AT THE END OF THE MONTH, HORSES arrived for sale in Escondido, accompanied by wild-eyed cowboys, cigar-chomping ranchers, and sharp-eyed traders. Customers gathered from miles around to attend the auspicious sale, colored ribbons hung between buildings, and the piano player from the Last Chance Saloon pounded his keys on a platform constructed in the street before that great emporium of sin.
The horse fair was a gala event in the humdrum life of Escondido, and the leading performers were the horses themselves, from proud sleek prancing stallions to worn-out old nags a few strides ahead of the glue factory.
The merchandise was herded into the corral, as hawkers extolled the virtues of their animals, while ignoring their faults, such as no teeth, spavined limbs, and the desire to stomp a man to death.
Duane was spotted in the crowd at mid-morning, and folks gawked at him respectfully as he made his way toward the corral. Self-conscious, he tried to ignore unwanted attention as he appraised horses. He immediately spotted good prospects, but there'd be more of a selection later in the day, for horses still were arriving even as he leaned languidly on the top corral rail. He decided to have a talk with Maggie O'Day, then return later and make his choice.
He passed a lanky, clean-shaven deputy who scrutinized him anxiously, but Duane continued moving along. When they write the history of Escondido, Duane thought, maybe they'll remember I was first sheriff. He entered the Last Chance Saloon, nodded to Smiley the bartender, saluted Bradley Metzger, winked at the girls, and knocked on the door of Maggie's office. She bade him enter, and he sat on the chair in front of her.
She reached forward and touched his bearded chin. “You look like a mountain goat. Where've you been?”
“Nowhere, and after I buy a horse today, I'm gone. I'll miss you, Maggie. If it hadn't been for you, I'd probably be dead right now.”
“You'll probably be dead anyway, if you go to the Pecos country. Why look fer lead, Duane? I was you, I'd lay back and find a rich old gal to take care of me.”
Her eyes twinkled mischievously, but he pretended not to notice. “How's Alice doing?”
“She'll be awful hurt if you don't say goodbye to her. I think the gal's in love with you.”
“It's a funny thing about love,” Duane replied. “People say they love you, and a few days later they love somebody else.”
“I cain't argue with that, but it ain't healthy to live alone.”
“I can't see where it's hurt you.”
“Just because you cain't see, don't mean it ain't that.”
“You've been good to me, Maggie. I'll never forget you.”
“Oh yes you will,” she replied in her throaty worldly voice.
He kissed her cheek, backed out of her office, and found Alice Markham in a smaller room down the hall, sitting at a desk covered with paper, adding up numbers. She looked at Duane, dropped her pen, recovered it, and fingered it nervously.
“I'll be leaving sometime today, Alice. I've come to say goodbye.”
A teardrop appeared in her left eye which she wiped away hastily. “Good riddance,” she replied.
“There's something I've got to do, but I'll come back someday.”
“Horseshit,” she replied.
“A lady shouldn't cuss.” He pecked her cheek, then smiled warmly, but she looked like a disappointed petulant child. He backed out the door and headed for the stable. It pained him to be desired by someone he couldn't love back. Despite the passage of time, for reasons he couldn't fully articulate, his heart still belonged to Miss Vanessa Fontaine, worst bitch of them all. One part of him hoped he'd never see her again, and the other prayed she'd arrive on the next stagecoach.
The new stable had been constructed similarly to the previous one, with horses lined in stalls along unpainted walls. The office was located in the same spot, and Duane found Sam Goines behind the desk.
“Thought I'd say goodbye,” Duane told him, holding out his hand. He looked around, to make sure no one was within earshot. “Thank your mother for me.”
Sam Goines shook his hand. “Good luck, boss. Thanks for bein’ a gentleman about that little thang that happened in the loft.”
“Don't know what you're talking about,” Duane replied. He noticed the box of old books in the corner. “Mind if I take something to read along with me?”
“The books belong to you, boss.”
Duane found the volume he was seeking atop the pile: The Prince by Niccolo Machiavelli.
He opened it, and his studious eyes fell on these words:
The Prince should read history and reflect upon the deeds of great men, studying how they conducted themselves in war, examining the causes of their victories and defeats, and learning to emulate the former, while avoiding the latter.
Again it seemed as if the old courtier were talking directly to him. Duane tucked the book into his belt and strolled out of the stable. More horses had been brought to the corral while he'd been making the rounds, and a larger selection was now offered, as he'd anticipated. He rambled closer, rested his elbows on the top corral rail, and evaluated the horseflesh for sale.
His brief cowboy experience had taught him that the most important quality in a horse was long-range endurance. Good lines didn't necessarily indicate quality, and a healthy-appearing horse might die suddenly of a strange illness, while a well-behaved mount often was the worst choice of all. Buying a horse was mysterious business, and Duane tended to follow his gut instincts. He liked a certain wildness in the horse's eyes, because wildness was where endurance came from.
After several minutes of careful observation, he decided that the best-looking horse in the corral was a big russet stallion with a shiny black mane, solid lines, and skittish dancing. Duane climbed over the animal, pointed at the stallion's nose, and said: “Who belongs to this horse!”
“I do!”
A white-whiskered old man headed toward Duane, his hand extended, with a confirmed swindler's gap-toothed grin. “My name's Hodge, and this here's Nestor. You got good taste in horses—I can see that. Why don't you take ‘im fer a ride?”
“What do you want for him?”
“A hundred dollars.”
“No horse is worth a hundred dollars.”
“He's not for everybody, that's fer sure. But if you've got the money, you can't buy a better horse in Texas.”
“If he's so good, how come you're selling him?”
“It's my bizness to sell horses, but I ain't inner-ested in nags. I caters to the connoisseur, if you gits what I mean.” The old man winked.
Duane examined Nestor's strong white teeth, and noticed his clear bright eyes.
“Only three years old,” the horse trader said. “This animal will give years of good solid service if you take care of him.”
“Where'd he come from?”
The old horse trader of the plains wrinkled his nose. “It ain't polite to ask a man where his horse came from, but ‘twixt you and me, he was confiscated by the cavalry from Apaches.” The horse trader lowered his voice. “I bought him on a special consignment from a friend of mines in the Army.”
Nestor didn't wear the Fourth Cavalry brand, and evidently had been sold with no official papers, while the thieving soldiers pocketed the proceeds. The trader marketed his wares in outlying border towns to well-heeled outlaws who wouldn't ask questions.
The trader bridled and saddled Nestor, while Nestor glanced at Duane warily out the corner of his eye. Nestor had been born on a ranch, raised by cowboys, stolen by Apaches, recovered by bluecoats after a series of running gun battles, and now was being sold again. All the faithful animal could do was try to make a good impression. Hodge led Nestor to the gate, and a cowboy opened it. Then Hodge handed the reins to Duane. “He's all your'n, but if you cripple ‘im, you pay for ‘im.”
The ex-sheriff adjusted the stirrups, then climbed into the saddle. Nestor danced to the side as Duane gripped the reins. He aimed Nestor toward the open desert, touched his spurs to the animal's flanks, and said: “Show me what you've got.”
Nestor walked out of town, glad to be free from the corral, but not especially pleased by the weight on his back. He cleared the outbuildings and broke into a lope, to loosen his limbs and get the old lungs pumping.
Duane thought the horse felt like steel springs beneath the saddle. Then Nestor gathered speed, working himself to a full gallop, as Duane accelerated past cactus and juniper, wind whistling around his silver concho hatband. Nestor stretched his long legs forward and put on a burst of speed, overjoyed to be on open land. He turned his head to the side to let a long stream of saliva escape his lips, then found an old wagon trail, turned onto it, and raced for the mountains in the distance.
Duane crouched low in the saddle, as wind whipped his black shirt and jeans. It felt as if Nestor could keep galloping eternally. What a horse! Duane thought exultantly. If a posse were following me right now, what's a hundred dollars against the hangman's noose?
Duane paid the dealer, put Nestor in the stable, and spent the rest of the afternoon gathering final supplies. He intended to depart after sundown, travel at night, and sleep during the day. Within a month, he'd be at the banks of the Pecos.
When his chores were completed, he strolled into the Apocalypse Church, found an empty pew, dropped to his knees, and clasped his hands together. He intended to pray for safe passage, but his mind went blank, unlike in his monastic days when he fell into religious ecstasies almost at will. I've become a worldly man, and I carry Machiavelli instead of the Bible. He pulled out the black leather-bound book, cracked it open, and read: “Whoever organizes a state and makes its laws must assume that all men are wicked, and will behave wickedly at every opportunity.”
This hombre really makes sense, Duane thought. First chance I get, I'm going to read this all the way through. “The mob is always impressed by appearances, and the world is composed of the mob.”
“I hope you're not planning to leave without saying goodbye, Mister Braddock.”
Duane saw the preacher's wife, Patricia Berclair, standing with a smile at the end of the pew. “How inspiring to see you reading your Bible when everybody else is getting drunk and boisterous.”
Duane raised himself from the pew and stood only inches away, hiding the title of the book. Her bosom heaved. She balled her fists and closed her eyes.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Of course I'm all right.” She smiled, and opened her lids. “Sometimes the desert air makes me dizzy.”
He wondered how desert air could make her swoon in a church with small windows, but grinned politely. “It's been nice knowing you,” he said. He became aware of a shadow in the doorway leading back to the sacristy. “Is the reverend about?”
“He's with his Bible class.”
“Please say goodbye to him for me. God bless you, Mrs. Berclair.” He took her hands in his, kissed her fingertips, then turned abruptly and walked out of the church.
She watched him go, her fingertips tingling with pleasure. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and whispered, “Thank you, Jesus.” Then she turned toward the doorway, noticing for the first time the shadow lingering there. Frightened, she turned to run, when the voice of her husband came to her ears.
“Thank you,” he said, emerging from the darkness, his wide pastoral hat covering his eyes.
He wore a cloak and carried something underneath it, like a pistol or knife. “For what?” she asked cautiously.
“I thought you would leave with him,” he replied.
She looked at the bulge beneath his garments. “Are you planning to kill me, Herbert?”
He opened the folds and revealed his Bible. “I couldn't possibly harm you more than I have already,” he said earnestly, holding the scriptures in the air. “I was the most selfish man in the world when I asked you to be my wife, since ... I couldn't be your husband in reality. If you went with Braddock, you'd be perfectly justified, but I don't think I could've held up knowing that you were making love with him every night.”
“You're being silly,” she replied with a little laugh. “Why would he want an old lady like me when he can have any woman in town?”
“I've always thought you were the most beautiful woman in the world, Patricia. I know that he was taken by your charm.”
“Really, Herbert. What would I do with the Pecos Kid? Lawmen all over Texas are looking for him, and did you expect me, of all people, to go on the dodge? By the way, why aren't you in your Bible class?”
“I sent the students home so that I could spy on you. I honestly thought you'd throw yourself at his feet. How little I know you.”
“You should call your students back, because we don't want them to miss the Lord's holy instruction, or do we?”
His eyes filled with tears and he shook with a sob. He dropped to his knees before her, bowed his head, and said, “Forgive me, for I have doubted you. Forgive me, for I thought I was superior to you. Forgive me for thinking that God loved me more than he loved you. And forgive me most of all for being the most ridiculous, disgusting, and hideous fool in Escondido.”
She looked at him for a long time, her chin perched in her fingertips, and then replied thoughtfully, “I think I like you better this way.”
Duane sauntered toward the saloon district, unaware that he'd just helped improve a marriage. A chasm yawned in his stomach, and he thought he'd have one last good meal at the Last Chance Saloon before hitting the trail.
A little voice told him to pass the Last Chance by, but prudence offended his fundamentally rebellious nature. He pushed open the swinging doors of the drinking establishment, where outlaws from two nations were spread wall to wall, flaring sombreros beside wide-brimmed cowboy hats, with a derby or stovepipe hat tossed in for good measure. Bradley Metzger welcomed Duane like a lost cousin, slapped him on the shoulder, led him to a table in back, and forced its occupants to leave. “You can have this one, Sheriff,” he said. “I'll send a waitress right over.”
Duane gazed at Bradley Metzger's receding back. Once, long ago, they'd punched each other in their faces, and now were almost friends. It's enough to make you believe in God, Duane said to himself.
A Mexican waitress with flashing eyes brought him a glass of whisky. “On the house,” she said. “My name is Conchita. Can I get you something to eat, Señor Pecos Kid?”
“Steak with all the trimmings, and an extra helping of collard greens, if you've got ‘em.”
She launched herself toward the chop counter, as Duane sipped whisky, his tension disintegrating in alcoholic fumes. He felt that part of his life was ending, with the next installment about to begin. I'll go to Edgewood first and visit my mother's grave. Maybe I'll find an old gal friend of my mother's who can tell me more about her, and who knows, a daguerreotype of Miss Kathleen O'Shea might be lying around.
Former deputy Derek Wright appeared in the aisle, his old Confederate cavalry hat tilted at a rakish angle. “Heard you're leaving town. Mind if I sit down?” Without waiting for an answer, he dropped to the chair opposite Duane. “Headed for the Pecos?”
Duane nodded slowly. “That's right.”
Wright sighed. “Let me tell you something, sonny jim. You don't have a chance against the Archers. They've got their own private army.”
“What's it to you?”
Wright appeared uncomfortable. “Just a li'l worried about you, damn fool kid.”
“Last time somebody was worried about me, I found out afterwards that he'd been a friend of my father's. How about you, Derek? Were you a friend of my father's?”
Wright drew his head back as if someone tweaked his nose. “What a crazy damned thing to say. I wasn't even in Texas back in those days. Hey kid, I never rode with the Polka Dots or any other outlaw gang.”
Duane smiled sagely. “Are you afraid of the Archers too?”
Wright looked at Duane intently for a few moments. “The damnedest things come out of your mouth, but if I'm ever in the Pecos country, I'll put some posies on your grave.” Wright leaned forward, placed his hand on Duane's shoulder, and squeezed. “Don't be a horse's ass, kid. Go to Mexico.”
“Too hot in Mexico,” Duane replied. “I'm off to the Pecos soon as I finish supper.”
“I tried,” uttered the ex-cavalry officer. “Good luck, Pecos.”
Wright lurched toward the bar, and Duane wondered if the ex-officer had actually ridden with the Polka Dots in the old days. I know what kind of man Derek Wright is, and he'd go to the Pecos country too if he was me.
The saloon churned with horse traders and customers, while waitresses ran frantically about with trays of beer, whisky, and steak platters. Absent-mindedly, to pass the time, Duane drew his Colt and checked the loads. A gun can be used for both good and evil, he realized. Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord God.
He holstered the gun as Conchita arrived with the steak platter. She placed it in front of him, winked flirtatiously, and asked, “Anything else?”
“Not at the moment,” he replied.
“I'm new in town.”
“I'm on my way out.”
“You don't like it here?”
“I don't like it anywhere.”
“That is because you do not like yourself, Señor Pecos Kid.”
She walked away, tray balanced on fingertips. Duane picked up his knife and tested it against his thumb. It was razor sharp. Then he cut himself a thick chunk of meat. His mouth watered as he raised it to his mouth, when something moved in the corner of his eye. Duane's hand stopped in midair. A big shaggy dog with one blind eye was looking at him hopefully. “Okay feller,” Duane said. “You get the bone first, and all the rest'll be for me, all right?”
Duane sawed the massive bone away and threw it into the air. The dog leapt high, snatched it in his yellow fangs, dropped to the floor at Duane's feet, and commenced to gnaw. “Now it's my turn,” said the former sheriff.
A voluptuous figure approached down the aisle, as Duane was lifting the chunk of beef to his lips. “Do you always talk to animals?” asked Maggie, a wry grin on her face.
Duane set the fork down again. “I've had some of my best conversations with dogs and horses. They understand more than you think.”
She peered at his steak. “It looks a little raw. I'll get you another.”
“I like it that way. This is my last supper in Escondido, Maggie. When I finish here, I'm on my way north.”
“You've put on quite a show, Duane,” she said, “and I'll miss you. Say, why don't you take little Alice with you? I passed her office a while ago and heard her crying.”
“Maybe she was crying for somebody you don't know about.”
“She talks about you all the time. I guess she wasn't happy in the business, but it's better than starvin’ to death. You might look down on old Maggie O'Day, but I give my gals three square meals, and what they make of the job is up to them.”
“I don't look down on you, Maggie. You're the nicest lady I ever met.”
She blushed, searched for a change of subject, and her eyes fell on the floor. “What's wrong with the dog?”
“He's eating the bone that I just throwed him.”
“Looks like he's daid!”
The dog lay still with the bone in his mouth, his tongue hanging out, eyes glazed over. “Hey, are you all right?” Duane prodded the dog with his boot, but the animal didn't respond. A faint white foam smeared the animal's lips. Duane beheld the animal in astonishment. “I do believe you're right. Maybe he had a stroke.”
“Pore ugly son of a bitch,” said Maggie tenderly. “He's been livin’ off other people's plates fer five years. I'll find somebody to carry ‘im away.”
She set off in search of Bradley Metzger, as Duane lifted the dead dog tenderly and laid him on the table. The ex-sheriff examined the animal carefully, and the only thing unusual was the white stuff on the dog's mouth. Duane lowered his nose to the steak and sniffed a faint medicinal odor. His brow wrinkled with disbelief. Did somebody just try to poison me?
He arose from the chair, checked the position of his Colt, then scanned the crowd for Conchita. He saw her at the far end of the saloon, taking a drink order from a group of blackjack players. Duane threaded among tables and touched his hand to her shoulder.
“Anything wrong, Señor Braddock?”
“Somebody just tried to poison me, I'm afraid.”
She let out a coy laugh. “The food here is not that bad.”
He took her hand and led her to the dog lying on the table with his white tongue hanging out. “I tossed him the bone, and he died straightaway. You didn't put any special sauce on, did you?”
“I carried the steak directly from the chop counter, Señor. There was no sauce on it that I could see.”
“Come with me.”
They headed for the chop counter, where a Negro cook in a bloodstained white apron was flipping steaks and frying potatoes laced with onions. The fragrance permeated the saloon, but Duane's appetite had vanished with the dog's expiration. He tucked his head underneath the counter, came up beside the cook, and examined the work area at close range.
“What's up, boss?” asked the Negro, beads of perspiration on his ebony forehead.
“What's your name?”
“George Goines.”
“You didn't try to poison me just now, did you George?”
The cook appeared surprised. “Why'd I do that?”
“You tell me.”
“This steak was butchered this morning. I only used a little salt and pepper.”
Duane looked at him closely. His reaction appeared genuine, and he was a Goines, which predisposed Duane to trust him, but there was no way to be sure. Duane returned to the far side of the chop counter, where Conchita was waiting. “Did you carry the steak directly to my table?”
“I had to stop at the bar.”
Duane glanced in that direction. A crowd was gathered in front of the brass rail, but Smiley wasn't visible. Duane drew his gun, approached the area from the side, and looked behind the counter. The bartender who never smiled was gone.
“Where's the bartender?” asked Duane.
“Ran out back fer a minute,” replied the nearest drunkard.
Duane headed toward the rear corridor, as Maggie and Bradley Metzger appeared at its entrance. “What's your hurry?” asked Maggie.
“Have you seen the bartender?”
“Ain't he behind the bar where he belongs?”
“No.”
Maggie was confused and looked to Bradley for help. Duane ran down the corridor to the rear of the building, pushed open the rear door, and aimed his gun into the backyard. Then he cautiously stepped toward the privy. So it's been the bartender all along, he deliberated. He was in front of me all these weeks, watching me coming and going, stalking me, pouring me whisky, and trying to kill me. Anticipating the showdown, Duane knocked on the door of the privy. “Come out with your hands up, or I'll shoot you through the door.”
“What the hell's goin’ on hyar!” replied a baritone voice. The door flew open, and a beer-bellied horse trader stepped out, buttoning his fly. “Who the hell're you?”
“Sorry,” Duane said. “Made a mistake.”
“Goddamn,” said the drunkard, wobbling toward the saloon. “A man can't take a piss in this town without somebody a-threatenin’ his life!”
The ex-sheriff searched the backyard for traces of the bartender. Where would I go if I were he? His brow wrinkled in thought, and a possible solution came to mind. He ran down the middle of the street, gun in hand, as loungers wondered what was wrong with the Pecos Kid. Duane charged into the stable, paused in the darkness, and said: “Sam?”
He was answered by hoofbeats exploding toward him down the center aisle. It was Smiley, the bartender, still wearing his white apron and putting spurs to his horse, his gun aimed at Duane. Duane saw the evil bartender's grin of shame and leapt out of the way. The gun fired and floorboards splintered near Duane's feet. Duane dived out of the way, landed on a pile of hay, rolled, and took a wild shot at the bartender riding toward the door. Smiley was on the street before Duane could fire again.
Duane rushed toward Nestor, scooped a bridle off a peg, and positioned the bit in Nestor's mouth. “I don't have time for a saddle,” Duane said, “so I'll have to ride you Apache-style.”
Duane jumped onto Nestor's back, wheeled him around, and nudged him toward the door. Nestor burst across the floorboards, then charged outside and galloped at top speed down the middle of the street. Townspeople were gathered on both sides, entertained by the spectacle of the ex-sheriff chasing the bartender of the Last Chance Saloon.
Nestor's hooves pounded the ground steadily, carrying Duane onto the desert. Duane saw a dot of white in the night ahead, the bartender's shirt and apron. Nestor loved to run free, with the bit loose in his mouth and not too much weight on his back. Duane hung on with his knees as the horse plummeted through the night, gaining steadily on the bartender, who glanced back fearfully and fired a haphazard shot.
Duane crouched low against Nestor's undulating black mane, as the russet stallion leapt over a cholla cactus, saw his quarry turn right, and angled to cut him off. Sharp needles scratched Duane's pants and Nestor's legs, but the spirited animal loved a good race. Smiley aimed another inaccurate shot as he rode for the hills or anywhere else where he could make his last stand.
But Nestor was gaining rapidly on the bartender, and Duane readied his Colt for a shot. “Stop, or I'll plug you!” he hollered.
“Never!” replied Smiley, punctuating his reply with another bullet whizzing harmlessly through the air.
They sped down an arroyo, their hoofbeats echoing off rows of cottonwood trees. The bartender tried to aim at Duane, but his horse was in motion and the bullet went astray. Duane could see stark terror on the bartender's face.
“You don't have a chance!” Duane hollered. “Stop!”
“Damn you to hell!” bellowed the bartender.
They were ten feet apart, and Smiley rode with his reins in his teeth as he feverishly reloaded his gun. Then he turned around and tried another shot. The yellow flash illuminated the night instantaneously, but Duane kept coming. He was six feet behind Smiley, and could shoot him in the back, but a dead bartender spoke no tales.
Duane pulled Nestor's reins toward Smiley's horse, but Nestor was as close as he wanted to go. Duane raised one boot onto Nestor's bobbing back and dived through the air. He landed on the bartender, tore him out of the saddle, and together they fell toward blurred cactus beneath them.
They landed, jostled, and rolled over, and when the dust had cleared, Duane was on top, pressing the barrel of his Colt against Smiley's sweat-stained forehead. “Why'd you try to kill me?” Duane asked between clenched teeth. “And you'd better tell the truth, because I ain't playing.”
Smiley gasped for air, thinking his hour had come. His eyes were bloodshot and his tongue lashed the air. “I did it fer the money!” he screamed. “Don't shoot!”
“Who paid you?”
“If I tell you, he'll kill me!”
“If you don't tell me, I'll kill you!”
The bartender seemed at war with himself. “The man who gave me the poison,” he hissed.
“Tell me his name, or you're a dead man.”
“I'm a dead man anyways!” shrieked the bartender.
He gave a mighty pitch, managing to upset Duane's balance. Duane fell to the side, as Smiley dived for the gun he'd dropped. He scooped it up, pointed to his own temple, and closed his eyes.
“Don't shoot!” Duane shouted.
Smiley snarled, then pulled the trigger. Blood, brains, and bone flew in all directions. Smiley grinned victoriously as he sagged toward the ground. Duane didn't have to feel his pulse to know he was dead. Disappointed and disgusted with himself, Duane searched the bartender's pockets, finding keys, a tobacco pouch, wooden matches, and a hundred dollars in coins. I'll search his room, Duane thought, but where does he live?
Duane realized that he knew nothing about Smiley the bartender, yet Smiley had known everything about him. Who had paid him to do the job? Nestor returned, a solemn expression on his face. Duane decided to leave the bartender for the buzzards, so he climbed onto his new mount and headed toward the bright lights of Escondido.
If that poor dog had chewed on somebody else's steak bone, he'd be alive right now, Duane acknowledged, and I'd be lying on the floor of the Last Chance Saloon with white stuff on my lips. What kind of poison was it? How did it come to Escondido? Do they sell it in the general store, or does somebody in town make it? Duane flashed on rows of chemical bottles in the undertaker's office.
He'd been suspicious of the undertaker from the moment they'd first met. There was something diabolical about Snodgras, but Duane had ascribed it to his macabre profession. The undertaker definitely has poison in his house, and I think it's time I had a little talk with him.
But I shouldn't persecute a man who may be innocent, Duane cautioned himself. Just because he deals in dead bodies, that doesn't mean he's killing them too. And just because he has chemicals, he requires them in his profession. But I haven't seen chemicals anywhere else. If he's allied with Smiley, he probably left town by now, or maybe he's hiding, waiting to spring another bushwhack.
Duane drifted into Escondido behind sheds and privies, avoided the saloon district, and approached the undertaker's house from the rear. A lamp burned in the parlor, and all was silent as Duane climbed down from Nestor's bare back. Then he tied the animal to a tree, drew his Colt, and snuck silently toward an open window.
He saw the undertaker pacing back and forth in the parlor, hands clasped behind his back, wearing black pants, white shirt, and black suspenders. Duane raised his face above the sill, aimed his gun at the undertaker, and said, “Howdy.”
The undertaker blanched, and appeared as though his worst nightmare had come true. Then he pulled his shoulders up and tried to compose himself. “What are you doing lurking beneath my window, young man?”
“I've come to pay you a visit, Mister Undertaker Man.”
Duane raised his leg over the sill and climbed into the parlor, his gun aimed at the undertaker's chest. “Guess what? Smiley told me that you paid him to poison me.”
It was humbug, but seemed to be working. The undertaker's lips quivered with barely concealed emotions. “I never paid him to poison you or anybody else, and I don't care what he said!”
“I saw bottles of chemicals in your laboratory. You know how people die, and I wouldn't be surprised if you help them sometimes. How much is Old Man Archer paying you?”
“I don't know what you're talking about,” Snodgras replied, his eyes darting about excitedly.
“Raise your hands high.”
Snodgras followed orders. Duane patted him down, searching for a hidden derringer, but found nothing except a small pocketknife. Duane aimed his gun at the undertaker's nose. “I wonder if you're the low-down skunk who took a potshot at me when I was riding on the desert a few weeks ago.”
“Not me,” replied the undertaker, gazing at the barrel of Duane's gun. “I knew you were loco, but not this loco.”
“Are there poisonous chemicals in your office?”
“Of course. I'm an undertaker and my work requires them.”
“Have you noticed any missing?”
“As a matter of fact ... I have,” Snodgras said shakily.
“You'd better start telling the truth.” Duane pressed the barrel of the Colt against the undertaker's nose, squashing it down.
“Don't shoot!” the undertaker screamed. “It wasn't me!”
“Liar,” Duane replied, as he tightened his finger around the trigger.
Sweat poured down Snodgras's face. He gasped for air, and his eyes crossed as he stared fearfully at Duane's Colt. But Duane couldn't shoot him in cold blood, and his latest bluff appeared a failure. Maybe he was innocent after all, Duane speculated, his conviction wavering. He loosened his finger on the trigger, and the undertaker realized that he'd been given a reprieve. “This is an outrage,” he said in a quavering voice. “I'm an innocent man.”
“There's an old Apache trick that I learned a while back,” Duane replied. “You take a man onto the desert, wrap green rawhide around his head, and stake him in the sun. The rawhide contracts and crushes his skull in a slow agonizing process, and maybe, while it's going on, you'll tell me who you're working for, what he paid you, and where I can find him.”
“You have no proof!” asserted the undertaker. “You're loco, do you hear me!”
Am I pushing too hard? Duane wondered. But on the other hand, he's got an office full of poison. The truth remained elusive as usual, and Duane pondered whether to ride out of town, head for the Pecos country, and forget the mess in Escondido. Then Snodgras's eyebrows raised, as Duane became aware of a sound in the doorway behind him. “Drop the gun, Señor, or I'll shoot you where you stand.”
Duane let his Colt go, and it clunked to the floor. Sanchez bent to pick it up, his Remington aimed at Duane's stomach. Sanchez took a step backward, gazed at Duane with amusement in his eyes, and laughed. “So we have you at last, eh?”
“I should've known it was you,” replied Duane, as he gazed at the long barrel of the Remington. “I always figured you cried crocodile tears.” Duane clenched his teeth and prepared to die. “Well, go ahead, shoot straight, and let's get it over with.”
“What is your hurry, Señor?” asked Sanchez. “We have been after you a long time, no? You snoop and sniff like a dog, and look where it has got you, eh?”
“Are you working for Sam Archer?”
“Who's Sam Archer?” Sanchez asked with mock innocence. Then he threw back his head and laughed. “I have never met a bigger idiota in my life than you, my friend.”
Snodgras narrowed his eyes. “This is no time for palaver, Sanchez. He's dangerous. Shoot him and get it over with.”
“I will, do not worry about that. But first I want to have some fun. So this is the famous Pecos Kid, eh? He does not seem so peligroso to me. No, he looks like a frightened boy who is about to join his diablito father in hell. The father had no brains, and the son is no different. If you want to know more about the Polka Dots, you can ask them yourself.” Sanchez aimed his gun at Duane's nose. “You will be seeing them soon, Señor.”
Duane steadied himself for the inevitable bullet. This is what happens when you don't think beyond the obvious, he acknowledged bitterly. He saw Sanchez's knuckle tighten around the trigger, as a choir of angels sang Gregorian Chant through the open window.
“What are you waiting for?” asked a new voice.
Just when Duane thought he couldn't be surprised anew, Derek Wright trailed into the parlor, old Confederate cavalry hat low over his eyes. “Let's get it over with.”
Duane stared malevolently at his former deputy, as the ramifications of the evil plot deepened. “I was right about you all along, Derek. I figured you asked too many questions, and I should've shot you while I had the chance.”
“But you didn't, fortunately for me. You've bit off more than you can chew, kid. I told you to forget about your thieving father, but you were stubborn as a jackass. We did everything to persuade you to go to Mexico, so don't blame us. It is your ignorance and immaturity that has brought us to this sorry pass. Say your prayers, my lad. The party is over.”
Duane couldn't believe that his life was coming to an end, but any other conclusion would be irrational. He glowered at Derek Wright and said in a deadly tone: “I can understand how men like Snodgras and Sanchez can go wrong, because they were the scum of the earth to begin with, but you fought in the Stonewall Brigade. Or did you?”
Wright removed his old Confederate cavalry hat, examined it critically, and shrugged. “You can buy one of these quite cheaply these days. I never fought for either side during the war. What for?” Wright smiled ingratiatingly. “I fooled you with my charming line of horseshit.”
“Not really, because I always figured there was something false about you, and you made one big mistake that I recall. If you're so smart, why didn't you let that cowboy shoot me in the back at the Longhorn Saloon. It would've saved you a lot of trouble.”
“When we first heard about you, we weren't sure who you were. Regardless of what you might think, we only kill when we have to.”
“And for some strange reason,” Duane replied sarcastically, “you have to kill all the time.”
Sanchez took a step closer to Duane and grinned like a dog, showing tobacco-stained teeth. “I like to see how a man faces death. Sometimes they cry, other times they beg, but this young fool appears lost in the sound of his own voice. Are you afraid to die, Señnor Pecos?”
“Just tell me one thing, you flea-bitten varmint. Who killed Twilby?”
Derek replied. “I did. And Sanchez killed the women, of course. Snodgras tried to bushwhack you a few times, and he took care of Marty Schlack, while I had to silence that damned fool blacksmith. Then somebody else tried to bushwhack you in front of your office, and we don't even know to this day who the hell he was. We tried to keep you from finding out the truth about the Polka Dots, but it soon became clear that too many people knew. Then we hoped to scare you away, but you wouldn't take the hint.” Derek smiled cruelly. “You even thought I was a Polka Dot myself. In point of fact, I hated the damned Polka Dots. They were nothing but a bunch of dirty outlaws, and I rode with the posse that tracked them down, you fool. A lot of lead flew that day in the Sierra Madre, and maybe I'm the one who killed the son of a bitch horse thief known as Joe Braddock.”
Duane thought his head would explode, but Derek and Sanchez both leveled guns at him, and the Pecos Kid realized that his only hope was to play for time. “How'd you know the blacksmith told me about my father?”
The undertaker replied. “You were talking about Mister Archer an awful lot after you saw the blacksmith, so it wasn't hard to figure out.
“We knew, of course, that Rafferty had lived in the Pecos country, and the Polka Dots stopped at his shop while they were making their last run. So Mister Wright paid Mister Rafferty a visit, and one thing led to another, you might say.” The undertaker snickered at his little joke.
It had never occurred to Duane that his nemesis might be three bungling blood-soaked fools, but his worst rancor was reserved for his former deputy. “You're a polecat, Derek Wright. You act friendly with people, but you're just looking for a soft spot to stick your knife.”
“Derek Wright isn't my name, you horse's ass. Your ignorance and gullibility astonished me on numerous occasions, but we have no more time to waste with you.” Wright turned toward Sanchez. “Are you going to shoot him, or shall I have the pleasure?”
“I will do it, Señor. I have never liked this young son-of-a-whore.”
Sanchez aimed his gun at Duane's chest, and Duane knew that he was going to die. All he could do was close his eyes, and whisper, “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.”
A shot resounded in the small parlor, and Duane felt sharp pain in his heart. Smoke filled the air. He was certain he was dead, but had somehow remained standing. Sanchez's expression of triumph became blank despair, as the whoremaster dropped to the side like deadweight, his shirt blanketed with blood. Duane spotted the double barrels of a shotgun poking through the window.
An expression of panic came over the man Duane knew as Derek Wright as the second barrel fired. Buckshot caught him in the face and sent him slamming against the wall. He slid down, wearing a ghastly red mask, dead as a mackerel.
“Looks like I arrived in the nick of time,” said Maggie O'Day, smiling in the window.
Duane gaped at her in amazement, as Snodgras dashed toward the kitchen in the momentary confusion. Duane came to his senses, pursued the undertaker down the corridor, tackled him, and brought him down. As Snodgras lost his balance, he grabbed a frying pan off a hook and slammed Duane upside his head. Duane lost consciousness, and Snodgras fled down the corridor to his office. Duane cleared the cobwebs out of his head, followed the undertaker's trail, and turned the knob, but the door to the office was latched from the inside. Duane took two steps backwards, then slammed his shoulder against the door and it burst open.
Snodgras stood beside his desk, an empty goblet in his hand. There was a strange glazed expression in his eyes and a faint smile on his pale craggy features. “So you finally know,” he said dreamily.
“I haven't figured out everything,” replied Duane. “How do you communicate with Sam Archer?”
The undertaker laughed weakly. “You can't arrest a corpse.” He swayed, stumbled, burped, and went crashing to the floor. Duane ogled him in wonderment, when he heard footsteps in the hall. It was Maggie O'Day smiling cheerily, a double-barreled shotgun in her hand. “So this is where you went.” Then she noticed the undertaker lying on the floor. “What happened to him?”
“He poisoned himself, just as he tried to poison me at your saloon. How'd you know I was here?”
“I've been keeping an eye on you in more ways than one. After you left my saloon in such a hurry, I figured out who might've poisoned you. Then, when you came back to town, somebody told me that you was headed here.”
Duane picked up his Colt, checked the loads, and holstered the weapon. Then he returned to the parlor and regarded Sanchez, killer of women, and felt a certain perverse satisfaction at his passing. Duane turned to Derek Wright, who'd pretended to be a friend and nearly won Duane over. “I was thinking about going to Mexico with him,” Duane said.
“He would've shot you in the back when you wasn't looking, and brought your head back to Old Man Archer.”
Duane thought of Twilby, the blacksmith, the dead prostitutes, Marty Schlack, and his father. And in back of them all, hovering maliciously in the distance, was Old Man Archer. Duane gazed for a long time at Derek Wright bleeding on the parlor floor. You fooled me and everybody else in this town, but you didn't fool Maggie O'Day.
His head whirling, Duane opened the front door for Maggie. A crowd had congregated outside, and Duane saw the gunsmith, the bartender from the Silver Spur, merchants, prostitutes, and others he'd known and sometimes suspected during his brief stay in Escondido.
“I just killed two sons of bitches!” Maggie declared proudly. “And the other one killed himself.”
The townspeople cautiously entered the undertaker's house, and one of them hollered, “Holy Jesus, lookit this!”
Duane and Maggie headed toward the center of town. Lamplight twinkled behind windows, and a big cowboy moon hung high over the rooftops. “What're you gonna do now?” Maggie asked.
“I'm headed for the Pecos, I guess.”
“If you ever need help, just get in touch with Maggie O'Day.”
They came to the Last Chance Saloon, where half-empty glasses could be seen through the window, and horses lined the hitching rails. Desert bats flew eccentric patterns in the sky, as crickets sang loudly in the vast sea of grama grass.
“Care for a last drink on the house?” she asked.
Duane opened his mouth to respond in the affirmative, when his Apache ears perceived strange rumbles from the north. “Something's coming,” he said, wrinkling his forehead.
“I can't hear nothin’.”
Duane dropped to the street and pressed his ear against the ground. Massed hoofbeats were on the desert, and he heard the distant bleat of a man hollering at the top of his lungs. Duane narrowed his Apache eyes and picked out a black bouncing dot in the dark night. “The Fourth Cavalry's on the way!” yelled the faraway voice. “Run fer yer lives!”
Duane's body tensed, because the Fourth Cavalry had chased him in the past, and for all he knew they were coming specifically for him now. The dark outline in the desert became an old cowboy with a long gray beard riding his pinto nag down the main street of Escondido. “The Fourth Cavalry'll be hyar in ‘bout an hour, boys! Hit the trail!”
Pandemonium broke out all over town, as outlaws stopped what they were doing and prepared for the sudden imminent journey across the Rio Grande. Coins were dug from beneath floorboards, supplies stuffed into gunnysacks, and horses saddled rapidly. Maggie's eyes misted as she looked at Duane standing before her like a big gangly boy, anxious to move on. “I wish you'd forget about the Pecos,” she said.
“Old Man Archer isn't getting away with killing my parents,” Duane replied. Then he raised his right hand to the sky and said solemnly, “So help me God.”
She gazed at him, her eyes filled with tears, and then she clasped him to her. They hugged tightly. Then he kissed her forehead and said, “Please take care of Alice for me. Give her a chance, all right? She's a good girl, smart as a whip, and can be a big help to you.”
“As long as there's a roof over my head, there'll be a roof over Alice's head. It might not be much of a roof, but...”
They separated reluctantly. “I never knew my mother,” Duane said, “but you're the closest thing I ever had to a mother, and I promise I'll see you again someday.”
Horses trotted down the middle of the street, as outlaws and banditos headed for Mexico. Men bellowed, laughed, and yawped at each other, because the chess game with the Fourth Cavalry had begun again. The stable was a hubbub of madness and curses when Duane arrived, men frantically saddling horses in the lamplight.
“To hell with the Fourth Cavalry!” somebody yelled, as he rode his prancing charger to the door. “They'll never catch me!”
Duane saddled Nestor in the darkness at the end of the row. “We're going for a long ride,” Duane said to the horse. “You won't be getting oats or apples for a while, but sooner or later things'll settle down, you'll see.”
Nestor didn't appear convinced as Duane led him out of the stable with other horses and riders. Duane's plan was to head for Mexico and hide out for a few weeks, then turn around and cross the Rio Grande upriver, his trip to the Pecos temporarily rerouted thanks to the Fourth Cavalry. The notes of a brass bugle sounded in the distance, and a great tumult could be heard coming through the stillness. The Fighting Fourth advanced on Escondido, while the town's outlaw citizens fled south.
Duane climbed onto Nestor's back, wheeled the horse around, and nudged him with his spurs. Nestor heard the bluecoats coming as he joined the mass of other horses and riders departing in earnest. Nestor turned into the nearest alley, leapt over a sleeping drunkard, loped through the backyard, vaulted over a pile of firewood, and broke onto the open desert, heading for Duane's stash in the hills. Fragrant night wind streamed through Duane's beard as Escondido twinkled and faded into the black pitch darkness behind him.
The Pecos Kid was on the dodge yet again, headed for the ancient home of the Aztecs. Rattlesnakes or scorpions could get him, not to mention the Mexican Army, and Comancheros might string him up by his heels. Nestor kicked clods of desert behind him, as his youthful rider gazed back at outlaw hell falling behind in the distance. At least I know who my mother is, Duane thought gratefully, and thank you, dear father, for being a man that others admired and trusted to lead them. I knew you weren't an outlaw, and I'll clear your name even if it kills me.
The clatter of cavalry reverberated off mountains, as bugles blew and officers shouted orders on the horizon. The detachment of the Fighting Fourth charged helpless little Escondido, but the hard-riding Pecos Kid was long gone.
The mighty Rio Grande gleamed like an iridescent silver snake in the Texas night, but Nestor kept barreling onward. When the horse dived off the riverbank, a massive splash of cold water baptized horse and rider. The Pecos Kid yelled with strange inexplicable joy as his hundred-dollar stolen stallion stroked powerfully toward the distant shore.