Devil's Creek Massacre (6 page)

He found the washbasin, splashed water onto his grimy hands and sooty face, then used the common towel. He was annoyed to be meek like his detestable father, but needed the gang more than they needed him. I can put up with anything to get what I want, he decided.

He returned to the bunkhouse, passed the table, and waited for somebody to say something. Sure enough,
Sergeant Beasley spoke again. “You might want to take a bath tomorrow, kid. You smell like horseshit, you know that?”

Johnny Pinto spun around, nearly tripping over his own feet. “If that's how you feel about it, Sarge, I'll take a bath right now.”

He continued toward his bunk, searched through his saddlebags, and pulled out an old wedge of soap. Then he headed for the door, hoping that no one would say anything. A grin was plastered on his face as he reached for the doorknob, and next thing he knew, he was outside.

The grin vanished instantly in the cool night air. Why're they always picking on me? he wondered. I don't smell any worse'n any of them. They're jealous ‘cause they know I'm a better man than the whole bunch of ‘em put together, and one of these days I'll prove it. He who laughs last laughs best.

Juanita gazed at Cochrane bent over his maps. It was all he did when home, and they never took walks or went on picnics like ordinary people. He glanced up as she crossed to the washbasin, then returned to his work as if she weren't there. I'm just the person he sleeps with, she thought, and if it wasn't me, it'd be somebody else. When he says he loves me, it's just words.

Sometimes she thought she should get pregnant, but had no assurance he'd marry her. Accidents happened and she might possibly be pregnant even then, because she'd been oddly out of sorts lately.

He glanced at her. “Where have you been?”

“I saw the hombre who has been shot. He was having broth, and the doctor said he is getting stronger.”

“Did he say his name?”

“He could not talk.”

“Maybe in a few days he'll tell us how many men he shot.” Cochrane laughed darkly as he stretched his arms to the ceiling. “I'm getting sleepy. Let's go to bed.”

That's the way it went every night. They went to bed at his convenience, screwed each other's brains out, and would have little to do with each other until it was time to go to bed again. Sometimes it felt like prostitution to Juanita.

They washed at the basin, undressed in the darkness of the bedroom, and crawled naked into bed. He embraced her beneath the flannel blanket, kissed her lips, and she tried to get in the mood. He noticed something wrong immediately.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“I am not feeling well.”

He moved away, trying to gauge her mood this time. She'd been sulking lately because she wanted a husband, family, and an
estancia
to call her own. Sometimes he thought of returning her to the cantina where fate had introduced them, but he'd have the identical trouble with any woman he chose. Besides, he'd grown fond of her. She was a far cry from the giddy giggling belles he'd romanced in Charlottesville during his previous incarnation. He touched his lips to her warm fragrant shoulder. “I'm sorry.”

“Your sorrow doesn't help me.”

“I wish things could be different, but that's how it is.”

“Your army was defeated seven years ago, and I do not understand what you are fighting for. Wouldn't you like to have a son like a real man?”

“I'm a soldier,” he replied gruffly. “And soldiers don't make the best fathers. I might get killed on the next raid.”

“Then don't go on the next raid. There is no law that says you have to.”

“You should've been a lawyer.”

“We could be happy if you would stop being a bandito.”

“Do you know what the word ‘justice' means?”

“We have the same word in Spanish—
justicia
—so what?”

“Don't you believe that people should fight for justice instead of pretending that everything's all right?”

“Please do not preach to me about justice when your country has stolen part of mine.”

He'd stumbled into dangerous territory, and all he could do was retreat. “I don't mean to preach, but there's something very important that you don't understand.”

“The Confederacy? But I understand it very well, Ricardo. You lost, but you can't accept it.”

“And you can't accept gringos annexing California either, right?”

“Wrong. You gringos were stronger than us, you beat us, and I am not happy about it, but what can I do?”

“You should fight back as best you can.”

“We could never defeat the americano army in a million years, and neither will you.”

He loved her defiance, and her mind was quick as a rabbit. Never had he known a woman with such a tempestuous spirit. What a mother she'd make for a son, he thought. “There are some things you can't forgive and forget.”

“Jesus said we should forgive and forget
everything.
”

“I wish we could stop arguing so much.”

“I am not arguing. I'm telling you the truth.”

“What makes you think you know the truth?”

“It says so in the Bible.”

“But the Bible was written by men.”

“God was talking to them. Don't you believe that?”

He sighed in the darkness. “I don't know what I believe anymore.”

He was weakening, for the Confederacy was a mere idea, while she was a warm-blooded young woman. She pressed her breasts against him and touched her tongue to his ear. “If you want to believe in something, why don't you believe in me?”

“I do believe in you,” he replied in choked voice. “In fact, I'm in love with you, Juanita.”

“All I want is to be with you,” she replied. “Is that so wrong?”

She pressed her lips against his cheek, and once again the stalwart company commander was hurled back by the power of a peasant woman. He hugged her tightly to him, thrills raced across his nerve endings, and the great noble rebellion disappeared into the whirlpools of time.

Outside Lost Canyon, hiding behind a stand of cottonwood trees, Nestor glanced around constantly, alert for Apaches. His senses had sharpened since he'd been on his own, and he was confident he'd hear the Apache before the Apache heard him.

He had plenty to eat, coyotes didn't bother him, and no snake wanted to get stomped by a horse. But he was lonely, and it appeared that his two-legged boss
had died. The horse felt sad, because his boss had saved his life. Now he wanted to return the favor, but how?

There was nothing Nestor could do to bring his boss back from the land of shadows. Nestor couldn't hang around forever, but neither did he want to become a cowboy's hoss. Born on a ranch, raised by cowboys, he'd always wondered about running with the wild ones, and now at last had the opportunity.

He turned away from Lost Canyon and advanced into the night. The great herds lived in far-off valleys where two-leggeds seldom went, and he'd find them before long, he was certain. Good-bye, my generous friend. I'll see you in the shadow world when I, too, am gone from this range.

Strains of fiddles and accordions wafted to the street as Vanessa Fontaine arrived in front of the Cutler mansion. She sat in the cab of a rented black shellacked carriage; the footman jumped down, opened the door, and bowed.

“Wait until I'm inside,” she told him as she swept toward the flight of stairs. The door opened, and a butler appeared in a black-and-white uniform, an elegant smiling beetle. “May I take your coat, madam?”

The music grew louder as she entered a large drawing room filled with purple velvet furniture. Fashionably dressed individuals littered the landscape while liveried servants carried drinks and hors d'oeuvres on rectangular ebony trays with inlaid silver handles.

Vanessa felt uneasy in the presence of so many strangers, but no carpetbaggers, scalawags, or other Yankee sympathizers had been invited. It was her
debut into Austin high society; she no longer felt the self-assurance of youth, but neither had she lost confidence in herself. The hem of her black gown glided over smoothly polished oak floors as she searched for her hostess.

She passed carefully barbered gentlemen and well-manicured ladies while small children ran about in expensive clothing similar to that of their elders. A bar was set up against the back wall, next to a table groaning with delicacies. The orchestra played “The Yellow Rose of Texas” in the next room.

A figure stepped out of the crowd, barring her way. He was five feet tall, potbellied, probably in his forties, immaculately tailored. “May I be of service, ma'am?”

“I was looking for Mrs. Cutler.”

“I'll take you to her.”

Vanessa didn't want to hurt the man's feelings, although she towered over him. Side by side they made their way through throngs of guests sipping beverages, nibbling delicacies, and carrying on animated conversations.

“I don't believe I've ever seen you before,” the short man said. “I'm Dudley Swanson, by the way.”

“I'm Mrs. Vanessa Dawes, and I've just arrived in town.”

“From where?”

“A place I'm sure you've never heard of, named Shelby.”

“Where is it?”

“West Texas. My husband was in the army, but he was killed in action against the Apache.”

“I'm so sorry to hear that,” said Dudley, although he didn't appear sorry in the least.

Vanessa hoped to see an old friendly face from
South Carolina, but the guests were unknown to her, with many gentlemen well on the road to serious inebriation. Near the far wall, beneath a painting of General Robert E. Lee, a crowd of guests had gathered about their gracious hosts. Vanessa noticed masculine eyes turning toward her, measuring her long legs, caressing her small upturned breasts with lust.

Mrs. Cutler was a short dumpy woman with dyed red hair. “Ah, Mrs. Dawes,” she gushed. “How good of you to come.”

Vanessa bent low and let the hostess kiss her cheek. Then Mrs. Cutler proceeded to introduce Vanessa to everyone in the vicinity. A sea of smiling faces passed by as Vanessa struggled to remember names.

“Did you say that she was married to an ex-Yankee?” asked a jewel-bedecked old crone holding a trumpet to her ear.

“She was formerly a Fontaine from Charleston,” replied Mrs. Cutler.

“So why'd she marry a damned Yankee?”

Sometimes elderly people believe that advanced years confer the right to be obnoxious, and the lady with the trumpet had embraced this view with great fervor. The room fell silent as all eyes turned to Vanessa. It was her moment, but she had no idea of what to say. Finally she pulled herself together, and all she could think of was, “My husband was sympathetic to the ideals of the Confederacy. That's why he chose a daughter of the South to be his wife.”

“What'd she say?” asked the old lady, making a public spectacle of herself.

A kindly niece repeated Vanessa's improvisation noisily into the trumpet as Vanessa continued to receive introductions. She smiled politely and curtsied
flawlessly as they'd taught her at Miss Dalton's School in Charleston, but couldn't help remembering when she'd sung in saloons where rotgut whiskey went for fifteen cents a glass, and shootings frequently interrupted her great serenades.

After introductions, the hostess moved on to other guests while Vanessa retreated into the shadows, covered the lower part of her face with her fan, and observed the guests. Young men conversed in one corner, young girls giggled in another, mature couples strolled about, discussing the great fashionable political and cultural issues of the month, while the biggest crowd gathered at the bar.

It was like theater, where ambition, greed, and naked lust paraded before her, disguised by fashionable taste. Curiously, she felt no part of it, although she'd anticipated the party for weeks, hoping to meet somebody interesting.

It all seemed rather dull to the former saloon singer. She'd had audiences of cowboys yearning for a glimpse of the celebrated Miss Vanessa Fontaine, and when she'd stepped onto the stage, they applauded so loudly, she'd thought the walls would collapse. They'd sung old Civil War songs together, but the grand ball was as measured and calculated as a society funeral. Vanessa smiled behind her fan, recalling smoky old frontier saloons from Nagodoches to San Antone. Her cowboy admirers had treated her like the Queen of the Golden West, life had been constant adventure, and she'd even witnessed killings before her very eyes.

I can't flirt like a silly fifteen-year-old sparrow anymore, she thought, and it's never too late to grow up. Dudley Swanson carried two glasses of champagne toward her. She accepted one and said, “Thank you.”

Bubbles ran up her nose as she sipped tart effervescence. She didn't dare ask for whiskey, although she preferred its dusky mellow kick in the pants. Maybe saloon life hadn't been so bad after all.

“You look bored,” said Dudley. “Don't you like the party?”

“I was thinking.”

“Will you be staying in our town long?”

“I'm not sure, because my life is a roulette wheel these days.”

“Mine is a cartwheel, because I own a freighting business. Even as we speak my men are moving merchandise all across Texas.”

Vanessa had talked to freighters and bullwhackers when she'd worked saloons, and knew that Swanson's hardworking employees were sleeping beneath their wagons in remote territories at that moment, with rain-storms and the threat of Indian attack, not to mention the occasional tornado, while their employer sipped champagne and wore a suit costing a freighter's month's pay.

“When did your husband depart this earth?” asked Dudley.

“About three months ago.”

“Ah, you poor woman.”

Dudley tried to appear genuinely sympathetic to her pretended woes, but she'd been out of high society so long, she couldn't think of anything appropriate to say. Just then, out of the blue, a deep baritone voice said, “Evening, Dudley.”