Outlaw Hell (10 page)

“Pick me up,” she ordered.

Bradley lifted her easily in his powerful arms and carried her across the street, dodging potholes, refuse, and a puddle of horse piss. They came to the far side, and Bradley lowered her to the ground. “You ain't a goin' in the Silver Spur, are you?”

She glanced at him sharply. “If I want yer opinion, I'll ask fer it. And if'n you don't like yer job, just give me a day's notice, so's I can git somebody else.”

“You'll never get anybody like me,” he said angrily.

“Your kind is a dime a dozen,” she replied.

She held her skirts as she entered the Silver Spur Saloon, so she wouldn't attract dirt to her hem. Outlaws slept bent over tables in the filthy, ramshackle saloon, while the bleary-eyed bartender washed glasses in a tub of dirty water. “Can I help you, Miss O'Day?”

“Where's Sanchez?”

The bartender nodded toward the back corridor.

“Why don't you wash the spittoons while yer at it?” she asked. He didn't reply.

Bradley accompanied her to the corridor. Sometimes he felt like murdering her, and other times he wanted to get on his knees and beg her to marry him. She turned toward him as they approached the door. “Wait for me here.”

“Be better if I went inside with you.”

She looked at him askance. “Better for who? I said wait for me here.”

She knocked on the door, waited a few moments, then disappeared into the office. Bradley sat on a chair near the door, placed his gun on the table, and looked around the smoky rundown saloon in the morning light streaming through smeared windows. A man in a frock coat lay unconscious on the floor, his arm hanging over a brass rail covered with rust and dried gobs of tobacco juice.

Bradley thought Maggie should stay out of filthy low-class saloons like the Silver Spur, but she never listened to him. She uses me like a horse, but she'll git her ass in Dutch someday, and turn to me for help. Maybe I will, and maybe I won't.

Sanchez was a portly olive-skinned Mexican with a short curly beard and half-closed eyes. He set out two glasses, poured whisky, then handed one glass to Maggie. “What can I do for you, Señorita?”

She turned down the corners of her mouth with distaste as she perused the room. “I've seen nicer pigpens.”

“My customers like it this way,” replied Sanchez. “It reminds them of home.”

“Yer the dumbest businessman I ever saw, but that ain't why I'm here.” She reached into her purse, pulled out her gold cigar case, selected a panatella, and lit it with a match scratched atop Sanchez's desk. “You ever hear of Joe Braddock?”

Sanchez reflected for a few moments. “What Joe Braddock?”

“He shot some folks up by the Pecos ‘bout eighteen years ago. Ever heard of the Polka Dot Gang?”

“Not that I remember, Señorita.”

“Well, Joe Braddock was boss of the Polka Dot Gang, and his wife was in the business, if you know what I mean. I'm tryin' to find out who she was. Do you think you can ask yer gals if they ever heard of Joe Braddock and his women? I'd appreciate the favor.”

He leaned toward her, licked his upper lip lewdly, and asked: “What'll you do fer me?”

“I'll buy yer business fer a good price after you go broke.”

“Who says I'm goin' broke?”

“Them dirty cuspidors and yer cruddy floor. It might remind some men of home, but most wouldn't set foot in here.”

“Maybe you and me could become partners,” he said.

“Find me some news on Joe Braddock's women, then we'll talk. You know where to find me, day or night. But don't get no ideas. This is strictly bizness.”

On her way back to the Last Chance Saloon, Maggie found Duane Braddock sitting on the bench in front. “Morning,” he said with a smile. “I want to talk with you.”

“Change yer mind about the sheriff job?”

Duane was surprised. “How'd you know?”

She turned to Bradley. “Go to the blacksmith and tell him I want a tin badge for the new sheriff.”

Bradley scowled. “I told you onc't afore that I ain't yer errand boy.”

She placed her fists on her hips and leaned toward him. “That's
exactly
what you are, and if you don't like it, you can pick up yer pay and leave.”

She placed her arm around Duane's waist and led him through the door. They passed afternoon drunkards, the bartender stocking fresh bottles behind the bar, and a Negro sweeping the floor. Duane said: “You'd better watch out for Bradley.”

“If he made a million dollars fer me, I'd kiss his ass. But until then, he'll do as I say.”

They entered her office. She sat behind her desk, reached for the whisky bottle, and dangled it before his eyes. “Want some?”

“I'm not drinking anymore, but could use a little breakfast.”

“Go to the kitchen and eat whatever you want. By the way, Twilby owned the stable free and clear, we got no probate in Escondido, and Twilby ain't got kin, far as we know. Since you was his best friend, the stable's your'n.”

“What'll I do with a stable?”

“Make money off it. What else?”

“Is it legal for somebody my age to be a sheriff?”

“The other businessmen and I pretty much make up the laws as we go along, ‘cause there ain't no lawyers here, thank God, and yer just what we've been a-hopin' fer. We'll chip in to pay yer salary. Yer hired as of right now. How's it feel to be sheriff of Escondido?”

Two prostitutes in homespun dresses and no cosmetics sat at the big kitchen table, eating breakfast in the middle of the afternoon. It was their own private residential section of the Last Chance Saloon, and Duane felt like an intruder as he chose the stool farthest from them. The girls snickered, and one said. “You ain't afraid of us, are you?”

“What makes you think I'm afraid of you?” replied Duane.

“Why're you sitting all the way down there?”

“I didn't want to interrupt your conversation.”

“We was a-talkin' about you anyways. What're you a-doin' hyar?”

“I'm the new sheriff.”

She fluttered her eyelashes. “You can arrest me anytime.”

The girls giggled, and Duane's ears turned bright red. The face of a Negro woman appeared in the doorway. “Lookin' fer breakfast?” she asked Duane.

“Yes ma'am.”

The face disappeared. Duane rolled a cigarette, as the girls whispered among themselves at the far end of the table. “I'm Shirley,” one of them announced. “And this is Maxine. We was just a-sayin' ‘bout how cute you were.”

Duane's cheeks reddened deeply and the girls twittered at his reaction. The Negress cook appeared in the nick of time with a platter of fried eggs, sausages, beans, grits, potatoes, and biscuits slathered with butter. “If you ladies're finished, ain't you got somethin' to do?”

The girls retreated from the kitchen as Duane scooped half of a fried egg into his mouth, then reached for the toast. The Negress returned with a pot of coffee and a mug. “I guess you're the Duane Braddock that everybody's talkin' about. You sure don't look as bad as they say.”

“Nothing's wrong with me that a good meal wouldn't cure.” She returned to the kitchen, and Duane felt curious about her life. He didn't know
much about Negroes, because there hadn't been any in the monastery in the clouds. Probably an ex-slave, he reflected, as he stuffed grits into his mouth. Texas had been a slave state, and most Negroes her age had been owned by white men in the bad old days.

A young woman with black hair in a ponytail entered the kitchen, and Duane was jolted with the awareness that she was the supplicant he'd seen earlier in church. His fork fell from his hand as he realized that she was a prostitute too! She sat opposite him, and said, “You ever find out who tried to shoot you?”

He realized with new wonder that she was also the loose-hipped enchantress who'd escorted him to his room the previous night! “No, but I remember seeing you in church this morning.”

“I told you where the parson's office was.”

What kind of prostitute goes to church early in the morning? Duane asked himself. The answer came with stunning forcefulness:
Mary Magdalene.
This is a God-fearing woman, Duane speculated, and if I were a good Christian I'd save her from her life of sin, but I can't even save myself.

The Negress cook brought another platter of food, as Alice Markham ate with both elbows on the table. She pretended to be tough, but Duane had seen her in church with her heart bared before the Lord. His acolyte's eyes examined the sadness in her eyes, the defiant corners of her mouth, her mock flippant manner. Underneath it, she was a pious
young girl, and he felt inspired to rescue her from her squalid life. “You look so different today,” he said.

“Amazin' what some paint and powder'll do.”

“Do you go to church often?”

“If I didn't, I'd go loco. Do you think it's fun a-screwin' every galoot with a spare fifty cents in his pocket?”

Her blunt language gave him pause, but it was the opening he was looking for. “Do you know how to read and write and do numbers?”

“A little.”

“If you learned how to read and write better, maybe you could get a job as a clerk.”

“I'm too dumb to get a job as a clerk.”

“You don't seem dumb to me, and I could teach you. Hell, I've spent most of my life in school. I'm willing to give it a try if you are.”

She looked at him askance. “What's wrong with you, mister?”

“I thought you said you didn't like screwing galoots for fifty cents apiece.”

“I've met a million cowboys who needed to save me, but all they really wanted was my li'l ass.”

Again, her language stopped him cold in his tracks. “I made you an offer, and you can take it or leave it.”

“It's gettin' better and better. Next thing you'll promise the moon.”

He refused to be drawn more deeply into the morass where she was dragging him. I made my
offer, it was honorable, and if she doesn't accept it, not my fault. He continued to wolf down breakfast, as Maggie O'Day appeared in the doorway, a tin badge in her hand. She tossed it onto the table, and said, “Here it is.”

It lay before him, glowing dully in the light streaming through the windows. Cut crudely from a sheet of tin, it carried the word
Sheriff
hammered with the point of a nail. He pinned it onto his shirt and let it hang. Somehow it didn't look very impressive.

“Payday is the last of the month,” Maggie said. “Congratulations, good luck, and if you need me fer anythin', you knows whar to find me.”

She departed the kitchen, leaving Duane alone with Alice Markham and the tin badge.

“Yer the new sheriff?” she asked skeptically.

“That's right.”

“You must be loco.”

He couldn't disagree, and their eyes didn't meet again as they continued to breakfast on opposite sides of the table. Duane finished first, put on his black cowboy hat, and was out the door. How strange, he thought. A prayerful prostitute.

He had no idea of what a sheriff was supposed to do, and thought he should ask Maggie first. Instead, he ran into Bradley Metzger in the corridor. “I want to talk with your boss,” he said.

The bodyguard wore a too-tight suit, the frock coat unbuttoned to show his low-slung holster. He looked at Duane's tin badge. “What in hell is that supposed to be?”

“Out of my way,” Duane replied.

“She's busy.”

The door flung open, and Maggie stood before them with sleepy eyes and a mug of coffee. “What the hell's a-goin' on here?”

Duane was first to speak. “I want to talk to you.”

“Come on inter my office.”

Duane made a motion toward the door, but Bradley wouldn't get out of his way. Both men glowered at each other, and Duane was getting annoyed at the bad manners of the big ugly bodyguard.

A cross expression came over Maggie's puffy features as she turned toward Bradley. “Get out of his way, you damned fool. You'd better leave the new sheriff alone, if you know what's good fer you.”

“He ever starts with me,” replied Bradley, “I'll shove that badge up his ass.”

She pushed Bradley away from her doorway, and the bodyguard frowned at the sheriff passing him by. Maggie closed the door in his face, then sat behind a desk littered with breakfast plates. “You'd better watch out fer Bradley, ‘cause he don't like you.”

“I think he's in love with you.”

“That's too bad, and one of these days, he keeps it up, I'll fire his ass. But I'm glad yer here, ‘cause I've got good news. There's an empty store down the street next to the barber shop, and the blacksmith'll
put bars on the windows later in the day. It'll be yer office. Here's the keys.”

Duane caught the jangling digits out of the air. “There's something I wanted to ask you, Maggie. Did you tell anybody what room I was in last night?”

“Don't believe so,” she replied. “Why'd I do that?”

“I'm trying to figure out how the man with the shotgun knew what room I was in.”

“Lots've folks could've see'd you.”

“Only one person saw me as far as I know, and she claims she didn't tell anybody.”

“Maybe she lied, or maybe somebody else spotted you, but you didn't spot him. Or her.”

“It was awful dark,” Duane admitted. “Maybe it was Bradley.”

She became coy. “He knows I like you.”

Duane didn't know what to say.

“You blush like a girl,” Maggie said with a kindly smile. “And I do like you, but I'm old enough to be yer momma, fer Chrissakes. It's just that Bradley's the jealous kind, although he has no right. But you know how it is. A man sleeps with a woman, he thinks he owns her.”

Duane wasn't sure how to respond, because no woman had ever talked to him so candidly. “I'd better set him straight.”

“Be careful how you talk to him. He's dangerous.”

“So am I.”

Duane yanked open the door, and Bradley
turned around to the barrel of a Colt aimed at his nose. Bradley's forehead wrinkled in distaste and loathing. “What's this supposed to be?” he asked.