Bad to the Bone (26 page)

Duane slouched in his saddle as Midnight carried him across a vast cactus plateau. It was two o'clock in the morning, and Duane was contemplating his lost love, when he caught a flicker of light down the road.

He halted Midnight, pulled his spyglass, and focused on a small conglomeration of buildings straight ahead. There was nothing but trouble in towns, but he worried about his leg. Maybe they've got a doctor, he thought hopefully, although the town appeared too small to support such a prominent and distinguished gentleman.

Duane nudged Midnight toward the lights, although he wasn't in the mood for violence. Constant throbbing pain could affect the classic fast draw. All towns of the same size appeared similar, and he could expect a stable, cantina, church, and store. If it's not Saturday night—should be peaceful.

He rode down the one and only street, where three horses were tied in front of the cantina, while a stagecoach rested alongside the stable. He steered Midnight toward the cantina, climbed down from the saddle,
looked about cautiously, then limped into the ramshackle structure.

It held a table of cardplayers, a few drinkers at the bar, and a solitary bearded gentleman sitting in the corner, looking out of place. Duane made his way to the man in the apron, who filled a glass with mescal. Duane flipped him a coin, sipped fiery refreshment, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and said, “You don't happen to know where I can find a doctor, do you?”

The bartender pointed to the man in the corner. “You are lucky, because there is one right there. He arrived a few hours ago on the stagecoach.”

Duane dragged his foot across the floor, and was dismayed to see that the medical practitioner was passed out cold, a half bottle of mescal in front of him. I don't need a drunkard, decided Duane. He was turning away, when the doctor opened his eyes. “Did you wish to speak with me, Americano?”

“I was shot in the leg,” replied Duane, “and I'm afraid it's infected. Can you take a look or are you too drunk?”

“Drunk?” The doctor placed his hand on his breast. “Of course I'm not drunk. I was only resting.”

A wave of alcohol fumes struck Duane in the face, but the old soak was the only assistance available. Duane pulled off his boot, then lay face down on the floor. The doctor brought the oil lamp closer, knelt beside him, brought his eye close to the wound, and said: “Hmmmm.” He opened his little black bag, pulled out a pair of tweezers, and poked the instrument into the wound. “Looks all right to me. Just a matter of time till it heals. This is going to hurt.” The doctor poured
mescal into the wound, but no sound escaped Duane's lips. The doctor dabbed the mescal with a white cloth. “What's your name?”

“José.”

“You look familiar, José. Have we ever met?”

“Not that I recall.”

The doctor tied on the bandage. “Try to stay off it, and let nature take its course. Where are you from, José?”

“
Tejas.
”

“You are a desperado, no? Well, I always charge desperados more. Fifty pesos, please.”

Duane paid him, then returned to the bar, relieved that he didn't need leg amputation, but not trusting the medical advice entirely. “Hit me again,” he told the bartender.

“Hold it right there,” said a voice behind him. “Don't move a muscle, or I'll kill you.”

Duane had become distracted, permitting someone to creep up on him. The Pecos Kid tried to smile. “What's the problem, friend?”

“Hold ‘em high, and if you try somethin',
yer
a dead son-of-a-bitch.”

The man came behind Duane and pulled Duane's Colt out of its holster, then removed the knife in his boot. “You can turn around, but do it real slow, and don't make no fast moves.”

Duane saw a tall blond gringo standing in front of him, holding a gun aimed at his chest. “I guess you don't reckernize me, but we run into each other in Zumarraga. I couldn't get into position fast enough, then you left town. There's a five-hundred-dollar reward on yer ass, and I'm a-gonna claim it.” The bounty
hunter reached into his pocket and took out a wanted picture with Duane's sketched unshaven face on it. “Whoop dee do—looks like I'm rich!”

Duane recalled the blond gringo from Zumarraga. “I always wondered what kind of polecat would become a bounty hunter.”

“Just walk to yer horse, Mister Pecos. And no funny moves, if'n you don't mind.”

Duane wondered if there was a trick or ruse he could use to escape. Naked before a loaded gun, he knew it wouldn't be easy, but he'd rather die than get locked in a cell.

“I'm a-gonna tie you up,” said the bounty hunter. “Lie down whar you are, put yer hands behind yer back, and don't make no funny moves, cause I'll pop you right in the ear.”

“I'd like to know your name,” said Duane.

“None of yer fuckin' business. Git down and do what I say.”

It was bare ground in front of the cantina, covered with gobs of spit, cigarette butts, and a splash of something that looked like vomit. Stark desperation assailed Duane as he lowered himself to the ground. The bounty hunter bent to slip a hitch over one wrist, and the Pecos Kid knew it was now or never. In a sudden Apache explosion of muscles and sinews, he was up and spinning, grabbing for the bounty hunter's gun hand.

The gun fired, its flash blinding Duane, and the ground blasted three inches from his left ear. The bounty hunter was knocked off his feet, then Duane twisted the gun out of his hand, turned the barrel swiftly, and aimed it at the bounty hunter's nose.

The bounty hunter smiled nervously, showing large white teeth. “Looks like you got the drop on me.”

“Hand me my gun real slow, butt first.”

The bounty hunter took the gun by the barrel and held it out to Duane. “Guess yer as rough as they say, Mister Braddock.”

“Guess I am.”

Duane couldn't shoot him in cold blood, but didn't want a bounty hunter on his trail. “Listen to me carefully,” said Duane. “I've killed to defend my life, and I'll kill you too, Mister Bounty Hunter Man, if I ever see you crawling up on me again.”

The bounty hunter bravely tried to smile. “Yes sir.”

“Stand in the middle of the street, and don't get funny on me. You give me a reason—I'll blow your damned fool head off.”

The bounty hunter obeyed orders as Duane aimed his Colt at him. Duane climbed into the saddle, backed Midnight into the street, and rode toward the bounty hunter, still levelling the gun. Midnight stopped in front of the bounty hunter, and Duane said, “Nobody's ever going to lock me up, and you can tell that to any lawman. If you ever see me again, you'd better start running. Got me?”

The bounty hunter nodded solemnly, as he gazed down the barrel of the most profound argument in the world. “Yes sir.”

Duane pulled Midnight's reins to the side, and Midnight raised his front hooves high in the air. Then he turned, Duane gave him some spur, and the horse broke into a gallop, carrying the Pecos Kid swiftly into the night.

The bounty hunter stood in the middle of the street,
watching horse and rider disappear. Then he sighed in relief, shook out his arms, and returned to the cantina.

All eyes were on him as he approached the bartender, who filled a glass without being asked. The bounty hunter's name was Hank Grimble, and he gulped the contents down. Then he placed the glass on the bar, and said, “That was too close for comfort.”

The bartender nodded in agreement. “I wonder who he was?”

“In Texas, we call him the Pecos Kid. He's supposed to be one bad
hombre,
and I guess that's so.”

“You owe your life to him, señor. If it had been me—I would have killed you.”

The bartender filled another glass, and Grimble's hand trembled as he carried it to a table against the wall. He sat, stared into space, and tried to understand what happened. One moment he'd had the Pecos Kid pinned, and the next he was looking at the business end of a Colt .44. He'd heard stories about the Kid's uncanny speed, but figured it was the usual exaggeration. The bounty hunter took off his cowboy hat and wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve. Maybe it's time I found another line of work.

Duane rode all night, slept the next day, and hit the trail at sundown. He continued this schedule for the next several days, as he advanced toward his native land.

In dreams, he held Doña Consuelo in his arms, but he awakened to find himself alone, with flies buzzing his nose. He maintained a constant watch on his back trail, in case a certain blond head turned up unexpectedly. His
behavior was furtive, secretive, and ready for anything. He slept with his Colt loaded but uncocked in his right hand.

Sometimes, drowsing in the saddle, he recalled his all-too-brief weeks with Doña Consuelo de Rebozo. The longing refused to depart, and he realized that he cared for the Spanish noblewoman deeply. Someday we'll be together again, my darling, he swore, while another part of his mind wondered if he'd ever see her again.

The closer he drew to the Rio Grande, the more he found himself thinking about America. I'll change my name, and become just another cowboy drifter fool. Nobody'll notice me if I stay out of trouble, but when have I ever stayed out of trouble?”

One night, he stopped at a water hole surrounded by green oaks, cottonwoods, and swales of grass. He knew that such tempting sites were the most dangerous places for white eyes, but it was dark, and he wasn't expected. He stopped Midnight, listened, and asked, “What do you think, feller?”

Midnight twitched his ear. Looks okay to me, pard.

They'd been getting along better, as they'd spent more time together. Duane dismounted, led Midnight to the water, loosened the cinches, and then filled the canteens. Next, the fugitive took off his hat, thrust his head beneath the surface, and raised it swiftly. Dripping wet, he tied canteens to the saddles, checked Midnight's hooves, and made sure nothing was chafing the animal's hide. He was about to climb back into the saddle, when he noted a poster nailed to a nearby tree.

Wouldn't it be a kick in the ass if that's my face over there? he asked himself, as he led Midnight toward the
document. But after several more steps he noticed that nobody's image had been drawn on the poster. Instead, it consisted of the following message:

Appearing nightly

the famous, one and only

MISS VANESSA FONTAINE

“The Charleston Nightingale”

Last Chance Saloon

Escondido, Texas

M
AGGIE
O'D
AY LOOKED UP FROM HER 
desk, as the door opened. It was Miss Vanessa Fontaine, fifteen minutes before her next performance. “I've reached a decision,” said the Charleston Nightingale. “This is my last week.”

Maggie puffed her cigar skeptically. “That's what you say every Monday.”

Vanessa sat on the chair, her back ramrod-straight. “I'm at the point where I'm losing respect for myself, so I'm taking the next stage east—sorry. If Duane Braddock shows up after I've gone, tell him I'm in Charleston. If I'm going to be a singer, I might as well get serious about it. I think I'm ready for concert halls.”

“I agree—you've got too much talent fer this li'l
border town,” replied Maggie, “but yer still a woman in love, and I don't believe yer a-goin' nowheres.”

Vanessa narrowed her eyes with determination. “I'll never stop loving him, but I'm so sick of Escondido—I'm ready to scream.”

“This town's sure ain't got much,” Maggie agreed. “I'd be a damned fool if I said otherwise, and I plan to leave myself someday, but one of these nights—I can feel it in my bones—young Duane is a-gonna show up. Hell, he's long overdue, and it might even be tonight.”

There was a knock on the door. “Time to make the announcements, Miss O'Day.”

Maggie strode toward the saloon, pushed through the crowd, and climbed onto the stage. Then she launched her introduction, while Vanessa waited in the shadows, hoping that Duane would be there, but it was always the same, and she was tired of letdowns. I've never been so unhappy in all my days, she confessed to herself. The only thing to do is hit the trail, otherwise I'll go mad in this ratty little border town.

She heard Maggie speak her name, and the saloon echoed with outbursts of joy and expectation. Miss Vanessa Fontaine squared her shoulders, went up on her toes, and advanced theatrically toward the stage, as a wide path of admirers opened for her. They winked, smiled, licked their chops, drooled, burped. Some had eyes like saucers traced with red ink. She landed on the stage, bowed, and scanned their faces, looking for
him
amid peals of homage and praise. But he wasn't there, as usual, so all she could do was quiet them down, make her usual preliminary remarks, and after they were properly quiet, she placed one palm in the other, and performed:

“
Way down upon the Swanee River

Far, far away,

That's where my heart is turning ever,

There's where the old folks stay
. . .”