by Len Levinson
Huera sat with Delgado's other wives, weaving wicker jugs out of twined sumac strands. The Apache wife appeared calm as her fingers darted back and forth, but tornadoes agitated her heart. Although she pretended indifference to Phyllis, she was actually extremely jealous of the younger woman. Huera could see that Delgado was infatuated with her pale sickly skin, while Phyllis appeared fascinated with her husband. Huera had seen them gaze at each other across the campfire, but each was afraid to make the first move. Huera knew that one day curiosity would become strong and circumstances congenial. Delgado belongs to me and his other wives. We're not sharing him with the White Eyes bitch.
Huera had resigned herself to losing the battle ultimately, but a new element had just been introduced. The Apache wife gazed across the camp at the White Eyes with the star on his vest. Hmmmm.
Marshal Stowe and the chief smoked the peace pipe together as other warriors drew closer. The lawman offered them tobacco, and soon a large number were blowing smoke at each other. Stowe tried to behave politely but didn't trust Apaches. His right hand never roved far from his Remington, and he was poised to draw and fire. He knew that Apaches preferred sneak attacks to full frontal battle.
Women scuttled among them, throwing chopped roots and chunks of meat into a big cast-iron pot suspended over the fire. On the other side of the circle, Delgado accepted the pipe, filled his mouth with pungent smoke, and scrutinized the lawman. If he makes one hostile motion, Marshal Stowe thought, I'll drill him.
If it weren't for that two-thousand-dollar bribe, I wouldn't even be here, he reflected wryly. He remembered when Big Al Thornton had stuffed the first payment into his shirt pocket. I should've given it back because now he thinks I'm just another crooked lawman, and maybe I am.
He wondered what had happened to Phyllis Thornton and Duane Braddock. Maybe the Apaches killed them, or they're in Morellos, looking for a job. Perhaps I've missed them, but if I get out of this hellhole alive, I'll track them down yet.
The sun sank toward the mountains in the distance as more warriors joined the group, while others departed to their wickiups. Marshal Stowe felt the need to relieve himself but had no idea where to go. “Where's the latrine?” he asked Delgado.
Delgado pointed behind him with his thumb. Marshal Stowe rose, hitched up his gun belt, and headed in the direction indicated. Something told him that a few warriors might slit his throat in the darkness, so he held his right hand near the walnut grip of his Remington. Darkness descended on the mountaintop as his eyes scanned for scorpions, rattlesnakes, and gopher holes. The camp was surrounded by higher mountains, rendering it invisible to the outside world. He hoped it didn't become his burial ground.
He found the latrine, a big smelly hole. On his way back to the camp, he paused to roll a cigarette. A twig crackled behind him and he dropped the match, drew his Remington, and spun around. It was an Apache woman standing behind a chokecherry bush. “I want to speak with you,” she said softly.
He looked both ways, certain the ambush had come. Aiming his gun at her, he drew closer. “What's on your mind?”
“I will tell you where the White Eyes are, if you give me some tobacco.”
Duane and Phyllis lay naked in each other's arms, as the fragrance of cooking drifted into their wickiup. “I've changed my mind,” she said. “I think I'll go to Mexico with you because I can't give you up so easily.”
“We don't have any money,” he reminded her. “You'll be miserable, and you'll make me miserable. It's better for you to go home and let me know when the charges are dropped. As soon as I receive your letter, I'll be on my way to the Bar T. We'll have a big wedding and invite everybody in Texas. During the war, some husbands and wives didn't see each other for five years. If we can't tolerate a few months apart, we shouldn't be together at all.”
Footsteps approached, and Duane heard the clank of spurs. He reached for his Colt as he heard the voice of Marshal Stowe above them. “I know you're in there, Braddock! Come out with your hands up, or I'll start shooting!”
Duane and Phyllis stared at each other as their worst fear came true. “A woman's in here,” he replied.
“You'd better come out, too, Miss Phyllis. I was talking with your father a few weeks ago, and he's damn worried about you.”
Duane wondered whether to open fire in the direction of the voice, but he might hit one of the People by mistake. Meanwhile Phyllis hastily donned her buckskin clothes as she tried to figure out who had betrayed them. “I'll take care of this,” she said.
She crawled out the door, and the marshal sat cross-legged in front of her, six-gun in hand. A crowd of Apaches had formed in the distance, watching curiously. “Are you Phyllis Thornton?”
“Am I wanted for anything?”
“Not as far as I know, but he is.” The lawman pointed his Remington at the wickiup. “Come on out, Braddock.”
Phyllis tugged on the lawman's sleeve. “Why don't you let him go? He hasn't done anything wrong.”
“Got to arrest him, ma'am. Sorry.” Marshal Dan Stowe returned his attention to the wickiup. “I'll bring you in dead or alive, Braddock. It doesn't make a damn to me either way.”
“Don't shoot,” Duane replied. “I'm coming out.”
“Throw your gun in front of you.”
A Colt flew out of the wickiup, followed by Duane's Bowie knife. A deeply tanned hand appeared, followed by a red bandanna. The lawman's eyes widened at the sight of a bronzed Apache kneeling in front of him.
“Are you Braddock?”
“I don't suppose it concerns you that I'm innocent.”
Marshal Stowe held his gun steady. “Not in the least.”
He didn't see anything coming. One moment he was aiming his Remington at Duane's nose and the next moment he was thrown to the ground, one of Duane's hands clamped around his throat and the blade of Duane's knife probed his jugular vein.
“Don't move,” Duane said, “or I'll kill you.”
Marshal Stowe struggled to breathe. “You kill me, you'll have every federal marshal west of the Missouri after your ass.”
“If I kill you,” Duane replied, “your body will never be found. For all the law knows, a rattlesnake got you. Phyllis, take his weapons and boots.”
“Not my boots!” the marshal protested.
Phyllis collected a derringer, a large knife, and a smaller one hidden in his fine San Antone boots. The Apaches laughed as she removed them from his feet.
“Let's talk sense, Braddock,” the lawman pleaded. “From what folks say, you're an innocent man. The judge'll turn you loose eventually, but if you kill me, you'll hang.”
“I'm not going to kill you, although it's what you deserve.” Duane removed his knife from the lawman's throat and rose to his feet. Marshal Stowe pushed himself up, brushed off his pants, and said, “What now?”
“Take Miss Phyllis back to her father and mother first thing in the morning, but I'm going in another direction because I don't trust your judges.”
Marshal Stowe couldn't believe his good fortune. I'm going to London! He saw himself strolling along Bond Street, dressed in a frock coat, twirling an ebony cane. “I can't bring you in against your will,” Marshal Stowe conceded. “I just tried it, and you could've killed me.”
“Try it again, and next time I will.”
After dinner, Marshal Stowe sat at a big fire with the other Apaches. He'd given the chief the keg of mescal, and it was making steady rounds as women and children watched fearfully from the distance. When the barrel came back to the lawman, he took a few more gulps. He had no weapons, was barefoot, but good luck had invigorated him. I'm on my way to Piccadilly Circus, if I can just get out of this place alive.
His eyes searched among the warriors, but he couldn't find Duane among them. The marshal didn't know what to make of the young outlaw's superhuman speed and strength. He's probably alone with the girl, and they're saying good-bye.
The lawman touched the warrant in his shirt pocket. He'd sworn to uphol
d the law, and there could be no shilly-shallying. As long as this warrant is in effect, I've got to do my duty. He'd expected to find a stoved-up cowboy on the dodge, but Duane Braddock had become an Apache! And sweet Miss Phyllis Thornton must be one hot little pistol, the lawman mused.
He noticed the Apaches becoming uncoordinated, and an argument broke out on the other side of the fire. He questioned the sense of bringing mescal to an Apache hideout, but it had seemed a good idea at the time. No telling what might happen if they went loco. He'd heard stories of Indians committing massacres and orgies while under the influence of demon liquor.
Something struck his back. They were his boots, and the Pecos Kid stood a few yards behind him.
“I want to talk with you,” Duane said.
Marshal Stowe pulled boots over socks filled with holes. “What's on your mind?”
“Come with me.”
Duane headed toward the edge of the encampment as the jittery marshal followed at his heels. “What about my gun?”
“You'll get it back when you leave.”
“If those Apaches keep drinking, maybe they won't let me leave.”
“Have a seat.”
They dropped to cross-legged positions opposite each other as insects sang in thickets around them. Duane peered into the marshal's eyes. “Somebody told you that Phyllis and I were here. Who was he?”
“I'm not telling you, and I don't care if you pull out my fingernails. I'm not one of those lawmen who takes the easy way out. Now see here, Braddock, we don't know each other, but let me give you some advice. If you run away now, it'll be considered an admission of guilt. But if you come back to Shelby with me, it'll be looked upon favorably by the judge. I promise to testify on your behalf, and I'm sure the judge'll let you go.”
“I don't trust you, I'm an innocent man, and nobody's locking me up.”
“All the witnesses said you were innocent, but Lieutenant Dawes doesn't like you and wouldn't withdraw his charge when I suggested that he should.”
Duane spat into the dirt. “All you damned government officials are alike. The fancy-pants lieutenant wouldn't withdraw his humbug charge, and you won't look the other way.”
“Wouldn't be much of a lawman if I broke the law myself.”
Marshal Stowe opened his cigar case, and one cheroot lay inside. He'd been saving it for a special occasion, but he held out the case to Duane. Duane removed the cheroot, scraped a match to life, and puffed fine Virginia burly.
“I spoke with Big Al Thornton,” the lawman began, “and he's hired a lawyer to work on your case. If they challenge the warrant, it'll probably be quashed. The most respected folks in Shelby say you're innocent, and the lieutenant's wife was one of your strongest supporters. She begged me not to shoot you, by the way. It's none of my business, but I'd say that she's still in love with you.”
Duane's eyes narrowed with anger at the mere reference to the former Miss Vanessa Fontaine, while Marshal Stowe took a few moments to study the man who'd inspired such love and hate. “I'll be honest with you, Kid. Until this warrant is voided, I'll keep coming after you. You got the drop on me today, but maybe next time I'll get the drop on you. I know where you're headed, and I'll find you sooner or later. Why don't you surrender and make it easy on the both of us?”
“I've got my reasons, and my mind is made up. By the way, you ever hear of an outlaw named Joe Braddock?”
The marshal smiled triumphantly. “I was waiting for you to ask that. You're damned right I heard of him. After I was issued your warrant back in San Antone, I thought the name was familiar. I looked it up in our files and found some old wanted posters for an outlaw named Joe Braddock. He got hung in this territory back in ‘54, and they say he was boss of the Polka Dot Gang.”
This was the first official information that Duane had ever received about his father's past, but he recovered his composure quickly. “What's the Polka Dot Gang?”
“They stole a little here, rustled a little there, shot a few people, burned down a few places—you know what I'm saying, Kid. Outlaws.”
“Somebody told me once that my father was killed in a range war.”
“The Polka Dots claimed they were Mexican War veterans running a ranch, but they hit up against a big combine from the east.”
“What if the combine bought the sheriff?”
“What if the Polka Dots were stone-cold killers? You ever heard of Quantrill's Raiders? They claimed to be Confederate soldiers but were the worst band of outlaws this country has ever seen. They used to burn down entire towns.”
“Some say I'm an outlaw, too, but I never killed except in self-defense. Then I ran into a lying son-of-a-bitch newspaper reporter, and he named me the Pecos Kid. Next thing I knew, a fancy-pants cavalry officer arrested me for a crime I didn't commit, and now I'm an owlhoot.”
“Come back to Shelby with me and stand trial like a man. If that lieutenant isn't careful, he's liable to end up washing pots and pans at some lonely outpost in northern Montana.”
Duane shook his head defiantly. “They'll believe the lieutenant before they believe me, and maybe the judge is a friend of his. They hung my father, but by Christ, they're not going to hang me. After Big Al Thornton's lawyer gets me off the hook, then I'll come back. Miss Phyllis and I'll get married, and we'll send you an invitation.”
“There's something you don't understand, my friend. Once I drop off Miss Phyllis, I'm coining after you. It's nothing personal, but I've got this warrant in my pocket—and it's my job.”
“Why can't you wait for the lawyer to clear me? What's your hurry?”
“Somebody has to stand up for the law, otherwise the whole world'll go to hell. I'm a lawman, not a priest, and I've got a warrant for your arrest. I'm bringing you in—it's as simple as that.”
Duane looked him in the eye. “Let me give you some advice, Marshal. If you crowd me, I'll have to kill you. I'm not saying that as a threat, but it'll happen.”
The lawman winked. “Not if I kill you first.”
Phyllis sat in front of her wickiup, becoming more furious with every passing minute. An Apache had betrayed them, and she thought she knew who it was: Huera. Delgado's wife was jealous of her because of her flirtation with Delgado. Huera was the only Apache with a motive for betrayal, and Phyllis had suffered no disagreements with anyone else.
I should ride away and forget these people, Phyllis counseled herself. Nothing good can come from a fight between Huera and me. But I can't run away with my tail between my legs.
She gazed at Huera gathered with Delgado's other wives around the fire, while Delgado sat with the warriors before the chief's wickiup. Huera thinks she's defeated me, but she's wrong, Phyllis thought as she dusted off her voluminous buckskin skirt and prepared for the encounter. She knew that she should stay where she was, keep her mouth shut, and be a good girl, but she was the daughter of one of the toughest men in southwest Texas.
Delgado's wives were dining on roast turkey, their lips and fingers greasy, as Phyllis approached. Huera heard Phyllis coming and turned, a drumstick in her hand. Phyllis grabbed Huera's hair, punched her in the mouth, and Huera went sprawling backward toward the fire. She singed her backside, let out a screech, reached for her knife, and leapt to her feet. “White Eyes girl, I am going to kill you.”
The quarrel had taken a twist that Phyllis hadn't foreseen, and she knew from dressing animals that it didn't take much to spill guts. Before Phyllis could draw her Colt, Huera darted forward, slashing at Phyllis's pretty face. Phyllis's first impulse was to run for her life, but she gritted her teeth, grabbed Huera's wrist in midair, twisted, and pushed Huera off balance. Huera fell to the ground, Phyllis landed on top of her and sank her fingernails into Huera's right wrist, but Huera's left fist was free and she rammed it into Phyllis's mouth.
Phyllis had never taken a punch before and tasted blood on her lip. When her vision cleared, Huera stood in front of her, waving her knife from side to side. “I have always hated you, and n
ow I am going to cut your head off.”
Huera charged, raising her arm for the knife blow that would disfigure the White Eyes girl. All Phyllis could do was try to grab Huera's wrist again, and if she missed, it would be steel in her guts. Then, suddenly, a darkness came upon Huera as her hand was stopped in midair. Delgado held her firmly in his grasp and pried the knife from her hand. “What is the matter with you, woman?”
“Leave me alone!”
Phyllis declared, “She told the lawman that Duane and I were here.”
Delgado looked at Marshal Stowe standing at the edge of the crowd. “That is so, tin badge?”
“No,” Marshal Stowe lied.
Delgado grabbed his wife's blouse. He was half-drunk, his eyes bloodshot, tongue thick. “Tell me the truth, woman! Did you talk to the lawman?”
Huera couldn't look her husband in the eyes and neither could she respond. Delgado swore beneath his breath. “Go to your wickiup.”
Huera walked away, holding her head high. She'd been publicly humiliated and tried to hide it with Apache bravado. Then Delgado turned toward Phyllis and placed his fists on his hips. “You will leave here in the morning.”
“I'd leave right now if I could,” she replied. “I know that you hate me because I'm a White Eyes.” She was about to return to her wickiup when she bumped into Duane.
He saw the trickle of blood at the corner of her mouth. “What happened to you?”
She pushed him away and headed for the shelter. Delgado staggered toward Duane and placed his arm around Duane's shoulders. “The women were fighting like bitches in heat, but it is over now. Come, let us drink firewater together.”
Duane joined the warriors at the fire, and the keg was thrust into his hands. He raised the spigot to his lips, and the mescal tasted dusky and devilish as it rolled over his tongue. It was smoother than the usual white lightning and sweeter than tizwin. Duane gazed into writhing flames and saw mountain spirits dancing merrily. A length of wood popped while orange sparks shot into the sky.
