by Len Levinson
“But we sat in the coach and held many conversations. He's very well-educated, and in fact was raised in a monastery.”
Don Carlos was surprised by this item of news. “How do you know he's not lying?”
“He knows theology very well, and even studied St. Thomas Aquinas.”
Her husband winked condescendingly. “I don't think it would take much to fool you, my dear. You're my precious flower, whom I protect from the ugliness of life, but now a dangerous gringo is living in our midst. Please be cautious, mariposita. Don't ever be alone with him.”
“I'll stay in my rooms until he's gone, except for meals. And speaking of meals, it's time for breakfast. Please leave me alone, so that I can get dressed.”
She ordered him about like a servant, which he found amusing. It gives her a sense of power that she actually doesn't have, he thought wryly, as he departed the room.
Doña Consuelo called back her maids, who rinsed, dried, and helped dress her in front of the mirror. The young wife looked at herself from all the angles as her maids brushed her long wavy hair. She brought her face close to the mirror, and her critical eyes spotted countless crevices. I'm getting wrinkled, old, fat, and ugly, she said to herself. Life is passing me by, I never accomplish anything, and I'm not having any fun.
She put on a dark blue skirt and a white ruffled blouse that buttoned high up on her neck. Then she climbed to the top floor of the hacienda, where her mother's bedchamber was located. Doña Consuelo entered the dark room, and her mother lay still on the bed, fast asleep, an expression of peace on her face. Doña Consuelo kneeled beside her, and reached for her hand. “Oh, Mother, you're the only one who ever understood me, and you always knew what to do.”
Doña Migdalia's fingers felt limp and cold, and Doña Consuelo experienced a bolt of fear. The young noblewoman leaned over the body, but her mother wasn't breathing, her lips slightly parted, her eyes closed. “Mother?” asked Doña Consuelo, taking a step back from the bed. “My God!” She felt frantically for a pulse, but there was nothing. A mirror lay on the nighttable, and Doña Consuelo held it in front of the old lady's nose. It didn't fog. “No!” screamed Doña Consuelo at the top of her lungs. “No!”
Maids and footmen rushed into the bedroom, as Doña Consuelo dropped to her knees beside the bed, and covered her face with her hands. “My mother's dead,” she said softly, “and God help us all.” She fainted, and only the quick hands of a servant prevented her head from crashing into the floor.
Duane reached for his Colt when he heard Consuelo's scream. “What's wrong?” he asked a guard in the corridor.
“Nothing to worry about, señor.”
Duane resumed dressing in his bedroom. She probably saw a mouse, he figured. It's the way women exercise their lungs. He buttoned his shirt, as he recalled shouting matches with Miss Vanessa Fontaine, the woman who'd ruined his life, or so he thought.
It bothered him to recall her slinky sinuous ways, yet he couldn't help comparing her to Doña Consuelo de Rebozo. But it was like judging between a diamond and a pearl. The power of women terrified him, and often he recalled the wisdom of St. Paul, Apostle to the Gentiles:
It is better to marry than burn.
He parted his long black hair on the side, and was dressed like an American cowboy again instead of a Mexican nobleman. He gazed at himself in the mirror and wondered whether he was handsome. Some women had praised him, others treated him like a toad, and he had no idea what he represented to them. The former monk struggled to figure out life, but the more he investigated, the more incomprehensible it became.
He made his way down tapestried corridors, and found himself in the dining room. Three places were set, and a group of servants stood in the corner, talking in low tones. Duane sat, waiting patiently for breakfast to be served.
Then Don Carlos entered from the far side of the room, a stern expression on his face. He walked to the chair opposite Duane, seated himself, and said: “Doña Consuelo's mother has died during the night.”
Duane remembered Doña Consuelo's scream, and felt saddened by her grief. “I'm sorry to hear that, sir. Please convey my condolences to your wife.”
Don Carlos studied the notorious American outlaw seated before him. “Is your mother alive?” he asked, out of curiosity.
“No.”
“Doña Consuelo was very attached to hers. This is a terrible blow to her.”
“At least she still has you and her father, so she's not completely alone.”
Like you? wondered Don Carlos. The nobleman didn't know whether he liked Duane, or felt sorry for him. “The household is in turmoil, as I'm sure you can understand.”
“Don't worry about me,” replied Duane. “I'll eat in the bunkhouse with the vaqueros.”
“That won't be necessary, but the level of service might not be as formerly. If it hadn't been for you, we'd have had two funerals in this home, and you can't imagine how much Don Patricio and I love young Doña Consuelo.”
Oh, yes I can, thought Duane.
Doña Consuelo lay clothed but shoeless atop her bed, and felt terrible emptiness. “How can I live without my sainted mother?” she whispered, as she reached for the handkerchief folded neatly beside her.
She dabbed her eyes, sniffled, and then went slack, overwhelmed by the enormity of death. One moment we're here, next moment we're gone. She wondered where her mother was at that moment.
The climate necessitated a fast funeral, which would take place that day. Doña Consuelo didn't know how she could manage, but her mother had always maintained her poise, no matter what catastrophe had befallen the hacienda. Once upon a time, my mother was as young as I, reflected Doña Consuelo. The cycle of life goes on, except I'm a barren woman, and no child will mourn for me.
The death of her mother had shattered conventional avenues of thought, and her mind burst with notions that she normally suppressed. Doña Consuelo felt useless, hopeless, and damned to an unfulfilled future. A great yawning chasm opened before her, and she became terrified. I'm alone, with no one to talk with except my husband, but he thinks I'm a silly child, and he's probably right.
She reproached herself for worrying about herself more than others. I must go to my father and comfort him, except who'll comfort me? She rolled out of bed, took a few unsteady steps, and looked out the window. A hammering came to her ears as the carpenter nailed together a coffin in one of the outbuildings, while behind the chapel someone was digging a grave. Doña Consuelo didn't know whether to scream, cry softly, or run a hundred miles. Death was terrifying to the coddled and sheltered young woman.
She looked at her tear-stained face in the mirror, her hair sticking weirdly in all directions. Maybe I should talk to the priest, but he'll just pat my head as if I were a dog, and tell me to have faith in God.
She wondered why she was so alone, without sisters, brothers, or friends. Perhaps I should renounce everything and go to a nunnery, because I have nothing to live for. I'm not a good wife to my husband, because I can't have a child.
She thought of hurling herself out the window, but what good would that accomplish? Perhaps I'd better go to the chapel, get down on my knees, and pray. She laced on her shoes, not bothering to call a maid. Then she put a dark shawl over her shoulders and made her way unsteadily toward the chapel.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, which she daubed with a handkerchief. Her vision blurred, and her legs felt like long enchiladas stuffed with melted cheese. I can't go on, but I must, she told herself. My mother would be ashamed of me if she could see me right now.
She paused near a bend in the corridor to catch her breath. Somehow I've got to be strong, she encouraged herself. No man wants a crybaby for a wife.
She tried to stiffen her spine as voices came to her from around the corner. Maids were having a private whispered conversation only a few feet away, and Doña Consuelo didn't know whether to interrupt or make believe they weren't there.
“I think it is disgusting,” said one of
the maids, and Doña Consuelo recognized her voice as Teresa's.
“What a hypocrite Don Patricio is,” agreed another maid, named Florianna. “He is crying like a baby, but meanwhile he has kept that woman in town all these years.”
“Crocodile tears,” replied Teresa.
The voices became faint as the maids walked away. Doña Consuelo stood with her shoulder leaning against the wall, and her mouth hanging open. My father has kept a woman in town? I don't believe a word of it. Doña Consuelo teetered toward the chapel, telling herself that she really hadn't heard the previous conversation, although she knew, deep in her heart, that she had.
The stable was immense, filled with muscled steeds in large stalls, while a crew of vaqueros was sweeping, shoveling, and caring for the expensive animals. Duane made his way down the center aisle, admiring the Vasquez and Rebozo personal stock. These horses probably live better than most people, decided the Pecos Kid.
He spotted Midnight on the left aisle. “How's it going, boy?” he asked, as he stood before the trough into which Midnight dipped his snout.
Midnight raised his head sullenly. So it's you.
“I've been worried about you,” Duane said. “Are they taking good care of you?”
If you're so worried, how come this is the first time you've come around?
Duane felt uneasy as Midnight's bulbous eyes drilled into him. “I've been awful busy,” he explained, “and let's not forget that I've been shot in the leg.”
You don't look so sick to me.
Duane patted the top of Midnight's head. “Enjoy the luxury, because we're leaving in a few days. We're going back to Texas, and it'll be a lot of fun.”
I'll bet.
It bothered Duane that his horse wasn't cooperative, but they hardly knew each other. Maybe I should trade him for another horse, because he's going to be trouble all the way to Edgeville. The snap of straw beneath a boot came to Duane's ears, and he went for his Colt. “Who's there?”
A vaquero appeared between two horses on the far side of the stable. “Don't shoot, amigo.”
Duane holstered his gun. “You shouldn't creep up on people that way. I nearly shot your lights out.”
“But I work here, Señor. I am Mendoza the stableman, and I was listening to you talk with your horse.”
“I don't think that he likes me.”
“He is mostly wild, and will run away if he gets the chance.” Mendoza glanced around suspiciously. “Be on your guard, because everybody knows who you are.”
Duane felt electrified, as his hand dropped onto the walnut grip of his Colt. “What do you mean?”
“You were recognized at the cantina, and someone might want the price on your head. Perhaps it is time for you to hit the trail, señor.”
“Thanks for telling me,” said Duane, “and by the way, why are you telling me?”
“Because an hombre who talks with his horse cannot be all bad.”
Duane looked over his shoulder for the bounty hunter lurking in the shadows. I'm worth more dead than alive, and I'd better get the hell out of here pronto, but a man needs a change of clothes, his bedroll, and extra cartridges for his Colt, just in case.
He drew the loaded pistol, headed for the front door of the stable, and looked both ways. Then he made his way toward the hacienda, the gun in his right hand, ready to fire.
Sheriff J. T. Sturgis dined alone at his personal table against the back wall of the Last Chance Saloon. The establishment was nearly empty, for most of the drunks still were in bed, sleeping off their night's adventures. But Sheriff J. T. Sturgis didn't touch a drop, and some folks believed that was part of his problem. But he didn't give a damn what others thought, because God had spoken to him in the Bloody Angle, and he knew what must be done.
His platter was covered with eggs, beans, bacon, and steamed tortillas, while a huge mug of coffee sent thin wisps of steam into the air. He continually looked around, because a trigger-happy kid might try to shoot the sheriff of Escondido to make his reputation as a dangerous killer.
Sometimes J. T. thought the Devil had defeated God, because the world was so wicked. The average man'll do anything for money, he believed, while the average woman can't be trusted. If these people think I'm going into hiding when the Pecos Kid comes to town, they've got another think coming. No kill-crazy cowboy is going to bamboozle J. T. Sturgis and get away with it.
Sheriff Sturgis had heard many stories about Duane Braddock since he'd become sheriff. Braddock had kicked the stuffing out of a few people, shot some others, and brought law and order to a town that never had seen law and order before. Braddock had broken the law himself a few times, but the city fathers looked the other way. Then the army had showed up, and the Pecos Kid had hightailed to Mexico.
If Duane Braddock comes to town, I'll take him the polite way, decided J. T. Sturgis. But if he goes for his gun, I'll blow his fuckin’ head off.
Duane entered his bedroom, drew his gun, and stalked sideways to the window, where he placed his back against the wall. Slowly, carefully, he peered through the curtain. Nobody was in the courtyard hoping to catch the Pecos Kid.
He took his bedroll out of the closet, then stuffed his extra clothes into the saddlebags. He opened the door and nearly collided with Don Carlos coming from the opposite direction.
“Going somewhere?” asked Don Carlos, an expression of surprise on his face.
“On my way to Texas,” Duane replied, keeping his eyes glued on Don Carlos's hands.
“So soon? But your leg is barely healed, and aren't you going to the funeral?”
“Certain people know my true identity, and I'm worried about my own funeral.”
Don Carlos smiled. “But my dear fellow, you are under my protection, and the protection of Don Patricio. We are the law, and no one will touch you as long as you are with us. Of course, if you continue to visit the cantina ...” Don Carlos shrugged. “I cannot protect you in the cantina, but Doña Consuelo would consider it an insult to her mother's memory if you left before the funeral. The poor girl is greatly distressed.”
Duane felt awkward with bedroll and saddlebags, sneaking out the back door like a thief. “It's safer to travel at night,” he acknowledged, “and if I waited till then, that would give me time to attend the funeral.”
“Good—I'll see you there.”
Duane returned to the bedroom, looked at his worried features in the mirror, and thought of seeing Doña Consuelo again. I'll be a perfect gentleman and a credit to my country whenever she's around, he vowed. I will not, under any circumstances, make improper advances.
One of Maggie O'Day's bodyguards approached Sheriff J. T. Sturgis in the Last Chance Saloon. “Maggie wants to palaver with you, Sheriff,” he said.
Sturgis didn't want to hurry to the office and make it appear that he was Maggie O'Day's lapdog. So he rolled a cigarette and took a few puffs before arising. I wonder what she wants, he asked himself as he strolled down the corridor. At her door, he knocked and waited impatiently.
“Come in.”
She sat behind her desk, puffing a cigar, a cup of coffee laced with whiskey nearby. He dropped to a chair in front of her. “Heard you want to talk with me.”
She looked him up and down, then flicked ash off the end of her cigar. “I'll come right to the point. It's my understandin’ that you mean to arrest Duane Braddock when he comes to town.”
“That's right,” admitted Sturgis. “I've got a pile of warrants for his arrest, and it's my job to bring him in.”
“Not any more,” she replied, looking him straight in the eye. “Yer fired as of right now. Hand in yer badge, and I'll pay you off, cash on the barrelhead.”
She opened a drawer, took out a bag of coins, and counted his salary. He was dumbfounded that she'd fire him just like that. “But...”
“There ain't no buts,” she told him evenly. “Duane Braddock was our sheriff at a time when there was two or three killin's every night. You don't appreciate what he did, althou
gh he made yer job a damned sight easier. If we had to choose betwixt him and you, we'd pick him every time.”
Maggie was president of the town council, and had the authority to boot his ass out the door. “It's hard to believe that you'd fire me just fer doin’ my job, ma'am. Somehow it don't seem fair.”
“You work for us—we don't work for you. If you want to arrest the man that saved this town, you'd better start a-movin’ on.”
“But he's wanted by the federal marshal in San Antonio plus the Fourth Cavalry.”
She leaned forward. “Fuck the federal marshal in San Antonio, and fuck the Fourth Cavalry.”
“But he's killed people all over West Texas!”
“Maybe they deserved to die—you ever think of it that way? I know fer a fact that the galoots he shot in Escondido had no reason to go on a-livin’, ‘cause they was killers themselves. Listen to me, sheriff. Duane Braddock and I spent many a night in this very office, a-drinkin’ whisky and a-shootin’ the shit, and I probably know him better'n anybody. He's not the outlaw that people say, and everybody who knows him'll tell you the same damn thang. The lawyers will clear Duane Braddock eventually, if there's any justice in Texas, but if you want to stick yer face into the mess, you'd better saddle yer horse and move to the next town, ‘cause we don't need you no more. You don't have the authority to arrest nobody, as of right now.”
The brave corporal smirked angrily. “Everybody wants law and order for other people, but not for themselves. From the dirty thievin’ bluecoat president of the United States to the lowest cattle rustler in the Last Chance Saloon, they all think they're above the law. But the law is the rawhide that holds society together, and without it, we'd be wild animals a-tearin’ out each other's throats.”
“The law should serve the people, not the other way around. You talk about the law as if you know what it is. Just because it's legal to lock a man in jail, that don't make it right.”
“You should've been a lawyer, Maggie. You've got an answer for everything.”
