Devil's Creek Massacre (10 page)

Before Duane could respond, the doctor said, “Youth is a powerful antidote to everything imaginable. We've seen with our own eyes how it can defeat death itself.”

“It was not youth that did it,” declared Juanita. “It was God!”

Dr. Montgomery and Captain Cochrane looked at each other as if to say,
There she goes again.
Juanita noticed their mocking expressions, but that didn't stop her. “It is God who does everything, not us.”

Captain Cochrane didn't want to argue with his acid-tongued bed partner, so he sidestepped the issue entirely. “Have you picked out a horse yet, Duane?”

“I sure wish I could have the one that I was riding when the Apaches attacked me. He was the fastest horse I ever rode, and I paid a hundred dollars for him. I wonder whatever happened to him.”

“The Apaches probably got him,” replied Cochrane. “That's an awful lot of money for a horse these days.”

“What's a hundred dollars when the Fourth Cavalry is on your trail?”

Juanita shook her head in disapproval. “Banditos,” she muttered. “How could anybody want such a life?”

“I'm not a bandito,” corrected Duane. “I never stole anything except a couple of horses out of necessity.”

“In other words,” Dr. Montgomery said, “you're a horse thief.”

“It was a matter of life and death.”

Juanita interjected again. “God wants us to live at peace, but men fight all the time. That is the main
problema
in this world.”

“Our high priestess has spoken,” declared Cochrane jokingly. “Unfortunately, not many people can understand a great purpose. You can do whatever you like to ordinary people, as long as you give them a roof over their heads and a pot of stew once a day. That's the way the Yankees want us to live—one small cut above slaves—and I guess we're supposed to lie down and enjoy it. The Yankees are small petty men—they want to punish us for our supposedly wicked ways, and
Juanita doesn't understand one iota of it, but she provides me with the conventional point of view.”

It became silent in the tiny adobe hacienda as Captain Richard Cochrane and Señorita Juanita Torregrosa glowered at each other across the table, shattering Duane's happy family portrait. Meanwhile, Dr. Montgomery chewed a tortilla as if nothing untoward had happened. It looked as though Cochrane and Juanita were going to jump over the stew pot and start punching, scratching, and biting.

Juanita tossed her hand in the air. “You can use all the big words you want, Mr. Confederate Army, but you are not fooling me one bit. You love to hate, and that is why you are still fighting your Civil War. You have fancy words, but you do not know a damned thing what you are talking about.”

“Sure I don't,” he replied, getting deeper into the spirit of domestic discord. “Only ignorant Mexican peasants know the truth, isn't that so? That's why Mexico is poor. God can't be a very good father if that's how he treats the Mexicans.”

Duane Braddock, defender of the faith, decided to jump in with both feet. “According to theology, evil is caused by people who make free-will decisions. So don't blame it on God.”

“Are you referring to the holy-boly Roman Catholic Church, which gave the world the Crusades, the Inquisition, and two thousand years of opposition to everything bright, new, and wonderful?”

“God didn't start the Civil War. It was either the Southerners who fired on Fort Sumter, or the Northerners who forced them into it, but don't blame it on God.”

Duane noticed Dr. Montgomery on the far side of the table, motioning for him to simmer down. Duane
had stepped into an argument between his host and hostess, thus committing a major social blunder. Should I apologize? he asked himself.

Cochrane smiled at Duane indulgently. “You're a funny kid, and you don't mince words, just like Juanita. Whatever she says, I know it's the truth as she sees it. Lying is the most terrible insult that I can imagine.”

“Personally,” replied Duane, “I think murder tops the list.”

Cochrane gazed at him thoughtfully for a few moments. “How strange . . . you were raised in a monastery. Why'd you leave?”

“Mexican girls came to Mass on Sundays, and I started to think about getting married.”

“There's a Mexican girl at the far end of the table whom I love with all my heart, and all she ever does is criticize, nag, and insult me at every opportunity.”

“He is such a cold-blooded gringo,” Juanita announced. “You just heard him say with his own mouth what he thinks of women. The truth is that he doesn't like men any better, but he needs them for his robbing and killing.”

“We never kill civilians unless it's necessary,” corrected Cochrane. “Please don't make us worse than we are.”

“I should leave you, but I love you too much. That is the tragedy of my life.”

Cochrane turned to Duane and smiled. “Mexican girls aren't happy unless they're tragic. It gives them an excuse to go to church and light candlesticks. They all secretly want to be nuns, I think.”

Juanita turned toward him, her eyes narrowed to slits. “I do not like you doing these things, because I fear that one day you will be killed.”

“You're wrong as usual,” Cochrane replied.

Juanita slammed her fist on the table. “You see how he is?” she asked Duane. “Oh, what am I doing with this man? Maybe he is right, and I should be a nun.”

She rose from the table and stormed into the next room, leaving the three men in awkward silence. Cochrane cleared his throat and drawled, “I apologize for my wife's behavior, but she's very excitable. If you'll excuse me for a moment . . .”

He headed toward the room into which Juanita had disappeared, leaving Duane and Dr. Montgomery sitting at the table. The doctor motioned with his eyes toward the door. He and Duane grabbed their hats and slunk away from the warring household.

“I should've kept my mouth shut,” Duane admitted as he hobbled toward Dr. Montgomery's cabin.

“They were fighting long before you ever showed up,” replied the doctor, “and they'll be fighting long after you're gone. Yet, difficult though it seems, they love each other. You may consider me vulgar, but even as I speak they're probably ripping off each other's clothes. It's a form of brain sickness, but who am I to criticize? Sometimes I question what we're supposed to be accomplishing here myself.”

“Where do you keep all the money that you've robbed?”

The doctor looked at him askance. “You're not interested in stealing it, are you?”

“I was just curious.”

“We've always suspected that one day a spy might show up. You're not he, I don't suppose?”

“I've got better things to do than spy, and I've got enough money of my own anyway. Have you ever
stopped to consider what most Texans think of people like you?”

“Their stupid opinions don't matter to me in the least. And please don't ask again where the loot is hidden, because your health might suffer another relapse. I hope you won't be offended, but we live by the articles of war, and that means we're authorized to form firing squads. Have you ever seen a firing squad?”

“Never,” admitted Duane.

“It's a quick painless death, from what I've seen, but the hours leading up to it are most disagreeable. If you're as smart as you seem to be, you'll stay off the ridges. Get my drift?”

The travelers were led to a small room with four inches of straw on the floor. “It may not look like much,” the proprietress said cheerily, “but we sweep it every morning, then shovel in fresh straw.”

How sanitary, Vanessa thought as she entered the dank, damp room. A diminutive iron stove sat in the corner, providing no discernible heat. The men inclined toward one side while the only woman headed for the other. No blankets were provided, never mind sheets. Vanessa removed the long black wool overcoat from her trunk, spread it on the straw, sat upon it, and removed her shoes. She lay on the straw, covered herself with the coat, propped her head on her purse, and wondered if one of them would try to rape her in the course of the night's events.

They all seemed honorable men, but a rapist wouldn't carry a sign announcing his intentions. Her bodyguard arranged himself on the nearby straw, providing Vanessa with a small margin of safety, although
she didn't trust him completely yet. Reaching into her purse, she pulled out her tiny gold-plated derringer, then recalled Duane Braddock sleeping every night with his Colt in his right hand, ready to fire. I hope I don't shoot my toe off, she thought as she gripped the derringer firmly and closed her eyes.

Something itched her hip, probably a wayward louse, but she barely paid attention. She listened to the groans and sighs of her fellow travelers, plus other bodily sounds best not enumerated, punctuated by the steady
pit-pat
of rain leaking through the roof. Vanessa slipped down the precipitous slope toward slumber as a heavy drop of water landed on her nose and splattered over her face. But she was already fast asleep, dreaming of Comanche warriors slouched in their saddles, riding steadily across the vast unknowable sage.

Cochrane reached for Juanita, but his arms closed around an empty blanket. He opened his eyes; it was morning, and something rustled in the kitchen. A smile came over his face at the anticipation of eggs, bacon, beans, and hot black coffee.

I ought to marry her, he thought, recalling certain highlights of the night. It wasn't because she was more beautiful than other women, or more accomplished in the bedroom arts, but her raw animal passion astonished and pleased him considerably. He didn't think he could return to an ordinary woman again.

She continued puttering, but he didn't smell coffee or hear pots and pans. He rolled out of bed, wrapped his nakedness in a blanket, and opened the door. She was packing her few belongings into a bedroll and
spun around as he approached. He waited for an explanation, but she turned away and continued to prepare for a journey.

“Going somewhere?” he asked.

“I am leaving you,” she replied.

“How?”

“You are going to give me a horse. I have worked for you so long, I think I am worth one horse, no?”

“Why are you leaving me?”

“Because you do not love me anymore.”

“How can you say that, after last night?”

“If you loved me, you would make a family with me. But I am just somebody you stick your thing into whenever you feel like it. I am going back to the cantina, because at least there the men were honest about what they wanted. It is not hard for a rich man like you to find another woman.”

“But I don't want anybody else.”

“One day your men will ride back and tell me you are dead. Then what will I do?”

“Fine another hombre.”

She was silent for a few moments, then a tear rolled down her cheek. “So that is what you think of me. The truth has come out at last. Well, maybe I will start looking for another hombre right now. It has been nice knowing you, gringo.”

She headed for the door, but he moved to intercept her. “The Apaches will get you before you go five miles. Did you know that horses are their favorite food?”

“Take your hands off me,” she said in a deadly tone.

“I'm not letting you go.”

She struggled to get away, and they wrestled with each other in the kitchen.

“Leave me alone,” she snarled.

He was stronger and more skilled at combat, so it wasn't long before he pinned her to the wall. “Let's talk about it,” he said.

“I am tired of talking with you. You can hold me as long as you want, but one day I will escape. And I will never love you again, so help me God.”

Her voice was tremulous, she spoke with the deepest conviction, and the hairs stood up on the back of his head. This was no ordinary kitchen squabble. “But you know how much I need you, Juanita.”

“Prove it.”

He couldn't say the words she wanted to hear, because he couldn't give up the Cause. “All right,” he said gruffly as he turned her loose. “Have it your own way.”

She hoisted the bedroll onto her shoulder and walked out of his life. He rushed ahead to open the door while she marched outside without even looking at him.

He felt as though his heart would stop. Life without her seemed valueless, empty, and pathetic, but he tried to hold on. Hell, there are a million more where she came from. She disappeared into the stable as he watched from the kitchen window. He couldn't believe that he'd never sleep with her again. Memories of their lovemaking flooded his mind, and he felt bereft.

It wouldn't be a bad idea to live with her on a little
estancia
with children and mongrel dogs, he pondered. Maybe she's right when she calls me a cold-blooded gringo. Who'll cook my breakfast from now on? Who'll wash my clothes? When I feel discouraged, who'll cheer me up? He'd come to depend on her and never dreamed that she'd have the courage to leave
him. She doesn't really mean it, he tried to convince himself. She thinks I'm going to cave in to her demands, but I'll find somebody else to cook my breakfast.

A shadow came over the door of the barn as she rode outside on the back of a horse with her bedroll tied behind the saddle. The Apaches will turn her into a slave, he evaluated, after they rape her brains out, and she damn well knows it. She's going a long way to make a point, but what the hell is it?

The answer came with stunning forcefulness. She knows that I'm in love with her, and she's playing her final trump card. Well, maybe we can cut a deal. He jumped into his jeans and ran barefoot out the door. She appeared not to notice him charging across the backyard, and when he grabbed the horse's reins, she refused to acknowledge his existence.

The horse looked back cynically, for human beings were the bane of his existence, always dragging him in one direction or another, and occasionally a poor horse would get caught in a shoot-out, with terminal results. José was his name, and he wished she'd get off his back, return to the stable, and let him catch up on his sleep.