by Len Levinson
***
Don Carlos de Rebozo sat on his terrace, smoked a cigarillo, and let his mind wander. The night desert spread before him, dark and ominous, the ancestral homeland of the Apache, now populated with Don Patricio's cattle and other holdings. Don Carlos often didn't sleep well, and spent many nights pacing, thinking, and dreaming.
Sometimes he reflected upon Seville, home of his ancestors. Don Carlos could trace his history to the Moorish invasion, and it gave him pride to know that he was descended from knights in the service of the crown. One of them, Don Diego de Rebozo, had come to America with Cortés, to gain his fortune in the strange new land. Don Diego had battled Indians, but the Spanish conquerors had been altered forever by Indian culture, and together they'd built modern Mexico.
Don Carlos had visited Seville in his teens, after crossing the Atlantic in a tall-masted Spanish galleon. He'd loved the vistas of Andalusia, and had revelled in the sheer elegance of the Spanish court, but after a few years he'd missed the iridescent hues of Mexico, its tempestuous people, and rides on the open range, accompanied by his laughing, guitar-playing vaqueros.
There was a knock on his door, and he hoped it was Doña Consuelo asking to spend the night. The doorknob turned, but it was García. “May I speak with you alone, sir?”
“By all means.”
García entered the bedroom and closed the door. “Don Carlos,” he said respectfully, “there is something that you should know. It may have no importance, and I might be wrong to bring it to your attention, but. . . the gringo was seen returning from the desert a little while ago, and ... his clothes were very dirty.”
The vaquero backed out of the room, and Don Carlos wrinkled his nose in confusion. So what if ... Suddenly it hit him. No, it can't be, he said to himself, as his lungs deflated sickeningly. She wouldn't, she couldn't, it's impossible, but they were on the desert at the same time. Had they been rolling in the dirt together?
The mere thought nearly drove him to his knees. He knew from personal experience that Doña Consuelo was a hot tamale once you got her going, while Duane Braddock was the type of lazy useless fool that women generally adored. Were they actually screwing on the desert like wild animals? A sharp pain arose in Don Carlos's chest, and he dropped into the nearest upholstered chair.
It can't be, but on the other hand, they both were wandering in the wilderness at the same time, and you wouldn't expect them to come back hand in hand. No, they'd split up, but isn't it interesting that they both looked like they'd been wrestling with somebody? His heart beat faster, and he broke into a cold sweat. Did my dearly beloved wife dishonor me and my family with that reckless young killer? Don Carlos de Rebozo imagined the armored knights of Seville gazing at him from the sky, their swords outstretched. I won't jump to conclusions, he warned himself, but if I find evidence that she in fact has committed this foul deed, I would not hesitate to kill them both.
***
Duane sat cross-legged on the floor of his bedchamber, and held the Colt .44 to his head. Pull the trigger and get it over, he said to himself. After what you've done, you don't deserve to live.
He didn't want to die, but couldn't tolerate himself. No matter how you look at it, I enticed a married woman to sin. The priests and brothers warned about the sins of the flesh, but I didn't pay sufficient attention.
He was concerned that Doña Consuelo would go berserk and confess everything to her husband. If I had any sense, he lectured himself, I'd pack my saddlebags and hit the trail pronto. I'm sure she's not going anywhere with me, after she thinks it over. Then he recalled the rapture of her naked undulating body. But if she did, I'd be the happiest man in the world.
CHAPTER 7
DOÑA CONSUELO LOCATED A CLOSET filled with pistols, rifles, holsters, and boxes of ammunition. Most of the weapons were gifts to her father, with handles wrought from silver, ivory, and gold. She didn't know one gun from another, but found a lethal-appearing length of iron that looked like Duane's, then strapped on a brown leather holster, covered everything with her shawl, and was on her way to breakfast.
She'd heard scandalous stories about women leaving their husbands for adventurers, and now it was her turn. Her family would disown her, but she could never again sleep with Don Carlos. God had sent Duane Braddock to me for a reason, and she couldn't turn her back on love.
She thought perhaps she'd gone mad, for she was running off with a strange American outlaw. She wanted to lay naked in his arms, drink mescal, and have fun for a change, before she ended in Lucifer's bean stew.
She entered the dining room, and saw him eating eggs, tortillas, bacon, and beans heartily. He glanced at her, smiled uncertainly, then returned to his breakfast with gusto. The eyes of her husband followed her as she walked toward the seat opposite him.
“How are you this morning, my dear?” he asked pleasantly.
“Quite well,” she replied.
“I didn't sleep last night, and neither did our guest. But a woman can sleep through anything.”
“Not always.”
What did she mean by that? Don Carlos asked himself. He glanced at Braddock, who methodically devoured everything in sight. I remember when I had a healthy appetite, Don Carlos mused. A terrible desolation came over Don Carlos, and he slouched at the table.
Doña Consuelo glanced at her husband as she elegantly downed her breakfast. In the morning light, the lines and ravages of his tanned visage were cruelly indicative of his age. I fell in love with a fairy tale, she realized. He's older than my father, and treats me like an idiot child.
She noticed Duane finishing his last swallow of coffee. He wiped his mouth with his napkin, smiled broadly, and said: “Think I'll take a walk.”
He strolled from the room, and his spurs jangled down the hall.
“When did he say he was leaving?” asked Don Carlos.
“He didn't mention anything that I recall,” replied Doña Consuelo.
Don Carlos knew that he was being a jealous fool, but couldn't stop himself. “What do you think of him?”
“I hardly know him.”
“Would you consider him attractive?”
“What an odd question.”
Don Carlos realized that it truly was an odd question, and regretted asking it. “Just curious,” he said, with a choked little laugh. “You seem different since you've returned from the desert last night. Has anything happened?”
“I've forgiven my father for lying.”
“I'm glad to hear it, and it might be best if we left as soon as possible. How about tomorrow morning?”
“So soon?”
“Is there something keeping you here?”
“Such as?”
He smiled. “Concern for your father, of course.”
“You're right—he'll be better off alone. If you want to leave tomorrow morning, I'll notify the servants.”
In the library, Duane found volumes of history, novels, works of poetry, philosophy, science, and theology. It didn't take long to locate The Imitation of Christ, by Thomas à Kempis. It was a book that he'd studied at the monastery, and he carried it to the table, opened it at random like a roulette wheel, and saw:
Firstly, be peaceful yourself, and thus you will bring peace to your fellows. A man of peace does more good than a very learned man.
It's true, he preached to himself. I should dwell in that quiet gentle part of my heart, but unfortunately I can't find it any more. He glanced toward the next page:
. . . to be able to live at peace among hard, obstinate, and undisciplined people, plus those who oppose us, is a great grace and a most commendable and manly achievement.
Anyone can be a lowdown son-of-a-bitch, considered Duane, but it takes a real man to stay relaxed when most folks are angry, vengeful, and spiteful. If I had any sense, I'd start building my own ranch, so I wouldn't have to tolerate other people's bad manners. Then I'll marry the right woman, and live like a decent Christian for a change. He flipped a few more pages and saw:
/> Whoever clings to any creature will fall with its falling; but he who holds to Jesus shall stand firm forever.
Maybe so, pondered Duane, but I can't live without pretty women. He recalled his all-too-brief interlude with Doña Consuelo, and his ears became warm. I hope she shows up, because I'd love to get my hands on her again.
Not every desire comes of the Holy Ghost, though it may seem right and good; for it is often difficult to judge whether a desire springs from good or evil inclinations, or whether it arises from your own selfishness. Many are deceived in the end, who at first seemed to be led by the Holy Ghost.
The door to the library opened, and Doña Consuelo materialized, dressed in black like the Madonna of death. “Oh, hello Duane,” she said, as if they hadn't plotted the rendezvous.
“Howdy,” he replied nonchalantly. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“I felt like reading something, to take my mind off things.” She selected a tome, joined him at the table, and opened it. “What are you reading?” she asked.
“The Imitation of Christ. How about you?”
“Don Quixote.”
“I studied it at the monastery,” explained Duane. “My favorite character was Sancho Panza.” He looked both ways, then lowered his voice. “Have you changed your mind?”
“About what?” she whispered.
“Coming with me.”
“Why would I change my mind?”
“You're giving up an awful lot.”
“When you ask certain questions, I think you don't feel as I do.”
“I can't believe you'll really run off with me.”
“That is because you don't see yourself as I do.” She reached beneath her black shawl, yanked the gun out of its holster, and lay it on the table. It was a Colt .44, just like his, but with gold inlaid custom grips and apparently never fired.
“Maybe you'd better put it away before somebody sees it,” said Duane. “Do you think you can make it to the barn around midnight without being seen?”
“No, because they watch me closely. However, there is one place where they will never follow—the house of my father's woman, Conchita. I will visit her and my baby brother late this afternoon, just before nightfall. You will be waiting behind her home with a horse for yourself and another for me. We will leave then, and no one will miss us for a long time, I hope.”
He analyzed her plan, studied its frail edges, and tried to poke a hole through the center. “Where will I get the second horse?”
“You'll buy it from Don Carlos, and he might even give it to you. You'll need a packhorse, won't you?”
“I don't have that many things to pack.”
“Lie,” she said, as the Devil giggled victoriously in a corner of the library.
“I hope your husband doesn't suspect anything,” uttered Duane.
“I think he does, actually. We must be careful, and we shouldn't be seen together again until tonight.”
They pursed lips and kissed long-distance. Then she arose, returned the book to its spot on the shelf, and walked in measured steps to the door. He undressed her with his eyes, and recalled grappling with her on the desert. I can't believe, when it comes right down to it, that she'll be at Conchita's tonight, he told himself. Cowboys like me aren't that lucky.
Doña Consuelo walked the corridors of the hacienda, passing sofas, chairs, and tables holding bowls of ripe fruit. She felt relieved and at peace with her decision, although she feared deadly consequences. But what is life without love? she wondered. And what does it profit a woman if she gains a fortune but loses her soul?
My marriage was inspired by convenience, while I, little Doña Consuelo, got lost in the shuffle. She relived the wrestling match with Duane Braddock's firm strong body, the scent of desert in his hair, and his all-engulfing passion that had transported her to the pinnacle of ecstasy. I can't live without him, and I don't know what'll happen to me, but maybe we'll get married one day, after we make the proper contribution to the right bishop.
Don Patricio sat in his office, the top button of his shirt unfastened, his cravat untied and hanging loose. A bottle of Spanish brandy sat on the table, next to a goblet made from cut glass. The landowner hadn't shaved since the funeral, and a foul reek emanated from his body, as he looked at Don Carlos through bloodshot eyes. “I apologize for not being more hospitable ...” began Don Patricio.
“I understand, of course,” replied Don Carlos, standing before him. “I've come to tell you that Doña Consuelo and I shall leave first thing in the morning.”
“Go with God, my friend. I hope that our next meeting will be under happier circumstances.”
Don Carlos retreated from the office, anxious to be alone with his thoughts. Jealousy nagged him mercilessly, and he wondered what to believe. Is Doña Consuelo having a love affair with Duane Braddock behind my back?
Suddenly the Pecos Kid appeared around the corner of the corridor, a big friendly smile on his face. “Just the person I'm looking for,” he said.
Don Carlos smiled back falsely. “What can I do for you?”
Duane hitched his thumbs in his belt and peered into Don Carlos's eyes. “I've decided to hit the trail first thing in the morning, and I'd like to buy a horse.”
“What's wrong with the one you have?”
“I need another for a packhorse.”
Don Carlos raised his hands generously. “You may have whichever horse you like. Nothing is too good for the man who saved my wife's life.”
They shook hands. “If I don't see you before I leave,” said Duane, “thanks for the hospitality.”
Duane receded down the corridor, and Don Carlos envied his youth, vitality, and undeniable good looks. The old nobleman felt a twinge of jealousy, although Duane Braddock was a callow young man, in his estimation. Is he putting the horns on me? wondered the caudillo.
Don Carlos de Rebozo knew there was no honor among men where women were concerned, and even blood brothers sometimes stole each other's wives. Duane Braddock just looked me straight in the eye, but if I were sleeping with his wife, I'd do the same thing.
Don Carlos knew the wickedness that dwells in the hearts of men, because he'd seduced other men's wives as a devil-may-care student in Seville. Once his limbs had been as sound as Duane Braddock's, and he'd climbed balconies to be with his ladies, who themselves were deceiving husbands or fathers.
Don Carlos knew that proper religious ladies like Doña Consuelo could be the most outrageous once they broke with Holy Mother Church. He removed a lace handkerchief from his pocket and mopped the slick of sweat on his brow, overwhelmed by disgraceful and unworthy considerations. The vaqueros are probably laughing behind my back, he feared. He turned the corner, and nearly bumped into García. “I have something to tell you, sir,” the captain of vaque-ros said solemnly.
Now what? Don Carlos asked himself. “Out with it, and don't spare my feelings.”
“A dead Apache has been found in the desert. Evidently he came to raid last night, but someone killed him with a knife.”
“Perhaps the Apaches were fighting among themselves.”
“There were boot tracks just like the gringo's.”
Irony tinged García's answer, and it wasn't lost on the nobleman. It would explain why Braddock was dirty and ragged when he returned from the desert, but on the other hand, it proved that he was there at the same time as Doña Consuelo. Perhaps they'd met before or after Braddock killed the Apache?
Don Carlos was getting a headache from so much speculation. “I'll be in my room, if you learn additional information.”
García bowed, as Don Carlos proceeded to his chambers. He removed a bottle of brandy from a cabinet, poured a stiff drink, and gulped it down. Events were moving too quickly, and he didn't know what to believe.
He sat on the balcony chair, and was just getting comfortable when the door opened. It was Doña Consuelo, an angry expression on her face. With great effort, the great man arose to greet his possibly errant wife.
/> “What are you doing to me?” she began indignantly. “Why am I being followed everywhere by your vaque-ros? Do they think I'm going to run into the desert?”
“I have no idea . . .” he lied, backed against the wall.
“Tell them to stay away from me. Understand?”
“I will give the orders right now. García!”
“He is coming,” replied a voice on the other side of the balcony.
Doña Consuelo's eyes were narrowed with barely concealed rage. “If I see one more of those hounds behind me, I'll fire him.”
“But Doña Consuelo ...”
She didn't reply, and Don Carlos speculated that her magical transformation was taking a turn for the worse. They heard running footsteps, then García turned the corner. “You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Yes,” replied Don Carlos, “I—”
Doña Consuelo interrupted him. “I'll give the orders, if you don't mind, my dear husband.” She turned slowly toward García, who shriveled beneath her merciless glare.
“García, hereafter you and your men will stop following me, and if I catch them up to their old tricks, they and their families, and you and your family, will no longer be employed by us. Do I make myself clear?”
García bowed in terror. “Yes, Doña Consuelo.”
The vaquero backed around the corner, as Don Carlos studied his wife with new interest. Never could he imagine such words coming out of Doña Consuelo's mouth. She reminded him of titled ladies whom he'd met in Seville, who'd managed immense households as El Cid had commanded his army in the battle for Valencia. “You've frightened poor García,” he said with a forced chuckle.
“Excellent,” she replied, “because that was my intention. I'm going to town later in the day, and may not be back for dinner.”
