Bad to the Bone (21 page)

“If I ignored him, he would've insulted me again.”

“What if he shot first?”

“He didn't.”

“Perhaps in the future you should let
me
do the talking.”

“It's all right with me. I don't claim to be an expert with drunkards.”

He gnawed a fistful of beef, as his eyes scanned their surroundings. He was covered with dust, stubble showed on his chin, and he looked more outlaw than ever. A yellow bird flew overhead, examining them curiously, and then suddenly Duane was on his feet, whipping out his Colt .44.

A
jabalina
pig walked nonchalantly across the far end of the clearing, paying no attention to Duane and Doña Consuelo. The fugitives resumed their meal, and no longer did Doña Consuelo ask what she was doing with him. They finished the meal, and he repacked their saddlebags. “Let's get rolling,” he told her.

“I thought we could rest awhile.”

“That's what we just did.”

“Not even a few more minutes?”

He pointed his finger at her nose. “Discipline is the key to survival on the desert. Now get on your horse.”

“I thought we slept during the day, and rode during the night.”

“Not after what happened in the store.” He turned down a corner of his mouth. “Let's understand something, Doña Consuelo. We don't have discussions about what to do, because
I'm
in charge.” He slapped her on the rear end. “Now get on your horse.”

***

Don Carlos and his vaqueros rode down the main street of a small settlement, the odor of woodsmoke heavy in the air. The trail of Duane Braddock and Doña Consuelo had led them here, and Don Carlos wondered if the culprits still were in town.

Vaqueros patrolled both sides of the street, searching for Midnight and Josephina among horses tied at the rails. Don Carlos angled his mount toward the store, as a crowd gathered to see the arrival of the great caudillo. “It is Don Carlos de Rebozo!” called one of them.

The Don was a local celebrity, and everybody wanted to say to grandchildren,
Once, long ago, I saw Don Carlos de Rebozo.
Like a hoary old warlord, he lowered himself to the ground. A vaquero took his reins, and the nobleman headed for the front door of the store. The proprietor stood in front of his counter, bowing slightly, awaiting orders. Don Carlos stomped toward him, looked him in the eye, and said: “I'm after two people, and I have reason to believe they were headed in this direction. One is a gringo, eighteen years old, approximately this tall—” Don Carlos held out his hand, “—and he usually wears black clothes. The other is a woman, twenty-one years old, approximately this tall, with black hair, very pretty. Have you seen them?”

The proprietor nodded. “They were here this morning, and the gringo shot a man right over there.” He pointed at a stain on the floor. “A vaquero insulted the woman, and the gringo killed him.”

Don Carlos lost his regal composure, but only for a moment. “The woman—did she appear unharmed?”

“It was clear that she and the gringo had been riding for a long distance.”

“How did she act? Was she a little loco, would you say?”

“She was surprisingly calm, sir, in view of what had happened.”

“Which way did they go?”

The proprietor pointed. Don Carlos walked out the door, and found the half-breed in front of the store. “They went that way,” said Don Carlos, pointing ahead down the trail. “Move it out.”

Lázaro headed for his horse as the caudillo faced García. “Order the men to mount up.”

“Sir, the men had hoped you would let them have a glass of mescal for the trail.”

“We don't have time for a party, García. I said order the men to mount up.”

Don Carlos backed his horse into the dusty trail, then climbed into the saddle. He readjusted his hat, then straightened his backbone, took the reins, and looked like an old gray-mustachioed general as he led his men out of town.

Beneath his solid military demeanor, Don Carlos was deeply disturbed. Duane Braddock had claimed another victim, but the bloody news didn't fit with the naive and shy youth with whom Don Carlos had dined at the hacienda. Now that Don Carlos thought it over, Duane Braddock reminded him of students he'd known in Seville, the ones who'd spent their time in libraries, not ladies' boudoirs.

I've caused suffering to other husbands too, realized Don Carlos, and now it's coming back to me. But if I tell her how much I love her, and remind her about all she's given up, I'm certain that she'll take the prudent course.

Don Carlos thought he understood Doña Consuelo, and surmised that she was petrified with terror. Despite her recent conversion to reality, she's still fundamentally a very sheltered child, he told himself. Maybe she's ready to leave her new paramour, but is afraid he might fly into one of his rages and kill her.

Don Carlos worried about his little wife as he followed the Apache half-breed onto the desert. García caught up with Don Carlos, slowed his mount, and rode silently at the side of the nobleman, as his first sergeant. The column of twos advanced onto the open desert, hauling wagons at the rear, sending up a cloud of dust.

Don Carlos turned toward García and asked: “What do you think about all this?”

García appeared disturbed by the question. “I have no right, sir ...”

“Forget for a moment that I'm Don Carlos and you're García. I'm asking you man to man. You've been working for me a long time, and you know me very well. Do you think I'm a fool for chasing my wife this way?”

García shrugged, and said reluctantly: “I would do the same thing, sir.” The foreman of vaqueros held his forefinger to his own throat, and made a sudden motion. “The gringo has got to die. It is a matter of honor.”

Of course, reflected Don Carlos. The vaqueros don't think I'm a buffoon, but a man of honor. You don't let a man run off with your wife, and even a vaquero can understand the insult. Duane Braddock has violated me in the worst possible way, and I don't care how shy and scholarly he is.

The sun sank toward vermilion mountains in the
distance as Don Carlos turned toward his foreman once more. “I'm curious about something else, García. You're a married man, and you must know something about women. What would make a good religious girl like Doña Consuelo do such a thing?”

García shrugged, as if the answer were too obvious to discuss. “I grew up the only son among four sisters. My grandmother and one of my unmarried aunts also lived with us in a two room
jacal.
I have been with women all my life, and I have tried to understand them, but what man has ever understood women? They do not even understand themselves, and they are liable to do any crazy thing that comes to their minds. You can beat them, but it does no good. You can lock them up, but who has the heart to lock up a woman? How can you ask me how to handle your wife, when I cannot even handle mine?”

Don Carlos saw the absurdity of his predicament and burst into laughter. García chuckled as well. Side by side they rode onward, as the sun cast long shadows onto the desert. I'm not the first man with horns on my head, realized Don Carlos. The vaqueros understand, because what man has never been betrayed by a woman? Duane Braddock sat at table with me, pretended to be my friend, and swore that he had no designs on my wife. He has broken the silent pact that all decent men make with each other, and ignorance is no excuse. Duane Braddock must be punished for his sins.

Doña Consuelo sat in a shallow ditch, gun in hand, waiting for Duane to return. He was hunting a suitable place to spend the night, and they'd landed in a terrain
of cliffs, pinnacles, buttes, and ledges, with plenty of nooks and crannies for two people to disappear inside.

Since infancy, Doña Consuelo had heard about Apaches burning, looting, slaughtering, and raping. She was prepared to blow her brains out, her pistol cocked and ready to fire, if any Apache tried to capture her. Duane had been gone a long time, or so she thought. It was a new world, and she hoped she'd be able to hold up.

“It's me,” said a voice behind her. “Don't shoot.”

She spun around, and he lay on the grama grass a few feet behind her, a grin on his face. “I've found a nice little cave a little farther along. Let's go.”

He gathered the horses' reins and led them into a notch between two jagged escarpments. Doña Consuelo followed, as sharp stones stabbed and twisted her boots. She was utterly filthy, and wished she could take a bath, but she'd left her bathtub far behind. It's not
that
bad, she tried to convince herself, as Duane led her to the front of a cave.

“It's a perfect spot,” he told her proudly. “If anybody tries to get us, they'll have to come through that passageway, and I believe they'll find it too high a price to pay. I'll take care of the horses—make yourself comfortable—be right back.”

She lowered her head and entered the cave. To her surprise, the ceiling swept up after the first few feet. She raised herself to full height and saw a roundish chamber with a flat rock floor and the bones of a
lobo
in the corner. She kicked the offending ossified calcium formations out the door, then searched for a spot for the bedroll. She located a flat stretch, knelt, and unrolled the blankets where they could look out the
door when they awakened. A smile came to her face as she accomplished this tender task.

He returned to the cave, took one look, and pointed to another spot. “Put the bedroll over there.”

“But I like it here.”

“Somebody could shoot you in bed from that passageway. Move it.” He walked around the cave, kicked the wall, picked up something from the floor, and held it to his eye. “An old arrowhead. I guess we're not the first ones to sleep here.”

“I hope it's not a place Where Apaches come regularly.”

“Nobody's been here for a long time,” said Duane.

“How do you know?”

“If people visit a place, they keep the dust from settling on the floor.” He bent over, scraped his finger along the rock, and held up the alkali powder. “See?”

He took off his hat, slapped it against his knee, and put it back on. Then he laid out his weapons on the floor, and made sure everything was in working order. Next he crawled to the edge of the passageway and peered into the open desert.

It was becoming dark, and no Apaches, bounty hunters, or vaqueros of Don Carlos were visible. Duane maintained a strong facade for Doña Consuelo, but had become unsettled by the shooting in the cantina. It had come so quickly, he'd barely had time to draw. No matter where he went, or what he did, somebody started up with him. Do I carry the mark of Cain? he wondered.

Sometimes he thought he was doomed, and should go back to the monastery, but not with a beautiful woman only twenty paces away. He returned to the
cave, and she was sitting on the blankets, pulling off her boots, her skirt lifting to show a length of leg. This is worth dying for, he admitted, as he moved toward her.

“Duane,” she protested weakly.

He lowered her to the blankets, crawled on top, roved his hands over her hips, and kissed her lightly. “I've been dreaming about this moment all day long,” he whispered. “I saw you sitting in the saddle, and I thought,
I've got to have some of that.
”

He kissed her throat, and she dug her fingernails into his thick shaggy hair. The scratch of his beard thrilled her as he unbuttoned her blouse. His hand slipped inside, and came to rest on an extremely sensitive portion of her anatomy.

“I also was looking at you today,” she replied. “You sat in your saddle like a
real
caudillo, and I thought, 7
can't wait until it's time to go to bed.
”

They undressed each other frantically, kissing portions of each other's emerging anatomy, tossing garments wildly through the air. Duane's heart filled with mad animal lust as he inserted his tongue into her petulant mouth. Her body undulated rhythmically beneath him, provoking his ardor to higher summits, as night came to the Apache homeland.

Frowning, Don Carlos stood at his camp table, studying a map. He and his men hadn't covered as much ground as he'd anticipated, because the fugitives's trail had petered out three hours ago on a long stretch of rock. Now the half-breed was scouting about, trying to find where they'd gone.

Don Carlos wondered whether to throw away the
wagons and travel lighter. We'll never catch them at the rate we're going, and I wonder if there's a better way. Where are they headed, and can we cut them off?

Don Carlos didn't think the gringo would visit another Mexican town, after the last murder. He'd also stay off main trails, sleep where no one could find him, and live off the land, like an Indian. But he could not hide for the rest of his life, and one day I will catch him.

“Sir?” asked Lázaro, outside the tent.

“Come in.”

The half-breed entered, and appeared more vital since he'd returned to the desert. “I have been unable to find his trail, sir, but in the morning I will try again.”

“I'm surprised that it's taking so long,” said Don Carlos. “I thought that Apaches were the best trackers in the world.”

“He covers his trail well, and they say that he is part Apache too. But I know where he's headed.” Lázaro smiled, showing tobacco-stained teeth. “The Sierra Madre mountains.”

“Tell me the truth, half-breed. What are our real chances of finding them?”

“He does not have time to cover everything. Between here and the Sierra Madre, I will find his sign.”

“What if he's gone elsewhere?”

“An Apache will hide in the Sierra Madre mountains, because no Mexicans will go there. But I was raised in those mountains, and know them well. You've heard the old saying, Don Carlos:
It takes an Apache to catch an Apache.
”

***

The lovers lay in each other's arms, safe from enemies, covered with a gray wool blanket, cheeks touching. “Are you awake, Duane?” she asked.