Outlaw Hell (5 page)

The old stablemaster leaned toward him. “You young fellers today, you got all the answers, but in my day, and it weren't
that
long ago, you push a man around, you'd better get ready to die.” Twilby raised his button nose proudly into the air. “I was young onc't too, but I never let anybody keep me out of a saloon. Hell, I'll tell you what. We'll go into that saloon together, and we'll keep away from them owlhoots. But if they start up with us, I'll back you all the way. Don't worry about a thing.”

The old man jumped to his feet, hauled his Colt Dragoon, and aimed it between Duane's eyes, only Duane wasn't there. Duane stood a few feet to the side, and aimed his Colt .44 at the stablemaster's
right kidney. Twilby's eyes bugged out. “How'd you do that, kid?”

“I lived with Apaches for a spell.”

“Figured you had some Apache blood in you, first time I saw you. Somethin' in yer eyes, that bow-and-arrow look.”

“You were pretty fast yourself, old man. You almost got me. Ever been a gunfighter, by any chance?”

The old man pshawed, as he stuffed his Dragoon into its hand-tooled holster. “Who the hell wants to be a gunfighter? They all end up in the cemetery anyways. But if'n we have trouble in that saloon, I can handle two of the galoots myself, and you can take the other one. Hell, I ain't greedy.”

Duane realized that Twilby was suffering major delusions. In fact, the old man's speed was mostly gone. He'd be no good at all in a showdown.

“Ready, pardner?” said the old man with a wink, as he headed for the Last Chance Saloon.

Duane didn't want to enter, but Twilby might guess that Duane didn't trust the old man's fighting ability, a slap in the face to one with gray whiskers. A hunger cramp shot through Duane's gut, and he thought, maybe I'm being too careful. If I stay away from those owlhoots, I'm sure they'll leave me alone.

He followed Twilby into the saloon, and the old man motioned for him to come closer. “Which ones are they?”

“Against the far wall . . . with that son of a bitch in the green shirt.”

“They don't look like much to me.”

Duane and Twilby angled among tables as they closed the distance with the chop counter in back. The three men at the purloined table seemed not to notice them. A Negro cook in overalls stood at the stove, flipping steaks into the air. “How many?” he asked.

“Two.”

The plates were filled, the tariff paid, and the new acquaintances headed for an empty table in the middle of the floor. Duane sat so that he could face the owlhoots, and glanced at them as he sliced into the slab of beef that smothered his plate. It was soft as butter and redolent with fragrant juices, accompanied by fried onions, fried potatoes, beans, and tortillas. He wolfed it down, oblivious to the world around him.

“You look like you ain't et fer a few months, kid.”

Duane didn't reply, as he shoveled potatoes and onions into his mouth.

“Sure wish I could put away a meal like that,” said Twilby. “But yer stomach gets old too, along with everythin' else. Hell, I know I'm not the man I used to be. But in the old days, I used to cut quite a figure, let me tell you. ‘Course, Texas weren't so crowded then. Escondido was just two shacks on either side of the trail, with a well in back and a couple of shit houses. People were friendly then, and we stuck together.”

“That's not the way I heard it,” Duane said. “Aren't border towns places where outlaws go?”

“You've always got yer outlaw element,” Twilby said, as he wrinkled his tiny nose. “Wasn't two robbers crucified alongside Jesus?”

“Who keeps law and order in this town?”

“Nobody.”

“What would happen if the owlhoot in the green shirt walked up to me and said he was a-gonna blow my brains out?”

“Up to you to blow his brains out first. But most men in this town ain't a-lookin' fer trouble. They come here to git away from trouble. Know what I mean?”

“I'm surprised the Fourth Cavalry doesn't show up one morning and clean the whole place out.”

“You can hear the Fourth Cavalry coming twenty miles away, and by the time they arrived all the out-laws would be gone. I know it, you know it, and the Fourth Cavalry knows it. That's why they don't come so often.”

Duane examined the old stablemaster's face. It was deeply lined, with pouches of sadness beneath his eyes, his nose laced with red veins, marks of a drunkard. Twilby had a logical mind, Duane thought. Saint Thomas Aquinas himself couldn't've said it better. The stablemaster is on the dodge too, he knows the territory, and he's a good man to know. Perhaps God has sent him to me, to teach me about dangerous little border towns.

The man called Jones entered the Last Chance Saloon, and spotted his companions sitting at a table against the side wall. He puffed a cigarette as he strode toward them, his angry outlaw vision searching for possible threats. He was wanted for robbery, burglary, and murder in a variety of jurisdictions.

He approached the table. Cassidy, the bully with the silver star-of-Texas belt buckle, pulled up a chair. “Where the hell you been?” he asked. “We've been a-waitin' on you fer an hour.”

Jones dropped onto the chair, rested his hand on his gun, and said, “I nearly shot some son of a bitch just now.”

Their leader was Harold McPeak, thirty-five years old, former sergeant in the Confederate Army, also wanted for a variety of offenses. He wore a green shirt and had a bony face with large ears. “What happened.”

“He said somethin' he shun't.”

McPeak appeared annoyed. “I thought we were supposed to stay out've trouble.”

“Was I supposed to lie down and die?”

“You were supposed to be here an hour ago.”

Jones looked around and grinned. “It don't look like a bad place to wait. Everybody says it's the best saloon in town. I need a waitress. Hey ... bitch!”

She had black hair to her shoulders and bright red lips. “Yes sir?”

“Gimme a whisky.”

She removed a glass from her tray and placed it before him. “Fifty cents.”

He tossed the coin onto her tray with one hand and pinched her ass with the other. She forced a smile, but there was fury in her eyes. “Thank you, sir.”

Jones sipped the whisky, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His clothes were ill-fitting, and he wore an egg stain on his dirty white shirt. “Where was we?”

“We was supposed to be talkin' about the next job, but yer late. If you can't be on time, you'd better start a-lookin' fer another gang.”

“Okay . . . okay,” Jones said. “I'm here. What's the deal?”

McPeak smiled, and said in a low tone: “Boys, we're a-gonna hit the sweetest little bank you ever saw. It's in a town called Shelterville, about five days east of here, and they got this nice old sheriff who wouldn't hurt a fly, plus lots of good church folk who'd hide at the first shot. We'll ride into town one by one in the mornin', meet at the bank around noon, and when I give the word, we'll hold ‘em up, blow the safe, and head fer Mexico. We'll be out of sight before they know what hit ‘em. Now, the way I see it...”

McPeak explained the details of the robbery, but Jones was distracted by a young man sitting in the middle of the floor, the same kid he'd seen earlier at the Desert Palace Saloon, who'd supposedly shot Otis Puckett. Jones felt annoyed by the young stranger, for reasons he didn't care to understand. Jones had a broken nose, a scar on his forehead,
and puffy lips. The only girls he ever got, he had to pay for, cash on the barrel head. He'd never been in love in his life.

McPeak's voice droned onward, as Jones continued to glower at the young man. There was something about him that contrasted sharply with Jones. Jones had been raised in Baltimore and had fought other urchins for bits of garbage to eat. He'd never made a conscious decision to steal—it had always come naturally—and he recognized no law save his own best interests. He felt insulted by the young bearded man talking with the old stablemaster on the far side of the saloon.

McPeak stopped his dissertation abruptly, then turned toward Jones. “What'd I just say?”

Jones ignored his question. “See that kid in the black shirt. He's got everybody thinkin' he shot Otis Puckett.”

“Hey, ain't he the same one who was a-sittin' at this table?”

“Sure was,” said McPeak.

“Maybe he did shoot Otis Puckett,” said the fourth man, the one with the pointed nose, Dick Mundy. “Puckett got shot a while back, I heard.”

“He did?” Jones was surprised. “Are you sure?”

“I heard some cowboys a-talkin' about it. He was gunned down by a galoot called . . . lemme think ... the Brazos Kid?”

“How about the Pecos Kid?” asked Jones.

Mundy snapped his fingers. “That's it ... the Pecos Kid. His name's Craddock or Braddock or
something like that.” He turned toward the young man. “Sure don't look like much.”

“Acted like a skeered rabbit,” said McPeak. “Hard to believe he shot Otis Puckett. I'd say it's horseshit.”

“'At's what I think,” replied Jones. “He's too purty fer his own good, and I don't like a man who trades on somebody else's reputation. I ought to go over there and kick his ass.”

The more Jones stared at the so-called Pecos Kid, the angrier he became. Jones wanted to be admired, but it was always the other galoot who received the sweetest fruits, while he gnawed weeds. Stealing, killing, and fighting were his principal interests, and he had no regrets.

McPeak placed his hand on Jones's shoulder. “We don't want no trouble.”

“It'll only take a minute.”

“I just gave you an order.”

“Shove it up yer ass.”

Jones rolled to his feet, hooked his thumbs in his belt, and sauntered toward the table. He felt most alive when a good fight was in the offing.

Then Mundy arose from the table. “I don't want to miss this. To tell you the truth, I never liked that kid when I first see'd him.”

“He looked a little simple to me,” added the third outlaw, Cassidy. “Let's make him dance to the tune, boys.”

McPeak, their leader, wore a disappointed expression on his weatherbeaten visage. He couldn't send them to the stockade, and his sergeant stripes
didn't mean anything in Escondido. Guess I'll have to go along with it, he thought philosophically, as he followed them across the saloon. They can kill anybody they want, long as they help me rob that damned bank.

Duane leaned across the table and gazed into his new professor's eyes. “Suppose a lawman gets a wanted poster with your face on it. Does he look for you right away, or just nail the poster on the wall and forget it?”

Twilby sat with his legs crossed, holding a cigarette between his fingers, a twinkle in his eyes. “Depends on the lawman. Some're lazy, others like the glory, a few're in it fer the money, and some're even outlaws theirselves. If yer worried about ‘em a-lookin' fer you, it depends what you did. If it's real bad, they might even send the Fourth Cavalry after you.” The old stablemaster shook his head. “You don't ever want to git on the fightin' side of the Fourth Cavalry, boy. What're you wanted fer, if'n you don't mind me a-askin'.”

Duane leaned closer, and uttered: “I killed a federal marshal, but it wasn't my fault.”

Suddenly the table exploded in his face, and he went flying backwards. He landed on his back, went for his gun, and heard a voice say, “Don't move.”

Duane's hand froze. He looked up and saw the bully in the brown cowboy hat with the three owl-hoots who'd stolen his previous table. Duane
blanched white, but held himself steady, tried to smile, and said, “What's wrong?”

Jones stepped forward and looked down contemptuously. “Are you the feller what says you shot Otis Puckett?

“Who's Otis Puckett?”

“Are you gittin' smart with me, boy?”

“Not me, sir.”

“I ain't no goddamned
sir.
I hear that you claim to be the Pecos Kid.”

“You heard wrong.”

“Are you talkin' back to me Craddock, or Braddock, or Shmaddock, or whatever yer damn name is?”

Duane realized that nothing would pacify the owlhoot. The Pecos Kid was being challenged again, and the only thing to do was make a stand. “I ain't a boy.”

“Well, you sure as hell ain't a man either.”

“You can say anything you want, since you've got a gun in your hand while my hand is empty. But give me a fair chance, and I'll show you who's a boy and who's a man.”

Jones was surprised by the back talk. His law was the code of the gutter and he preferred to prey on the weak and defenseless. But a Baltimore guttersnipe can't back down publicly. “Are you saying that you want a little duel?” he inquired with a wry grin.

“Unless you intend to shoot me in cold blood, without a chance!”

“He's right,” said the old stablemaster of the
plains, who stood a few feet away. “You got to give ‘im a play. Ain't fair to shoot a man in cold blood like that.”

If Jones had been alone, he would've blasted the young man to smithereens, but he had to show outlaw valor before his peers. “All right,” he replied. He holstered his gun, then beckoned to Duane. “I ain't killed nobody yet tonight, and it might as well be you. Let's go. On yer goddamned feet!”

Duane raised himself from the floor. He didn't have time to speculate on what Saint Ambrose would say about moral implications, as he faced Jones and unlimbered the fingers of his right hand. “Mister, I don't know you, and I don't want to kill you. As far as I know, you don't know me. Why don't you let me buy you a drink?”

Jones raised his eyebrows, because he thought Duane had shown the coward's stripe. “A few moments ago, you was a-challengin' me to a gun-fight. Change yer mind so fast, Mister Pecos?”

“There's nothin' to fight over,” Duane replied. “What's wrong with you?”

It sounded like a new insult to the ex-Baltimore street urchin. Jones stiffened, and poised his hand above his Remington. “I'm ready when you are.”