Devil's Creek Massacre

by Len Levinson

  The gold and other booty had been loaded onto packhorses, the gang was ready to depart for Lost Canyon, and the last order of business was Duane Braddock. The outlaws headed toward him, the moment he'd dreading had arrived, and he didn't know what to expect. His hands still were tied behind his back, but he managed to clamber to his feet and greet them. “Anybody got a taste of water?” he asked.

  “Somebody toss him a canteen,” ordered Cochrane as he pulled his knife. He proceeded to slice the knot that held Duane's arms.

  “I thought,” said Beasley, “that we were going to give him the firing squad.”

  “Everybody deserves a fair trial,” replied Cochrane. “We live by the articles of war here, remember?”

  “But he was going to betray us to the Yankees. I don't trust him.”

  “Neither do I,” replied Cochrane. “We'll talk it over at his court-martial, and I'll take full responsibility for him until then. If he tries to escape, you have my permission to shoot him like a dog.”

  The twine fell from Duane's wrists, but he still couldn't move his fingers. Slowly, painfully, he turned toward Cochrane. “You're the one who's in deep trouble, not me. I wonder what Robert E. Lee would say about you fine gentlemen killers!”

  Duane spat out the last word angrily, noticing hostility and riot on the faces of the irregulars. The Pecos Kid struggled to move his fingers, but they were rusty iron hinges.

  Cochrane frowned. “Let's get on our horses and ride on out of here. We'll settle everything back at the canyon.”

  “But,” protested Beasley, “he just insulted us. We ought to shoot him right here and naow. Hell, I'll be happy to do it myself.”

  “Put the gun away, Sergeant,” replied Cochrane, “and move the column out. That's an order.”

  “I think yer makin’ a mistake, sir.”

  Cochrane gazed at him coldly. “I'm not going to tell you again.”

  “Yessir.” Beasley performed an about-face and ordered the men to mount up.

  Nobody helped the traitor, so Duane raised his numb hand and grabbed the pommel of his saddle, then stuffed his foot into the stirrup. The column was on its way back to Lost Canyon, and Duane fell in at the rear with Jim Walsh and the packhorses.

  “Duane—ride up here where I can see you!”

  It was the voice of Cochrane, and Duane touched spurs to the withers of his horse. Drawing closer, Duane saw that Cochrane's jaw was set, and his eyes were steely as he peered ahead like the combat commander that he was. He loves this war business, Duane realized. The soldiers at Devil's Creek weren't real people to him, and neither am I.

  “What happened to your neck?” Cochrane asked, glancing at Duane. “Looks like somebody cut you.”

  Duane recalled his nightmare about Johnny Pinto. “I'm not sure, but what do you make of Johnny shooting himself?”

  “He picked a strange time to do it, right in the middle of the robbery. And you've sure fooled me, Duane Braddock.”

  “You fooled me, too, Captain Cochrane. It's been a helluva day.”

  “Make the most of it, young man. Because you don't have too many left.”

  CHAPTER 11

  THE PAY WAGON DIDN’T ARRIVE AT Fort Stockton on schedule, and it was assumed that bad weather or an accident had forced the temporary delay. Concern mounted as days passed, and finally a detachment was sent to locate the missing wagon. It was commanded by First Lieutenant Arnold J. Haffner, a West Point graduate from the great state of Wisconsin.

  The detachment numbered thirty men with a wagon filled with supplies and a medical officer. Everyone suspected that Comanches had waylaid the pay wagon and massacred its escort, but maybe someone had survived. The detachment headed north, finding nothing unusual for the first four days. Then, as they approached Devil's Creek, they spotted hordes of buzzards circling in the sky, and smelled the stench of death. Lieutenant Haffner led his men across the creek, as they raised their bandannas over their noses. The closer they drew to the slaughterhouse, the more discomforting it became. Bodies partially eaten by scavengers were everywhere, the wagon utterly demolished, all the money gone.

  Haffner was glad that he was an officer as he turned to Sergeant Gilhooley. “Organize a burial party.”

  “Yessir.”

  Gilhooley set to his task as Haffner rode upwind of the disaster. The stalwart officer wanted to retch, but it wouldn't look proper before his men. He was certain that Indians had done it, and every warrior who refused to move to a reservation should be exterminated on the spot.

  Something jarred the underbrush ahead, and Lieutenant Haffner yanked his service revolver. His jaw dropped as a ragged trooper with a crude splint on his leg crawled out, covered with dust and blood, like an apparition. Haffner didn't know whether to run or open fire when the ghost said, through a cracked voice, “Don't shoot.”

  Haffner ran toward the wounded trooper and held him steady by the shoulder. “What the hell happened?”

  Private John Jenkins's beard was caked with blood, and a mad gleam emanated from his eyes. “It was an outlaw gang,” he croaked, “and they was led by the Pecos Kid.”

  The irregulars locked Duane in a shed after they returned to Lost Canyon, and he was under guard twenty-four hours a day. They nailed shut the windows, provided no stove, and offered only a cot, blanket, and chamber pot. Duane expected to be called out any moment and put before the firing squad.

  They'd let him keep his rosary and King James Bible to provide solace in his final hours. He tried to think of life in the world to come. Will I wear a white robe and live in the clouds, or is religion a pile of horseshit like everything else?

  Sometimes he gazed out the windows and observed irregulars going about their chores like monks at the monastery in the clouds. It didn't take long to discover where the gold was hidden, for he'd had seen the pack-horses led to a certain ridge above the cow pasture. The wealth was stashed in a cave, prior to being turned over to the Confederate government in exile.

  His other important discovery was the shack where they stored the dynamite. He'd never paid attention to it before, for there were many structures and lean-tos in Lost Canyon, but amazing what a man can learn if he observes quietly and keeps his mouth shut.

  One answer eluded him, no matter how he tried to clarify it. Johnny Pinto had killed himself at the height of the massacre, and Duane had no idea why. Evidently the throat cutting had been no dream. Another mystery, and only Johnny Pinto knew the answer.

  Circulation had returned to Duane's hands, he was fast as ever, and his health recovered almost completely. He paced back and forth inside his little shack like a caged animal, and sometimes thought of diving out the window and making a run for it. But he was unarmed, and there were guards. He wouldn't get ten feet during the day, but maybe if he dodged like an Apache at night, he could disappear into the mountains.

  When he tired of pacing and looking out the window, he lay on the cot with the Bible. Hour after hour he read about the tribulations of Job, the pronouncements of Koheleth, the psalms of David, and the Song of Songs.

  Behold, thou art fair, my love,

  Thou hast doves’ eyes.

  He often thought of Miss Vanessa Fontaine and hoped she wasn't in bed with Lieutenant Clayton Dawes. Sometimes he prayed his rosary and tried to be philosophical. Everybody dies, and I'm just going a little early, that's all. I've tried to lead a proper life, I never killed except in self-defense, I never stole anything except a couple of horses in emergencies, and as for what occurred between Miss Vanessa Fontaine and me, nobody got hurt except us.

  It was night at Fort Clark, and Vanessa was packing her bags, her stagecoach scheduled to leave at dawn. She'd questioned her motives during past days, searched her heart, and decided to proceed to Escondido, then figure out what to do next.

  Vanessa didn't make sense to herself as she checked lists against personal belongings. I could be in Paris having a gay time, but instead I'm chasing a young man who probably hates me and everything I s
tand for. But tea parties and fancy dress balls no longer fascinated the former Charleston belle. Now she loved Duane Braddock, and love didn't come along every day.

  Vanessa raised McCabe's Spiller & Burr revolver, made sure it wasn't loaded, then thumbed back the hammer and took aim at a crack in the wall. The finely tooled revolver wasn't a jeweled toy like the derringer, and she'd also inherited McCabe's double-barrel sawed-off shotgun. The only thing Texans respect is lead, she mused as she pulled the trigger, her hand steady. Click. Then she thumbed loads into the chambers. I'll give them plenty if they ever start up with me.

  There was a knock on the door. “Mrs. Dawes?” It was Mrs. Brean, her hostess. “Colonel MacKenzie would like to have a word with you.”

  “Now?”

  “He says it's important.”

  “By all means send him in.”

  The door opened and the great Civil War hero strode into her room, his posture erect, uniform immaculate, hair and mustache neatly combed, but with an air of danger and whiff of gunpowder about him. “I'm sorry to disturb you,” he said, holding up a piece of paper. “But this report's just come in and I thought you ought to look at it.”

  Vanessa had no idea what he was talking about, but she took the paper, held it to the oil lamp, and recognized an official army communication from Fort Stockton.

  I departed Fort Stockton on 28 October 1871 with my detachment, pursuant to Special Order No. 324. My mission was to locate the missing pay wagon, and I had with me one sergeant and twenty-eight troopers. On 1 November 1871, at Devil's Creek, we located what was left of the pay wagon. Every man had been slaughtered except Private John Jenkins, who miraculously survived despite two broken legs and numerous other wounds. All the gold was taken, including weapons, ammunition, and supplies. We thought it was Comanches, because they've been active in the area, but Private Jenkins swore it was a band of outlaws led by Duane Braddock, also known as the Pecos Kid. Jenkins alleged that he'd seen Braddock previously and knew what he looked like. We buried the dead and returned with Private Jenkins to fort Stockton on 8 November 1871.

  Arnold J. Haffner

  Lieutenant, Fourth Cavalry

  Cochrane had become moody and disgruntled since the Devil's Creek robbery. He couldn't sleep at night, fretted during the day, had difficulty making up his mind, and was nagged steadily by his future bride, who wanted him to release Duane Braddock from captivity.

  Cochrane hid in the bedroom while Juanita fussed in the kitchen, because he didn't want to talk about Braddock anymore. Cochrane considered betrayal the most terrible crime of all, and the South had been betrayed enough.

  But the former officer was haunted by the action at Devil's Creek. He'd seen much bloodshed in the war, but the recent carnage disturbed him peculiarly, while Duane's moral passion had shaken his confidence. Occasionally Cochrane could view the robbery from Duane's perspective: a bloody wanton massacre of innocent men.

  If Bobby Lee were alive, he'd probably disapprove of the Devil's Creek robbery, deduced Cochrane. But they didn't call General Lee the Gray Fox for nothing, and if it hadn't been for old Jeb, Lee might've defeated the federals at Gettysburg.

  Cochrane felt guilty about Gettysburg, although he hadn't given the order to raid into Pennsylvania. That had been Jeb Stuart's idea, and old Jeb had led the Confederate Cavalry Corps on a wild rampage through Yankee land, when he should've provided intelligence about approaching federal troops. Bobby Lee went into Gettysburg blind as a result, and lost the most critical battle of the war.

  Young Lieutenant Cochrane had enjoyed the Pennsylvania raid tremendously. He'd drunk liberated whiskey, eaten liberated steaks, and even bedded a certain rambunctious Yankee farm girl. But at Gettysburg, General Lee made judgments based on inadequate information; he'd ordered General Pickett's costly charge, plus a few other vain exercises in blood, and that was the end of the Confederacy, although Cochrane and the others hadn't realized it at the time.

  Cochrane was tormented by remorse, headaches, and vague glimpses of Sister Death dancing in the corner of the room. Sometimes he woke up abruptly at night and found himself looking at his hands, to see if they had blood on them. Everything had been fine until Duane Braddock came along. The former seminary student forced Cochrane to look at himself in a new light, and Cochrane didn't like what he saw.

  Cochrane wanted to let Duane go, but that would be an admission of guilt. If Cochrane and his irregulars were truly soldiers, then Braddock was guilty of treachery in the face of the enemy. You either believed in the articles of war or you didn't.

  There was a knock on the door, then Juanita opened it. “It is Beasley,” she said, “and I think I know what he wants.”

  “Tell him I'll be right there, and leave me alone, please.”

  She closed the door, he rolled out of bed, thrust his feet into his boots, splashed water onto his face, and strapped on his Remington. He reached for the doorknob, and Beasley stood by the kitchen window, gazing toward the shack where Duane Braddock was under guard, while Juanita stirred a pot of beans at the stove. The sergeant spun around as Cochrane appeared.

  “What's on your mind?” asked Cochrane.

  Beasley aimed his thumb back. “The men think it's time you did something about Braddock, sir. If one of them was a-gonna warn the Yankees, you would've shot him by now. They can't understand the special treatment for the Kid.”

  Cochrane's face was a marble mask while thoughts spun furiously in his head. Braddock is undermining the effectiveness of my command, and it's time to get this over with. “All right—prepare the prisoner for the firing squad, Sergeant Beasley.”

  Beasley was about to reply when Juanita screamed, “No!” She stood at the stove, a ladle in her hands, fire emanating from her eyes. “He is just a boy! How can you do this thing?”

  “It's none of your business,” replied Cochrane. Then he trembled involuntarily as he recalled grotesque twisted bodies lying alongside Devil's Creek. “Sergeant, you have your orders.”

  “You don't have to show up, sir,” Beasley replied sympathetically. “I can give the commands myself.”

  “I don't need anybody to do my work, Sergeant. Notify me when everything is ready.”

  Beasley saluted and marched out of the cabin. Cochrane sat at the table and wrote:

  I, the undersigned, have on this date 19 November 1871 executed Duane Braddock, born in Texas and known as the Pecos Kid, for treachery in the face of the enemy.

  Richard Cochrane

  Captain, CSA

  1st Virginia Irregulars

  He was examining what he'd written when he heard Juanita's voice on the other end of the table. “Just because you sign a piece of paper, that makes it all right?” she asked. “Have you finally gone loco?” Her usual subtropical languor had transformed into righteous passion, eyes popping out of her skull. “You are going to kill that boy for nothing? Are you completely lost, Ricardo? Robbery after robbery, you come back with money, and I want to believe you are a great brave soldier—but now I see the truth. You are no better than a Comanchero, and maybe worse, because they do not pretend to be brave soldiers. You—you are an insult to brave soldiers.”

  She slapped his face, and he recoiled from the force of her blow. No woman had ever struck him before, and he flushed with rage as he raised his hand against her. She snarled like a puma, dived through the air, and scratched five sharp fingernails across his purple scar while he came up reflexively with a left hook, caught her on the mouth, and the force of the blow sent her sprawling against the wall. Her head slammed against it, her eyes rolled up, and she collapsed onto the floor.

  It was silent and eerie as Cochrane gazed at her sprawled like a rag doll. He touched his finger to his scar, and blood appeared on his fingertips. Taking a deep breath, he leaned against the table. What have I done?

  It seemed that his world was crumbling around him. He rushed toward Juanita and rolled her onto her back. Did I kill her? he asked himself. He pressed his ear to her bosom
and heard the steady beat. Thank God. A trickle of blood flowed from the corner of her mouth, and he felt ashamed. What's happened here? he asked himself. He felt as if he were losing his sanity. Did I do this?

  He wiped blood from her unconscious lips and held the red smear before him. It evoked a line from Shakespeare's Macbeth, which he'd read at the University of Virginia, never realizing its full import.

  It will have blood, they say.

  And blood will have blood.

  He recalled the slaughtered Yankees, and their blood had been the same color as Juanita's. What if I'm just another murderer? The concept was fearsome, he wanted to cry out, but then came a knock on the door. He arose behind the table. “Come in?” It was Beasley. “The firing squad is ready, sir.” “Did you gag him, because I'm sick of listening to his horseshit?”

  “Wouldn't have it any other way, sir.”

  Cochrane followed Beasley out the door, and Beasley didn't stop to look behind the table, where Juanita lay unconscious. Cochrane felt giddy and strange, as if his feet weren't touching the ground. Beasley led him to the back of the bunkhouse, where the prisoner had been tied to a cottonwood tree, a gun-nysack pulled over his head. Irregulars stood in a straight rank, at ease with their rifles, watching their commander stride onto the scene. Only the medical officer was unarmed, and he hovered to the side, holding a Bible.

  “Let's get this over with,” Cochrane said impatiently. “Does the chaplain have an appropriate prayer for the occasion?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Dr. Montgomery.

  “Let's get it over with.”

  “May the Lord have mercy on your soul,” intoned the doctor.

  “That's it?” asked Cochrane.

  “That's it.”

  “Atten-hut!”