Devil's Creek Massacre (8 page)

He stared at her in alarm. “Why in the world would an intelligent woman such as yourself want to go to Mexico? Are you aware of what Mexico is? My dear Mrs. Dawes, in case nobody told you, Mexico isn't another state like Texas or Alabama. Most of Mexico
is as wild as when the conquistadores first arrived, except for a few towns here and there. You'll need more than one bodyguard if you're going to Mexico. I'd recommend no less than two heavily armed and experienced men. But surely you're not serious, because, to be perfectly frank, who'd protect you from your bodyguards?”

“That's why I'm coming to you. I figured you'd know somebody reliable.”

“Most bodyguards are little better than criminals themselves. Why else would a man take such a job, when he could have a safe life following any of a hundred normal pursuits?”

“Then I'll have to go myself,” she replied. “It's been very nice talking with you. Good day.” She rose from the chair.

“But you haven't had your coffee yet!”

She turned toward him and hooded her eyes. “If I wanted to find the toughest, most dangerous man in town, where would I go?”

“I don't think you understand what you're asking, Mrs. Dawes. You sashay inside one of those rough saloons—they'll tear the clothes right off your back.”

“I'll ask you again. Where?”

“Please . . . Mrs. Dawes . .. you can't—”

She interrupted his ravings. “Where!”

He sighed in defeated exasperation. “You want a straight answer? Here it is. The most notorious saloon in Austin is the Shamrock Star. You know, I've just realized something that I never noticed before.” He peered into her sultry green eyes. “You're really quite mad, aren't you?”

“Quite,” Vanessa replied as she waltzed toward the door.

A woman drifted into Duane's vision as he reclined in front of Dr. Montgomery's hacienda. She wore an angle-length dark brown skirt, an orange blouse with the top three buttons undone, and had black hair that almost touched her shoulders. It was the sacred vision of his delirium, but in real life she evidently was riding with the First Virginian Irregulars.

“How are you doing?” she asked with a friendly smile.

“Much better,” he replied, “and I remember you taking care of me. You may laugh if you want to, but I thought you were the Madonna.”

She laughed as he'd anticipated, flashing white teeth. “I'm no Madonna, but I brought your rosary. You are Catholico?”

“I used to be, but I don't know about now.”

“I was Catholica,” she said as she draped the rosary around his neck, “but those priests, they drive you crazy. Some of them are very bad men, but they are so ...” She closed one eye as she searched for the proper gringo word.

“Hypocritical?” Duane offered. “But don't forget that there are lots of good priests out there.”

“Maybe, but I thought that most gringos were Protestants.”

“I was raised in a Benedictine monastery. My mother was Irish Catholic.”

“And you are a bandito, no?”

“Not me. I've just got into an argument with the law, and the law appears to be winning. Soon as things settle down, I'm going back to the ranching business.”

She looked at his silky jet-black beard and eyebrows.
“They say that you are very brave, and they want you to join the gang.”

“If I don't, will they let me leave alive?”

“I think so, if it is up to Cochrane. He is a very honorable man, although he is basically a bandito. There is only one hombre here that you have to worry about.” She looked both ways. “Johnny Pinto. Do not ever turn your back on him.”

“Thanks for the warning, and you can be sure I'll keep my eyes peeled for him. My the way, my name is Duane. What's yours?”

“Juanita.”

“What're you doing here?”

“I am Cochrane's woman.”

A hands-off sign lit up her ample bosom, and he silently swore never, under any circumstances, to make advances toward her. “How'd Cochrane get to be boss of this gang?”

“He is a hero of your Civil War. The men respect him very
mucho,
except for Johnny Pinto.”

“Sounds like this Johnny Pinto is more trouble than he's worth. Is he a soldier too?”

“He is a killer, but they always need another gun. Cochrane thinks he is still fighting the Civil War.”

“I guess there are some things a person can't forget.”

“You talk just like him, but I am only his woman and what do I know? When he gets tired of me, he will throw me away.”

She was on her feet in a sudden rustle of skirts, and the next thing Duane knew, she walked swiftly away from him. The rapidly changing moods of women never ceased to amaze him, as he admired her shapely rear axle assembly. I'm sure that Cochrane has his hands full with her, in more ways than one.

The
Austin Gazette
maintained files of back issues stored in cabinets set near reading tables in the basement of its imposing building in downtown Austin. Reporters came to the files to check facts, unless they were too busy, and occasionally citizens were permitted to study records, provided they had the right connections. Vanessa Fontaine had prevailed upon Dudley Swanson to pave the way, and now found herself seated at a long oaken table in the basement of the
Gazette,
studying the public career of Duane Braddock, alias the Pecos Kid.

Since she'd seen him last, he'd allegedly shot a federal marshal under mysterious circumstances in a Morellos church, of all places. Then he'd become sheriff of a tough border town, Escondido, where he'd killed at least a half-dozen other people. Reliable unnamed informants said he was part Apache, and a bloody legend was building concerning the Pecos Kid. When last seen, less than a month ago, he'd been headed for the Rio Grande with the Fourth Cavalry in hot pursuit.

It was common knowledge that anybody who crossed the Rio Grande was fair game for Apaches, banditos, Comancheros, and the Mexican Army, not to mention rattlesnakes, scorpions, and poisonous lizards. I'll need my own private army if I want to go there, and I'm not
that
rich.

Forget about Duane Braddock, you damned fool, she counseled herself. One of these days somebody else'll come along, and maybe he won't be wanted dead or alive.

Duane opened his eyes on the sun sinking toward rocky crags of Lost Canyon. Cooking odors wafted out of the buildings; he felt mildly hungry and reached for his cup of milk. A dead fly was in it; he spilled it onto the ground and tried to get up.

A terrible pain rent his stomach, and he was afraid that he'd opened the wound. He laboriously unbuttoned his shirt, but the bandage wasn't red. I'm holding together, he thought. He closed his eyes, relaxed on the chair, and uttered a prayer of thanks.

A man of medium height approached, dressed in tight black pants. “So you're the galoot who nearly got hisself shot by Injuns,” the newcomer said.

Duane disliked him instantly. “Are you Johnny Pinto?”

The man appeared surprised. “How'd you know?”

“Just a guess.”

“I was the newest man in the gang afore you showed up,” Johnny said proudly. “Now yer the one who'll git the shitty jobs.”

“You heard wrong,” replied Duane. “I'm not joining the gang.”

Johnny Pinto scowled. “Don't like the sound of that. How do we know you won't bring the law on us when you leave here?”

“I guess you'll have to trust me.”

“I don't trust nobody, kid. What're you think I am?” Johnny laughed, showing yellowing teeth. He looked like a desert adder poised to strike. “Who're you runnin' from?”

“How about you?”

Johnny Pinto pushed out his chicken-boned chest. “I killed about six men, fair and square.”

“I'll bet,” replied Duane, unable to restrain himself.

Johnny Pinto stiffened. “What was that?”

“I'll bet you're real fast.”

“Some say that I got the talent.” Haughty contempt came over Johnny Pinto's deeply tanned features. “You damn near got yerself kilt by Apaches. If we din't come along, you'd be in some buzzard's belly right now.”

“You saved my life,” Duane said, “but don't push it.”

Johnny giggled oddly, wrinkling his long thin nose. “I guess you know I wouldn't shoot a man who couldn't defend himself.”

“At least not when there are witnesses around, right?”

There was silence between them, then Johnny Pinto coughed up an enormous gob of brown phlegm, which he spat into Duane's cup. “When you get better, you and me should have a little talk.”

“Up to you,” replied Duane.

Johnny Pinto sauntered away, his two gun grips hanging outward, gunfighter style. Duane tried to convince himself that a former seminary student should turn his cheek like a good Christian, even though his great visitation of the Madonna had just been Juanita feeding him soup with a lantern behind her head. Duane didn't tolerate insults agreeably, hated bullies, and wasn't accustomed to backing down.

For no particular reason, and without his volition, an image of Vanessa Fontaine sprang into his mind. She was standing before him, hand on her hip, looking back over her shoulder, smiling gaily. A mild throb of animal lust rocked Duane as memories of the marvelous Miss Vanessa Fontaine flooded his mind. He'd loved to look at her gorgeous face, the stage for a full repertoire of human emotions, some so compelling
that he experienced powerful romantic feelings despite severe wounds.

I must be getting better, he realized as he yearned for Miss Vanessa Fontaine. They'd been perfect mates, or so he'd thought, but he'd never gaze upon those pert breasts again. Vanessa Fontaine and I were brought together by God, fate, or the devil himself, but she thought I was just another dumb cowboy. I may meet other women in my life, but there'll never be another Miss Vanessa Fontaine.

Around seven o'clock that evening, two matched black horses drew a black shellacked carriage down a narrow dirt street near the banks of the Colorado River. Mrs. Vanessa Dawes sat in the cab and gazed out the window at drunkards and bummers staggering along the planked sidewalk in front of hardware stores and blacksmith shops closed for the night. She wore a simple but dignified long black dress, black bonnet, and a long black cape, beneath which she held her derringer tightly in her fist. If anybody starts up with me, she swore, I'll shoot the son of a bitch.

The carriage stopped in front of a crude wooden structure with no signs in front, only dim light shining through one small window. The driver, a tall spindly man, jumped down and opened the door. “Ma'am,” he said, his eyes pleading, “are you sure you want to go in there?”

“Out of my way,” she replied.

She stepped to the ground and saw three men sitting on a bench in front of the establishment. Two were passed out cold, and the other leered crazily at her. “I shall return in approximately ten minutes,” she told the driver. “If you don't see me by then, go for help.”

“But ma'am ...”

She stiffened her resolve, pushed open the door, and stepped inside the Shamrock Star Saloon. It was thick with smoke, plus the fragrance of whiskey and other odors that she didn't want to think about. The patrons were the usual crowd of drunkards and fiends, the bar was to the left, and she headed toward it forthrightly, holding the derringer in her right hand, cocked and ready to fire.

Men glanced at her curiously, some grinned suggestively, and others elbowed their companions to draw attention to the apparition descending upon them. The Shamrock Star was the bottom of the barrel in the cleanliness department, while its assorted denizens were bearded, tattooed, with scars on their faces, teeth missing, and the occasional ear partially torn off.

Everyone made way except one lanky fellow with crooked blubbery lips and bright red cheeks. “Where you goin', missy?” he mumbled angrily.

“I'd like to speak with the bartender. Out of my way, please.”

He teetered, licked his lips, looked her up and down, and said, “What if I don't git out'n yer way?”

Vanessa had hoped it wouldn't come to this, but all she could do was whip out the derringer. “I'll kill you,” she said evenly, aiming at his nose.

The saloon went silent as everyone stared at her. But the former Miss Vanessa Fontaine was accustomed to drunken males and knew how to deal with them. She advanced slowly toward her tormentor and his grin faltered as he gazed down the two eyes that were the derringer's over and under barrels. Finally she came to a stop in front of him and said, “Mister, your life doesn't mean a damned thing to me, and no jury
would convict a lady of killing the likes of you. What's it going to be?”

Her knuckle went white around the trigger, and the crude bummer stepped out of the way, his face a few shades paler. “Sorry,” he muttered drunkenly, a dazed expression in his eyes as he dropped back into his chair. The path was clear to the bar, where the man in the apron waited, a quizzical expression on his face. He wore a long handlebar mustache and a single gold earring, not to mention an old scar on his chin. “What can I do fer ye, missy?”

“I want to hire a bodyguard of good character. If you run into such a gentleman, I'd be grateful if you'd send him to my hotel.” She handed the bartender a slip of paper with her name and address and a ten-dollar gold coin. “That's for your trouble, and there'll be another just like it if I hire somebody you send me. But I don't want any oafs, outlaws, or fools, do you understand?”

The bartender winked, then quickly pocketed the gold coin. “You've got yourself a deal, ma'am.”

Vanessa returned to the door as saloon patrons watched her progress with awe, fascination, and lust in their eyes. One of them opened the door, and she disappeared into the dark Austin night. It was silent in the saloon for several seconds after her departure, then a butcher of steers sitting at the bar with a mug of beer in his hand said, “I wonder who she was?”

“Nothin' in the world scarier than a woman with a gun,” replied the bartender.