Apache Moon (28 page)

He saw Christ crucified on the wall behind the altar, while candles burned before a crudely carved and painted statue of Mary. A young man with black hair and a red shirt knelt in a pew, his head bowed in prayer. “Put your hands up, Kid. You're under arrest.”

Duane's heart stumbled at the sound of the lawman's voice. He was in the midst of mild religious ecstasies and suddenly had been placed in custody? Dazed, confused, his vision of paradise fading, he dived to the floor. Marshal Stowe pulled the trigger as the back of the pew exploded above Duane's head. Duane drew his gun, thumbed back the trigger, and tried to recover his equilibrium. He'd been saying Hail Marys, and now his life was endangered yet again.

Marshal Stowe ducked behind the back pew and held his Remington ready to fire. “Throw your gun into the middle of the aisle, Kid. Make it easy on yourself.”

“Leave me alone, Marshal. I've got no beef with you.”

“I've got a warrant for your arrest, and I found those two miners you killed on Turkey Creek. I have reason to believe you've stolen their gold, and by Christ, you're not getting away with it.”

“The gold was mine, not theirs. The Apaches gave it to me, and the miners tried to kill me for it.”

“Isn't it strange how everybody's trying to kill you? You can tell it to the judge, but in the meanwhile, put your hands up and move into the center of the aisle, or I'm coming after you.”

There was silence for a moment, then Duane said, “If you come after me, I'll kill you.”

“So be it,” replied the former troop commander.

Duane didn't want to kill a lawman, so he had to plot a way out of the church. There was a back door, the front door, and some windows. If I make a run for it, he'll shoot me down, but if I stay put, time is on his side. He heard creaking as the marshal crawled across the back of the church. Stowe's plan was to maneuver around, then advance down the far aisle until he came to the pew where Duane was hiding. Once in position, he'd take quick aim and fire. The Pecos Kid was boxed in, like shooting a duck in a barrel.

But the Pecos Kid possessed precise Apache hearing and could hear every movement that the lawman made. It didn't take long to figure out the lawman's plan, so Duane aimed his gun straight down the pew. As soon as he saw the lawman's head, he'd blow it off. “You're making a mistake, Marshal! The charges against me'll never stand, and you'll die for nothing!”

Marshal Stowe refused to reply because he didn't want to give his position away. He had no idea that Duane's ears located every touch of his pants on the
floorboards. The lawman held his breath as he crept beside a painted statue of Saint Jude, with a golden flame erupting out of the deity's head.

“Listen to me, Marshal,” Duane pleaded. “I've shot people who've tried to kill me first, but I never looked for trouble in my life. If I shoot you, your blood will be on your own hands, not mine.”

Marshal Stowe thought of the Battle of Crooked Run as he inched forward. Duty, honor, country, he told himself. He passed the long pews, and a statue of Saint Joseph looked at him mournfully. The marshal knew that the next few yards would be the trickiest, but it was the same way at Chester Gap, and the Michigan Wolverine Brigade had carried the day.

“I can hear where you are,” Duane said levelly. “You're trying to catch me from the side, but I'll plug you, I swear it. I'll give you the money from the nuggets or anything else you want, you self-righteous son of a bitch, but don't make me kill you, too.”

“It's too late, Braddock,” Marshal Stowe replied. “The miners are dead, and nobody's bringing them back. It's the same with the folks you shot in Shelby. You've got everybody fooled with your pretty face, but you never fooled Lieutenant Dawes and you're not fooling me!”

Marshal Stowe leapt forward and swung his Remington across the pews at the young man crouching before him. It was the last image the lawman ever saw as his mind thought, I've got him.

A bullet smacked the lawman in the chest and threw him back against the statue of Saint Jude, which rocked from side to side. The church filled with gunsmoke as Marshal Stowe struggled to hold his Remington steady, but his knees gave out. He went crashing to the floor, worked to catch his breath, but his throat and lungs filled with clots of blood. He wanted to raise his gun but instead saw his old cavalry saber clutched tightly in his hand. “Forward . . . you Wolverines . . .” he whispered as he pitched onto his face. He didn't move as a pool of blood widened around him.

Duane rose, his gun still aimed at the fallen lawman. He sidestepped across the pew, knelt beside his adversary, and the full implications dawned upon him. I've killed a federal marshal, and I've got to get out of town immediately, but where should I go? He felt drunk, although he'd touched no whiskey that day. Less than five minutes ago he'd been deep in communion with the Mother of God and now he'd killed again. He turned toward the altar, where Christ gasped on the cross, blood flowing down his face from the crown of thorns. Duane crossed himself and said, “Father in heaven, forgive me.”

He had no time for Hail Marys, Our Fathers, and Glory Bes. Marshal Stowe wasn't the only lawman in Texas, and they tended to back each other. Duane headed toward the rear door of the church, opened a crack, and saw townspeople lurking behind woodpiles
and sheds, potential witnesses for the prosecution, but they had to catch him first.

He headed for the hotel, fighting the rising ocean of panic. The posse could show up at any moment, so he held his Colt straight ahead, ready for anything. He tried to think of where to go, knew nothing about Mexico, but Texas was no longer a viable option for the Pecos Kid.

He came to the hotel. The lobby was empty, and the clerk had deserted his post behind the desk. Duane marched to his room, gathered his belongings, and made sure his rifle was loaded. Then he tossed the saddlebags over his shoulder. He returned to the lobby cautiously, the Colt aimed straight ahead, but no one was there. Peering out the door, he saw a clear path to the stable. For all he knew, sharpshooters were on the roofs of nearby buildings, but all he could do was make a run for it.

He pulled his hat tightly on his head, took a deep breath, and dashed across the street, expecting a bullet to plow through his brain at any moment, but no one tried to stop him, and he landed in the stable. The next step was to find his spooked chestnut stallion. Duane heard a footstep behind him, rolled out, and aimed his Colt at the stable man, who smiled graciously as he raised empty dirty hands. “Can I help you, sir?”

“Where's my horse?”

The stable man led Duane down the stalls, while Duane watched him carefully. “Don't try anything
funny,” Duane said. “Don't make me shoot you like I shot that damn fool marshal.”

“Din't figger he'd live long. He was in too much of a hurry.”

The stable man saddled Duane's horse as Duane looked warily out the front door. The street appeared deserted, but maybe sharpshooters were moving into position behind windows on Main Street. The stable man brought Steve, who was twitching with the prospect of more danger. Duane stood in front of him, grabbed the bridle with both hands, and looked into his eyes. “Now listen to me, Steve. When we leave here, we've got to go at a fast gallop because somebody might shoot at us. It won't be much fun, but you'd better put every ounce of strength you've got into it, understand?”

The horse nodded his head up and down, and Duane wondered if the animal was talking with him as he flung his saddlebags over the beast's mighty haunches. Then Duane climbed into the saddle, jammed his rifle into its scabbard, and touched his heels to Steve's flanks. The horse eagerly bounded toward the light, while Duane held his Colt ready in his right hand. Townspeople watched fearfully from behind windows and through alleys as horse and rider charged onto Main Street. Duane pulled the reins toward the south, Steve raised his front hooves high, and then raced headlong down the street, while Duane crouched low in his saddle, shooting his Colt in the air to warn anybody who tried to stop him. Steve pounded steadily
onward as cactus and juniper revealed themselves straight ahead. Townspeople craned their necks around corners and out of windows as they watched the handsome young killer recede into the desert, sunlight gleaming off his silver concho hatband. He looked back once, fired a final shot at the sky, and cried, “Adios, amigos!”

And thus the Pecos Kid departed for sunny Mexico.

T
HE BEARDED YOUNG STAGECOACH DRIVER
held the door for Mrs. Vanessa Dawes, who was attired in a black dress, hat, and veil. Her luggage had been loaded on the coach, and the time had come for her departure from Shelby. She took one last look at the residents who'd come to see her off and the scattered ramshackle buildings that dared call itself a town. She'd already said her farewells, and the only thing to do was climb aboard. “Thank you,” she said softly to the driver as she stepped into the cramped interior of the coach.

It smelled of tobacco, whiskey, and perfume, and she saw a traveling salesman with a toothy grin and
big ears sitting near the window. He made room for her, and she smiled in gratitude as she dropped daintily beside him. She gazed out the window at the townspeople waving and blew them a kiss, like a visiting dignitary. The driver climbed onto his perch, grabbed the reins, and pushed the brake forward. “Giddyup.”

Harnesses creaked, horses' hooves struck the ground, and the stagecoach lurched forward. Vanessa looked at the shacks passing her window as her mind filled with jumbled memories. She'd come to town on the arm of one man, married another, and now was a widow. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

The stagecoach approached rows of canvas army tents at the edge of town, and she remembered the afternoon when Captain Turner had visited her out of the blue. He'd told her that her husband, Lieutenant Clayton Dawes, had been killed in action against the Apaches and was buried in an unmarked mass grave somewhere near the Mexican border.

“Are you a native of this area?” asked the salesman with a wet grin.

“If you don't mind, I'd rather not talk about it.”

The salesman tipped his hat. “Sorry.”

People deferred to ladies in black veils, and Phyllis planned to make the most of it during her stagecoach ride. A tall, lanky cowboy sat opposite her, fast asleep, mouth hanging open, a bottle of whiskey lying like a baby in his lap. To his left sat an elderly man who looked like a judge, banker, or politician. On the other
side of the cowboy slept a young girl with pale skin, in a gingham dress, and she had the shopworn look of a working girl. Young love, Vanessa mused cynically.

She still didn't know what to think about the sudden demise of the late Lieutenant Dawes. They'd been together such a brief time, they barely knew each other. Now she was on her way to Austin, to confer with a lawyer on matters pertaining to her inheritance. The lieutenant had accumulated a fair sum during his lifetime, thanks to a bequest from his grandfather plus his own intelligent investments over the years. She'd also get a widow's pension from the army, and she'd never have to sing in another saloon for the rest of her life.

The stagecoach rumbled onto the desert, followed by its cavalry escort. Vanessa leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. It was going to be a long trip, but soon she'd be rich again. She'd always known, even during her darkest hours, that she'd prevail. When the money was hers, she'd return to South Carolina and buy the old family plantation.

She saw herself on the wide veranda of her ancestral home, entertaining guests as in the days before the War of Northern Aggression. She'd invite the cream of Charleston society, and the last of the scalawags would be thrown out of office by then, she was certain. Yes, the South will rise again, and I'll rise with her.

Her distinguished guests would dance into the night, tables would groan with rare delicacies, and the
band would play fine old Dixie tunes, but something was missing from the dream, and she didn't quite know what it was. Occasionally she caught glimpses of a tall young man in black jeans, a black shirt, and a black hat with silver conchos strolling among the revelers, an insouciant smile on his face, his eyes a-twinkle with mischief. She'd heard that he was wanted for killing a federal marshal in a rough border town and was riding hard for Mexico when last seen. She thought of him alone in the desert, running like a hunted animal against all the odds. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't forget his cowboy grace and theological speculations. Sleep well, my darling boy, she whispered softly. Perhaps someday our paths will cross again.

Mr. Simmons sat at the counter of the post office in Morellos and looked at the pile of letters spread before him. The shipment had just arrived on the stage from Fort Stockton, and it was time to sort the envelopes. Mechanically, he picked them up and placed them in their appropriate slots. It wasn't a bad life, though sometimes he got headaches from reading too much fine print.