by Len Levinson
Beneath her confident facade, she entertained serious doubts about the enterprise on which she was embarked. Her journey had begun approximately three months ago in Austin, and she was searching for a certain young man with whom she'd enjoyed an all-too-brief love affair. According to newspaper reports, Escondido was the last spot where he'd been seen.
Somehow, Duane Braddock continued to intrigue her, although she'd previously considered him far too young for her best interests. Miss Vanessa Fontaine was thirty-one, a former Charleston belle spoiled by a doting father. She'd survived the great Civil War by the skin of her teeth, and now was chasing an alleged outlaw across the Texas landscape, for reasons she didn't want to contemplate.
Duane Braddock wasn't her first love by any means. Her first beau had been killed in the War of Northern Aggression, and then there had been certain dalliances, for she'd surrendered to loneliness at certain low moments of her career. In retrospect, Duane had been her second true love, and the only one still alive, as far as she knew. She hadn't been able to forget him, although she'd dumped him in favor of an Army officer who'd subsequently been killed in action against the Apache.
I'll get a bath, and then go looking for Duane, she thought. If he's not in Escondido, I'll catch the next stage to Charleston, and start living like a person for a change. It's ridiculous to pursue a mere boy to the far ends of the frontier, especially since he probably hates me for jilting him. It's time I came to my senses and gave up this pointless and insane quest.
She often wondered why she couldn't forget Duane Braddock, but there'd been something decent and honorable about him; he was unlike the usual saloon rat that one encountered on the frontier. Sooner or later I'll tire of hunting for him, she acknowledged, but until then, I'd better get on with that bath.
Miss Vanessa Fontaine didn't fall in love every day, and she could no longer accept substitutes. Until something better came along, or she became bored, she intended to remain on Duane Braddock's trail.
Dozing in the saddle, Duane heard popping sounds in the distance. It sounded like a gun battle straight ahead. His first instinct was ride to the nearest hill and see what was going on, but then his Apache mind took over—Apaches believed in riding away from the sound of shots, not toward them.
Duane was immobilized by indecision yet again, while Midnight came to a halt, awaiting orders. It sounded like a small war, and the safe solution would be to take cover until the fighting blew over, but youthful curiosity won out yet again.
He spurred Midnight toward an eminence that might provide a view. Whatever it is, Duane warned himself, I'm not going to poke my big nose into it. The sun beat down on Duane, birds flitted among cactus and juniper trees, and something bit the back of his neck. He smacked the beetle with the palm of his hand, then flicked it away with his fingernail.
Midnight reached the summit, and Duane rested his forearm on his pommel as he leaned forward and studied the scene spread before him. It appeared that a stagecoach was running wild in the distance, its driver and guard shot by a gang of Mexican banditos who were still in hot pursuit, while other Mexicans on horseback tried to fight the banditos off.
Duane reached into his saddlebags and pulled out an old brass spyglass stamped C.S.A. He spit on the ends, polished them with his bandanna, and raised the instrument to his eye. The horses pulling the stagecoach appeared seriously spooked, and a woman was trapped inside the cab, which was in danger of tipping over.
Banditos and vaqueros fought a desperate running gun battle around the stagecoach, but a man can't aim straight on the hurricane deck of a horse. Duane trained the spyglass on the woman, and detected stark terror on her features. The stagecoach could strike the wrong rock at any moment, lose a wheel, and that would be the end of one Mexican señorita. Duane didn't even stop to think about it, but nudged his spurs into Midnight. “Let's go save her, boy.”
Midnight loped down the rise, getting into the spirit of the chase. If there was anything he loved, it was running flat out with the bit loose in his teeth and not much weight on his spine. The horse accelerated as Duane tucked the spyglass into his belt, yanked his Colt, and crouched low like a jockey boy, presenting low resistance to the wind. He might be shot in the next few moments, but the Pecos Kid couldn't live with himself if he laid back while a woman got killed.
Midnight galloped at a right angle to the stagecoach, as Duane intended to cut it off farther along the trail. The banditos and the stagecoach defenders were heavily engaged, not paying any attention to the lone rider speeding across the desert. Volleys of fire echoed off sandstone cliffs, as banditos sought to break through the protective cordon around the stagecoach. Duane thought that it must be carrying gold, and that was why the banditos were trying to steal it.
Midnight burst through a thicket of paddle cactus, sharp needles tore Duane's jeans, and he came into view of the banditos and vaqueros. Wind flattened the front brim of Duane's hat as Midnight plunged onward, kicking up stones and clumps of grama grass. Duane leaned forward, working his body with the motions of Midnight, urging the horse to greater effort.
Midnight's hooves pounded the desert, and shots whizzed around Duane as he came abreast of the carriage. He turned and found himself looking at a pale young woman with lustrous black hair and panic in her eyes. She appeared on the verge of apoplexy, so he winked reassurance, and said: “I'm going to stop those damned horses if I can.”
Midnight pulled ahead steadily, a long lash of saliva escaping his lips. Duane holstered his gun as the big stagecoach wheel 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 on the cage atop the coach.
Midnight gained on the sweating team of horses as Duane studied the complicated system of reins, harnesses, and traces. “Come on, boy,” he whispered into Midnight's ear. “We've got to catch the nigh leader.”
I know my job better than you, Midnight snorted, as he steeled himself for the final burst of speed. He'd come a long way, but so had the team of horses, and they were just nags as far as he was concerned. The black horse filled his great lungs with air and stretched his long limbs as he flew over the ground.
The thunder of massed hooves filled Duane's ears, along with the rattle and clank of the stagecoach at top speed. Duane glanced to the side and saw fire in the bloodshot eyes of the horses. “Hey—settle down!” he hollered at them, but- only succeeded in frightening them further.
The air was filled with tumultuous sounds as Midnight rampaged onward, coming abreast of the nigh leader. “Just a little closer,” Duane said, as he raised himself in his stirrups.
This is as close as I'm getting, Midnight seemed to reply. The horse's withers nearly touched the flanks of the nigh leader, as the team of horses roared over the winding trail. Duane took a deep breath, knowing he should've stayed in bed that morning, and raised his leg over the saddle, poised to leap onto the nigh leader.
Unfortunately, Midnight cut away when he felt the weight leave his back, upsetting Duane's aim. The Pecos Kid landed against the side of the lead horse, and hung on for dear life as his feet hit the trail. He kicked hard, bolted into the air, and this time overshot his mark, landing in the complicated tangle of traces and harnesses between the two lead horses. He was on the way to death by stomping, but managed to grab two fistfuls of leather straps, and hold himself steady.
He gazed at hooves churning up the trail, as the traces kicked and jolted him like a rag doll. Inches from death, he made one last superhuman effort, and climbed to the back of the nigh leader. Nearly deafened by hammering hooves, Duane hugged the animal's belly with his legs, grabbed the reins, and pulled back with all his might.
“Whoa!” he bellowed. “It's all right now!”
The nigh leader drew his great head back in distaste and shook his head, slowing his gait, impeding the progress of the other horses. Duane gritted his teeth as he struggled with the reins, but it appeared that he had them un
der control. Gradually the beasts slowed, their great chests heaving, as a cloud of dust swept forward, enveloping Duane.
He heard hoofbeats coming closer and didn't know if it was friend or foe, so he drew his Colt and thumbed back the hammer. The nigh leader came to a halt as a rider appeared through the swirling dust. It was a bandito aiming a pistol at Duane, and the Mexican fired first. Duane felt the warm slug pass his ear, then leveled his Colt and fired at a range of five yards. The cartridge detonated, and a red dot appeared on the bandito's white shirt. His eyes rolled into his head as he dropped out of the saddle.
Duane jumped down from the nigh leader, ran to the cab, and opened the door. The Mexican woman cowered in the corner, aiming a shotgun at him. “One step closer,” she said, lips quivering, “and I'll kill you.”
“I'm here to help,” Duane replied. “Who d'ya think just stopped this stagecoach?”
Before she could answer, Duane heard a horse behind him. He spun and saw another bandito barreling toward him, aiming a pistol at his head. Duane fired first and missed; then the Mexican shot his pistol, and lead slammed into the side of the stagecoach two inches from Duane's cheek. The bandito tried to smash Duane in the head with his gun barrel, but Duane grabbed the Mexican's wrist, twisted, and dragged him out of the saddle. The Mexican bounced on the ground and tried for another shot, but Duane beat him to the draw. Colonel Colt spoke his verdict, and the bandito's throat was pierced by a bullet.
Duane glanced toward the team of skitterish horses, as they flinched beneath bullets whizzing in all directions. “Are you all right?” he asked the young woman.
“Watch out!” she screamed.
It was another rider charging through smoke and dust. Like the others, he aimed his gun at Duane, but Duane fired first, and the Mexican fell to the ground beside the carriage, a small hole in his forehead, and the back of his head blown off.
The Mexican woman turned a lighter shade of pale, and flopped backwards on the seat, her eyes going white. Duane crawled in with her and slapped her cheek lightly. “What's going on here?”
But she was out cold. He turned around, and saw that the banditos were riding away. He quickly reloaded his gun, as the woman came to consciousness behind him. “Who are you?” she asked in a sing-song voice.
“Just a drifter, and if I'm not mistaken, the banditos are headed for the hills.”
She looked out the window as he stood to the side, admiring her profile. Isn't this the woman I saw in Zumarraga? “You are right,” she said. “We have fought them off.”
A vaquero rode toward them, his gun aiming straight up into the air. “It is Pérez,” she told Duane. “Don't shoot.”
Pérez was covered with dust, and his left forearm bled profusely. “I think we had better return to the hacienda, Doña Consuelo. This is not a safe place to be.”
Her eyes flashed, and Duane admired her pouting lips from the sidelines. “No place in Mexico is safe from banditos, but I must see my mother. We are continuing onward.”
“But Doña Señora!”
“Direct your men to check the horses, and we might as well stop here for a meal.”
“We cannot stop here, Doña Señora,” Pérez said impatiently, “because we don't want the banditos to know where we are, in case they come back.” Then he looked at Duane. “Who are you?”
“Just happened along.”
“You are a very brave man, and you have saved Doña Señora's life. You'd better get that leg looked after.”
“What leg?”
Duane looked down, and was surprised to see a bullet hole through the center of his thigh. Somehow, in the excitement, he hadn't even noticed it, nor did he know where it had come from. Suddenly it felt as if a flaming Aztec spear had been hurled through his flesh, and he gasped in pain. “My God,” he thought, as he noticed his pantleg soaked with blood. The wagon spun around him, along with a crowd of vaqueros, not to mention the petulant lips of the woman whose life he'd saved. He blacked out and fell in a clump to the ground.
In late afternoon, Miss Vanessa Fontaine strolled the sidewalks of Escondido, carrying her parasol, while her Spiller & Burr .36 revolver slept peacefully in the hand-tooled black leather holster held to her waist by a black leather gunbelt. Cowboys, outlaws, vaqueros, and horse thieves examined her like diamond merchants with fine gems, as her eyes fell on a sign:
SHERIFF
It hung over the sidewalk, and on the inside of the window was pasted:
J. T. STURGIS.
She entered the sheriff's office, where a man of twenty-nine sat at the desk, a badge pinned to his shirt. He was reading the stack of documents that had arrived on the recent stage. He glanced at Vanessa, shot to his feet, and a big grin spread over his face. He had brown hair, a mustache, and roving eyes. “What can I do fer you, ma'am?”
She stopped in front of his desk and looked him in the eyes. “One of this town's former sheriffs was a friend of mine, name of Duane Braddock. I'm looking for him.”
“He ain't hyar,” replied the sheriff. “You a friend of his'n?”
“Why else would I be asking about him? Do you know where he went?”
“The only person who could tell you that is Maggie O'Day.”
Vanessa endured a bolt of jealousy, but maintained her perfect composure. “Who's Maggie O'Day?”
“She owns the best saloon in town, the Last Chance just down the street.”
“Was she his lady friend?”
J. T. Sturgis held up the palms of his hands. “I wasn't here when Braddock was in town—don't ask me. When last seen, according to the Fourth Cavalry, he was a-ridin’ hard toward Mexico.” Sturgis winked. “How come a nice girl like you is a friend of the Pecos Kid?”
“If Duane Braddock ever shows up again, I hope you won't shoot first and ask questions later.”
“Depends on him. Say, why don't you let me buy you dinner tonight at the Last Chance Saloon?”
“I'm busy.”
“This is an awful dangerous town.”
Vanessa pulled her Spiller & Burr and sighted down the barrel at the sheriff's nose. “I'm an awfully dangerous woman.”
“That ain't loaded, is it?”
“It wouldn't make sense to carry it unloaded, would it?” With a smile, she holstered the weapon. “Don't worry, sheriff. I've never shot a lawman yet.”
The line reverberated across the sheriff's walls, as Miss Vanessa Fontaine swooped toward the door. The sheriff blinked in disbelief as she was swallowed by the shimmering Texas afternoon. She's a high-stepping filly, just the kind I like, considered the sheriff. I'm going to get into her pants if it's the last thing I do.
Duane Braddock gradually came to full awareness. He was sprawled on his back in the rocking stage-coach, his leg a cylinder of pain, and he gazed at the profile of Doña Consuelo de Rebozo staring out the window at vast expanses of sunbaked desert.
Her shoulder-length black hair needed combing, dust covered her Castilian features, and her skin was like fine Italian marble. She possessed a nearly perfect nose, without the hint of a bump in the middle, while her nostrils could have been carved by Michelangelo. Her high-buttoned silk blouse was decorated with crimson threads, and her skirt was golden brown brocade trimmed with side-pleated flounces. Unfortunately, she wore a rock the size of a robin's egg on her finger, which meant she belonged to another man. I wonder what it's like to sleep with a woman like that, mused Duane.
A soggy cloak of Catholic guilt dropped over him, as he caught his imagination en flagrante with a married lady. He blushed, tried to find a more comfortable position, and she turned toward him, her sensuous lips forming a friendly smile. “How are you feeling?” she inquired.
“I think I'm still alive. Where are we?”
“On the way to my father's hacienda, because my mother's very ill. We'll take care of you till you can walk, and I'd like to thank you for saving my life. You are a very courageous man. What's your name?”
“Just call me Duane.”
&
nbsp; “I am Doña Consuelo de Rebozo.”
“What do your friends call you for short?”
She thought for a few moments. “I don't have any friends.”
“How come?”
“I live in a remote place, and I guess you'd say my husband is my best friend, but most people call me Doña Consuelo.”
“A beautiful name . . . for a beautiful woman.”
She waved her hand impatiently. “You're delirious from loss of blood.”
“What happened to my horse?”
“He is tethered to the back of the stagecoach.”
With great effort, Duane poked his head out the window. Sure enough, Midnight lumbered along behind the coach, and Duane waved. “Thanks for the good work, feller.”
Midnight nodded, the usual depressed expression on his face. He always seemed unhappy, although Duane tried hard to treat him well. Duane pulled his head back into the stagecoach, and saw Doña Consuelo looking at him curiously. “Do you frequently talk with your horse?” she asked.
“He's the most interesting conversationalist I know.”
She couldn't help smiling, revealing straight white teeth like the finest ivory. “Are you an American out-law?”
He doubted that she was a Pinkerton man, bounty hunter, or U.S. marshal with a warrant for his arrest. “There are some people who think I've committed a few crimes, but it's not so.”
“Whatever you've done, my husband will reward you for your bravery—and you're going to be a rich man. We have plenty of room at the hacienda, and I'm sure you can use a vacation. I owe my life to you, and if there's anything I can do to make you more comfortable, please don't hesitate to ask.”
