Devil's Creek Massacre (15 page)

Johnny's triumph was transformed into murderous frustration. “Why is it that Duane Butterfield allus gits special treatment?” he asked. “Everybody has to fight their own battles ‘cept him.” Johnny Pinto pointed his finger at Duane and hollered, “Yer a yellerbelly coward and everybody knows it.” Then he pursed his lips and spat at Duane.

Tiny droplets landed like acid on Duane's cheeks, and he felt visceral loathing for the killer braggart pig. Duane knew that ninety percent of his draw was back and wondered whether to accept the challenge.

Then a new voice came to him from the crowd. The speaker was the old gray-haired Mexican whom Duane had seen sitting at the bar. He looked at Johnny Pinto and said, “Señor, you do not know me and I do not know you, but I know this man here. He is very famous in Texas, he has killed many men, and I have seen him kill with my own eyes. That is the Pecos Kid,
he is much faster than you, and you will die if you press this fight. I have no stake in this—I am telling you for your own good.”

Johnny appeared thunderstruck by the news. He looked at Duane again and giggled nervously. “Him?”

“His name is Duane Braddock, but he is known as the Pecos Kid.”

Duane's blood chilled as all eyes turned to him. Cochrane asked, “Is that right, Duane?”

Duane nodded, keeping his eyes pinned tightly on Johnny Pinto.

“To hell with the Pecos Kid!” hollered Johnny. “There's a fast hand for every whoop and holler in Texas, and I ain't afraid of nobody. Let's see how fast you are, Pecos.”

Cochrane stepped forward, the patch over his eye like a hole through his head. “I've told you that I've sworn to defend this man, and he still hasn't recovered from his wounds.”

“I've recovered enough,” replied Duane. “Please step out of the way.”

“I thought you weren't well enough to fight.”

“I'm well enough to fight that scum over there, and I'd be grateful if you'd mind your own business, sir.”

Cochrane opened his mouth to reply, took one look at Duane's eyes, and thought better of it. He moved back, and Johnny faced Duane with nothing in the way.

“Think it over, señor,” said the old man to Johnny Pinto. “That man shot Otis Puckett, and Otis Puckett was the fastest gun alive.”

Johnny's arrogance faltered, pride flew out his ears, and he wondered if he was getting carried away. Who's the Pecos Kid, and is he what everybody says?

“I'm waiting on you,” Duane said.

Johnny smiled nervously as he gazed at the Pecos Kid. If Duane Braddock had shot the fastest gun alive, the conclusion was obvious. Not today, thought Johnny, but maybe I can turn this thing around. He forced a playful smile. “Mr. Pecos might be the fastest gun alive, but I'll bet he wouldn't dare take me without a gun. Right, Mr. Pecos?”

Duane couldn't tolerate Johnny Pinto's taunts anymore. He should wait another two weeks until his wounds were fully healed, but Johnny had
spat
upon him, the supreme insult. Duane was confident that he could receive a good solid punch to the guts without fainting, or so he hoped, and Johnny should be punished for his murderous ways. “Up to you,” he said.

Johnny Pinto wanted to laugh with joy. “Wait a minute—does that mean yer a-gonna fight me right naow with yer fists?”

Duane handed his hat to Cochrane, then proceeded to unbutton his shirt. Johnny Pinto had his answer, and his excitement mounted as he saw fresh purple scars emerge on Duane's body. Johnny knew how to dig punches to a man's body, among other saloon tricks. He passed his hat to the old Mexican, then unbuttoned his own shirt.

The night air was cold and bracing against Johnny's sunken chest. Johnny lacked the muscle development of Duane, and looked vaguely like a lizard as he worked his shoulders and kicked his ankles. Johnny knew about the knee below the belt-line, the thumb in the eye, and once he'd bitten off half of a man's ear. He raised his hands and said, “I'm ready when you are, Mr. Pecos Kid. What a dumb fuckin' name.”

Duane was tempted to pound Johnny's head through the ground, but instead recalled the training that Brother Paolo had provided. The first rule was never fight emotionally, and second was a boxer must impose his will upon his opponent. Johnny Pinto's spittle still burned Duane's cheeks, the insult singed his heart, and Duane Braddock raised his fists into the high position taught him by Brother Paolo.

Cochrane, Beasley, Walsh, and the other members of the gang stood among the crowd of Comancheros. There was no referee, no ring, and no rest between rounds. Some spectators held bottles of whiskey and placed bets in rapid-fire Spanish. Johnny Pinto advanced sideways, holding both fists at chest level, wrists slightly bent. He was going to take the fight to Duane, so Duane danced lightly to the side, realizing with dismay that his speed was off. He tried to convince himself that it wouldn't impede his defense, yet Brother Paolo had taught him that speed was as important as power and accuracy of punches.

Johnny shifted direction, in an effort to block Duane's path, so Duane darted back toward his previous direction. Johnny stopped, made an exasperated expression, and said, “I thought you wanted to fight.”

Duane flicked a stiff jab at Johnny's face. Johnny didn't see it coming; it caught him flush on the nose and drove him backward. Johnny raised his hands to protect his head, then Duane threw a long looping left hook under Johnny's elbow and into his kidney. Johnny muffled a scream as he stood toe to toe with Duane and hurled a solid shot at Duane's midsection. Johnny's aim was true, and his fist buried itself into Duane's belly scar.

Duane darted to the left, gasping for breath and hoping he had no internal injuries. He changed direction again, realizing that he wasn't well enough to fight, but he'd seen an opening in Johnny's defense. Johnny Pinto was the kind of fighter who lunged, so Duane bounced lightly, feinted a left jab, and threw a clean whistling right lead at Johnny's ear. It connected; Duane skipped out of the way, and Johnny attempted to hammer Duane's scar, but Duane was long gone.

Johnny realized with sinking heart that he was slower than Duane, but he always had a puncher's chance. He crowded toward Duane, keeping the pressure on, hoping to open Duane up. He'd seen Duane wince painfully after the stomach punch, and knew what to do.

Johnny jumped in front of Duane and threw a jab, but Duane kept dodging away as if he wore steel springs in his boots. Johnny tried to cut him off, but Duane launched another jab into Johnny's already bleeding nose. The blow jarred Johnny's brain, but he had the presence to hurl a quick counterpunch, which landed in the cool night air.

Johnny turned in the direction Duane had gone, when another punch landed on his nose, and it felt like a spear driven into his skull. He raised his arms to cover his bleeding proboscis, and a series of new blows smashed into his kidneys. He took a step back, threw a wild punch, ducked, and got walloped by a zooming uppercut.

Johnny's head snapped back, he lost his balance and fell onto his ass. A roar went up from the crowd, and he blinked his eyes, trying to understand what was happening. He was so dazed he'd forgotten his name.

A shirtless black-haired man danced in front of him, Mexicans jabbered noisily, and the clinking of coins could be heard. Johnny was getting the shit beat out of him, and Cochrane wore a half smile of pleasure on his face. Johnny had to turn the fight around, and the best way was get inside Duane's defense, work that belly, and cut him down to size. Call it courage or pigheaded stupidity, but Johnny Pinto drew himself to his feet.

He found Lopez standing before him, an expression of mercy on his features. “This has gone far enough, eh,
compañero
? Why don't you walk away while you still can?”

“Out of my way,” Johnny said levelly.

Lopez stepped back, and Johnny advanced on Duane. His plan was to dive onto Duane, suffer whatever punishment would hit him, and wrestle Duane to the ground. Then, in the rough-and-tumble, he'd rip open those scars with his bare hands.

Duane danced in front of Johnny, flicking out his jab. Johnny dived underneath it and reached for Duane's legs, but Duane wasn't there, and Johnny landed painfully in the dirt. He spun around, covering his face with his arm, because he feared that Duane would kick him in the face.

Instead, Duane was keeping his distance, constantly in motion, chin tucked behind his shoulder, hands protecting his face. Johnny rolled to his feet and wiped dust off his jeans. “You ain't a fighter—yer a runner. Why don't you stand still and fight like a man?”

Johnny raised his hands and threw a jab at Duane's lips, but Duane moved his head three inches to the left while simultaneously hooking Johnny to the kidney. It was another painful shot. Johnny hooked back, but Duane caught the punch on his arm, ducked underneath
a right cross, and threw an uppercut at Johnny's solar plexus. It connected on target; Johnny was momentarily paralyzed, and then it felt as if a horse had run into him.

Duane clobbered him across the snoot yet again, and Johnny reeled back, his lips pulped. He growled angrily and ran into another straight right. The next thing Johnny Pinto knew, he was lying on the ground, his eyelids held open by Lopez's thumbs. “Are you all right, señor?”

“Get the fuck away from me.”

Johnny pushed Lopez away and lurched to his feet. He staggered first to the left and then to the right as crickets and birds chirped inside his head. He knew that he couldn't outbox Duane no matter what he did, but wasn't ready to give up. “This ain't no fair fight,” he said, “'cause yer a professional fighter. But I've got somethin' right here that'll equal us out.”

He reached behind his back and yanked out his bowie knife, then brought it around and held the blade straight up. “You got the sand to handle a
real
fight?” he asked.

I should quit while I'm ahead, considered Duane, but I'll never back down to this pig, and I don't care what he pulls on me. Duane had been trained in knife fighting by the Apaches themselves, and believed that he could defeat any white man easily. Clenching his teeth, he reached to his boot and withdrew his Apache knife. It had a carved wooden handle and an eight-inch razor-sharp blade.

“From now on, no rules,” Johnny said.

“Now just a moment,” Cochrane declared at the edge of the crowd. “Knife fights can be pretty bloody. Maybe the both of you'd better cool down.”

“Nothin' to cool down fer,” said Johnny. “Unless shithead over thar wants to give up. Otherwise I'm going home with his ears in my back pocket.”

“You're not going anywhere,” Duane replied, holding his knife in front of him and getting low.

Johnny was swelling around the eyes, his face had been busted up, and his nose flattened. He'd piss blood for the rest of the month, but Duane didn't feel sorry for him as he looked for likely openings. The Apaches had taught him that speed is everything in a knife fight.

Johnny feinted his blade toward Duane, but Duane was tense as a puma about to strike. Then Johnny shouted and shoved his knife toward Duane's belly, but Duane danced to the side and whipped his edge through Johnny's forearm. Blood spurted out, the blade had sliced to the bone, and Johnny couldn't suppress a howl. Duane saw three openings, but chose not to kill Johnny at that moment.

Tendons had been severed, and Johnny's knife dropped from his numbed right hand. Lips quivering with pain, he bent his knees and picked it up in his left hand. He didn't have to say anything—his eyes told the story. He was prepared to kill Duane Braddock or die in the attempt.

He grunted like a bull as he charged Duane, slashing his knife at Duane's face, but the Pecos Kid dodged gracefully and lopped off a chunk of Johnny's left forearm. Johnny screeched mightily, and all he could do was adopt a defensive pose. But Duane didn't attack. Blood poured out of Johnny's arteries and veins, and his torment was nightmarish. Johnny could barely see, everything spun around him, his face was pallid, and he tried to find his opponent; then his knees gave out, he dropped to the ground, and in spite of himself, a sob escaped his lips.

The schoolmaster's son struggled to hold back tears, but agony urged him onward, and his ravaged pride added the final touch. His face contorted by suffering, his body sagged, and the stump of his nose slammed against the ground as he passed out due to loss of blood.

Dr. Montgomery cut two lengths of fabric from Johnny's jeans, and fashioned tourniquets around Johnny's arms. Then he reached into his saddlebags for needles and thread. “Could somebody bring me some hot water?”

Lopez barked orders in Spanish, and Comancheros scurried back to the cantina. Duane wiped his blade on Johnny's jacket, then stuffed the knife into his boot. He felt unsteady on his feet; the fight had sucked strength away, and he still wasn't fully recovered from his wounds.

He wanted to sit, and the only place was in the saloon. He headed in that direction; the crowd opened a path, and he was joined by Cochrane. “That was some fight.”

Duane made his way toward the table, sat with his back to the wall, and felt like a dirty beast. How do I get into these situations? he asked himself. I was bored at the monastery, but at least I wasn't knifing people. Why can't I turn the other cheek like a decent Christian?

Cochrane sat opposite him and shook his head disapprovingly. “It was a mistake to let Johnny Pinto in the gang. He's good with a gun, but he's kill crazy.”

Lopez arrived with a bottle of mescal, which he placed noisily on the table. “I have heard of you before, Señor Braddock,” he said. “The americano army is looking for you, no?”

“Reckon so,” replied Duane as he reached for the mescal. He filled his glass half-full and took a swig. It went down smooth as velvet fire, warming his belly, easing his mind. Meanwhile, the crowd drifted back to the saloon, and everyone was looking at him. The irregulars returned to the table and sat in respectful silence. Duane wanted to sleep, but a perverse part of him enjoyed the attention. He held his head a little higher. “What've they got to eat in this damned place,” he snarled. “I'm hungry.”