Outlaw Hell

by Len Levinson

  “Mister, I'm trying to run a decent town here. Maybe it's time you moved on.”

  Arnold smiled knowingly. “I git it. Yer just a-jackin’ up the price. How's about two-fifty? He lives in El Paso, and you can ride there and be back inside a month.”

  “If I ever see you in this town again, I'm going to arrest you. Now if you don't mind, I'd like to finish my supper.”

  “How's about three hundred?”

  Duane yanked his Colt. “Get out of town.”

  “I can't figger you out, kid. Are you who they say?”

  “I'm worse,” Duane replied, aiming down the barrel of his Colt.

  Arnold arose and backed away. Duane waited until he was out the door, then resumed his meal. They believe I'm as wicked as they, he figured. Every time I turn around, it's something more scurrilous than last time. Places like Sodom and Gomorrah still exist, and I'm sheriff of one of them.

  He cleaned off his plate and was sopping the gravy with a hunk of biscuit when he heard a voice on the street. “Sheriff, help!”

  Duane was on his feet in an instant. He drew his gun and headed for the doors when they exploded open and a man in a frock coat appeared, his eyes darting around in panic. “Somebody's kilt the black-smith!”

  Duane couldn't move for a few moments, then he ran toward the doors, burst outside, and sped toward the blacksmith's shop. A crowd was gathered in front, their heads silhouetted by flickering flames in the forge. They appeared stunned and alarmed as he pushed through them. The stink of scorched flesh smacked him as he spotted the black-smith lying face down in his forge, a dent in back of his head, sizzling like a barbecue.

  Paralyzed, Duane stood near the forge and reflected upon his conversation with the blacksmith. Then Duane remembered Twilby's murder and the seemingly unrelated slashing of Hazel Sanders. The sheriff's mind swam with the enormity of the crimes. He felt nauseous and reached toward a post for support. It can't be, he thought. His once-solid world cracked apart, as standards of justice that he'd lived by all his life came crashing down around his ears.

  The crowd peered through the front door of the blacksmith's shop. “Looks like he's a-talkin’ to himself,” somebody said with a chortle.

  “Strangest thang I ever see'd,” another replied. “Just a-standin’ thar a-watchin’ Rafferty cook.”

  The townspeople tried to understand their young, deadly new sheriff. Some feared him, others were doubtful concerning his sanity, but most esteemed his fast hand. “I wonder if he's a-gonna stand thar all night?” somebody asked. “Poor Rafferty'll be cooked to a crisp if somethin’ ain't done soon.”

  Their voices brought Duane to his senses. He grabbed Rafferty's boots, pulled him out of the forge, then examined the wound in back of the blacksmith's skull, as the stench of roasting meat reached his nostrils. The death blow had been caused by a blunt instrument such as a hammer. Duane found several on the workbench, then noticed one lying near the forge. He brought it close to his Apache eyes. Blood and hair were smeared on the end.

  He pored over the blunt instrument, but there was nothing that could link it to the killer. Footprints of all sizes covered the floor, many with pointed cowboy boots. Duane tried to feel the killer's emanations, but instead his throat furled at the odor of sizzling flesh.

  Duane wanted to talk with someone, but who? Did the blacksmith have a secret enemy? he wondered. Is it a coincidence that he told me about my father today? What about Amos Twilby and Hazel Sanders? Are these random killings connected to Joe Braddock?

  Deputy Derek Wright in his old Confederate cavalry officer's hat appeared in the doorway. “What the hell happened here?” he asked.

  “He was hit in the head with a hammer, then thrown into the forge.”

  Wright glanced around the room and appeared genuinely befuddled. “What a mess. Who d'ya think did it?”

  “That's what I'm trying to figure out. Did you know him?”

  “I've seen him around. Does he have a wife?”

  The undertaker appeared at the edge of the crowd, carrying his stretcher. “Will somebody give me a hand with ‘im?” he asked sleepily.

  “I'll he'p you, Caleb,” said a citizen standing nearby.

  The undertaker and his volunteer rolled the blacksmith onto the canvas. “Busiest week I ever had,” said the cheerful undertaker.

  “Where does his wife live?” Duane asked.

  “Not married. He lived in back of this shop.”

  “Any friends that you know of?”

  “Kept pretty much to himself. I always figured he was wanted for something, like most everybody else in town.”

  The undertaker and his helper carried the baked blacksmith out of his shop, as the crowd looked at Duane expectantly. “Let's search the place,” Duane said to his deputy, trying to sound official. “Maybe the killer left something behind.”

  As Duane and Derek Wright sifted through the blacksmith's belongings, Belle Watkins lay with a waddie from the Circle Y in her tiny room. The whisky-smelling cowboy kissed and mauled her clumsily while she added numbers in her mind. She was planning a quick move to El Paso as soon as she raised the fare. In the midst of her calculations, a commotion erupted in the hall outside her door. The waddie bounded out of bed, drew his gun from the holster on the bedpost, opened the door a crack, and peeped outside. “What the hell's a-goin’ on?”

  A woman's voice came to him. “Somebody just kilt the blacksmith!”

  The cowboy latched the door, holstered his gun, and crawled back into bed. But the prostitute seemed to've lost her passion. The cowboy placed the palm of his hand on her shriveled breast. “What's wrong?”

  “Nothin’,” she replied.

  He couldn't see her face in the darkness, and didn't want to anyway. She seemed scared, but he had more important things to worry about, such as getting his money's worth. “Don't give up now,” he said, pleading. “I ain't a-finished yet!”

  Duane and Derek Wright worked their way across Rafferty's shop, but found only implements of the blacksmith trade. They located the room in back where he'd lived, overturned the mattress, poked through the dresser, and even searched behind the portrait on the wall of General Pierre Gustave Toutant Beauregard, hero of First Manassas. They uncovered old clothes, business records, other personal effects, and a jug of whisky from which Deputy Wright took regular nips. He offered the bottle to Duane, but Duane was preoccupied as usual by the riddle of his life.

  He believed the murders had something to do with his father, although he had no proof. He recalled how Rafferty had glanced suspiciously into the street before spilling the beans about the Polka Dot Gang. Had he been afraid of somebody special, or was he just being careful in general?

  I mustn't make unwarranted accusations, because that's what happened to my father. I should talk with somebody who's been in town a long time and knows everybody. Maggie's my best bet, but what if she's the killer? It could be anybody. Duane's head spun with confusion, and he dropped to the edge of the bed.

  Wright pulled up a chair and sat opposite him. “What's wrong, kid?”

  “It doesn't make sense for both of us to investigate one murder. You keep an eye on the saloons, and I'll try to figure out who killed this blacksmith. Do you have a theory, by the way?”

  Wright narrowed his left eye. “I think you take this job too seriously, kid. Nobody cares about the blacksmith. He was a loner like you and me.”

  “Where've you been since I saw you last?”

  Wright grinned. “Hell, you don't think that I did it, do you?”

  “Everybody's a suspect.”

  “I was making my rounds. How about you?”

  “I was having supper at the Last Chance Saloon. Funny how you always show up late for things.”

  “What's that supposed to mean?”

  “It wasn't you who tried to shoot me the other night, was it, Derek?”

  “If I'd tried to shoot you, kid, you wouldn't be here right now.”

  Belle Watkins's hands s
hook as she stood in front of the mirror and wiped cosmetics from her tormented features. Then she changed to a plain calico dress that fell to her ankles, and she resembled somebody's mother. She reached toward the dresser, withdrew a pint bottle of whisky from the top drawer, and took a swig. Tiptoeing toward the door, she was on her way to the sheriff's office, to ask for protection.

  A couple passed in the dark corridor, forcing Belle to lurk behind her door. Then she ventured out, closed the door silently behind her, and navigated dark corridors, gasping audibly, expecting somebody to grab her in the darkness at any moment. A lone prostitute approached in the dimness, and Belle watched her closely. For all I know, it could be her.

  The prostitute swished by, and Belle continued her treacherous journey toward the back door. Duane Braddock'll save me, she figured. When I tell him what I know about his mother, he'll fall on his ass.

  Belle arrived at the back door, turned the knob, and peered outside. The yard was silent and gloomy. A shiver passed through her as she stepped into the yard.

  “Going somewhere?” asked a voice behind her.

  Her eyes distended with horror. As she opened her mouth to scream, something incredibly sharp pierced her throat. The last thing she saw was a trash barrel. Then she toppled toward the ground, where she lay still in a widening pool of blood. The dark figure made sure the cut was deep enough, then padded softly into the alley, his footsteps swallowed by the laughter of men in saloons, the plunking of a piano, and mournful cries of coyotes in far-off escarpments, serenading the moon.

  Maggie O'Day liked to make regular appearances in her saloon, to see if she could catch any of her bartenders stealing. She was also a local celebrity, the ex-whore who'd become madam, and it was good for business to let men see what success could do for a woman. She wore a white-and-purple-striped satin dress with a low-cut bodice. Her hair was adorned with orange ribbons, and she dripped with jewelry. Cowboys and outlaws stared at her with wonder as she passed among them, puffing her trademark panatella cigar.

  “How's it goin’ boys?” she asked out the corner of her mouth.

  She carried about her an air of audacious abandon, as if she might slap somebody in the mouth, or throw a table out the window. She stood at the end of the bar, and the man in the apron nervously brought her a glass of whisky. All eyes in the vicinity were on her as she raised the glass to her lips. They made her feel like a duchess instead of boss of a ramshackle whorehouse.

  The piano player struggled to play “The Yellow Rose of Texas,” while a crowd of drunkards howled the words off-key. Maggie wished she could hire singers and dancers, but there was no room for a stage. I need a bigger saloon, but I sure as hell don't want to stay in Escondido forever.

  A tin badge flashed at the door, and then the new sheriff stepped into the Last Chance Saloon. He surveyed the scene before him, hand near his gun. Half boy and half man, he made his way across the floor as weatherbeaten cowboys and dangerous outlaws stepped to the side. When the sheriff noticed the reigning queen of the Last Chance Saloon, a smile came over his youthful features, and he inclined toward her.

  She raised an eyebrow and puffed her panatella. “Who d'ya think killed the blacksmith?”

  “That's what I came to ask you. Can we talk alone?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Anytime.”

  She headed toward the back office, and Duane followed at a respectful distance, his eyes drawn inexorably toward her rear axle assembly. When they arrived at her office, she sat behind the desk, and he sprawled on the chair in front of her. “What can I do fer you?” she asked.

  “Just hear me out,” Duane replied. “I know it might sound strange, but bear with me. Today the blacksmith told me that he'd met my father, and tonight he's dead. Yesterday you asked about my mother at the Silver Spur Saloon, and then somebody cut Hazel Sanders's throat. The previous night, Amos Twilby told me a few things about my father, somebody shot him in the head, then somebody tried to shoot me while I was in bed. I can't help thinking that all these killings are mixed up with me and my father. Do you have any idea what might be going on?”

  She thought for a few moments. “Maybe it's time to find yourself another town.”

  “If I'm right,” Duane continued, “whoever's doing the killing probably came here within the past six months, because that's when my name first appeared in newspapers farther north. You know this town better than anybody, Maggie. Can you think of anybody suspicious who arrived here since then?”

  “Everybody's suspicious in this town includin’ you, Mister Pecos Kid.”

  “When you first arrived, were Rafferty, Twilby, and Hazel Sanders here?”

  “Rafferty and Twilby was, but Hazel Sanders came later.”

  “Were Rafferty and Twilby friends?”

  “I never see'd ‘em drinkin’ together, but maybe they met on the sly. You can't tell about people in a town like this. Everybody's playin’ cat-and-mouse with everybody else.”

  Duane reached into his pocket and pulled out the polka dot bandanna. “You know what this is?”

  She looked at it. “'Course I know what it is. It's a polka dot bandanna. So what?”

  “It was Twilby's, and I think he was in the Polka Dot Gang with my father. A man named Sam Archer from the Pecos country had my father killed, and now he doesn't want me to find out about it. But it's too late—I already know just about everything. What do you think of that?”

  Maggie opened her mouth to reply, when someone screamed in the corridor. A heavily rouged whore opened the door. “Somebody's been kilt behind the Silver Spur!”

  Duane jostled his way outside, and men were streaming into alleys on either side of the Silver Spur. He joined the flow of writhing bodies, and a woman shrieked: “Oh my God!” Panic and dread permeated the town like poison gas as Duane made his way through the alley. He came to the backyard and found a crowd gathered near a limp figure lying on the ground. “Lemme through,” he told them, shoving drunken cowboys and vicious outlaws out of his way.

  He arrived at the inner circle of painted harlots kneeling around a bloodied woman sprawled on her back, eyes wide open and staring at the glittering Milky Way high in the sky. He examined her face, and was startled to see the death mask of Belle Watkins. It can't be, he said to himself.

  Sanchez stood at the edge of the crowd, weeping openly. “Somebody is killing my babies,” he moaned. “Who would do such a thing?”

  Duane felt as if he was going to black out. He entered the back door of the Silver Spur, found the bar, and poured himself a glass of whisky. He didn't believe in drinking on duty, but downed the contents in three rapid gulps and then waited for the kick. When it came in the middle of his chest, he coughed uproariously, but it steadied him. Then he sat on a stool and glared at himself in the mirror. This was getting serious.

  Then he thought of a heinous new possibility. He drew his Colt, checked the loads, and ran toward the door. Down the street he sped and entered the lobby of the Belmont Hotel. “Can I help you, Sheriff?” asked the desk clerk.

  “Is Marty Schlack in?”

  “How should I know?”

  “I want his key.”

  The clerk hesitated, then tossed it to the sheriff. Duane held the Colt ready to fire as he moved swiftly down the corridor. He found Marty Schlack's door and knocked, but got no response. He turned the knob, and the door opened a crack on a dark and ominously still room. Aiming the gun straight ahead, Duane prowled forward, ready to shoot anything that moved.

  His toe touched something large and soft. He lit the lamp, and the wick illuminated Marty Schlack lying face down on the planked floor, the back of his head caved in by a powerful blow.

  The immensity of the deed staggered Duane. Somebody had succeeded in killing everybody connected with his parents! It was preposterous, unthinkable, beyond his wildest hallucinations, yet it was happening, and he didn't have a clue why.

  He noticed a piece of paper lying on the dresser. Holding it to the light, he read the
crudely printed letters: If I was you, I'd head for California.

  “Schlack's dead,” Duane told the hotel clerk.

  The clerk appeared not to understand, but Duane considered him a suspect too. He knows about all guests, and if he goes to saloons, he'd pick up other information as well, Duane surmised. Maybe he's Old Man Archer's spy in Escondido.

  Baffled, Duane walked down the middle of the main street. His Apache ears heard a footstep in the darkness behind him. He spun around, but nothing was there. He moved toward the alley, and someone inside broke into a run. Duane trotted after him, boot steps echoing off unpainted wooden walls. He saw the silhouette of a man at the end of the alley for an instant before the stranger disappeared around the corner.

  Cautiously Duane advanced down the alley, pausing every few steps, ready to fire. He came to the end and peeked at the backyard full of outbuildings and trash. Somebody could be hiding, drawing a bead on me, Duane realized. He crouched in the shadows and waited a while, but nothing moved. Finally, convinced that the culprit had got away, he dusted himself off and continued his trek toward the undertaker's office.

  In the backyard, cowering behind a pile of firewood, Jason Smeade heard Duane Braddock's footsteps recede into the night. Smeade's face was covered with perspiration, and his breath came in gasps. He'd been creeping up on Braddock, his gun cocked, ready to finish the assignment, but Braddock had ears like a fox.

  Braddock had nearly caught him, Smeade realized. Smeade had been terrified that the sheriff would search the woodpile. He didn't want a shootout at close range with the Pecos Kid. This was going to be harder than he had thought. He couldn't sneak up on the Pecos Kid. He'd have to take him from a long distance with a good rifle, like his Henry.

  The undertaker's face looked like the skull of a steer as he opened his front door. “What can I do for you, Sheriff? Don't tell me there's another body!”