Bad to the Bone (24 page)

She said it matter-of-factly, like a wife discussing
the family budget, but Duane felt as though a horse had been lifted off his shoulders. He straightened his spine, the corners of his mouth turned up, and they fell into each other's arms, as was their custom.

Don Carlos pushed his men all night and most of the next day. At sundown, Lázaro suggested that they make camp near a certain
arroyo.
Don Carlos passed the order down, and the men dismounted approximately two miles from Duane Braddock's hideout, close enough to strike against him on foot, but too far for Braddock to see or hear them. No fires were permitted, with no loud sounds. A vaquero unrolled Don Carlos's blankets, as the caudillo gazed at the Sierra Madre mountains looming like an incomprehensible mass of shapes and sizes in the moonlit night.

Don Carlos crossed himself, then prayed that Doña Consuelo was still alive. He was anxious for dawn, for that was when he and his men would attack the cave. He thought of her smooth belly, and how he'd brush his lips across her breasts. Worried about her safety, not to mention her virtue, he believed that any vile act was possible with a cold-blooded killer like the Pecos Kid. I'm confident that I can win her back, if she's still alive, he tried to convince himself. And if Duane Braddock killed her, justice will be administered tomorrow, so help me God.

After the last show of the evening, Miss Vanessa Fontaine often returned to the saloon for a few drinks with the boys. It was better than sitting alone in her
room, moping over a certain lost outlaw, and she'd discovered that cowboys, gamblers, and thieves could be highly entertaining companions, with incredible stories to tell.

She emerged into the saloon, where a ripple of applause attended her progress. She was headed toward a round table from which a cowboy had invited her for a drink with a rancher named Spencer Reynolds and his cattle crew. As she approached, Reynolds arose with his cowboys. He was three inches shorter than she, with a sturdy chest, powerful arms, and a friendly Texas smile. A cowboy held out a chair for her, and she sat on its edge daintily. A glass of whiskey was pushed in front of her, as they ogled her with worship, lust, curiosity, and fascination.

“Here's to Miss Vanessa Fontaine!” declared the rancher.

Everyone clicked glasses, a cheer went up from the crowd, and even the saloon cat was watching from her perch atop the bar.

The rancher and the Charleston belle examined each other across the table, and she could sense that he was a solid Texan, almost good-looking, clean-shaven, confident, and energetic.

“I've been in some concert halls in my time, ma'am,” he said, “but you're just about the finest singer I ever heard. You put real feeling into those old songs, and for a few moments, I thought I was back in the Army.”

“Where did you serve?”

“I was on the staff of General Ambrose Hill.”

They exchanged pleasantries about the war, as his cowboys excused themselves one by one, then drifted toward the bar. Soon Vanessa and the rancher were
alone, and he moved closer, to pour another round. His muscles strained the sleeves of his shirt, he wore no wedding ring, and she liked his roguish smile.

“I visted Charleston once, before the war,” he told her. “My cousin Jimmie was a cadet at the Citadel, and I attended several parties. Perhaps we've met before.”

“I'm sure that I would've remembered you, sir. What brought you to Texas?”

“The chance to start out fresh again. How about you?”

“A little dispute with the federal government known as Reconstruction.”

“Why don't you come to the ranch sometime,” he invited. “I'd love to have you as my guest.”

I'm sure you would, she thought, as she looked him over critically. He could provide anything a former Charleston belle might require, but he evoked no powerful attraction, whereas she could become passionate by merely reflecting upon vague memories of Duane Braddock.

“Perhaps someday,” she said.

“It's been this way all my life,” he admitted. “The ones I like—don't like me, and vice versa.”

“I'm sure you're a fine gentleman,” replied Vanessa, “but what you suggest must be inspired by love, and I'm promised to someone else. You mustn't take it personally.”

He laughed darkly. “Of course—how could I take it personally? You probably get twenty proposals a night.”

“More,” she replied, “and now, if you'll excuse me, I've got something to do.”

In her dressing room, she scrutinized herself in the
mirror. Every day she found new wrinkles, her hair didn't appear as thick as formerly, and her complexion appeared pallid. I'm getting older every minute, and I just threw away a perfectly good man—for what?

She flopped onto the chair, and the air went out of her lungs. Maybe I've never grown up, but if I can't trust my poor heart, what can I trust? On the other hand, I can't wait for that damned Pecos Kid forever, can I?

D
UANE OPENED HIS EYES, AND IT WAS
dark in the pueblo. He kissed his woman lightly on the cheek, strapped on his Colt, and tied the holster to his leg. Doña Consuelo looked like a sleeping peasant girl as the first glimmer of dawn appeared over the tops of mountains.

“Where are you going so early?” she asked sleepily.

“Lots to do.”

He put on his cowboy hat and was out the door. The sun rose in the sky as he passed the altar and ascended the stepping stones to the exit from paradise. The sky brightened, as stars faded into the morning, and birds sang happily. He entered the vault, got down on his hands and knees, and made his way to the exit on the far side. As always, he approached carefully, raised his eyes over the ledge, and examined every blade of grass and cactus as far as the eye could see.
The Apaches had hammered vigilance into his skull, and he repeated the ritual every time he went out.

Nothing seemed out of order, and he couldn't imagine danger in the offing. He stalked down the incline, holding his rifle in both hands, ready to fire. Suddenly, out of the peace and purity of the morning, he heard the familiar voice of Don Carlos de Rebozo: “Don't move, Braddock—or you're a dead man!”

Duane's heart stuttered—he was taken totally by surprise, and didn't know whether to collapse or go blind. Don Carlos and his vaqueros materialized out of the desert, all aiming rifles, shotguns, and pistols at him. The Pecos Kid thought he was going to faint from shock.

“Drop the rifle,” said the bedraggled Don Carlos, who resembled Rip Van Winkle. “We won't hesitate to shoot.”

Duane considered reaching for his Colt, but didn't have a prayer in hell. He was too far from the cave to run back, so he grinned, shrugged, and said: “Looks like you've got me.” His rifle clattered to the ground.

“Now lay your revolver down . . . slowly.”

Duane was afraid they'd shoot him like a dog, and he had to make a play. Fear pumped powerful chemicals into his bloodstream, and he dove to the side like an Apache, rolled over, and came up firing. Two vaqueros were hit. Then he rolled out and ran in a zig-zag toward the cave, as bullets flew like bees all around him. He was certain he'd be killed at any moment as he dived into the entrance, and a bullet pierced his left calf as his head cleared the opening.

He jolted in pain, his head hit the roof of the tunnel, and he nearly knocked himself cold. But potent glandular juices enlivened his muscles, and he squirmed into the
main vault. Blood dripped into his boot, but he ran toward the rear crack and hobbled down the steps. Doña Consuelo looked out the window, an expression of panic on her face, her rifle in her hands. “What happened!” she cried.

“Your husband has arrived,” replied Duane, as he hobbled across the clearing, “and he's got his whole private army with him. Get your head down.” She ducked as he entered the pueblo, dropped to his stomach, and said, “Fix my leg.”

She rolled up his pantleg, and saw the ugly wound. “I think that the bullet is still in there.”

“Cut it out. Put your knife in the fire first, to sterilize it.”

“Duane, I . . .”

“Don't worry about hurting me. I can handle the pain.”

It was ferocious, and he required all his strength to keep a straight face. He didn't want to scare her, but then a terrific explosion rocked the canyon, and Doña Consuelo dived to the floor. Flying rocks struck the outer wall of the pueblo, while a few flew through the window. The sound echoed thunderously around the walls of the canyon, and Duane knew that he and his woman were in serious trouble. They looked at each other fearfully in the bright dawn light as the voice of Don Carlos came to them from the smoking mouth of the vault above. “Braddock—can you hear me!”

Duane looked at Consuelo and whispered: “He's your husband—what do you think we should do?”

“I know him very well, and maybe I can manage him.” She crawled toward the open door, and shouted outside: “Don Carlos—it's me!”

There was a pause, then: “Thank heaven! Are you all right?”

“I
was
fine. What are you doing!”

“I have come to save you, my dear.”

“Don't tell me that you've followed me all the way here, Don Carlos. Have you gone mad?”

“I am madly in love with you, and I want you to come back with me.”

“Never! Leave me alone!”

It was silent for a few moments, and Consuelo thought she heard coughing inside the vault. Then Don Carlos replied: “I don't believe you're speaking with your own free will. For all I know, Braddock has got a gun pointed at the back of your head. Let's have a family discussion, just the both of us, where he can't influence you. Then, if you decide that you want to stay with him, it's all right with me.”

“Let me think about it,” she replied.

“You have five minutes.”

“Only
five
minutes?”

“My dear, there's something you don't seem to understand,” said Don Carlos icily. “You have disgraced my family name and yours too, you may be interested to know. But I am willing to forgive you, if you renounce the error of your ways. Otherwise, and I'm not bluffing here, I'll blow that pueblo down around your ears.”

There was silence for a few moments, then she replied: “You'd
kill
me?”

“Without hesitation, because you have killed something in me. It is only because I love you that I am willing to take such an extreme step.”

Doña Consuelo turned to Duane. “I think he's serious.”

“I've always thought there was something odd about
him, but he's your husband, not mine.”

“Perhaps I can talk sense to him.” She moved closer to the window and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Don Carlos—we can have a family discussion in neutral territory, such as the middle of the clearing. That way I don't have to trust you too much, and you don't have to trust me.”

“How do I know that Braddock won't shoot me?”

“How do I know that
you
won't shoot
me,
after what I've done to your family honor . . . ?”

“It's Braddock I don't trust.”

“If he shoots you, your vaqueros will not let him leave this place alive. But if we talk, perhaps we can work out an arrangement.”

There was silence for several moments, then Don Carlos said: “Very well. If Braddock kills me, my blood will be on your hands.”

“Nobody wants your blood, my dear husband. The problem is that you want ours.” Then she turned toward Duane. “I wish I had a mirror. How do I look?” She pinched her cheeks, bit her lips, and smoothed her hair. “I will do my best.”

Duane watched her leave the pueblo, while Don Carlos warily descended the rock staircase, his rifle in his right hand, as his vaqueros sat at the edge of the vault, guns in their hands. Duane's left leg was turning numb, the bleeding had stopped, and a hunk of lead had taken up residence in his flesh. He held his knife over the fire, feeling guilty about stealing Don Carlos's wife. I'm an adulterer, I'm going to be a father, and I probably won't survive this day, thought the Pecos Kid.

Doña Consuelo walked confidently across the open ground, heading toward Don Carlos, who had come to the bottom of the stone steps. He looked like a tall Santa Claus in a wide-brimmed
estancia
hat, as he smiled gallantly. “You're looking well, and your life in the fresh air must agree with you. Shall we sit like civilized people and discuss this matter from a rational point of view?”

She dropped to a cross-legged position opposite him, astonished by how old he'd become. His gray beard made him appear grandfatherly, while his jaunty vaquero hat gave him a droll aspect. This is my husband? she asked herself. My God.

He unscrewed his canteen and passed it to her. Above them, high in the sky, three old buzzards circled hungrily, while singing insects greeted the new day. “I never thought you'd leave me, Doña Consuelo,” said Don Carlos sadly. “What happened?”