by Len Levinson
Major Tyler leaned toward Vanessa and said sympathetically, “I understand that your husband was killed in action recently.”
“Yes, by Apaches. He truly loved the army, and you lost a good officer when you lost Lieutenant Clayton Dawes.”
He took her hand. “I'm so sorry, Mrs. Dawes. You must be utterly devastated. Whatever has brought you to San Antone?”
“I'm on my way to Fort Clark, and I understand that you're traveling in that direction yourself. I wonder if I could tag along.”
“We're carrying guns and ammunition, and every Indian would like to get their hands on the merchandise. It might not be the best time for a trip, because Indians have been increasing their depredations as of late. I'd recommend that you remain in San Antone until the uprising dies down.”
“If it's safe enough for your wife to travel, it's safe enough for me. But perhaps you don't want a civilian along.”
Major Tyler smiled warmly. “You're not a civilian, Mrs. Dawes. Your late husband was in the Fourth Cavalry. If you want to travel with us, you're surely welcome. You're an accomplished singer, I've heard, and perhaps you can entertain around our campfire, to cheer the men.”
“I'll do my best, although I only know Southern songs.”
“Maybe we'll teach you some new ones. The war has been over for nearly seven years, and it's time to get on with building America, don't you agree?”
“Of course,” replied Vanessa, because she'd say anything to get her way. “There are good and bad people on both sides of the Mason-Dixon Line.”
The officers sipped whiskey and discussed the impending journey to Fort Clark while the women drank sarsaparilla and chattered about families, recipes, household chores—the usual women talk. Once again, Vanessa felt like an alien, her interests always different, and how could she ever explain Duane Braddock?
Her eyes roved the saloon, and she was surprised to notice McCabe sitting with a brawny, bearded fellow at a table against the far wall. They were talking earnestly, heads close together as if making a secret deal, gazing into each other eyes, and then, all at once, McCabe gesticulated in a way that seemed odd. Vanessa's heart stumbled as the truth dawned upon her. McCabe and his newly found friend drained their glasses, left the saloon, and headed for a quiet hotel room, or perhaps a walk in the sage.
Now at last she understood her bodyguard's peculiar reactions. She nearly burst into nervous laughter, but caught herself at the last moment. I'm chasing a man twelve years younger than I, who'll probably spit in my eye when I find him, so who am I to judge my bodyguard? The main thing is that I've just hitched a ride to Fort Clark, and what a clever little Charleston girl I am.
CHAPTER 7
ON THE WESTERN COAHUILIAN desert, after reaching the crest of a certain hill, weary riders can see in the distance a large smoky village of adobe huts, wooden structures, and corrals of stolen animals scattered on a vast desert plain.
It is Ceballos Rios, a Comanchero town far from regular trails, out of the way of the Mexican Army. On a cloudy autumn afternoon, Cochrane led his irregulars down the busy main street, and each ex-soldier maintained his hand near his gun, ready to fire and ride hard at the sound of trouble.
But nobody paid attention to the newest gang in a town full of them, the only law provided by the Comancheros themselves. Comancheros were outlaws and renegades with mixed Indian, Mexican, and American blood, and they dealt in stolen goods among the three civilizations, speaking all languages, the perfect middlemen.
Duane scanned alleyways and rooftops for possible assassins. He'd never been in a Comanchero town, had no idea what to expect, and hoped nobody recognized him. Riding down the street from the opposite direction came a dozen Apache warriors who looked like they'd just returned from a raid, and Duane wondered whose horses they were selling, and how many dead Texans they'd left behind.
Duane couldn't tell the Comancheros from Mexicans, because they were all dark-skinned, wearing the same vaquero clothing, and armed similarly. A few American outlaws roamed about, but they were a minority. No law-abiding citizen would ever come to a Comanchero town.
Cochrane steered his white horse toward a sign that said CANTINA. The irregulars dismounted, tied their horses to the hitching post, and looked around warily. Cochrane didn't have to give commands, because each knew his part perfectly. They crowded into the cantina, and Duane followed Cochrane through the door. They landed in a large rectangular room with adobe walls. Men drank and made deals while waitresses served chili, tortillas, and a variety of beverages. The establishment was half-filled with patrons, the bar to the left, another on the right, and two pool tables in back, surrounded by men playing or laying bets. Also on the premises were a roulette wheel, a chuck-a-luck, and a few faro games. A disreputable-looking American with a gray beard, attired in a dirty frock coat, strolled among the tables and played the violin badly.
Cochrane and his men sat at several tables in the same section of the saloon, and Duane made sure his back was to the wall. His insides ached from the long ride, but he looked forward to a good glass of mescal and maybe some dancing girls later on. A few tables away, Johnny Pinto scrutinized him, but Duane had become accustomed to Johnny's hostile glances.
A sloe-eyed waitress approached the table, and she wore a long tan peasant dress, with a blouse made of clean undyed cotton. ”¿Qué queres, señores?”
Cochrane spoke to her in Spanish. “Yo quero hablar con Lopez. Me nombre es Cochrane, y el me sabe. (I want to speak with Lopez. My name is Cochrane, and he knows me.)” Then he ordered a round of mescal for the men.
The waitress pranced toward a corridor at the rear of the saloon, and Duane noticed an elderly Mexican vaquero with a long white mustache, staring at him from his stool at the bar. Duane positioned his hat low over his eyes and turned in another direction.
His eyes fell on a portly prostitute squirming on a Mexican's lap, while another prostitute led an American toward the back passageway. It's another den of iniquity, surmised Duane, and here I am in the middle again. Duane was tempted to have a little fling with a prostitute, but he'd been with them in the past, a sordid transaction in his estimation.
“Think I'll shoot me some pool,” said Johnny Pinto. He stood, hiked up his pants, and headed toward the tables in back. It was a breach of orders, they were supposed to stay together, and Duane noticed the corners of Cochrane's mouth turn down barely perceptibly.
The waitress returned and said to Cochrane, “In back.”
“Come with me,” Cochrane said to Duane. “Stay close and you'll be fine.”
Duane checked the position of his Colt, then followed Cochrane toward the corridor. He noticed the same old white-mustachioed Mexican following his progress, then the Mexican turned and said something to the bartender, who examined Duane with renewed interest.
Cochrane and Duane came to a door at the end of the corridor. It was opened by a Mexican clerk, and Duane found himself in a large office furnished with padded chairs, while a portly man with a flowing brown mustache sat behind the desk.
“I am so happy to see you again,” said the Comanchero, flashing a friendly smile. “Have a seat and let me get you some mescal.”
“I want to introduce my friend Duane Butterfield,” Cochrane replied.
Lopez looked a Duane, paused, and a quizzical expression came over his face. “Do I know you from someplace?”
“Never saw you in my life,” replied Duane.
Lopez smiled constantly, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. He poured two glasses of mescal and held them out to Cochrane and Duane. “I have not seen you for a long time, Capitán Cochrane, and I have worry that maybe the americano army has got you.”
“They'll never get me, but I need ammunition and dynamite.” He unbuttoned his shirt pocket, took out a folded sheet of paper, and tossed it onto Lopez's desk.
Lopez studied the itemized list, then nodded and smiled. “When would you like it?”
“First thing in the morning, and I've
got the gold in my pocket right now.”
Lopez laughed sardonically. “If only all my customers were like you, capitán. You are a man of honor, and I try to be a man of honor, too, but you know how it is.” His eyes turned to Duane. “Are you sure I don't know you?”
“Don't believe so,” Duane replied.
Lopez looked him up and down, trying to place him. He saw many American outlaws, and it was hard to keep up. Lopez returned his gaze to Cochrane. “And how is Juanita?”
“Juanita and I are getting married.”
Lopez appeared surprised.
“I've decided,” Cochrane continued, “to settle down like a natural man and have a family. I'm not getting any younger.”
“We are all marching steadily to our graves, my capitán, and sometimes we wonder what we are doing with our lives. Who is taking over your men—this one here?” He nodded toward Duane.
“This one isn't in my irregulars,” replied Cochrane. “He's a friend.”
“I think I have seen his peecture on a wanted poster.” Lopez looked at Duane and grinned. “Is possible?”
“Yes,” replied Duane.
Cochrane interjected, “He says that his name is Duane Butterfield, but I think he's lying.”
Lopez looked reproachfully at Duane. “How can you lie to a friend?”
“My name is nobody's business.”
Lopez shook his hand as if it were wet. “He must be wanted for something very bad, no?”
“Yes,” replied Duane.
“I found him on the desert,” Cochrane said, “and he was damned near dead.”
“He does not look so dead now, but we all have certain facts that we want to conceal, eh, gentleman?” Lopez was laughing at what he considered a joke when an urgent knock came to the door. The Comanchero leader sat straighter in his chair. “Who is it?”
The door opened, and a waitress stood in the opening with a tray in her hands, an expression of consternation on her face. “Un problema grande (big trouble),” she said.
Lopez pulled a double-barreled shotgun off the wall, opened a desk drawer, and stuffed a handful of cartridges into his voluminous pocket. “I have to take care of a problema, and I hope you will excuse me.”
“Hell, we'll go with you,” Cochrane replied. “We wouldn't want to miss the fun.”
Cochrane nodded to Duane, and Duane found himself drawn into the vortex yet again. He followed Cochrane and Lopez down the hall to the main room of the saloon, where everyone gathered around the pool tables. A middle-aged Comanchero was facing a gringo who needed a shave, Johnny Pinto himself, and both appeared ready to draw and fire.
Lopez strolled boldly between them, aiming the shotgun first in the direction of one, then the other. “What is going on here!”
The Comanchero's name was Valencio, and he glared at Johnny Pinto on the other side of the pool table. “That gringo has call me a liar, and I am going to keel him.”
“Not in here you are not, because somebody else will end up with the mess. If you want to keel somebody, do it outside.” Then Lopez turned to Johnny Pinto. “That goes for you too.”
Johnny Pinto didn't bat an eyelash. “I don't give a damn where I shoot him. Watch my back, boys. I'm a-gonna show this greaser what pool is all about.”
Johnny swaggered down the corridor, thumbs hooked in his belt. He'd just lost a pool game, but had accused Valencio of scratching his last shot. Johnny preferred to win, and mere facts had little significance, unless they buttressed his interests. He stepped into a backyard strewn with barrels of trash, piles of wood, and a privy with a door on sagging hinges. Johnny positioned himself so that the moon would be shining into his opponent's eyes.
The crowd spilled outside, carrying his opponent with them. Valencio's chest was crossed with bandoliers of ammunition, his sombrero sat on the back of his head, and a long mustache trailed beneath his chin. He faced Johnny, spread his legs apart, and settled into his gunfighter's crouch.
The crowd gathered around, and Duane tagged toward the background, curious to see a gunfight from the spectators’ viewpoint. The combatants were poised to fire, but it was difficult to discern a man's capacities from looks alone. Otis Puckett, the famous gunfighter from Laredo, had been Humpty-Dumpty in a cowboy hat.
Again, Lopez strolled between them. “It is a beautiful night to die,” he said, “but foolish to die over nothing. What is this about, compañeros?”
“I told you he has call me a liar,” Valencio said. “There is nothing to talk about, and I will accept no apology.”
“You damned sure won't get one from me,” replied Johnny Pinto. “You're just another no-good shit-eating son of a bitch, but you've done cheated the wrong man this time. I'm a-gonna to count to three.”
The time for gentle persuasion had long past; Lopez stepped into the crowd, and the fight was about to commence.
“One,” said Johnny.
But Valencio didn't feel like waiting. Instead he jerked his hand toward his gun while keeping his eyes fastened on his target. To his dismay, his target was hauling iron. Valencio had the sudden realization that he was going to die, but all he could do was go down like a true hombre. He drew his gun as a red flash appeared before him, and then a mighty roar filled his ears. Everything went blank a split second later, and he was dead before he hit the ground.
The gunshot reverberated across Ceballos Rios, and Johnny Pinto felt drenched with fire. He stood like a statue with his gun aimed straight ahead as his opponent fell at his feet. Johnny's eyes filled with tears, an indescribable ecstasy came over him, and at that moment he believed he could do anything, even fly over the rooftops of Ceballos Rios. All eyes on him, he puffed out his chest and stood a little taller. “Anybody else want to play,” he asked out the corner of his mouth, “or can I put my piece away now?”
Nobody stepped forward to redeem the honor of the fallen Comanchero, and never had Johnny Pinto drawn faster in his life, in his opinion. He felt invincible, his hand had a life of its own, and he was certain that he could defeat anyone. “Shucks,” he muttered as he was about to drop his gun into its holster.
Then, out the corner of his eye, he spotted Duane Butterfield at the rear of the crowd. Johnny decided the time had come to kill the man who irked him most. He knew that Butterfield was fast, but no one could be faster than Johnny Pinto on that night of nights.
He turned toward Duane and said to himself, What the hell, I'm sure I can take him. He smiled crookedly as he walked closer, and the crowd parted to make way for him. Duane saw him coming and figured what was on his mind. The Pecos Kid didn't feel up to snuff, but couldn't run away either.
Johnny came to a stop in front of him. “You think you've got a fast hand? Well, let's see how fast it really is.”
“Wait a minute,” said Cochrane, strolling toward them from the sidelines. “I gave Duane my word that he wouldn't have to worry about gunplay while he was in town, so leave him alone, Johnny.”
Johnny snorted derisively. “That sickly son of a bitch is always hidin’ behind somebody's apron strings. He talks big, but he ain't never willin’ to back it up. Onc't he drawed on me when I wasn't lookin’, but this time I'm ready fer ‘im. Out of my way, Cochrane. This ain't yer fight.”
“Oh, yes it is, Johnny. I gave Duane my word, so either walk away or get ready to draw on me.”
Johnny's triumph was transformed into murderous frustration. “Why is it that Duane Butterfield allus gits special treatment?” he asked. “Everybody has to fight their own battles ‘cept him.” Johnny Pinto pointed his finger at Duane and hollered, “Yer a yellerbelly coward and everybody knows it.” Then he pursed his lips and spat at Duane.
Tiny droplets landed like acid on Duane's cheeks, and he felt visceral loathing for the killer braggart pig. Duane knew that ninety percent of his draw was back and wondered whether to accept the challenge.
Then a new voice came to him from the crowd. The speaker was the old gray-haired Mexican whom Duane had seen sitting at
the bar. He looked at Johnny Pinto and said, “Señor, you do not know me and I do not know you, but I know this man here. He is very famous in Texas, he has killed many men, and I have seen him kill with my own eyes. That is the Pecos Kid, he is much faster than you, and you will die if you press this fight. I have no stake in this—I am telling you for your own good.”
Johnny appeared thunderstruck by the news. He looked at Duane again and giggled nervously. “Him?”
“His name is Duane Braddock, but he is known as the Pecos Kid.”
Duane's blood chilled as all eyes turned to him. Cochrane asked, “Is that right, Duane?”
Duane nodded, keeping his eyes pinned tightly on Johnny Pinto.
“To hell with the Pecos Kid!” hollered Johnny. “There's a fast hand for every whoop and holler in Texas, and I ain't afraid of nobody. Let's see how fast you are, Pecos.”
Cochrane stepped forward, the patch over his eye like a hole through his head. “I've told you that I've sworn to defend this man, and he still hasn't recovered from his wounds.”
“I've recovered enough,” replied Duane. “Please step out of the way.”
“I thought you weren't well enough to fight.”
“I'm well enough to fight that scum over there, and I'd be grateful if you'd mind your own business, sir.”
Cochrane opened his mouth to reply, took one look at Duane's eyes, and thought better of it. He moved back, and Johnny faced Duane with nothing in the way.
“Think it over, señor,” said the old man to Johnny Pinto. “That man shot Otis Puckett, and Otis Puckett was the fastest gun alive.”
Johnny's arrogance faltered, pride flew out his ears, and he wondered if he was getting carried away. Who's the Pecos Kid, and is he what everybody says?
“I'm waiting on you,” Duane said.
Johnny smiled nervously as he gazed at the Pecos Kid. If Duane Braddock had shot the fastest gun alive, the conclusion was obvious. Not today, thought Johnny, but maybe I can turn this thing around. He forced a playful smile. “Mr. Pecos might be the fastest gun alive, but I'll bet he wouldn't dare take me without a gun. Right, Mr. Pecos?”
