by Len Levinson
“Don't have all that much to pack, ma'am. I move around a lot on my own. Where we headed?”
“Mexico.”
McCabe leaned back in the chair and screwed up his eyes. “What's the purpose of this trip, if'n you don't mind me askin'?”
“I'm looking for an old friend named Duane Braddock. Ever heard of him?”
A puzzled expression came over her new bodyguard's face. “Seems I have, but I'm not sure. He must be an awful good friend.”
“Correct,” she replied, “and there's something you must understand. You're my bodyguard, but that's as far as it goes.” She revealed the derringer with an easy twist of her wrist and aimed down the barrel. “I'm not afraid to use this either.”
His face betrayed not one iota of emotion. “I'm only interested in fifty dollars per month, plus my expenses. What made you think different?”
He was a total stranger, and could be a wanted killer for all she knew. “You've got the job,” she told him. “Your first assignment is to find out when the next stagecoach is leaving for San Antone.”
“Hold on,” he replied. “I hired on as bodyguard, not errand boy. Maybe we'd better get that straight right now.”
“Why should two people go to the stagecoach office, when one will do? If this is the way you're going to be, maybe I'd better find another bodyguard.”
He raised his hand and smiled. “Don't be hasty. I was just testin’ you, and you passed. Wouldn't want to work for any skeered woman.”
“Are you wanted by the authorities?”
McCabe looked around with discomfort. “The damned Yankees claim that I committed a few acts of piracy during war.”
“You sound like my kind of man, Mr. McCabe.” Vanessa smiled for the first time since the interview began. “You may commence your duties immediately.”
CHAPTER 5
DUANE PUSHED HIMSELF unsteadily to his feet, every motion carrying new agony. Dr. Montgomery handed him a crooked cane fashioned from a juniper branch. They were on level ground, and Duane was about to take his first step since he'd fought the Apaches.
An invisible monster tugged his healing stomach muscles every time he moved. He took one faltering step, paused, and then attempted another.
“You're doing very well,” Dr. Montgomery said proudly. “The more you try, the better you'll be. I don't hold to those old-fashioned theories about a wounded man staying in bed all day long. Hell, that'll only make you weaker.”
“And this might finish me off completely,” Duane wheezed. He took another tentative step, tottered, but managed to right himself as something fragile ripped in his guts. “I opened a stitch, I think.”
“Don't see any blood.”
Duane probed his left foot forward. He'd lie down if he were alone, but didn't want to appear weak in front of the doctor. He advanced with great effort across the clearing, and all heads in the vicinity turned toward him.
He limped twenty feet; the pain grew severe, his left leg felt paralyzed. “I can't go on,” he said in a choked voice.
“Sure you can.”
“Something's going to bust at any moment.”
“Nonsense.”
It's not his body that was shot up, reasoned Duane as he pressed onward. “When do I get a break?”
“A few more feet. I've got a big reward if you make it, but don't ask what it is. You'll have to keep going to find out.”
The irregular soldiers watched, and Duane couldn't collapse before an audience, though he was sure his vitals were rupturing.
“That's enough,” said Dr. Montgomery. “Have a seat.”
A chair appeared beneath Duane; he dropped onto it, and never had his limbs felt so heavy, while his chest heaved with effort. A table was placed before him, and on it was a platter covered with slabs of meat, mashed potatoes, collard greens, gravy, beans, tortillas, and a pot of hot black coffee.
“Enjoy it,” said Dr. Montgomery.
Duane reached for the knife and fork. They might be outlaws, he considered, but they're good Samaritans as well, and I owe my life to them. There's decency in everybody, including outlaws. Thank you, Lord, for the bounty of this table, and also for slowing me down and forcing me to think more deeply about my ridiculous life.
Captain Cochrane approached the table as Duane finished his wedge of apple pie. “You look like a new man,” Cochrane announced in his deep booming cavalry officer's voice.
“Should be able to ride soon, and hope you'll sell me a horse.”
“But of course.” The ex-officer sat on the edge of the table and rolled a cigarette. “If you're headed for a long trip, you'll need some money, I reckon.”
“A traveler can always use money, that's for sure. What's on your mind?”
“We're going on a military operation and could use another gun. Your share would be five thousand dollars for a few days of riding. We won't be leaving for another month, so you might want to think it over.”
“Thanks for the offer,” replied Duane, “but I don't think I'll be going with you. As I told you before, there's something I've got to do.”
Cochrane smiled thinly. “If I offered you a regular job for five thousand dollars, you'd snap it up in a minute. Let's call a spade a spade. You think we're a bunch of thieves, am I right?”
“I don't mean to insult you,” replied Duane, “because you've been damned good to me, but when a man takes something that doesn't belong to him at gunpoint, it's known as armed robbery.”
“We're recovering what the Yankees have stolen from us. Why can't you understand that simple concept?”
“I doubt that the federal marshal in San Antone would agree with you, and he's the one I'm worried about. Sorry, but I'm having enough trouble with the law as it is.”
Cochrane pondered Duane's rejoinder for a few moments, then slowly and thoughtfully rolled a cigarette. “You and I have fundamental disagreements about what's lawful and what isn't, but I loathe any form of surrender. The tragedy of the South is that she was betrayed by her leaders. Bobby Lee became a college professor, which is what he should've been in the first place. Wade Hampton and Nathan Bedford Forrest became cheap tinhorn businessmen while everything we fought and bled for was tossed into the trash pile. It's too damned bad that Stonewall Jackson got killed, along with Albert Sidney Johnston and good old Jeb Stuart. Our best, the ones who would've fought on, were lost in the fray, while opportunists live on and get richer every day.”
“I've always been curious about something,” said Duane cautiously. “If the South had so many brilliant generals, and so many good dedicated soldiers, how'd you lose?”
Captain Richard Cochrane of the Confederate Cavalry Corps gazed solemnly at the horizon. “We ran out of supplies, ammunition, and horses. In the final year, we looked like gray ghosts in rags, with the miss-meal cramps and no soles on our boots. All we had left was our good old-fashioned Southern pride, but we did our duty to flag and country, unaware that the worst blow was yet to fall, when we were sold down the river by our leaders.”
Cochrane shook his head bitterly, his eyes watered, then he looked away and declared firmly, “It's not a happy story, but it's not over yet. The one true fact of history—and even Machiavelli realized it—is you can't hold good people down.” Cochrane balled his fist, turned toward Duane, and looked him squarely in the eye. “One day, mark my words, the South will rise again!”
Well-dressed passengers boarded the Concord stagecoach as baggage handlers tossed luggage to their brethren atop the designated compartment. It was a bright sunny day, a crowd of children and well-wishers were gathered, and Vanessa Fontaine wondered if she was going out of her mind, instead of taking a stagecoach trip to San Antone with a man she didn't even know.
As if in a dream, she ascended the two steps and landed inside the cab. A salesman sat in front of her, next to a lawyer. She shifted her butt toward the far window; they tipped their hats and mumbled friendly greetings with the faint suggestions of lechery.
McCabe
followed her, carrying a sawed-off double-barrel shotgun, while his Spiller & Burr .36-caliber revolver slept peacefully in a holster against his right leg. He sat next to Vanessa and was followed by a gentleman who looked like a schoolteacher, but could have been a doctor, perhaps even an ax murderer.
What have I done? Vanessa asked herself as the door closed. I'm going through this misery for a man? But I'll be fine once I get over the initial shock. After all, most stagecoaches arrive at their destinations without a scratch, don't they? If I don't find Duane Braddock, maybe I'll meet some other nice fellow.
The carriage jerked abruptly; Vanessa looked out the window and waved one last time to Lonnie Mae. A cheer went up from the crowd as the stagecoach rolled down the street. Panic broke over Vanessa, and she wanted to jump out the door and run for her life. Her stagecoach might be the one that didn't make it through Comanche territory, and perhaps she'd be taken prisoner, spending the rest of her life as some warrior's squaw.
Why am I never satisfied? she wondered, swallowing hard as clomping horses pulled the stagecoach down the street. If another woman were doing this, I'd tell her she's an utter nincompoop. They came to the edge of town, and before them stretched the vast lawless sage. Vanessa tried to feel hopeful while next to her sat a personal bodyguard wanted by the Yankees for piracy, and God only knew what else.
What have I done? she wondered again as the stagecoach of fools rocked from side to side on its leather thorough brace suspension. The team of snorting drooling horses pulled the ornate vehicle onto open range, and the passengers looked at each other warily, because it was possible they'd die together in the days to come. This time I've gone too far, Vanessa thought as civilization, mercy, and Christianity fell behind the rear wheels of the stagecoach. There ought to be a law against people like me.
Late that afternoon Nestor spotted a herd of wild ones in the distance, grazing on an endless carpet of grass. They were the beasts of the range who ran without bridles and saddles, and no cruel two-leggeds kicked spurs into their withers.
Nestor was shy, afraid they wouldn't accept him, and feeling lonely. He didn't sleep well, because he was food to many different creatures. It would be easier if he could cooperate with others on guard duty.
If they didn't accept him, he'd go on his way alone. Maybe he'd let some cowboys catch him, because a nice warm barn and plenty of oats were worth a certain amount of spurs.
He'd been living on grass and strengthening his instincts during the time he'd been on the loose. He could smell the herd and was certain they smelled him, too, as he loped closer, peering ahead through his huge eyes, as his ears listened for danger.
He approached the edge of the herd, stopped, and looked at them hopefully. The nearest horses stopped munching and gazed back for a long time. Then a big Appaloosa stallion took a few steps toward Nestor. Welcome, brother. We are the wild ones.
Nestor lowered his head as he advanced closer. They appeared skittish, light on their feet, with sharp glancing eyes and tremendous power radiating from their muscular bodies. Numerous pretty fillies were among them. Come join us, and be one with us.
They made way for Nestor, and he walked among them like an honored guest. They moved closer, touching him with their lips, snorting and snickering warmly. We are the wild ones, and we are on our way to the land of the sun.
Late that night the stagecoach arrived at a shack alongside a muddy trail west of Austin. The shotgun guard jumped down and opened the stagecoach door as passengers groaned, unfolded themselves from cramped seats, and headed outside. McCabe helped Vanessa to the soggy ground; it was pitch-black, and a chill was on the sage. She pulled her purple wool shawl more tightly around her shoulders.
The stagecoach stop was rough-hewn and lopsided, and its interior visible through cracks between the logs. McCabe opened the front door, revealing scattered tables, a small bar, and a stove where a woman in a apron was flipping steaks. “Supper's ready!” she called. “Yer just in time.”
“Where can I get two whiskeys?” McCabe asked. “And fast.”
At the bar, a boy of fourteen upturned a jug and filled two glasses. McCabe carried them to Vanessa as other passengers stumbled into the warm dim-lit room. The aroma of broiling beef, sweaty clothes, garbage, and unwashed flesh filled Vanessa's nostrils. She sat at a table, rested her chin on her hand, and pondered, My God, what have I done to myself?
McCabe chuckled on the far side of the table, his white teeth gleaming in the light of a lamp suspended from a hook in the ceiling.
“You look plumb tuckered out, ma'am. I was just wonderin’ if we're headed back to Austin.”
“Of course we're not going back. We just started.”
A lightning bolt rent the heavens as the cook's children served food and drink to the weary travelers; a light rain began to fall. He's right, I should return to Austin, Vanessa speculated, but do I want to spend my life lying on the sofa, reading Lord Byron, and being bored? I was made for better things, so why am I following a wanted killer to a place about which I know nothing, and sleeping in roadhouses not fit for self-respecting swine? How low I've fallen, all for the love of a man who may not even remember me anymore.
Several hundred miles away a much different meal was being served in a canyon that appeared on no official maps. Cochrane sat at one end of the table, and at the other, Juanita ladled hearty beef stew into large wooden bowls. Dr. Jeff Montgomery and Duane Braddock were guests, facing each other midway down the table.
Duane's mouth watered at the fragrance arising from his bowl, but he couldn't begin until grace had been said. I might as well make the best of my stay with this outlaw gang, he figured. About time I took me a vacation.
Captain Cochrane folded his hands and bowed his head. “Lord, we thank You for the food that You have brought forth from the earth, and please help us defeat the Yankee invader. Amen.”
They proceeded to dine, their table illuminated by a hand-worked elaborate silver candelabrum purchased in Monterrey, while a framed portrait of General Thomas Stonewall Jackson hung on the wall. Duane was becoming increasingly devoted to Mexican food, and consumed his portion with great gusto as his tongue tingled with exotic Mexican spices. This is the way a man should live, he figured, instead of in saloons where a cook might spit in the soup, or a dead fly could be buried in your mashed potatoes.
On the other side of the table, Captain Cochrane watched Duane out the corner of his eye. The young man had been nearly dead, but now sat upright, his color coming back, and he appeared almost normal. “You're making quite a recovery, Duane,” Cochrane acknowledged. “You must have a strong constitution.”
Before Duane could respond, the doctor said, “Youth is a powerful antidote to everything imaginable. We've seen with our own eyes how it can defeat death itself.”
“It was not youth that did it,” declared Juanita. “It was God!”
Dr. Montgomery and Captain Cochrane looked at each other as if to say, There she goes again. Juanita noticed their mocking expressions, but that didn't stop her. “It is God who does everything, not us.”
Captain Cochrane didn't want to argue with his acid-tongued bed partner, so he sidestepped the issue entirely. “Have you picked out a horse yet, Duane?”
“I sure wish I could have the one that I was riding when the Apaches attacked me. He was the fastest horse I ever rode, and I paid a hundred dollars for him. I wonder whatever happened to him.”
“The Apaches probably got him,” replied Cochrane. “That's an awful lot of money for a horse these days.”
“What's a hundred dollars when the Fourth Cavalry is on your trail?”
Juanita shook her head in disapproval. “Banditos,” she muttered. “How could anybody want such a life?”
“I'm not a bandito,” corrected Duane. “I never stole anything except a couple of horses out of necessity.”
“In other words,” Dr. Montgomery said, “you're a horse thief.”
“It was a matter of life and dea
th.”
Juanita interjected again. “God wants us to live at peace, but men fight all the time. That is the main problema in this world.”
“Our high priestess has spoken,” declared Cochrane jokingly. “Unfortunately, not many people can understand a great purpose. You can do whatever you like to ordinary people, as long as you give them a roof over their heads and a pot of stew once a day. That's the way the Yankees want us to live—one small cut above slaves—and I guess we're supposed to lie down and enjoy it. The Yankees are small petty men—they want to punish us for our supposedly wicked ways, and Juanita doesn't understand one iota of it, but she provides me with the conventional point of view.”
It became silent in the tiny adobe hacienda as Captain Richard Cochrane and Señorita Juanita Torregrosa glowered at each other across the table, shattering Duane's happy family portrait. Meanwhile, Dr. Montgomery chewed a tortilla as if nothing untoward had happened. It looked as though Cochrane and Juanita were going to jump over the stew pot and start punching, scratching, and biting.
Juanita tossed her hand in the air. “You can use all the big words you want, Mr. Confederate Army, but you are not fooling me one bit. You love to hate, and that is why you are still fighting your Civil War. You have fancy words, but you do not know a damned thing what you are talking about.”
“Sure I don't,” he replied, getting deeper into the spirit of domestic discord. “Only ignorant Mexican peasants know the truth, isn't that so? That's why Mexico is poor. God can't be a very good father if that's how he treats the Mexicans.”
Duane Braddock, defender of the faith, decided to jump in with both feet. “According to theology, evil is caused by people who make free-will decisions. So don't blame it on God.”
“Are you referring to the holy-boly Roman Catholic Church, which gave the world the Crusades, the Inquisition, and two thousand years of opposition to everything bright, new, and wonderful?”
