Devil's Creek Massacre (11 page)

Meanwhile, Cochrane looked at Juanita pleadingly. “Let's have a talk,” he said.

She shook her head staunchly. “We have talked enough.”

“We've been together nearly two years, and you've got to let me speak my peace.”

“Make it fast.”

“I want to go on one last raid, and then I'll do anything you say.”

“Haven't you robbed enough already?”

“This is the biggest one so far. I've been planning it for a year, and can't pull out now. But when it's over, I promise you that I'll buy us a little
estancia
wherever you want, we'll have children, and be together always. I mean it.” He raised his right hand and looked at the sky. “So help me God.”

“You will say anything to get what you want,” she replied coolly.

“If you love me as much as you say, you'd give me one last chance.”

“After this robbery is over, there'll be another one, because you cannot stop—you are
un pocito loco.
A
fanático.
”

“I've already raised my right hand and sworn to God Almighty. If that's not good enough for you, I don't know what I can do. Maybe you're just looking for an excuse to leave me. Well, you don't need an excuse. You can leave whenever you want.”

He walked back to their cabin, his shoulders squared, erect as a soldier, noble and splendid in Juanita's eyes. The exultation of victory filled her heart, and she gave silent thanks to the Mother of God, who looks out for wayward Mexican señoritas.

She slid down the side of her horse and ran toward Cochrane, her sandals slapping against the ground. He turned around, a smile broadening his face as he opened wide his arms. They clasped each other tightly, their lips touched, and he felt the bittersweet pain of defeat mixed with the promise of new victory.

“You will never be sorry about this decision,” she whispered. “I will be your woman forever, and if you die first, I will be your woman even beyond the grave.”

V
ANESSA FONTAINE STROLLED down the main street of San Antone, passing an adobe barbershop, law office, and then three saloons in a row. Mexican and American women could be seen upon the sidewalks, and Vanessa thought she should be buying beans and tortillas among them instead of hunting for the Pecos Kid.

McCabe accompanied Vanessa on her walk, and thus far he'd been a solid faithful bodyguard. He slept close to her at night, but never attempted monkey business. The arrangement was turning out perfectly, and she congratulated herself on her good luck. The stagecoach trip to San Antone had been without incident, and she wondered whether the threat of Indian attack had been greatly exaggerated by the hysterical Texas press.

They drew near the sheriff's office, and she said, “I'll do the talking.”

McCabe opened the door, and Vanessa entered a room furnished with three wooden desks, a Lone Star flag nailed to the wall next to a map of Texas, and a tanned lean young man reading a newspaper. He had a lantern jaw, smoothly shaved cheeks, and a badge pinned to his tan rawhide vest. “Help you, ma'am?”

“Are you the sheriff?” she asked sweetly.

“The sheriff is out of town on official business. I'm Deputy Downey.”

“I'm Mrs. Vanessa Dawes, and this is my friend, Mr. McCabe. I'm searching for a certain gentleman who's wanted by the authorities, and I wonder if he's passed through the vicinity lately. His name's Duane Braddock, and some folks refer to him as the Pecos Kid.”

“Rings a bell,” replied Downey. He opened a wood cabinet, searched through stacks of paper, and came out with four official documents. He dropped them onto the desk, and on top was a wanted poster featuring a crude drawing of Duane Braddock, offering five hundred dollars for his capture, dead or alive. The small print at the bottom said that the Pecos Kid was charged with killing a federal marshal in Morellos. “What's Duane Braddock to you?” Deputy Downey asked, making a confidential smile.

“Friend of mine,” replied Vanessa.

Deputy Downey uncovered the next document. “It says here that he was elected sheriff of a town called Escondido, where he shot six men in cold blood. It got so bad the citizenry asked for the Fourth Cavalry to get rid of him. He sounds like a real hard case, and he's a friend of yours?”

“If Duane Braddock shot a federal marshal,” Vanessa replied, “the marshal probably had it coming.”

The deputy looked her up and down slowly. “The judge who issued this warrant didn't think so.”

Vanessa walked toward the map and looked for the town of Escondido. It was a tiny dot near the Rio Grande south of Fort Davis, approximately four or five hundred miles from San Antone. Anyone embarking on such a trip had better get ready for the Comanche homeland, followed by Apache ancestral territory. Vanessa wondered if she was up to it.

The deputy cocked his head to the side, and asked, “How well do you know Duane Braddock?”

“We were engaged once, so I guess you can say that I knew him rather well, and in my opinion he doesn't have a criminal bone in him. I don't know what these false accusations are all about, frankly, and I don't care. Have the Indians been peaceful west of here lately?”

The deputy shook his head no. “Injun depredations have been worse than ever, and there's practically no law at all once you get west of San Antone.” The deputy painted a knowing expression on his face.

“Thank you for the information.” Vanessa turned like a royal personage and headed for the door. She landed on the sidewalk with McCabe, and together they headed back toward their hotel. “I guess we're going west,” Vanessa said. “Are you still with me?”

“Long as you keep payin' my salary,” replied McCabe.

Duane could walk almost normally, but wasn't strong enough to run up and down mountains like an Apache yet. His mind was filled with new projects, such as practicing the classic fast draw. It wasn't a skill
he wanted to forget, and next step was asking Cochrane for permission.

Cochrane's firm control of the camp had become increasingly apparent to Duane. Cochrane brooked no nonsense, and paradoxically, respect for the former cavalry officer hadn't decreased substantially since Cochrane had begged Juanita publicly not to leave him. Love makes fools out of us all, realized Duane.

He heard footsteps and turned to see Cochrane walking toward him, his wide-brimmed silverbelly hat slanted low over his eyes. “Don't shoot,” said the captain with a mocking smile as he raised his hands in the air. “Where are you headed?”

“Just taking a walk.”

“I'm having a meeting with the men tonight, after dinner. I'm going to explain our next raid in detail and thought I'd extend the invitation to you.”

“No thanks,” replied Duane. “I don't want to know anything that might give me lead poisoning.”

“You've heard everything else about us already, so what's the difference? You might find it interesting.”

“I've got my own plans. Sorry.”

“I think you'd better be there.”

It sounded like an order. “Why?”

“Because the men saved your life, and now it's your turn to help them.”

“When I draw this Colt, it's for self-defense only.”

“I wouldn't ask you to violate your principles. What kind of rascal do you think I am? The raid will be purely military, and you can care for the horses. I'll expect you at my place after dinner.”

Cochrane smiled confidently, performed a perfect about-face, and headed toward his hut, leaving Duane standing alone on the far side of the canyon. Duane
wanted a favor, so he ran woodenly after him, and said, “I'd like to ask you something, sir. Could I start getting in some shooting practice?”

“Sure, just as long you don't hit any of my men by mistake or on purpose. I always figured you for a gun-fighter, and now the truth comes out.”

“I'm no gunfighter,” Duane replied. “It's just that I intend to live for a long time.”

“Don't we all. Shoot all you want, and by the way, don't forget to show up at the meeting.”

Vanessa was admitted to a small office in back of the Black Cat Saloon. Dan Cunningham, proprietor, sat behind his desk, a grossly obese man with a long mustache, a round flabby face, and beady eyes that looked her up and down. “What can I do for you?” he asked in a cold businessman's voice.

“Aren't you even going to invite me to sit down?”

“Sit—stand—do as you like, but I don't have much time.”

She placed her fists on his desk, leaned forward, and peered into his dull gray orbs. “You behave as if you're doing me a favor, but the shoe is on the other foot. Most of your customers are Civil War veterans, and I know all the good old songs they love to hear. Once I start singing them, you'll be surprised how quickly your establishment will fill with patrons. I am Miss Vanessa Fontaine—perhaps you've heard of me—and I'm not unreasonable in my requests for recompense. What do you say?”

Cunningham narrowed his eyes, and a grin came to his lips. “Women walk into this office every day with the same story. They want to be singers, and they've
got the greatest voices in the world. But what'll they do for me? That's what I want to know.”

She raised an eyebrow. “What do you want them to do for you?”

He didn't reply, but the insinuating leer on his lips said everything. Vanessa was tempted to smack his face, but instead smiled and said, “Sorry, but I'm not a prostitute. You should think with your wallet for a change, sir. You hire me, plaster my name around town, and sweep the saloon, you'll sell so much whiskey you can buy all the prostitutes you want.”

He puffed his black cigar. “You're a tall drink of water and you've got a big mouth. All right—I'll give you a chance. You can open tonight, and stay as long you keep bringing in the business.”

A map of Texas and Mexico was nailed to Cochrane's kitchen wall as the outlaw band huddled around their leader, waiting for him to begin. Cochrane carried a pointer carved from the branch of a cottonwood tree, and stood in the light of an oil lamp hanging from the ceiling.

All the outlaws were there, and even Juanita had been invited. Duane hung toward the back of the crowd, determined not to get sucked into illegal shenanigans regardless of how they coerced him.

“We might as well begin,” said Captain Cochrane, his voice businesslike and confident. “As you know, this will be our most complex raid so far, and most lucrative. It's time we made a major contribution to the treasury of the New Confederacy.” He narrowed his eyes as he leaned toward them.

“On the fifteenth of every month, a wagon departs
Fort Richardson, carrying payrolls and other monies for forts throughout the Fourth Cavalry command. It is variously estimated that the monies amount to approximately a quarter of a million dollars. For the rest of the month, they drop off pay at posts and commands, and then return to Fort Richardson to prepare for the next delivery.” Cochrane pointed to a region about a hundred miles south of Fort Richardson. “I propose to intercept the wagon here. It's a little-known spot called Devil's Creek, where they stop to rest and water their horses. We'll strike at sundown on the appointed day, recover the money, and be gone before the Yankees know what hit them. Your own personal shares will be approximately five thousand dollars each. Are there any questions so far?”

Sergeant Beasley raised his hand. “How many soldiers will we have to contend with?”

“Twenty to thirty troopers with rifles and pistols, plus a few Indian scouts.”

Beasley shook his head vehemently. “Don't like the sound of that, especially the Injuns. They'll smell us comin' a mile away.”

Cochrane smiled indulgently. “People sometimes confer supernatural powers upon Indians, but if the bloody savages are so all-powerful and all-knowing, why are they surrendering left and right all across the frontier? The Indians won't even know we're there, and don't forget that the pay wagon has stopped at Devil's Creek a hundred times, so they're not expecting anything. You know very well that small units frequently defeated larger ones during the war—I could give you hundreds of examples. Besides, the Yankee soldiers of today don't have much fight in them, and most'll run at the sound of the first shot.”

“I
still
don't like the odds,” Beasley insisted. “We need at least five more men. Sir, I don't want to be disrespectful, but this doesn't sound like such a hot idea.”

“I understand your concerns, Sergeant, but we'll make liberal use of dynamite, and I've left nothing to chance. It'll be worth more than ten of our usual jobs, and this is the legacy that I want to leave the Confederacy.”

Cochrane looked like an officer standing beside the map, and Duane imagined him in a tailored gray cavalry officer's uniform, with polished brass buttons, a yellow sash, shiny black knee-high boots, and his trusty saber at his side. Duane fantasized the other irregulars attired in the uniforms of the Confederate Army, with stripes on their sleeves and medals on their chests. Duane became aware that everyone was looking at him curiously. While daydreaming, he'd missed something.

“Well?” asked Captain Cochrane. “Haven't you been listening? I asked if you were going on the raid with us.”

“I already told you there's something I've got to do.”

The outlaws grumbled, displeased by the response. Dr. Montgomery stepped forward, a frown on his normally placid face. “We've placed our lives on the line for you, young man, and you can't find it within your heart to give us a hand?”

“I'm not a gunfighter or an ex-soldier, and I'm not interested in breaking the law. Sorry.”

“What law?” asked Cochrane. “The Yankees have no dominion over you unless you give it to them. Do you consider yourself subject to the Yankee government?”

“I'm an American citizen,” Duane replied. “That's all I know.”

There was silence, then Duane heard an angry snort from Johnny Pinto. “It don't have nawthin' to do with
bein' an American citizen. I think he's just a goddamned coward.”

The ugly word singed Duane's ears as he turned toward Johnny. “People who say
coward
are usually the worst cowards of all,” he replied.

“Easy for you to say, ‘cause you know I won't hurt you. Yer so sickly and all.”

“I'm sickly and you're stupid, but I'm getting better every day.”

Johnny's pupils dilated. “Izzat so? Well, since yer gittin' better every day, maybe you and me ought to settle this like men afore long, all right?”

“Up to you.”

Johnny turned toward the others. “You all heard him.”

Cochrane broke the silence. “If you're going to be staying with us that long, Duane, you might as well come on the raid. You don't have to draw your gun if you don't want to, because God forbid that we should drag a wanted outlaw such as yourself into our sordid life of crime. You can be the quartermaster, and free up Walsh for active duty. It'd be a big help to us, and we'd really appreciate it.”