by Len Levinson
“Are you all right, Patricia?”
Her heart nearly stopped with fright and dismay. Her husband, Reverend Herbert Berclair, stood at the end of the pew. She became aware of her tear-streaked cheeks. “I'm fine,” she said.
“Doesn't appear that way to me, my dear. Who knows you better than I myself? I think we'd better talk about it.”
He led her to the parlor and prepared tea. Small windows admitted narrow shafts of bright sunlight, but the room was mostly dark and lugubrious. “Don't believe I've ever seen you so distraught,” he said, as he carried the teapot toward her. “Are you sick?”
She tried to smile. “I'm perfectly fine. Don't worry about me.”
“Of course I worry about you! Where would I be without your help, encouragement, and inspiration? My dear, you are the foundation of my very life itself. How can I soothe your unhappiness? Have I said anything wrong?”
She looked him over. He was a good man, but unfortunately excited no great passion in her. “It's not you, Herbert. I haven't been feeling well lately. Perhaps it's the weather.”
“You're accustomed to the finer things, but this is where God needs us. Did Duane Braddock say something improper when you were alone in the shed?”
“What makes you think that?”
“It was as if I'd caught you in the act of adultery with him. What happened?”
“Perhaps I'm coming down with the catarrh.”
He touched the back of his hand to her forehead. “You don't have a fever. I've been living with you four years, and know you as I know myself. I wish you'd tell me what's bothering you.”
She wanted to unburden herself, but feared unexpected consequences. “There's nothing to tell.”
“Sometimes I think I don't know you at all. Next thing you'll be having a squalid romance with poor, lost Duane Braddock.”
“How can you say such a thing, or even think it?”
“Well,” he said, scratching his nose, “I suppose a woman might find the lad possessed of a certain roughshod appeal. You don't view him that way, do you?”
“He's just a boy, Herbert. You're being absurd.”
“He's not that much younger than you.” Reverend Berclair narrowed his eyes and furrowed his brow. “I'm not the fool that you think, Patricia. Just because I spend my time in the Lord's ministry, it doesn't mean I'm an idiot. I think you have a girlish crush on Duane Braddock, but you're not honest enough to admit it to the man who loves you most!”
At that tense matrimonial moment, a dam cracked within Patricia Berclair's soul, and all the crippled passion of a thwarted life came ripping out of her throat. “Who needs this kind of love!”
Her scream reverberated off the fireplace, the candlestick, and the bare cottonwood cross nailed to the wall. He stared at her in consternation, as the truth sank through him. I'm not really her husband, he said to himself, as his face drained of color.
She regretted the words the moment they rolled off her tongue, but a stronger person dwelling within her had rendered the verdict. Reverend Herbert Berclair realized that a new woman stood before him, with unfamiliar fire in her eyes. At that moment, the parson believed that he'd lost her.
His throat clogged, his eyes widened with panic, and he threw a punch at the wall. The building shook, his hand shrieked in pain, then he realized that clergymen weren't supposed to be violent. Summoning his willpower, he modulated his voice and said: “Forgive me for my display of bad manners, dear Patricia. I guess I expected too much of you.”
She realized that she'd gone too far, and now the time had come to smooth everything over. “I'm sorry too, but I have a normal woman's feelings, I'm afraid.”
“Are you going to him?”
“I could never throw myself at a man,” she said adamantly. “Moreover, I'd never disgrace you or myself. Besides, if I ever confessed my feelings to the poor lad, he'd ride out of town the next instant. He's not sophisticated in the least, and in many ways, is probably more religious than the both of us put together.”
Reverend Berclair smiled knowingly. “Love is blind, but let's attempt to keep our feet on the ground, shall we? He's killed seven men since arriving in Escondido, and some say he's the most dangerous gunfighter in this part of Texas.”
“But he's so frightened Herbert. You can see it in his eyes, and he's not imagining things. Somebody truly is trying to kill him.”
“Sometimes I wish he'd succeed,” the pastor said gloomily.
He didn't realize it, but his jealousy was pleasing her. They stood facing each other in the parlor, as if seeing each other for the first time. Then he cleared his throat. “I have a late Bible class, and hope you'll excuse me.”
She waited until he was gone, then reclined on the sofa and stared at the ceiling. Is my marriage over? she wondered. The new Patricia Berclair terrified her, and appeared capable of anything.
“I've been getting complaints about you,” Maggie said.
She was seated behind her desk, puffing a panatella, her flaming red hair tied with a maroon ribbon. Duane sprawled on the chair in front of her, his hat slanted low over his eyes. “Is it the undertaker?”
“Him and a few others. They say yer a-bangin’ in their houses without a warrant, a-makin’ insultin’ remarks, a-gittin’ narsty.”
“I'm trying to find out who set fire to my barn. Am I supposed to forget about it?”
“The main thing is keep the people happy, Duane. That's what yer job's all about, remember?”
“But somebody's trying to kill me!”
“That's no cause to snoop around everybody's house and act like yer a-gonna shoot ‘em. Leave the people alone, especially the undertaker. A town like this needs an undertaker.”
“What do you know about him?”
“Not a hell of a lot. To tell you the truth, he scares the shit out of me.”
“Did you ever hear him talk about the Pecos?”
She shook her head.
“Does he sleep with any of the girls here at the Last Chance Saloon?”
“They won't go near ‘im.”
“Who's his best friend?”
“Don't think he's got one. He's like Death a-walkin’ around on two legs.”
“What about the preacher? There's something strange about him.”
“A woman in my line don't talk to preachers, but his wife's said hello in the street a few times. You don't think the preacher's a-tryin’ to kill you!”
“Maybe.”
Maggie didn't bat an eyelash. “I don't blame you, because I don't trust anybody in this town. I've told you afore and I'll tell you agin: If somebody wanted to kill me, I'd hop on old Paint and ride away. I'm not proud—hell no. If yer a-worrying ‘bout Alice Markham, I'll give her a job here as my clerk. I've been a-thinkin’ lately that I shouldn't be a-doin’ all this dumb paperwork anyways. I should be a-buyin’ and a-sellin’ real estate, and maybe it's time Escondido had a real honest-to-goodness bank.”
“If I hop on old Paint, who'll be the sheriff?” “I'll hire somebody, and a few deputies too. They won't be as good as you, but if you keep botherin’ the townspeople, they'll fire you anyways.”
Patricia Berclair was kneading dough in the kitchen when her husband appeared in the doorway. “I've got to speak with you,” he said.
He was returning from Bible class, and this was their first encounter since the great revelation. She wondered if he'd pull a gun and shoot her, or drop to his knees and beg forgiveness for his emotional outburst. She'd never seen him so agitated. “Are you all right?” she asked, as she reached for the rolling pin.
He paced nervously back and forth behind the stove, hands clasped behind his back. “You and I have trained ourselves to search for deeper meanings in life, Patricia. The way I see it, we're the only ministers in town, and the devil is trying to drive a wedge between us. Have you ever stopped to think that Duane Braddock might be an agent of Satan?”
She smiled faintly. “Are you trying to make a joke, Herbert?”
“We know that the devil is constantly trying to beguile us, and isn't it strange how Duane Braddock dresses in black most of the time. There's something cunning in his eyes—haven't you noticed? Perhaps he's hiding a pair of horns beneath his cowboy hat.”
Patricia stopped kneading the dough. She wiped her hands on a towel, looked out the window, and realized, for the first time, that her husband might be insane. “Are you speaking symbolically, Herbert, or do you really think he has two horns?”
“Not in actuality, because the devil is much more subtle than that. Isn't it interesting how he's working on your mind? I'd imagine that a holy woman like you would pose quite a challenge to him.”
“Pretty soon you'll be seeing little red devils underneath your bed, my dear. How do you know I'm not Satan's daughter?”
“I've seen your many good works, but the Evil One has come to you today, and you must resist him with all your heart. Otherwise you'll burn forever in the fires of hell.”
“You're becoming quite insulting. If you don't mind, I'd like to be alone.”
He retreated on his pegleg to his office and sat at his desk, drumming his fingers on the blotter, looking out the window. Five gaily tasseled hobgoblins danced merrily hand in hand amid the outbuildings, wearing funny hats. Ever since Vicksburg, Herbert Berclair had been seeing visions and hearing strange tunes in his head. Am I just another religious crackpot? he wondered.
The sight of Patricia in the shed with Duane Braddock had disorganized him deeply, for he considered her the fountain of his inspiration. Sometimes he thought himself cruel to have married her, but everything had been fine before Duane Braddock came along. The parson wanted to hate his rival, but Braddock was too young, naive, and polite to be despicable. Wouldn't the devil use such a guise, the better to cloud our minds? Reverend Berclair was afraid that Patricia would run off with Duane Braddock, despite her protestations. The parson loved his wife in a strange, antiseptic way, and believed that she cared for him similarly.
But she hadn't been wounded at Vicksburg like he. God had rendered him incapable of carnal love, while she was whole, brimming with life, and primed for adultery. A terrible thought surfaced in a deep cranny of his mind. I couldn't be a real husband, but married her anyway, taking advantage of her religiosity, forcing her to sin through my own craven selfishness. Perhaps I'm the agent of the devil, not Duane Braddock.
He opened the drawer of his desk, pulled out his old Colt Army revolver, drew back the hammer, and aimed the barrel at his ear. His finger tightened around the trigger, the Colt quivered in the air for several seconds, and then his finger relaxed. He eased back the hammer, returned the Colt to its position of meditation next to the pens, and covered his face with his hands.
I am the Evil One.
“What do you want?” asked Alice Markham through the crack in her door.
“I've got something to tell you,” said Duane. “Open up.”
“I'm busy studying.”
“It'll only take a minute.”
She opened the door. The desk was covered with books, and the small room reminded Duane of a monk's cell.
“I've got good news,” he announced. “You're going to be Maggie's new clerk.”
He expected a smile, a word of gratitude, and possibly a kiss on the cheek, but instead she set her stubborn jaw.
“Aren't you glad?” he asked.
She placed her hands on her hips. “You're the one who's glad. So you're finally getting rid of me. I know how much you hate me—don't think I don't.”
Duane was hurt by her remarks. “I don't hate you at all, and in fact, I've always liked you.”
She squinched her face like a hurt little child. “You think I'm trash because you caught me with a certain somebody, isn't that right, Mister Pecos Kid? I know what's in yer mind. Since that happened, you barely talked to me.”
He shook his head in despair. “Somebody's trying to kill me, but everybody thinks it's nothing for me to worry about. You're the only person in town that I can trust, because you were with me when the stable was set afire. But you don't want to be my friend because once I mentioned somebody's name by mistake.”
“You made me feel cheap.”
“I didn't do it on purpose.”
“You're just making excuses. The truth is you don't think I'm good enough for you.”
I could argue with her till the end of time, and still not change her mind, he said to himself. He threw up his hands and headed for the door. Women are nothing but trouble, he told himself, as he made his way down the corridor.
Carpenters hammered a new corral on the site of his former stable, and retrieved horses were hobbled and waiting patiently for their new home. Unfortunately, no one had seen hide nor hair of Steve. I guess we weren't that close, Duane lamented. I'll have to try harder with my next horse.
He no longer had obligations in Escondido, and the time had come to hit the trail. But first he had to refit for the ride to the Pecos, and he had to buy the new horse. Maggie doesn't really need a clerk, he
suspected, but she hired Alice because that's what I wanted. Maggie O'Day is the best friend I've got in this town.
Duane returned to his office and made a list of things to do. His remaining wealth totaled approximately three hundred dollars, and the town owed him a month's wages. That ought to get me to the Pecos with plenty of room to maneuver.
There was a knock on the door, then Reverend Herbert Berclair walked numbly into the office. “I've got to talk with you,” he said in a disembodied voice.
“Have a seat, Reverend. What's on your mind?”
The pastor placed his fists on Duane's desk, leaned forward, and peered into Duane's eyes. “Have you been making improper advances to my wife?”
Duane nearly fell off the chair. No man had ever said such a thing to him before. “What makes you think that, Reverend?”
“Because she's madly and hopelessly in love with you, you fool.” The parson sighed and went slack on the chair.
Duane vaguely remembered the odd behavior of Mrs. Berclair when he was alone with her in the shed. What is it about me that makes people think I'm a low-down skunk? “Surely you know that your wife would never do such a thing, Reverend Berclair.”
“Animal lust has ruined many a good man and woman,” the reverend replied. “The devil comes in infinite disguises, as I'm sure you know. I thought of killing you, Mister Sheriff, but you're not guilty either. I thought of killing myself, but the scriptures tell us that suicide is evil. So are false promises and ill-gotten gains. Do you know what I'm saying, Sheriff Braddock?”
“Not in the least,” Duane replied.
“I have committed a terrible crime against God and my beloved wife, and you must punish me. Beneath my coat, I have my old Army Colt. I'm going to draw it and shoot you for the estrangement of my wife's affections. You will be obliged to defend yourself, and all my worries will be over.”
The pastor drew the Colt, and Duane couldn't jump over the desk in time. All he could do was haul iron, but he couldn't shoot the only man in Escondido who'd gone to divinity school. Both men aimed the creations of Colonel Colt at each other and waited for something to happen.
“Go ahead,” goaded Reverend Berclair, an uncertain smile on his face. “Shoot me.”
“I can't kill an innocent man.”
“Try.”
“Impossible, and you're not a murderer either. Put away the gun and try to be reasonable. You're not setting a good example for your flock.”
“I can't kill you, and can't kill myself either,” the preacher moaned. His Colt hung down his side as he shuffled unhappily out of the sheriff's office. Citizens and bystanders gazed at their parson curiously as he moved jerkily along the planked sidewalk, a sorrowful expression in his half-closed eyes.
CHAPTER 9
THE HORSE SHORTAGE CONTINUED, WITH prices for available mounts doubling and tripling. Then word was received that fresh horses would be offered for sale by local ran
ches at the end of the month. Duane waited for the animals to arrive, made plans, and gathered equipment.
He visited the gunsmith and negotiated a slightly used no-frills .44 caliber Winchester Model 1866 with brass receiver and 24-inch barrel for accuracy at long distances. Then he crossed to the general store and purchased sturdy black leather saddlebags, an extra shirt, a blanket, and a poncho. He carried his belongings to the desert and stashed them in a cave.
He sat cross-legged in gullies for hours, shaded by cottonwood trees, and contemplated the long, harsh, hazardous journey before him. His body had become soft due to excessive food and drink during his aimless nights in Escondido, so he placed himself on a regimen of running up and down mountains for long periods each day, as when he'd lived among the Apaches.
Escondido wasn't a total loss, because now at last he knew who his mother was. Kathleen O'Shea. He'd wanted to question Dolores Goines further, but didn't dare endanger her life. I'll find out everything I need to know in the Pecos country, he promised himself.
He didn't know what form his vengeance would take, and possibly Sam Archer wasn't even alive anymore. No matter what I do, it won't bring my father and mother back. The former acolyte had killed previously only in self-defense, and couldn't imagine holding a gun calmly to a man's head, then pulling the trigger. It was opposite everything he'd been taught by learned priests and brothers. I'll worry about it when I've got Sam Archer cornered, he thought.
He suspected that the killer had left Escondido after the fire, since no further attempts had been made on his life. Meanwhile, freighters arrived from the north with loads of lumber, and the reconstruction of the stable began. Duane sat on a bench across the street and smoked one cigarette after another as he watched the building materialize before his very eyes. Outlaws and wastrels worked as carpenters, and Duane learned that they weren't completely worthless after all. Occasionally Maggie would step out of the Last Chance Saloon, issue a stream of curse-laden directives, and return to her smoky gloomy tavern.
