Bad to the Bone (9 page)

There was no orchestra, conductor, or instruments. It was just Miss Vanessa Fontaine, one palm of her
hand resting in the other, standing before them and opening her mouth to sing:

“
I wish I was in the land of cotton

Good times there are not forgotten

Look away, look away, look away

Dixie land.

In Dixie land where I was born

in a shack on a frosty morning

look away, look away, look away

Dixie land
. . . “

In truth, Miss Vanessa Fontaine had been born in the manor house, not a shack on a frosty morning, but many men in the audience had first seen the light of day in broken-down shacks, or sod houses, while others had been raised with silver spoons in their mouths. Her strong coloratura voice brought them back to those halcyon days, as she raised her arms dramatically, threw back her head, and belted out the chorus with all the musical gifts that God had given her:

“
Then I wish I was in Dixie

Hooray! Hooray!

In Dixie land I'll make my stand

to live or die for Dixie!

Away, away,

Away down South in Dixie

Away, way,

away down South in Dixie!
”

The saloon exploded with approval, every voice singing loudly, for Dixie was no mere geographical location
to Miss Vanessa Fontaine and the members of her audience. No, it was their spiritual landscape forged in flames, and they'd never forget languid summer afternoons, magnolia blossoms, mint juleps, and chivalry that the world had not seen for hundreds of years previously, and likely would never see again.

Miss Vanessa Fontaine bowed low, as if to acknowledge that men, not women, had charged batteries of cannon, been torn apart by rifle fire, and experienced the singular sensation of a cold, dirty bayonet in the guts.

Meanwhile, Maggie O'Day stood beside the bar, worrying that the volume of applause would blow out the very walls of her saloon. She'd employed the random fiddler or guitar plucker over the years, but never before had a performer like Miss Vanessa Fontaine stirred up such a tumult at the Last Chance Saloon. Coins showered upon the stage, and a gold twenty-dollar double eagle bounced off the Charleston Nightingale's nose as she arose and stood before them with her arms outstretched.

She's got that special something, no doubt about it, thought Maggie O'Day. So this is the woman who captured young Duane Braddock's heart, threw it way, and now wishes she could get it back. Maggie wanted to hate Vanessa, but enjoyed a good show like the rest of her customers, who were drinking heavily and working themselves to fever pitch. She sells whisky, and that's all I care about, thought Maggie.

Meanwhile, at center stage, surrounded by a sea of gold and silver coins, Miss Vanessa Fontaine was preparing her next selection of the evening. Again she opened her mouth, and her voice filled the saloon:

“
When the boys come home in triumph, brother

With the laurels they shall gain;

When we go to give them welcome, brother,

We shall look for you in vain.

We shall wait for your returning, brother

But you were set forever free;

For your comrades left you sleeping, brother,

Underneath a Southern tree.
”

Tears flowed copiously down the cheeks of gnarled old soldiers, as they recalled comrades they'd buried beneath southern trees. Vanessa's eyes weren't dry either, for her first love had fallen at Gettysburg, in the most immense cavalry engagement of the war. And her parents had died too, for the family plantation had lain unwittingly in the path of Sherman's cruel march to the sea. The song brought back beautiful and painful memories, as Vanessa and her audience became brothers and sisters of the great Lost Cause:

“
You were the first on duty, brother

When ‘to arms' your leader cried,
—

You have left the ranks forever,

You have laid your arms aside.

From the awful scenes of battle, brother

You were set forever free;

When your comrades left you sleeping, brother

Underneath that Southern tree.
”

Pandemonium broke out in the Last Chance Saloon, as Vanessa curtsied demurely, spreading out her arms. More coins tinkled onto the stage, and she could tell by their number that she had been a success. She blew
them kisses, for she truly loved them as they loved her, and she'd be nothing without their devotion and encouragement. She raised herself to her full height, and for the first time scanned their faces carefully, searching relentlessly for
him.
She prayed that she'd see his face in the adoring throngs, but failed to locate the black hat with silver concho hatband, and neither did she spot his eyes identical in color to hers, not to mention his Mona Lisa smirk. You could never figure out what was going on in that theological mind of his.

He's not here, she realized with dismay, as strange men proclaimed her name uproariously. But maybe he'll come tomorrow night, and all my dreams will come true.

Duane, Don Patricio, and Doña Consuelo were seated at one end of the long dining room table, as a servant placed a whole roast pig before them. The steaming beast was surrounded by silver bowls of yams, beans, rice, and tortillas. A guitarist strummed old Cadiz melodies in the corner, his sombrero covering his eyes.

Duane had never seen such extravagance, but he knew that peasants were gathered around nailed-together tables in the village below, or were seated on the floors of their humble adobe huts, with tortillas and beans if they were lucky, and a chunk of stray meat for flavoring, if God had been especially kind.

Supper was a sacrament to the poor, for food was so scarce, but in the hacienda it became a pageant with music by a skilled artist, the quantity excessive for three people, and everything seemed overdone, false, and effeminate to the Pecos Kid. He wasn't sure whether he
liked it or not.

He gazed across the table at Doña Consuelo placing a forkful of pig into her shapely mouth. There was something compelling about the way she chewed; her jaws had a certain rhythmic motion, and he realized that he was staring at her.

Calmly, he returned his eyes to his plate. Her mother is dying upstairs, and I'm having carnal thoughts about Doña Consuelo. I studied for the priesthood, and here I am raping her in my mind. I must be one sick cowboy to be carrying on this way.

He turned toward Don Patricio, and wondered how a tubby old fellow with graying sidewhiskers and plump rosy cheeks could produce such a beautiful daughter. “I've never met anybody with more patience than your mother,” said Don Patricio to Doña Consuelo. “How she tolerated me all these years is beyond comprehension.”

“She loved you,” the young wife replied, “and she gave her life to all of us. I never appreciated her until now, and don't know how I'll get along without her.”

Doña Consuelo went limp, and the fork fell from her hand. She seemed devastated by the impending death of her mother. A tear rolled down her cheek, and Duane wanted to comfort her, but instead took another slice of roast pig and another spoonful of beans.

“I've let her down on many occasions,” confessed Don Patricio, “but it was easy to take advantage, because she was a saint. Some might have considered her weak, but only the truly strong can sacrifice for others. I will build a statue of her in the chapel, and dedicate it to the Virgin Mother.”

“Perhaps if we tried another doctor,” suggested Doña Consuelo in exasperation.

“We have the best doctors in attendance. Now it's in the hands of God, and all we can do is pray.”

Duane observed the family interaction like a visitor from another realm. So this is what it's all about, the orphan boy cogitated. They relate their innermost thoughts, because they love each other. A family is a closeness that you just don't get in cantinas and saloons.

Footsteps rushed down the hall, and servants burst into the dining room. “Don Carlos has arrived!”

Doña Consuelo raised herself expectantly, then a tall silver-mustachioed nobleman strode into the dining room. Duane recognized him immediately—the caudillo he'd seen in Zumarraga.

Don Carlos advanced toward his wife, embraced her, and kissed her forehead. “I've heard that you were attacked by banditos, my dear.”

“It's true,” she replied. “The coachman and guard were killed, but this young man managed to stop the horses and save my life.”

Don Carlos turned toward the clean-shaven young man sitting on the far side of the roast pig. “You look familiar. Have we met before?”

“A few nights ago in Zumarraga. My name is Duane Braddock.”

Don Carlos smiled. “Of course—you wore a beard—I remember now.”

Both men shook hands, and Doña Consuelo appeared flabbergasted. “You know each other?”

“In a manner of speaking,” replied Don Carlos, who examined his guest with new interest. “I am greatly indebted to you for saving my wife, because she is the most valuable possession I have.”

A servant piled food on Don Carlos's plate, as the
caudillo looked at Doña Consuelo. “I will track the damned banditos down one of these days, and that will be the end of them.” Then he glanced toward Duane. “Men usually run from trouble, but you rode into the middle of it to save someone you didn't even know. I can't help wondering—why?”

“So do I,” replied Duane.

Doña Consuelo crossed herself reverently. “Señor Braddock was sent by God, and I would not be alive right now were it were not for he.”

Don Carlos nodded sagely. “Anything I have is yours, Señor Braddock. Just name it.”

Your wife, thought Duane, but he didn't dare mouth the words. “I am honored to be of assistance, Don Carlos.”

“Let's put our cards on the table,” said the caudillo. “You are an American bandito, but that is no business of mine. You may stay at my hacienda for as long as you like, as my guest. If there's anything you require, you need only ask.”

How about Doña Consuelo? Duane inquired silently. “You're very generous, sir, but I'll just need to rest my leg for a few days, and then be on my way.”

“Come back later. My door is always open to you.”

“According to the Bible, virtue is its own reward.”

Don Carlos winked. “But a few extra pesos never hurt, eh?” Then he turned toward his wife. “And how is your mother, my dear?”

“Much worse, I am afraid. I wish we could find a
brujo
or somebody who could save her.”

Duane watched Don Carlos converse with his wife, and felt jealous of the older man. Don Carlos sleeps with her every night, and places his hands on that cute
little ass, while I'm always alone. What good does it do me to be well-educated, that I've got a fast hand, and see life with razor-sharp clarity? The only difference between me and the average filthy pig is I've got manners that I learned in the monastery in the clouds.

Miss Vanessa Fontaine sat before the mirror of her dressing room, her body soaked with perspiration. It was the same after every performance—she gave her audience everything, it was almost like making love. She wore a red silk robe embroidered with dragons, the gift of a former beau whose name she'd forgotten somewhere along her rocky road.

She felt disappointed that a certain familiar silver concho hatband hadn't appeared in the audience. She'd hoped Duane might've seen her poster nailed to a tree and come to claim her, but maybe he took one look and ran in the opposite direction, because she'd shattered his innocent seminarian's heart.

He truly loved me, she realized, and I was loco to leave him, but he hadn't a pot to piss in, while Lieutenant Dawes had been the son of a general, with a brilliant military career ahead of him, not to mention a substantial fortune left him by his grandfather. Vanessa had been low on funds, and decided to make a sensible decision for a change. She'd considered Duane a passing fancy, a pretty boy to play with for awhile, but never comprehended how much she'd fallen in love with him.

Why? she often wondered. Maybe it's the aura of danger that surrounds him, or his natural skills at making love. He wasn't afraid of any man, but his hair-trigger temper had been terrifying. She'd seen Duane shoot a
dangerous gun fighter in a town called Titusville, the most shocking experience of her life on the frontier.

Duane Braddock, just out of the monastery, had faced off in the middle of the street against Saul Klevins, said to be the fastest hand in the county. The ex-acolyte had looked like a statue in the moonlight, the odds stacked against him, but he couldn't beg for his life. Klevins fired first, missed, and then Duane triggered, but his shot was true. He'd won the showdown, thanks to quick reflexes and the instruction of an old-time gun-fighter named Clyde Butterfield. That's when a drunkard newspaper writer had dubbed Duane
The Pecos Kid,
thus launching his reputation, and now folks in West Texas mentioned him in the same breath as John Wesley Hardin and Jesse James.

One night, he will walk into this saloon, I can feel it in my bones, thought Vanessa. Because as good as it was for me, I know it was just as good for him, and he won't meet any others like me in his wanderings, just as I won't meet any other Duane Braddocks. All I have to do is wait, but when it comes to Duane Braddock, I've got nothing but time.

There was a knock on the door, and then Maggie O'Day walked into the dressing room, puffing a cigar. “What a show!” she exclaimed. “The first time I talked with you, I thought you were full of shit, but you really are a great singer—I've got to say it. Congratulations.” Maggie slapped Vanessa on the back, and Vanessa nearly flew through her mirror. “By the way, the sheriff wants to talk with you.”