Devil's Creek Massacre

by Len Levinson

  Nestor gazed at Duane solemnly, and a thought traveled from Nestor's mind to the Pecos Kid's. If Apaches killed Duane, they'd get Nestor. Now wait a minute, Duane admonished himself, as he looked at his transportation. I paid a hundred dollars for that horse, and I'm not turning him loose now.

  Nestor continued to peer into Duane's eyes, and Duane's resolve weakened. I should give him a fighting chance, because that's what I'd want. Then Duane caught a glimpse of brown Apache flesh in another direction. It's a war party, and they're maneuvering for position. If I try to get away in broad daylight, they'll run me down and shoot me out of the saddle.

  Nestor was silent, although fur twitched all over his body. His head swung from side to side and he tried to raise his front hooves in the air, but the pin held him down. It was time for Duane to make another decision, but this time he didn't hesitate. He pulled the pin out of the ground, removed the halter, and slapped Nestor on the haunch.

  “You're on your own,” said Duane. “If I get out of this alive, I hope you'll come back and take me to Monterrey.”

  Don't hold your breath, the horse seemed to reply as he beheld Duane one last time. Then he turned away, broke into a lope, and went crashing through the underbrush, his hooves rumbling across the morning stillness, and then he was out of sight, gone, and useless to the hapless desert traveler.

  Why'd I do that? Duane asked himself in mystification. I paid a hundred dollars for that horse! He noticed a red Apache bandanna for a brief moment in a new direction, and now three warriors were tightening the noose around him. He imagined them cursing angrily, because they'd already lost their biggest prize, Nestor. “Come on, you sons of bitches,” muttered Duane through his teeth. “You want a fight—I'll give you one that you'll never forget.”

  Kateynah heard Nestor galloping off and at first couldn't believe his ears. He raised his head for a brief moment and saw the riderless animal streaking toward distant mountains. The white eyes has seen us, Kateynah realized. But why has he turned his horse loose?

  Kateynah couldn't fathom the reason, and the unexpected incident stopped him in his tracks. He knew it was a trick, but couldn't divine its purpose. The white eyes had tried to obscure his tracks, but not well enough to fool Kateynah. The white eyes was straight ahead, and the warriors probed for his exact location.

  Kateynah searched the foliage, but nothing moved. The white eyes was hiding like a desert rat, fully armed, and Kateynah had to get low like a snake, then crawl forward silently on his knees and elbows, cradling his rifle in his arms. His sharp eyes examined every spear of cactus and blade of grass, looking for the black pants and black shirt of the white eyes.

  Kateynah hated all white eyes, because they were stealing the Apache homeland, killing game, pushing the People all across the desert, and committing unspeakable atrocities. Yet he was jealous of their knowledge concerning rifles and pistols. The manufacture of such implements was incomprehensible to his Stone Age mind, though he could shoot a mule deer through the eye at two hundred yards.

  He crawled forward silently, sniffing the air, his eyes sweeping back and forth continually. He was confident that he'd find the white eyes before the white eyes saw him, because everyone knew how weak and stupid the white eyes were. Kateynah recalled the rifle that he intended to claim for himself, now that the horse was gone. From the distance, it had looked like a fast-firing new model instead of the single-shot rusty implement of death in Kateynah's hands.

  Kateynah heard a shot directly in front of him. A puff of smoke billowed through the branches of a chol-la cactus, and a lead projectile smacked into Kateynah's forehead. The Apache warrior's promising career came to a sudden end as his brains blew out the back of his head, and he was gone to the happy hunting ground before his face hit the ground.

  Duane withdrew behind the boulder, not certain that his bullet had found its target. It might've been a hawk, the trembling of a leaf, or an Apache warrior with blood in his eyes. The shot echoed off distant caprock escarpments and then faded gradually into the buzzing of insects and chirping of birds seeking breakfast in the desert morning.

  Duane sucked air between his teeth and pressed his back to the boulder. The wait was getting to him, and a rivulet of perspiration ran from his hatband to his eyebrow. He wished the Apaches would rush, and he'd fight it out hand to hand till the bitter end. But they were playing games with his mind.

  Duane wanted a cigarette and shot of whiskey to steady him, because it looked like he was going to die. Ever since he'd left the monastery, it had been one narrow escape after another. He'd seen many men bite the dust and had helped a few along, but now it was coming down on him. There were too many holes in his defense, and sooner or later an Apache would move into position for a clear shot. Duane wished he had his back to a wall, but there was only the open desert in every direction.

  Duane wished he'd stayed at the monastery, and had many other regrets also. He figured that he'd been born under an unlucky star, and life wasn't so wonderful anyway. Glory be to the Father, the Son, and to the Holy Ghost, as it was—

  A gun fired, and lead whacked into the boulder two inches from his right cheek. In an instant, Duane was flat on his stomach, crawling frantically to another boulder, saddlebag filled with ammunition hanging over his shoulder. The next bullet kicked up dirt six inches from his left hip, and he rolled over, jumped to his feet, and broke into a run. Bullets whizzed around him like angry gnats, and sharp needles tore his clothes and flesh as he landed behind a bush with shreddy brown bark. He touched his finger to his cheek; it came back flecked with blood; the first shot had hurled splinters of stone through his beard and into his soft flesh.

  He propelled himself forward on elbows and knees, keeping his chin close to the ground, hard rock scraping his jeans. He knew they could hear his every move, but they wouldn't waste precious ammunition; they'd advance close like last time and plug him economically with one well-placed shot.

  He came to a halt behind a hawthorn tree covered with yellow nutlets. Every time he moved, a needle or spine from a nearby cow's tongue cactus jutted into him. He battled waves of terror, felt as though he were choking to death, but summoned his will, swallowed hard, and prepared to go down fighting.

  He knew that he didn't have a chance, and there were at least six of them, to judge from the shooting. He glanced at the desert bower that would become his tomb. They'd rip away his clothes and leave him for the coyotes, buzzards, and vermin that infested the desert. He glanced up and saw the old crook-necked buzzard circling about, waiting for lunch to be served in all its gory splendor.

  The time for Machiavelli was over, and the only entity that could help Duane was Lord God Almighty. He reached into his saddlebag, pulled out his Protestant King James Bible, and opened it at random:

  And how dieth the wise man? As the fool.

  Ain't that the truth, Duane thought. He flipped a few pages.

  I shall lift mine eyes up unto the Lord, from whence cometh my help.

  Duane looked at the sky, but all he could see was the wise old buzzard preparing his menu. The ex-acolyte realized that he'd lost his rock-solid faith since leaving the monastery, and now was adrift in the Apache storm. He reached into his shirt and touched the crucifix of the rosary-bead necklace that hung from his neck. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. As he prayed, he reflected upon his brief life, admitting that he hadn't accomplished any of his great goals. As he faced his final hour, in the extremities of fear and doubt, one final unlikely image somehow sprang to mind: a tall willowy blond temptress, his former fiancee: Miss Vanessa Fontaine.

  Even with his head on the chopping block, Duane remembered Miss Vanessa Fontaine. The former Charleston belle had made a more profound impression on his soft clay mind than sixteen years of Catholic education. Perhaps she'd lacked knowledge of the Nicene Council, but Duane missed her more than his theological mentors as he faced Sister Death for the last time.

  Vanessa had dumped Duane for an office
r in the Fourth Cavalry, and Duane considered her the most selfish bitch alive. Yet he couldn't evict her from the bedrooms of his mind even as Apaches were lining their sights on him. He recalled her long sinuous legs that she liked to wrap around him, not to mention her naughty tongue and wicked fingers. He could go on endlessly extolling her many charms, recalling this or that clever remark that she'd made, or burning nights in a little Texas town called Titusville. Duane had been ready to die for her, but she married for money and social position, producing a scar in Duane's heart that no salve could mend.

  He found himself yearning for Miss Vanessa Fontaine's long slim configuration, although she was hundreds and perhaps thousands of miles away, probably lying in her husband's arms. Duane detested her betrayal, yet would be overjoyed to see her again, as in the good old days (approximately six months ago).

  He heard faint sounds of Apache warriors working closer to him. The flora was too thick to see well, but fortunately they couldn't locate him either. Sooner or later one of them would show himself, and Duane would kill him. Then the final act would begin.

  He lay with his Winchester and saddlebags and wondered what might've been. It looked as though he'd be killed like his father, surrounded by enemies, and the irony wasn't lost on him. I'd rather die a lion than a lamb, he tried to convince himself.

  Something rustled to his right, and he turned silently in that direction. It was an Apache crawling forward, searching for the white eyes, as the white eyes silently aimed his rifle in that direction. But the Apache stopped suddenly, because Duane wasn't as quiet as he'd thought. The Apache slithered toward a nearby pile of rocks as Duane took aim at the Apache's left kidney. He squeezed the trigger, the Winchester kicked into his shoulder, smoke billowed in the air, and the Apache jolted as the bullet found its intended spot.

  The Apache screamed in pain, rolled over and clutched his wound as Duane jacked the lever. He lined his sights on the convulsive Apache, but another rifle fired somewhere to Duane's left, and something incredible crashed into Duane's shoulder. For a few seconds Duane didn't know what happened to him, then ferocious pain tore him apart. He gasped, gritted his teeth, and looked at his shoulder. Blood literally poured out; it was a deep flesh wound, and the bullet had cracked his shoulder bone. He couldn't move his left arm at all.

  An ocean of blackness fell over him as he reached for his Colt, but his movement was slow and the pistol unusually heavy. Another bullet slammed into his right thigh and felt like a flaming spear. He tried to clear his head as the universe broke apart all around him. A new bullet whacked the ground two inches from his nose, making him flinch as he drew back the hammer of his Colt. Harrowing pain throbbed through him as he recalled an old saloon rat telling him that if he ever got surrounded by Apaches, save the last bullet for himself.

  He heard Apaches talking to each other. Sister Death danced among ocotillo and juniper, eagerly awaiting Duane's departure. “I don't want to die,” he whispered as his short life passed before his eyes. He saw himself studying in the scriptorium in the clouds, shooting a gunfighter named Otis Puckett in a small Texas town named Shelby, and writhing with pleasure in the naked arms of Miss Vanessa Fontaine.

  He struggled to hold his Colt ready for one last shot, but couldn't see any Apaches. Another gun fired, his ribs were smashed, and he struggled to breathe, hit in the vitals. In the distance, he heard volleys of gunfire, or maybe it was thunder, or perhaps even the voice of Lord God Almighty calling out to him.

  “Oh, my Jesus . . . forgive us our sins . . . save us from the fires of hell . . . lead all souls into heaven . . . especially those most in need of your mercy . . . such as me.”

  He wished he could die straight out, but his fighting Texas heart wouldn't let go. He lay still on the ground, struggled to open his eyes, and it appeared that Vanessa Fontaine was standing before him, wearing a white diaphanous gown, peering at him with great concern, as if she wanted to help him. “Vanessa,” was the last word he spoke, then black waterfalls spilled over his eyes, and he plunged into the bowels of the raging noonday sun.

  Mrs. Vanessa Dawes awoke with a start in her Austin hotel room, approximately seven hundred and fifty miles away. The former Charleston belle lay on her maroon velvet sofa, a book open on her breast; she'd dozed off reading Lord Byron. She closed the tome, laid it on the floor beside her, and wondered why she felt uneasy. It was as though something terrible had happened, but often she was disturbed by nightmares and vague premonitions of doom.

  Her husband, the former Lieutenant Clayton Dawes, had been killed in action against the Apaches during the summer. His family had been old Yankee money, and his grandmother had bequeathed him a small fortune in securities and investments, which passed to his surviving widow, the former Miss Vanessa Fontaine of Charleston, South Carolina. Now wealthy again as in the halcyon days before the Civil War, she'd launched herself successfully in Austin society, which consisted mostly of ex-Confederate sympathizers such as herself.

  In a week, she was scheduled to attend a private ball at the residence of a wealthy Austin banker. The crème de la crème of Austin ex-Confederate society would be there. Vanessa loved to enact the great lady, and certainly never mentioned that she'd been a poor itinerant saloon singer before she'd met Lieutenant Dawes.

  Vanessa was bored with widow's weeds and toyed with the notion of marrying again. The most wealthy and presentable men in Austin would attend the ball, and she didn't hate the opposite sex by any means. To the contrary, they came in handy for performing escort duties and providing certain pleasurable pastimes best not mentioned in polite society.

  She drew her long legs around and planted them on the floor. Then she folded her hands together and looked out the window at another bright sunny day on San Marcos Street, not far from the former French legation to the Republic of Texas. She lived among others of her kind in a small out-of-the-way hotel, the Arlington, named after General Robert E. Lee's former estate in Virginia. Servants were available for every conceivable notion in the luxurious establishment, while the kitchen on the ground floor produced excellent meals for every occasion. Vanessa Fontaine could lie on her sofa for the rest of her life, be waited on by servants, and read beautiful poetry, but somehow she wasn't contented.

  She knew what she wanted, but considered the idea preposterous. Despite her best efforts, she couldn't forget a certain ex-lover who had shared her bed several months ago. In the cold light of logic, she'd thought him too young and unpromising for a lost wandering ex-Charleston belle, and decided to marry instead the dashing Lieutenant Clayton Dawes. Now, despite the lieutenant's untimely demise, Duane Braddock continued to occupy a considerable portion of her waking hours.

  The former Miss Vanessa Fontaine was by no means inexperienced with men. If the truth be told, she'd slept with too many gentlemen, rogues, and liars, but she'd been weak and helpless on numerous occasions. There'd been mornings, during her saloon singing days, when she'd awakened next to individuals whose names she didn't even remember and, in the cold dawn light, didn't want to remember.

  Last thing she'd heard about Duane Braddock, he'd shot a professional gunfighter named Otis Puckett, plus several other people, in Shelby, Texas. Some said Duane was a kill-crazy outlaw, while others claimed he was a decent cowboy who'd stuck up for his rights. When last seen, according to eyewitnesses, the Pecos Kid had been alive and well and headed for the Rio Grande.

  Vanessa's home consisted of three large rooms with a small kitchen. She filled a glass half with water, then opened the mahogany cabinet and pulled out a bottle marked LAUDANUM. She poured a shot into the water, then mixed it with a spoon. The contents rolled down her throat; she returned to the sofa and waited for the opium derivative to kick in.

  It was her medicine for whatever ailed her, and she was unhappy most of the time. Sometimes she wondered if she could ever exist in the new Yankee world. Vanessa Fontaine was an unrepentant Southerner, a member in full standing of the great Lost Cause, and she missed the old pl
antation back in South Carolina, with a colonnade of great oaks leading to white Corinthian columns of the main house, while slaves did all the dirty work.

  Poppy juice invaded Vanessa's brain; she saw vast fields of fluffy white cottonballs, dashing cavaliers on prancing stallions returning from a hunt, and the orchestra playing chamber music in the gazebo. The lost paradise returned in all its splendor as she languished on the sofa, a faint smile on her curvaceous lips.

  CHAPTER 2

  TANDOR THE APACHE SAW THE white eyes lying cold and still in the bushes straight ahead. The white eyes appeared dead, the rifle and pistol lying nearby, blood everywhere. Tandor sang his victory song as he drew closer to the modern new weapons. No longer would he have to load a cartridge every time he wanted to shoot somebody.

  Suddenly a fusillade of lead screamed through the air around him. He was so astonished, his song caught in his throat, but in the next second he dived toward the ground. In the distance, a large number of white eyes on horseback were attacking, sending forth terrific volleys of fire! Tandor had been so concentrated on the lone white eyes, he didn't consider that someone might stalking him. He crawled with his nose close to the ground and peered cautiously around a boulder. Fifteen white-eyes riders charged across the desert in his direction, firing steadily, and he didn't like the odds. “Get out of here!” Tandor hollered to his comrades.

  He leapt to his feet and sped through the underbrush, heading for the horses. His cohorts joined in the mad rush while the air sang with whirring bullets. Blue Feather shrieked in pain as a bullet pierced his spine; he dropped to the ground, but Tandor didn't have time to gather him up.

  Tandor ran fleet-footed across the desert and leapt onto his horse. A bullet zipped past his left ear as his horse galloped away. Where did they come from? wondered Tandor bitterly as he rode toward the Apache camp in the hills. And why didn't we see them earlier? He recalled the white-eyes rifle that he couldn't steal; a dark cloud passed over his heart, and he cursed beneath his breath. Maybe, on another day, I'll be the victor and you'll be running from me, if you're lucky, Tandor thought with a grim smile, as his horse scampered across the cactus plain.