Bad to the Bone (13 page)

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, although 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.”

“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?

D
OÑA
C
ONSUELO 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, unlike 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.