Bad to the Bone

by Len Levinson

  You have left the ranks forever,

  You have laid your arms aside.

  From the awful scenes of battle, brother

  You were set forever free;

  When your comrades left you sleeping, brother

  Underneath that Southern tree.”

  Pandemonium broke out in the Last Chance Saloon, as Vanessa curtsied demurely, spreading out her arms. More coins tinkled onto the stage, and she could tell by their number that she had been a success. She blew them kisses, for she truly loved them as they loved her, and she'd be nothing without their devotion and encouragement. She raised herself to her full height, and for the first time scanned their faces carefully, searching relentlessly for him. She prayed that she'd see his face in the adoring throngs, but failed to locate the black hat with silver concho hatband, and neither did she spot his eyes identical in color to hers, not to mention his Mona Lisa smirk. You could never figure out what was going on in that theological mind of his.

  He's not here, she realized with dismay, as strange men proclaimed her name uproariously. But maybe he'll come tomorrow night, and all my dreams will come true.

  Duane, Don Patricio, and Doña Consuelo were seated at one end of the long dining room table, as a servant placed a whole roast pig before them. The steaming beast was surrounded by silver bowls of yams, beans, rice, and tortillas. A guitarist strummed old Cadiz melodies in the corner, his sombrero covering his eyes.

  Duane had never seen such extravagance, but he knew that peasants were gathered around nailed-together tables in the village below, or were seated on the floors of their humble adobe huts, with tortillas and beans if they were lucky, and a chunk of stray meat for flavoring, if God had been especially kind.

  Supper was a sacrament to the poor, for food was so scarce, but in the hacienda it became a pageant with music by a skilled artist, the quantity excessive for three people, and everything seemed overdone, false, and effeminate to the Pecos Kid. He wasn't sure whether he liked it or not.

  He gazed across the table at Doña Consuelo placing a forkful of pig into her shapely mouth. There was something compelling about the way she chewed; her jaws had a certain rhythmic motion, and he realized that he was staring at her.

  Calmly, he returned his eyes to his plate. Her mother is dying upstairs, and I'm having carnal thoughts about Doña Consuelo. I studied for the priesthood, and here I am raping her in my mind. I must be one sick cowboy to be carrying on this way.

  He turned toward Don Patricio, and wondered how a tubby old fellow with graying sidewhiskers and plump rosy cheeks could produce such a beautiful daughter. “I've never met anybody with more patience than your mother,” said Don Patricio to Doña Consuelo. “How she tolerated me all these years is beyond comprehension.”

  “She loved you,” the young wife replied, “and she gave her life to all of us. I never appreciated her until now, and don't know how I'll get along without her.”

  Doña Consuelo went limp, and the fork fell from her hand. She seemed devastated by the impending death of her mother. A tear rolled down her cheek, and Duane wanted to comfort her, but instead took another slice of roast pig and another spoonful of beans.

  “I've let her down on many occasions,” confessed Don Patricio, “but it was easy to take advantage, because she was a saint. Some might have considered her weak, but only the truly strong can sacrifice for others. I will build a statue of her in the chapel, and dedicate it to the Virgin Mother.”

  “Perhaps if we tried another doctor,” suggested Doña Consuelo in exasperation.

  “We have the best doctors in attendance. Now it's in the hands of God, and all we can do is pray.”

  Duane observed the family interaction like a visitor from another realm. So this is what it's all about, the orphan boy cogitated. They relate their innermost thoughts, because they love each other. A family is a closeness that you just don't get in cantinas and saloons.

  Footsteps rushed down the hall, and servants burst into the dining room. “Don Carlos has arrived!”

  Doña Consuelo raised herself expectantly, then a tall silver-mustachioed nobleman strode into the dining room. Duane recognized him immediately—the caudillo he'd seen in Zumarraga.

  Don Carlos advanced toward his wife, embraced her, and kissed her forehead. “I've heard that you were attacked by banditos, my dear.”

  “It's true,” she replied. “The coachman and guard were killed, but this young man managed to stop the horses and save my life.”

  Don Carlos turned toward the clean-shaven young man sitting on the far side of the roast pig. “You look familiar. Have we met before?”

  “A few nights ago in Zumarraga. My name is Duane Braddock.”

  Don Carlos smiled. “Of course—you wore a beard—I remember now.”

  Both men shook hands, and Doña Consuelo appeared flabbergasted. “You know each other?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” replied Don Carlos, who examined his guest with new interest. “I am greatly indebted to you for saving my wife, because she is the most valuable possession I have.”

  A servant piled food on Don Carlos's plate, as the caudillo looked at Doña Consuelo. “I will track the damned banditos down one of these days, and that will be the end of them.” Then he glanced toward Duane. “Men usually run from trouble, but you rode into the middle of it to save someone you didn't even know. I can't help wondering—why?”

  “So do I,” replied Duane.

  Doña Consuelo crossed herself reverently. “Señor Braddock was sent by God, and I would not be alive right now were it were not for he.”

  Don Carlos nodded sagely. “Anything I have is yours, Señor Braddock. Just name it.”

  Your wife, thought Duane, but he didn't dare mouth the words. “I am honored to be of assistance, Don Carlos.”

  “Let's put our cards on the table,” said the caudillo. “You are an American bandito, but that is no business of mine. You may stay at my hacienda for as long as you like, as my guest. If there's anything you require, you need only ask.”

  How about Doña Consuelo? Duane inquired silently. “You're very generous, sir, but I'll just need to rest my leg for a few days, and then be on my way.”

  “Come back later. My door is always open to you.”

  “According to the Bible, virtue is its own reward.”

  Don Carlos winked. “But a few extra pesos never hurt, eh?” Then he turned toward his wife. “And how is your mother, my dear?”

  “Much worse, I am afraid. I wish we could find a brujo or somebody who could save her.”

  Duane watched Don Carlos converse with his wife, and felt jealous of the older man. Don Carlos sleeps with her every night, and places his hands on that cute little ass, while I'm always alone. What good does it do me to be well-educated, that I've got a fast hand, and see life with razor-sharp clarity? The only difference between me and the average filthy pig is I've got manners that I learned in the monastery in the clouds.

  Miss Vanessa Fontaine sat before the mirror of her dressing room, her body soaked with perspiration. It was the same after every performance—she gave her audience everything, it was almost like making love. She wore a red silk robe embroidered with dragons, the gift of a former beau whose name she'd forgotten somewhere along her rocky road.

  She felt disappointed that a certain familiar silver concho hatband hadn't appeared in the audience. She'd hoped Duane might've seen her poster nailed to a tree and come to claim her, but maybe he took one look and ran in the opposite direction, because she'd shattered his innocent seminarian's heart.

  He truly loved me, she realized, and I was loco to leave him, but he hadn't a pot to piss in, while Lieutenant Dawes had been the son of a general, with a brilliant military career ahead of him, not to mention a substantial fortune left him by his grandfather. Vanessa had been low on funds, and decided to make a sensible decision for a change. She'd considered Duane a passing fancy, a pretty boy to play with for awhile, but never comprehended how mu
ch she'd fallen in love with him.

  Why? she often wondered. Maybe it's the aura of danger that surrounds him, or his natural skills at making love. He wasn't afraid of any man, but his hair-trigger temper had been terrifying. She'd seen Duane shoot a dangerous gun fighter in a town called Titusville, the most shocking experience of her life on the frontier.

  Duane Braddock, just out of the monastery, had faced off in the middle of the street against Saul Klevins, said to be the fastest hand in the county. The ex-acolyte had looked like a statue in the moonlight, the odds stacked against him, but he couldn't beg for his life. Klevins fired first, missed, and then Duane triggered, but his shot was true. He'd won the showdown, thanks to quick reflexes and the instruction of an old-time gun-fighter named Clyde Butterfield. That's when a drunkard newspaper writer had dubbed Duane The Pecos Kid, thus launching his reputation, and now folks in West Texas mentioned him in the same breath as John Wesley Hardin and Jesse James.

  One night, he will walk into this saloon, I can feel it in my bones, thought Vanessa. Because as good as it was for me, I know it was just as good for him, and he won't meet any others like me in his wanderings, just as I won't meet any other Duane Braddocks. All I have to do is wait, but when it comes to Duane Braddock, I've got nothing but time.

  There was a knock on the door, and then Maggie O'Day walked into the dressing room, puffing a cigar. “What a show!” she exclaimed. “The first time I talked with you, I thought you were full of shit, but you really are a great singer—I've got to say it. Congratulations.” Maggie slapped Vanessa on the back, and Vanessa nearly flew through her mirror. “By the way, the sheriff wants to talk with you.”

  “Tell him I'm busy.”

  “You don't understand, darlin’. You might need the sheriff on yer side if yer boy Duane Braddock ever shows up, because old J. T. will clap his ass in jail.”

  “Nobody'll ever put Duane Braddock in jail,” replied Vanessa staunchly. “He'll die first.”

  “That's why you'd better talk with the sheriff. Let him know that Duane ain't as bad as his wanted poster would lead you to believe. I'd say that Duane'll be here in another four-five weeks, and that's why we gotta start a-workin’ on the sheriff now. Otherwise we're a-gonna have a shoot-out in Escondido, and God only knows who'll get killed.”

  “I've talked to the sheriff already, and he's a hard case himself. What's your opinion of him?”

  “Sturgis is mad as hell ‘bout somethin’, but I'll be damned if I know what it is.”

  “Send him in,” replied Vanessa, as she patted her face gently with a moist dab of white cloth. “I'll try to talk sense to him.”

  The door closed, and Maggie's footsteps receded down the hall. Did Duane ever sleep with that old strumpet? Vanessa wondered. Presently there was a knock on the door, it opened, and a tin badge reflected in her mirror.

  Sheriff J. T. Sturgis strode into the tiny dressing room, hat in hand. “Sorry to bother you, ma'am, but I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed yer performance. I was in the war myself, and we used to sing them same songs around the campfires. You sure brought it all back.”

  “What unit were you with?” she inquired.

  “I served under General George Edward Pickett.”

  He didn't have to say more, because all Southerners revered General Pickett, who'd led the most famous charge of the war. “I was never a soldier,” admitted Vanessa, “but the war came to me when we lived in South Carolina, and my home was burned by the damned Yankees. Confederate soldiers are all heroes as far as I'm concerned, and nothing's too good for them.”

  Sheriff Sturgis balled his fist and bared his teeth. “The Yankees beat us, Miss Fontaine, but not because they were better men. They had more of everything and it weren't a fair fight, but we couldn't let them boss us around.”

  “Certainly not,” replied Vanessa, and she wasn't acting one bit. “People say forgive and forget, and maybe they're right, but I'm afraid I can't forgive General Sherman for what he did to South Carolina, and I'll never forget Dixie land.”

  “Neither will I,” replied ex-Corporal Sturgis. “And I want to tell you somethin’ else. I think yer just about the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, and I was a-wonderin’ why you won't let me buy you supper sometime.”

  She smiled politely. “If you want to talk, pull up a chair and take a load off your feet. I have an hour till my next performance, and besides, you should know that I'm already spoken for.”

  He frowned. “Braddock? But he's on the dodge, and I'm right hyar. Hell, I'll marry you tomorrow mornin’ if you want. I'll even give you a baby. And you could do a lot worse, believe me.”

  Vanessa wasn't surprised by his declaration, because men had been making similar admissions practically from the time she could walk, and it was a natural part of her environment, like the sun and rain. “I'm touched by your proposition,” she replied, “and you're certainly a fine-looking gentleman. Perhaps, in other circumstances, who could say what might happen? But now I'm waiting for Mister Braddock to return. If you want to be my friend, why don't you do me a favor? When he arrives, I hope you won't start trouble. My intention is to hire as many lawyers as necessary to clear his name, because he really hasn't committed any crimes as far as I know.”

  “Tell that to the trooper who survived the Devil's Creek Massacre.”

  “How can you condemn a man on the basis of one eyewitness who was half dead?”

  “They say that when you love somebody, you can't think straight about him,” Sturgis reminded her. “If Duane Braddock threw a baby off the roof of this building, and the whole town saw it, you'd say it was a mistake, and besides, the baby probably deserved it.”

  “You've never met Duane Braddock, and all you know is hearsay. Why not let the legal process do its job?”

  The sheriff grinned. “I am the legal process, and I've got a warrant for Duane Braddock's arrest, dead or alive. Nobody'll take this badge seriously if I let a known killer walk around scot free. I'm sorry, ma'am, but that's one thing I can't do.”

  She raised a skeptical eyebrow. “A few minutes ago, you said that you'd marry me, but you won't do that little favor?”

  “Ma'am, you're askin’ me to violate my oath of office.”

  “What if I were to give you a hundred dollars to look the other way?”

  “I'm not the best sheriff money can buy,” he said bitterly.

  “I didn't mean to insult you, but I'm absolutely convinced of Duane's innocence. I've personally witnessed one of his alleged crimes, and he was only defending himself.”

  “I'll bet he was only defending himself against that Army pay wagon too?”

  Vanessa realized it was hopeless, but had to make one last try. “There's nothing I can do to change your mind?” she asked plaintively.

  He looked her up and down, then his face grew red. It appeared that he wanted to say something, but refused to let it out.

  “I'm sorry,” she told him, “but that I can't do.”

  After supper, Duane wandered into the small village alongside the hacienda. He heard guitars, and a man sang plaintively not far away. Duane wondered if there was a cantina where he could have a drink and think things over. Something told him to hop on Midnight and ride the hell out of there first thing in the morning, before he made a fool of himself with Doña Consuelo. Maybe I should go with a prostitute and get this out of my system.

  He noticed lamps shining inside a squat adobe building. The door opened, and two vaqueros appeared, wearing big sombreros on the backs of their heads. “Is this the cantina?” asked Duane.

  “Sí, señor.”

  Duane entered the small, dark enclosure, stood in the shadows, and reconnoitered the territory. A painting of the Madonna and child was nailed to the wall, the bar wasn't crowded, and Duane leaned his elbow upon it. “Mescal.”

  The bartender was a dark-skinned Mexican with strong Indian features. “So you are the Americano who saved Doña Consuelo's life. On the house, señor.”

/>   All eyes turned toward Duane, and once again he was center of attention, the role he detested most. But he couldn't crawl underneath the cuspidor, so he raised his glass in the air, and said: “To Doña Consuelo.”

  No one could refuse a toast to the young lady of the hacienda, and all men raised their glasses to their lips. Duane advanced toward a table against the left wall, sat, and swallowed mescal. The other customers returned to their cards, newspapers, or conversations, as the Americano faded into the woodwork.

  Duane toyed with the notion of seducing Doña Consuelo de Rebozo. What if I met her in one of those dark corridors when I return to the hacienda later tonight? Suppose I bent over and kissed her throat. I wonder if she'd call the guards, or maybe she wants me as much as I want her?

  He realized that he was thinking disrespectfully about her again. Maybe I should ride away immediately, before I do something that I regret. Don't look for trouble, my friend. You've got more than you can handle as it is.

  Duane scanned the cantina relentlessly, alert for trouble. He never knew when a bounty hunter or Pinkerton man would show up with a warrant for the arrest of the Pecos Kid. But the cantina was full of dark-skinned Mexicans like the bartender, and they reminded Duane of the Apaches. Will they be insulted if I ride away first thing in the morning, and not even say good-bye?

  He remembered Doña Consuelo kneeling beside him, saying her evening prayers. I almost jumped on top of her, and I wonder what silky things she wears underneath those long dresses of hers. I'll bet she goes wild when she gets naked, because it's always the nice girls who are the most wanton in bed.

  I've got to stop thinking about her, he admonished himself, as he raised the mescal to his lips. And this is the best way to forget. He drained the glass, coughed a few times, then carried the glass to the bar and got a refill.

  He felt lightheaded in the dark gloomy cantina, but it didn't prevent him from checking the position of men's hands. Occasionally he noticed somebody glancing at him, but the Mexicans didn't appear hostile. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending upon one's point of view, no prostitutes were in the small cantina. I'm in love with another man's wife—just what I need, he thought disgustedly. Vanessa Fontaine said she loved me, and she ran off with that damned army idiot. Phyllis Thornton said she loved me, and she went home to daddy. Love is a disease, and it looks like I've caught another dose. Doña Consuelo is a married woman, and I've got to stay away from her. Whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.