by Len Levinson
“I wasn't in Texas in the old days, but I've heard of Braddock. He was supposed to be a rustler.”
“Some say he was an honest rancher who fought a big combine from the East.”
“Some say I hold up stagecoaches, but I'm really just a simple country boy.”
Wright's voice was tinged with sarcasm, and Duane couldn't figure him out. Duane took another sip of whisky, then reached for his small white bag of tobacco. “Simple country boys don't walk into the middle of gunfights,” he said, fumbling with cigarette papers. He dropped them to the floor, bent to retrieve them, and perused Wright's pointed cowboy boots, approximately the same size as the prints in Hazel Sanders's room. There was a dried dark drop of something on the bottom of Wright's left pantleg, possibly blood. A chill came over Duane, as he realized that he might be kneeling before the killer of Hazel Sanders. Duane raised himself to his full height and peered into Wright's eyes. Is this the kind of man who'd slit a woman's throat?
“You all right, kid?”
“Must be the whisky.”
“You got to take it slow and eat something once in a while.”
Duane wanted to ask where Wright had been at the time Hazel Sanders was killed, but the ex-officer had just saved his life. Duane noticed many men in the vicinity with pointed boots around the same size as the footprint in the death chamber. It wasn't uncommon to spill whisky or gravy on your pants. I mustn't let my imagination run away with me, Duane reminded himself.
“Where are you from, kid?” asked Wright.
“I thought it wasn't polite to ask where people were from in Texas.”
“But I'm from Louisiana.”
Duane became suspicious of Wright's question, although Wright had saved his life. Something about the ex-officer didn't seem right. “Did you hear about the prostitute who got killed?”
Duane inspected Wright's face for guilt, but the ex-staff officer was calm. “Texas is hell on women and horses, they say.”
“If you were my deputy, maybe we could clean up this town.”
“If we ran every hard case out, they'd just go someplace else. What's the point?”
Maggie O'Day looked up from her desk as Duane entered her office. “This is some job you gave me,” he said.
“There's somethin’ I want to talk with you about,” she replied mysteriously. She lowered her voice and motioned for him to come closer. “I don't know if it's a coincidence, but yesterday I took a trip over to the Silver Spur, and I asked Sanchez to talk with his gals, to find out if any of ‘em knowed about Joe Braddock's women. Next thing I hear— one of ‘em's dead. It makes me wonder.”
Duane was astonished by the sudden unwelcome news. “Why'd you go over there in the first place?”
“Thought I'd he'p you out.” She appeared embarrassed. “Seems that a body should know who his mother was, and since you said she used to be in the business, and some of the older gals work at the Silver Spur, I figgered one of ‘em might've knowed somethin’. Hope I din't get that poor woman kilt.”
Duane didn't know what to make of it. “Why should anybody kill Hazel Sanders because of me?”
“Maybe she knew somethin’ that the killer didn't want you to find out.”
“Who the hell is Sanchez?”
“He was here afore I came, but he's the worst businessman in town. He could triple his income if he'd just clean up that shithouse he calls a saloon. You don't think he did it, do you?”
Silence came over the Silver Spur Saloon as the new sheriff appeared in the doorway. A few desultory drunkards sat at the bar, with several others passed out on tables. The bartender stood near the cashbox and read a Spanish language newspaper.
“Where's Sanchez.”
“In his office, señor, but I would not bother him if I were you.”
Duane rapped hard on the door, then turned the knob. A man sat in an opulently upholstered chair with stuffing bursting through rips. His shoulders were bunched, his eyes drooped, and a glass of mescal sat on the table next to him, illuminated by a faint flickering oil lamp.
“I've got to talk with you,” Duane said.
“I am not well.”
Duane straddled a chair backwards, rested his arms on top, and peered into Sanchez's eyes. “Wake up. I have to ask you a few questions.”
A tear flowed from the corner of Sanchez's eye. “How could anyone kill such a gentle creature?”
“It was probably one of your customers. You got any idea who it might be?”
“So many people come and go here, they all look the same to me.”
“Maggie told me that you were going to ask your gals about the wife of Joe Braddock. Did you do it?”
Sanchez leaned toward Duane and narrowed his eyes. “When I say I am going to do something, sefior, I do it. If you want to know what Hazel said, she did not say anything, but she was not happy, I noticed. But women, they are always that way, no? If it is not their hair, then it is their clothes, and if it is not their clothes, it is something else, the poor little dears.” Sanchez sniffled, and wiped his nose with his handkerchief.
“Did she have any friends?”
“Belle Watkins.”
“Where can I find her?”
A thin pale face appeared in the crack of the door. “What do you want?” “Official business.”
She glanced at his tin badge, then widened the door. He entered her small, ramshackle room, exactly like the one in which the victim had been found. Belle Watkins was mid-forties, sickly and sad, thin, medium height, with gray-streaked blonde hair.
“I was wondering if you could tell me who might've killed Hazel.”
“Don't know nawthin’ ‘bout it,” she replied.
She appeared unsettled and frightened. Perhaps the killer had threatened her personally, Duane guessed. “Did Sanchez ask you about Joe Braddock's women?”
“I remember him sayin’ somethin’ ‘bout it.”
“Joe Braddock was my father, and I was wondering if Hazel was killed to keep her quiet.”
She fixed him in her bleary eyes. “I don't know nawthin’ ‘bout it,” she replied, “but if'n I was you, I'd ride out of town and never think of yer father and mother again.”
Duane was startled by her sudden change of mood. “What makes you say that?”
“A word to the wise,” she replied mysteriously.
“Have you ever heard of Joe Braddock?”
“He had a gang and killed some people—that's all I know. Now if'n you don't mind, I'd like to get some sleep. It's been a long night.”
Duane crossed the street, more confused than ever. Belle Watkins is scared, he concluded, as he entered the Last Chance Saloon. The bartender poured a cup of coffee, and Duane carried it to an occupied table against the back wall. Four outlaws saw him coming, gathered their cards and drinks, and searched for another venue.
Duane dropped onto one of the chairs. He felt sleepy and wide awake at the same time, with rattled nerves and aching eyeballs. I've got to stop drinking so much coffee, he reflected, as he drained the cup. For all I know, Hazel Sanders's killer could be in the Last Chance Saloon at this very moment. He scanned men reading newspapers, playing poker, and drinking whisky, while waitresses passed among them, selling drinks and their bodies.
His eyes fell on Alice Markham seated on the lap of a wizened old man in a frock coat and top hat, old enough to be her father and possibly even her grandfather. She kissed his white beard and wiggled joyfully, appeared to be enamored of him, but it was all in a night's work.
Duane felt demoralized by her tragic life, and wanted to help her. I could teach her to read, write, and do arithmetic so she could get a decent job. Where would I be if Clyde Butterfield and a few others hadn't helped me? I can't solve Hazel Sanders's murder, but maybe I can save that poor lost little gal.
He was walking toward her before he knew where he was going. Every eye in the saloon followed his progress with mounting interest. He was the man who'd shot Otis Puckett, and the son of an old-time outlaw hunte
d and killed like a rabid dog.
Duane came to a stop at the end of the table, and said softly, “Miss Alice?”
Her head spun around, but no expression showed on her painted face. The elderly gentleman glowered grouchily at Duane. “What can I do for you, Sheriff?” he asked, jealousy and hostility in his voice.
Duane ignored him. “Alice, I'd like to speak with you alone for a moment, if you don't mind.”
“I'm working, Sheriff Braddock,” the pretty painted mask replied testily.
“I said it'll only take a minute.”
She hesitated, her forehead creased, and she pinched her lips together. “I'll be right back,” she said to the old man.
“By God, you'd better,” he replied.
Duane led her toward the table where he'd been sitting, and her hand felt like a wounded little bird in his. They sat opposite each other, and her big brown eyes drilled into him. “Make it fast,” she said. “I've got bizness to take care of.”
He leaned closer and said: “Listen to me carefully. I can teach you to be a clerk, so you don't have to do this work anymore. And maybe you can even start a business yourself someday. You can live with me above the stable, and as for the funny business, I swear on my mother and father that I'll never touch you in any way, so help me God.”
She stared at him in disbelief. “I think yer loco like everybody says.”
“You don't need to act like a harlot and sit on the laps of old men if you don't want to.” He grabbed her hand. “Come on, let's go.”
She held back, as her painted face floated impassively before him. “I don't trust you.”
“You told me once that you didn't like your job. Well, people have to help people, like it says in the Bible.”
“Let me get this straight,” she said. “You've killed four men since you first came to town, and you're tellin’ me about the word of God?”
“I don't claim to be an angel, but I'm trying to offer you a way out of the fix you're in.”
“How do I know you won't change your mind tomorrow morning, and then I'll need to beg Maggie to take me back. At least I got my own money here. If I go with you, I'll be beholden to you.”
Duane reached into his pocket, pulled out a handful of coins, and placed them before her. “It's yours,” he said.
Her eyes goggled at the sight of so much dinero. “Where'd you get that?”
“It's a long story.”
Duane heard approaching footsteps. It was the old white-haired man threading among drinkers and gamblers. A gunbelt showed beneath his opened frock coat. He appeared semi-inebriated, his stovepipe hat sat on the back of his head, and a food stain could be seen on his lapel.
“Miss Alice,” he said, “I do believe we made a certain business arrangement.”
Duane cleared his throat. “Miss Alice is no longer employed by this establishment.”
The old man, whose name was Dillard, ignored Duane's remark. He directed his gaze at Alice and said, “If you don't come with me, I'm afraid I'll have to speak with your employer. Where I come from, a deal is a deal.” He turned to Duane. “Just because you're the sheriff, you don't scare me one goddamned bit.”
The old man went for his gun, but his arm muscles had seen better days, his judgment was contorted by too much whisky, and his eyesight had deteriorated considerably over the years. Duane plucked the weapon easily out of his hand. The old man blinked in surprise as he tried to recover his balance.
Duane held him steady with one hand. “From now on, it's against the law for you to carry a gun in this town. And if anybody sells you a gun, or gives you a gun, he'll have to deal with me.”
“But. . . but. . . !” sputtered Dillard, as everyone in the vicinity laughed uproariously. The old man's face turned red with shame, as he headed for the door. “You haven't heard the last of Charlie Dillard!”
Duane handed the gun to Alice. “Know how to use one of these?”
“Just pull back the hammer and squeeze the trigger.”
“Go to your room and pack your things. If anybody gives you any trouble, blow his head off. I'll meet you here in about a half hour.”
She gazed into his eyes. “Mister, you ain't a-gonna let me down, are you?”
“If I do, you can keep the money.”
She closed one eye and wrinkled her nose. “I still think you've got somethin’ up your sleeve.”
Maggie O'Day sat in her bath, sipping a glass of whisky, a scowl on her face. She couldn't stop thinking about young, handsome Duane Braddock in his tight black pants. “Maybe it's time I stopped drinking this stuff,” she said to herself.
She placed the glass on the floor, just as someone knocked on the door. “It's the sheriff,” said the gruff voice of Bradley Metzger.
“Send him in.”
“But yer nekkid!”
“I'm tired of arguin’ with you. Next time you start up with me, yer fired.”
“You fire me, and you'll regret it,” he said irately.
“Send him in, and keep yer threats to yerself.”
The door slammed, and Maggie wondered what to do about Bradley. He's gettin’ to be more trouble than he's worth.
Duane appeared with his hat in hand. “Sorry to bother you, ma'am, but I...”
She smiled alluringly, and as she reached for the bottle, her necklace of soapsuds lowered, revealing the tops of her pendulous breasts. Duane swallowed hard at the sight of those huge, tempting cushions.
“What's on yer mind?” she asked in a throaty burr.
“I'll be taking care of Alice Markham from now on,” he replied. “She doesn't work here anymore.”
Maggie appeared mildly disturbed, then retrieved her studied casualness. “I didn't think she's yer type.”
“She's not. By the way, Sanchez said he asked the gals about my mother, but none of them knows anything. Even Hazel Sanders's best friend is acting dumb. I don't know if Hazel was killed because of me, or what.”
“I've been in a lot of whorehouses,” replied Maggie. “Sometimes the gals fight among themselves, sometimes a pissed-off boyfriend shoots one of ‘em, and sometimes a bastard rides out of nowhere, knifes a gal, and heads fer the next town, to do it again. You look like you could use a bath.” She moved over to make room. “Want me to wash yer back?”
“Maggie, if I get into that tub with you, it'll be the end of me.”
He arose from the chair and expelled himself out the door, his head spinning with confusion. A woman old enough to be my mother has invited me to ... what? Maggie's skin had been smooth and pink, and she'd looked like a plump farm girl. Don't even think about it, he admonished himself. People will laugh if I ever took up with a woman old enough to be my mother.
He came to the main room of the saloon, but Alice wasn't there yet. A painted lady approached, swinging her hips lasciviously. “Anything I can do, Sheriff?”
“What room is Alice in?”
“Why do you want Alice, when you could have me?”
He looked her over and noticed that she was tall and thin like his first great love, Miss Vanessa Fontaine. “Her room number, please?”
“Yer no fun at all, Sheriff. Room sixteen.”
He made his way down the maze, passing couples on their way to trysts. He wondered what it was like to go to bed with one stranger after another for money. It must make a woman cold in her heart, he concluded, as he arrived at Alice Markham's door.
She opened it, wearing a plain cotton dress with no cosmetics, resembling the churchgoer, not the bawdy whore.
“I'll be ready in a few minutes. Have a seat.”
Duane sat at the edge of the bed and wondered how many men had slept with her. He was attracted by her tragedy and suffering, and couldn't bear the thought of a churchgoing woman selling her body to the highest bidder.
“This is the craziest goddamned thing I ever did,” she declared. “I don't even know you.”
He didn't respond, because he calculated that her suspicions were bottomless, and
nothing he could say would change her mind. She placed her final few belongings into her carpetbag. “I'm ready,” she said.
He carried the carpetbag to the door, while she took one last lingering look around her room. Then she followed him down the corridor, out of the whorehouse, and into her new life as first female student of the Pecos Kid.
Across the street, Charlie Dillard sat at the bar of the Desert Palace Saloon and morosely sipped whisky. He was a former stagecoach robber and cattle rustler who now earned his living as a gambler, traveling from town to town, playing the odds.
He never threw a coin into a pot unless he was reasonably certain he'd win. His excellent memory of what had been dealt provided him an edge over drink-addled cowboys or outlaws, and he never hesitated to use a fast shuffle if he thought no one was paying attention. He earned a good living, stayed in the best hotels, and wore fine tailored clothing in the latest styles from the East.
But now he was damned mad. Alice Markham had caught his attention, because she was younger than most whores, and he'd anticipated a night with her smooth firm body. But then Duane Braddock had stolen her away. Dillard lit a black stogie and blew smoke out the side of his mouth. Sensitive about his diminishing virility, he'd been humiliated publicly by Braddock in the Last Chance Saloon. Dillard would never be able to show his face there again, and it was the best saloon in town.
The older Dillard became, the more he lusted after young women. They made him a young buck again instead of an old fart. Their firm, upthrusting breasts and smooth thighs were all that he lived for.
There wasn't a damn thing he could do about Braddock, because nobody would sell him a gun. He slammed the heel of his fist on the bar and muttered, “That goddamned Braddock bastard! Isn't there anybody in this town who's got the balls to stand up to him?”
The bartender stirred next to the cashbox where he'd been sipping a cup of coffee. “Are you a-lookin’ to hire somebody fer the job?”
“Got a feller in mind?”
“There's bound to be somebody. Want me to pass the word around?”
