Devil's Creek Massacre (7 page)

Vanessa turned to a big hulking fellow with a jet-black mustache, around forty years old, with an insouciant half smile on his sallow face. Dudley shook his big paw, then made the introductions. “Howard Sutcliffe,
maybe I present Mrs. Vanessa Dawes.”

Sutcliffe bowed, took her hand, and kissed her knuckle. “I was admiring you from afar, madam, and thought I'd come for a closer look.”

“Perhaps I'm more admirable at a distance, the greater the better,” Vanessa riposted.

“You're too modest, madam. Why, I was just thinking, before I took my first step in this direction, that you were the most beautiful woman here.”

“You're very kind to an aging widow, sir.” She fluttered her eyelashes in appropriate Charleston fashion and hoped she wasn't being ridiculous.

“Howard is a lawyer,” explained Dudley. “He argues cases before the Texas Supreme Court.”

“I also have very good ears,” added Sutcliffe immodestly. “I hear all the news. So you're the Mrs. Dawes thac everyone is talking about. I must say— you're far lovelier than I'd imagined.”

She raised her fan to cover her vain smile. “Now I understand why you win so many cases, sir.”

His eyes twinkled with mischief. “Some say I defeat my opponents through bribery, perjured witnesses, tampered evidence, and such, but one should not believe idle gossip.”

He was a rogue, he made no bones about it, and she couldn't help liking him. “What regiment did you serve with in the war?”

“I served as an undersecretary in the Department of the Treasury, because my muscles are in my mind, not my arm. Care to dance?”

“I'm afraid not,” she replied.

“I forgot—you're in mourning. You know, black becomes you. It makes you look sinister. Are you dangerous, Mrs. Dawes?”

“Little me?” she asked innocently, although bloody scandals had surfaced twice in her past. “How can you think such a thing?”

Dudley Swanson tried desperately to assert himself, but the conversation kept moving away. Finally Sutcliffe shot him a glance that said, “get lost.” Dudley coughed, fumbled, excused himself, and backed toward the bar.

Vanessa looked at Sutcliffe with a mixture of fascination and disapproval. “That was cruel,” she said, her smile becoming a frown.

“I'm don't want to share you, Mrs. Dawes. You should forgive the follies committed for your sake. Come, let us observe the dancers.”

Before she could answer, he took her arm and was leading her to the next room. He seemed sure of himself, while she felt uncertain about everything. He obviously was rich, if he argued cases before the Texas Supreme Court, and wasn't that bad-looking, but there was something presumptuous and overbearing about him, as if he could have anything he wanted, including the former Miss Vanessa Fontaine.

They came to the dance floor, a large room devoid of furniture, with a band at one end, and the crème de la creme of Austin's old Confederate aristocracy at the other, performing carefully choreographed dance movements in which participants seldom touched one another. Vanessa followed Sutcliffe to a dark stretch of wall; they turned to each other, and he said, “I don't like to be dishonest, despite my reputation, so I'll confess that I know all about you, Mrs. Dawes. I have an affiliation with the law firm that represented your interests in the probate of your husband's will, and discovered a curious fact, to wit: You had filed for divorce prior to your late husband's untimely demise.”

She didn't like his manner, the more she got to know him, not to mention the tone of his voice, although he was correct in his facts. “It's not my fault that Apaches killed my husband,” she replied. “Despite what you may think, I loved Lieutenant Dawes when I married him.”

“Of course you did, although there were certain rumors about another young man. I don't claim to be a gentleman, but I know how to button ladies' dresses. May I?” He reached behind her neck and fastened her garment with deft manipulations of his fingers. “What a lovely neck you have, Mrs. Dawes. Like a swan. Do you think you might like to get married again someday, after official mourning has ended, of course?”

“Not very likely,” she replied, “and thank you for buttoning my dress, but if you ever touch me like that again, without my expressed permission, I'll slap your face. Do I make myself clear?”

He gazed into her unforgiving green orbs, then took a step backward. “Absolutely, and I apologize if I've been too forward. I guess it's the trial lawyer in me, but I know character when I see it, and you've got it aplenty. Poetry isn't my game, and I don't mince words like some you'll meet here tonight. I can't help thinking that you and I would make quite a team. Look at it objectively. We're both shrewd people who've been around the corral a few times.”

“I'm not
that
ambitious,” she replied, “and unlike you, I adore poetry. It makes life worthwhile, regardless of how many times you've been around the corral.”

“Women like you get men killed, because you're too beautiful for your own good. But you're a very fine example of your type, which you should take as a sincere compliment.”

Vanessa struggled to prevent herself from smashing
him in the face. “The death of my husband was a terrible tragedy, regardless of what you think of me. But your death would be quite another matter.”

He smiled falsely, bowed, and strolled away nonchalantly, because he was rich and didn't give a damn. There was no shortage of beauties anxious to throw themselves at a rich lawyer, but Vanessa was rich herself, fortunately. Never, during six years of singing in saloons, had she met such a calculating and insulting individual. He'd be the ideal husband for me, she reflected cynically, except I can't stand the son of a bitch.

She felt like a foreigner in the dancing parlor. Four blazing chandeliers beamed bright golden haze, and young gentlemen danced with their hands behind their backs, while ladies in hoop skirts twirled around them. The former belle of the ball guessed that some unmarried girls probably were pregnant, and a few gentlemen preferred to sleep with other gentlemen. Maturity enabled her to probe beneath the surface, an ongoing disillusioning process. Nothing was sacred anymore, and if a woman didn't have an income, she could end up giving herself to men like Howard Sutcliffe.

A glass of champagne was suspended in her slender graceful fingers as she recalled her recently departed husband. Lieutenant Clayton Dawes had saved her from Duane Braddock, but what was so wrong with Duane Braddock? She'd left him, not the other way around, and broken his innocent heart.

Lieutenant Dawes had seemed reliable, compared with Duane's immaturity and naivete. Vanessa had planned to spend the rest of her life on army posts with Lieutenant Dawes, attending tea parties and socials with the other officers' wives, but then he'd been killed on a scout, and another dream vanished.

She hadn't known, when she'd first tied the wedding knot with Lieutenant Dawes, that he'd harbored ill will toward Duane, and vice versa. Then the insanely jealous Dawes charged Duane with murder following a shoot-out where Duane had merely defended himself. Duane broke out of the army camp and had been on the dodge ever since.

Duane needed me, but I let him down. Now circumstances have changed, and I can do any damned thing I want, such as buying a ticket on the next stagecoach west and searching for Duane Braddock.

She stiffened in the corner, shocked by what she'd just thought. Search for Duane Braddock! Are you crazy? Indians attack stagecoaches regularly, and stage-coach stops have the worst accommodations imaginable. Don't you think it's time to wake up, after all you've been through, you idiotic Miss Vanessa Fontaine?

“Enjoying the party?” Dudley Swanson, puffing a pipe carved from Turkish meerschaum, stood before her. “Can I get you something to eat?”

“Have you ever been in love, Dudley?”

He was taken aback by her question. “I guess you'd have to define what you mean by love,” he replied smugly.

These people don't believe in anything; they have no romance in their souls, but I mustn't be intolerant, she lectured herself. Perhaps my two so-called great love affairs were nothing more than a lost frightened woman looking for someone to take care of her.

“You don't like me much, do you?” asked Dudley, an amused tone in his voice.

“What makes you think that?”

“You're ignoring me.”

“But sometimes I think of ... my husband—you understand.”

He lowered his eyes. “Forgive me. You're so beautiful, one forgets you're in mourning. Would you like me to leave you alone?”

“I hope you won't think I'm being discourteous, but . . . yes.”

He bowed and backed away as Vanessa took another sip of champagne. Her long slim body had adorned many bedrooms, but her first love had died at Gettysburg, and her second was Duane Braddock, who probably was dead, too, given his natural tendencies. But what if he's alive and alone in some terrible situation, wishing I'd come back to him?

Don't flatter yourself, Vanessa, she reproached herself. He doesn't miss you in the least, and probably hates you for being a treacherous, devious Lady Macbeth. But why, she asked herself, am I
still
in love with that penniless immature fool? Perhaps I should move to the nearest insane asylum, but wouldn't it be a hoot if I ever ran into Duane Braddock again? Vanessa took stock of herself, standing against the white papered wall as the band played another Virginia reel. Why am I always thinking about Duane Braddock? she wondered. Why doesn't he leave me alone?

D
UANE ATTEMPTED TO ASSESS HIS surroundings during brief periods of consciousness, and surmised that he was a prisoner of the Fourth Cavalry. His captors had been attending to his every need because they wanted the splendid figure of a man dangling from the end of their rope, to prove they hadn't mistreated their prisoner.

The hanging would be in a public square, with little children watching and clapping their hands as the executioner placed the noose around Duane's neck. They'd hold a kangaroo court to make it legal while the undertaker nailed together the coffin in the next room.

Every movement strained raw flesh attempting to heal, and Sister Death danced eerily around him.
If I don't get you today, maybe I'll get you tomorrow.
Somebody entered the kitchen and lit a lamp. It was the doctor with graying black beard, sitting beside
Duane and peering at him through wire-rim glasses. “How do you feel this morning?”

“Better ...” Duane said with great effort.

Dr. Montgomery was astonished. “You can talk? Magnificent! What's your name?”

“Is ... this ... a ... jail?”

Dr. Montgomery threw back his head and laughed. “Hell no! We're just old soldiers traveling through Mexico, and we ran into you on the desert. Some Apaches shot you up pretty bad, and it was touch and go for a while, but it looks like you're going to make it.”

“You're . . . not. . . going ... to ... hang . . . me?”

“What the hell do we want to hang you for? What've you done?”

“I'm .. . innocent. ...”

“Of course you are, and so are we. I'd say you're about ready for normal food. How d'ya like your eggs?”

Vanessa was covered with perspiration as she opened her eyes. Her arms were wrapped around her pillow, she was breathing heavily, and she'd been dreaming about Duane Braddock. They'd been in bed together, wrestling and scratching each other like wild animals in some lost jungle paradise.

Vanessa reached for a hanky and wiped her brow. Never had she experienced such a dream. In the cold light of dawn, it embarrassed her to recall the lewd and salacious acts that they'd performed upon each other's quivering flesh. She'd surrendered completely, so did he; her dream had been bizarre, uncanny, and explosive, but now she was alone in bed, the cool morning air made her shiver, and her pillow was duck feathers, not Duane Braddock.

She felt appalled to find herself lusting after young Duane Braddock. I know that he's the man for me, so why don't I simply track him down? she asked herself. It's not as if he's a nonentity, and in fact he's well known in west Texas, a minor celebrity of sorts, the Pecos Kid himself. I'll just follow the trail of blood, and he'll be at the end of it.

Wait a minute! she reproached herself. What are you thinking about now, you idiot? You're not going to follow a
man
all across Texas, and risk your skin that you've been struggling so hard to preserve, are you?

Of course not.

Duane sat on a chair outdoors as the healing rays of sun beat down on him. He could see shacks constructed haphazardly in the vicinity, the herd of rustled outlaw cattle in the distance, and purple mountains that encompassed the hideout. He couldn't move his head well, but caught glimpses of outlaws among the buildings, while high in the sky a lone buzzard circled lazily.

I sure cheated you, Duane thought. You'd better find another meal, because I'm on my way back. The Pecos Kid felt considerably stronger following one egg, two slices of bacon, and a few spoonfuls of grits, washed down with a half cup of thick black coffee.

The pain was there, but had substantially diminished. He was sojourning in an outlaw camp of some kind, not a jail, and was anxious to resume his jaunt to Monterrey. Dr. Montgomery had told him that he'd be up and around in another week or two, but it might be a while before he could ride.

Duane could feel the bullet's path through his guts; the impact had shaken him like a rag puppet, but the
worst was over; now he was healing, and he felt optimistic for the first time since he'd been shot like an antelope by Apaches. He recalled praying to the Virgin from the depths of his infirmity, and how she'd appeared above him, a blinding halo behind her head. She'd been the turning point of his illness, so he closed his eyes and gave thanks. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed—

Footsteps approached, interrupting Duane's prayer. Dr. Montgomery and a tall distinguished-looking out-law drew closer. “Feeling better?” the doctor asked. “This is Captain Richard Cochrane, our leader. And your name was Duane . .. ?”

“That's right,” replied the patient, because they didn't have to know his last name.

The man called Cochrane sat cross-legged on the ground beside Duane, rolled a cigarette, placed it into Duane's lips, and lit it with a match. He was clean-shaven, tanned, his hair golden blond, and he had a scar on the right side of his face, with a black patch covering his right eye. Cochrane rolled another cigarette while the doctor examined Duane's bandages.

“You're coming along fine,” declared Dr. Montgomery. “I'll check with you later in the morning.” Then the doctor excused himself and departed.

Duane realized that he'd been left alone with Cochrane by design, and a barrage of questions was about to begin. But he'd prepared answers in advance, and puffed his cigarette confidently.

“You've been the main topic of conversation around here since you arrived,” began Cochrane, in an educated Southern drawl. “We've all been wondering who you are and what you've done.”

Duane couldn't tell them that he was a lost wandering
cowboy, because no cowboy would stray as far as Mexico. “I'm running from the law,” he confessed.

“What'd you do?”

“They say I killed a few people, but it was self-defense all the way.”

“What's your last name?”

“Butterfield.” The former acolyte found it difficult to look Cochrane in the eye as he told the lie. He was using the last name of Clyde Butterfield, an old-time gunfighter who'd taught Duane the classic fast draw.

Cochrane noticed Duane's facial evasions. “What's your
real
name?”

“Are you trying to collect a bounty?”

“If I wanted the bounty, I'd ride to the nearest American town and dump you on the sheriff's desk. I'm sure he'd recognize you, even if I don't.”

“What about your men?”

“They do as I say. I told you my real name. Why won't you tell me yours?”

“A name is a tag they pin on you. What's wrong with Duane Butterfield?”

“I went through your saddlebags, Mr. Butterfield. I couldn't help wondering what you're doing with Niccolo Machiavelli?”

“A book I picked up in Escondido. Ever read it?”

“A long time ago. Where'd you go to school?”

“I was raised in a Catholic orphanage. How about you?”

“University of Virginia, but I left for the war in my junior year. Most of the men here are ex-soldiers, but you were too young for the war, I imagine.”

“If I went to war, I probably would've got hit by a cannonball,” replied Duane.

“Once, at Chancellorsville, I saw—” Cochrane
caught himself quickly and changed the subject. “That was quite a fight you put up against the Apaches. You killed two of them.”

“They would've got me in the end if it weren't for you. Mr. Cochrane, you saved my life and I'll be grateful forever. Where am I?”

“Sierra Madre Mountains. We're the First Virginia Irregulars, and we're still at war. There are many more like us all across Mexico, and one day we'll have another rebellion, only this time we'll win. We're always looking for men with sand, and if you're interested in money, you'll earn plenty with us.”

“What's the Apache situation?”

“They wouldn't dare bother us, and as for the Mexicans, they don't know this place exists.” Cochrane placed his hand reassuringly on Duane's shoulder. “Relax, kid. You're safe now.”

After breakfast, Vanessa poured a shot of whiskey into her coffee cup. Alone at the kitchen table, she felt as if her life had no point. She was rich, but restless, moody, and suspicious. She could only read so many books.

She placed the dirty dishes into the basin, then poured another cup of coffee, laced it with whiskey, and carried it to the chair overlooking the sunlit street. She recalled when she was a child, playing innocently in the boulevards of Charleston, never imagining the dark cloud of destruction on the horizon.

There was a knock on the door. Vanessa opened it and admitted Lonnie Mae, her maid. “I'm sorry I'm late, ma'am, but I'll get everything done, you'll see.”

“How's your little boy?”

A broad smile wreathed Lonnie Mae's face. “The doctor said his leg is a-healin' fine.”

Vanessa couldn't help feeling happy for her maid's good fortune. “I'm sure he'll mend quickly. God takes care of the little ones, they say.”

“I'se sorry I couldn't help you get ready for the party. How'd it go?”

“I guess I'm too old for parties.”

Lonnie Mae's big brown eyes twinkled. “You should never get too old for parties, ma'am.”

“Well, it's who you're with that makes the difference.”

“No nice gentlemens there?”

“None of them appealed to me.”

“I can understand that,” Lonnie Mae allowed. “Harold is the only man I ever wanted, and thank God I got him. Well, there's a lot to do, and I'd better get started.”

Lonne Mae headed for the kitchen while Vanessa angled toward her office, sat at her desk, and sipped spiked coffee. Life is the same on both sides of the color line, she mused. A woman needs a good man, and good men don't come along every day.

She tapped her fingernails on the desk as she wondered about Duane Braddock. What if he thinks about me as much as I think about him? she asked herself. As far as he knows, I'm still the married lady who betrayed him. What if he discovered that I'm presently unmarried?

Now hold on, Vanessa, she cautioned herself. You're not thinking about actually searching for Duane Braddock, are you? You wouldn't trade this luxurious hotel suite for a smelly flea-bitten stagecoach and every night in another horrible little town. You're too old to be a silly fool, Vanessa. Settle down, girl.

Duane opened his eyes, the sun shone brightly, and a big hulking man with a walrus mustache and a peaked cowboy hat kneeled beside him. “How're you doin'?”

“Getting stronger every day,” replied Duane. “Who're you?”

“Beasley, sergeant of this jolly little band of irregulars. I just wanted to say that you put up one helluva fight against them Injuns, and I admire a man who ain't afraid of a good fight. What're you wanted fer?”

“Murder, but it was self-defense all the way.”

“'Course it was. And we're just a bunch of traveling salesmen.” Beasley winked. “The doc says you'll be up and around afore long. We could use a good man like you, and I hope you'll jine up with us.”

“Don't think so,” replied Duane. “There's something I've got to do.”

“Not even fer a leetle while? I mean, we can use another good gun . . . and we've just saved yer fuckin' life.”

“Let me think about it,” replied Duane. “When I'm stronger, I'll give you my answer.”

“I've been shot a few times myself, and it's no picnic. Anyways, take care of yerself, kid. And just remember one thing.” The sergeant winked. “A good run is better than a bad stand.”

Duane raised a cup of milk to his lips, then replaced it gingerly on the ground. He'd never dreamed he could be so weak. What good does it do me that I've got sand? he asked himself. Now I'm stuck with a gang of outlaws who think they're soldiers in a war that ended almost seven years ago. Maybe courage is another
>word for stupidity, and I've fallen from the frying pan into the fire.

Dudley Swanson stood behind his desk and smiled graciously. “How good of you to stop by, Mrs. Dawes. Can I get you some coffee?”

“If you please,” replied Vanessa Fontaine as she swept dramatically toward a chair, “and if you could pour a few drops of whiskey in it, so much the better.”

He raised his eyebrows as he poured coffee at his small office stove, then added a healthy dash of whiskey. Vanessa sat with her back ramrod straight, because Miss Dalton had taught that a lady's back should never touch anything except her clothes. Swanson returned with the coffee, passed a cup to her, and sat behind his desk. “How fortunate we Austin gentlemen are to have the rare privilege of feasting our eyes upon that great work of an Mrs. Vanessa Dawes. What brings you to my gloomy cramped office? I can't help wondering.”

She sipped her coffee daintily. “This may sound strange, but I need a bodyguard. Could you recommend somebody, perhaps a bullwhacker with time on his hands, who's got sand, bathes fairly regularly, and would respect a woman's privacy?”

Swanson appeared taken aback. “What on earth do you need a bodyguard for?”

“I'm planning a trip to Mexico.”