by Len Levinson
“If you want to remain sheriff of Escondido, you know what it takes.”
He shook his head vehemently. “Sorry, but I'm not the crooked two-bit sheriff that you thought you hired.” Calmly, he unpinned his beloved tin badge from his shirt, then tossed it onto her desk, where it clanged atop a mound of coins. “Shove it up your ass.”
Maggie didn't bat an eyelash. She counted out one hundred dollars and pushed it to him. “Here's yer pay.”
He scooped it across the desk and dropped it into his pocket. “Nobody appreciates an honest man,” he said through clenched teeth. “This is some world that we live in.”
“Yer a hard-assed son-of-a-bitch,” she replied, “but I guess you can't he'p it. You was probably borned that way.”
Doña Consuelo de Rebozo stood at the edge of the grave, wearing a black dress with a black veil covering her tearstained face, as the priest intoned Latin prayers. Nearby hovered her husband and father, with other relatives, servants, and vaqueros surrounding the grave. An unpainted wooden coffin nailed shut lay beside the hole in the ground.
Doña Consuelo sobbed softly as the priest showered the coffin with holy water. Then a group of vaquero pallbearers lowered the box into the hole. Doña Consuelo wanted to dive onto the coffin and be with her mother forever, but instead stood stolidly and bit her trembling lower lip. She felt as if she'd neglected her mother, and hadn't been a good daughter. I was thinking about having fun while my mother was dying. What a depraved person I must be.
Doña Consuelo loathed herself thoroughly as vaqueros shoveled dirt onto the coffin. Her mother disappeared beneath the ground, while her father sniffled and sobbed, daubing his eyes with a lace handkerchief. Is it true? Doña Consuelo wondered. Has he been unfaithful to my mother, and was our family life a sham?
She'd heard rumors that wealthy men sometimes kept mistresses, but had never dreamed that her bald-headed, roly-poly father could do such a thing. And now that she thought of it, perhaps Don Carlos had a woman in town too? Maybe that's why he was exhausted all the time.
Consuelo's world had been tossed upside down, and she felt adrift on stormy seas. Anything is possible, she realized, as her eyes fell on a certain tall gringo cowboy in the crowd. It appeared that he kept glancing surreptitiously toward her, but she couldn't be sure at the distance.
She felt alone, abandoned, with no one to turn to. What does it all mean? she wondered, as her mother's coffin disappeared beneath clods of dirt. Perhaps I should enter a nunnery, do penance, and sing hymns. How can I live without my dear mother?
Doña Consuelo's eyes weren't playing tricks, because Duane Braddock actually was glancing at her sneakily from the corners of his eyes. What is it about her that drives me loco? he asked himself. She's just another woman, isn't she?
He compared her with those of her sex at the funeral, and noticed that her waist was slimmer that most, while her hips had a more pleasing line. She wasn't short, but neither was she too tall. Her breastworks were more than she required, but he wouldn't consider them flawed by any means. He couldn't see her face beneath the dark veil, but imagined her full-lipped Spanish beauty. At the age of eighteen, he considered himself a connoisseur of women and a man of the world. She was a tempting sight for his cheating eyes.
Whoa, he said to himself. There you go again, having despicable thoughts about that poor woman, and her mother's not even cold in her grave. What's wrong with you, Duane Braddock? Why can't you be a decent cowboy?
Duane averted his eyes, and let them fall on Don Carlos de Rebozo standing at his wife's side. Now there's a real man, Duane conjectured, not a lost wandering kid like me. Don Carlos has accomplished great things in his life, he's a wealthy caudillo, and it's no wonder that she's in love with him. But you've got to admit that he's old enough to be her father, and aren't men supposed to be useless in bed when they get old?
He shook his head in despair. Here I am plotting the seduction of a married woman at her mother's funeral. I ought to confess to the priest, except I don't have the courage. Doña Consuelo will visit the chapel during the next few days, as she mourns her mother's passing. Perhaps I can run into her there, and we can say goodbye before I leave. It's the courteous thing to do, and I don't have ulterior motives, right?
CHAPTER 6
DOÑA CONSUELO PACED BACK AND FORTH in her bedroom, grinding her teeth together. She felt cut loose from her moorings, as if she were losing her mind. There was a knock on the door, then Teresa entered and curtsied. “You wanted to see me, Doña Señora.”
Doña Consuelo came to a stop a few feet in front of Teresa, placed her hands on her hips, and said: “I've heard a certain rumor about my father. Is it true that he has a woman in town?”
Teresa's face drained of color. “I do not know what you are talking about, madam.”
“I heard it from your own big mouth, only you didn't know I was listening. What is her name?”
“Please, madam—I do not want trouble.”
“It is too late for that,” Doña Consuelo replied sternly. “Tell me or else I will dismiss you from my service. I buried my mother this morning, and have no time for insolence.”
Teresa had never seen her mistress in a such a state. “Maybe you'd better lie down, Doña Consuelo.”
“Doesn't the priest say that we should always tell the truth? I'm a grown woman, and I demand to know: who is my father's mistress?”
Teresa said nothing, her lips sealed by the greater fear of Don Patricio's wrath. A tear came to the bereaved daughter's eye as she collapsed into a nearby chair. Doña Consuelo covered her face with her hands, and sobbed softly.
It hurt Teresa to see the beautiful lady in misery. She knelt before her mistress and took her hands. “What do you care about your father's mistress? All men do it—that's the way they are. The trick is to do it back.”
“Please, please tell me her name.”
“Doña Consuelo, I am afraid of your father.”
“I'll never admit that you told me, and everybody else knows anyway.”
The maid nodded sagely. “That is correct, madam. There was a big fight one night between your mother and father.”
“Where was I?”
“In your bedroom. You were just a little girl. I do not know how your mother found out, but she threatened to leave your father. He pleaded with her, and finally she gave in when your father insisted that you needed her.”
Doña Consuelo's head was spinning as her life crumbled around her. I've lived a lie, she realized, and no wonder my mother was so sad. My father betrayed her all these years. “What is the woman's name? Please— woman to woman—tell me. I swear to God that nothing will happen to you.”
Teresa crossed herself, then kissed her thumb. “Her name is Conchita.”
Duane awakened and found himself staring at a stained-glass window. He sat straight up in the pew, and realized that he'd fallen asleep while waiting for Doña Consuelo to appear. What kind of man would attempt to seduce a married woman in church? he asked himself.
He scratched his head in befuddlement, then sidestepped out of the pew. A statue of the Virgin stood at the end, gazing at heaven, her arms outstretched, illustrating her response to the angel who'd told her that she'd give birth to the Son of God. In the words of Luke, she seemed to be saying, “. . . be it unto me according to thy word.”
Duane dropped to his knees in front of the Virgin, crossed himself, and meditated upon the Holy Mother of God. This is what women are really like, he figured. They're all innocent like the Virgin Mary, and they want to be good wives and mothers, but then we lying bastards get our hands on them, and pretty soon they're harlots.
He heard a sound behind him, whipped out his Colt, and spun around. To his astonishment, Doña Consuelo stood before him, wearing her black dress and veil, like the statue of a saint. He realized that she'd come to the Virgin Mary to pray, so he receded into the shadows.
She knelt before the statue, and prayed on her rosary with deep devotion, unl
ike those who rattled beads noisily while thinking of a trip to the general store. She's turning to the Virgin for help, instead of the nearest cantina, where I'd go, admitted Duane.
She sobbed, her body quaked, and she appeared in the deepest extremity. Duane wished he'd never come to the chapel, because it was embarrassing to see her private grief. He had taken a silent step to the door when she keeled over and collapsed onto the floor.
He rushed to her side. She lay on her back, one knee in the air, her black hair radiating in all directions, white as a sheet. “Doña Consuelo—are you all right?” He touched her cheek, and it was cool, but her pulse was strong.
Duane realized that he was holding her hand, and he couldn't help scrutinizing it more closely. She had strong fingers, unlike the long, delicate digits of Miss Vanessa Fontaine. Her eyelashes fluttered; then her eyes bugged out at the sight of him.
Guiltily, he let her hand drop. “Evidently you fainted while you were praying, Doña Consuelo.”
She looked around, sat up, and appeared confused.
“May I help you?” He placed one arm around her waist, took her hand, and assisted her to the nearest pew. “Perhaps you'd better sit down.”
He sounded sincere, and she was surprised to see him there. She'd stopped for a brief prayer, sickened by her father's cruelty toward her mother, and had passed out. “I'm all right now,” she said in a wavering voice.
They sat inches away, their eyes glittering in the darkness. “Maybe you should go upstairs and lie down,” he suggested. “I'll take you there, if you like.”
“No, there's something I've got to do first.” Doña Consuelo's eyes filled with tears, and she sobbed uncontrollably.
He placed his hand on her shoulder. “I'm sure that your mother is in a better place now.”
“She's in heaven,” Doña Consuelo replied, then blew her nose into the handkerchief. “Sorry, but this has been a very bad day for me. If only you knew what I've been through.”
“I understand.” He placed his hand on her shoulder, gave a little squeeze, and smiled.
She felt moved by his gesture, and believed that he really did care. “You're a strange boy,” she said.
“People have been telling me that all my life.”
She felt oddly at ease with him. “Are you really a desperado?” she inquired.
“Let me put it this way—if you always turn the other cheek, like it says in the Bible, some folks'll slap you right into the ground.”
Close up, he was quite appealing, except for a few nicks and scars on his face, and a certain leer in his eye. “Where do you live?” she asked.
“I sleep on the desert as a rule.”
“Aren't you afraid of Apaches?”
He winked playfully. “Aren't you?”
“But I don't sleep on the desert.”
“Maybe you should try it some time. It's sanctified beneath the stars.”
“What if it rains?”
“Just crawl under your tarpaulin. And you'll never go hungry because food's all over the place. There's nothing like fresh antelope loin roasted over a mesquite fire.”
He's a wild man, she thought, as she measured his well-proportioned limbs. “Do you intend to spend the rest of your life living like a lobo?”
“I plan to get married someday, but there's something I've got to do first.”
“What's that?” she asked.
“It's personal. Sorry.”
She looked at him askance. “I've never met anybody like you.”
“I've never met anybody like you either, Doña Consuelo. Your husband is a lucky man.”
She laughed. “I'm not sure he would agree with you.”
“But it's obvious how much he loves you.”
She recalled something that she'd intended to do. “I've got to be going,” she said. “Perhaps I'll see you at dinner?”
“I'm leaving at sundown,” he replied.
“But you just arrived. You should rest your leg for a few more days, and perhaps we can talk again. You have an interesting point of view, and I don't often meet people with whom I can speak.”
He bowed his head slightly. “Doña Consuelo, if I can be of service, I'll stay as long as your patience will tolerate me.”
“Good—I'll look forward to talking with you.”
She disappeared into the outside corridor, as Duane closed his eyes, his heart beating wildly. I think she likes me, he said to himself.
He dropped to his seat in the pew, scratched his chin, and wondered whether to saddle up old Midnight and cut out for Monterrey without delay. The air was filled with her fragrance, his head floated with desire, and a certain pesky artery throbbed in his throat. I'm in love with another man's wife, and it's got to be a disaster, he warned himself. But I promised I'd stay until she got tired of me, and a Christian is only as good as his word.
Doña Consuelo came to a stop before a squat adobe hut, as villagers in the vicinity became alarmed. One of them ran toward the hacienda, to warn Don Patricio, but Doña Consuelo had more important business at hand. She knocked on the door loudly. “Open up!”
The door fell ajar, and a short stout woman appeared. She had a moon face and wore a plain cotton dress. “Doña Consuelo,” the woman said, bowing low.
Doña Consuelo walked into the tiny enclosed space. It had a stove, bed, dresser, and table in one room. “I understand that you are my father's mistress?”
Conchita was unable to speak, and Doña Consuelo felt a mad urge to whack her, when a little boy strolled wide-eyed into the room. Doña Consuelo lost her breath, because the child was the spitting image of her father, and even resembled Doña Consuelo herself.
Doña Consuelo dropped heavily onto one of the wooden chairs at the table. “It's true,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “My God.”
She felt Conchita's hand on her forearm. “I am sorry, Doña Consuelo. I did not mean disrespect to your mother, but your father offered many pesos, and I did not even have shoes. Now I have anything, with new dresses and my own home. Try to imagine yourself in my place, Doña Consuelo. What would you have done?”
No matter how hard Doña Consuelo tried, she couldn't imagine herself as a hungry peasant. “It's not your fault, I suppose. My father is to blame.”
“Forgive him, for he is a good man. He was lonely, and it is not his fault.”
“He had my mother, and she was the finest woman who ever lived!”
Conchita bowed. “Your mother was a saint, but your father had other needs, and that is why he came here. You are a married woman yourself, and surely you understand.”
Doña Consuelo felt weak in the knees, while the little boy stared at her with big brown eyes. “My half-brother,” she whispered in disbelief.
“The other little ones make fun of him,” said Conchita, “because he has no father.”
Tears welled in Doña Consuelo's eyes, as the clear light of innocence shone in the boy's eyes. “What is your name?” she asked.
“Pepito,” he replied.
Doña Consuelo wanted to scream at the top of her lungs, but couldn't hate a little boy. She removed the rosary from her neck and draped it around his. “From your sister,” she said, then kissed him lightly.
The lady of the manor arose, turned toward her father's concubine, and said, “You and my brother will never lack anything as long as I am alive. If you need me, just go to the hacienda and ask for Doña Consuelo.”
Conchita bowed her head in gratitude, as Doña Consuelo made her way toward the door. The crumbling poverty of the shack dispirited her, and she loathed her father thoroughly. A man of character would not do this, she told herself. I will not let him get away with it, so help me God.
The sun set over the rooftops of Escondido as J. T. Sturgis sat in his hotel room, counting coins. They totalled one hundred and sixty dollars, approximately what a cowboy earned in five months, more than enough to finance another trip to a different town that needed a lawman.
But Sturgis's abr
upt dismissal still rankled deeply. He could ride on, but it wouldn't provide the same satisfaction as getting back at Maggie O'Day. Serve her right if I made a citizen's arrest and tossed Duane Braddock in jail. Hell, I'd be famous, they'd make me a federal marshal for sure, and no two-bit whorehouse madam could ever fire me again.
He dropped the coins into his left front pants pocket, then glanced at a picture of General Pickett displayed on the wall, next to a miniature Confederate flag. The bitter taste of defeat fouled the ex-corporal's mouth, and he wanted to exchange it for the sugar of victory. “If I came through Gettysburg,” he muttered, “the Pecos Kid should be a piece of cake.”
Doña Consuelo knocked on the door of her father's bedroom, and a manservant opened the door. “Is he here?” she asked.
The manservant bowed. “I'll see if he's available, Doña Señora.”
“I'll look for him myself.”
She marched into her father's suite of rooms, as the manservant stared at her aghast. “But Doña Señora ...”
She ignored him and headed for her father's private office. Without knocking, she flung open the door. He sat on an easy chair, sipping a glass of brandy, his shirt collar unbuttoned and cravat hanging askew. He appeared dazed, glassy-eyed, and distressed.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, trying to rise.
“I want to talk with you.”
His features sagged, his eyes were red, and she realized that he'd been crying. “I'm not feeling well,” he said in a low voice.
“Neither am I, because I've just found out the truth.”
“What is Truth?” he asked dreamily, slurring his words. “Does anyone really know?”
“Conchita and Pepito are truth, Daddy.”
He went pale, his jaw dropped open, and he fell loose on the chair. “You know,” he said weakly.
“I've just met my half-brother, and he looks just like you. You're my father, and I will always love you, but I will never forgive you for this. Not only have you betrayed the most wonderful woman who ever lived, but you have also betrayed me, and made my life a travesty.”
