by Len Levinson
Colonel MacKenzie stood behind his desk and studied the map nailed to the wall. Through the open window, he heard hoarse shouts of drill sergeants on the parade ground, while a mounted patrol passed his window, clattering hooves and equipment. Colonel MacKenzie located Escondido on the map and saw that Fort Davis was the closest U.S. Army installation.
He sat at his desk and wrote the order:
TO: COMMANDING OFFICER
FORT DAVIS, TEXAS
Reports have been received by this headquarters of increased outlaw activity in Escondido. Dispatch a detachment there immediately, if you haven't already. Arrest Sheriff Duane Braddock and hold him for questioning. I await your report on this matter.
Ranald S. MacKenzie
Colonel, 4th U.S. Cavalry
In Command
Unaware of his expanding notoriety, Duane Braddock dined on steak and eggs that morning at a corner table of the Last Chance Saloon. He'd just finished a two-hour arithmetic lesson with Alice, and his head spun with desire. But fortunately or unfortunately, he'd made the stupid mistake of mentioning Vanessa Fontaine's name in vain, and Alice had been resentful ever since. Maybe it's all for the best, he tried to convince himself. I couldn't bring Alice Markham to the Pecos country, because her life wouldn't be worth a dollar.
Duane finished breakfast and sipped a cup of coffee. It was another peaceful day in Escondido, and no one had been shot since that bloody Saturday night more than two weeks ago. Children could play out-of-doors, and ladies promenaded on the sidewalks during the day, an unheard-of event in the era before Duane had been sheriff. No additional attempts had been made on his life, and he was starting to feel safe again.
He was biding his time before he could depart for the Pecos country. He still didn't know what he'd do when he met Old Man Archer, but a debt had to be paid and the scales balanced out. I'll worry about it when I find him, he promised himself. Duane expected to finish Alice's education in a few more weeks, then he'd hit the trail.
After breakfast, he headed for the stable, where Sam Goines had already saddled Steve. Alice sat in the office and practiced her penmanship, the tip of her tongue protruding between her lips. She didn't look at Duane as he climbed onto Steve's back and rode out the door.
Duane rocked back and forth in the saddle as Steve clomped down the main street of Escondido. A group of children watched him in wonderment from the planked sidewalk, and he touched his finger to the brim of his black cowboy hat as he passed by.
As he rode onto the desert, the town fell behind him, the sun floated midway toward the horizon, and a flock of black-and-white-striped birds flew overhead. He passed Ocotillo, Spiney Star, and Nipple cactus plants, as he browsed carefully for signs of Apaches. He'd lived among them, but they numbered many bands, some at war with each other, and they wouldn't stop to ask for credentials.
It felt good to be away from the noise and filth of Escondido. The sun shone brightly, and purple mountains in the distance seemed to pulsate with light. Duane sucked the clean desert air deep into his lungs. “I'm at my best when I'm alone,” he said to himself. The vast endless expanse made him realize how small and insignificant he was. This desert was here before I was born, and will be here long after I'm gone.
Sitting in the saddle, the sun beating down on him, he felt a kind of religious ecstasy. Something told him to get down on his knees and give thanks for his many blessings. “I haven't prayed for a long time, and it's about time.”
He pulled back Steve's reins and started to climb out of the saddle. Suddenly he heard the crack of a bullet over his head. Dirt kicked into the air a few feet away, echoing thunder came to his ears, and he was already on the ground. Another shot sent a spray of rock particles into the air, as hot lead ricocheted screamingly. Duane drew his Colt, crouched behind a boulder, and cursed himself for not yanking his Henry rifle out of its scabbard. Meanwhile, his faithful mount was running away with a forty-dollar saddle on his back.
Duane discerned the direction of his assailant from how the bullet had struck the ground. It was a lone rifleman high on the ridges, probably angry at himself for missing the shots. Duane gave silent thanks to the holy impulse that caused him to climb down from the saddle. If he'd remained on course, the bullet might've struck the back of his head.
He kept low and made plans. I'll wait until dark and then head back to town. He hoped he'd meet Steve later, because it was a long way to Escondido. His assailant hadn't been an Apache, because an Apache would creep close and take no chances on missing. He was waiting for me to go for my ride, Duane speculated. Sam Archer has sent another killer to town, or maybe this bushwhacker has been here all along, biding his time. He knows I'll be on the lookout for him when I get back, and maybe he'll give himself away by a careless word or act.
Duane smoked cigarettes and waited patiently for night to fall. The more he thought about it, the more he was forced to conclude that the stranger who'd previously tried to bushwhack him hadn't acted alone. Every citizen, outlaw, and bandito in Escondido became a possible suspect once more, including Derek Wright.
At dusk, Steve poked his head through the foliage on the other side of the arroyo. He looked both ways, then crossed over and approached shyly. Duane patted his great neck and talked to him softly as darkness fell on the desert. Then Duane climbed into the saddle and pulled the reins toward the town glowing in the distance like an open pore of purgatory.
Duane climbed down from the saddle, loosened the cinch buckle, and threw the reins over the rail. Then he hitched up his gunbelt and climbed the stairs of Apocalypse Church.
Inside were the usual members praying for forgiveness and mercy, but Alice wasn't among them. She's probably studying, and maybe I should ease up on her, Duane thought. But the sooner she learns the material, the sooner I can go after Old Man Archer. Duane sidestepped into a pew, dropped to his knees, clasped his hands together, and prayed: Dear Lord, thank you for saving my worthless life today.
Then his mind went blank. He didn't have the old religious fire anymore, and couldn't help wondering if religion was flummery like everything else. Injustice, deceit, and misery reigned everywhere, while preachers passed the collection plate. Duane wondered what he believed, and whether it made sense to believe anything.
“Sheriff?” asked a female voice.
It was Mrs. Berclair, the preacher's wife, smiling at Duane from the end of the pew. “My husband saw you praying here, and we were wondering if you might have a cup of tea with us. I baked some cookies today.”
Duane didn't care for tea, but home-baked cookies were his specialty, and he thought it might be good to palaver with a man of the cloth. “I'll have to take care of my horse first, but I'll be right back.”
“My husband is watering your horse even as we speak. This way, please.” She led him through a corridor to a kitchen with a stove, straight-backed wooden chairs, and a table covered with a red-and-white-checkered cloth.
“The reverend will be here shortly,” she said. “Have a seat.”
Duane examined the woman's stark cheekbones, bony jaw, and thick spectacles covering hazel eyes. She wasn't beautiful but conveyed a certain warmth that he found appealing.
“You were out riding today,” she said. “Aren't you afraid of Apaches?”
“I'm more afraid of the white man, to tell you the truth.”
“You sure don't act it.”
Duane had no idea what to say, for his death toll weighed heavily upon his heart. “It was a beautiful day,” he declared, in an effort to be conversational and light, the opposite of how he felt. “Not hot like August.”
The back door opened, and Reverend Berclair appeared, brimming with radiant good health, limping on his pegleg. “Howdy, Sheriff Braddock. Glad you could stop by. I just wanted to say how grateful we are for your good work here in Escondido. Things sure have settled down since you showed up.” He sat opposite Duane and reached for a cookie. “You were raised a Catholic—isn't that right? Well, I've got nothing
against Catholics, but a man can't let somebody in Rome do his thinking.”
Mrs. Berclair poured cups of tea, as Duane stared at the preacher with new interest. “How'd you know I was a Catholic?”
The parson appeared surprised by the question. “I guess I heard somebody say so.”
“Can you remember who?”
“Lots of people come through this church, Sheriff. It's hard to keep track of them all. What difference does it make in God's grand scheme?”
Duane wondered if the preacher had taken a potshot at him earlier in the day. “Did you go for a ride on the desert earlier?” he asked casually.
“What for?” asked the preacher.
Patricia Berclair smiled at Duane. “My husband is afraid of the desert, and hasn't left town since we arrived two years ago.”
The preacher cleared his throat. “We've got plenty to do right here. More sinners than I ever imagined in such a small town. Why'd you ask if I went for a ride?”
“Saw some tracks of a shod horse on the desert today,” replied Duane. “Just curious who was out there.”
Patricia Berclair leaned forward and smiled. “They might've belonged to Mister Snodgras. I saw him riding in from the desert this afternoon. He's been taking a lot of time off lately, thanks to you.” The parson's wife winked. “Maybe you should've asked him for a percentage of the profits.”
Duane tied Steve to the hitching rail in front of the undertaker's house. He'd always thought there was something questionable about the man who profited from death. He knocked on the door, and presently it was opened by the undertaker. “Somebody get killed again?” he asked calmly.
Duane probed for signs of guilt. “I was riding on the desert today, and thought I saw you there. Mind if I come in?”
Duane brushed past him and entered the parlor. A wrinkled newspaper lay near the sofa; evidently the undertaker had been reading.
“If you saw me on the desert, why didn't you holler to me?” the undertaker asked.
“Too long a distance.”
“Then how do you know it was me.”
“I've got a spyglass.”
“Good thing to have,” Snodgras replied. “I've got one too. Like to look at birds. Their bones are hollow, did you know that?”
“What kind of rifle do you carry?”
The undertaker smiled embarrassedly. “I don't shoot the birds. I just look at them.”
“May I see your rifle?”
A scowl came over the undertaker's solemn visage. “What do you want my rifle for?”
“Official investigation.”
“I don't like the idea of somebody barging into my home.”
Duane spotted the rifle mounted on hooks above the fireplace. He took it down, and it was a .40 caliber Volcanic in superb condition, recently oiled. No odor of gunpowder could be detected down the barrel.
“What're you sniffing for, Sheriff?”
“Remember when Amos Twilby was bushwhacked and you asked where I came from? Where are you from, Mister Undertaker Man?”
“I don't like your manner, Sheriff.”
“Ever been in the Pecos country?”
“Why are you asking me all these questions?”
“How'd you like to go to jail today?”
“What's the charge?”
“Attempted murder.”
“Of who?”
“Me.”
The undertaker stared at him for a few moments, then smiled faintly. “You know what folks say about you? They say you're plumb loco, and maybe they're right.”
“The jail's empty,” Duane said, “but maybe I can find a backstabber to lock up with you, and I'll forget to confiscate the knife in his boot.”
“I think you're getting too big for your britches, young man.”
Duane whacked out his Colt and aimed at the undertaker's long chin. “Where are you from?”
“Des Moines,” the undertaker replied instantaneously.
“Were you ever in the Pecos country?”
“Passed through on the way here.”
“Ever hear of Sam Archer?”
The undertaker grimaced disdainfully. “Never, but let me point something out to you, Sheriff. We didn't hire you to intimidate honest citizens.”
Duane slowly holstered his gun, then tilted his head to the side and said soberly: “I'm keeping my eyes on you, Mister Undertaker Man. Watch your step.”
Patricia Berclair paced her bedroom, hands clasped behind her back, brow furrowed with thought. Am I going insane? she asked herself. Somehow, she couldn't stop thinking about Duane Braddock in his tight black jeans and brown cowboy boots, carrying a big gun on his hip. It had begun when she'd first met him, as if someone had thrown a bucket of warm water onto her.
She felt itchy and wanted to run a hundred miles. Her brain seemed to be bouncing off the walls. Above the bed was nailed a bare cross, and she dropped to her knees. “Oh my God, save me,” she said.
She closed her eyes and thought of Jesus on the cross, but his features were Duane Braddock's. What does he have that excites me so? As a rule, she didn't think about men in a romantic way. Then Duane Braddock strolled into her life, with his strange crooked smile, wide shoulders, and the look of a cougar in his eyes.
She should've been doing housework or helping her husband in the office, but was instead imagining herself and Duane Braddock stark naked in bed. The devil was tempting her mightily, and she dug her fingernails into her arms to subdue the desire raging in her loins. Trembling, her knees weak, she collapsed onto the bed.
Duane Braddock needs someone to take care of him, she thought. Someone older, more mature, capable of deep understanding—me, for instance. But I'm married already, and besides, he's just a boy. Maybe I've been in this sinful little town too long and need a change. Perhaps I can encourage Herbert to take me to Austin, Houston, or anywhere but here. I need someone to talk with, like my mother or Sally, her younger sister, who was also married to a preacher.
Patricia felt alone, forgotten, and like she was losing her bearings. She'd married Herbert to help him with his work, because she'd believed he was a great man. It wasn't a gross, disgusting physical marriage like most, but a union of mind and spirit based on shared convictions.
Captain Herbert Berclair had seen God on the battlefield of Vicksburg, and lost his lust in the brilliant illumination that claimed his left leg. He and his wife slept in separate bedrooms and never had seen each other naked. Patricia Berclair was a married woman of a certain age, but was still a virgin.
It hadn't been a problem before Duane Braddock showed up. Somehow she'd been able to subdue her deepest longings, but now was writhing on the bed, scratching her arms, and kicking her legs in the air. I've got to stop thinking about him, she admonished herself. But I can't!
She wished she had a whip so she could dominate herself. Maybe a belt would do. She took a thick black leather one from the closet and laid it on the bed. Then she removed her dress and stood in her bloomers in front of the mirror.
She saw no great beauty, her knees were knobby, legs skinny, breasts nearly nonexistent. She'd always thought her mouth too wide, her nose too small, and she bore a faint resemblance to a frog. Holding the whip in her right hand, she smacked it hard across her back, the sharp sensation making her cry softly. Bowing her head, she flagellated herself repeatedly as she sobbed and shuddered in the darkness.
Light glowed through the window of the stable office, illuminating a wraithlike figure hovering over a book. Duane opened the door, as his student glanced up crossly. “I'm studying,” said Alice Markham.
“Don't you think it's time you went to bed?”
“The sooner I git edjicated, the sooner I can git away from you. I don't want to be somebody's ball and chain.”
“You've been in an awfully bad mood lately. It might not hurt to smile once in a while.”
Her lips pinched and she looked like she was going to say something awful, but instead she wrinkled her brow and returne
d to the book. He departed the office, troubled by yet another female. He didn't love Alice, had no intention of marrying her, yet desired her warm body. Now he understood why church fathers railed against physical passion. It made no sense, provided no peace, and led to disastrous consequences for men and women alike. Unfortunately, Duane couldn't defeat his heart's longings with mere logic. It is better to marry than burn, said the great Saint Paul, Apostle to the Gentiles.
Duane made his way to the saloon district, scanning constantly for bushwackers and backshooters. He felt himself getting another headache from so much cogitation. Maybe I should have a drink of whisky and relax.
He angled into the Desert Palace Saloon, paid for a whisky, and carried it to a table against the back wall. There weren't many patrons, and he wondered if a bushwhacker was aiming a gun at him in the darkness. His skin felt covered with needles, and he broke out in a cold sweat. Somebody in this town is trying to kill me, and I wonder who he is.
Maybe it was a coincidence that the undertaker was on the desert at the same time as I, but maybe not. It could be this, or it could be that. The headache increased in intensity. Duane sipped whisky and tried to stop worrying, but his mind continued like an infernal devil machine.
A group of men broke into song on the far side of the room. There were eight of them out of tune and sitting at a round table. They appeared melancholy, with far-off expressions in their eyes, as they mouthed the words:
The years creep slowly by, Lorena;
The snow is on the grass again;
The sun's low down the sky, Lorena;
The frost gleams where the flowers have been
Men throughout the saloon joined the mournful old Civil War ditty. Duane had heard it sung in saloons before, for it was one of the most popular tunes of that great national catastrophe. Battleweary troopers had crooned it around campfires, to remind them of loved ones far away, and couldn't seem to stop now that the fighting was over.
