CHAPTER 3
THE PECOS KID RODE DOWN THE MAIN street of Escondido, his eyes alert for the posse members and the Fourth Cavalry. Light from saloons spilled onto the planked sidewalk, illuminating armed men swaggering along, while others sat on benches, watching the passing show. Laughter and the tinkling of a piano could be heard from within saloons, and a few whisky-soaked souls were passed out cold in alleyways.
Duane tried to appear casual, but maintained his hand near his Colt .44. He wondered if the padre had recognized him, but Texas was full of outlaws far more notorious than he. He hoped no one would pay attention to the lone stranger.
A whiff of broiling steak came to him from the Silver Spur Saloon, mingling with the fragrance of whisky, beer, and manure in the middle of the dusty street. The Pecos Kid rode all the way through town, because Clyde Butterfield, the old gunfighter, had taught him the importance of knowing the territory.
He passed a Protestant church, a hardware store closed for the night, and a barber shop with a painted pole. There was an adobe hotel, the stable, and a tobacco shop, but saloons were the primary business in Escondido. No guns aimed at him from behind windows, and he saw no one with a badge. He steered Steve through the proscenium door of the stable, climbed down from the saddle, and looked around cautiously. If anybody made a false move, it'd be draw and fire.
An old bearded man came out of the shadows. “He'p you, sir?”
“I'd like you to take care of my horse. Give him plenty of oats, and you got any apples around?”
“I can buy some in the morning, sir.”
Duane flipped him a five-dollar coin. “Take good care of Steve here, and I'll take good care of you.”
“I'm Amos Twilby.” The old man bit the coin with his two remaining teeth, then dropped it into the front pocket of his jeans. “The best hotel is the Belmont, and the best saloon is the Last Chance. They give you a good pour, and got the best gals in town.”
Duane pulled the saddlebags off Steve's back and positioned them on his own shoulder. As he neared the door, he looked both ways, hand near his Colt. It felt odd to be in civilization again, but a short beard covered his features, and he didn't think anybody would recognize the man who'd shot Marshal Dan Stowe.
Duane found the tobacco store a few doors down, but it was closed for the night. Not sure of his next move, he sat on the bench in front, leaned against the wall, and placed his right hand on the walnut grip of his Colt.
Two cowboys walked by, laughing heartily and smoking cigarettes. Duane smelled tobacco, and his lungs cried for more, but the store wouldn't open until morning. Only one other place to buy tobacco—the saloons.
But if he went to a saloon, he might be recognized by a drunkard from his past, and the overfed priest had said that saloons were the cause of all Duane's troubles. Unfortunately, killers and back-stabbers loafed in saloons, and a calamity could befall an unsuspecting citizen at any moment. Yet, on the other hand, he had to admit that the most fascinating individuals could often be found in drinking establishments, plus entertainment and free food were sometimes provided.
He needed a cigarette desperately. I'll just stroll into the nearest saloon, buy some tobacco, and leave immediately. I'm not that morally weak. He touched the rosary beneath his shirt as he stared across the street at a sign that said Desert Palace Saloon.
A chill came over him, which he attributed to the cool night breeze.
Four cowboys rode tall in their saddles down the middle of the street, their hat brims slanted low over their eyes. They all wore guns, and Duane wondered which sheriff was chasing them. He waited till they passed, then crossed over.
A Mexican in a sombrero was sleeping on the bench in front of the Desert Palace. Woman's laughter came to him from inside, music to Duane's lone-some ears. I shouldn't go in there, but what's the point of being young if you can't do crazy things?
He opened the batwing doors and stepped out of the light, hand near his Colt, his eyes scanning cowboys, vaqueros, gamblers, waitresses, and gentlemen in fancy suits. It looked pretty much like every other saloon he'd ever seen, with a painting of naked ladies cavorting in a meadow above the bar.
No one seemed to recognize Duane, and he spotted no tin badges. He squared his shoulders and headed for the bar, the silver conchos on his hat-band flashing the light of oil lamps. The bartender looked up as he approached. “What's yer poison?” He had hair to his shoulders and wore a patch over his right eye.
“Tobacco and some papers.”
The bartender grinned. “You ain't drinkin’ tonight, cowboy?”
Duane felt nearby eyes turn toward him, and decided to play it cool and easy. “Whisky,” he said.
The bartender tossed a small white cotton bag of tobacco onto the counter, then poured a glass of whisky. Duane paid, carried his purchases to an empty table against the far wall, rolled a cigarette, and surveyed the scene around him.
Tough-looking men played cards, slogged down whisky, or conspired in every corner of the saloon. Some were scarred, others wore tattoos, and a few looked like they'd shoot you for the hell of it. They all behaved as if a posse would show up at any moment.
A middle-aged prostitute approached, bent over, and asked, “Can I git you somethin’ cowboy?”
Her breasts spilled out of her skimpy dress, and he gazed at the alabaster orbs. “Not right now.”
She walked away, wiggling her behind, and Duane felt billygoat desire. If it hadn't been for women, he might still be in the scriptorium, studying Saint Augustine's City of God, instead of drinking whisky in a lawless Texas border town. He knew, deep in his heart, that he could've remained in the monastery if he had apologized to the old abbot and done lots of penance, but a perverse part of his mind had been curious about the outside world. He'd been especially attracted to pretty Mexican girls who'd attended Mass at the monastery on Sundays, and they'd started Duane down a path that had led ultimately to the Desert Palace Saloon.
Light flickered from brass oil lamps hanging from nails banged willy-nilly into the walls, as out-laws and banditos seemed to be roasting in the red flames of Dante's Inferno. The saloon exuded an atmosphere of meanness and viciousness that you could scrape from the walls, with everybody armed, half drunk, and ready to fight.
I've ended here because of my bad temper and pretty girls, no doubt about it, Duane was forced to conclude. Maybe I should've listened to the old abbot. Since departing the monastery, Duane had been engaged to a saloon singer named Vanessa Fontaine, and then to Phyllis Thornton, pretty daughter of a prosperous rancher. Both had left him in the lurch for reasons he didn't fully understand, Miss Fontaine running off with an officer in the Fourth Cavalry, and Miss Thornton returning home to daddy. Duane was determined never to trust another woman again, based on his limited experience.
Whores seemed the best solution to his billygoat problem, but he'd learned that a man can't buy love, and love is what makes it worthwhile. I'm going to finish my whisky, and then buy myself a steak with all the trimmings. When my belly is full, I'll check into the best hotel in town and get a good night's sleep. Duane had no money shortage, because the Apaches had given him some gold nuggets, which he'd cashed in at a bank in Morellos.
If I don't look for trouble, he thought, I'm sure it won't come looking for me.
At the bar, a horse thief named Sylvester Krumm sat with his mug of beer and a cigarette. He puffed thoughtfully as he gazed across the room at a young man in a beard and black shirt, his silver-conchoed hat tilted forward so no one could see his features. The bartender approached with the bottle of whisky. “Hit you again?”
“Damn right,” replied Krumm. “Say, d'ya know that kid over thar, the one what just bought the whisky. He's a-sittin’ agin’ the wall.”
The bartender shrugged. “Never see'd ‘im afore.”
“That's the Pecos Kid!”
“Who's the Pecos Kid?”
“His name's Duane Braddock, and he's the one what shot Otis Puckett about two moons ago.”
The bartender widened his eyes. “That's the galoot what shot Otis Puckett?”
“I see'd it happen meself. It was a leetle town north of here, name of Shelby, and I was just a-passin’ through. Puckett braced ‘im, and the Kid shot him straight out.”
“You sure that's same Kid?”
“Sure as I am of my own name, although I've been drinkin’ so much this week, I forgot what I'm a-callin’ myself these days. But it was somethin’ to see, lemme tell yez. His hand moved so fast, one moment it was empty, the next moment it was firin’ away.”
The bartender regarded him skeptically. “The way you pour it down, friend, I bet everything looks like it's firin’ away.”
A brown cowboy hat with a beaded Navajo hat-band turned on the stool next to Krumm. “Who'd you say that feller was?”
“The Pecos Kid.”
“What'd he do?”
“Shot Otis Puckett.”
“Horseshit. Otis Puckett lives in Laredo with his fambly. No dumb kid's ever gonna kill Otis Puckett.” The man in the brown hat raised his voice. “You don't know what yer a-talkin’ ‘bout, asshole!”
The saloon fell silent. The bartender lowered his head behind the bar, and outlaws backed toward doors, while others dropped behind tables. Duane was already on the floor, Colt in hand, ready to fight his way out of the saloon, although he had no idea what was going on.
Both antagonists faced each other in the golden effulgence of oil lamps. The gauntlet clearly had been thrown down. The man in the brown cowboy hat was named Jones, and he peered into Krumm's eyes. “Make yer fuckin’ move,” he said, “or admit yer lied. What's it's a-gonna be?”
Krumm saw murder in Jones's eyes, and something told him to give way. He made a half-smile, like the underdog offering his throat to the victor, and headed for the door.
“Hold on,” said Jones. “You ain't ‘pologized yet.”
Krumm quickened his pace, showing his tail as he fled for the street. Jones rushed after him, grabbed his shoulder, slammed him against the wall, and pressed his gun barrel against Krumm's nose. “I ain't a-gonna tell you again.”
Krumm's eyes bulged out of his head, as the grim reaper danced crazily before him, dressed as a · cowboy. “Sorry,” he said, trying to hold his voice steady. “Guess I made a mistake.”
Jones spun him around and kicked his ass toward the door. Krumm flew outside and landed on the sidewalk, as laughter erupted inside the saloon. Summoning his remaining shards of dignity, Krumm arose and dusted himself off. Then he headed for his horse, for outlaws would offer no mercy to one who'd revealed himself a coward.
Krumm ordinarily wasn't afraid of strangers, but there had been something bloody and insane in his adversary's eyes. I wonder how many men he'll ; kill before the sun comes up? he pondered, as he i tightened the cinch beneath his horse's belly.
Inside the saloon, Jones placed his gun on the bar.
“On the house,” said the bartender, pouring a tall one, to help settle things down.
Jones grabbed it, sipped off an inch, coughed, j and said hoarsely, “That goddamned fool wouldn't know a bull's ass from a banjo. He said that kid over thar shot Otis Puckett. What a crock of shit.” He pointed his gun toward Duane Braddock. “Hey kid—you ever shoot Otis Puckett from Laredo?”
“Never heard of him,” replied the young man sitting against the wall.
“'At's what I thought. Anybody ever tell you that you look like a girl?”
The young man arose from his chair, but the saloon manager advanced into the line of fire. He wore handlebar mustaches and a dirty apron. “What's the problem?”
Jones snarled. “Some folks try make themselves big, when they ain't nawthin’ but pantywaists.”
The manager retorted: “You want to shoot somebody, do it outside. I'm tryin’ to run a business here. Why don't you sit down and have a steak on the house?”
“I never turn down a free meal,” Jones said with a shrug.
The manager placed his arm over Jones's shoulder and maneuvered him toward a vacant table. Somebody hooted as the bartender poured a free round. Cards were shuffled and dealt, whisky gulped, and outlaws accompanied soiled doves to the back rooms, as the saloon returned to its previous grungy ambiance. Duane sipped his whisky calmly, but was rankled beneath the facade. I haven't been in town two minutes, and somebody recognized me! I'd better get the hell out of here.
He tossed down the rest of his whisky, tucked the tobacco into his shirt pocket, and headed for the doors. He expected another insult at any moment, but emerged unscathed into the cool night air. On his way to the stable, something moved in an alley. Duane spun around and tightened his finger around the trigger of his Colt. “Who's in there?”
A drunkard burped as he staggered out, buttoning his pants. He gazed down the barrel of Duane's gun, and blinked. “Whoa,” he wheezed.
“Thought you were somebody else,” Duane replied.
Duane holstered his gun and resumed his journey toward the stable. I just drew on an innocent drunk, and I should've known better than to come to a border town. Duane soon arrived at the stable, where he hollered, “Twilby!”
The wizened old man emerged from the shadows. “Somebody call me?”
“Where's my horse?” Duane walked down the row of mounts, spotted a familiar black tail, and then saw Steve's head half buried in a wood bucket full of oats. So soon? Steve's eyes seemed to say. But we just got here.
Duane read disappointment on the horse's face. “I know we've just arrived,” Duane tried to explain, “but somebody recognized me.” Then Duane became aware that the stablemaster was behind him. “How much I owe you?”
“You jest got hyar. What the hell happened?”
“I don't think Escondido is my kind of town.”
Steve whinnied with dissatisfaction and shook his head from side to side.
“He don't want to go,” the stablemaster said.
“But he has to.”
“What fer?”
“Somebody just threatened to kill me.”
The stablemaster took a step backwards and appraised Duane in moonlight streaming through the door. “You look like a decent feller to me. How come?”
“I have no idea.”
“You didn't deal off the bottom of the deck by any chance?”
“I don't gamble, and I never even saw the galoot before.”
“You might never see ‘im again. It's written in the good book when and whar yer a-gonna die, and there ain't a damned thing you can do about it noways. A scorpion might climb into yer bedroll tonight, or you could git hit by a bolt of lightning.”
He believes in predestination, Duane realized. But I don't. Duane turned toward Steve and saw that the horse's eyes were heavy-lidded with fatigue. The animal was terrified of Apaches, for whom horsemeat was the greatest delicacy.
Duane turned toward the old stablemaster of the plains. “What're you on the dodge for?”
“What makes you think I'm on the dodge?”
“Everybody in this town's on the dodge. Who's the sheriff?”
“We ain't got one. Everybody minds their own bizness in Escondido, and we get along jest fine.”
“Tell that to the feller who wanted to shoot me in the Desert Palace Saloon.”
“You did the right thing to walk away. He might've been Jesse James, John Wesley Hardin, or El Pancho. But keep yer nose clean, you'll won't have nawthin’ to worry about. Go to another saloon, that's all.”
Duane recalled the thick juicy home-cooked steak that he'd intended to consume, and Steve deserved a peaceful night. I'll find trouble no matter where I go, Duane told himself, so I might as well have a good meal in Escondido. Besides, my father used to pass through border towns, and folks around here might've heard of him. “Been in this territory long, Mister?”
“All my life.”
“Ever heard of the Polka Dot Gang?”
The old man cocked an eye. “Where'd you hear of the Polka Dot Gang?”
Duane's father, Joe Braddock, had been leader of the Polka Dots, but Duane couldn't admit that to a stranger. “Somebody in a saloon was talking about them once. They were supposed to be one tough bunch of hombres.”
“Mebbe,” replied the old man. “So many gangs have run through this town, it's hard to say. Still want yer saddle?”
“I think I'll stick around a while longer. If you remember anything about the Polka Dot Gang, I'd be mighty grateful if you'd let me know.”
“When you git my age, young feller, the memory starts to go. I can't remember what I had fer breakfast.”
Duane followed directions to the Last Chance Saloon, which looked like any other Escondido hell-hole on the outside, except it was bigger. Men crowded the sidewalk in front, laughing, gesticulating, and passing bottles. There wasn't a woman in sight. Duane pushed through the swinging doors, stepped out of the backlight, and reconnoitered out-laws and painted waitresses wall-to-wall. No chicken bones littered the floor, and brass spittoons were highly polished. A skinny middle-aged man in a red and white striped shirt sat at the piano and plunked the keys. A sign above him said: Please Don't Shoot the Piano Player, He's Doing the Best He Can.
The only empty table was in the middle of the floor, but Duane didn't want anybody sitting behind him. He headed for the bar, passing cardsharps, newspaper readers, and men passed out with their heads in puddles of beer. The air was full of tobacco smoke.
“Whisky,” said Duane to the bartender, who had shoulders like a bull.
As the man in the apron poured, Duane turned his back to the bar. The waitresses were younger and prettier than the ones in the Desert Palace, heads of animals were mounted on the walls, and a painting of a naked lady reclining on a sofa was hung above the bar. Duane sipped whisky and waited for a table to open up on the wall.
Duane wondered if his outlaw father had ever come to Escondido in the old days. Maybe his mother had visited too, but Duane didn't even know her name. According to what he'd heard, she was like the painted harlots who served food and drinks to the men seated before him. Duane had vague memories of his mother, but they could have been just wishful thinking. She was a vast tragic emptiness in his heart.
Two men arose from a table against the side wall. Duane was off his stool instantly, carrying his glass toward the just-vacated table. An old moth-eaten Confederate flag hung on the wall above it, with a pair of crossed cavalry sabers. Duane sat and raised the whisky glass to his lips. His hand stopped in midair, as he noticed three cowboys approaching.
“This table's taken,” said one of them, who had a pointed nose and foxy eyes.
“Thought it was empty,” Duane replied. “Those other fellers just left.”
“I said the table's taken.”
Duane didn't like an unreasonable and intimidating tone. “It's taken by me,” he said. “Sorry.”
The three men looked at each other in disbelief. One wore a green shirt with yellow piping. “Hey kid,” he said. “Get the fuck out've here before we nail you to the wall beside that flag.”
Duane had to stay out of trouble in Escondido, regardless of the insult. He swallowed his pride and said, “If you want the table that bad, it's yours, my friends.”
He arose and backed away, the whisky glass in his left hand so his right would be free to draw and fire. The third intruder wore a silver belt buckle with the great star of Texas emblazoned on the front. “Don't git smart with me, sonny jim, ‘cause I'll shoot yer fuckin’ lights out.”
Duane forced himself to smile, but it came out crooked and odd. “Meant no harm, sir. Enjoy the table.”
Duane continued backing to the bar, because he didn't dare turn his back to the three bully boys. They had owlhoot written all over them, with guns in holsters and knives sticking out of their boots. Duane returned to the bar, sat on a stool, and gazed at the swine who'd evicted him from his table.
Duane was calm outwardly, but wanted to obliterate them eternally. They respected nothing except their own selfish appetites, he thought. But it's nothing personal, they'd do the same to anybody. He tried to calm himself, because he always landed in the stew whenever he went loco. It felt as if his head were inflating with live steam. He wanted to walk to the table and give them a piece of his mind, but they'd go for their guns, so would he, and God only knew how it'd end. He touched the rosary around his neck, but devout Mexican nuns weren't sufficient to settle him down. He had the feeling that the whole world was against him, and he'd better get out of the saloon before he killed somebody, or somebody killed him.
He knocked back the rest of his whisky and headed for the door, trying not to look at the three owlhoots. His stomach felt like a yawning chasm, and he recalled why he'd come to the Last Chance Saloon in the first place. He'd wanted a decent meal, and nearly got a bellyful of lead instead. It bothered him that three men stood in the way of his enjoying some delicious food, but again, he touched the rosary. Let God take care of them, he counseled himself.
The cool fragrant desert breeze struck his nostrils as he stepped outside. He looked up and saw stars whirling through the cosmos, worlds beyond worlds, and the mountains of the moon. I'm a tiny grain of sand in God's great creation, and maybe I shouldn't make a big dither out of everything.
He sat on the bench in front of the Last Chance Saloon, and rested his chin on his hand. It seemed a profound insight, and he wondered why he'd never thought it before. Why do I take everything so seriously? Maybe I should go back to the monastery, confess my sins to the Abbot, apologize for everything, and renew my vows to Holy Mother Church.
It seemed a fine idea, but he was starving to death on the main street of Escondido. He touched his concave stomach, and a burp erupted from his throat. Saloons were everywhere, and any one would do. He was about to rise, when someone dropped lazily onto the bench beside him. A familiar face, that of Amos Twilby the stablemaster, looked at him with one eye open and the other eye closed. “Howdy.”
“What're you doing here?”
“I can't take a walk if I want to?”
“Which of these saloons serves the best steak, besides the Last Chance?”
“What's wrong with the Last Chance?”
“Just had a little disagreement with three owl-hoots.”
“You might try the Desert Palace, but onc't I see'd the cook spit in the soup. The cook at the Longhorn is a drunk, but sometimes he gits it right. As for the Silver Spur, it's the cheapest, but sometimes, when yer not lookin’, a rat's liable to take the steak right off'n yer plate.”
Duane pushed back his black cowboy hat and narrowed his eyes. “Sounds like the Last Chance is the only place to go.”
“Hell, I wouldn't let anybody keep me out of the Last Chance. It's a damned fine saloon, and a few of the girls are as pretty as anything you'd see in Frisco. You can't let people push you around, boy. Yer paw wouldn't appreciate it.”
“My paw?” asked Duane, as his eyes widened. He grabbed the front of the stablemaster's shirt. “Did you know my paw?”
The stablemaster appeared confused. “'Course not. I'm jest sayin’ that yer paw, whoever he was, wouldn't want a coward fer a son.”
Duane let the old man go, and realized with dis-may that he'd overreacted again. “I don't see the point of dying for a table in the Last Chance Saloon.”
The old stablemaster leaned toward him. “You young fellers today, you got all the answers, but in my day, and it weren't that long ago, you push a man around, you'd better get ready to die.” Twilby raised his button nose proudly into the air. “I was young onc't too, but I never let anybody keep me out of a saloon. Hell, I'll tell you what. We'll go into that saloon together, and we'll keep away from them owlhoots. But if they start up with us, I'll back you all the way. Don't worry about a thing.”
The old man jumped to his feet, hauled his Colt Dragoon, and aimed it between Duane's eyes, only Duane wasn't there. Duane stood a few feet to the side, and aimed his Colt .44 at the stablemaster's right kidney. Twilby's eyes bugged out. “How'd you do that, kid?”
“I lived with Apaches for a spell.”
“Figured you had some Apache blood in you, first time I saw you. Somethin’ in yer eyes, that bow-and-arrow look.”
“You were pretty fast yourself, old man. You almost got me. Ever been a gunfighter, by any chance?”
The old man pshawed, as he stuffed his Dragoon into its hand-tooled holster. “Who the hell wants to be a gunfighter? They all end up in the cemetery anyways. But if'n we have trouble in that saloon, I can handle two of the galoots myself, and you can take the other one. Hell, I ain't greedy.”
Duane realized that Twilby was suffering major delusions. In fact, the old man's speed was mostly gone. He'd be no good at all in a showdown.
“Ready, pardner?” said the old man with a wink, as he headed for the Last Chance Saloon.
Duane didn't want to enter, but Twilby might guess that Duane didn't trust the old man's fighting ability, a slap in the face to one with gray whiskers. A hunger cramp shot through Duane's gut, and he thought, maybe I'm being too careful. If I stay away from those owlhoots, I'm sure they'll leave me alone.
He followed Twilby into the saloon, and the old man motioned for him to come closer. “Which ones are they?”
“Against the far wall . . . with that son of a bitch in the green shirt.”
“They don't look like much to me.”
Duane and Twilby angled among tables as they closed the distance with the chop counter in back. The three men at the purloined table seemed not to notice them. A Negro cook in overalls stood at the stove, flipping steaks into the air. “How many?” he asked.
“Two.”
The plates were filled, the tariff paid, and the new acquaintances headed for an empty table in the middle of the floor. Duane sat so that he could face the owlhoots, and glanced at them as he sliced into the slab of beef that smothered his plate. It was soft as butter and redolent with fragrant juices, accompanied by fried onions, fried potatoes, beans, and tortillas. He wolfed it down, oblivious to the world around him.
“You look like you ain't et fer a few months, kid.”
Duane didn't reply, as he shoveled potatoes and onions into his mouth.
“Sure wish I could put away a meal like that,” said Twilby. “But yer stomach gets old too, along with everythin’ else. Hell, I know I'm not the man I used to be. But in the old days, I used to cut quite a figure, let me tell you. ‘Course, Texas weren't so crowded then. Escondido was just two shacks on either side of the trail, with a well in back and a couple of shit houses. People were friendly then, and we stuck together.”
“That's not the way I heard it,” Duane said. “Aren't border towns places where outlaws go?”
“You've always got yer outlaw element,” Twilby said, as he wrinkled his tiny nose. “Wasn't two robbers crucified alongside Jesus?”
“Who keeps law and order in this town?”
“Nobody.”
“What would happen if the owlhoot in the green shirt walked up to me and said he was a-gonna blow my brains out?”
“Up to you to blow his brains out first. But most men in this town ain't a-lookin’ fer trouble. They come here to git away from trouble. Know what I mean?”
“I'm surprised the Fourth Cavalry doesn't show up one morning and clean the whole place out.”
“You can hear the Fourth Cavalry coming twenty miles away, and by the time they arrived all the out-laws would be gone. I know it, you know it, and the Fourth Cavalry knows it. That's why they don't come so often.”
Duane examined the old stablemaster's face. It was deeply lined, with pouches of sadness beneath his eyes, his nose laced with red veins, marks of a drunkard. Twilby had a logical mind, Duane thought. Saint Thomas Aquinas himself couldn't've said it better. The stablemaster is on the dodge too, he knows the territory, and he's a good man to know. Perhaps God has sent him to me, to teach me about dangerous little border towns.
The man called Jones entered the Last Chance Saloon, and spotted his companions sitting at a table against the side wall. He puffed a cigarette as he strode toward them, his angry outlaw vision searching for possible threats. He was wanted for robbery, burglary, and murder in a variety of jurisdictions.
He approached the table. Cassidy, the bully with the silver star-of-Texas belt buckle, pulled up a chair. “Where the hell you been?” he asked. “We've been a-waitin’ on you fer an hour.”
Jones dropped onto the chair, rested his hand on his gun, and said, “I nearly shot some son of a bitch just now.”
Their leader was Harold McPeak, thirty-five years old, former sergeant in the Confederate Army, also wanted for a variety of offenses. He wore a green shirt and had a bony face with large ears. “What happened.”
“He said somethin’ he shun't.”
McPeak appeared annoyed. “I thought we were supposed to stay out've trouble.”
“Was I supposed to lie down and die?”
“You were supposed to be here an hour ago.”
Jones looked around and grinned. “It don't look like a bad place to wait. Everybody says it's the best saloon in town. I need a waitress. Hey ... bitch!”
She had black hair to her shoulders and bright red lips. “Yes sir?”
“Gimme a whisky.”
She removed a glass from her tray and placed it before him. “Fifty cents.”
He tossed the coin onto her tray with one hand and pinched her ass with the other. She forced a smile, but there was fury in her eyes. “Thank you, sir.”
Jones sipped the whisky, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His clothes were ill-fitting, and he wore an egg stain on his dirty white shirt. “Where was we?”
“We was supposed to be talkin’ about the next job, but yer late. If you can't be on time, you'd better start a-lookin’ fer another gang.”
“Okay . . . okay,” Jones said. “I'm here. What's the deal?”
McPeak smiled, and said in a low tone: “Boys, we're a-gonna hit the sweetest little bank you ever saw. It's in a town called Shelterville, about five days east of here, and they got this nice old sheriff who wouldn't hurt a fly, plus lots of good church folk who'd hide at the first shot. We'll ride into town one by one in the mornin’, meet at the bank around noon, and when I give the word, we'll hold ‘em up, blow the safe, and head fer Mexico. We'll be out of sight before they know what hit ‘em. Now, the way I see it...”
McPeak explained the details of the robbery, but Jones was distracted by a young man sitting in the middle of the floor, the same kid he'd seen earlier at the Desert Palace Saloon, who'd supposedly shot Otis Puckett. Jones felt annoyed by the young stranger, for reasons he didn't care to understand. Jones had a broken nose, a scar on his forehead, and puffy lips. The only girls he ever got, he had to pay for, cash on the barrel head. He'd never been in love in his life.
McPeak's voice droned onward, as Jones continued to glower at the young man. There was something about him that contrasted sharply with Jones. Jones had been raised in Baltimore and had fought other urchins for bits of garbage to eat. He'd never made a conscious decision to steal—it had always come naturally—and he recognized no law save his own best interests. He felt insulted by the young bearded man talking with the old stablemaster on the far side of the saloon.
McPeak stopped his dissertation abruptly, then turned toward Jones. “What'd I just say?”
Jones ignored his question. “See that kid in the black shirt. He's got everybody thinkin’ he shot Otis Puckett.”
“Hey, ain't he the same one who was a-sittin’ at this table?”
“Sure was,” said McPeak.
“Maybe he did shoot Otis Puckett,” said the fourth man, the one with the pointed nose, Dick Mundy. “Puckett got shot a while back, I heard.”
“He did?” Jones was surprised. “Are you sure?”
“I heard some cowboys a-talkin’ about it. He was gunned down by a galoot called . . . lemme think ... the Brazos Kid?”
“How about the Pecos Kid?” asked Jones.
Mundy snapped his fingers. “That's it ... the Pecos Kid. His name's Craddock or Braddock or something like that.” He turned toward the young man. “Sure don't look like much.”
“Acted like a skeered rabbit,” said McPeak. “Hard to believe he shot Otis Puckett. I'd say it's horseshit.”
“'At's what I think,” replied Jones. “He's too purty fer his own good, and I don't like a man who trades on somebody else's reputation. I ought to go over there and kick his ass.”
The more Jones stared at the so-called Pecos Kid, the angrier he became. Jones wanted to be admired, but it was always the other galoot who received the sweetest fruits, while he gnawed weeds. Stealing, killing, and fighting were his principal interests, and he had no regrets.
McPeak placed his hand on Jones's shoulder. “We don't want no trouble.”
“It'll only take a minute.”
“I just gave you an order.”
“Shove it up yer ass.”
Jones rolled to his feet, hooked his thumbs in his belt, and sauntered toward the table. He felt most alive when a good fight was in the offing.
Then Mundy arose from the table. “I don't want to miss this. To tell you the truth, I never liked that kid when I first see'd him.”
“He looked a little simple to me,” added the third outlaw, Cassidy. “Let's make him dance to the tune, boys.”
McPeak, their leader, wore a disappointed expression on his weatherbeaten visage. He couldn't send them to the stockade, and his sergeant stripes didn't mean anything in Escondido. Guess I'll have to go along with it, he thought philosophically, as he followed them across the saloon. They can kill anybody they want, long as they help me rob that damned bank.
Duane leaned across the table and gazed into his new professor's eyes. “Suppose a lawman gets a wanted poster with your face on it. Does he look for you right away, or just nail the poster on the wall and forget it?”
Twilby sat with his legs crossed, holding a cigarette between his fingers, a twinkle in his eyes. “Depends on the lawman. Some're lazy, others like the glory, a few're in it fer the money, and some're even outlaws theirselves. If yer worried about ‘em a-lookin’ fer you, it depends what you did. If it's real bad, they might even send the Fourth Cavalry after you.” The old stablemaster shook his head. “You don't ever want to git on the fightin’ side of the Fourth Cavalry, boy. What're you wanted fer, if'n you don't mind me a-askin’.”
Duane leaned closer, and uttered: “I killed a federal marshal, but it wasn't my fault.”
Suddenly the table exploded in his face, and he went flying backwards. He landed on his back, went for his gun, and heard a voice say, “Don't move.”
Duane's hand froze. He looked up and saw the bully in the brown cowboy hat with the three owl-hoots who'd stolen his previous table. Duane blanched white, but held himself steady, tried to smile, and said, “What's wrong?”
Jones stepped forward and looked down contemptuously. “Are you the feller what says you shot Otis Puckett?
“Who's Otis Puckett?”
“Are you gittin’ smart with me, boy?”
“Not me, sir.”
“I ain't no goddamned sir. I hear that you claim to be the Pecos Kid.”
“You heard wrong.”
“Are you talkin’ back to me Craddock, or Braddock, or Shmaddock, or whatever yer damn name is?”
Duane realized that nothing would pacify the owlhoot. The Pecos Kid was being challenged again, and the only thing to do was make a stand. “I ain't a boy.”
“Well, you sure as hell ain't a man either.”
“You can say anything you want, since you've got a gun in your hand while my hand is empty. But give me a fair chance, and I'll show you who's a boy and who's a man.”
Jones was surprised by the back talk. His law was the code of the gutter and he preferred to prey on the weak and defenseless. But a Baltimore guttersnipe can't back down publicly. “Are you saying that you want a little duel?” he inquired with a wry grin.
“Unless you intend to shoot me in cold blood, without a chance!”
“He's right,” said the old stablemaster of the plains, who stood a few feet away. “You got to give ‘im a play. Ain't fair to shoot a man in cold blood like that.”
If Jones had been alone, he would've blasted the young man to smithereens, but he had to show outlaw valor before his peers. “All right,” he replied. He holstered his gun, then beckoned to Duane. “I ain't killed nobody yet tonight, and it might as well be you. Let's go. On yer goddamned feet!”
Duane raised himself from the floor. He didn't have time to speculate on what Saint Ambrose would say about moral implications, as he faced Jones and unlimbered the fingers of his right hand. “Mister, I don't know you, and I don't want to kill you. As far as I know, you don't know me. Why don't you let me buy you a drink?”
Jones raised his eyebrows, because he thought Duane had shown the coward's stripe. “A few moments ago, you was a-challengin’ me to a gun-fight. Change yer mind so fast, Mister Pecos?”
“There's nothin’ to fight over,” Duane replied. “What's wrong with you?”
It sounded like a new insult to the ex-Baltimore street urchin. Jones stiffened, and poised his hand above his Remington. “I'm ready when you are.”
Duane didn't want to draw first, because of possible legal ramifications. His sharp Apache-trained eyes watched his opponent's hand closely. “Mister,” he said, “I'm going to tell you something, and you'd better listen closely. It's true. I shot Otis Puckett. My name's Duane Braddock, and you don't have a prayer against me. But I don't want to kill you. Why don't we forget the whole thing?”
Jones scowled, becoming more unsure of himself, but the slime of the Baltimore gutter still flowed through his veins. “Sounds like humbug to me,” he declared. “I say yer a lyin’ sack of shit. What're you a-gonna do about that?”
Duane realized the time had come to stop making excuses, because nothing would stop the man. “What're you gonna do?”
Somebody laughed, and Jones thought a joke had been made at his expense. Warped anger billowed through his brain as he reached for his Remington. His finger touched the ivory grip at the same instant that Duane's Colt fired. A bullet pierced Jones's heart, and his lights went out instantly, but he was still on his feet, gun in hand, ready to fire. Everybody stared at him in morbid fascination as he collapsed onto the floor.
It was silent in the saloon, acrid gunsmoke filled the air, and everyone's ears rang with the shot. Duane aimed his gun at Mundy, then at Cassidy, and finally at McPeak. “Any of you boys want a piece of me?”
The three outlaws glanced at each other, and Duane saw calculation in their eyes. They were wondering how they could take him in tandem, so he dropped his Colt into his holster, assumed his gunfighter stance, and said, “Go ahead, if you've got the sand.”
They hesitated, then backed away slowly, to fight another day. All eyes turned toward the young angel of death in black jeans, black shirt, and black hat with silver concho hatband. “Must really be the Pecos Kid,” somebody said.
Duane backed toward the rear door of the saloon, as everyone got out of his way. He reached behind him, turned the knob, and landed outside. Cool fragrant desert air struck him. He looked at the sky and decided that Steve was going for a ride whether he liked it or not. He was heading for the stable when the saloon door opened behind him. He spun around and aimed at the figure advancing through the night.
“It's only me,” said Twilby. “Where the hell you a-goin'?”
“Some little cave in the middle of nowhere, because every time I come to a town, there's somebody who wants to fight me. I've got so much blood on my hands, I'll never get clean again. Why don't people leave me alone?”
The old stablemaster scratched his chin thoughtfully, like Saint Jerome the scholar. “I guess men git jealous of you. Yer kind've good-lookin’, and some folks don't like who they are.”
“Are you jealous of me, Twilby.”
“I can live with myself, but some fellers can't. Are you really the Pecos Kid?”
“It's just a name some dirty, lying newspaper reporter gave me.”
“Who taught you to shoot like that?”
“Clyde Butterfield. Ever heard of him?”
“Sure did. They say he was one of the craziest sons of bitches who ever came to Texas. How'd you know ‘im?”
“He just started talkin’ to me on the main street of a town called Titusville one day. Turns out he knew my father.” The last sentence was out of Duane's mouth before he could stop it.
“Who's yer father?”
“Just another cowpoke. Nobody special.”
Twilby took a step backwards and cocked an eye. “He wasn't the boss of the Polka Dots, was he?”
Duane was at a loss for words, but recovered quickly. “I thought you never heard of the Polka Dots.”
“When you first asked me, fer all I knew, you could've been John Law. Sure I heard of the Polka Dots, and yer Duane Braddock, eh? Well, the Polka Dots was famous up in the Pecos country. I saw yer father onc't in a little cantina down Tampico way. He was thar with some of his boys. If I'm not mistaken, that's when Clyde Butterfield was a-ridin’ with ‘im.”
“You saw my father?” Duane asked. “You don't understand ... he went away when I was one year old, and I don't know anything about him. What was he like? Did you palaver with him?”
The old stablemaster chuckled. “It's a long story, so let's sit down and have us a whisky.” He placed his arm around Duane's shoulder and led him down the alley. “By the Jesus, they said yer paw had a fast hand too. A lot of people really liked ‘im, but some, well ... it's too bad what happened to the Polka Dots.”
Duane couldn't resist the opportunity to learn more about his father. Like a moth drawn to flame, he followed the old stablemaster across the street to the Silver Spur Saloon. It was half the size of the Last Chance, thoroughly filthy, with a bar on the left, tables to the right, dance floor in back, no chop counter, and several elderly prostitutes. Twilby bought two glasses of whisky at the bar, then carried them to a table against the back wall. They sat and raised their glasses as word spread through Escondido that the infamous Pecos Kid was in their very midst.
Twilby leaned toward Duane and said, “I never knew yer father, or Clyde Butterfield, but everybody used to talk about ‘em in the old days. Joe Braddock and Clyde Butterfield was in the Mexican War, and when it was over, they decided to go into business together with a bunch of other ex-soldiers. Texas was wide open then, and if you put yer brand on a steer, it was your'n legally. There wasn't many big ranches, and a lot of cowboys lived in the open with their chuckwagon, if they had a chuckwagon. But we had no law a-tall, and lots of feuds started over cattle. To make a long story short, some rich ranchers said yer paw and his men was rustlers, and tried to arrest ‘em. A range war broke out, and the big ranchers hired fast hands from all over Texas to hunt down yer paw and his boys. They caught ‘em in the Sierra Madre Mountains, and that was the end of the Polka Dots, but to this day, a lot of people in the Pecos country say the Polka Dots was innocent. ‘Course, you'll find others who'd say they was killers, horse thieves, and cattle rustlers.”
Duane was taken aback by this news. “I thought my father had been hung.”
“Not the way I heard it. They shot him like a dog.”
The image burned into Duane's mind, his father shot full of holes, writhing on the desert sands. “Do you remember the names of the rich ranchers?”
Twilby wrinkled his brow. “Don't right recall.”
“If you remember my father's name, how come you don't remember the people on the other side? Are you afraid I'll go there and start trouble?”
“You show up in the Pecos country sayin’ yer Joe Braddock's son, you'll git shot on sight. Get it through yer thick skull, kid: there's nawthin’ you can do to bring yer paw back.”
“Did you ever hear anything about Joe Braddock's woman?”
“Joe Braddock had one in every town. I meant no offense, but that's how it was.”
“What towns?”
“If'n I tell you, you'll ride thar first thing in the mornin’. And you'll kill somebody, or somebody'll kill you. You can't look backwards, boy. Life is what you make it.”
“But I don't remember my parents at all. It'd mean a lot if you'd just tell what you know.”
Twilby pondered what Duane had said. “I don't know a helluva lot, and what you don't know won't hurt you. On the other hand, yer a grown man, and you got a right to hear the truth. Lemme think it over. I gotta go to the piss house. Be right back.”
Twilby arose from the table before Duane could react. Duane watched the stablemaster go, and meditated upon the revelations just accorded him. Twilby had confirmed certain rumors and scraps that Duane had gleaned since leaving the monastery, but contradicted others. Duane was pleased that his father had gone down fighting instead of getting legally lynched on the main street of somebody's town. A man was an outlaw or hero depending on what side of the gutter you're standing on, Duane told himself.
An ancient painted harlot approached, placed hands on her bony hips, and winked lewdly. “You look lonesome, cowboy.”
“Not tonight. Sorry.”
“Don't you like girls?”
“Not interested right now.”
She wore gypsy earrings and a rhinestone necklace, and the tops of her wrinkled smallish breasts were visible. She had three black stumps remaining in her mouth. “I'll show you a real good time.”
“I'm sure you would, but I'm waiting for somebody.”
The whore opened her mouth to reply, when a shot rang out behind the saloon. Duane yanked his gun and dived to the floor, and was joined by other outlaws and waitresses on the way down. The bartender peered fearfully out the back window. “Looks like somebody got shot!”
Duane aimed his gun before him, hammer back and ready to fire. Whores, outlaws, and vaqueros arose cautiously around him. The bartender opened the rear door and looked toward the privy. Then he moved cautiously toward the dark figure bleeding on the ground in front of it. “It's Amos Twilby!”
Duane pushed through the crowd, gun in hand, heart beating wildly. He erupted outside and saw the bartender kneeling over a prostrate figure on the ground.
“Shot in back of the head,” the bartender said. “Wonder what kind of low-down varmint'd do a thing like that?”
Obviously he'd been bushwhacked from behind. But why? Duane kneeled beside the grisly shattered head of his newest friend, and felt nauseated, his brow furrowed with confusion. It made no sense. “What'll happen to him now?” Duane managed to ask.
“Cemetery,” replied the bartender. “You a friend of his?”
“That's right. Who d'ya think did it?”
The bartender shrugged. “How the hell should I know?”
Duane tried to calm his uprooted mind and think it through. Evidently, someone had been waiting for Twilby to come out of the privy, then coldly and deliberately bushwhacked him from behind. Duane needed a drink to settle himself down.
“At least he died with his boots on,” somebody said. “Somebody grab his arms, I'll take his legs, and we'll carry ‘im to the undertaker.”
Duane reached for Twilby's wrists, and a stranger carried Twilby's legs. The dude wore a frock coat, stovepipe hat, and salt-and-pepper beard. “Who're you?” Duane asked.
“My name's Burkett, and I've got a gunsmith shop. I wonder why somebody shot the poor son of a bitch?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Duane replied, trying to digest the hideous deed. “You know him long?”
“A few years.”
“He have any enemies?”
“Who don't have enemies? But I can't think of anybody who'd shoot ‘im, except maybe one of them fellers you had a beef with earlier tonight, Mister Pecos Kid.”
Suddenly the plot came together in Duane's convoluted mind. The outlaws had taken his table, then tried to kill him. Duane fought back, shot one, and the others retreated to plan their next move. They'd eliminated Twilby first, with Duane next on their list, but they wouldn't just walk up to him and start shooting. They'd catch him when he wasn't looking, as they did Twilby.
The crowd was dispersing back to the saloons. It was another random, senseless killing in a border town, with no apparent cause, no justice, and no mercy. Duane and Burkett lugged Twilby's corpse down a dark alley strewn with whisky bottles, and came to a house that carried a sign above the door: Caleb Snodgras, Undertaker.
Burkett kicked the door, and it was opened promptly by a tall thin man with deep-set eyes, wearing a black suit, white shirt, and black string tie. “I heard the shooting and figured you'd be here directly. It's turning out to be a busy night. Right this way, please.”
They followed the undertaker down the corridor to a small room with four cots. On one of them lay the naked corpse of Jones, the owlhoot shot by Duane earlier, washed clean of blood, with a red hole in the middle of his chest. A medicinal odor filled the room. The shelves were lined with vials and bottles of chemicals, while peculiar metallic implements lay on the desk. The undertaker clasped his bony hands together, his eyes glittering with barely concealed greed. “It appears that they shot him in the head. Tsk tsk. Are you friends of the deceased?”
“I am,” Duane replied. “I'd like to give him a decent burial.”
“Happy to hear it. You got twenty dollars?”
Duane reached into his pocket. “Where can I find a preacher?”
“The only one who went to divinity school is Reverend Herbert Berclair of Apocalypse Church. But I wouldn't disturb him at night, if I was you.”
Meanwhile, Burkett backed toward the door. “Got somethin’ to do,” he said, as he disappeared into the night from whence he'd come.
Duane handed twenty dollars to the undertaker. “Did you know Twilby?”
“He took care of my horse, but I can't say we were pards. How long've you known him?”
“I just met him today. Is he married?”
“Hell no. Twilby generally kept to himself.”
“I can't help wondering why he was so friendly with me, since I never saw him before.”
“It's hard to know what's in a man's heart, cowboy. He lived in the stable with the horses.”
“What happens now?”
“If we had a sheriff, he could search Twilby's room.”
“Would it be against the law if I searched his room?”
“We haven't got any law in Escondido. You can do as you damn well please, provided you can back it up.” The undertaker sat at his desk and took out a sheet of paper. “What's your name?”
Duane saw no point in lying, since he'd already admitted being the Pecos Kid in the Last Chance Saloon. “Duane Braddock.”
The undertaker wrote Duane Braddock on the paper.
Duane looked over the undertaker's shoulder. “What's that for?”
“I've got to make a report for Austin.”
Duane grabbed the sheet of paper and tore it into little pieces. “My name's Joe Butterfield.”
“It's a misdemeanor to willfully make wrong statements.”
Duane flipped a five-dollar coin onto the undertaker's desk. The undertaker pretended it wasn't there, as he wrote Joe Butterfield on a fresh form. “Where are you from, Mister Butterfield?'’
“North of here.”
“Remember the name of the county?”
“Write any one you like.”
“What's your present address?”
“General Delivery.”
“Which way you headed?”
“Take your pick.”
“Are you kin to Joe Braddock, by any chance?”
Duane was surprised to hear his father's name again, but decided to play dumb. “Who's he?”
“A trigger-happy killer from the Pecos country, but they finally tracked him down. You sure you aren't his kin?”
“Hell no, but somebody told me once that Joe Braddock was an honest rancher killed by hired guns.”
The undertaker glanced at Duane's Colt. “I'm not a-gonna argue with you, Mister Braddock. Anythin’ you say. If you ain't his kin, it's fine with me. Maybe he really was the Robin Hood of the Pecos, as some used to claim. We'll have the funeral after breakfast.”
“I'll be there,” Duane said.
Duane, still agitated by the bushwhack of Amos Twilby, headed back to the center of town. He was certain that the killer had been one of the three owl-hoots who'd stolen his table at the Last Chance Saloon. I'll keep my eyes open for them, he swore. They won't catch me unawares as they did poor Twilby.
He walked past the general store, which was closed for the night, and noticed across the street a vacant storefront. For all I know, my father might've passed through here long ago, Duane conjectured. He felt strange amorphous emanations, as if the ghost of Joe Braddock had arrived in Escondido.
Duane vaguely remembered a tall, husky man with a black mustache, wreathed in the fragrance of whisky and tobacco. Maybe that's why I love saloons, because they remind me of my father. Was he a good man or a low-down crook? That's what I want to find out.
And what about my mother? She'd nourished him at her breast, but was a blank in his memory, and no one had ever told him anything at all about her. Sometimes he dreamed that he was a baby sleeping in her arms, and she had blond curls adorning a worried pretty face. But what's dream and what's true? he wondered. And what does it matter who my parents were? I'm here, and that's the main thing.
That was the logical part of his mind, but a deeper layer had a voracious need. Duane felt like a straw in the whirlwind of time, desperately needing an anchor. If I knew the truth about my mother and father, then I could get on with my life. Otherwise I'll keep wondering about them forever. Maybe if I'm lucky I'll meet more people in Escondido who knew my father, or even my mother.
His mind returned to the brutal killing of Amos Twilby. Why'd he befriend me, out of all the outlaws in Escondido? He looked at me funny when I showed up at the barn, come to think of it. Maybe I look like my father. The name Butterfield sure got his attention. When Twilby sat beside me in front of the Desert Palace Saloon, what if it wasn't a coincidence? He knew more than he let on, and was testing me.
But maybe I'm driving myself plumb loco as usual. What if Twilby got shot by an old enemy, and it has nothing to do with the owlhoots who stole my table. Duane was frustrated by his inability to isolate definitive answers to pressing problems. He'd studied Logic at the monastery in the clouds, but couldn't apply it to Escondido.
What you need is a drink, a good hot bath, and a nice soft bed, he admonished himself. Twilby had recommended the Belmont Hotel, and Duane wondered which adobe structure it was. If it's the best hotel in town, it must be right on the main street, he figured. If I keep on walking straight ahead, I've got to run into it sooner or later.