by Len Levinson
Vanessa Fontaine stood across the street from the Last Chance Saloon, wondering how to traverse the sea of mud, muck, manure, and something that looked like a dead bird. Escondido was without question the most disgusting town she'd ever seen. Across the street stood an immense saloon constructed of several adobe buildings jammed together behind a freshly painted false facade. A young harlot sat at a window on the second floor and knitted demurely, advertising the Last Chance Saloon as a whorehouse, while men passed back and forth between swinging batwing doors, trying to look up her dress. Absolutely revolting, thought Vanessa, as a dark shadow drew closer on the planked sidewalk.
“Help you, ma'am?”
It was Sheriff J. T. Sturgis again, tipping his hat, a sly smile on his face. I know what he wants, Vanessa thought, but he's not going to get it. “How does one cross the street without hiring a ferry?” she asked.
“You either walk, or git carried. Since you prob'ly don't want to git your pretty boots dirty, I'd be happy to do the honors.”
She glanced away absent-mindedly, as he lifted her like a feather in his strong arms. Then he headed into the street, his tin badge about level with her left breast, while her rump rested in his muscular forearms. She decided that he wasn't bad-looking, if you appreciated the rugged sunbaked type (and she did).
“Have you changed your mind about dinner tonight?” he asked raffishly.
“No, thank you, but I can't help wondering—why would anybody want to become sheriff of Escondido?”
“I'm the meanest man in town, but I wouldn't be mean to you, Miss Fontaine. Besides, somebody's got to stand up fer the law, otherwise it's the end of the world.”
An idealist with a gun, she thought, as they came to the sidewalk in front of the Last Chance Saloon. He let her slide down his hands to the sidewalk, and she felt his hands run up her body. It was so erotic she nearly swooned, but Vanessa had been trained from infancy to maintain outward control; otherwise men would hound her into the ground.
“Thank you,” she said, adjusting her bonnet. “But I think hereafter that I'll be crossing the street myself.”
“As long as there's men like me in the world, women like you'll never have to walk nowheres. Say, you weren't planning to go into that hellhole, were you?”
“As a matter of fact, I'd intended to speak with Miss Maggie O'Day.”
“I'll introduce you to her, if you like. She's a friend of mine.”
Cowboys, vaqueros, outlaws, and banditos stopped what they were doing to watch the tall beautiful blonde being escorted by the sheriff toward the front door of the Last Chance Saloon.
“Would I like to get some of that,” murmured a thick masculine voice in the crowd.
Sheriff Sturgis pushed open the doors as if he owned the Last Chance Saloon, and every eye in the house turned toward the odd duo encroaching onto their midst. The sheriff's tin badge gleamed in the dimness of a large rectangular room as he led Vanessa among crowded tables. A bar was to the left, with a stage and small dance floor in back. Above the bar hung the usual lurid painting of a naked woman smiling at the men below.
“Who's the blonde?” somebody asked drunkenly.
“Tall drink of water, ain't she?”
Vanessa considered the interior unusually clean for a frontier saloon, with polished brass spitoons and no chicken or steak bones lying on the floor. The bar-tender wore a clean white shirt, and the waitresses appeared friendly, without too many teeth missing, all trying to comport themselves like ladies. Not a bad place after all, sniffed Vanessa, veteran of a career singing in saloons.
The sheriff led her down a corridor and knocked on the door. “Come in,” said a gruff voice on the other side.
The sheriff stepped to the side as Vanessa entered the office in her usual grand manner. A heavyset middle-aged woman with dark blonde hair sat behind the desk, a glass of whiskey in one hand, and a thick black cigar in the other.
“Who the hell're you?”
The sheriff made introductions. “I'm sure you ladies have got a lot to talk over,” he said, “and there's a warrant I've got to serve, so I'll be a-wishin’ the both of you goodday.”
The sheriff retreated, leaving the two women to look each other up and down. “Have a seat,” said Maggie finally. “What can I do fer you, Miss Fontaine?”
Vanessa sat on the plush green velvet chair in front of the desk and crossed her legs. “I'm looking for a man whom I understand was . . . friendly . . . with you. His name was Duane Braddock, and he was sheriff of this town.”
There was silence in the office as Maggie puffed her cigar thoughtfully. “So yer the one,” she said at last.
Vanessa was taken aback by her remark. “What do you mean?”
“He told me about the Charleston belle who became a saloon singer—am I right?”
“That's me,” Vanessa admitted. “What else did he say?”
“You broke his heart, but he couldn't ferget you.”
Thank God, thought Vanessa. “I made a mistake,” she confessed, “and I shouldn't've left him. He's got a right to hate me, but here I am searching for him anyway. I understand he's visiting Mexico.”
“Last time I seen him, he was a-headin’ fer the Rio Grande, and I reckon he's still south of border, a-waitin’ the right time to come back. One of these nights he'll walk through the front door of this saloon, mark my words.”
Vanessa looked over the plump, bejeweled Maggie O'Day, and wondered if she was a rival. “Are you in love with him too?”
“Hell, all the women are in love with the Pecos Kid, but as far as I know, he didn't lay any one of us while he was here.”
A tear came to Vanessa's eyes, but she wiped it away with the tip of a handkerchief. “I should never have given him up, but he'd only been out of the monastery a few weeks, and he was so poor. Then, when a certain army officer came along—”
“What happened to the army officer?” inquired Maggie.
“Killed in action against the Apache,” replied Vanessa stiffly. “And now I want Duane back.”
“Was he that good in bed?”
“I know what you're thinking,” replied Miss Vanessa Fontaine. “I'm an older woman in love with a younger man, and I've lost my senses. Maybe you're right, but if you're a friend of Duane's, you'll help me find him. I happen to be quite wealthy now, and I intend to hire whatever lawyers, judges, and lawmen are necessary to quash all charges against him. I know him well, and don't believe that he's the cold-blooded killer everybody says.”
“There's rage in that boy,” replied Maggie, “and it really don't take much to tick him off. But you're right, it's usually some other galoot a-pushin’ and a-shovin’. They're all jealous of him, because the gals are crazy about him, like you.”
“And you?”
“Me?” Maggie laughed heartily. “I know that I look great and all that, but hell—let's face it—I'm old enough to be his mommy, and sometimes that's how I feel around him. He's a lost little boy, when he's not a-shootin’ people, and he needs somebody to look out fer him. Did he ever tell you how his parents died?”
“His father was hung for a cattle rustler, and his mother disappeared under mysterious circumstances.”
“T'weren't nawthin’ mysterious. His mother had consumption most of her life, but his father weren't hung. No, he was gunned down by hired killers in the pay of Sam Archer of Edgeville, Texas. When Duane was in Escondido, some of Archer's hired guns tried to bushwhack ‘im, but it din't turn out that way. Now old Sam Archer's in deep shit, because Duane Braddock is after him, and he ain't never a-gonna let go.”
The room fell silent, as the two women measured each other relentlessly, like gunfighters ready to draw and fire. In Maggie's eyes, Vanessa was a lady who walked as if she had a broom stuck up her ass, while Vanessa considered Maggie a creature only slightly above the level of pig.
“I think I'll stay in Escondido for a while,” said Vanessa, “and wait for Duane to arrive.”
“He promised he'd
come back here, and when a man like Duane Braddock promises something, you can build a house on it.”
“How he must've changed,” said Vanessa. “When I knew him, he appeared bewildered by life outside the monastery.”
“He's not so bewildered anymore, and some of the old-timers say he's got the fastest hand they'd ever seen. I watched him draw on three men right outside my front door one night, and his hand moved so quick—you couldn't even see it, but he lived with Apaches for a spell, and he's part Apache his own damn self.”
“Apaches?” asked Vanessa. “Sounds like he's been busy since I saw him last, but let me make a business proposition to you. I know all the good old tunes that your patrons love so well, and if you poster my name around town, I'll bring you business you never saw before.”
Maggie had heard scraps of saloon information about Miss Vanessa Fontaine, the so-called Charleston Nightingale. “I'll give you a week's work, and if you increase my business, you can keep on as long as you like.”
“I'm living at the hotel,” said Vanessa, “and my accommodations are beyond human endurance. This looks like a large building, and I was wondering if you might have a few rooms that I could rent.”
Maggie chortled. “This is a whorehouse, remember? If you live here, people will figger yer a whore like the rest of us.”
“I don't care what people think,” replied Vanessa. “I need to be comfortable, and I might as well open tomorrow night, to give you time to nail posters around town. It's called advance publicity, and it really pays off.”
“I know yer game,” Maggie said, leaning back and blowing smoke rings into the air. “Yer a-hopin’ Duane Braddock'll see a poster, and come to see you.”
The Charleston Nightingale rested her elbows on the desk, peered into Maggie's eyes, and said: “Exactly.”
CHAPTER 4
AMOORISH MANSION SURROUNDED BY gardens and orchards loomed out of the night as Duane gazed through the stagecoach window. It was the largest building he'd ever seen, and he hadn't been aware that such places existed except in story books about kings and princes.
The hacienda was surrounded by barns and out-buildings, and lights shone in windows, while a crowd of well-dressed men and women gathered in the court-yard. In front stood a short, bald, portly gentleman with graying chinwhiskers, hat in hand.
“That's my father,” said Doña Consuelo. “He is losing his health, because he worries so much about my mother.” Duane wanted to comfort her as she mourned the illness of her beloved mother. What kind of beast am I to lust after this decent Catholic married woman? he asked himself.
“Is anything wrong?” she asked.
“My leg,” he lied.
“You are a man of strange moods, but you will always be wonderful in my eyes, for my life literally belongs to you. I don't understand how you did it, because you were nearly killed.”
“Luck,” he replied, with a shrug. “And let's hope it continues.”
The door opened, and the strong arms of a servant carried Doña Consuelo to the ground. Her father, Don Patricio de Vasquez, stepped forward to embrace her. “My dearest girl,” he said. “I'm so happy to see you.”
“How's mother?”
“Your visit will do her much good, I'm sure.”
The courtyard became still as all eyes turned to the tall Americano stepping out of the stagecoach. He wore black clothes, with a black cowboy hat slanted low over his eyes, and a gun slung low, tied down, and ready for action.
Doña Consuelo explained: “This is a friend named Duane Braddock, and if it weren't for him, I'd probably be dead right now.” She described the attack by banditos, the stagecoach out of control, and Duane appearing miraculously out of nowhere, diving onto the nigh leader, and bringing the team to a halt. “It was the most amazing feat of horsemanship I've ever seen,” she declared, “although he'd been shot in the leg by banditos.”
Don Patricio placed his arm around Duane's shoulder. “My daughter is my most precious possession, and you have given her back to me. Sir, I can never repay you enough, but please be my guest for as long as you like.”
The gathering expected Duane to say something, and he felt deeply embarrassed. All he could mutter was, “It was my honor to be of service to your daughter, sir.”
The crowd applauded, and Duane realized that he'd won them to his side. Evidently Doña Consuelo was much beloved by the peasants, and he could well understand why. “Folks have to help each other,” he said, “no matter what country they're from.”
“Well spoken,” said Don Patricio, shaking Duane's hand. “Our two nations have taken up arms against each other in the past, but perhaps one day we can live in peace together, although it seems awfully unlikely, I admit.”
Don Patricio barked orders to his servants. A middle-aged, well-barbered man in a white suit approached Duane and bowed. “Where is your luggage?”
Duane pointed to the saddlebags slung over his shoulder. “This is it.”
“Please come with me, sir.”
“What about my horse?”
“He will be well taken care of, sir.”
“I'm awful fussy about my horse.”
“This is a horse-breeding ranch, and we also raise fighting bulls for the arena. My name is Domingo, at your service.”
Duane followed Domingo through a series of corridors with windows on both sides, as in the monastery in the clouds. They passed beneath arched doorways, while torches flamed along the walls, illuminating portraits of gentlemen, ladies, horses, and Mexican landscapes, plus paintings of religious themes. It was a like a museum, and finally they came to a dark bedroom.
Domingo lit a candelabra on the dresser, illuminating a massive canopied bed. Thick violet curtains covered the windows, and there were upholstered chairs, dressers, a desk, and a three-way mirror. It was the closest Duane had come to luxurious living, and he stared like a country bumpkin.
“You would like a bath?” asked Domingo.
“Yes,” replied Duane, “but I have no clean clothes.”
“I'm sure that I can find whatever you need. Leave your dirty things out, and they'll be washed. A meal will be served within the hour, and someone will come for you. Or, if you prefer, you may wander wherever you like. We have a chapel and a library in back of the hacienda, you may be interested to know.”
Domingo retired, and then two uniformed manservants carried an ornate porcelain tub into the room, followed by four additional liveried footmen with a barrel of hot water. They placed the tub near the open window, then poured water into it, the steam filling the air, and maids laid out fresh clothing on the bed. Mean-while, other maids scooped up Duane's dirty clothes and mangled boots, while two more turned down his bed.
“Anything else, sir?” asked the maid, who wasn't much older than he.
My God, Duane thought, as he stared into her innocent eyes. “No, thank you, and if you don't mind, I'd like to be alone.”
The maids withdrew silently, closing the door behind them. Duane drew his Colt, stood with his back against the drapes, and peered outside. The crowd had disappeared from the courtyard, and the stagecoach was on its way to the stable, followed by his unfaithful horse, Midnight.
Duane felt safe in the thick-walled hacienda. He wanted to drop to his knees, and thank El Señor for his good fortune, but didn't want the bathwater to get cold. It might be a good idea to get a shave, he figured. Duane meditated upon available funds as he sank into the hot bathwater. He had a few hundred dollars in American coins, which seemed a small fortune, but the wealth Duane now observed was beyond his wildest imagination.
He couldn't help reflecting on the strange twists and turns of a man's life. He'd been born on the dodge, raised in a monastery, worked as a cowboy, been a sheriff, and lived among the Apaches. Now he found himself in opulence, and all the money he'd earned in his life couldn't buy the bed.
The easy life has got to make people soft, he speculated. I'd rather sleep on the desert than that bed, because the deser
t will make you a warrior, while a bed will turn you into a lazy bummer, and you'll spend your life there with some Mexican maid.
The ceiling seemed to go on forever, like the roof of the church at the monastery in the clouds. He lay in the warm water, and let his thoughts float toward his hostess, Doña Consuelo de Rebozo. In many ways, he mused, she's even more beautiful than Miss Vanessa Fontaine.
He didn't like to think about Miss Vanessa Fontaine, but sometimes she popped into his mind at the damnedest times. The saloon singer had raised him to the empyrean heights of love, then ditched him for an Army officer, and Duane hadn't been right since. He'd become involved with other females subsequently, and nearly married a rancher's daughter once, but she got tired of the fugitive life, and returned to Daddy. Duane wanted to forget Miss Vanessa Fontaine, and was confident that he would as soon as he found another woman.
Whatever happens, I must never make a display of affection toward Doña Consuelo de Rebozo. This isn't a saloon prostitute that I'm talking about here, or even a woman of the world like Miss Vanessa Fontaine. Doña Señiora de Rebozo is a real lady, and adultery is a mortal sin, especially when premeditated. If you ever lay even one hand on her, you'll go straight to hell, and the little red devils will put you into their hottest oven till the end of time.
A maid opened the door, and Doña Consuelo tiptoed into her mother's bedroom. Moonlight slanted through the open window, illuminating a frail figure in the middle of a large canopied bed. Tears filled Doña Consuelo's eyes, and she pulled a handkerchief out of her sleeve and daubed her eyes.
My poor dear mother, she thought, as she stood at the side of the bed. The matriarch had lost half her body weight, as the cancer ate her alive. She appeared ninety years old, with a faint slick of perspiration on her forehead. It was difficult to imagine that this dying old crone had been a vibrant middle-aged woman only a few years ago.
Doña Consuelo knelt at the side of the bed, clasped her hands together, and prayed: Hail Mary, full of grace . . . It didn't seem right that a religious woman like her mother should suffer, while killers and banditos lived forever. Where is the justice in the world? asked Doña Consuelo.
