Outlaw Hell (13 page)

Duane couldn't shoot anybody in cold blood, and the cowboy had seen through Duane's feeble bluff. But Duane couldn't back down now. He stalked toward Red Feather, still aiming his gun at his head. Finally they were within arm's reach.

Red Feather laughed again. “You don't have the sand to shoot me, you goddamned pantywaist.”

Duane whacked the outlaw across the face with the barrel of his gun, and there was a
crunch
sound. The outlaw's eyes rolled into his head, and he dropped to the floor in a clump.

“Who's next?” Duane asked.

“Me,” said a voice behind Duane's back. “Don't move, because I've got you covered.”

Duane froze.

“Drop your gun,” said the voice behind Duane.

“Not on your life,” Duane replied.

“Then yer a-gonna die.”

A shot rang out, the saloon filled with gunsmoke
once more, and Duane was amazed to discover that he was still on his feet. An outlaw in a black-and-white-checkered shirt lay on the floor, his gun a few inches from his hand, blood oozing from his chest. Duane knew he hadn't shot him, so who did?

A stranger in a wide-brimmed old Confederate cavalry officer's hat stepped out of the crowd, a smoking gun in his hand. He had a light-brown mustache, and a wry grin. “Howdy, Sheriff. Nice night, isn't it?”

“I'm much obliged to you, mister.”

The newcomer scrutinized the outlaws and cowboys arrayed before him. “It's pointless to die over three darkies, wouldn't you say?”

The three Negro men appeared seriously startled by the savage bloodshed. Their leader tried another smile, but it came out weird. “I don't want no whisky that bad,” he said. “Maybe it's time we was a-movin' on.”

They headed for the door, as outlaws and cowboys made way. Duane realized that in the heat of the action, he'd stupidly exposed his back. He glanced at the stranger who'd saved his life, and wondered why. He'd never seen him before. The Negro cowboys disappeared into the night, and tension vanished from the Longhorn Saloon. Duane smiled at the stranger. “Thanks for the help, mister. It hadn't been for you, I might be dead right now. Buy you a drink?”

“Don't mind if I do.”

They headed for the bar, where the man in the
apron was waiting with a bottle and two glasses. “On the house,” he said.

He poured whisky, then Duane and the stranger raised their glasses. The stranger said, “Here's to faster horses, younger women, older whisky, and more money.”

They touched glasses, then drowned their frazzled nerves. Duane pushed up his hat brim and rested one elbow on the bar. “What name're you going by these days?”

“I'm Derek Wright, and I believe you're Sheriff Duane Braddock, alias the Pecos Kid.”

They looked into each other's eyes, like flint on steel. “Just tell me one thing, Mister Wright. Why'd you save my life?”

“Didn't like the odds.”

“You could've died.”

“So fucking what?”

Derek Wright had square shoulders, a square jaw, and was deeply tanned. He'd spoken with the accents of an educated man, and Duane could visualize an officer in a tailored gray uniform with gold shoulder straps. “Looking for a job?”

“What've you got in mind?”

“Deputy sheriff. Pays seventy-five dollars a month, and you'd probably be sheriff before long, because I don't intend to stay in this town forever.”

“I wouldn't touch your job with a ten-foot pole,” replied Wright.

Duane examined his savior more closely. I wonder who he killed, or what he stole? Wright had deep
lines around his eyes and the appearance of a man accustomed to sleeping under open skies.

“What'd you do in the war?” Duane asked.

“I served under General Jackson,” Wright replied laconically.

Stone knew of General Stonewall Jackson, one of the South's great heroes. “Did you ever meet him?”

“I was one of his staff officers.”

“What was he like?”

“He understood how to find an opponent's weak spot, and was the toughest, hardest, coldest man I've ever known.”

Duane had met many worn-out ex-soldiers since he'd left the monastery. It seemed as though Texas was full of them. Some had held high positions in the Confederate Army, and then became drifters in Texas, unable to return to normal life.

“I wish you'd take the job,” Duane said. “You'd probably be better at it than I. I don't know a damned thing about the law.”

Duane became aware of Wright inspecting him carefully. “I heard somebody say that you shot Otis Puckett.”

“It was a lucky draw,” Duane confessed.

“Where'd you get your fast hand?”

“I had a good teacher named Clyde Butterfield. Ever hear of him?”

Wright nodded solemnly. “We weren't exactly friends, but perhaps you could call us acquaintances.”

“He rode in a gang called the Polka Dots, back
in the old days. You ever heard of Joe Braddock?”

“I wasn't in Texas in the old days, but I've heard of Braddock. He was supposed to be a rustler.”

“Some say he was an honest rancher who fought a big combine from the East.”

“Some say I hold up stagecoaches, but I'm really just a simple country boy.”

Wright's voice was tinged with sarcasm, and Duane couldn't figure him out. Duane took another sip of whisky, then reached for his small white bag of tobacco. “Simple country boys don't walk into the middle of gunfights,” he said, fumbling with cigarette papers. He dropped them to the floor, bent to retrieve them, and perused Wright's pointed cowboy boots, approximately the same size as the prints in Hazel Sanders's room. There was a dried dark drop of something on the bottom of Wright's left pantleg, possibly blood. A chill came over Duane, as he realized that he might be kneeling before the killer of Hazel Sanders. Duane raised himself to his full height and peered into Wright's eyes. Is this the kind of man who'd slit a woman's throat?

“You all right, kid?”

“Must be the whisky.”

“You got to take it slow and eat something once in a while.”

Duane wanted to ask where Wright had been at the time Hazel Sanders was killed, but the ex-officer had just saved his life. Duane noticed many men in the vicinity with pointed boots around the same size as the footprint in the death chamber. It wasn't
uncommon to spill whisky or gravy on your pants. I mustn't let my imagination run away with me, Duane reminded himself.

“Where are you from, kid?” asked Wright.

“I thought it wasn't polite to ask where people were from in Texas.”

“But I'm from Louisiana.”

Duane became suspicious of Wright's question, although Wright had saved his life. Something about the ex-officer didn't seem right. “Did you hear about the prostitute who got killed?”

Duane inspected Wright's face for guilt, but the ex-staff officer was calm. “Texas is hell on women and horses, they say.”

“If you were my deputy, maybe we could clean up this town.”

“If we ran every hard case out, they'd just go someplace else. What's the point?”

Maggie O'Day looked up from her desk as Duane entered her office. “This is some job you gave me,” he said.

“There's somethin' I want to talk with you about,” she replied mysteriously. She lowered her voice and motioned for him to come closer. “I don't know if it's a coincidence, but yesterday I took a trip over to the Silver Spur, and I asked Sanchez to talk with his gals, to find out if any of ‘em knowed about Joe Braddock's women. Next thing I hear— one of ‘em's dead. It makes me wonder.”

Duane was astonished by the sudden unwelcome news. “Why'd you go over there in the first place?”

“Thought I'd he'p you out.” She appeared embarrassed. “Seems that a body should know who his mother was, and since you said she used to be in the business, and some of the older gals work at the Silver Spur, I figgered one of ‘em might've knowed somethin'. Hope I din't get that poor woman kilt.”

Duane didn't know what to make of it. “Why should anybody kill Hazel Sanders because of me?”

“Maybe she knew somethin' that the killer didn't want you to find out.”

“Who the hell is Sanchez?”

“He was here afore I came, but he's the worst businessman in town. He could triple his income if he'd just clean up that shithouse he calls a saloon. You don't think he did it, do you?”

Silence came over the Silver Spur Saloon as the new sheriff appeared in the doorway. A few desultory drunkards sat at the bar, with several others passed out on tables. The bartender stood near the cashbox and read a Spanish language newspaper.

“Where's Sanchez.”

“In his office, señor, but I would not bother him if I were you.”

Duane rapped hard on the door, then turned the knob. A man sat in an opulently upholstered chair with stuffing bursting through rips. His shoulders were bunched, his eyes drooped, and a glass of
mescal sat on the table next to him, illuminated by a faint flickering oil lamp.

“I've got to talk with you,” Duane said.

“I am not well.”

Duane straddled a chair backwards, rested his arms on top, and peered into Sanchez's eyes. “Wake up. I have to ask you a few questions.”

A tear flowed from the corner of Sanchez's eye. “How could anyone kill such a gentle creature?”

“It was probably one of your customers. You got any idea who it might be?”

“So many people come and go here, they all look the same to me.”

“Maggie told me that you were going to ask your gals about the wife of Joe Braddock. Did you do it?”

Sanchez leaned toward Duane and narrowed his eyes. “When I say I am going to do something, sefior, I do it. If you want to know what Hazel said, she did not say anything, but she was not happy, I noticed. But women, they are always that way, no? If it is not their hair, then it is their clothes, and if it is not their clothes, it is something else, the poor little dears.” Sanchez sniffled, and wiped his nose with his handkerchief.

“Did she have any friends?”

“Belle Watkins.”

“Where can I find her?”

A thin pale face appeared in the crack of the door. “What do you want?” “Official business.”

She glanced at his tin badge, then widened the door. He entered her small, ramshackle room, exactly like the one in which the victim had been found. Belle Watkins was mid-forties, sickly and sad, thin, medium height, with gray-streaked blonde hair.

“I was wondering if you could tell me who might've killed Hazel.”

“Don't know nawthin' ‘bout it,” she replied.

She appeared unsettled and frightened. Perhaps the killer had threatened her personally, Duane guessed. “Did Sanchez ask you about Joe Braddock's women?”

“I remember him sayin' somethin' ‘bout it.”

“Joe Braddock was my father, and I was wondering if Hazel was killed to keep her quiet.”

She fixed him in her bleary eyes. “I don't know nawthin' ‘bout it,” she replied, “but if'n I was you, I'd ride out of town and never think of yer father and mother again.”

Duane was startled by her sudden change of mood. “What makes you say that?”

“A word to the wise,” she replied mysteriously.

“Have
you
ever heard of Joe Braddock?”

“He had a gang and killed some people—that's all I know. Now if'n you don't mind, I'd like to get some sleep. It's been a long night.”

Duane crossed the street, more confused than ever. Belle Watkins is scared, he concluded, as he entered the Last Chance Saloon. The bartender
poured a cup of coffee, and Duane carried it to an occupied table against the back wall. Four outlaws saw him coming, gathered their cards and drinks, and searched for another venue.

Duane dropped onto one of the chairs. He felt sleepy and wide awake at the same time, with rattled nerves and aching eyeballs. I've got to stop drinking so much coffee, he reflected, as he drained the cup. For all I know, Hazel Sanders's killer could be in the Last Chance Saloon at this very moment. He scanned men reading newspapers, playing poker, and drinking whisky, while waitresses passed among them, selling drinks and their bodies.

His eyes fell on Alice Markham seated on the lap of a wizened old man in a frock coat and top hat, old enough to be her father and possibly even her grandfather. She kissed his white beard and wiggled joyfully, appeared to be enamored of him, but it was all in a night's work.

Duane felt demoralized by her tragic life, and wanted to help her. I could teach her to read, write, and do arithmetic so she could get a decent job. Where would I be if Clyde Butterfield and a few others hadn't helped me? I can't solve Hazel Sanders's murder, but maybe I can save that poor lost little gal.

He was walking toward her before he knew where he was going. Every eye in the saloon followed his progress with mounting interest. He was the man who'd shot Otis Puckett, and the son of an old-time outlaw hunted and killed like a rabid dog.

Duane came to a stop at the end of the table, and said softly, “Miss Alice?”

Her head spun around, but no expression showed on her painted face. The elderly gentleman glowered grouchily at Duane. “What can I do for you, Sheriff?” he asked, jealousy and hostility in his voice.

Duane ignored him. “Alice, I'd like to speak with you alone for a moment, if you don't mind.”

“I'm working, Sheriff Braddock,” the pretty painted mask replied testily.

“I said it'll only take a minute.”

She hesitated, her forehead creased, and she pinched her lips together. “I'll be right back,” she said to the old man.

“By God, you'd better,” he replied.

Duane led her toward the table where he'd been sitting, and her hand felt like a wounded little bird in his. They sat opposite each other, and her big brown eyes drilled into him. “Make it fast,” she said. “I've got bizness to take care of.”

He leaned closer and said: “Listen to me carefully. I can teach you to be a clerk, so you don't have to do this work anymore. And maybe you can even start a business yourself someday. You can live with me above the stable, and as for the funny business, I swear on my mother and father that I'll
never
touch you in any way, so help me God.”