Devil's Creek Massacre (23 page)

Dr. Montgomery shuffled onto the scene, carrying his little black bag full of surgical implements. Silently he dropped beside Hertzog and examined his wounds. “Dead,” he muttered.

Duane had to get away from the bodies. Like a sleepwalker, he returned to the yard where Juanita wept over Captain Cochrane's pale and stiffening
corpse. The sorrows of the world sat heavily upon Duane's young shoulders, and he wondered how to continue living. At least Captain Cochrane didn't have to face ambiguities anymore.

Duane felt like crying, because Cochrane had been a friend of sorts. He wanted me to kill him, because he couldn't live with twisted honor. Duane recalled the former company commander striding about Lost Canyon, a sterling example of a military man, but loyal to a fault, perhaps. Duane admired and disapproved of Captain Richard Cochrane, but Cochrane had turned Duane loose in a roundabout manner, then gone down like a soldier.

Captain Cochrane had taught Duane one valuable nugget of soldierly wisdom, and Duane would never forget it. No matter how severe the opposition, or how confusing the battlefield, a soldier keeps advancing toward his objective. But a man must make certain beforehand that his objective is just, and therein lay the rub. There was always a rub, unfortunately. Duane took off his hat, wiped his forehead with the back of his arm, and looked around. “We'd better get the hell out of here. Where do they keep the shovels?”

Juanita stared blankly into space, rocking Cochrane's corpse back and forth in her arms like Michelangelo's
Pietà.
Dr. Montgomery appeared around the corner of the bunkhouse, carrying his black bag. “I can't do anything for them,” he said in a lazy singsong voice, as if he'd taken leave of his senses.

“Maybe it's time to do something for yourself,” replied Duane. “Let's bury the captain and hit the trail.”

“There's nothing for me in the Yankee world,” muttered Dr. Montgomery gloomily. “I'm not going anywhere.”

“You give up now,” replied Duane, “Apaches will get you. They'll tie you upside down on that wagon wheel over there, and light a fire underneath your head. If you can't stand Yankees—and to tell you the truth, some of them are awful pains in the ass—why don't you find another band of guerrilla soldiers? They say that Mexico is full of them.”

Dr. Montgomery smiled ruefully. “I ought to shoot you, but you'd beat me to the draw. Or maybe I should do nothing, because you gave the captain a fighting chance. Possibly you're right, he wanted to die. Devil's Creek was too much for him, and perhaps I should put a bullet through my own head, too, because it's what I deserve. You're young, but at least you've got the courage of your convictions. Do you understand any of this, or have I gone completely mad?”

“We don't have time to go mad,” replied Duane. “The Apaches will be here before long, and we've got to bury the captain so that coyotes don't get him. Where are the shovels—and Juanita, you'd better pack any supplies we might need. You can make your novenas on the trail, and while you're at it, say a few for me.”

T
HE OLD CONCORD STAGECOACH traveled west from Fort Clark, escorted by a dozen cavalry soldiers and a Gatling gun bolted to the floor of a wagon. The lone column passed through a mountainous region with crags and bluffs that could conceal Indians, but the troopers stayed alert at all times.

Vanessa sat in the cab with other travelers and passed her time dozing and thinking about Duane Braddock. The Devil's Creek Massacre had undermined her faith in him, but she'd decided it was a case of mistaken identity. Unfortunately, the U.S. government didn't agree, and was negotiating with Mexico about sending an expeditionary force south of the border to hunt down the Pecos Kid.

Sometimes Vanessa guessed that Duane was the worst thing that ever happened to her, except for the Civil War. She tried to plan ahead, but fretted over
Duane fleeing across lawless Mexico. The Fourth Cavalry would shoot him on sight, but Mexico was a big country, and Duane spoke Spanish fluently. Maybe he could elude them.

McCabe's Spiller 6c Burr rested in a new custom-crafted black leather holster on her hip, like a piece of exotic jewelry. The derringer was poised in its holster attached to her garter, while the sawed-off shotgun lay on her lap for special effects. I don't want to be an old lady rocking in my chair in some moldy hotel room someday, with a comical little dog to drool on my carpet. How could I look at myself in the mirror if I abandoned love?

She had money to finance the journey, and for the first time in her pampered Southern-belle life, felt confident about her ability to survive Texas. Maybe I don't have swift answers, but I know all the good old songs, and any decent Southern gentleman can be expected to help a lady in distress, I think.

Duane Braddock, I'm on your trail. Mexico is immense, but I've got plenty of time. One of these days I'm going to find you, and I wonder what you'll say when you see me next time around?

In the Sierra del Tlahualilo, not far from the Rio Grande, Tandor the Apache sat alone on a cliff, gazing intently at a herd of mustangs running wild across the valley below. One seldom saw such a spectacle, hundreds of horses at full gallop, and Tandor figured it was a horse religious ceremony, for why shouldn't the animals have their own mountain spirits to guide them?

Tandor leaned forward, shielding his eyes with his
hand, and focused his bright eyes on a big russet stallion with a black mane at the head of the stampede. In the past, the warrior had observed wild horses fighting among themselves with hooves—that's how they chose their leaders, so the horse leading the pack had defeated his rivals the hard way. The brave warrior saluted the horse from his perch in the sky.
Enjuh.
It is good. The animal appeared vaguely familiar, but Tandor couldn't place him, though their paths had crossed not long ago.

Brave Nestor now carried no saddle or rider as he sped along gloriously, his great heart thundering with the power of the universe. He reached his long legs forward and propelled himself rapidly over a carpet of delicious food.

Sometimes Nestor recalled his old cowpoke friend, the one who'd brought him apples and raisins, but the friend was gone to the shadow world, and Nestor had become horse king. Perhaps we will meet again in epochs to come, thought Nestor as he charged onward, exultant with freedom, tail flickering in the slippery wind.

The herd raced past a row of cottonwood trees, while beyond them, in a small clearing, the bleached rickety bones of a man gleamed in bright sunlight. His clothing had been taken by Apaches, and numerous creatures winged and furred had feasted upon his gristle. He had no headstone, and no one to mourn for him. Here lies the remains of Johnny Pinto, the man nobody loved.

It was night in the desert south of Bustamente, and all was still except a lone man and woman riding
deeper into Mexico. They drooped in their saddles, struggling to stay awake, traveling only after sundown, hoping to avoid Apaches, banditos, Comancheros, and the Mexican Army.

The man rode three lengths ahead, hat low over his eyes, peering through moonshadows for the flash of an Apache's eyes, and listening for the clank and clamor of cavalry while cradling his Winchester in his arms, loaded and ready to fire.

He was sinewy, bearded, with an expression of determination on his youthful features. He looked like a fox, or maybe a black panther with rosary beads, as he led the way to Monterrey.

The woman also was young, with a white shawl over her head and shoulders, and she was with child. This gave her contentment as she dozed in motion while the little creature swam within her secret sea. “Your father was a great man, and you will be great, too, someday, my beloved child,” she whispered gently, then raised her eyes devoutly toward the heavens. “Lord, please shower your mercy on the spirit of dear departed Capitán Ricardo Cochrane. I admit there was much he did not understand, but he was a good man deep down, and none of us ask to come here in the first place. Ricardo Cochrane did his duty as he saw it, but I bow to Your will,
Padre mio.
Let we who call upon you never be put to shame.”

The weary horses plodded onward, while above them glittered a star brighter than all the other constellations, like the star of Bethlehem. It guided them across tractless desert wastes, as choruses of insects sang madrigals, and a raven flew past the face of the moon.