by Len Levinson
He advanced toward the pueblo, and had an eerie feeling that Olmec and Toltec gods were watching him. He examined crags and precipices for Apaches, because the silence was peculiar, like a special little hidden world.
He entered the pueblo, and found a rectangular room with a firepit in the corner, and strange objects scattered on the floor: clay urns, the stonecarved head and headdress of a warrior, and a ceramic baby with slanted eyes and fat lips. The walls were covered with drawings that looked like warriors, maidens, and high priests. Duane didn't know what to make of it. He explored several more rooms, finding additional statues and figurines. Dropping to one knee, he picked up a clay vessel in the shape of a frog.
Duane felt dazzled by the totally unexpected appearance of another world. Where did they go? he wondered. And why? He estimated that the artifacts came from ancient epochs of Mexico, and wondered if he were the first person to see the lost pueblo since the days before the Conquistadores.
He snooped about for signs of intruders, but nothing human had been there for years. He located a natural spring not far from the pueblo, and it filled a pond where Consuelo could bathe.
It's our paradise, and nobody else will ever stumble onto it, because it's so damned hard to find. Hell, we could spend the rest of our lives here, and even raise a family.
Don Carlos sat in his tent, smoking his last cigarillo. He wore a gray beard, his eyes were black coals, and his paunch was rapidly disappearing. He and his vaqueros had been wandering the desert nearly a month, as Lázaro lost and found Braddock's trail repeatedly. It was slow painstaking progress, and Don Carlos wondered if he should go home. Surely a month of intensive search was sufficient to wipe out any stain on the Rebozo family escutcheon.
But Don Carlos still missed Doña Consuelo, and couldn't give up the chase yet. She might be behind the next mesa, or in the next town, he said to himself. Perhaps she'll realize that Duane Braddock is just a boy, whereas I am the fellow for whom she's really yearning.
Don't deceive yourself, said a little voice in the corner of his ear. You may cut a fine figure of a man, but you're just an old fogy to her. Yet hope burned faintly in the nobleman's breast, despite common sense and all indications to the contrary.
The tent flap was thrown aside, and García stuck his head inside. “The half-breed is back.”
Don Carlos put on his hat and stepped into the cool January afternoon. They were camped on the usual cactus-strewn plateau with mountains in the distance, but the vistas of Mexico never failed to fascinate Don Carlos. The half-breed rode toward him, sitting erect in his saddle, and Don Carlos couldn't help admiring him, because Lázaro seemed to thrive on the desert.
Lázaro stopped his horse in front of Don Carlos, then descended from the saddle, and bowed slightly. “I have picked up their trail,” he said. “They have gone into the Sierra Madre mountains, and I have a good idea where. I think that we should move closer, but not too close. Then I will examine the area myself, while the rest of you wait nearby. Sooner or later I will see them. They cannot bide forever.”
“How long?” asked Don Carlos.
“I might find them in a day, or it might be six months.”
“Six months!” exploded Don Carlos.
Lázaro spoke no words, but his silence seemed to be saying: she's your wife—not mine.
Don Carlos could feel the eyes of the vaqueros upon him, and their fierce pride demanded vengeance. I can't give up now, he thought, especially since Lázaro has found their trail. “García—direct the men to prepare for departure first thing in the morning. Lázaro will tell you the direction of our march.”
It was Saturday night at the new enlarged Last Chance Saloon, and Maggie O'Day puffed a cigar as she walked down the corridor to Vanessa's room. She knocked on the door—no answer, so she turned the knob.
Miss Vanessa Fontaine sat on her upholstered chair, sniffling into a handkerchief. Her cosmetics were smeared, and the last show would begin in five minutes.
“Are you sick?” asked Maggie O'Day.
“Leave me alone,” replied Escondido's foremost entertainer.
“But it's time to go to work!”
Vanessa shook her head, and made a soft sobbing sound.
“What's wrong?” asked Maggie, becoming alarmed.
“I don't feel well.”
“You'll have plenty of time to sleep after the show.”
“I can't go on.”
Maggie placed the back of her hand against Vanessa's forehead, but the Charleston Nightingale didn't have a fever. “Is there pain?”
Vanessa sighed. “He'll never show up, and I'm wasting my time.”
Now Maggie understood the nature of the illness. “I ain't a-gonna argue with you, but you've got a roomful of mean sons-of-bitches out thar, and some of ‘em's come a long way to see you. If you don't sing at least one song, they'll tear this goddamned place apart, and besides, Duane said he'd stop when he comes over the border. I'm sure he'll keep his word.”
“What if he's dead, or in some Mexican jail?”
“I wouldn't bet on anybody killing the Pecos Kid, and the lawman hasn't been born who could take him into custody. Yes, maybe this'll be the night he walks through that door. You'd better get out there and see, otherwise there might not be a Last Chance Saloon come tomorrow morning.”
A few blocks away, ex-sheriff J. T. Sturgis sat in his dingy room and counted forty dollars in coins. My money is running out, and maybe it's time I gave up this wild goose chase.
Sturgis felt disgusted with himself, because he'd invested heavily in the enterprise. Why'd I shoot off my big mouth about how I was a-gonna arrest Duane Braddock? I should've kept quiet, collected my salary, and nailed his ass to the door when he showed up in town.
I'd better find a cowboy job afore I git completely played out, he figured, but workin’ cattle is the dumbest job in the world. And for all I know, Duane Braddock might show up tomorrow night. Maybe I'll give it another two weeks, and then look fer a job. I've put a lot into this already—be foolish not to see it through.
He strapped on his Remington, then tied the holster to his leg. Maybe this'll be my big night, he thought, as he looked at himself in the mirror.
The lamplight showed a corporal in the Confederate Army, wearing his gray uniform and kepi with crossed gold rifles. He smiled ruefully, as he thought about what might've been. If we'd only captured Cemetery Ridge, he mused.
He remembered the precise moment that the attack had failed. It was in the vortex of Bloody Angle, where Americans in blue, gray, and butternut fought hand to hand and man to man with bayonets, rifle butts, and anything else they could lay their hands on. It had been down and dirty, the ground had run red with blood, and heaps of bodies had been everywhere.
Sturgis's face glowed with shame as he saw himself take that first step backwards, but the 9th Virginia had been flayed by fire from three directions, while Yankee reinforcements had poured into the gap. Corporal Sturgis had run helter-skelter toward his lines, had barely eluded death on countless occasions, and, like many exhausted and demoralized survivors of Pickett's famous charge, had ended in front of General Lee's command post.
The great man in his gray beard and gray uniform had appeared dumbfounded, as he walked among the returning soldiers, trying to comfort them. Sturgis had stumbled toward him, bowed his head, and felt like crying.
And then he had heard General Lee's voice. “I'm sorry. It was my fault. Forgive me.”
J. T. Sturgis would never forget that moment. The old Grey Fox had been broken by the slaughter he'd ordered with his own mouth, but he didn't blame it on anybody else, as some officers might've done. Sturgis had collapsed shortly afterwards, and awakened in the medical tent with his leg sewn up, but at least he was alive, and privileged to have seen true nobility before his eyes for once in his failed life.
He knew that the War of Northern Aggression had ended nearly seven years ago, and since had become the bailiwick of historians. Some told the sto
ry from one point of view, and others told it from another, while every general was anxious to protect his reputation, and each enlisted man wanted to believe that he'd been engaged in a great historic enterprise. But J. T. Sturgis knew that whatever happened in history books, he'd seen brilliance in the person of General Lee. It had nothing to do with winning or losing battles, but was about being a man of honor.
General Lee had been a fighter, he didn't make excuses, and J. T. loved him for it. The ex-corporal looked at the hand that had shaken the hand of Robert E. Lee, and his fingers tingled with pride. The finest gentleman in the South didn't give up after Pickett's Charge, and neither will I, Sturgis told himself. I'm going to see this damned Braddock thing through to the bitter end.
Duane sat in front of the pueblo, looking at the swirling heavens. “I wonder if there are any cowboys out there?” he mused.
Doña Consuelo reclined next to him, in her worn suede jacket and skirt. “I wonder what happened to the people who lived here?”
“Maybe their enemies found them, and they went on the dodge. But your guess is as good as mine. At any rate, we can hide forever, if we want.”
He touched her shoulder, and she never resisted. Their lips brushed as his palms came to rest on her waist. Gradually they sank toward the ground, fumbling with each other's buttons. He touched his lips to her nipple, and had the odd feeling that they were making love on a former altar of the Toltec religion.
“I love this place,” she whispered. “I don't think I've ever been so happy.”
“Me neither,” he replied, as he removed her blouse. They rolled across the altar, biting and scratching like puppies, as ghosts of ancient gods with earrings looked down at them, and a comet shot across the Milky Way.
CHAPTER 10
LáZARO LAY ON HIS BELLY, OBSERVING the foothills of the Sierra Madre mountains. Every day he selected a new hiding spot, waited patiently, and scanned. His sharp eyes had noticed remnants of boot tracks the previous afternoon, and that very morning he'd heard a distant shot. Sooner or later he'll have to show himself, figured Lázaro.
Duane Braddock had come in this direction, but erased his trail before entering the foothills. Oh Yusn, please send him to me, prayed Lázaro. I want to be rich for a change.
He was afraid the hunt would be called off soon, because Don Carlos didn't appreciate the importance of time, or maybe he didn't really love his wife, and that's why she'd left him. In the Apache religion, a man had the right to cut off his wife's nose, if he found her with another man.
Lázaro noticed movement in the corner of his eye. Someone or something was passing through desert foliage, headed toward the foothills. It could be a mule, deer, coyote, jabalina pig, or maybe the Pecos Kid. Lázaro focused his eyes toward branches scraping back and forth across the ground.
It sounded like a man covering his tracks, and Lázaro gave thanks to Yusn, the mountain spirits, and White Painted Woman. He raised his rifle and lined up the sights. The gringo emerged in an open stretch between scraggly cottonwood trees. Branches in hand, he worked over his backtracks. Visions of wealth flooded Lázaro's mind—he could buy another wife, a few more horses, a big house, and all the mescal he ever wanted.
His finger tightened around the trigger, but then he remembered Doña Consuelo. She was the prize, not the gringo. Lázaro waited until his quarry was out of the sight, then ran forward, pressed his back to a rock wall, peered around the corner, and saw the gringo running up the side of a pass, lithe as an Apache.
Lázaro waited cautiously, to make sure the gringo wasn't coming back, then advanced swiftly and silently through the underbrush, heading toward the spot where the gringo had disappeared. Lázaro arrived in time to see the gringo crawling into a cave. The half-breed smiled happily as he crouched behind a scattering of artemisia and aloe bushes. I knew I'd find you someday, Mister Pecos Kid.
Doña Consuelo had finished her daily bath, her black hair wet and glistening in the sunlight, and was dressing as Duane approached. “I've been thinking,” he said. “Maybe it's time we were moving on.”
“To where?” she asked.
“Back to Texas.”
They returned to the pueblo, her heart sinking with every step. She knew about Duane's father and mother, how they'd been killed in a range war, and why the Pecos Kid must avenge their deaths. Paradise was coming to an end, and she hadn't yet told him of her pregnancy, for fear it might undermine their idyllic existence.
“When are we leaving?” she asked.
“A few more days. We'll cross the border near Escondido, where I've got friends.” His eyes roved her downturned features. “You don't look too happy about it.”
“I am afraid of what is going to happen.”
“Nothing will happen if we stay alert, and keep our guns ready to fire.”
Don Carlos slept on his cot, dreaming of castles and cathedrals in Old Seville. He'd had jet black hair in those days, and moved about the best drawing rooms with all the mock confidence and silly goals of youth. He'd wanted to change the world, and had thought he was destined for a greatness that continued to elude him, for he knew, deep in his heart, that compared to a man like Benito Juárez, President of Mexico, Don Carlos de Rebozo was just a big frog in a small pond.
“Don Carlos,” said a voice near his ear.
He opened his eyes. Seville disappeared, and he was an old man sleeping in a breezy tent. “Who's there?” he asked fearfully, because he thought perhaps Death had come for him.
“It is Lázaro, sir, and I have good news. I have found them.”
Don Carlos came to his senses instantly. “Are you sure?”
“I saw the gringo and the cave where he went.”
“What about my wife?”
“She is in the cave with him, I think.”
Maybe the gringo has killed her, conjectured Don Carlos. Or perhaps he's tied and bound her so that she can't leave him. The nobleman rolled out of bed, craved a cigarillo, but they were long gone. He lit the lamp, as Lázaro stood near the front flap of the tent, his features showing no emotion. Don Carlos pulled on his pants and thumbed his suspenders over his shoulders. “Get me García,” he said. “We're moving out at once.”
The first ray of dawn peeked through the window of the pueblo as Duane opened his eyes. He rolled over and reached for Doña Consuelo, but she wasn't there. Then he heard the sound of retching outside. He grabbed his gun and saw her bent over, clutching her stomach, vomiting onto the ground. He brought her a basin of water so she could wash her face.
“It is nothing,” she replied.
“You haven't been looking well, lately. Are you sure you're all right?”
She made her sad smile, and then it hit him. “My God—you're pregnant!”
She nodded.
His jaw fell open. “Is it mine?”
She became angry for a moment, then said: “Who else?”
“I thought maybe Don Carlos—”
“I lived with Don Carlos three years, but nothing happened. Then I slept with you, and now I'm pregnant. You are the father, I am certain. Besides, I have not done it for a long time with Don Carlos.”
Don Carlos and his vaqueros sent up a thick plume of dust as they rode through the Sierre Madre mountains. The nobleman sat in his saddle, exhilarated by news that the gringo had been found. He was certain he'd see his beloved wife within the next several days.
If I know my dear Doña Consuelo, I'm sure that she misses her luxuries, not to mention her maids. I wouldn't be surprised if she were longing for me, because a woman her age needs a gentleman, not a trigger-happy child.
He tried not to worry that she was dead, or sold to the Apaches by Duane Braddock. Lázaro had said they'd reach their destination that night, if they didn't stop too long for meals and rest. The men ate tortillas in the saddle, because every moment was precious. I can't wait to gaze upon her sublime features, thought Don Carlos de Rebozo. And as for the Pecos Kid, my vaqueros can use him for target practice.
Duane and Doña Consuelo sat in front of the fire as a loin of antelope spattered over the glowing coals. The sun sank behind the mountains, and a flight of desert bats darted over the pueblo. Duane wished he could smoke a cigarette, but was out of tobacco. A swig of mescal wouldn't hurt either, but they'd finished the bottle long ago.
He couldn't stop thinking about his unborn child. It might be a boy, and I can make him into a man, or maybe it'll be a little girl who I can spoil. He didn't know whether to remain with his woman and child, or go to the Pecos Country and avenge the murder of his parents.
He glanced at Doña Consuelo, who was tanned and toughened, with hardening muscles, minus baby fat. She looked partially a wild Indian, while the pride of her Spanish heritage shone forth brightly. He knew that he needed her, and that tipped the scales in her favor.
She turned the loin on the spit, and he admired the curve of her rear end. Her profile was nothing short of breathtaking, while the surge of her bosom filled him with renewed desire. Maybe I can track down Mister Archer after my children are grown up. He'll probably be dead by then, and I'll probably be too old to ride the vengeance trail, so it looks like the old son-of-a-bitch'll get away with the murder of my parents.
It was a big nasty lump in his craw that refused to go down. Duane examined the issue from every angle, but it added up the same. Doña Consuelo watched her man wilt before her eyes, and she knew what was bothering him. She touched his stubbled cheek with her calloused palm.
“Don't worry, querido mío,” she said. “I do not want you to give up your life for me, and I would not respect a man who could ignore the murder of his parents. I will go with you to Tejas, and help you find the criminal. No one will suspect a poor pregnant Mexican woman and her vaquero husband. Then, when the stain of dishonor has been wiped out, we will start a cattle business together.”
