Outlaw Hell

by Len Levinson

  Dillard flipped a ten-dollar gold piece onto the bar. “I'll be at the Belmont Hotel if anybody's interested in making a fast hundred dollars.”

  The stable smelled of hay and horses. Sam Goines came out of his office, lantern in hand. His eyes widened at the sight of the young white woman.

  “Miss Markham'll be staying here for a while,” Duane explained. “She'll be my student, and I might need to borrow some of your mother's books. Are there extra blankets?”

  “I'll get some, boss.”

  Duane lugged the carpetbag up the ladder to the loft, as Alice followed. “This is where you'll sleep,” he explained. “It may not look like much, but it's better than the Last Chance Saloon.”

  She gazed out the window at the moon hanging like a silver slipper in the blazing starry sky. What'm I doin’ here, she asked herself. Meanwhile, Duane's eyes caressed her pert profile. She's not that bad-looking, but I promised I won't lay a hand on her, and by God I won't.

  Sam joined them in the loft, blankets over his shoulder. He arranged a bed for Alice behind the barricade, then returned to the lower depths of the stable. Duane blew out the lantern, sat on his bedroll, and pulled off his boots.

  Ten feet away, Alice stared at Duane's outline as he reclined in the darkness. I've put my life in his hands, and don't even know him. He's killed four men, they call him the Pecos Kid, but he's a churchgoer. Her experience with men was considerable and multivaried, but she'd never met anybody like Duane Braddock.

  A faint snore emitted from his nostrils, as she undressed behind a pile of hay. Then, clad only in her underwear, she crawled beneath the blankets. If he comes over here, I prob'ly won't put up much of a fight, she thought with a secret little smile. Easier to deal with one man than twenty every night, so what'm I complainin’ ‘bout?

  There was a knock on the door at four in the morning, and Charlie Dillard opened bloodshot eyes. “Who's there?”

  A deep voice came through the door: “I heer'd you want to see me.”

  Dillard crawled out of bed, wearing striped cotton drawers. He cocked the hammer of his Smith & Wesson, then opened the door a crack. A dark shadow wearing a cowboy hat stood in the doorway.

  “I don't believe I know you,” said Dillard.

  “Put that gun away.”

  The man spoke menacingly. He wore a gun low on his hip, tied to his leg with a leather thong, gun-fighter style. He entered the room and closed the door behind him.

  “I want fifty dollars in advance.”

  Dillard couldn't make out the gunfighter's face in the darkness. “What if I give you fifty, you ride out of town, and I never see you again?”

  The shadow grumbled something unintelligible as he headed for the door. Dillard grabbed his arm. “What's yer hurry? I was only makin’ a joke. Here, I'll give you the fifty dollars.” The old gambler fumbled with his matches. “Let me light a lamp.”

  The shadow plucked the matches out of his bony fingers and tossed them across the room. “Who d'ya want killed?”

  “Duane Braddock, the sheriff. They call him the Pecos Kid.”

  “Not fer long.”

  Dillard reached into his pocket and pulled out some coins. He counted them in a ray of light peeking through the window, but the stranger was shrouded in darkness, hat low over his eyes. All Dillard could see was that he was of average height and average build.

  “What's your name?”

  “I ain't got one.”

  “There's something I should tell you. Do you know that Braddock shot Otis Puckett a couple of months ago not far from here.”

  The stranger harumphed. “Was only a matter of time before somebody killed that fat fuck. It don't make a hill of beans to me.”

  Dillard passed him the coins, and their hands touched. The stranger's hand was callused and he had a rough manner. “I'll be back fer the rest in a few days.”

  The stranger left the room. Dillard sat at the edge of his bed and wondered who he was.

  The stranger crossed the lobby and opened the front door of the Belmont Hotel. He glanced both ways along the street that stretched before him. His hand stayed near his gun, and he smiled faintly as he played with the coins in his pocket.

  The assignment had arrived in the nick of time. He'd been tapped out when he'd heard the bartender talking about the Pecos Kid. Now he had a pocketful of good times. Funny how life yanks a man around, he thought.

  His name was Jason Smeade, a killer-for-hire on a vast frontier where a man notorious in one town would be unknown in the next. Smeade found his chestnut gelding in front of the Desert Palace Saloon, climbed into the saddle, and rode sullenly out of town. He didn't trust hotel rooms where enemies might sneak up on him as he'd snuck up on Dillard.

  Wherever he went, there was always someone to pay for his services. He often was amazed by the hatred in the world, but felt none of it himself, nor love either. He killed calmly, professionally, and routinely, like a butcher. He never had a second thought, and remorse was unknown to him.

  His horse plodded along, and Smeade held his gun in his right hand as he peered into windows for possible rifles and pistols aimed at him. He never knew when he might see a face from his past.

  He rode onto the desert, as a coyote howled in a far-off cavern. Smeade didn't believe in heaven or hell, and had nothing to live for. When it was your time to go, that was it, thought Smeade. Somebody's gonna kill Duane Braddock sooner or later, and it might as well be me.

  Smeade searched the darkness for a cave or hollow where no one could sneak up on him. If it rained, he'd wrap himself in his poncho. Better to be wet than dead, he figured, as he rocked back and forth in the saddle.

  Smeade had killed so many men, he'd stopped counting long ago. His picture adorned numerous walls, and he'd had a few run-ins with lawmen in the past, but a weasel could always find a crevice in which to hide. Maybe he'd go to Hermosillo after he killed the Pecos Kid, he thought, as the gelding marched steadily into the black desperate night.

  Alice awoke with a start, a premonition in her heart, and at first didn't know where she was. She smelled hay, then noticed the Big Dipper gleaming through the skylight. She perched on her elbows and gazed across the loft at the form sleeping beneath blankets. He hadn't attacked her yet, and she wondered what his game was. He's prob'ly a-tryin’ to catch me off guard, but I'll be ready for ‘im when he comes. I'll put up a bit of a fight, and then give in. She smiled secretly again, and touched her lips to the fuzzy blanket.

  “Everything all right?” asked the darkness.

  She'd thought he was fast asleep, but maybe now he'd make his move. “I'm fine,” she replied.

  “Get some sleep. I want to start your lessons early tomorrow.”

  She was more surprised than disappointed when he rolled over. The hayloft became still again, except for crickets chirping love songs on the desert. He don't act like other men, she thought, but he's only a-tryin’ to trick me. When I least expect it—that's when he'll grab my ass. They're all bastards no matter how pretty they are. You just can't trust ‘em.

  She drifted to sleep, dreaming of the farm back in Ohio. She was standing in her bedroom with her stepfather, and he removed her clothes roughly. Only four years old, she was afraid he'd spank her. But he didn't spank her. He was doing something even worse. She'd dreamed the incident often during her tumultuous life, but could never, in the morning, remember the most terrible thing that ever happened to her.

  CHAPTER 7

  NEXT MORNING, DUANE LEANED BACK IN his office chair, puffed a cigarette, and pondered the murder of Hazel Sanders. How do real sheriffs investigate crimes? he asked himself. What would Saint Thomas Aquinas do if he were sheriff of Escondido?

  The door opened, and Derek Wright, wearing his old Confederate cavalry officer's hat, strode into the office. “Howdy,” he said with a charming smile. “You offered me a job last night, and I've decided to take it.”

  Duane's distrust was reawakened, as he recalled the dark drops on Wright'
s pants. The ex-officer sat on the far side of the desk and crossed his legs, and Duane glanced at his pointed cowboy boots. “If you're crazy enough to take the job, I'm crazy enough to hire you. We don't have an oath, and you can start right now. Why d'you want to be my deputy.”

  “I'm flat broke on my ass. That a good enough reason?” Wright glanced around the office. “Nice spread you've got here.”

  Duane pointed to the Confederate general hanging on the wall. “Do you know who that is?”

  “That's Albert Sidney Johnston, one of the greatest generals the Confederacy ever had.”

  “What was so great about him?”

  Wright appeared surprised. “How come you don't know who Albert Sidney Johnston is?”

  “I was raised in an orphanage far from here, and there are big gaps in my education, I'm afraid.”

  “Some say that Albert Sidney Johnston could've saved the Confederacy, but he got shot at Shiloh early in the war.”

  “If you ask me,” the ex-acolyte said, pontificating, “I don't think anything could've saved the Confederacy, because slavery was morally wrong.”

  “Is that so? Well, there are folks in New York, Boston, and Philadelphia who work in factories and live far worse than my daddy's slaves. Do you know what a New York slum looks like? Yankees blame us for everything that's wrong in the world, but they should clean up their own backyards first. Listening to you talk, it's no wonder somebody's trying to kill you.”

  Let he who is without sin cast the first stone, Duane thought. “If you become my deputy, some-body might try to kill you, too. Do you need money that bad?”

  “In a word, yes, and there aren't any other jobs in Escondido that I'd be interested in right now.”

  “Why don't you become a cowboy?” asked Duane.

  “Ranch work is what darkies are for. What's my first assignment, Sheriff?”

  “Who d'ya think killed Hazel Sanders?”

  Wright shrugged. “How the hell should I know?”

  “I'm also trying to figure out who took a potshot at me night before last.”

  “I don't imagine a sheriff would be the most popular person in town. Why'd you take the job?”

  “That's what I'm trying to figure out,” Duane replied.

  Maggie O'Day sat behind her desk, a cameo brooch in a gold frame pinned to the mammoth right breast of her orange silk dress. “Look what the cat just drug in,” she said, a panatella sticking out the corner of her mouth.

  Duane sat on the chair in front of her. “I just hired a deputy named Derek Wright. Ever hear of him?”

  “I can't keep track of all the saddle bums who come to town. What's he done?”

  “That's what I'm trying to figure out.”

  “Tell the blacksmith to make another badge. His name's Rafferty, and his shop's at the other end of town.” She appeared ill at ease, scratched her arm, and puffed on the panatella nervously. “I ... want to apologize fer last night. I'd had a few drinks ...” She let her voice trail off. She felt like a naughty little girl.

  “Nothing to apologize for,” Duane replied. “If things were a little different, no telling what might've happened. I wonder why the new deputy wants the job.”

  “How much'd you offer him?”

  “Seventy-five dollars a month. Can you afford it?”

  “Law and order are worth whatever we have to pay. Besides, we prob'ly won't have to ante yer salary much longer, at the rate yer a-goin’. If you keep on a-tryin’ to take on whole saloons like last night, you won't last long.”

  The blacksmith's shop was an adobe hut at the edge of town. As Duane approached, the clanging of a hammer could be heard from within. The shop had a double-wide door, just like the stable, and above it hung a sign that said Blacksmith, P.J. Rafferty.

  Next to a roaring fire, a sweating man with a hammer pounded a length of steel, sending orange sparks flying through the air. He was bald, but had long black sideburns, and sweat glistened on his shirtless, muscular torso. Duane stood to the side and rolled a cigarette as he waited for the black-smith to take a break. The sign on the wall said:

  Man to man is so unjust

  You hardly know which one to trust

  I've trusted so many, to my sorrow

  So pay me today, and I'll trust you tomorrow

  Duane noticed ropy muscles across the black-smith's back and arms. Rafferty looked like Thor, the god of War, as he slammed the anvil. Duane wondered if Rafferty was wanted like everybody else in Escondido, including the new sheriff. Finally, the blacksmith lowered his smoking hammer. “What can I do fer you?”

  Duane studied him carefully. Perhaps he was the one who'd aimed the shotgun through the window night before last, or who'd killed Hazel Sanders. “I need another tin badge. It should say Deputy Sheriff across the front.”

  “Who's the lucky man?”

  “Derek Wright. Know him?”

  The blacksmith shook his head, then took a few steps to the side so he could get a better view of the street. He appeared thoughtful. “Are you really Joe Braddock's son?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “You look a little like him.”

  Duane became electrified. “You knew my father?”

  “I had a shop in the Pecos country long time ago, and yer dad come to see me once. His horse had broke a shoe.” The blacksmith peered into the street, to make sure no one was within earshot.

  “What're you afraid of?” Duane asked.

  The blacksmith ignored his question. “I didn't know Joe Braddock had a son.”

  “He died when I was one year old, and I don't know much about him. What was he like?”

  “Him and his boys was on the run at the time I met him, and they was plumb tuckered out.”

  “Who were they on the run from?”

  “Sam Archer.”

  Duane stared at the blacksmith. For the first time, from the most unexpected place, he had gotten a name. “Who's Sam Archer?”

  “Big rancher in the Pecos country. He fought fer the Republic in the old days.” The blacksmith looked askance at Duane. “Yer Joe Braddock's son, and you don't know ‘bout Sam Archer?”

  “That's right. What did Sam Archer have against my father?”

  “You really don't know?” The blacksmith appeared surprised. “Wa'al, there was a range war, and Sam Archer hired some guns. They tracked yer father and his gang all the way to Mexico. Accordin’ to the way I heer'd it, they surrounded yer father's men, closed in, and shot all of ‘em dead, though some say a few got away.”

  Duane imagined a small embattled crew of ranchers and farmers surrounded by cold-blooded professional gunfighters. “But somebody told me once that my father was hanged.”

  “No, he weren't hanged. I was in the Pecos country at the time, and I remember.”

  “Where's the Archer ranch?”

  “Near Edgewood. I hope yer not plannin’ to go thar.”

  “Why not?”

  “If Old Man Archer hears that Joe Braddock's son is in the territory, he'll have you shot on sight. Mister Archer is a hard man, you hear me?”

  “The Pecos country is a long way from here. Why are you afraid of him in Escondido?”

  The blacksmith's eyes scrutinized the street. “Listen to me, boy. Sam Archer ain't nobody to fiddle with, and he's got spies and judges in his pocket all over Texas.” The blacksmith was alert as a cat, his eyes surveying the street.

  “Did you know Joe Braddock's woman?”

  “Joe Braddock had a lot of ‘em. I remember him and his boys in my shop like it was yesterday. A lot of folks really looked up to the Polka Dots, as we used to call ‘em. When yer paw was in my shop, he was a-talkin’ about how the fight with the Archers reminded him of the Mexican war.”

  Overcome with emotion, Duane couldn't speak. Finally, after years of wondering and searching, he'd received the true story out of nowhere. It gave him comfort to know that his father died with his gun in his hand and his boots on, fighting for his rights.

&nb
sp; “I think you been in my shop long enough, Sheriff,” the blacksmith said. “We wouldn't want folks to git thinkin’ the wrong thoughts. And you'd better not tell anybody what I said about that old son of a bitch, Sam Archer. It might be bad fer my health.”

  Duane climbed the ladder to the hayloft, his head bursting with significant new information. Alice sat with her back to a bale of hay, and looked up from her Bible as he lay down, placed his hands behind his head, and gazed at the ceiling.

  If Sam Archer has spies all over Texas, I wonder if one of them tried to shoot me behind the Last Chance Saloon, Duane mulled. Belle Watkins appeared frightened and evasive when I asked her about Hazel Sanders. What's she hiding? And who the hell is Derek Wright? How can I make Belle Watkins talk? But maybe she doesn't know anything, and Hazel's death is unconnected to me. What if I'm blowing everything out of proportion in my overactive imagination? Maybe I should leave for the Pecos country immediately and have a little chat with Old Man Archer.

  He gazed at the woman studying the Bible on the far side of the hayloft. I can't abandon her after making so many promises, because she'll only become a prostitute again. No, I'll have to wait at least a month until she's better trained in the three Rs.

  Duane heard footsteps in the stable below, drew his Colt, and lowered his head. “Who's there?”

  “Trouble at the Silver Spur,” said Derek Wright, as he climbed the ladder to the loft. His smiling face cleared the top of the hay. “A bunch of cowboys are ready to go at it.” Then he turned toward Alice and removed his old Confederate cavalry officer's hat. “I don't believe I know the lady.”

  Duane made introductions, and Wright looked at Alice with more than passing interest. “Pleased to know you, ma'am.”

  “Let's take care of those cowboys,” Duane said.

  Duane descended the ladder, as Wright gave one last lingering appraisal of Alice. “There are about twenty cowboys on each side,” the ex-officer explained. “Maybe we should lay back and let them kill each other.”