Devil's Creek Massacre (18 page)

“Just thumb back the hammer like this,” demonstrated Vanessa, “and pull the trigger. But make sure you don't shoot one of us by mistake.”

“You women—get down!” hollered Captain Crawford. “Here they come, men! Hold steady, and fire at will!”

A dozen warriors on horseback were trying to breach the defensive perimeter, singing war songs, death songs, and anything else they could remember to pump them up for the hazardous venture.

The soldiers rapid-fired, but they were thin at that
end of the defense. Comanches fell off the backs of their horses, but others kept marauding onward. Captain Crawford glanced about nervously, fearing to weaken one sector to strengthen another, when an arrow shot through his stomach. The gallant captain tried to yank it out, then collapsed onto the ground and became incoherent.

Command devolved to young Second Lieutenant Bumstead, who'd been a student at West Point only seven months ago. “Maintain your fire!” he ordered. “Hold fast!”

More Comanches parted company with their horses, but three broke through the defense and headed toward the wagon where rifles and ammunition were stored, not far from the stagecoach. One of the younger warriors spotted Vanessa's golden hair shining brightly in the sunlight, and he decided that the white-eyes beauty would be his prize. Crying victoriously, the lust of the devil in his groin, he pulled his war pony's reins to the side and kicked its ribs hard.

The animal shifted direction and bore down on Vanessa, who was tempted to run for her life, but he'd simply scoop her up and carry her to his tipi. So she held steady, closed one eye, and aimed at his bobbing torso, looming larger every moment The warrior was cruelly handsome, but Vanessa wouldn't be taken against her will. “Yaaahhhhhh!” he screamed, reaching down for her as she pulled the trigger.

The Spiller
&
Burr kicked up and to the left, her ears rang with the report, and the Comanche sagged to the side. His war pony continued driving toward Vanessa, she dodged out of the way, and the Comanche fell atop her, knocking her off her feet.

She rolled over him, pushed him away, saw the ugly hole in his chest, and shrank back. It was as if time stopped; she'd killed again, and no one would ever bring him back. Everything moved in slow motion; a wave of dizziness passed over her, she examined herself for wounds, but the blood belonged the dead Comanche; it glistened in the morning sun.

The shooting diminished as disappointed howling warriors rode off to fight another day. Vanessa rose to her feet, holding the Spiller & Burr tightly in her hand. The dead Comanche lay at her feet, and she tried not to think about him. Soldiers gathered around, led by Lieutenant Bumstead. “It's all over,” he said. “Are you all right, ladies?”

“I'm fine,” replied Vanessa in a faraway voice. She sat heavily on the ground, shook her head in abhorrence, and burst into tears.

Duane watched Johnny Pinto hobble stiffly across the clearing that separated the cabins. He looked like a pathetic dying old man, his skin sallow, pain distorting his already disagreeable features. Duane decided impulsively that the time had come for a talk. His feet were moving before he could stop them, and it didn't take long to catch up with the invalid. “Johnny, let's you and me palaver awhile.”

Johnny stopped, settled his balance, and smiled. “Yes, sir.”

Duane placed his hands on his hips and angled his head as he stared into Johnny's eyes. “Are you putting on an act, or are you really sorry for what you did?”

Johnny looked down sadly. “It's hard to believe if you've never gone through it yerself.”

“Gone through what?”

“To look at yerself from the outside, and see that you been a dirty, sneaky polecat all yer life. As it says in the Bible,
you shall know a tree by its fruit.
You've seen me at my worst, and that's why you can't imagine me at my best.”

Flabbergasted, Duane stared at him. “To tell you the truth, Johnny, I've done a few things wrong myself, and sure wish I could change. For my part, I'm sorry about what happened between us. I shouldn't've got so mad at you and done so much ... damage.”

Johnny smiled beatifically. “I deserved it, but I'll tell you what. I'll forgive you if you forgive me, all right?”

“It's a deal.”

Johnny struggled to raise his hand, but Duane took it in his own paw and shook it gently. “If there's ever something I can do for you, Johnny, you let me know, all right?”

Let me kill you, Johnny thought, but instead he smiled and said, “Sure, and if I can help you in some way, just ask. I've done enough bad things, and it's time I did some good ones.”

Duane searched Johnny's eyes as though they were philosopher's stones. “You're not shitting me, are you?”

“What do your guts tell you?”

“That you're a liar.”

Johnny Pinto smiled painfully and held out his empty hands as if to say,
How can I prove myself to you?

“I hope I'm wrong,” said Duane as he placed his hand on Johnny's shoulder. “Good luck.”

Duane turned toward the far side of the canyon, showing his wide back to Johnny, who licked his lips in
frustration. When my arm is good, we'll have another conversation, Mr. Pecos Kid. You turn around like that again—I'll plug you dead game.

Duane ambled across the yard, listening for the
click
of a gun's hammer behind him. I damned near beat Johnny Pinto to death, and he's forgiven me? Somehow I don't trust the son of a bitch.

He rambled into the wilderness, thinking about Johnny Pinto, redemption, and divine retribution. It reminded him of a book he'd read in the monastery, written by a French Jesuit priest named Jean-Pierre de Caussade. Its main premise was that Christians should abandon themselves totally to the will of God.
You are seeking for secret ways of belonging to God, but there is only one: making use of whatever he offers you.

Duane reached for his Colt .44. This is what God has offered me, for better or worse. I believe in the Bible, I studied for the priesthood, and I'm going to let God worry about everything from now on. As Jean-Pierre de Caussade wrote:
If we are truly obedient to God's will, we will ask no questions about the road along which He is taking us.
If that was good enough for him, it's good enough for me.

Duane's Apache ears picked up sound in the foliage to his front. He froze, aimed his Colt straight ahead; somebody was there, possibly an Apache or a scout from the Mexican Army. Duane gently thumbed back the hammer. “Come out with your hands up!”

Juanita emerged from the night, wearing a brown leather jacket, her hands clasped over her breast. “Oh Duane, you must never do that again! I was just walking
along, thinking about things, and you have scared me to death!”

Duane eased back the hammer and holstered his Colt. “I thought you were an Apache. What're you doing?”

“I was taking a walk, and you got to pool a gun on me?”

Duane couldn't help laughing. “I didn't know it was you. Calm down, Juanita.”

She took a step back and narrowed her eyes. “What are
you
doing here?”

“I'm taking a walk too—thinking about things. Have you talked with Johnny Pinto lately?”

“I would never get near that peeg.”

“But he seems so changed, haven't you noticed?”

“You and Ricardo are easily deceived.”

“I'm not so sure. What about Matthew the tax collector, Simon the zealot, and all the other varmints who became Jesus's first disciples and now are the leading saints of the church?”

She moved her face closer and narrowed her eyes. “How about Judas Iscariot?”

They headed toward haciendas on the far side of the valley, and he glanced at her sideways. She was strong-limbed, with a provocative luster in her almond-shaped eyes, her skin silky and fragrant with the aroma of desert flowers. He felt a mad urge to tear off her clothing and drink ambrosia from those rich Mexicali lips. But she's another man's woman, so maintain your distance, cowboy. She moved with languid grace inside her long blue dress, her head held high, the kind of woman who'd be a big help on a ranch, unlike the prissy and delicate Miss Vanessa Fontaine.

“I have heard the men talking about you,” she said. “You are one bad hombre, eh, Mr. Pecos Kid?”

“I keep getting into trouble,” admitted Duane.

“You are too pretty for your own good, I think so.”

“If people let me alone, I'd be fine.”

“People like you are not made for this world. You should have been a priest, but too bad you like girls too much.” She laughed sadly. “You should settle down; otherwise you will die with a bottle in your hand, or another hombre will shoot you.”

“I have business to take care of, but then I'm getting married. I don't know who she is yet, but I'll find her someday.”

“Have you ever been in love?”

“Yes, but she married somebody else.”

“Perhaps she misses you, and wishes you'd come back.”

“She's the most cold-blooded woman in the world.”

“If she is so cold-blooded, why cannot you forget her?”

“I don't know, but I'd never chase a woman and make a fool of myself like a sick puppy dog.”

“Not even if it could get her back?”

T
HE STAGECOACH RUMBLED INTO
Fort Clark at midafternoon, accompanied by additional reinforcements, two cannons, and one Gatling gun. Soldiers halted their duties and gazed with curiosity at the bedraggled column, battered stagecoach, wounded soldiers, and wagon stacked with dead troopers.

Children ran alongside the lopsided stagecoach filled with bullet holes and arrow scars. Four ladies sat inside shorn of cosmetics, their hair wild, clothes stained with blood, glassy-eyed and weird-looking.

One was Vanessa Fontaine, still unnerved by her recent experience with Comanches, as she rested on a bloodstained seat among the others. Unable to eat since the Indian attack ended, she'd drunk numerous cups of black army coffee and felt strangely disembodied.

Safe at last, but for how long? she wondered. Her Charleston Nightingale existence had been shattered in
a split instant when the arrow had killed Major Tyler. Then she'd blown away three noble red men who'd tried to kill her. Why won't the damned savages let us live in peace among them? she asked herself.

Now Vanessa understood war veterans and their strange moods. Sudden violent death before her eyes had stripped away illusions forever. What makes the Indians think they own every square foot of Texas? They're barely above the animal level, and the only thing they ever learned to do was build a bonfire. The sooner they're killed off, the better.

She thought of McCabe, who'd died trying to save the lives of women. He could've cowered on the floor with the rest of them, but beneath his inscrutable desires he'd proven himself courageous under fire. Vanessa knew nothing about him, not even his first name, and no one would notify his family that he'd departed.

Vanessa glanced at her women companions, and they were thin-lipped, sitting stiffly as soldiers. They'd heard of Indian depredations from their husbands, but it was another matter to live through one. Nobody was going to rape them without a fight, and they'd save the last bullet for themselves.

The column came to a stop before a large building with the guidon flags of the Fourth Cavalry fluttering in front. A trooper opened the front door of the command post, and two officers strode out. One was tall, husky, with a thick dark brown mustache and missing fingers on his right hand. The other officer was of medium height, with bright red hair and mustache.

“It's Colonel MacKenzie!” declared one of the women in the stagecoach.

Even Vanessa had heard of Colonel Randall Slidell
MacKenzie, commander of the Fourth Cavalry. “I wonder what he's doing at Fort Clark?” she asked.

“Probably on an inspection tour. The other officer is the post commander, Major Brean.”

Lieutenant Bumstead dismounted in measured military movements. He marched toward Colonel MacKenzie, saluted, and delivered his report while standing at attention. Lieutenant Bumstead had torn the seat of his pants during the battle, and Vanessa could see his underwear.

The stagecoach door was opened by a sergeant, and the newly widowed Mrs. Tyler stepped down. She was followed by Mrs. Bumstead, and then Vanessa Fontaine unraveled her long limbs. Colonel MacKenzie and Major Brean headed toward them, accompanied by staff officers, aides, and guards.

The officers attempted to console the ladies, and Mrs. Tyler couldn't suppress a sob. Her shoulders were bent and she appeared broken by her experience. Then Mrs. Bumstead introduced the newcomer to the officers. “This is Mrs. Vanessa Dawes, whose husband has recently been killed in action against the Apache.”

Vanessa offered her hand to the renowned Colonel MacKenzie, tallest man in the vicinity, with splendid bright blue eyes and a solid, powerful physique. He squeezed her fingers gently and said in a deep, soothing voice, “It must have been terrible for you.”

Vanessa saw no ring on his finger. She smiled faintly and replied, “Thank God for the Fourth Cavalry, Your men fought bravely, sir.”

He heard her South Carolina drawl and his smile faltered a split instant, then Major Brean was introduced. “Lieutenant Dawes served under me for a time
after he was first posted to Texas,” said Brean. “He was one of the finest young officers in the service, and I deeply regret his passing.”

Vanessa nodded politely. She'd heard much praise of Lieutenant Dawes's soldierly attributes, but too bad he'd been a jealous fool. Major Brean turned his attention to Mrs. Tyler, and Vanessa Fontaine let her eyes fall on the celebrated Colonel MacKenzie. He appeared bursting with energy, and possessed the rare quality known as charisma. Vanessa had read in a newspaper that he was the youngest colonel in the U.S. Army, and he'd probably become a general before long.

Her reveries were interrupted by the appearance of Major Brean before her. “Where had you intended to stay, Mrs. Dawes?”

“Is there a hotel?”

“Yes, but you might not find it to your liking. Our son is away at West Point, and you could have the guest room. Sergeant Donelson, please escort Mrs. Dawes to my quarters.”

Sergeant Donelson saluted, and he was the same noncommissioned officer whom she'd nearly shot in the initial stages of the fight. “Which luggage is yours, ma'am?”

She pointed to her things, and he in turn yelled orders to a group of enlisted men. As her belongings were gathered, she turned toward Colonel MacKenzie, who'd placed his arm around Mrs. Tyler's shoulder and was escorting her to her quarters. Vanessa wondered if he were the damned Yankee who'd killed Beauregard, but now she was in Texas, it was a new world, and Colonel MacKenzie happened to be an eminently eligible bachelor. Hmmmm, thought Vanessa, as she followed the sergeant toward her new quarters.

The outlaw gang rode across Lost Canyon, heading toward the northern pass. Their saddlebags were full of ammunition and spare clothes, packhorses carried dynamite, and Cochrane rode at the head of the formation, hat slanted low over his eyes.

They rode toward their biggest robbery thus far, and tried to be of good cheer. Cochrane rocked back and forth in his saddle as he gazed at Juanita standing alongside the trail, an uncertain smile on her face. He raised his arm and performed a snappy salute, then winked like a Southern soldier boy riding off to war.

Her eyes glimmering with tears, she rushed toward him, grasped his hand, and placed something inside. “Be careful,
querido mio.
I will pray for you. Come back to me whole.”

She took a step back and crossed herself solemnly. Cochrane swung about in his saddle, looking at her, a tear in his eye. He was tempted to jump down and run to her arms, to hell with the Cause, but his men depended on him, duty called, and soldierly habits were deeply ingrained.

He blew her a kiss like a true Virginian cavalier, then turned eyes front and continued to lead his gang toward the narrow passageway. He opened his hand, saw a lock of her hair bound with a red ribbon, raised it to his nostrils, smelled her scent. He might never see Juanita again, but refused to take counsel of his fears. He dropped the lock of hair into his shirt pocket, beside his black calfskin tobacco pouch and package of papers.

The irregulars rode single file through the narrow winding passageway, leaning to avoid outcroppings of
ledges. About midway back in the column, Johnny Pinto sat atop his dun gelding, laying plans for the murder of Duane Braddock. Johnny was healed sufficiently to draw his Remington, thumb back the hammer, and fire accurately. He licked his lips in anticipation of future revenge, as the outlaw column emerged from Lost Canyon.

Ahead stretched a plateau covered with cholla, ocotillo, and grama grass, while a vertical sandstone cliff stood like a sentinel in the distance. Cochrane rode stalwartly at the head of the column, a tall erect figure leading them north toward the Rio Grande, while Duane Braddock brought up the rear.

Duane was responsible for two packhorses, whose reins were tied to the pommel of his saddle. Increasingly dubious about the upcoming robbery, he raised his bandanna over his nose, to hold back dust rising from the hooves of horses in front of him. The last thing Duane wanted was to kill an American soldier by mistake.

The former acolyte marveled at the chain of events that had led him to the irregulars, but they'd saved his worthless life, and he owed them. I'll do whatever I can to help, Duane decided, but I'm not shooting any soldiers, and that's all I know.

Duane shook his head bitterly at the twists and turns of fate. Sometimes he thought that he'd been born beneath an unlucky star, and nothing good would ever turn out for him. I've got to look ahead and stop worrying so much, he thought, worrying. As soon as this robbery is over, I'm off to the Pecos Country, to settle the score with the man who killed my parents, and then I'm going into the cattle business, if I live that long.

A group of officers and wives, plus a few distinguished guests, sat to supper in the dining room of Major Howard Brean, commander of Fort Clark. The long table was lit by candles, and everyone dressed as if in a fashionable Eastern restaurant.

The guest of honor was the renowned Colonel Randall Slidell MacKenzie, attired in a blue uniform with gold shoulder straps and highly polished brass buttons. His neatly combed dark brown mustache covered his lips, he possessed intelligent eyes, and his hair was short, parted on the side.

He looked every inch a combat commander, and had been seated strategically across from the only single woman available, the widow Dawes. It seemed a match made in heaven; the meal progressed, everyone conversed politely between bowls of soup, platters of roast beef and carrots, not to mention a variety of alcoholic beverages, chief of which was the bottle of whiskey that the officers continually passed to each other across the heavily laden table.

“What brings you to this forlorn part of the world, Mrs. Dawes?” asked Colonel MacKenzie as he shoved a chunk of beef past the fortress of his mustache.

“I'm on my way to Escondido,” she replied.

“Really?” Colonel MacKenzie cleared his throat. “I wouldn't advise a woman traveling alone to go to that godforsaken place. Recently I've had to send a detachment there, to provide the semblance of law and order after a spate of shootings. Not only that, but it's surrounded by the worst Apaches in North America. Why are you going to Escondido?”

“Visiting friends,” she said vaguely, for a Charleston belle learns dissembling at an early age.

A voice piped up at the far end of the table. It was giddy Mrs. Sullivan, wife of the Fort Clark quartermaster, running off at the mouth again. “Mrs. Dawes is a professional singer. Perhaps she can entertain us with a song after dinner?”

Colonel MacKenzie gazed at Vanessa curiously. “What do you sing?”

“Popular songs, such as the ones soldiers sang during the war. Perhaps you sang a few yourself, Colonel.”

“I didn't have much time for singing during the war, ma'am.”

She noticed the scarred stumps of his two lost fingers, and wondered what had happened to them. Colonel MacKenzie seemed friendly and wholesome, while the other officers and ladies fawned over him. Vanessa wondered why the celebrated colonel had never married, for he had everything that a woman could desire in a man. She caught him casting certain sly glances at her anatomy and doubted that he was of the late McCabe's persuasion.

One of the officers, young Lieutenant Grindle, was getting plastered on the whiskey. “I understand that you do most of your singing in saloons, Mrs. Dawes.”

All eyes turned to the Charleston Nightingale, and she couldn't prevent the blush from tinging her cheeks. “Where else?” she asked. “There are no concert halls to speak of in Texas.”

The table was scandalized, but Colonel MacKenzie appeared amused. “Do you enjoy your work, Mrs. Dawes?”

“My audiences are appreciative of music, but if they
don't like an entertainer, they've been known to throw bottles, chairs, and even tables onto the stage.”

“What an odd career,” observed Colonel MacKenzie. “Somehow I can't imagine you in a saloon, Mrs. Dawes.”

“I didn't have a choice of occupations after The Recent Unpleasantness, sir. My home was burned to the ground by Sherman's army.”

“But,” said Mrs. Sullivan pointedly, “it was South Carolina that started the war in the first place, and South Carolina has the blood of this nation on its hands.”

“On the contrary,” Vanessa replied, her eyes flashing, “the war was started by sanctimonious individuals from the Northern states, who wanted to impose their will on Southerners. My family lost everything in the war, but I
regret nothing.
”

She said the last three words with a vigor that brought a smile to Colonel MacKenzie's usually dour countenance, while other diners appeared stricken by her words. The impulsive former belle realized that she'd lost control of herself yet again, thus committing another of her infamous social blunders. I'd better keep my mouth shut from now on, she counseled herself. Otherwise these damned Yankees are liable to hang me from the flagpole.

Dessert was served, and soldier waiters filled cups with coffee. Vanessa wanted to be alone, so she touched her napkin to her lips. “Excuse me, but I'd like to get some fresh air.”