Bad to the Bone (17 page)

Sturgis couldn't help admiring her skill at casting a spell over the audience. If I didn't know better, I'd be in awe of her too, he admitted. She knows the good old songs, but she's just as bad as any common criminal, and if she gives me any backtalk, after I arrest the Pecos Kid, I'll lock her ass in jail too.

He imagined her in a cell, wearing rags, a frightened glint in her eyes. You fool all the others, but you don't fool me, Miss Vanessa Fontaine. One of these
days, I'm a-gonna show you that the law is the law, God punishes the wicked, and judgment day is a-comin' down on all of us.

Doña Consuelo lay amid steamy bubbles, her eyes closed, as warm water soothed the tissues of her body. She felt as though she'd been wrestling a wildcat, and couldn't believe some of the acts she'd performed with him.

I'm going to pay heavily for this, she thought fatalistically. I've dishonored my family and shown how weak my faith really is. But I'm in love with that Americano, or in lust with him, and can't think straight anymore.

Paradoxically, she'd never been so happy, excited and ecstatic, and she couldn't wait to see him again. How sinful can it be? she asked a painting of the Virgin. It would be different if I had children. I never should've married Don Carlos, but how could I know that one day Duane Braddock would come along?

She wished he could be in the tub with her, and they could soap each other. He must love me too, she believed, otherwise he wouldn't have done all those marvelous things. No, that's not something you can pretend. It frightened her to know that she'd developed a deep compelling need for him. Yes, I'll run away with him to the ends of the earth, and the devil take the hindmost.

In the light of recent events, she viewed her father differently. He cheated on his spouse because he needed something, and so did I. Now she understood the weaknesses of the flesh, and couldn't help feeling sorry for her father. My mother should've been a nun, and
Daddy should've married somebody else. Maybe God doesn't care about the petty things we do, as long as we don't hurt each other too badly. A new swamp of guilt engulfed her. My poor father is suffering because of me, and I'm no better than an alley cat.

She emerged from the tub, maids toweled her gently, and she put on a blue silk sleeping gown, then a white velvet hooded robe. She made her way down the corridor to her father's bedroom, a chill came over her, and she feared that he'd killed himself over her cruel insults.

An additional ton of guilt fell over her, and she staggered beneath the weight. The poor man—how he must have suffered from my false sanctimonious pride. She closed her eyes and uttered: “Lord, I hope that nothing has happened to him.”

She knocked on the door, there was no answer, and she turned the knob. The room was dark, her father slouched in a chair, a bottle of brandy and a glass on the low mahogany table before him. She lit a lamp, and was shocked by his disarray, with his shirt half-unbuttoned, a stain on his pants, and a ghostly pallor on his cheeks. He looked as though he were wallowing in the lower depths of hell.

“Daddy,” she said. “Can you hear me?” His eyelashes fluttered vaguely, as she knelt before him, taking his hand in hers. “Daddy, I'm sorry for what I said earlier. We're all weak vessels, and if I told you some of the things I've done recently, you'd never believe it.”

He didn't say anything, but a tear appeared at the corner of his eye. A sob escaped his lips, as he reached for his daughter. They embraced, and Doña Consuelo had the strange feeling that her mother was hovering above, as the family of sinners became reconciled.

***

Don Carlos de Rebozo sat on his terrace, smoked a cigarillo, and let his mind wander. The night desert spread before him, dark and ominous, the ancestral homeland of the Apache, now populated with Don Patricio's cattle and other holdings. Don Carlos often didn't sleep well, and spent many nights pacing, thinking, and dreaming.

Sometimes he reflected upon Seville, home of his ancestors. Don Carlos could trace his history to the Moorish invasion, and it gave him pride to know that he was descended from knights in the service of the crown. One of them, Don Diego de Rebozo, had come to America with Cortés, to gain his fortune in the strange new land. Don Diego had battled Indians, but the Spanish conquerors had been altered forever by Indian culture, and together they'd built modern Mexico.

Don Carlos had visited Seville in his teens, after crossing the Atlantic in a tall-masted Spanish galleon. He'd loved the vistas of Andalusia, and had revelled in the sheer elegance of the Spanish court, but after a few years he'd missed the iridescent hues of Mexico, its tempestuous people, and rides on the open range, accompanied by his laughing, guitar-playing vaqueros.

There was a knock on his door, and he hoped it was Doña Consuelo asking to spend the night. The doorknob turned, but it was García. “May I speak with you alone, sir?”

“By all means.”

García entered the bedroom and closed the door. “Don Carlos,” he said respectfully, “there is something that you should know. It may have no importance, and
I might be wrong to bring it to your attention, but. . . the gringo was seen returning from the desert a little while ago, and ... his clothes were very dirty.”

The vaquero backed out of the room, and Don Carlos wrinkled his nose in confusion. So what if ... Suddenly it hit him. No, it can't be, he said to himself, as his lungs deflated sickeningly. She wouldn't, she couldn't, it's impossible, but they were on the desert at the same time. Had they been rolling in the dirt together?

The mere thought nearly drove him to his knees. He knew from personal experience that Doña Consuelo was a hot tamale once you got her going, while Duane Braddock was the type of lazy useless fool that women generally adored. Were they actually screwing on the desert like wild animals? A sharp pain arose in Don Carlos's chest, and he dropped into the nearest upholstered chair.

It can't be, but on the other hand, they both were wandering in the wilderness at the same time, and you wouldn't expect them to come back hand in hand. No, they'd split up, but isn't it interesting that they both looked like they'd been wrestling with somebody? His heart beat faster, and he broke into a cold sweat. Did my dearly beloved wife dishonor me and my family with that reckless young killer? Don Carlos de Rebozo imagined the armored knights of Seville gazing at him from the sky, their swords outstretched. I won't jump to conclusions, he warned himself, but if I find evidence that she in fact has committed this foul deed, I would not hesitate to kill them both.

***

Duane sat cross-legged on the floor of his bedchamber, and held the Colt .44 to his head. Pull the trigger and get it over, he said to himself. After what you've done, you don't deserve to live.

He didn't want to die, but couldn't tolerate himself. No matter how you look at it, I enticed a married woman to sin. The priests and brothers warned about the sins of the flesh, but I didn't pay sufficient attention.

He was concerned that Doña Consuelo would go berserk and confess everything to her husband. If I had any sense, he lectured himself, I'd pack my saddlebags and hit the trail
pronto.
I'm sure she's not going anywhere with me, after she thinks it over. Then he recalled the rapture of her naked undulating body. But if she did, I'd be the happiest man in the world.

D
OÑA
C
ONSUELO LOCATED A CLOSET
filled with pistols, rifles, holsters, and boxes of ammunition. Most of the weapons were gifts to her father, with handles wrought from silver, ivory, and gold. She didn't know one gun from another, but found a lethal-appearing length of iron that looked like Duane's, then strapped on a brown leather holster, covered everything with her shawl, and was on her way to breakfast.

She'd heard scandalous stories about women leaving their husbands for adventurers, and now it was her turn. Her family would disown her, but she could never again sleep with Don Carlos. God had sent Duane Braddock to me for a reason, and she couldn't turn her back on love.

She thought perhaps she'd gone mad, for she was running off with a strange American outlaw. She wanted
to lay naked in his arms, drink mescal, and have fun for a change, before she ended in Lucifer's bean stew.

She entered the dining room, and saw
him
eating eggs, tortillas, bacon, and beans heartily. He glanced at her, smiled uncertainly, then returned to his breakfast with gusto. The eyes of her husband followed her as she walked toward the seat opposite him.

“How are you this morning, my dear?” he asked pleasantly.

“Quite well,” she replied.

“I didn't sleep last night, and neither did our guest. But a woman can sleep through anything.”

“Not always.”

What did she mean by that? Don Carlos asked himself. He glanced at Braddock, who methodically devoured everything in sight. I remember when I had a healthy appetite, Don Carlos mused. A terrible desolation came over Don Carlos, and he slouched at the table.

Doña Consuelo glanced at her husband as she elegantly downed her breakfast. In the morning light, the lines and ravages of his tanned visage were cruelly indicative of his age. I fell in love with a fairy tale, she realized. He's older than my father, and treats me like an idiot child.

She noticed Duane finishing his last swallow of coffee. He wiped his mouth with his napkin, smiled broadly, and said: “Think I'll take a walk.”

He strolled from the room, and his spurs jangled down the hall.

“When did he say he was leaving?” asked Don Carlos.

“He didn't mention anything that I recall,” replied Doña Consuelo.

Don Carlos knew that he was being a jealous fool, but couldn't stop himself. “What do you think of him?”

“I hardly know him.”

“Would you consider him attractive?”

“What an odd question.”

Don Carlos realized that it truly was an odd question, and regretted asking it. “Just curious,” he said, with a choked little laugh. “You seem different since you've returned from the desert last night. Has anything happened?”

“I've forgiven my father for lying.”

“I'm glad to hear it, and it might be best if we left as soon as possible. How about tomorrow morning?”

“So soon?”

“Is there something keeping you here?”

“Such as?”

He smiled. “Concern for your father, of course.”

“You're right—he'll be better off alone. If you want to leave tomorrow morning, I'll notify the servants.”

In the library, Duane found volumes of history, novels, works of poetry, philosophy, science, and theology. It didn't take long to locate
The Imitation of Christ,
by Thomas à Kempis. It was a book that he'd studied at the monastery, and he carried it to the table, opened it at random like a roulette wheel, and saw:

Firstly, be peaceful yourself, and thus you will bring peace to your fellows. A man of peace does more good than a very learned man.

It's true, he preached to himself. I should dwell in that quiet gentle part of my heart, but unfortunately I can't find it any more. He glanced toward the next page:

. . . to be able to live at peace among hard, obstinate, and undisciplined people, plus those who oppose us, is a great grace and a most commendable and manly achievement.

Anyone can be a lowdown son-of-a-bitch, considered Duane, but it takes a real man to stay relaxed when most folks are angry, vengeful, and spiteful. If I had any sense, I'd start building my own ranch, so I wouldn't have to tolerate other people's bad manners. Then I'll marry the right woman, and live like a decent Christian for a change. He flipped a few more pages and saw:

Whoever clings to any creature will fall with its falling; but he who holds to Jesus shall stand firm forever.

Maybe so, pondered Duane, but I can't live without pretty women. He recalled his all-too-brief interlude with Doña Consuelo, and his ears became warm. I hope she shows up, because I'd love to get my hands on her again.

Not every desire comes of the Holy Ghost, though it may seem right and good; for it is often difficult to judge whether a desire springs from good or evil inclinations, or whether it arises from your own selfishness. Many are deceived in the end, who at first seemed to be led by the Holy Ghost.

The door to the library opened, and Doña Consuelo materialized, dressed in black like the Madonna of death. “Oh, hello Duane,” she said, as if they hadn't plotted the rendezvous.

“Howdy,” he replied nonchalantly. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“I felt like reading something, to take my mind off things.” She selected a tome, joined him at the table, and opened it. “What are you reading?” she asked.

“
The Imitation of Christ.
How about you?”

“
Don Quixote.
”