Devil's Creek Massacre (12 page)

“That's right,” said Walsh, absentmindedly stroking the mole on his cheek. “I for one ain't afraid to fight the damned Yankees. We've done a lot fer you, boy, and you got a short memory. That day we rode to save yer worthless ass, we could've been ridin' into the whole damned Apache nation. But we took the chance to help another white man.”

Dr. Montgomery smiled indulgently. “How can you refuse to look after our horses and supplies for a few measly days?”

Duane couldn't say no. After all, they
had
saved his miserable worthless skin, no doubt about it. “I'll have
to think it over, but I'm not getting into gunplay, and I don't care how many times you insult me or make me feel guilty.” Duane turned toward Johnny Pinto. “And I'll take care of you after we get back.”

Johnny Pinto made an impulsive threatening motion toward Duane, but saw a Colt aimed at his nose. It happened so quickly, Johnny blinked in surprise, then smiled, showing teeth yellowed by tobacco. “You're not as sick as you look, eh, Mr. Butterfield? But you won't fight me hand to hand and man to man. Afraid I'll dirty yer pretty face?”

Duane aimed down the barrel of his Colt at Johnny Pinto. “In about one month you and I are going to fight, Johnny. Then we'll see whose face gets dirty.”

Vanessa Fontaine applied cosmetics to her cheeks in a small musty storage area behind the Black Cat Saloon. Converted into her dressing room, it had a big framed mirror with a crack down the middle, four dented brass lamps, and a broken-down couch for her to languish upon between shows. The time neared for her opening-night performance, and Cunningham had papered San Antone with posters that said:

B
LACK
C
AT
S
ALOON

L
IMITED
E
NGAGEMENT

THE DULCET VOICE OF

M
ISS
V
ANESSA
F
ONTAINE

T
HE
C
HARLESTON
N
IGHTINGALE

She'd devised
The Charleston Nightingale
from memories of Jenny Lind, the famous Swedish Nightingale, who'd visited Charleston during her triumphant 1850 American tour. Vanessa's parents had
bought the best available first-circle seats on opening night, because Vanessa had studied music, and they wanted to show her the greatest singer in the world. The performance became the most extraordinary artistic experience of young Vanessa's life, and afterwards she'd wanted to become a great singer like Jenny Lind. She studied harder than ever, everyone told her she was wonderful, and she decided to get married to the nicest young man she'd ever known. Then the war broke out, Beauregard died at Gettysburg, the South was destroyed, and music became the only practical skill she had left. Those damned Yankees, she thought bitterly. Oh God, please forgive me for hating them so.

There was a knock on the door. “It's time, Miss Fontaine,” said McCabe.

She looked at herself in the mirror one last time, satisfied that her cosmetics were perfect. Then she threw her black shawl over her bright red satin gown and opened the door. She could hear Cunningham's baritone at the end of the hall. “And now, gentlemen, may I present for your entertainment pleasure . . . the lovely lady we've all been waiting for . . . the famous Charleston Nightingale . . .
Miss Vanessa Fontaine!
”

Applause trembled the timbers of the Black Cat Saloon as Vanessa made her way down the corridor. At its end, she handed the shawl to McCabe. “I hope they don't throw tomatoes,” she said.

“Just toss ‘em back,” replied McCabe with a grin. “Good luck.”

She stepped onto the stage; the saloon was jammed from bar to doorway, and Vanessa viewed the outlines of hats worn by cowboys, gamblers, lawyers, farmers, and other forms of masculine frontier life. She waited until the clapping died down, then folded her hands
together and said in her inimitable purr, “Good evening, gentleman. I know that many of you were in the war, and so was I. With your kind permission, I'd like to sing a few songs from those great days.”

Without piano accompaniment, standing alone in front of them, she held out her arms, filled her lungs with air, and began to warble one of the most popular songs of the recent conflict, “The Southern Soldier Boy.”

“
Bob Roebuck is my sweetheart's name,

He's off to war and gone;

He's fighting for his Nannie dear,

His sword is buckled on. . . .”

Her gentle voice wafted about the smoky saloon, and men could smell magnolia blossoms, taste mint juleps, and feel the power of King Cotton surge through their veins. Vanessa transported them to the lost kingdom that existed south of the Mason-Dixon Line seven years ago, when their hearts were young and jubilant.

“
He's fighting for his own true love,

His foes he does defy;

He is the darling of my heart

My Southern soldier boy.
”

She sang the chorus, then plowed through the first verse once more, capturing them in her memory web. It gave her a lift to know that she could still dazzle an audience, despite the stupidity of her personal life. Although they were gathered in a cheesy San Antone saloon, it felt like a ballroom on the banks of the Ashley River, or a log cabin in the Alabama piney woods. Vanessa could evoke the tragedy of old Dixie clearly, because its flames still burned brightly in her not-so-innocent heart.

Once she'd loved a Southern soldier boy, too, and he should've been a poet, but he fell beneath the hooves of federal cavalry, and something in Vanessa fell with him. Perhaps it was her heart, but the world was never the same for her after Gettysburg.

There wasn't a dry eye in the house, and that included the eyes of the Charleston Nightingale as she threw herself into the final chorus of the her song.

“
He is my only joy

He is the darling of my heart

My dearest Southern Soldier boy.
”

The saloon exploded with applause as Vanessa took her first bow. Coins rained upon the stage, a hurrah went up from the gang at the bar, while an enthusiastic music lover jumped up and down near the door so he could get a better look over the sea of hats before him. Vanessa knew that she could do anything with them, and God had given her a special grace, though she hadn't yet divined its purpose. She drew herself erect and scanned their nostalgic faces, searching for a certain pair of high cheekbones and green eyes, but the Pecos Kid wasn't there, and all she could do was get on the with the show. Maybe in the next town—who knows? she thought, as the crowd quieted. Then she began her next Civil War classic, “A Georgia Volunteer.”

Every man in the saloon had lost a brother, friend, or comrade in the Rebellion, and together with the Charleston Nightingale, remembered, mourned, and glorified the blood sacrifices to their noble cause. A few men sang with her, others stared into space, while some were passed out cold on their tables. Cunningham stood in the shadows and rubbed his hands together in anticipation of the take at the end of
the night. She can stay as long as she wants, he determined, and maybe I'll up her salary before she decides to go somewhere else. This dizzy Southern belle is going to make me dirty rotten filthy stinking
rich
!

Duane lay on his cot, unable to sleep. Against his interests, he'd agreed to participate in a raid on a Fourth Cavalry pay wagon, of all things. Now that he was alone, with time to reflect, he saw that his hosts had cleverly manipulated his feelings of guilt and obligation.

The last thing he wanted was to shoot somebody in the Fourth Cavalry, and he had forebodings of new pitfalls during the Devil's Creek robbery. There was no way he could weasel out of it, because a man was only as good as his word. He tossed and turned, but somehow the criminal enterprise loomed in his mind and kept him awake. Duane had never stolen anything in his life, except for a couple of horses, but soon would participate in a major robbery against the Fourth Cavalry. If Colonel MacKenzie, commander of the Fourth, ever figured out that the Pecos Kid was mixed up in it, Duane Braddock might have to live in Mexico until he was a gray-bearded old man.

Just when he was regaining his health, a new pile of trouble had been dumped onto his lap. No matter what he did, or how fervent his prayers, his life continued to deteriorate. He wondered if God was trying to teach him a lesson, or if he was just a dumb, wandering kid that people tended to push around.

He couldn't help recalling the certainties of the monastery in the clouds. His most serious concern had been getting to choir practice on time. Some days, while singing Gregorian chants, he'd felt transported to heavenly
realms, but then the devil tempted him with pretty Mexican girls, and he surrendered unconditionally.

I have no character, always take the easy way out, and I don't stand up for my principles. The cot creaked beneath him as he tried to find a comfortable spot. Why was I born to a mother and father who got themselves killed?

The world seemed out of balance to Duane, and he'd never fall asleep unless he could think of something pleasant. He searched for radiance through the tunnels of his mind, and eventually came upon a memory of his first great love, the former Miss Vanessa Fontaine.

It soothed him to recall her long elegant body, those incredible Celtic cheekbones, eyes like chips of ice, and the naughtiest pink tongue ever devised. Duane had experienced powerful religious ecstasies at the monastery in the clouds, but they'd been nothing compared with the reality of Miss Vanessa Fontaine.

Why do I think of her so often? he wondered. We were only together about two months, and it really didn't mean a damned thing at all. I'm sure she's forgotten all about me, and she's probably pregnant, so why doesn't she leave me alone?

Vanessa Fontaine paraded past gentlemen drunkards gathered the length of the bar, and they pounded their hands enthusiastically. Like the Queen of Sheba, she headed toward the batwing doors, followed by her faithful McCabe, his hand inside his coat, fingers resting on his Spiller & Burr. Vanessa could have her pick of men in the Black Cat Saloon; the knowledge of it stoked her feminine pride, and perhaps on another night, who could say what might develop?

“Buy you a drink, Miss Fontaine?” asked a goatee and big purple cravat.

A gentleman opened the batwing doors, and his eyes said, “Please take me home with you.” She gave him a wry smile as she stepped into the cool night air. Thanksgiving was coming, she was far from home, following a young ex-lover into the Apache homeland, but too late to turn back now.

A horde of admirers, glasses of whiskey in their hands, followed her back to the hotel, providing protection like intoxicated knights of the roundtable. The evening had witnessed a triumphant return of Vanessa's singing career, and any doubts she'd had about her talents were dispelled. Moreover, she truly enjoyed being the talented and charming Charleston Nightingale instead of the gloomy and morbid Widow Dawes.

But there was one fly in the ointment: the Pecos Kid hadn't shown up to see the show. She wondered if he'd seen her name and rode in the opposite direction, or maybe he was hiding down Mexico way and didn't know she was in San Antone.

She arrived at a large flat one-story adobe hotel, and her praetorian guard came to a stop behind her. She blew them a kiss, they applauded, and she bowed low on the planked sidewalk. Then McCabe opened the door; she entered a carpeted lobby and plunged into the dark corridor beyond.

She and McCabe arrived at their suite of two adjoining rooms. He'd been assigned the one in front, with Vanessa in back. It was a far cry from the Arlington in downtown Austin, and Vanessa's bed had a permanent excavation in the middle, but at least everything was clean superficially.

As Vanessa was about to enter her personal room, she heard McCabe say, “Good night, ma'am. I'd like to say that you put on a helluva show, and I never knowed you could sing so good.”

His praise was genuine, and he'd never said anything complimentary before. “I couldn't have done it without you,” she replied graciously, “because you make me feel safe.”

She entered her room, closed the door, removed her gown, and hung it in the closet. Then she washed her face and hands in the basin, changed to her nightgown, blew out the candle, and crawled into bed.

She felt exhausted, frustrated, and doubtful concerning her sanity. McCabe's footsteps rumbled on the far side of the door; they'd spent every day together since Austin, a strange enigma sleeping a few feet away, but thus far he'd been a gentleman, and he'd even appreciated her singing.

McCabe didn't interest her particularly, like her servants back at the old plantation. He did his job and that's all she cared about. Her most compelling concerns were for the so-called Pecos Kid. Is Duane Braddock worth this effort, she asked herself, or am I just a pathetic weak woman who needs young men and public admiration to make me feel worthwhile?

One morning, over eggs, bacon, grits, and coffee, Duane Braddock asked Dr. Montgomery, “Have you ever heard of a woman named Vanessa Fontaine?”

Dr. Montgomery cocked an eye. “Rings a bell, but I can't be sure.”

“She's from Charleston, and last I heard, she was married to a lieutenant in the Fourth Cavalry.”

“I recall visiting a relative in Charleston once,” began Dr. Montgomery, “and saw a fair number of belles. They thought the sun rose and set between their legs, and some of them were so pretty, I thought that it
did
set between their legs. If you've fallen in love with a Charleston belle, you have my deepest sympathies. They were the most spoiled women that the world has ever produced.”

Duane helped Dr. Montgomery with the dishes, then the doctor left to see a sick cow. Left to his own devices, Duane filled a gunnysack with empty cans and bottles, then lined them on a plank suspended by two barrels behind the bunkhouse. He took twenty paces backward, assumed his gunfighter's stance, and prepared for his first fast draw since being shot by the Apaches.