street of Escondido, his eyes alert for the posse members and the Fourth Cavalry. Light from saloons spilled onto the planked sidewalk, illuminating armed men swaggering along, while others sat on benches, watching the passing show. Laughter and the tinkling of a piano could be heard from within saloons, and a few whisky-soaked souls were passed out cold in alleyways.
Duane
tried to appear casual, but maintained his hand near his Colt .44. He wondered if the padre had recognized him, but Texas was full of outlaws far more notorious than he. He hoped no one would pay attention to the lone stranger.
A whiff of broiling steak came to him from the Silver Spur Saloon, mingling with the fragrance of whisky, beer, and manure in the middle of the dusty street. The Pecos Kid rode all the way through town, because Clyde Butterfield, the old gunfighter, had taught him the importance of knowing the territory.
He passed a Protestant church, a hardware store closed for the night, and a barber shop with a painted pole. There was an adobe hotel, the stable, and a tobacco shop, but saloons were the primary business in Escondido. No guns aimed at him from behind windows, and he saw no one with a badge. He steered Steve through the proscenium door of the stable, climbed down from the saddle, and looked around cautiously. If anybody made a false move, it'd be draw and fire.
An old bearded man came out of the shadows. “He'p you, sir?”
“I'd like you to take care of my horse. Give him plenty of oats, and you got any apples around?”
“I can buy some in the morning, sir.”
Duane flipped him a five-dollar coin. “Take good care of Steve here, and I'll take good care of you.”
“I'm Amos Twilby.” The old man bit the coin with his two remaining teeth, then dropped it into the front pocket of his jeans. “The best hotel is the Belmont, and the best saloon is the Last Chance. They give you a good pour, and got the best gals in town.”
Duane pulled the saddlebags off Steve's back and positioned them on his own shoulder. As he neared the door, he looked both ways, hand near his Colt. It felt odd to be in civilization again, but a short beard covered his features, and he didn't think anybody would recognize the man who'd shot Marshal Dan Stowe.
Duane found the tobacco store a few doors down, but it was closed for the night. Not sure of his next move, he sat on the bench in front, leaned against the wall, and placed his right hand on the walnut grip of his Colt.
Two cowboys walked by, laughing heartily and smoking cigarettes. Duane smelled tobacco, and his lungs cried for more, but the store wouldn't open until morning. Only one other place to buy tobacco—the saloons.
But if he went to a saloon, he might be recognized by a drunkard from his past, and the overfed priest had said that saloons were the cause of all Duane's troubles. Unfortunately, killers and back-stabbers loafed in saloons, and a calamity could befall an unsuspecting citizen at any moment. Yet, on the other hand, he had to admit that the most fascinating individuals could often be found in drinking establishments, plus entertainment and free food were sometimes provided.
He needed a cigarette desperately. I'll just stroll into the nearest saloon, buy some tobacco, and leave immediately. I'm not that morally weak. He touched the rosary beneath his shirt as he stared across the street at a sign that said Desert Palace Saloon.
A chill came over him, which he attributed to the cool night breeze.
Four cowboys rode tall in their saddles down the middle of the street, their hat brims slanted low over their eyes. They all wore guns, and Duane wondered which sheriff was chasing them. He waited till they passed, then crossed over.
A Mexican in a sombrero was sleeping on the bench in front of the Desert Palace. Woman's laughter came to him from inside, music to Duane's lone-some ears. I shouldn't go in there, but what's the point of being young if you can't do crazy things?
He opened the batwing doors and stepped out of the light, hand near his Colt, his eyes scanning cowboys, vaqueros, gamblers, waitresses, and gentlemen in fancy suits. It looked pretty much like every other saloon he'd ever seen, with a painting of naked ladies cavorting in a meadow above the bar.
No one seemed to recognize Duane, and he spotted no tin badges. He squared his shoulders and headed for the bar, the silver conchos on his hat-band flashing the light of oil lamps. The bartender looked up as he approached. “What's yer poison?” He had hair to his shoulders and wore a patch over his right eye.
“Tobacco and some papers.”
The bartender grinned. “You ain't drinkin’ tonight, cowboy?”
Duane felt nearby eyes turn toward him, and decided to play it cool and easy. “Whisky,” he said.
The bartender tossed a small white cotton bag of tobacco onto the counter, then poured a glass of whisky. Duane paid, carried his purchases to an empty table against the far wall, rolled a cigarette, and surveyed the scene around him.
Tough-looking men played cards, slogged down whisky, or conspired in every corner of the saloon. Some were scarred, others wore tattoos, and a few looked like they'd shoot you for the hell of it. They all behaved as if a posse would show up at any moment.
A middle-aged prostitute approached, bent over, and asked, “Can I git you somethin’ cowboy?”
Her breasts spilled out of her skimpy dress, and he gazed at the alabaster orbs. “Not right now.”
She walked away, wiggling her behind, and Duane felt billygoat desire. If it hadn't been for women, he might still be in the scriptorium, studying Saint Augustine's City of God, instead of drinking whisky in a lawless Texas border town. He knew, deep in his heart, that he could've remained in the monastery if he had apologized to the old abbot and done lots of penance, but a perverse part of his mind had been curious about the outside world. He'd been especially attracted to pretty Mexican girls who'd attended Mass at the monastery on Sundays, and they'd started Duane down a path that had led ultimately to the Desert Palace Saloon.
Light flickered from brass oil lamps hanging from nails banged willy-nilly into the walls, as out-laws and banditos seemed to be roasting in the red flames of Dante's Inferno. The saloon exuded an atmosphere of meanness and viciousness that you could scrape from the walls, with everybody armed, half drunk, and ready to fight.
I've ended here because of my bad temper and pretty girls, no doubt about it, Duane was forced to conclude. Maybe I should've listened to the old abbot. Since departing the monastery, Duane had been engaged to a saloon singer named Vanessa Fontaine, and then to Phyllis Thornton, pretty daughter of a prosperous rancher. Both had left him in the lurch for reasons he didn't fully understand, Miss Fontaine running off with an officer in the Fourth Cavalry, and Miss Thornton returning home to daddy. Duane was determined never to trust another woman again, based on his limited experience.
Whores seemed the best solution to his billygoat problem, but he'd learned that a man can't buy love, and love is what makes it worthwhile. I'm going to finish my whisky, and then buy myself a steak with all the trimmings. When my belly is full, I'll check into the best hotel in town and get a good night's sleep. Duane had no money shortage, because the Apaches had given him some gold nuggets, which he'd cashed in at a bank in Morellos.
If I don't look for trouble, he thought, I'm sure it won't come looking for me.
At the bar, a horse thief named Sylvester Krumm sat with his mug of beer and a cigarette. He puffed thoughtfully as he gazed across the room at a young man in a beard and black shirt, his silver-conchoed hat tilted forward so no one could see his features. The bartender approached with the bottle of whisky. “Hit you again?”
“Damn right,” replied Krumm. “Say, d'ya know that kid over thar, the one what just bought the whisky. He's a-sittin’ agin’ the wall.”
The bartender shrugged. “Never see'd ‘im afore.”
“That's the Pecos Kid!”
“Who's the Pecos Kid?”
“His name's Duane Braddock, and he's the one what shot Otis Puckett about two moons ago.”
The bartender widened his eyes. “That's the galoot what shot Otis Puckett?”
“I see'd it happen meself. It was a leetle town north of here, name of Shelby, and I was just a-passin’ through. Puckett braced ‘im, and the Kid shot him straight out.”
“You sure that's same Kid?”
“Sure as I am of my own name, although I've been drinkin’ so much this week, I forgot what I'm
a-callin’ myself these days. But it was somethin’ to see, lemme tell yez. His hand moved so fast, one moment it was empty, the next moment it was firin’ away.”
The bartender regarded him skeptically. “The way you pour it down, friend, I bet everything looks like it's firin’ away.”
A brown cowboy hat with a beaded Navajo hat-band turned on the stool next to Krumm. “Who'd you say that feller was?”
“The Pecos Kid.”
“What'd he do?”
“Shot Otis Puckett.”
“Horseshit. Otis Puckett lives in Laredo with his fambly. No dumb kid's ever gonna kill Otis Puckett.” The man in the brown hat raised his voice. “You don't know what yer a-talkin’ ‘bout, asshole!”
The saloon fell silent. The bartender lowered his head behind the bar, and outlaws backed toward doors, while others dropped behind tables. Duane was already on the floor, Colt in hand, ready to fight his way out of the saloon, although he had no idea what was going on.
Both antagonists faced each other in the golden effulgence of oil lamps. The gauntlet clearly had been thrown down. The man in the brown cowboy hat was named Jones, and he peered into Krumm's eyes. “Make yer fuckin’ move,” he said, “or admit yer lied. What's it's a-gonna be?”
Krumm saw murder in Jones's eyes, and something told him to give way. He made a half-smile, like the underdog offering his throat to the victor, and headed for the door.
“Hold on,” said Jones. “You ain't ‘pologized yet.”
Krumm quickened his pace, showing his tail as he fled for the street. Jones rushed after him, grabbed his shoulder, slammed him against the wall, and pressed his gun barrel against Krumm's nose. “I ain't a-gonna tell you again.”
Krumm's eyes bulged out of his head, as the grim reaper danced crazily before him, dressed as a · cowboy. “Sorry,” he said, trying to hold his voice steady. “Guess I made a mistake.”
Jones spun him around and kicked his ass toward the door. Krumm flew outside and landed on the sidewalk, as laughter erupted inside the saloon. Summoning his remaining shards of dignity, Krumm arose and dusted himself off. Then he headed for his horse, for outlaws would offer no mercy to one who'd revealed himself a coward.
