Devil's Creek Massacre (19 page)

Across the table, Colonel MacKenzie replied, “I'll accompany you, if you don't mind.”

A waiter pulled back Vanessa's chair, and Colonel MacKenzie rushed ahead to open the door for her, as
officers and wives glanced at each other significantly. Vanessa stepped into cool November air, pulled the shawl snugly around her shoulders, and strolled past the darkened houses along officers' row, accompanied by one of the foremost officers in the U.S. Army. A three-quarter moon floated through a sea of blazing stars, and a light shone in the window of the command-post headquarters across the parade ground.

“I wish I could talk you out of going to Escondido,” said Colonel MacKenzie, “but I can see that your mind is made up.”

“I apologize if I seem overbearing, but there's something that I have to do.”

“Let me tell you something about Escondido so you won't be completely in the dark when you arrive. It's on the border, and has managed, in a remarkably short time, to attract the worst scum of two nations. They're all armed to the teeth, drunk, and constantly fighting and shooting. Let's call a spade a spade, Mrs. Dawes. Rape is not uncommon among such men. What'll you do if a bunch of them break down your door at night?”

“I'll start shooting, and I won't stop until they go away. I can't stop living because some people are brutes.”

“A beautiful woman such as yourself is certain to attract attention in Escondido. I wish I could give you your own cavalry detachment, but unfortunately I'm short as it is.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Who'd guard me from your detachment?”

He smiled at her little barb. “Not all my soldiers are ex-criminals, and a few here and there even speak English. They fight well when led by officers who set a
good example, such as your late departed husband. I met him briefly once, by the way. He had a brilliant future, and it's a tragedy that we had to lose him.”

“I'll mourn him forever,” replied Vanessa, and in a manner of speaking she meant it. “But I have a question of my own. I can't help wondering why an attractive man like you has never married?”

“But I am married—to the army— and she's a very jealous mistress.”

“Most officers get married to women, and it doesn't seem to harm their careers.”

The youngest colonel in the army winked. “Most officers aren't commanding the Fourth Cavalry either. I have no time for a family, and to tell you the truth, beautiful women like you scare the hell of out me.”

She was amused by the great man's candor. “I won't harm you, Colonel MacKenzie. Women aren't
that
bad.”

“They're terribly distracting, and I'll probably dream about you tonight, Mrs. Dawes.”

“But if we weren't distracting, it'd be the end of the human race.”

He grinned, revealing straight white teeth beneath the strands of his mustache. “Something tells me that you won't be single long, Mrs. Dawes. Who is it that you're visiting in Escondido?”

She wondered whether to tell the truth and decided to take a chance. “I'm looking for an old friend named Duane Braddock. Ever heard of him?”

Colonel MacKenzie wrinkled his nose. “Isn't he an outlaw?”

“So they say.”

“I believe he was sheriff of Escondido for a spell.” He looked at her with surprise. “If I'm not mistaken, he's wanted for murder.”

“Unjustly, I'm sure. I saw Duane Braddock in a duel once, against a horrible man named Saul Klevins, and Klevins had to back Duane against a wall to make him fight.”

“Perhaps I've got your Duane Braddock mixed up with somebody else. There are so many trigger-happy young fools in Texas, it's hard to keep up with them. I hope you won't think me presumptuous, but he must be an awfully good friend if you're going all the way to Escondido to see him. Why doesn't he come to see you?”

“You know very well why not. He'd get arrested by the Fourth Cavalry.”

Colonel MacKenzie ran his finger over his mustache and appeared deep in thought. “Why don't you stop by my office tomorrow, and I'll show you our file on Duane Braddock. It might be just what you need to dissuade you from going to Escondido.”

Outlaws slept in their bedrolls like caterpillars in cocoons, two guards had been posted, and the three-quarter moon waxed atop a mountain range in the distance. But Johnny Pinto lay awake in his bedroll, Smith & Wesson in hand, staring at Duane Braddock sleeping a few feet away. Johnny was waiting for Duane to turn in another direction.

Johnny was exhausted, dozed off, opened his eyes, and was chagrined to see Duane Braddock in the same place. Braddock appeared asleep, but he'd taken his Colt to bed with him, and perhaps the Pecos Kid was waiting for the excuse to shoot a certain Johnny Pinto.

Duane grumbled in his bedroll, twitched, and then turned over, finally displaying his back to Johnny Pinto's
widening eyes. The moment of revenge had arrived, and Johnny savored the moment. He looked around the campsite to make sure no one was watching, then thumbed back the hammer of his Smith & Wesson. A faint
click
could be heard, muffled by his blankets, then Duane Braddock sat bolt upright suddenly. Johnny closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep.

Did he hear me cock my gun? Johnny wondered, opening his eyes slightly. Duane Braddock, Colt in hand, peered around the campsite. Then he uncocked his gun and lay down, this time facing Johnny Pinto.

Johnny didn't dare uncock his Smith & Wesson, because Braddock would hear him. But he couldn't fall asleep with a cocked gun, because now it was ready to fire. Johnny waited patiently, his finger on the trigger of the Smith & Wesson. Sooner or later Duane Braddock'll roll over again, and then . . .

Vanessa Fontaine stood with her hands on her hips and gazed at her naked figure in the mirror. The only light came from an oil lamp on the dresser, the blinds were drawn, and she'd just taken a hot bath, steamy fumes of soapy water permeating the air.

She saw a tall gawky blond giraffe with too small breasts and skinny legs, yet people always said how beautiful she was. I have a certain flair that never fails to get me into trouble, she thought ruefully.

She dropped a cotton gown over her shoulders, blew out the lamp, and crawled beneath the blankets of her bed. It felt good to be alone with her thoughts, where no men were staring at her, making judgments.

The blankets felt luxurious after the long bloody trip from San Antone. She recalled the Indian attack, and
her devoted bodyguard was buried on the desert with a crude cross marking his grave. No sooner had she digested one major event, when another appeared: Colonel Randall Slidell MacKenzie of the Fourth Cavalry. Surely the great man knew that a cultured woman could be of immense value to his career, and marriage would put an end to certain ugly remarks doubtlessly uttered behind closed doors.

She recalled Colonel MacKenzie scouting her with eager eyes. If she played him like a piano, she could become queen of the Fourth Cavalry, and when he made general, they could move back east. A war hero like Randall Slidell MacKenzie could become president one day.

But she felt no deep sentiments for Colonel MacKenzie, unlike her feelings for a certain young out-law with green eyes and the face of Adonis. Duane Braddock, when I get my hands on you again, I'll show you things you've never dreamed possible, she swore. Hugging her pillow tightly, she smiled in anticipation of their next meeting.

Johnny Pinto opened his eyes after dozing off, turned toward Duane Braddock, and saw Braddock facing away from him again. Johnny grinned broadly as he drew the Smith & Wesson from beneath his blankets. I'm going to empty this gun into you, and you'll never humiliate me again.

Johnny glanced around, and no one was watching. He raised the gun, straightened his arm, and took aim at Duane Braddock's back. The trigger moved back, the mechanism would trip in a second, then the fun would begin. I'm the man who shot the Pecos Kid, he thought triumphantly.

The trigger retreated the final sixteenth of an inch, tripping the hammer. It flew forward, slammed into the firing pin, and nothing happened—a misfire. Johnny nearly jumped out of his pants, then blankets exploded all around him as irregulars jerked themselves to sitting positions and drew their weapons.

They looked at each other, guns drawn, and Johnny Pinto was just another of them. “What the hell happened?” asked Beasley.

“Sounded like the hammer of a gun,” replied Walsh. “Where are the guards?”

The three came charging into the campsite, guns in hands. “What's a-goin' on?” asked Ginger Hertzog.

Cochrane peered into the darkness. “Might be Apaches, but you know how sounds travel at night. We'd better search the area, just in case. Beasley, take charge.”

The men grumbled as they climbed off the ground, exhausted from hard riding. Beasley ordered them to spread out, and Johnny Pinto walked through the cactus, feeling tiny hairlike needles jabbing through his jeans. He was pale, gasping for breath, nearly got caught in the act, but faulty cartridges weren't uncommon. I had him in my sights, fer chrissakes. Now I'll have to wait fer tomorrow night or some other damned time, because everybody's alert now. Duane Braddock is one lucky son of a bitch, but maybe I'll get him tomorrow. His luck can't last forever.

T
HE PAY WAGON RUMBLED AND
rolled across the trail, pulled by two horses. Ten troopers rode in front of the wagon, searching for danger, with the remaining fifteen in the rear, armed with rifles, pistols, and knives.

They were observed through an old brass army spy-glass by ex-Captain Richard Cochrane, who lay on a mesa approximately one mile away. He noted that no Indian scouts accompanied the soldiers, perhaps because the soldiers considered their fast-firing rifles unbeatable. They wore blue uniforms with gold bandannas, and their tan wide-brimmed cavalry hats were bent into a variety of configurations to suit the mood or taste of its wearer.

Cochrane detested blue uniforms; they represented everything evil and foul to him. The pay wagon traveled leisurely in a southeasterly direction, unmindful
that a ragtag remnant of the Confederate Army was about to pounce on them.

Satisfied that all was proceeding according to schedule, Cochrane climbed down the back of the mesa, where his horse was picketed at the bottom. The ex-officer felt splendid, the excitement and danger of war invigorated him, and he wondered how he could give it up for Juanita Torregrosa. He raised himself onto his saddle, amazed at the power she had over him. Now he understood why they called love the tender trap.

His horse cantered away from the butte as Cochrane bounced up and down in the saddle. After this battle, I'm going to be a Mexican, he mused. I'll even learn their lingo, and maybe I'll change my name to Rodriguez.

Mrs. Vanessa Dawes presented herself at the orderly room of Company B, Fourth Cavalry, and a crusty old sergeant with a bushy blond mustache and a corncob pipe looked up at her. “Can I help you, ma'am?”

“Would you tell Colonel MacKenzie that Mrs. Dawes is here to see him?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Vanessa's eyes fell on a picture of President Ulysses S. Grant hanging from a nail banged into the wall. Revulsion swept over her, for she considered drunkard Grant a cigar-smoking butcher, yet he'd become president of the United States, while General Lee lay buried in Lexington, Virginia. It was blood-soaked Grant who'd sent Sherman on his reckless march to the sea, destroying the Fontaine plantation, killing her parents, and sending Vanessa destitute into the world. The ex-Charleston belle wanted to be magnanimous in
defeat—it was the decent thing to do—but she lacked the strength, courage, or whatever else was required. If killer Grant were standing in front of me right now, would I assassinate him?

The sergeant emerged from the next office. “He'll see you now, ma'am.”

The colonel sat behind a desk, attired in a blue canvas shirt with gold shoulder straps and top button undone. He rose to his feet and smiled cautiously. “Have a seat, Mrs. Dawes. I was perusing the file on Duane Braddock before you arrived, and was surprised to learn that your departed ex-husband, Lieutenant Dawes, once arrested Duane Braddock in a town called Shelby. Is that correct?”

She sat before him, crossed her legs, and said, “Yes.”

Colonel MacKenzie stared at her, trying to understand, but Vanessa switched the subject adroitly. “Does it say where Duane Braddock is now?”

“Most probably in Mexico.” Colonel MacKenzie raised the file on Duane Braddock, then let it drop to the desk. “It's quite a story, and I can't fathom how a lady like you could befriend such a person. May I be frank? It says here that you were actually engaged to marry Duane Braddock when you met Lieutenant Dawes. Is that correct?”

“Let's just say that I knew him well,” Vanessa replied, “and I persist in believing that he's no outlaw. His main problem is he won't back down from provocation.”

“Evidently he gets provoked quite often,” retorted Colonel MacKenzie. “He's shot approximately fourteen men that we know about, and God only knows how many others. What about the federal marshal that he killed in Morellos?”

“Duane's not friendly to lawmen, I'm afraid.”

“He pumped two cartridges into the marshal, according to the report. That's more than just being unfriendly, wouldn't you say?”

“Maybe the marshal shot first and forced Duane to defend himself.”

Colonel MacKenzie leaned back in his chair, scratched his nose, and appeared thoughtful. “Your defense of Mr. Braddock is sincere, I have no doubt about that, but isn't it strange how he leaves a trail of corpses wherever he goes? When he was sheriff of Escondido, he shot approximately half a dozen men in the space of a month. I guess they all provoked him?”

“Wherever I go, people provoke me too. Such as last night during supper, because I speak with a Southern accent and sing in saloons. I could alter my Southern accent to be more acceptable to the army in blue, but I'm proud of my heritage and refuse to apologize for it. I'll bet you one thing—Duane Braddock was probably the best sheriff Escondido ever had.”

“At the rate he was going, he would've killed everyone in town, but not without provocation, of course.”

“You wouldn't say that if you knew him. He's really an honest young man, and he'll make something of himself someday, if people would leave him alone. If he's arrested, I hope he'll get a fair trial.”

“Duane Braddock will receive the full benefit of the law, and you can even appear as a character witness for the defense. Perhaps you can convince a jury that the federal marshal committed suicide, but somehow Mr. Braddock got blamed by mistake.”

Duane sat with his back against a boulder, smoking a cigarette and watching the irregulars digging holes along the trail. The plan was to bury dynamite at strategic spots, blow the troopers to kingdom come, take the payroll, and cut back to the Rio Grande.

What warped sense of honor has brought me here? Duane wondered. Just because they saved my life, that doesn't mean I have to participate in mass murder. How can I sit with my mouth shut while they blow a bunch of poor soldiers to smithereens?

Duane became agitated as he paced back and forth on the riverbank. He glanced toward the trail where the outlaws were placing sticks of dynamite into holes they'd dug into the ground. The carefully hidden fuses trailed to a hedge where Cochrane would wait with a match. Duane's vivid imagination saw bloody arms flying in one direction, legs in another, and heads straight up into the air. The troopers wouldn't know what hit them, and then the outlaws would level withering fire into the survivors. Death on the menu, Duane felt nauseated, and an artery hammered his throat. Maybe I should jump on the best horse here and ride the hell away, but Cochrane saved my life and I can't alert the Fourth Cavalry that he's here. On the other hand, how can I remain silent while a bushwhack is being prepared before my very eyes?

Duane felt immobilized. All he could do was roll another cigarette, his hands trembling slightly. Cochrane's fighting a war that ended seven years ago, and he must be plumb loco, deliberated Duane. He decided to get the hell out of there and worry about moral implications some other time. He took a step toward Beasley's horse, when he heard the hoofbeats of Cochrane's steed. The outlaws stopped digging as
their commander returned from his scout. Out of morbid curiosity, Duane joined them.

Cochrane climbed down from the saddle as Duane hung back at the edge of the crowd. Cochrane was bearded, covered with dust, wearing his old worn gray wool Confederate cavalry officer's jacket, but the brass buttons had been replaced by bone buttons, the shoulder straps removed, and there was no gold sash around his waist. He unscrewed the cap off his canteen and took a swig, then cleared his throat and said, “They're right on schedule—should be here around sundown. Continue with your digging, men. Please take my horse, Mr. Braddock.”

Duane accepted the reins. “May I have a word with you alone, sir?” He nodded toward the horses, and Cochrane appeared surprised.

“What's on your mind?”

“Sir, I'd advise you to think this over. It's no little robbery of an out-of-the-way bank that we're talking about. A lot of men will be killed, and if there's a God in heaven, you're going to pay for it.”

Annoyed, Cochrane stared at him. “Perhaps you've got a fever and had better lie down. I'll take care of my own horse—give me the reins.”

“I don't mean to be disrespectful, sir, but
thou shalt not kill.
”

Cochrane laughed darkly. “Is this the Pecos Kid talking to me about killing? I'm fighting a war, but you just shoot people for the hell of it, right? You've even killed a federal marshal, so don't preach the Ten Commandments to me. Nobody's innocent here—not me, not you, and not those damned Nigra-stealing Yankees. If you can't perform your duties, then get the hell out of here.”

“If I get out of here,” Duane said, “I'm going to warn those soldiers.”

As soon as the words were out of Duane's mouth, he realized that he'd made a mistake. Out of nowhere Cochrane punched Duane flush on the jaw, and Duane blacked out. When he opened his eyes, all the outlaws were standing around him.

“Sergeant Beasley, tie and gag this man,” said Cochrane coolly.

“What's he done?” asked Beasley.

“He wants to inform the Yankees that we're throwing a little surprise party for them.”

Now it was Beasley's turn to be surprised. “Why don't we shoot ‘im?”

“Not a bad idea.” Cochrane drew his gun and aimed it at Duane's head. “I execute you herewith for the attempted betrayal of my command.”

Duane gazed transfixed into the muzzle. Cochrane's trigger knuckle whitened, then he paused, became pensive, and sighed. “Tie and gag him. We'll deal with this later.”

The outlaws moved toward Duane, except Johnny Pinto, who held back and watched with an expression of utmost compassion. Duane loathed being tied and gagged; he glanced about for a path of escape, but was surrounded by irregulars.

“You can come the hard way,” said Beasley, “or the easy way. It don't make a damn to me.”

Duane tried to crash through the cordon of muscle surrounding him, but the irregulars massed in his path. Walsh lunged for his arms, but Duane cracked him with an uppercut, pushed him out of the way, and was hit in the mouth with a solid punch from Beasley. Then another outlaw came from behind and caught Duane
in a headlock. Hertzog grabbed his right arm, Beasley punched him again, and Jim Walsh caught Duane's left arm. The others dived on Duane, forced him to the ground, and tied him tightly with scratchy brown hemp. Duane tasted blood and struggled with futility as they gagged him.

“Throw him somewhere out of the way,” growled Cochrane, a tone of disgust in his voice. “The pay wagon is arriving directly, and when we're finished with the damned Yankees, a firing squad might be a good idea for a certain traitor named Duane Braddock.”

Outlaws carried Duane's squirming form fifty yards from the bushwhack site, unceremoniously dumped him behind a thicket, then returned to their positions. Unable to move his arms and legs, Duane rolled himself around so he could see Cochrane's grand plan unfold. The dynamite had been buried, all marks erased, and the outlaws were deploying on the near side of the trail, hidden by thick underbrush, with Cochrane firmly in command.

A gag soaked with saliva sat in Duane's mouth, his hands were numb from tightened twine, and a rattlesnake could bite him easily, not to mention a poisonous spider or lizard, while a wildcat could chew off his ear. I should keep my big mouth shut, but how can any decent person keep quiet at a massacre?

He wrestled with his dilemma as the detachment drew closer in the distance. Then he detected a footfall behind him, and expected an Apache with a hatchet in his hand, but it was Johnny Pinto, a twisted smile on his vulpine features. Johnny glanced from side to side warily, then dropped to one knee in front of Duane, yanked out his Smith & Wesson, and aimed it at
Duane's head. “Say your prayers, shithead. You've come to the end of your road.”

Duane couldn't speak with the gag in his mouth, and all he could do was make surprised gurgle sounds. Johnny reached forward, took Duane's nose in his fingers, and gave it a firm painful pinch. “Got you where I want you, eh? You done fucked with the wrong cowboy, and I'm a-gonna blow yer head off right naow.”

Johnny yanked back the hammer while Duane's heart thumped with trepidation, terror, and madness. He protested vehemently through the gag, but only vague muffled groans came out. Johnny's finger tightened around the trigger, a smile creased his battered lips, and he joyfully anticipated the utter destruction of Duane's cranium. Then they heard a new voice. “What's going on over there?” asked Cochrane.

He was striding toward them, and Johnny quickly holstered the Smith & Wesson. “I just come to see how the prisoner is doin',” replied Johnny guiltily.

“Nobody told you to leave the horses. Get back there.”

“You ain't a-gonna turn him loose, are you?”

“Don't ever leave your post again, you goddamned eight ball.”

“Yessir.” Johnny slouched toward the horses, cursing himself for not killing Braddock when he'd had the chance. I hope Cochrane doesn't take the damned gag off him. Johnny glanced back, and saw Cochrane talking to Duane, the gag still firmly stuffed into Duane's mouth. Maybe I should jump on a horse and ride the hell out of here, thought Johnny, but this is Injun territory, and I could use five thousand dollars. No, I've got to see this thing through.