by Len Levinson
“Cemetery,” replied the bartender. “You a friend of his?”
“That's right. Who d'ya think did it?”
The bartender shrugged. “How the hell should I know?”
Duane tried to calm his uprooted mind and think it through. Evidently, someone had been waiting for Twilby to come out of the privy, then coldly and deliberately bushwhacked him from behind. Duane needed a drink to settle himself down.
“At least he died with his boots on,” somebody said. “Somebody grab his arms, I'll take his legs, and we'll carry ‘im to the undertaker.”
Duane reached for Twilby's wrists, and a stranger carried Twilby's legs. The dude wore a frock coat, stovepipe hat, and salt-and-pepper beard. “Who're you?” Duane asked.
“My name's Burkett, and I've got a gunsmith shop. I wonder why somebody shot the poor son of a bitch?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Duane replied, trying to digest the hideous deed. “You know him long?”
“A few years.”
“He have any enemies?”
“Who don't have enemies? But I can't think of anybody who'd shoot ‘im, except maybe one of them fellers you had a beef with earlier tonight, Mister Pecos Kid.”
Suddenly the plot came together in Duane's convoluted mind. The outlaws had taken his table, then tried to kill him. Duane fought back, shot one, and the others retreated to plan their next move. They'd eliminated Twilby first, with Duane next on their list, but they wouldn't just walk up to him and start shooting. They'd catch him when he wasn't looking, as they did Twilby.
The crowd was dispersing back to the saloons. It was another random, senseless killing in a border town, with no apparent cause, no justice, and no mercy. Duane and Burkett lugged Twilby's corpse down a dark alley strewn with whisky bottles, and came to a house that carried a sign above the door: Caleb Snodgras, Undertaker.
Burkett kicked the door, and it was opened promptly by a tall thin man with deep-set eyes, wearing a black suit, white shirt, and black string tie. “I heard the shooting and figured you'd be here directly. It's turning out to be a busy night. Right this way, please.”
They followed the undertaker down the corridor to a small room with four cots. On one of them lay the naked corpse of Jones, the owlhoot shot by Duane earlier, washed clean of blood, with a red hole in the middle of his chest. A medicinal odor filled the room. The shelves were lined with vials and bottles of chemicals, while peculiar metallic implements lay on the desk. The undertaker clasped his bony hands together, his eyes glittering with barely concealed greed. “It appears that they shot him in the head. Tsk tsk. Are you friends of the deceased?”
“I am,” Duane replied. “I'd like to give him a decent burial.”
“Happy to hear it. You got twenty dollars?”
Duane reached into his pocket. “Where can I find a preacher?”
“The only one who went to divinity school is Reverend Herbert Berclair of Apocalypse Church. But I wouldn't disturb him at night, if I was you.”
Meanwhile, Burkett backed toward the door. “Got somethin’ to do,” he said, as he disappeared into the night from whence he'd come.
Duane handed twenty dollars to the undertaker. “Did you know Twilby?”
“He took care of my horse, but I can't say we were pards. How long've you known him?”
“I just met him today. Is he married?”
“Hell no. Twilby generally kept to himself.”
“I can't help wondering why he was so friendly with me, since I never saw him before.”
“It's hard to know what's in a man's heart, cowboy. He lived in the stable with the horses.”
“What happens now?”
“If we had a sheriff, he could search Twilby's room.”
“Would it be against the law if I searched his room?”
“We haven't got any law in Escondido. You can do as you damn well please, provided you can back it up.” The undertaker sat at his desk and took out a sheet of paper. “What's your name?”
Duane saw no point in lying, since he'd already admitted being the Pecos Kid in the Last Chance Saloon. “Duane Braddock.”
The undertaker wrote Duane Braddock on the paper.
Duane looked over the undertaker's shoulder. “What's that for?”
“I've got to make a report for Austin.”
Duane grabbed the sheet of paper and tore it into little pieces. “My name's Joe Butterfield.”
“It's a misdemeanor to willfully make wrong statements.”
Duane flipped a five-dollar coin onto the undertaker's desk. The undertaker pretended it wasn't there, as he wrote Joe Butterfield on a fresh form. “Where are you from, Mister Butterfield?'’
“North of here.”
“Remember the name of the county?”
“Write any one you like.”
“What's your present address?”
“General Delivery.”
“Which way you headed?”
“Take your pick.”
“Are you kin to Joe Braddock, by any chance?”
Duane was surprised to hear his father's name again, but decided to play dumb. “Who's he?”
“A trigger-happy killer from the Pecos country, but they finally tracked him down. You sure you aren't his kin?”
“Hell no, but somebody told me once that Joe Braddock was an honest rancher killed by hired guns.”
The undertaker glanced at Duane's Colt. “I'm not a-gonna argue with you, Mister Braddock. Anythin’ you say. If you ain't his kin, it's fine with me. Maybe he really was the Robin Hood of the Pecos, as some used to claim. We'll have the funeral after breakfast.”
“I'll be there,” Duane said.
Duane, still agitated by the bushwhack of Amos Twilby, headed back to the center of town. He was certain that the killer had been one of the three owl-hoots who'd stolen his table at the Last Chance Saloon. I'll keep my eyes open for them, he swore. They won't catch me unawares as they did poor Twilby.
He walked past the general store, which was closed for the night, and noticed across the street a vacant storefront. For all I know, my father might've passed through here long ago, Duane conjectured. He felt strange amorphous emanations, as if the ghost of Joe Braddock had arrived in Escondido.
Duane vaguely remembered a tall, husky man with a black mustache, wreathed in the fragrance of whisky and tobacco. Maybe that's why I love saloons, because they remind me of my father. Was he a good man or a low-down crook? That's what I want to find out.
And what about my mother? She'd nourished him at her breast, but was a blank in his memory, and no one had ever told him anything at all about her. Sometimes he dreamed that he was a baby sleeping in her arms, and she had blond curls adorning a worried pretty face. But what's dream and what's true? he wondered. And what does it matter who my parents were? I'm here, and that's the main thing.
That was the logical part of his mind, but a deeper layer had a voracious need. Duane felt like a straw in the whirlwind of time, desperately needing an anchor. If I knew the truth about my mother and father, then I could get on with my life. Otherwise I'll keep wondering about them forever. Maybe if I'm lucky I'll meet more people in Escondido who knew my father, or even my mother.
His mind returned to the brutal killing of Amos Twilby. Why'd he befriend me, out of all the outlaws in Escondido? He looked at me funny when I showed up at the barn, come to think of it. Maybe I look like my father. The name Butterfield sure got his attention. When Twilby sat beside me in front of the Desert Palace Saloon, what if it wasn't a coincidence? He knew more than he let on, and was testing me.
But maybe I'm driving myself plumb loco as usual. What if Twilby got shot by an old enemy, and it has nothing to do with the owlhoots who stole my table. Duane was frustrated by his inability to isolate definitive answers to pressing problems. He'd studied Logic at the monastery in the clouds, but couldn't apply it to Escondido.
What you need is a drink, a good hot bath, and a nice soft bed, he admo
nished himself. Twilby had recommended the Belmont Hotel, and Duane wondered which adobe structure it was. If it's the best hotel in town, it must be right on the main street, he figured. If I keep on walking straight ahead, I've got to run into it sooner or later.
CHAPTER 4
IN THE WEE HOURS OF THE MORNING, AFTER business slowed at the Last Chance Saloon, Maggie O'Day liked to climb the ladder to the roof, breathe fresh air, and look at the moon-dappled horizon. She wore a black shawl, walked with her arms folded beneath substantial breastworks, and thought about real estate.
It irked her that Escondido's economic future was limited because it was a nasty, lawless, border town, and there'd already been two shootings that very night. Gun-crazy owlhoots from all across Texas and Mexico passed through Escondido regularly, while smart investors gave it a wide berth. Maggie wished there was some law and order, at least enough to keep the fightin’ and killin’ under control.
She'd selected Escondido for her biggest entrepreneurial venture to date because there wasn't much competition and owlhoots tended to spend freely. She'd considered the impact of shooting and fighting before she ever put a penny into the Last Chance Saloon, and had hired a few of the most notorious local gunslingers soon after arriving. They tried to keep the peace in her establishment, but too often let drunkards shoot each other, long as they didn't kill other customers. The Last Chance Saloon turned healthy profits every night, but continual violence was shredding Maggie's nerves.
Maggie O'Day wanted to be a respectable lady walking down the fashionable boulevards of San Francisco, but it'd take twenty years to save that much money, and a gang of outlaws might steal her savings at any moment. She didn't necessarily trust her bodyguards either.
The queen of whores was lonely, though she hated to admit it. She knew other merchants in Escondido and met with them regularly. Most were her customers. Few women would talk with her, except for her employees. An irksome hunger ached within her, but she'd ignored it successfully thus far. In twenty years, I'll only be sixty-two, she tried to console herself. That's not so old, is it?
The aging process horrified her, for she'd been delicate and pretty once. But over the years, her willpower had eroded where sweets were concerned. Sometimes she skimped on other foods so she could eat more pastries. Then, when her dresses got too tight, she'd starve herself for a few months. She'd maintain her new low weight for brief periods, then a praline would catch her eye, or a cake. Gradually, the dresses would start getting tighter again.
The street below was deserted except for a man walking in the shadows on the far sidewalk. Horses lined the rail in front of the Last Chance Saloon, and somebody was passed out on a bench on the other side of the street. Maggie found her eyes drawn to the man strolling along the sidewalk. She couldn't see his face, but his spurs jangled every time his heels came down, and a cigarette hung from a corner of his lips. Something about his gait intrigued her—she didn't know quite what it was. She watched him pass the drunkard sleeping on the bench.
Then a strange thing happened. The drunkard on the bench moved his head, then raised himself slowly. Maggie's eyes widened as she noticed the gun in his hand. It appeared that he was going to bushwhack the man who'd just walked past!
Maggie opened her mouth to scream, when suddenly, with movements so quick they appeared only as a blur, the man in jangling spurs spun around, shot the backshooter on the bench, then dropped to his stomach and fired a barrage of gunfire into the alley across the street.
Escondido thundered with shots, and a bullet ricocheted over Maggie's head. She dived toward the roof and peered fearfully over the edge at the action. “I'm hit!” shouted a voice in the alley. The man in jangling spurs, maintaining a steady rate of fire, charged the alley.
Maggie decided it was time to get the hell out of there. She descended the ladder to the corridor below, returned to her office, poured herself a stiff drink, and sat behind her desk. The shootout had begun so suddenly, she couldn't remember what she'd been thinking about before. She recalled the man in flashing spurs and wondered who he was. She opened her mouth and hollered: “Bradley!”
The door opened, and her chief bodyguard stuck his head inside. “Ma'am?”
“A few people was just shot outside. Tell the feller who won that I want to talk with ‘im.”
Bradley narrowed his left eye. “I ain't yer errand boy.”
“Jesus Christ, everybody's so tetchy around here.”
He slammed the door, and his footsteps receded down the corridor. She'd slept with Bradley a few times, out of desperation and weakness, and lately Bradley had been acting as if he owned her. She'd known it was a mistake when she first lured him to her bedroom, but he had strapping muscles and the rugged profile that she liked. He'd provided a few fleeting hours of pleasure, but now it was time to put him in his place. She would've fired him long ago if he weren't so handy with a gun.
On the planked sidewalk, Duane kneeled beside the body of the outlaw who'd been lying on the bench, pretending to be asleep. Duane recognized the pointed nose instantly. It was one of the bunch who'd tried to steal his table earlier in the Desert Palace Saloon.
He entered the alley, where another of the assailants, the one wearing the green shirt, lay dead, surrounded by curious onlookers. Duane tallied the score. He'd shot two of them just now and one earlier, but evidently the owlhoot with the silver Texas-star belt buckle had got away.
Duane lit a match, examined dirt in the alley, and touched his finger to the ground. It came up red. Apparently he'd winged his final bushwhacker. Duane followed the trail to the back of the alley and looked both ways, but couldn't see anybody. He continued into the yard where the trail of blood dried up. There were fresh hoofmarks, but Duane didn't remember hearing a horse. He had difficulty reading signs by the light of matches that kept going out. Duane heard footsteps behind him, as a crowd of saloon patrons spilled into the backyard from nearby alleys.
“It's the Pecos Kid again,” one of them said.
“Anybody recognize these men?” Duane asked.
Nobody said anything. Duane knew that he'd have to look over his shoulder for the rest of his life, for one had gotten away and might show up when Duane least expected it. Why'd I leave that cave? he asked himself.
A strange apparition approached across the backyard. It was the piano player from the Last Chance saloon, wearing his red striped shirt and red string tie, with his derby tilted over one eye. “Are you the feller what shot all them people?”
“So what if I am?” Duane replied.
“Maggie O'Day'd like to talk with you, sir.”
“Who's Maggie O'Day?”
The piano player appeared surprised. “She owns the Last Chance Saloon.”
“What's she want?”
“She din't tell me, but she's a good person to have on yer side. Know what I mean? Besides, if you don't talk to her, she'll probably fire me.”
The piano player led him through the alley, where outlaws and banditos studied Duane's face carefully. “It's the Kid all right,” one of them said.
Duane followed the piano player into the Last Chance Saloon. The girls regarded him with unabashed fascination, as he continued toward the back corridor. At its end, the pianist knocked on a door and declared: “I've found ‘im.”
“Send him in,” said a sultry female voice.
Duane opened the door and stopped cold in his tracks. Sitting behind the desk was a stout big-busted woman with a bizarre hairdo of dyed red curls piled atop her head. “Have a seat,” she said, a panatella perched daintily between her fingers. Duane dropped to the chair before her. His experience with women was limited, and Maggie O'Day exceeded his wildest expectations. She looked mean as a man, yet was pretty in an odd way, with graceful movements of her hands. “Sounds like yer a-havin’ a busy night,” she drawled. “What's yer name?”
Duane decided to play it to the hilt, since his identity was no longer a secret. Leaning toward her, he peered deeply into her
eyes and said, “They call me the Pecos Kid.”
She smiled, her eyes dancing gaily. “Howdy, Mister Pecos,” she said, thrusting her bejeweled hand over the desk.
Duane had never shaken hands with a woman before, and didn't know how to proceed. Normally, a man will give a stranger a firm crunch, to let him know that no horseshit would be tolerated, but Duane couldn't do that to a woman. So he squeezed her hand gently, while she caught him in a viselike grip. Bones in his hand crackled. When she let him go, he tried to smile. “You can call me Duane Braddock.”
He noticed her eyes roving over his body, stopping briefly at certain strategic places. “I was up on the roof tonight,” she began, “a-gittin’ a breath of fresh air, and I happened to see yer li'l gunplay in the middle of the street. I ain't never see'd nobody move so fast in my life. Yer a perfessional, I take it?”
“Not me,” Duane replied. “I was a cowboy before I got in trouble with the law. Hell, I don't want to be a professional gunfighter. They all end up in the cemetery.”
“Sounds like yer headed thar anyways. What was the shootin’ about?”
“Bunch of owlhoots got mad at me. Don't ask me why.”
“Don't take much to get some of ‘em a-goin’,” Maggie said. “They'd ruther shoot a man than give ‘im the time of day. The trouble with this town is we ain't got no law. Say, would you be innerested in bein’ our sheriff? One hundred dollars a month, with all the fines you can collect. We'll give you a jail and an office. What do you say?”
Duane calculated that the pay was more than three times what a cowboy earned, and fines could really add up. But he had plenty of money, and didn't need additional headaches. “No thanks. I was planning to move on.”
“A sheriff can do pretty much what he wants, thanks to that tin badge,” Maggie said, persisting. “If a wanted poster came from Austin with yer picture on it, you could set a match to it.”
