IT WAS MORNING AS DUANE LED HIS HORSES toward the chief's wickiup. He wasn't anxious to leave the People, but the time had come for another dodge. The tribe had congregated for farewell ceremonies, the fire burned in front of the wickiup, and the great man was flanked by Delgado, Gootch, and a few other senior warriors. Phyllis stood to the side, while Marshal Dan Stowe hovered in the background, hand near his Remington.
Duane came to a halt in front of the chief and bowed his head. “I must go,” he said, “but I will never forget my time with the People.”
“The Lion never stays in one place long, but you will always be my son, and our blood is your blood.”
Duane felt the old man's strong, gnarled hands clasping his. He didn't know what to add, so he stepped to the side and landed in front of Delgado.
“Good-bye, my brother,” Duane said. “I am sure we will meet again someday.”
“We will hunt antelope together,” Delgado replied, “and drink tizwin.”
Duane was giving up the precious lifeway, but it was the price he had to pay for his ladylove. His eyes roved the tawny desert beauty whom he'd held in his arms only hours before. “I don't know how I'll get along without you,” he said as he embraced her one last time.
“It'll be the happiest day of my life when you ride up to my front door, Duane.”
They touched lips lightly, and Duane had the premonition that he'd never see his child bride again. They separated, tears rolled down her cheeks; they'd spent the most intense moments of their young lives together, but the time had come to say adios. Duane felt melancholy, but a warrior can't let anything show. He looked at Marshal Dan Stowe and said, “You'd better take care of her.”
“It's not too late to change your mind,” Marshal Stowe replied. “Come back with me and I'll guarantee your safety.”
“You can't even guarantee your own safety, lawman.”
“You can hide wherever you want, but I’ll find you. We’ll have a showdown someday—mark my words.”
“Up to you,” Duane replied.
There was nothing more to say, and no reason to linger. Duane summoned his will, climbed onto his horse’s back, wheeled the animal toward Mexico, and found Cucharo standing in front of him. The old di-yin raised his hands and Duane bent to clasp them. “I’ll never forget you, Cucharo. You’ve taught me the most important lessons of my life.”
“May the mountain spirits smile upon the Lion. I have placed some food in your saddlebags, for Mexico is a long way.”
Duane took one last look at the camp and knew that it would disappear soon. The People would never return now that the White Eyes knew its location. He turned to Phyllis, and his eyes became misty. He knew that if he hesitated, he’d never be able to leave her and the judge would hang him high.
He prodded his horse, and the animal clomped away from the camp. Duane’s next task was to wait for Phyllis’s letter in Morellos, but he dreaded returning to the land of the White Eyes. His body would become soft, he’d waste time in saloons, and what if her letter never came? He remembered the look in her eyes when they’d kissed for the last time. Good-bye forever, my love.
The prospect of sleeping without her made him gloomy as he rode along. Ahead lay labyrinthine canyons, but Duane knew the terrain like the palm of his hand. He had no doubts about his ability to survive in the desert but didn’t know how he’d get along without Phyllis. The camp was barely out of sight, but he felt homesick for his wife-to-be and his little wickiup.
Unfortunately, the law was on his trail. He needed to put as much distance between him and Marshal Stowe as possible because the lawman obviously was a fanatic. And Duane had to admit that there were some practices of the People that he couldn’t abide. If Phyllis ever had twins, he could never kill one of them, and he didn’t believe that a warrior had the right to cut off his wife’s nose.
He rode steadily throughout the morning and came to a stream at midday. He let his horse drink as he watched the desert cautiously, rifle in his hands. Then he drank from his canteen, refilled it in the stream, and continued to watch for unusual movement. An Apache never lingers near water, the most dangerous gathering spot of all.
He nudged his horse’s withers as the animal crossed the stream. Cold water kissed Duane’s moccasins, and he realized that he had to find some regular clothes. If the White Eyes see me like this, they’ll try to kill me. But where can I get some clothes? I have no money and nothing to trade.
He stopped for a meal in the shade of a cottonwood tree, then searched through the saddlebags for dried mescal, nuts, and roots that he’d packed. A small deerskin pouch lay on top—the gift Cucharo had mentioned. Duane lifted it and was surprised by how much it weighed. He upended the pouch, and the pupils of his eyes expanded as three solid gold nuggets spilled onto his palm.
Must be worth a lot of money, he figured, astonished by the sight of so much wealth. Gold was sacred to the Apaches, yet Cucharo had given it to him. They’re not as savage as we think, Duane realized. Babies die in big cities, too, from starvation, rat bites, and diseased milk. We kill them on a wider scale, but nobody gets blood on his hands. I guess evil depends on what side of the peace pipe you’re sitting on.
Marshal Stowe and Phyllis rode blindfolded among Delgado and three other Apache warriors, but knew they were headed in a northerly direction through thorns that clawed their legs. The air was thick with the aroma of flowers, and the morning sun warmed their clothes.
Phyllis thought of the Bar T and was anxious to see her mother and father again. Soon her life would be normal, and she wouldn’t have to rub animal skins, but she was worried about Duane. She imagined him in his Apache getup, traveling alone across the vastness of the desert. How could I let him go? she wondered.
“Are you all right?” asked Marshal Stowe affably.
“I’ve been thinking about Duane,” she admitted.
“Too bad he doesn’t trust the law, but he believes his father was hung unjustly, though he doesn’t know a damn thing about it. Duane Braddock’ll never settle down until he shoots the man or men who hung his father.”
“You’re wrong. Duane said he’d come back to me, and we’ll get married before long. He’s a man of his word, and I believe him.”
“It’s always good to be a little suspicious, missy. Ever heard of Vanessa Dawes? I’m sure he made promises to her, too. It’s interesting—the former Miss Fontaine threw her reputation out the window when she ran off with him, and you risked jail to spring him from that army camp. I can’t help wondering about Braddock, because no woman ever went three steps out of the way for me. He doesn’t seem so great, but I don’t have the eyes of a woman. What is it that makes you love him?”
Phyllis shrugged. “I’m sure there are women who wouldn’t look twice at Duane Braddock.”
“Haven’t met one yet,” replied Marshal Stowe.
Duane lay on his belly as he peered through pronghorn cactus leaves at two miners panning for gold in a creek. Their small stained canvas tent sat nearby, while half of a butchered mule deer hung from a tree. Both kept their rifles handy in case an Apache happened by.
Duane didn’t dare ride close to the miners because they’d open fire. So he’d hobbled his horse a mile away and traversed the rest of the distance silently on foot. There were a fat miner with a long black beard and a skinny miner with pockmarks visible beneath sparse red whiskers. Duane thumbed back the hammer of his Colt and said, “Don’t move, or I’ll shoot.”
The two miners dropped their pans in alarm, and their eyes became as big as their tin dinner plates. They glanced at each other, and then at their nearby rifles.
“Don’t try it,” Duane said as he rose from the green desert foliage, his Colt aimed at them. “But maybe we can do business together.” He held up a gold nugget.
They ogled it, licking their lips in anticipation. It was what they’d been panning for, and an English-speaking Apache had just shown up with the biggest lump of gold they’d ever seen!
“Where’d you git that?” asked Fatty.
“I’ll give you half of it for a shirt and a pair of pants.”
“Hell, that’s the best deal I ever heard. Come on back to the tent. My name’s O’Neil, and my partner is Perez. Who might you be?”
Duane didn’t reply as he kept his Colt moving back and forth between them. They arrived at the tent, and O’Neil ducked inside. “When you come out,” Duane said, “make sure your hands’re empty.”
“I ain’t lookin’ fer no trouble,” replied O’Neil. “Where’d you say you found that nugget?”
Duane kept his mouth shut, but Perez grinned and showed empty gums. “Must be a helluva strike, eh, amigo?”
A pair of blue jeans flew out the front door of the tent, followed by a red-and-black-checkered shirt. Then O’Neil appeared, a big grin on his face. “Are you an Apache or a white man?”
Duane held up the nugget. “Chop this in half.”
“Right over here.” O’Neil pointed to an ax in the stump near the stream. “Must be one helluva strike. Want some firewater?”
Duane picked up the clothes, then followed the miners to the stump. They signaled to each other with their eyes, so he kept his distance, with his finger firm on the trigger. He tossed the nugget to O’Neil, who brought it close to his beady eyes. “You must be a-sittin’ on a fortune. How come yer a-wearin’ that injun outfit?”
“Don’t have much time,” Duane replied, indicating the stump with the barrel of his gun.
“Yes, sir.” O’Neil glanced at Perez, who took a few steps to the side, and let his hands hang loose. Duane studied them with his sharp Apache eyes. O’Neil placed the nugget atop the stump, then raised the ax over his head. He aimed, and then suddenly pivoted, hurling the ax at Duane.
Duane’s six-gun fired the moment the ax left O’Neil’s hand, then Duane ducked. The ax flew over his head, while O’Neil was knocked backward by the force of the bullet. Duane whirled as Perez reached for his six-gun. Duane’s Colt fired again, and a red dot appeared on Perez’s shirt. The miner dropped to his knees and then collapsed onto his face. Smoke billowed across the campsite as Duane picked the nugget off the stump. The miners could’ve taken half, but had died for it all.
Duane returned the yellow metal to its leather pouch, then roved the campsite. He took cans of beans, a fork, a spoon, a box of matches, two Colts, two Sharps rifles, and all available ammunition. The booty went into a burlap bag, which he threw over his shoulder. Buzzards squawked happily high in the sky as Duane retreated into the desert and in seconds was gone.
It was midafternoon, and scouts had been coming and going all day. Marshal Stowe and Phyllis couldn’t see them, but could hear hoofbeats and exchanges in the Apache language. The prisoners still were blindfolded, with no idea of their surroundings. It was their second day on the trail.
Phyllis felt wretched now that Duane was gone. She wondered where he was and whether he was still alive. It was a long way to Mexico, and she wondered how much he’d really learned of the Apache lifeway. What is it about Duane that puts other men off? she wondered. She became aware of the air becoming cooler, and the horses came to a stop.
“Climb down,” said Delgado.
Phyllis lowered herself to the ground and smelled Delgado opposite her as he untied her blindfold. Her eyeballs were seared by a sudden burst of light, then a water hole came into view, surrounded by desert flowers. Marshal Stowe stood beside her, towering in the air, rubbing his eyes. “Where are we?”
“Many bluecoat soldiers are headed this way,” Delgado said, “and we will leave you now. You may fire your guns a few times, to attract their attention.”
Delgado and Phyllis looked meaningfully into each other’s eyes. They’d come to the fork in the road. Both wondered what might’ve happened if the right opportunity presented itself, but it hadn’t.
“You’ve been very kind,” she said haltingly. She wanted to invite him to the Bar T for dinner, but her father would blow his head off.
“You are very pretty,” he admitted. “I will miss you.”
He turned abruptly, embarrassed by what he’d said, and faced Marshal Dan Stowe. “Do not try to find us again, White Eyes. Because next time we will kill you.”
Delgado issued a curt order to the warriors. They returned to their horses, climbed into their saddles, and paused. Delgado sat atop his mount and gazed at Phyllis one last time. Then he wheeled away from her, and the horses broke into a trot. Phyllis listened to their receding hoofbeats as they vanished into the desert.
She looked around at the water hole. It was strange to be alone in the desert with a man she barely knew. Marshal Stowe led his horse to the water, then knelt beside the hole, filled his hat with water, and drank out of it.
Phyllis lay on her belly and lowered her lips to the water. It was cool and sweet on her tongue, with the faint taste of alkali. She wiped her lips with the back of her hand and glanced at Marshal Stowe. There was something about him that she didn’t like. Maybe he was too self-righteous, or perhaps it was his long, skinny nose. “If those savages told the truth about the cavalry, your worries are over,” he said gaily. “You can go back to your father, and you’ll never have to worry your pretty head about Indians anymore.”
“What about you?” she asked.
He tapped the document inside his shirt pocket. “I’ve still got a warrant for the Pecos Kid, and I’m going after him.”
“But you know he’s innocent!”
“I’m not the judge, and neither are you.”
“Why can’t you wait until the warrant is overturned? What’s your hurry?”
“Some people always look for the easy way out.”
“If I wanted the easy way out, I never would’ve run away with Duane.”
“But you’re not running away with him now.”
His words struck her like bullets because they were true—she’d abandoned her man. “If it weren’t for you, I’d probably still be with him.”
“So you say.”
Phyllis felt confused by conflicting emotions. She loved Duane but hated life on the dodge. Back and forth it went in her mind, like a pendulum in a grandfather clock. “There are so many outlaws in Texas—why’re you making Duane special?”
“If I had a warrant for somebody else, I’d go after him just as quickly.”
“You know what I think?” she asked. “You’re jealous of Duane because all the women like him. That’s what it sounded like when you were talking about him before.”
“Maybe so, but until that warrant is withdrawn, I’ll stay on his trail.”
“Duane’s got eyes in the back of his head, and when he draws his Colt, he doesn’t miss.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Marshal Stowe replied. “That’s what makes it interesting.” His eyes were blank and cold in the wan afternoon light.
“I think you’re a little loco.”
Marshal Stowe thought her a spoiled brat, while she considered him a sanctimonious bastard. They were glowing disapproval at each other, when they were startled by the sound of a voice. “Haalooooo.”
Stowe drew his Remington and turned toward a white man in buckskins advancing on the trail, while two Apaches in blue army shirts followed him. “My name’s Krandall,” said the white man. “I’m a scout for the Fourth Cavalry. Who might you be?”
“Marshal Dan Stowe, and this is Miss Phyllis Thornton.”
“You got to be crazy, wanderin’ around in Apache territory like this. And this is yer squaw, ya say?”
“I’m not a squaw,” Phyllis replied, “and the Apaches treated me very well.”
Krandall had long brown muttonchop whiskers, and buckskin fringe hung from his arms and legs. He stared at her Apache clothes and asked, “What you say yer name was?”
“Phyllis Thornton.”
“Related to Big Al Thornton back in Shelby?”
“My father.”
The scout became more respectful. “The main detachment’ll be hyar any minute, ma’am.” He said something in Apache, and the two warriors moved toward the well. Krandall took off his hat and wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. “What the hell you doin’ out hyar anyways?”
“I’m on official business,” Marshal Stowe replied. “Miss Phyllis was living with some Apaches, and that’s where we ran into each other.”
Krandall appeared impressed with the strange news as the rattle and clamor of cavalry could be heard approaching in the distance. Phyllis realized that her ordeal was coming to an end. She looked at her Apache clothes and they appeared foreign to her. I’m a fright, she thought, touching her hand to her tangled hair.
The first rank of the detachment came into view, beneath the guidon of the Fourth Cavalry. They were led by their commander, gold shoulder straps gleaming through the afternoon haze, his gray wide-brimmed hat slanted low over his eyes. He sat ramrod straight in his saddle as he raised his hand in the air. His horse slowed, and a cloud of dust arose among the dusty, sweaty soldiers. They were in rotten moods as they fingered their weapons and searched for Apaches.
Krandall reported to the captain: “I found these two folks, sir. He’s a federal marshal, and she’s the daughter of Big Al Thornton.”
“I’ve met your father,” said the captain, stepping down from his saddle. He was forty years old and appeared constructed from steel rods. “My name’s Turner, and I met you when you were a little girl, after I first came to this territory. I’ve heard about your recent antics, missy. It seems that you’ve got yourself into a little trouble.”
Phyllis didn’t know how to reply, but Marshal Stowe performed the task for her. “She was on the dodge with an outlaw named Duane Braddock, but I found her in an Apache village and brought her out. Braddock is on his way to Morellos, and if I can borrow one of your fresh horses, maybe I can catch him.”
“I was in Shelby only five days ago,” Captain Turner replied, “and Duane Braddock is all they were talking about. They said he’s innocent, and now I’m looking for Lieutenant Dawes. He and his detachment have disappeared on a scout through this area. You haven’t seen them, have you?”
A chill came over Phyllis as she remembered the Property Dance. “No, I never saw him,” she replied.
Marshal Stowe noticed her reaction. “Neither have I, but the Apaches had a load of army horses in their corral and lots of army equipment lying around. Wouldn’t be surprised if they bushwhacked them.”
“Goddamned savages,” Captain Turner replied. “Texas won’t be safe until every one is dead.”
Phyllis recalled praying around the fire with the women on the night of the revenge raid. It hurt her to think that the People could be massacred by the Fourth Cavalry. Meanwhile, Marshal Stowe selected a fresh strawberry roan and two troopers saddled the animal.
Captain Turner stood next to Phyllis and appraised her with concern in his eyes. “You look a little peaked, missy. We’ll stay here a spell and water the horses. Living with the Apaches must’ve been quite an experience.” The officer chuckled as he raised the canteen to his cracked lips.
Marshal Stowe rode the strawberry roan toward them. “Guess I’ll be moving on,” he said to Captain Turner. “Thanks for the horse, and good day to you, Miss Phyllis. When you see your father, tell him I hope to visit soon.”
“You’re a cruel man,” she replied.
“The law is cruel, ma’am. I hope you have a safe trip home.” He laughed oddly as he urged the horse forward. The animal took a few steps and burst into a lope. It kicked up clods of dirt, and soon the lawman was gone.
“He’s liable to ride into a nest of hornets at the rate he’s going,” Captain Turner said. “And besides, everybody knows that his warrant is a joke. Texas judges are crooked, but not so crooked that they’d hang an innocent man.”
“It’s happened before,” she told him.
“I don’t think Mister Braddock has got anything to worry about if he shot Otis Puckett. You and he’ll get together again someday, missy. Now where’s that goddamned mess sergeant of mine? I could use a cup of coffee.”
Captain Turner marched off in search of his cook, while Phyllis sat a short distance from the well. Soldiers set up tents for the night as she gazed in the direction Marshal Stowe had ridden. I hate that man, she admitted.
She was feeling worse about her separation from Duane. Something told her that she’d made a mistake. He needed me, but I didn’t have the courage to go on the dodge. And I missed my family like a little girl. Yet if I stayed with him, there would’ve been trouble—no doubt about it. Duane Braddock draws it like a magnet, and I’ve never known it to fail. Do I want to die for him?
Duane Braddock arrived in Morellos at high noon two days later. He rode down the main street and passed thick-walled adobe buildings jammed side by side. Horses carried riders or pulled wagons alongside him, and he looked about warily, uncomfortable in the miner clothes that were far too big. He wore no hat, and his long black hair was held in position by his red Apache headband. Ahead was a sign that said GUNSMITH.
Duane angled his horse in that direction. Men sat in the shadows beneath the eaves of saloons and stores, and he knew they were watching the new face in town. He climbed down from the saddle, threw his saddlebags over his shoulder, picked up the sack of weapons, and carried them into the gunsmith’s shop.
The man behind the counter wore glasses and was reading a newspaper. “What can I do for you?”
“I’ve got some guns to sell.”
Duane poured the weapons out of the sack, and the proprietor looked them over carefully. He asked no questions, not even the name of the person he was confronting. “I’ll give you seventy-five dollars for the lot.”
Duane held out his hand, and the proprietor dropped the coins in it. “Where can I buy a hat?”
“Down the street on the left.”
Duane saw a wagonful of something covered with a tarpaulin creaking down the center of the street, and he wondered what was being hidden. He’d never been in a border town before but knew they contained dangerous men on the dodge from all directions. He walked along the dirt sidewalk, passed El Sombrero Saloon, and came to Buckley’s General Store.
Inside, a middle-aged woman was working behind the counter. “Can I help you, sir?” She was serious, mid-thirties, with a wedding band.
“I need some clothes.”
She looked at his Apache headband and then peered at his Apache moccasins. “My God,” she whispered, turning pale.
“Have you got a black hat with a wide brim, a high crown, and a neck strap?”
She gingerly wrapped a tape measure around his head, then took down a box and removed the lid. Inside was a big black cowboy hat influenced by the Mexican sombrero. “I also need a pair of jeans and a shirt.”
She searched among the shelves, while he removed his silver concho hatband from his saddlebags. He tied it around his new hat as the woman laid out shirts and jeans on the counter. He selected black jeans, a red shirt, and a black bandanna. She showed him the dressing room, where he changed clothes.
“You speak English very well,” she said.
“So do you.”
He stood in front of the mirror, and the Pecos Kid looked back at him, black hat slanted low over his eyes, conchos flashing, gun belt slung low and tied down. “How much?”
He paid the women, slung the saddlebags over his shoulders, returned to his horse, waited for a wagonload of animal skins to pass, and backed his horse into the street. Phyllis had stolen the animal from her father’s ranch, and he was spooked by his abrupt return to civilization. “Take it easy, boy,” Duane said, patting his black mane. “This isn’t a picnic for me, either.”
The horse didn’t know what to think as his big luminous eyes roved back and forth. He’d been leading an easy life as one of Big Al Thorton’s favorite mounts, and then, before he knew what happened, people were shooting at him. Next thing he knew, he was living with Apaches who ran their horses until they dropped and then ate them. Now he was on the dodge again in a town that reeked of danger.
They came to Sullivan’s Stable, and Steve the cow horse walked through the big front door. Inside were rows of brothers and sisters in stalls, the fragrance of hay, oats, and manure permeating the air. A man in his mid-twenties, wearing a smudged white hat, stepped out of the shadows. “Help you, sir?”
“I’d like to leave my horse for a few days.”
“Put ’im in any empty stall. What’s yer name?”
Duane hesitated, because he didn’t want to say.
The stable man grinned. “Give me any name, so I’ll know who owns that horse.”
“Smith.”
“I’ve already got six Smiths. Can’t you think of somethin’ a li’l different?”
“Butterfield.”
“There was a fast hand once name of Butterfield. But he’d be a lot older’n you, if he’s still alive.”
“What’s the best hotel in town?”
“The McAllister.”
Duane left the stable and made his way down the street, passing saloons, a barbershop, a lawyer’s office, and then the bank. He slowed as he recalled his gold nuggets. They were too big to spend, and he’d have to trade them for dollars. He pushed opened the bank door, and a teller in a green visor was seated behind the cage. “Help you, sir?”
Duane took out the leather bag and spilled the nuggets onto the counter. “I’d like to sell these.”
The teller’s eyes widened. “The manager handles gold transactions personally.”
The teller sped toward the back corridor as Duane examined the shellacked wooden interior of the bank. How can anybody feel safe with his money in this place? he wondered. A robber could walk through the door and hold it up with no trouble at all. Then the manager appeared, wearing a thin black mustache and suave manners. The teller pointed to the gold nuggets, and the manager knitted his brows as he picked one up. “I’ll have to assay them,” he said.
Duane followed the manager to an office at the end of the hall. The sign on the desk said BABCOCK. The manager sat in his chair, took out a scale, and lined up bottles of chemicals. Then he proceeded to apply scientific tests to the nuggets. “Where’d you get them?” he asked pleasantly.
“Somebody gave them to me.”
“He must’ve been a very good friend.”
“The best.”
“You’ll have to give me your name, for my records.”
“Joe Butterfield.”
The banker weighed the nuggets. “The best I can do is nine hundred and fifty dollars.”
“It’s a deal.”
“That’s a lot of money to carry around. It might be prudent to invest such a sum. We have numerous interesting opportunities available in this very area. How’d you like to buy a saloon?”
Duane was surprised. “You can buy a whole saloon for nine hundred and fifty dollars?”
“Depends on the saloon.”
“Let me think that one over.”
Duane stuffed the money into his boot and left the bank. “I guess I’m rich,” he muttered. He wondered what to buy first and decided on a good meal. A few doors down, he found the Red Rooster Saloon. He pushed open the bat-wing doors, stepped into the shadows, and checked the crowd. A Mexican with a wide sombrero sat in a corner, cleaning his fingernails with a knife. Two cowboys and three vaqueros played poker, deeply intent on their cards, a mound of coins piled in the middle of the table. There was the usual crowd of drunkards at the bar, and waitresses in low-cut blouses carried food and drink along the narrow aisles.
Duane found a table and sat facing the door, his hand near his Colt. Maybe I should bury the money, but what if a gopher digs it up? He was approached by a waitress in her late twenties, with black hair and two teeth missing, one on top and one on the bottom. “Where’d you blow in from?” she asked saucily.
“Give me a steak with all the trimmings and a mug of beer. Have you got any tobacco and paper?”
She looked him up and down. “I got anything you want.”
“I’m not arguing with you.”
She appeared uncomfortable, blushed, and launched herself toward the chop counter. Duane pulled the brim of his hat lower over his eyes and examined his companions once more. The men looked like they could steal your stockings without removing your boots, while the ladies were the kind who’d do anything for a dollar. The saloon was dingy and squalid, a far cry from the clean air at the top of Gold Mountain. Duane missed Cucharo, Delgado, the old chief Pinotay, and even Gootch, but most of all he missed his woman.
He felt incomplete without her, as if his kidney or liver were missing. He wasn’t sure that he’d see her again because anything could happen in Texas. He couldn’t help wondering if she and Delgado had finally got together, because many times he’d noticed them looking at each other with desire in their eyes. Perhaps they’d surrendered to their natural inclinations now that I’m not there to watch them. It’s not as if she’s still a virgin, he thought dourly. For all I know, she’s flirting with Delgado at this very moment.
His eyes scanned the saloon relentlessly because a fight could break out at any moment. He’d seen it happen time and again, and usually he’d ended up in the middle. From now on, I’m staying out of fights, and I don’t care what they say about me. I’ll take me a little vacation in this town, and I’m sure I can find something to do.
The waitress returned with a steak platter and a foaming mug of beer. She placed them before him, told him the price, and he paid. “Is there a library in this town?” he asked.
“No, but do you know how to read?”
“I went to school for most of my life. How about you?”
“I can read a little, but I never read a whole book. Is it hard to learn?”
“Not at all.”
“If I pay you, would you give me readin’ lessons?”
“I don’t plan to be in town very long.”
Duane didn’t realize that she wanted more than mere reading lessons, but he only had eyes for Phyllis Thornton. He dug into his steak, thinking of the hot kisses and mad embraces in their cozy little wickiup. There’d been moments when he thought they’d tear each other’s skin off. He still carried a scar from one of her neck bites.
He felt excited at the mere thought of her, but she was far away, and his bed would be cold that night. He frowned morbidly as he sliced into his slab of beef. First good-looking man that comes along, she’ll be on him like a dog on a bone.
***
The Fourth Cavalry rattled and clanked across the desert, while morale plummeted. The Apache scouts had found the spot where the raiding party had stolen Lieutenant Dawes’s horses, and now they were following the trail of the lost detachment as it proceeded in a northerly direction.
Phyllis rode beside Captain Turner at the head of the formation, and behind them came the bugler and trooper carrying the colors of the Fourth Cavalry. Phyllis dreaded what lay ahead because there was no way that Lieutenant Dawes’s soldiers could survive without horses in this remote corner of Apacheria.
Phyllis had met Lieutenant Dawes once, and the West Pointer had been impressive in his immaculately tailored uniform. It was difficult to believe that such a cultured and sophisticated man could die violently in a barren, remote wasteland.
The scouts appeared among the cactus, led by Krandall in his stained and smudged buckskins. Phyllis could see the weight of death on their faces. Krandall saluted Captain Turner. “They’re up ahead, sir.”
The detachment rumbled onward, as word traveled back through the ranks. Evidently Lieutenant Dawes had led his small detachment into deepest Apacheria, and the results had been disastrous. “This might be a little hard for you to take, Miss Phyllis,” said Captain Turner out of the corner of his mouth.
“Don’t worry about me,” she replied staunchly, for she’d heard about massacres all her life, although she’d never actually seen one. She gritted her teeth and hardened her heart, for it wouldn’t do to faint among the soldiers. They had enough to do without taking care of a sickly woman.
“There they are,” said Captain Turner deep in his throat.
At first Phyllis thought she was seeing bleached branches lying among the bushes and cactus spines, but then she realized they were human bones! Her eyes fell on a skull severed from its body, its eyes huge, black, and staring endlessly at the sky. Arms and legs were chopped from torsos, skulls cracked in two, and everything had been picked clean by buzzards, ravens, crows, and rodents. Phyllis caught a vision of Apaches attacking suddenly, transforming the desert into a slaughterhouse of cavalry troopers. But now it was over, the troopers had gone to their just rewards, and the desert had returned to its cruel splendor.
The men set to work digging graves as Phyllis sat alone with her canteen in the shadow of a cottonwood tree. The final shred of her innocence dissolved in the killing ground before her. Elegant and dashing Lieutenant Dawes was a bunch of bones somewhere out there.
Meanwhile, Captain Turner fulminated at the edge of the clearing as he paced back and forth. “General Sheridan ought to send a thousand men down here and clean the redskinned bastards out once and for all! Boys, one of these days we’ll run into ’em, and we’ll make ’em wish they were never born!”
Marshal Dan Stowe looked at the buzzards circling in the sky, dipping to earth and rising again. It appeared that a feast was taking place straight ahead, and he wondered whether to see what it was or circle around.
He was passing through territory that had never been surveyed and didn’t know exactly where he was. His crude map said Turkey Creek was up ahead, and he needed to water his horse. He held his gun in his right hand, but it wouldn’t help against an arrow shot silently from behind a poinsettia bush. He knew that he should travel at night and sleep during the day, but he didn’t want the Pecos Kid to get away.
Sometimes he wondered what was wrong with him because all he had to do was collect his remaining nineteen hundred dollars from Big Al Thornton and head for Westminster Abbey, Parliament, and Stratford-upon-Avon. This doesn’t make sense, Marshal Stowe told himself. If the Pecos Kid is innocent, maybe I should forget about him.
The lawman’s much-vaunted honor seemed a charade in the boiling desert. What’s Duane Braddock to me, and what am I to him? I’ll just say he disappeared, and perhaps Prince Albert will invite me to tea. I might even settle in London and fall in love with a duchess. He remembered the famous lines by Sir Walter Raleigh:
Now what is love? I pray thee, tell.
It is that fountain and that well
Where pleasure and repentance dwell.
It is perhaps that sauncing bell
That tolls all into heaven or hell:
And this is love, as I hear tell.
The beautiful lines evaporated in his mind as he drew closer to a small mining camp. Buzzards cackled as they ripped flesh from two forms sprawled on the ground. The stench struck Marshal Stowe’s nostrils, reminding him of battlefields covered with rotting corpses.
He fired his gun into the buzzards; they screeched angrily, spred mammoth wings, and leapt into the air. Marshal Stowe pinched his nose as he urged his horse closer. He noticed steel pots, clothes, boots, and the ax and realized that Apaches hadn’t killed them, because Apaches would’ve stolen everything in sight. And they sure as hell didn’t kill each other. Marshal Stowe examined the half-eaten corpses with the cold eyes of a frontline officer but couldn’t discern what had done them in.
The lawman examined the scene of the crime as his horse drank from the creek. Inside the tent he found blankets, buffalo skins, more clothing, canned food, tobacco, and whiskey. But he couldn’t find rifles, pistols, or cartridges.
He tried to reconstruct what had happened. Someone had evidently killed the miners, stolen their weapons, and taken any gold lying around. If the Apaches didn’t do it, who did? There was no trace of a third miner, and Turkey Creek wasn’t exactly a crossroads of the world.
But Marshal Stowe knew of one person who’d been headed this way. Did the Kid do it? he wondered. He studied the ground, but the tracks were blurred, and he didn’t have the eyes of an Apache. What if nice, polite Duane Braddock was the cold-blooded killer that Lieutenant Dawes suspected? Marshal Stowe scratched his chin in thought. It wouldn’t be the first time that one man was right, and everybody else wrong.