Bad to the Bone

R
UNAWAY
S
TAGECOACH

Duane's big, black horse pulled ahead steadily, as the stagecoach wheels spun furiously a few feet away. The stagecoach driver lay dead in the boot, shot through the chest while the shotgun guard was gone, and baggage bounced in the cage atop the coach. “Come on, boy,” Duane whispered into Midnight's ear. “We've got to catch the nigh leader.”

Thunderous hoofbeats filled the air, as Midnight rampaged alongside the panicked horses. His withers nearly touched their flanks as the horses drew the speeding stagecoach over the rocky trail. Duane knew he should've stayed in bed that morning, as he raised his leg over the saddle, and poised himself to leap onto the nigh leader.

He might die in the moments to come, but deep reflection had never stopped the Pecos Kid before. A Mexican señorita was trapped in the coach, so he took a deep breath and launched himself desperately into the deadly tangled vortex of harnesses, reins, and traces.

Also by Len Levinson

The Rat Bastards:

Hit the Beach

Death Squad

River of Blood

Meat Grinder Hill

Down and Dirty

Green Hell

Too Mean to Die

Hot Lead and Cold Steel

Do or Die

Kill Crazy

Nightmare Alley

Go For Broke

Tough Guys Die Hard

Suicide River

Satan's Cage

Go Down Fighting

The Pecos Kid:

Beginner's Luck

The Reckoning

Apache Moon

Outlaw Hell

Devil's Creek Massacre

The Apache Wars Saga:

Desert Hawks

War Eagles

Savage Frontier

White Apache

Devil Dance

Night of the Cougar

T
HE

P
ECOS
K
ID

Book 6

BAD TO THE BONE

LEN LEVINSON

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1994 by Len Levinson.  All Rights Reserved.

Ebook © 2013 by AudioGO.  All Rights Reserved. 

Trade ISBN: 978-1-62064-863-6 

Library ISBN: 
978-1-62460-204-7

D
UANE
B
RADDOCK LEANED FORWARD ON HIS
saddle, as a Mexican village twinkled in desert wastes straight ahead. He wasn't sure of its name, but had been travelling more or less toward Monterrey. He wondered whether to detour around the village, or stop at the cantina, have a glass of mescal, and maybe see some dancing girls.

Duane hadn't spoken to anybody except his horse for two weeks. He wasn't an American tourist or scholar, and didn't need a warm climate for his health. Duane Braddock, alias the Pecos Kid, was wanted for multiple murders in Texas.

It had been self-defense all the way, but he didn't trust crooked judges and rigged juries; the only law he respected was manufactured in Colonel Colt's factory in Hartford, Connecticut. He brought his hand to rest on the comfortable grip of his .44 revolver. It made
him feel safer in a land filled with banditos, warring revolutionaries, Comancheros, bears, and rattlesnakes.

The Pecos Kid wore black jeans, a green shirt, and a red paisley bandanna. On his head sat his black wide-brimmed cowboy hat held in place by a leather thong neckband. He was tall, slim, eighteen years old, hadn't shaved for several days, and looked like a strange, fearsome desert creature, which in a sense he was.

I should pass this place by, he reasoned, but it'd be nice to take a bath without worrying about an Apache shooting an arrow through my back. I'd have a plate of enchiladas, take a sip of mescal, and cool my heels.

He could speak Spanish fluently, because he'd been raised in a monastery populated by Spanish-speaking priests and brothers. But he tended to get into trouble at drinking establishments, because certain men couldn't hold their liquor, and the first thing they wanted was to punch somebody though a window. Unfortunately, Duane had fallen into the line of fire more than once.

But a man can't hide from the world forever, he told himself. He was approximately two hundred miles south of the Rio Grande, and doubted that the Fourth Cavalry would follow that far. I'm sure that the Army has more important things to worry about than one alleged killer, he deliberated.

The Pecos Kid liked bright lights and good times, like any red-blooded Texan. Youthful curiosity exceeded self-preservation yet again, and he really wanted to see some dancing girls.

His horse plodded toward adobe huts nestled in the valley, as Duane made a solemn oath to himself. If anybody provokes me, I'll turn the other cheek, just as
Christ said in the Bible. If somebody pushes me, I won't push back. And if I have to apologize for something I didn't do, so what?

The town was Zumarraga, named after the first Bishop of Mexico, Juan de Zumarraga. Hub of a vast ranching area, it boasted a stable, a general store, several cantinas, and numerous impoverished hovels.

A steepled Catholic church was the spiritual center of Zumarraga, and in a back pew knelt twenty-one-year-old Doña Consuelo de Rebozo. She was the daughter of one wealthy landowner, and married to another, but that didn't provide immunity from sorrow. Her mother, Doña Migdalia de Vásquez, was dying from cancer, and Doña Consuelo had been in prayer nearly constantly for the past several months.

“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee,” she whispered, fingering rosary beads, while at the main altar the choir rehearsed for Sunday Mass.

Doña Consuelo felt afraid, vulnerable, and bewildered. The inevitability of her mother's impending doom demoralized her profoundly, and sometimes she felt like dropping down and crying her eyes out.

But she was descended from the Spanish nobility, and understood her duties well. She arrived at the end of her rosary, crossed herself, and uttered the final prayer. Then she arose, and turned toward her vaquero bodyguards, who sat in the first pews of the church, waiting for her to finish devotions. Her husband, Don Carlos de Rebozo, would never permit her to leave the hacienda without protection.

The bodyguards treated her like valuable treasure,
because one word could get them dismissed. But Doña Consuelo would never dismiss anybody, and looked the other way when one vaquero took a sip from his pocket flask, or another flirted with a female in the vicinity. The bodyguards never dared flirt with her, of course, because they respected her position, piety and goodness, and feared the wrath of Don Carlos. She was their
princesa
, and they followed her like a pack of poodles as she made her way toward the door.

The church was low-ceilinged, constructed of adobe and wood, with tiny altars along the sides, where candles burned in front of gaudily painted plaster saints. The choir sang a Gregorian chant, and a shudder of religious passion passed through Doña Consuelo. She'd led a relatively blameless life, had studied the Bible assiduously, and had obeyed her parents even when they told her who to marry. All she wanted was her own little baby to raise and love, but unfortunately she was barren after three years of marriage.

Pedro, leader of her bodyguards, rushed to the door and opened it. Doña Consuelo stepped into the moonlight, and the first thing she saw was a tall, slim Americano riding down the middle of the street, his face covered by his hat brim. Doña Consuelo paid no special attention as another of her bodyguards, Francisco, opened the door to her coach. She climbed inside, the carriage rolled out of Zumarraga, and Doña Consuelo gazed at businesses closed for the night, as pedestrians peered at the wealthiest woman in the territory. But she didn't take herself seriously, for priests had taught her the sin of false pride. All my maids have children, but not me, she reflected. Perhaps this will be the night I conceive.

The carriage came alongside the bearded, dusty, ragged Americano, who turned toward her suspiciously. Their eyes met. She saw a hunted animal, and shrank back into the carriage, wondering what terrible crime he had committed, because why else would he be so deep into
Mexico Lindo?
She felt grateful for her bodyguards, and wondered how ordinary women dared walk the streets of Zumarraga.

Doña Consuelo de Rebozo didn't see the fault line in her character, caused by over-ripe innocence, cramped opportunities, and narrow education. She hugged herself and smiled in the darkness, anticipating the strong arms of her husband, as the carriage rolled over the winding moonlit trail.