by Len Levinson
RUNAWAY STAGECOACH
Duane's big, black horse pulled ahead steadily, as the stagecoach wheels spun furiously a few feet away. The stagecoach driver lay dead in the boot, shot through the chest while the shotgun guard was gone, and baggage bounced in the cage atop the coach. “Come on, boy,” Duane whispered into Midnight's ear. “We've got to catch the nigh leader.”
Thunderous hoofbeats filled the air, as Midnight rampaged alongside the panicked horses. His withers nearly touched their flanks as the horses drew the speeding stagecoach over the rocky trail. Duane knew he should've stayed in bed that morning, as he raised his leg over the saddle, and poised himself to leap onto the nigh leader.
He might die in the moments to come, but deep reflection had never stopped the Pecos Kid before. A Mexican señorita was trapped in the coach, so he took a deep breath and launched himself desperately into the deadly tangled vortex of harnesses, reins, and traces.
Also by Len Levinson
The Rat Bastards:
Hit the Beach
Death Squad
River of Blood
Meat Grinder Hill
Down and Dirty
Green Hell
Too Mean to Die
Hot Lead and Cold Steel
Do or Die
Kill Crazy
Nightmare Alley
Go For Broke
Tough Guys Die Hard
Suicide River
Satan’s Cage
Go Down Fighting
The Pecos Kid:
Beginner’s Luck
The Reckoning
Apache Moon
Outlaw Hell
Devil’s Creek Massacre
The Apache Wars Saga:
Desert Hawks
War Eagles
Savage Frontier
White Apache
Devil Dance
Night of the Cougar
THE
PECOS KID
Book 6
BAD TO THE BONE
LEN LEVINSON
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1994 by Len Levinson. All Rights Reserved.
Ebook © 2013 by AudioGO. All Rights Reserved.
Trade ISBN: 978-1-62064-863-6
Library ISBN: 978-1-62460-204-7
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
CHAPTER 1
DUANE BRADDOCK LEANED FORWARD ON HIS saddle, as a Mexican village twinkled in desert wastes straight ahead. He wasn't sure of its name, but had been travelling more or less toward Monterrey. He wondered whether to detour around the village, or stop at the cantina, have a glass of mescal, and maybe see some dancing girls.
Duane hadn't spoken to anybody except his horse for two weeks. He wasn't an American tourist or scholar, and didn't need a warm climate for his health. Duane Braddock, alias the Pecos Kid, was wanted for multiple murders in Texas.
It had been self-defense all the way, but he didn't trust crooked judges and rigged juries; the only law he respected was manufactured in Colonel Colt's factory in Hartford, Connecticut. He brought his hand to rest on the comfortable grip of his .44 revolver. It made him feel safer in a land filled with banditos, warring revolutionaries, Comancheros, bears, and rattlesnakes.
The Pecos Kid wore black jeans, a green shirt, and a red paisley bandanna. On his head sat his black wide-brimmed cowboy hat held in place by a leather thong neckband. He was tall, slim, eighteen years old, hadn't shaved for several days, and looked like a strange, fearsome desert creature, which in a sense he was.
I should pass this place by, he reasoned, but it'd be nice to take a bath without worrying about an Apache shooting an arrow through my back. I'd have a plate of enchiladas, take a sip of mescal, and cool my heels.
He could speak Spanish fluently, because he'd been raised in a monastery populated by Spanish-speaking priests and brothers. But he tended to get into trouble at drinking establishments, because certain men couldn't hold their liquor, and the first thing they wanted was to punch somebody though a window. Unfortunately, Duane had fallen into the line of fire more than once.
But a man can't hide from the world forever, he told himself. He was approximately two hundred miles south of the Rio Grande, and doubted that the Fourth Cavalry would follow that far. I'm sure that the Army has more important things to worry about than one alleged killer, he deliberated.
The Pecos Kid liked bright lights and good times, like any red-blooded Texan. Youthful curiosity exceeded self-preservation yet again, and he really wanted to see some dancing girls.
His horse plodded toward adobe huts nestled in the valley, as Duane made a solemn oath to himself. If anybody provokes me, I'll turn the other cheek, just as Christ said in the Bible. If somebody pushes me, I won't push back. And if I have to apologize for something I didn't do, so what?
The town was Zumarraga, named after the first Bishop of Mexico, Juan de Zumarraga. Hub of a vast ranching area, it boasted a stable, a general store, several cantinas, and numerous impoverished hovels.
A steepled Catholic church was the spiritual center of Zumarraga, and in a back pew knelt twenty-one-year-old Doña Consuelo de Rebozo. She was the daughter of one wealthy landowner, and married to another, but that didn't provide immunity from sorrow. Her mother, Doña Migdalia de Vásquez, was dying from cancer, and Doña Consuelo had been in prayer nearly constantly for the past several months.
“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee,” she whispered, fingering rosary beads, while at the main altar the choir rehearsed for Sunday Mass.
Doña Consuelo felt afraid, vulnerable, and bewildered. The inevitability of her mother's impending doom demoralized her profoundly, and sometimes she felt like dropping down and crying her eyes out.
But she was descended from the Spanish nobility, and understood her duties well. She arrived at the end of her rosary, crossed herself, and uttered the final prayer. Then she arose, and turned toward her vaquero bodyguards, who sat in the first pews of the church, waiting for her to finish devotions. Her husband, Don Carlos de Rebozo, would never permit her to leave the hacienda without protection.
The bodyguards treated her like valuable treasure, because one word could get them dismissed. But Doña Consuelo would never dismiss anybody, and looked the other way when one vaquero took a sip from his pocket flask, or another flirted with a female in the vicinity. The bodyguards never dared flirt with her, of course, because they respected her position, piety and goodness, and feared the wrath of Don Carlos. She was their princesa, and they followed her like a pack of poodles as she made her way toward the door.
The church was low-ceilinged, constructed of adobe and wood, with tiny altars along the sides, where candles burned in front of gaudily painted plaster saints. The choir sang a Gregorian chant, and a shudder of religious passion passed through Doña Consuelo. She'd led a relatively blameless life, had studied the Bible assiduously, and had obeyed her parents even when they told her who to marry. All she wanted was her own little baby to raise and love, but unfortunately she was barren after three years of marriage.
Pedro, leader of her bodyguards, rushed to the door and opened it. Doña Consuelo stepped into the moonlight, and the first thing she saw was a tall, slim Americano riding down the middle of the street, his face covered by his hat brim. Doña Consuelo paid no special attention as another of her bodyguards, Francisco, opened the door to her coach. She climbed inside, the carriage roll
ed out of Zumarraga, and Doña Consuelo gazed at businesses closed for the night, as pedestrians peered at the wealthiest woman in the territory. But she didn't take herself seriously, for priests had taught her the sin of false pride. All my maids have children, but not me, she reflected. Perhaps this will be the night I conceive.
The carriage came alongside the bearded, dusty, ragged Americano, who turned toward her suspiciously. Their eyes met. She saw a hunted animal, and shrank back into the carriage, wondering what terrible crime he had committed, because why else would he be so deep into Mexico Lindo? She felt grateful for her bodyguards, and wondered how ordinary women dared walk the streets of Zumarraga.
Doña Consuelo de Rebozo didn't see the fault line in her character, caused by over-ripe innocence, cramped opportunities, and narrow education. She hugged herself and smiled in the darkness, anticipating the strong arms of her husband, as the carriage rolled over the winding moonlit trail.
Duane Braddock rode down the center of the town, struck by the beauty of the woman he'd just seen. She'd had big brown eyes, a straight, perfectly chiseled nose, and petulant, pouting lips that begged to be kissed. Must be some rich man's wife, he decided, as he searched both sides of the street.
He passed the church, a variety of stores closed for the night, and lamps shining in the windows of jacales. Gregorian chants echoed down the street, but Duane tried not to hum the melodies. An old cowpoke had told him to study a town before he climbed off his horse, because nobody wants to blunder into danger. It looked like a sizable settlement, in the real Mexico where Americans seldom came.
Duane maintained his hand close to Colonel Colt's invention as he came to a two-story hotel with a wide veranda, where gentlemen and ladies sat with food and drink. Duane was tempted to join them, but knew he wouldn't feel comfortable without a wall to his back.
He glanced at rooftops, to make sure nobody was taking a bead on him, and hoped no American bounty hunters were in town, because they'd shoot him on sight like a rabid dog. I should keep riding onward, but I have to stop sooner or later, he persuaded himself. What the hell—a man can't live on the desert forever.
The road narrowed into a neighborhood of shacks, huts, and vaqueros strolling the sidewalks, wearing long, flowing mustaches, gaudy bandannas, and immense sombreros. I must appear outlandish to them, speculated Duane, stroking his beard. I should shave but leave the mustache, and buy a sombrero and a pair of pants with stitching down the sides, with wide bottoms. When he'd lived in Texas, Mexicans had been the foreigners, but now the shoe was on the other hoof.
He rode through the town, then turned around and headed back, his eyes probing shadows, rooftops, and darkened alleyways. He noted the location of the calaboose, the bank, and the gun shop. Following his natural instincts, he found himself headed once more toward the cantina district. Hungry, thirsty, and lonely, he inclined his big black horse toward a complex of adobe huts that had no sign above the door. He climbed down from the saddle, threw the reins over the hitching rail, and gazed into the animal's luminous eyes.
Duane had “borrowed” him from an outlaw band farther north, and named him Midnight. He didn't know much about Midnight's history, but figured he'd been stolen somewhere along the way, which gave Duane something else to worry about.
“I'm going to have a drink,” Duane explained, “but I shouldn't be long. If anybody tries to steal you, kick him in the ass. We'll probably spend the night on the desert, so enjoy yourself while you can.”
Midnight plunged his snout into the water trough, as Duane loosened the two cinches beneath the saddle. Duane tried to treat Midnight as a friend, rather than mere transportation, but Midnight didn't seem to like him much. The Pecos Kid tossed his saddlebags over his shoulder, headed for the front door of the cantina, never letting his right hand stray from his Colt. He opened the door, and saw three drunkards sitting at a table in front of him. “Look at the gringo,” said one of them.
Their glassy eyes probed as he retreated into the shadows. Ahead were tables and chairs all the way to the end of the large enclosed space. The bar was to the left, three deep with vaqueros, and every table was taken. Duane realized it must be Saturday night, of all times to come to town, but he wasn't about to ride away after just arriving.
He couldn't get close to the bar, but he noticed an empty length of wall between two vaqueros and backed into it. Waitresses and prostitutes in low-cut gowns moved among the crowd, sitting on men's laps or accompanying them to and from back rooms, while candles burned merrily on tables, casting dancing shadows on adobe walls. Above the bar hung a poster showing a naked blond lady reclining on a sofa covered with leopard skin.
A waitress passed, and Duane called out: “Señorita—would you bring a glass of mescal?”
She stared at him for a few moments, as if seeing him for the first time. “You are a long way from home, eh Americano?”
“I am very thirsty, if you do not mind.”
She raised her right eyebrow skeptically, then headed for the bar. Meanwhile, on a small stage at the rear of the establishment, a vaquero strummed his flamenco guitar. Duane was struck by how similar the cantina was to the average Texas saloon; only the tune was different.
The waitress returned with the mescal, and he tossed her a few coins, tipping her extravagantly. “What's the name of this town?” he asked.
“Zumarraga.”
“Gracias,” he said, bowing slightly, anxious to be polite, so as not to offend anybody.
She continued to look askance at him, as if he wasn't deceiving her. “What are you doing here, Americano?”
“I needed a drink.” He tossed down the remainder of the mescal, placed his empty glass on her tray, and wanted to say hit me again, but a terrible conflagration had broken out in his chest. He swallowed hard, and his face turned red. The waitress walked away laughing.
Duane raised his hand to his mouth and broke into paroxysms of coughing. The mescal had gone down the wrong tube, and nearby Mexicans chuckled at his distress. I'm making a fool of myself, and holding Texas up to ridicule, he thought. Why do I constantly feel the need to show off in front of women, even ones I don't even give a damn about?
The musician wailed a sad song, and Duane could hear the pure romance of his wild vaquero life. Duane had been a cowboy once, and dreamed that he'd have his own ranch someday, raising his own family, after the law left him alone.
He began to feel a happy glow, as mescal filtered through his bloodstream. He loved the beverage because it produced interesting hallucinations, and the former acolyte enjoyed reflecting upon theology, morality, lost worlds, and the wisdom of the ages. What does it all mean, and why should I care? he asked himself, as the waitress returned with his next glass of mescal. Duane again tipped her abundantly, then raised his glass in a toast. “To Mexico,” he said.
“What crimes are you wanted for?” she replied.
“What makes you think I'm wanted for crimes?”
“Why else would you be in Mexico?”
“My doctor said the climate is good for my heart.”
“You do not seem sick to me, and you are not bad looking either ... for an Americano.” She fluttered her eyelashes. “Want to go upstairs?”
“Not today.”
“What is wrong with today?”
He felt himself becoming nervous, because he didn't want to offend her. “I'm in love with somebody else.”
“Where is she?”
“Far away.”
“I'm right here, and I will love you with all my heart.”
“I don't have much money.”
“Too bad.” She gave her shoulder a toss. “Perhaps some other time.”
She walked away saucily, as Duane noticed vaqueros at the bar looking at him and talking earnestly, as if planning a necktie party. The troubadour continued to warble about romance till the end of time, as additional mescal poured into Duane's bloodstream. The cantina took on an orange haze. He saw the flush of men's faces as they played c
ards, while waitresses and prostitutes sashayed past, casting sultry glances, and lamplight pulsated everywhere.
Fermented maguey juice flowed through Duane's brain, as he felt the strange rhythms of Mexico pounding within him. Mayan priests, Spanish conquistadors, and armies of Catholic missionaries shimmered before him in the huge, unlikely cantina.
Duane had studied Mexican history at the monastery, and remembered a few facts. During the late 1850s, Mexico had defaulted on European loans, and soon endured invasion by France, England, and Spain. France had become dominant in the coalition, defeated the Mexican Army, and Napoleon III had installed an Austrian duke named Maximilian of Hapsburg as emperor of Mexico, with Maximilian's wife, Carlota, as his empress. They had ruled until 1867, when Mexican patriots under Benito Juárez had placed Maximilian before a firing squad. Empress Carlota had then booked passage on the next boat to Europe, where she subsequently went mad. Juárez was still president in early 1872, but large regions were dominated by banditos, Apaches, and wealthy caudillos who held the power of life and death over hundreds and sometimes thousands of peasants.
As Duane drained the glass and looked for the waitress, the door opened, and another gringo entered the cantina. He was approximately six-foot-two, his wide-brimmed silverbelly cowboy hat on the back of his head, and curly blond hair spilled down his forehead. He took one look at the crowd around the bar, hesitated, and backed out of the cantina.
Now there's a cautious man, figured Duane. Whoever he is, he's not looking for trouble, while I blithely walked in here, drank two glasses of mescal, and now my head is spinning. I've got to eat something, otherwise I'll pass out.
All the tables were taken. A different waitress walked by, and he placed his empty glass on her tray. He wanted to ask for a restaurant recommendation, but was afraid to open his mouth.
