by Len Levinson
“I'm afraid there is,” Duane said. “Marty Schlack. Ever hear of him?”
“Sure. He was the fancy man of Hazel Sanders. Where's he at?”
“In his hotel room. Know where it is?” “Over at the Belmont Hotel. How'd it happen?” “Evidently somebody cracked him with a heavy instrument from behind, just like the blacksmith.”
The undertaker nodded thoughtfully, as Duane realized that Snodgras had known where Schlack lived. Was the undertaker the source of his own increased earnings? Duane wondered. “Where've you been in the past hour, Mister Snodgras?”
“Surely you don't think I killed Schlack.”
“How'd you know where he lived?”
“I buried a pard of his a few months ago, and now I'm burying him. How strange is life, eh? As for tonight, I was finishing the paperwork on Belle Watkins. People are getting killed in this town faster than I can arrange funerals. But don't get me wrong—I'm not complaining.” He untied the white apron that protected his clothes from the occasional fleck of blood.
An undertaker would make a good spy, Duane speculated, because he's ideally positioned for gath-ering facts about people. Duane recalled Snodgras asking personal questions prior to the burial of Twilby. The newest suspect led Duane into the room where the dead prostitute lay naked on a cot. Duane tried to be dispassionate as he examined her, but sheer revulsion shattered his defenses. The killer had to be loco, whoever he was.
The undertaker pulled his stretcher out of the closet. “I wonder what these killings're about.”
“You tell me.”
The undertaker appeared taken aback. “What makes you think I know?”
“You've been in town a long time, and I'll bet you've met just about everybody here. Were Twilby, Schlack, and the blacksmith connected in any way?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Did you ever see them together?”
“I don't think so.” The undertaker screwed up his eyes. “Why do you ask?”
“I have an unusual theory—that all the murders have been committed by the same son of a bitch.”
The undertaker appeared incredulous. “What makes you think that?”
“Have you ever heard of Sam Archer?”
“No, but I heard of a Howard Archer once.”
The undertaker's response appeared genuine, but the Pecos Kid had met many excellent liars. Duane headed back toward the center of town, the tips of his fingers in the front pockets of his jeans, trying to assess the confusion into which he'd unwittingly been plunged. The undertaker, bartenders, shopkeepers, gamblers, the blacksmith— they all hear news. A casual word here, a phrase there, and a person could put together a chronicle of events. Maybe the blacksmith got drunk in a saloon one night, mumbled something about the Pecos country, and didn't realize who was listening. What if Twilby unburdened his heart to a friend who blurted it to someone in the pay of Sam Archer.
Duane crossed the street and approached his office on the far side. The light was out behind the window, and he wondered where his deputy was. Derek Wright asks too many questions, and I don't trust him either.
Duane held the key in his right hand as he neared the door. Moonlight struck the glass window at eye level, reflecting rooftops behind him. He inserted the key into the lock, when suddenly, in the glass, his Apache eyes spotted the outline of a man's bare head emerging above the rooftops behind him.
Duane dived toward the sidewalk and rolled as a gun fired behind him. The door window blew out from the force of the bullet, but Duane wasn't there. He came up with his Colt, took quick aim, and fired a shot at the head dropping behind the peak of the roof. Then Duane charged across the street, hoping to catch the fugitive descending the rear roof of the building.
“What the hell's a-goin’ on thar!” yelled somebody nearby.
Duane ripped into the backyard and aimed his Colt high, but no one was scrambling down the roof. Then Duane spotted a misshapen figure sprawled on the ground. He inched closer, ready to fire again, but the man wasn't going anywhere.
He lay on his back, eyes wide open and staring, with a bloody ugly hole halfway down his nose. He looked like a saddle bum, and his Henry rifle lay a few feet away. Duane dropped to one knee, looked at the face of his would-be assassin, and vaguely remembered it from the saloons. The sound of running footsteps came to his ears, as townspeople crowded through the alleys, their guns drawn, faces wrenched with fear, curiosity, and panic. “What the hell happened this time!” somebody demanded.
“He tried to bushwhack me when I was opening my office door,” replied the sheriff. “Anybody recognize him?”
A nearby cowboy shrugged. “I see'd ‘im in the saloons, but I din't talk with ‘im.”
“I see'd ‘im too,” replied an outlaw with a harelip. “But he's no friend of mine, Sheriff.”
“Anybody talk with him?” Duane asked.
Nobody answered, as Duane fixed his eyes on the dead man. So there at last is the son of a bitch who's been doing all the killing. At least I got him before he got me, Duane thought.
A man in a frock coat and stovepipe hat approached with a rifle in his hand. “Reckon this is your'n now.”
Duane accepted the Henry, then pulled his victim's Colt .44, exactly like his, out of its oiled holster. The bushwhacker had the earmarks of a professional, and Duane wondered how much Old Man Archer had paid him.
“Here comes the deputy,” somebody said.
Derek Wright emerged from the alley, gun in hand, and Duane felt guilty about suspecting him, the undertaker, bartenders, parson, etcetera, of the killings. It was somebody I didn't even know about, realized Duane. It illustrates the limitations of human reason, and maybe Saint Augustine was right whereas Saint Thomas Aquinas was wrong, Duane thought.
“What's going on?” asked Wright.
“He tried to bushwhack me,” Duane replied. “Recognize him?”
Wright perched on one knee and bent over the dead man's face. “I might've seen him in the saloons. Kept to himself, as I recall.”
“I remember him from the Silver Spur,” said another voice. “He was a-tellin’ the bartender that he sleeps on the desert ‘cause he don't like hotels.”
Duane and Wright searched his pockets and found approximately fifty dollars in coins, a penknife, and a tin box of matches, but no identification. “Somebody get the undertaker,” Duane said.
Something didn't seem right to the sheriff, but he couldn't figure it out. If the stranger kept to himself, how come he knew so much about the population of Escondido? Duane tried to think his way through a convoluted web of revenge and madness, as townspeople scrutinized their new sheriff once more. Among them was Charlie Dillard, the aging gambler who'd hired Jason Smeade to shoot the sheriff. Dillard was terrified that the Pecos Kid would figure out who'd financed the attempted bushwhack.
Dillard was thinking he ought to get out of town, as he slunk back into the shadows. But years of soft living made him reluctant to travel alone, particularly since Apaches considered the region their ancestral homeland. The stagecoach wouldn't come for another two weeks, provided Apaches hadn't burned it to a crisp, along with passengers and crew.
Dillard walked swiftly along the planked sidewalk, thinking maybe he should go to his hotel and lay low for a few days. But that was the first place the sheriff'd come looking for him. He was hoping nobody had seen that gunfighter leaving his room.
The street was deserted, as most of the townspeople were still behind the Silver Spur. Dillard felt dizzy, his heart thumped beneath his vest, and globules of perspiration covered his wrinkled brow. He entered the Last Chance Saloon and headed for the bar. Only a few drunks were sitting around, unable to walk to the action. The bartender was waiting, his shaven head gleaming in the light of the coal oil lamp. “What happened?”
“Somebody tried to kill the sheriff. Give me a whisky.”
“Did he bring it off?”
“Braddock shot him in the head.”
The bartender
appeared surprised as he reached beneath the bar. Dillard watched the bartender pour whisky into a glass. Then Dillard carried it to his lips and took a swig. It burned all the way down, calming his nerves and sizzling his brain. What am I worried about? he asked himself. Nobody saw Smeade talking to me, I don't think. I'm in the clear, maybe. He recalled his initial run-in with the sheriff, and Dillard's few remaining hairs bristled with humiliation. Maybe the sheriff'll remember me, or the bartender at the Silver Spur'll testify I was lookin’ to hire somebody to shoot the son of a bitch.
Dillard's clothes felt damp, and his ears began to ping. He loved life, his pocket was full of jingles, and he didn't want to die. What should I do? he asked himself. If I get my horse out of the stable, it might draw Braddock's attention, and besides, he owns the damn stable.
Outlaws and cowboys were drifting back to the saloon, taking their places at the bar, sitting at tables, reaching for their cards, dice, and glasses of whisky and beer. Dillard heard them muttering about the sheriff's most recent victim. “A man's got to be crazy to take on Duane Braddock,” somebody said. “He's got eyes in back of his goddamned head!”
Dillard lit a cigar and puffed nervously, then sipped whisky in his trembling hand. If he says anything, I'll deny everything. I don't think he'll shoot me in cold blood, but I don't want to crowd him. Dillard felt frightened of Duane Braddock, and then, when his trepidation reached fever pitch, its object appeared through the swinging doors. Sheriff Braddock had arrived and was headed for the bar.
He's coming for me, thought the old gambler, his heart chugging noisily in his ears. Dillard contemplated reaching for his gun, but he wouldn't have a chance against the Pecos Kid. He tried to smile but his lips trembled in terror, his throat constricted, and he was having difficulty breathing. The sheriff glanced at him, and something snapped inside Dillard's chest. The gambler was ravaged by pain that lasted a brief instant, and then the world went black.
Duane Braddock reached for his Colt as a man dropped to the floor in front of him. It happened so suddenly and surprisingly Duane didn't know what it meant. The saloon went silent except for a few drunken conversations occurring against the far wall. Duane and everyone in the vicinity ogled the dead man. “Not another one,” Duane muttered.
It occurred to him that he'd heard no shot. Duane bent over the body and recognized the warm corpse as Alice Markham's former swain. He didn't have a mark on him. Duane pressed his ear against the gambler's chest, but detected no heartbeat. Duane had never seen anyone die of natural causes before his very eyes.
“Probably a stroke,” said somebody in the crowd. “Same thing happened to my grandaddy. One minute he was here—next minute he was gone.”
The old gambler looked like he was sleeping on the floor next to the spittoon. “Somebody get Snodgras,” said Duane. Then he sat at the bar and found himself feeling sorry for the poor undertaker who'd been running around all night, lugging corpses. At least this death has nothing to do with me, Duane thought. If things don't settle down in Escondido pretty soon, there won't be an Escondido left.
Deputy Derek Wright arrived at the saloon and spotted the body on the floor. “Now what?” he asked.
“Natural causes,” Duane said. “Don't blame it on me.”
“That's Charlie Dillard, the gambler,” declared Wright. “Hell, I played a few hands of blackjack with him yesterday. I always thought he was a no-good son of a bitch.” The deputy leaned against the bar and raised his finger in the air. “Barkeep?”
The man in the apron poured a glass of whisky in front of Derek Wright. Duane felt remorseful for suspecting the ex-soldier of trying to kill him, yet couldn't understand how the unknown bushwhacker had learned so much about the people of Escondido. What if there are two of them? Duane wondered, as he perused the profile of his deputy with new interest.
The deputy gulped whisky. “What's on your mind, kid?”
“I guess the bushwhacker was watching me for a long time, and I didn't even know it.”
“I wonder who paid him to kill you.”
“Sam Archer, I'll bet. I can't figure out how the bushwhacker learned so much about the people in this town, since nobody knew him.”
“You didn't expect everybody to tell the truth, did you?”
“How about you, Derek. Do you tell the truth?”
The ex-cavalry officer winked. “Sometimes.”
Duane had another mild headache, as his mind whirred with questions. Did the bushwhacker act alone? Was he linked to the other killings? “I hate this goddamned town,” Duane said bitterly. “Wish I never came here. How about you, Derek? What're you doing in Escondido?”
“Working my way to Monterrey. You ever been to bed with a Mexican girl?”
Duane preferred not to talk intimately about women. He finished his cup of coffee, and the dour bartender refilled it promptly. The doors were flung open, and the cadaverous undertaker carried his stretcher into the Last Chance Saloon. He came to a halt in front of the corpse and asked, “What happened this time?”
“Just fell down and died,” replied Duane. “Natural causes.”
“There's so many dead people in my house, I'll have to put this one in the kitchen. Can somebody give me a hand?”
A few cowboys helped the undertaker roll the corpse onto the stretcher, then carried the stiffening gambler toward the door. Duane settled onto his barstool, sipped his cup of coffee, and tried to understand the mawkish incident. Is life that fragile?
Duane's sharp Apache eyes rested on the bartender hurrying back and forth behind the bar, pouring whisky and beer, collecting money, and perspiring onto his white shirt. Everyone who comes to Escondido stops at the Last Chance Saloon, reflected Duane. This bartender hears scraps of conversations, vows, deals, and even confessions from lips loosened by alcoholic beverages. “Hey, you,” Duane said.
“What can I do for you, Sheriff?” the bartender replied, as a drop of perspiration fell from the tip of his nose to the bar.
“What's your name?”
“Smiley.” The bartender wore a gold earring in his left lobe. His nose looked like it must have been broken in a fight long ago. Duane had never seen the man smile.
“When you get a chance, go to the undertaker's house and have a gander at the feller who tried to bushwhack me tonight. I'd be interested in what you know about him.”
“Yes sir.”
Smiley launched himself toward another part of the bar, as Duane glanced at Wright. “Did you ever feel that everything was upside down?”
“All the time,” the ex-officer said with a grin. “That's life, isn't it?”
Duane wanted to confide in Wright, but still didn't trust him. “There's no point in two lawmen drinking in the same saloon. You cover this side of the street, and I'll take the other side. If you need me for anything, just holler.”
On the sidewalk, balmy desert breezes wafted over Duane. He crossed over, entered the Silver Spur Saloon, and gazed at wall-to-wall cowboys, outlaws, and whores. Duane was ready for anything, including folks dropping dead at his feet.
A squat husky fellow with a black beard, black hat, and black leather vest walked toward him. “My name's Dowd. Can I have a word with you, Sheriff?”
“What's on your mind?”
“My pards and I'd like to talk ... business.”
Curious, Duane followed Dowd to a circular table in the middle of the floor, around which sat four mean-looking hombres. Duane took his place among them, keeping his hand near his Colt, while Dowd dropped to a chair opposite him. Dowd looked both ways, lowered his voice, and said, “There's a stage that travels from El Paso to Santa Fe at the end of the month, and we was a-plannin’ to rob it. How'd you like to git cut in?”
Duane sat solidly, letting the proposition sink in. “You're talking to the wrong sheriff.”
Dowd leaned forward and whispered confidentially, “This ain't no ordinary stage, Sheriff Braddock. A bank is a-shippin’ ten thousand dollars to another bank. It'll have
a driver, two shotgun guards, and a few passengers. We'll take ‘em by surprise on a lonely stretch of trail, but we could use another fast hand. You'll git one-quarter of the take if'n you throw in with us.”
Duane wondered if he could arrest them before they committed the crime. Again, he recognized his ignorance of the law. “I'm going to pretend that this conversation never happened,” he said as he arose from the table.
He backed away, hand near his Colt, and leaned his elbow on the bar.
“What's yer poison?” asked the bartender.
Duane didn't want to drink more coffee because his brain was rattled enough already. “Nothing right now.”
A tall, thin man with a long nose snickered at the end of the bar. Duane glanced at him, then examined other denizens of the saloon. God only knows how many vicious crimes have been concocted in this cesspool, the sheriff thought.
He knew that Texas was filled with criminals from all parts of America, and the worst of the worst ended up in border towns. Disgusted, Duane returned to his office, sat in his chair, and rolled a cigarette.
He was relaxing when suddenly the door was flung open. An elderly, spiderlike cowboy with a white mustache and sorrowful eyes stood before him, malevolence on his face. “Are you the Pecos Kid!” he demanded.
“So what if I am,” Duane replied.
“They say yer the fastest hand in town, but I ain't afraid of you, do you hear me?” The drunkard wobbled from side to side as he tried to draw his gun, but his hand trembled and kept missing the grips. Duane arose, easily disarmed the drunkard, spun him around, pushed him into the jail cell, and turned the lock. Then he returned to his desk.
What should I do with him now? he asked himself. Who'll feed him, and when will his trial take place? Duane vaguely remembered reading about habeas corpus in the monastery in the clouds. A person accused of a crime has a right to a speedy trial. I'll hold him until he sobers up, since we don't have a judge.
The door opened and a short dumpy man with a big belly huffed into the office. “Sheriff, you've got to come right away! It's a knife fight back of the Longhorn Saloon!”
