Outlaw Hell (4 page)

Both antagonists faced each other in the golden effulgence of oil lamps. The gauntlet clearly had been thrown down. The man in the brown cowboy hat was named Jones, and he peered into Krumm's eyes. “Make yer fuckin' move,” he said, “or admit yer lied. What's it's a-gonna be?”

Krumm saw murder in Jones's eyes, and something told him to give way. He made a half-smile, like the underdog offering his throat to the victor, and headed for the door.

“Hold on,” said Jones. “You ain't ‘pologized yet.”

Krumm quickened his pace, showing his tail as he fled for the street. Jones rushed after him, grabbed his shoulder, slammed him against the wall, and pressed his gun barrel against Krumm's nose. “I ain't a-gonna tell you again.”

Krumm's eyes bulged out of his head, as the
grim reaper danced crazily before him, dressed as a · cowboy. “Sorry,” he said, trying to hold his voice steady. “Guess I made a mistake.”

Jones spun him around and kicked his ass toward the door. Krumm flew outside and landed on the sidewalk, as laughter erupted inside the saloon. Summoning his remaining shards of dignity, Krumm arose and dusted himself off. Then he headed for his horse, for outlaws would offer no mercy to one who'd revealed himself a coward.

Krumm ordinarily wasn't afraid of strangers, but there had been something bloody and insane in his adversary's eyes. I wonder how many men he'll ; kill before the sun comes up? he pondered, as he i tightened the cinch beneath his horse's belly.

Inside the saloon, Jones placed his gun on the bar.

“On the house,” said the bartender, pouring a tall one, to help settle things down.

Jones grabbed it, sipped off an inch, coughed, j and said hoarsely, “That goddamned fool wouldn't know a bull's ass from a banjo. He said that kid over thar shot Otis Puckett. What a crock of shit.” He pointed his gun toward Duane Braddock. “Hey kid—you ever shoot Otis Puckett from Laredo?”

“Never heard of him,” replied the young man sitting against the wall.

“'At's what I thought. Anybody ever tell you that you look like a girl?”

The young man arose from his chair, but the
saloon manager advanced into the line of fire. He wore handlebar mustaches and a dirty apron. “What's the problem?”

Jones snarled. “Some folks try make themselves big, when they ain't nawthin' but pantywaists.”

The manager retorted: “You want to shoot somebody, do it outside. I'm tryin' to run a business here. Why don't you sit down and have a steak on the house?”

“I never turn down a free meal,” Jones said with a shrug.

The manager placed his arm over Jones's shoulder and maneuvered him toward a vacant table. Somebody hooted as the bartender poured a free round. Cards were shuffled and dealt, whisky gulped, and outlaws accompanied soiled doves to the back rooms, as the saloon returned to its previous grungy ambiance. Duane sipped his whisky calmly, but was rankled beneath the facade. I haven't been in town two minutes, and somebody recognized me! I'd better get the hell out of here.

He tossed down the rest of his whisky, tucked the tobacco into his shirt pocket, and headed for the doors. He expected another insult at any moment, but emerged unscathed into the cool night air. On his way to the stable, something moved in an alley. Duane spun around and tightened his finger around the trigger of his Colt. “Who's in there?”

A drunkard burped as he staggered out, buttoning his pants. He gazed down the barrel of Duane's gun, and blinked. “Whoa,” he wheezed.

“Thought you were somebody else,” Duane replied.

Duane holstered his gun and resumed his journey toward the stable. I just drew on an innocent drunk, and I should've known better than to come to a border town. Duane soon arrived at the stable, where he hollered, “Twilby!”

The wizened old man emerged from the shadows. “Somebody call me?”

“Where's my horse?” Duane walked down the row of mounts, spotted a familiar black tail, and then saw Steve's head half buried in a wood bucket full of oats. So soon? Steve's eyes seemed to say. But we just got here.

Duane read disappointment on the horse's face. “I know we've just arrived,” Duane tried to explain, “but somebody recognized me.” Then Duane became aware that the stablemaster was behind him. “How much I owe you?”

“You jest got hyar. What the hell happened?”

“I don't think Escondido is my kind of town.”

Steve whinnied with dissatisfaction and shook his head from side to side.

“He don't want to go,” the stablemaster said.

“But he has to.”

“What fer?”

“Somebody just threatened to kill me.”

The stablemaster took a step backwards and appraised Duane in moonlight streaming through the door. “You look like a decent feller to me. How come?”

“I have no idea.”

“You didn't deal off the bottom of the deck by any chance?”

“I don't gamble, and I never even saw the galoot before.”

“You might never see ‘im again. It's written in the good book when and whar yer a-gonna die, and there ain't a damned thing you can do about it noways. A scorpion might climb into yer bedroll tonight, or you could git hit by a bolt of lightning.”

He believes in predestination, Duane realized. But I don't. Duane turned toward Steve and saw that the horse's eyes were heavy-lidded with fatigue. The animal was terrified of Apaches, for whom horsemeat was the greatest delicacy.

Duane turned toward the old stablemaster of the plains. “What're
you
on the dodge for?”

“What makes you think I'm on the dodge?”

“Everybody in this town's on the dodge. Who's the sheriff?”

“We ain't got one. Everybody minds their own bizness in Escondido, and we get along jest fine.”

“Tell that to the feller who wanted to shoot me in the Desert Palace Saloon.”

“You did the right thing to walk away. He might've been Jesse James, John Wesley Hardin, or El Pancho. But keep yer nose clean, you'll won't have nawthin' to worry about. Go to another saloon, that's all.”

Duane recalled the thick juicy home-cooked steak that he'd intended to consume, and Steve deserved a peaceful night. I'll find trouble no matter where I go,
Duane told himself, so I might as well have a good meal in Escondido. Besides, my father used to pass through border towns, and folks around here might've heard of him. “Been in this territory long, Mister?”

“All my life.”

“Ever heard of the Polka Dot Gang?”

The old man cocked an eye. “Where'd you hear of the Polka Dot Gang?”

Duane's father, Joe Braddock, had been leader of the Polka Dots, but Duane couldn't admit that to a stranger. “Somebody in a saloon was talking about them once. They were supposed to be one tough bunch of hombres.”

“Mebbe,” replied the old man. “So many gangs have run through this town, it's hard to say. Still want yer saddle?”

“I think I'll stick around a while longer. If you remember anything about the Polka Dot Gang, I'd be mighty grateful if you'd let me know.”

“When you git my age, young feller, the memory starts to go. I can't remember what I had fer breakfast.”

Duane followed directions to the Last Chance Saloon, which looked like any other Escondido hell-hole on the outside, except it was bigger. Men crowded the sidewalk in front, laughing, gesticulating, and passing bottles. There wasn't a woman in sight. Duane pushed through the swinging doors, stepped out of the backlight, and reconnoitered out-laws and painted waitresses wall-to-wall. No chicken bones littered the floor, and brass spittoons were
highly polished. A skinny middle-aged man in a red and white striped shirt sat at the piano and plunked the keys. A sign above him said: Please Don't Shoot the Piano Player, He's Doing the Best He Can.

The only empty table was in the middle of the floor, but Duane didn't want anybody sitting behind him. He headed for the bar, passing cardsharps, newspaper readers, and men passed out with their heads in puddles of beer. The air was full of tobacco smoke.

“Whisky,” said Duane to the bartender, who had shoulders like a bull.

As the man in the apron poured, Duane turned his back to the bar. The waitresses were younger and prettier than the ones in the Desert Palace, heads of animals were mounted on the walls, and a painting of a naked lady reclining on a sofa was hung above the bar. Duane sipped whisky and waited for a table to open up on the wall.

Duane wondered if his outlaw father had ever come to Escondido in the old days. Maybe his mother had visited too, but Duane didn't even know her name. According to what he'd heard, she was like the painted harlots who served food and drinks to the men seated before him. Duane had vague memories of his mother, but they could have been just wishful thinking. She was a vast tragic emptiness in his heart.

Two men arose from a table against the side wall. Duane was off his stool instantly, carrying his glass toward the just-vacated table. An old moth-eaten Confederate flag hung on the wall above it, with a
pair of crossed cavalry sabers. Duane sat and raised the whisky glass to his lips. His hand stopped in midair, as he noticed three cowboys approaching.

“This table's taken,” said one of them, who had a pointed nose and foxy eyes.

“Thought it was empty,” Duane replied. “Those other fellers just left.”

“I said the table's taken.”

Duane didn't like an unreasonable and intimidating tone. “It's taken by me,” he said. “Sorry.”

The three men looked at each other in disbelief. One wore a green shirt with yellow piping. “Hey kid,” he said. “Get the fuck out've here before we nail you to the wall beside that flag.”

Duane had to stay out of trouble in Escondido, regardless of the insult. He swallowed his pride and said, “If you want the table that bad, it's yours, my friends.”

He arose and backed away, the whisky glass in his left hand so his right would be free to draw and fire. The third intruder wore a silver belt buckle with the great star of Texas emblazoned on the front. “Don't git smart with me, sonny jim, ‘cause I'll shoot yer fuckin' lights out.”

Duane forced himself to smile, but it came out crooked and odd. “Meant no harm, sir. Enjoy the table.”

Duane continued backing to the bar, because he didn't dare turn his back to the three bully boys. They had
owlhoot
written all over them, with guns in holsters and knives sticking out of their boots.
Duane returned to the bar, sat on a stool, and gazed at the swine who'd evicted him from his table.

Duane was calm outwardly, but wanted to obliterate them eternally. They respected nothing except their own selfish appetites, he thought. But it's nothing personal, they'd do the same to anybody. He tried to calm himself, because he always landed in the stew whenever he went loco. It felt as if his head were inflating with live steam. He wanted to walk to the table and give them a piece of his mind, but they'd go for their guns, so would he, and God only knew how it'd end. He touched the rosary around his neck, but devout Mexican nuns weren't sufficient to settle him down. He had the feeling that the whole world was against him, and he'd better get out of the saloon before he killed somebody, or somebody killed him.

He knocked back the rest of his whisky and headed for the door, trying not to look at the three owlhoots. His stomach felt like a yawning chasm, and he recalled why he'd come to the Last Chance Saloon in the first place. He'd wanted a decent meal, and nearly got a bellyful of lead instead. It bothered him that three men stood in the way of his enjoying some delicious food, but again, he touched the rosary. Let God take care of them, he counseled himself.

The cool fragrant desert breeze struck his nostrils as he stepped outside. He looked up and saw stars whirling through the cosmos, worlds beyond worlds, and the mountains of the moon. I'm a tiny
grain of sand in God's great creation, and maybe I shouldn't make a big dither out of everything.

He sat on the bench in front of the Last Chance Saloon, and rested his chin on his hand. It seemed a profound insight, and he wondered why he'd never thought it before. Why do I take everything so seriously? Maybe I should go back to the monastery, confess my sins to the Abbot, apologize for everything, and renew my vows to Holy Mother Church.

It seemed a fine idea, but he was starving to death on the main street of Escondido. He touched his concave stomach, and a burp erupted from his throat. Saloons were everywhere, and any one would do. He was about to rise, when someone dropped lazily onto the bench beside him. A familiar face, that of Amos Twilby the stablemaster, looked at him with one eye open and the other eye closed. “Howdy.”

“What're you doing here?”

“I can't take a walk if I want to?”

“Which of these saloons serves the best steak, besides the Last Chance?”

“What's wrong with the Last Chance?”

“Just had a little disagreement with three owl-hoots.”

“You might try the Desert Palace, but onc't I see'd the cook spit in the soup. The cook at the Longhorn is a drunk, but sometimes he gits it right. As for the Silver Spur, it's the cheapest, but sometimes, when yer not lookin', a rat's liable to take the steak right off'n yer plate.”

Duane pushed back his black cowboy hat and narrowed his eyes. “Sounds like the Last Chance is the only place to go.”

“Hell, I wouldn't let anybody keep me out of the Last Chance. It's a damned fine saloon, and a few of the girls are as pretty as anything you'd see in Frisco. You can't let people push you around, boy. Yer paw wouldn't appreciate it.”

“My paw?” asked Duane, as his eyes widened. He grabbed the front of the stablemaster's shirt. “Did you know my paw?”

The stablemaster appeared confused. “'Course not. I'm jest sayin' that yer paw, whoever he was, wouldn't want a coward fer a son.”

Duane let the old man go, and realized with dis-may that he'd overreacted again. “I don't see the point of dying for a table in the Last Chance Saloon.”