Outlaw Hell (6 page)

Duane didn't want to draw first, because of possible legal ramifications. His sharp Apache-trained eyes watched his opponent's hand closely. “Mister,” he said, “I'm going to tell you something, and you'd better listen closely. It's true. I shot Otis Puckett. My name's Duane Braddock, and you don't have a
prayer against me. But I don't want to kill you. Why don't we forget the whole thing?”

Jones scowled, becoming more unsure of himself, but the slime of the Baltimore gutter still flowed through his veins. “Sounds like humbug to me,” he declared. “I say yer a lyin' sack of shit. What're you a-gonna do about that?”

Duane realized the time had come to stop making excuses, because nothing would stop the man. “What're
you
gonna do?”

Somebody laughed, and Jones thought a joke had been made at his expense. Warped anger billowed through his brain as he reached for his Remington. His finger touched the ivory grip at the same instant that Duane's Colt fired. A bullet pierced Jones's heart, and his lights went out instantly, but he was still on his feet, gun in hand, ready to fire. Everybody stared at him in morbid fascination as he collapsed onto the floor.

It was silent in the saloon, acrid gunsmoke filled the air, and everyone's ears rang with the shot. Duane aimed his gun at Mundy, then at Cassidy, and finally at McPeak. “Any of you boys want a piece of me?”

The three outlaws glanced at each other, and Duane saw calculation in their eyes. They were wondering how they could take him in tandem, so he dropped his Colt into his holster, assumed his gunfighter stance, and said, “Go ahead, if you've got the sand.”

They hesitated, then backed away slowly, to
fight another day. All eyes turned toward the young angel of death in black jeans, black shirt, and black hat with silver concho hatband. “Must really be the Pecos Kid,” somebody said.

Duane backed toward the rear door of the saloon, as everyone got out of his way. He reached behind him, turned the knob, and landed outside. Cool fragrant desert air struck him. He looked at the sky and decided that Steve was going for a ride whether he liked it or not. He was heading for the stable when the saloon door opened behind him. He spun around and aimed at the figure advancing through the night.

“It's only me,” said Twilby. “Where the hell you a-goin'?”

“Some little cave in the middle of nowhere, because every time I come to a town, there's somebody who wants to fight me. I've got so much blood on my hands, I'll never get clean again. Why don't people leave me alone?”

The old stablemaster scratched his chin thoughtfully, like Saint Jerome the scholar. “I guess men git jealous of you. Yer kind've good-lookin', and some folks don't like who they are.”

“Are
you
jealous of me, Twilby.”

“I can live with myself, but some fellers can't. Are you really the Pecos Kid?”

“It's just a name some dirty, lying newspaper reporter gave me.”

“Who taught you to shoot like that?”

“Clyde Butterfield. Ever heard of him?”

“Sure did. They say he was one of the craziest
sons of bitches who ever came to Texas. How'd you know ‘im?”

“He just started talkin' to me on the main street of a town called Titusville one day. Turns out he knew my father.” The last sentence was out of Duane's mouth before he could stop it.

“Who's yer father?”

“Just another cowpoke. Nobody special.”

Twilby took a step backwards and cocked an eye. “He wasn't the boss of the Polka Dots, was he?”

Duane was at a loss for words, but recovered quickly. “I thought you never heard of the Polka Dots.”

“When you first asked me, fer all I knew, you could've been John Law. Sure I heard of the Polka Dots, and yer Duane Braddock, eh? Well, the Polka Dots was famous up in the Pecos country. I saw yer father onc't in a little cantina down Tampico way. He was thar with some of his boys. If I'm not mistaken, that's when Clyde Butterfield was a-ridin' with ‘im.”

“You
saw
my father?” Duane asked. “You don't understand ... he went away when I was one year old, and I don't know anything about him. What was he like? Did you palaver with him?”

The old stablemaster chuckled. “It's a long story, so let's sit down and have us a whisky.” He placed his arm around Duane's shoulder and led him down the alley. “By the Jesus, they said yer paw had a fast hand too. A lot of people really liked ‘im,
but some, well ... it's too bad what happened to the Polka Dots.”

Duane couldn't resist the opportunity to learn more about his father. Like a moth drawn to flame, he followed the old stablemaster across the street to the Silver Spur Saloon. It was half the size of the Last Chance, thoroughly filthy, with a bar on the left, tables to the right, dance floor in back, no chop counter, and several elderly prostitutes. Twilby bought two glasses of whisky at the bar, then carried them to a table against the back wall. They sat and raised their glasses as word spread through Escondido that the infamous Pecos Kid was in their very midst.

Twilby leaned toward Duane and said, “I never knew yer father, or Clyde Butterfield, but everybody used to talk about ‘em in the old days. Joe Braddock and Clyde Butterfield was in the Mexican War, and when it was over, they decided to go into business together with a bunch of other ex-soldiers. Texas was wide open then, and if you put yer brand on a steer, it was your'n legally. There wasn't many big ranches, and a lot of cowboys lived in the open with their chuckwagon, if they had a chuckwagon. But we had no law a-tall, and lots of feuds started over cattle. To make a long story short, some rich ranchers said yer paw and his men was rustlers, and tried to arrest ‘em. A range war broke out, and the big ranchers hired fast hands from all over Texas to hunt down yer paw and his boys. They caught ‘em in the Sierra Madre Mountains, and that was the
end of the Polka Dots, but to this day, a lot of people in the Pecos country say the Polka Dots was innocent. ‘Course, you'll find others who'd say they was killers, horse thieves, and cattle rustlers.”

Duane was taken aback by this news. “I thought my father had been hung.”

“Not the way I heard it. They shot him like a dog.”

The image burned into Duane's mind, his father shot full of holes, writhing on the desert sands. “Do you remember the names of the rich ranchers?”

Twilby wrinkled his brow. “Don't right recall.”

“If you remember my father's name, how come you don't remember the people on the other side? Are you afraid I'll go there and start trouble?”

“You show up in the Pecos country sayin' yer Joe Braddock's son, you'll git shot on sight. Get it through yer thick skull, kid: there's nawthin' you can do to bring yer paw back.”

“Did you ever hear anything about Joe Braddock's woman?”

“Joe Braddock had one in every town. I meant no offense, but that's how it was.”

“What towns?”

“If'n I tell you, you'll ride thar first thing in the mornin'. And you'll kill somebody, or somebody'll kill you. You can't look backwards, boy. Life is what you make it.”

“But I don't remember my parents at all. It'd mean a lot if you'd just tell what you know.”

Twilby pondered what Duane had said. “I don't
know a helluva lot, and what you don't know won't hurt you. On the other hand, yer a grown man, and you got a right to hear the truth. Lemme think it over. I gotta go to the piss house. Be right back.”

Twilby arose from the table before Duane could react. Duane watched the stablemaster go, and meditated upon the revelations just accorded him. Twilby had confirmed certain rumors and scraps that Duane had gleaned since leaving the monastery, but contradicted others. Duane was pleased that his father had gone down fighting instead of getting legally lynched on the main street of somebody's town. A man was an outlaw or hero depending on what side of the gutter you're standing on, Duane told himself.

An ancient painted harlot approached, placed hands on her bony hips, and winked lewdly. “You look lonesome, cowboy.”

“Not tonight. Sorry.”

“Don't you like girls?”

“Not interested right now.”

She wore gypsy earrings and a rhinestone necklace, and the tops of her wrinkled smallish breasts were visible. She had three black stumps remaining in her mouth. “I'll show you a real good time.”

“I'm sure you would, but I'm waiting for somebody.”

The whore opened her mouth to reply, when a shot rang out behind the saloon. Duane yanked his gun and dived to the floor, and was joined by other outlaws and waitresses on the way down. The bartender
peered fearfully out the back window. “Looks like somebody got shot!”

Duane aimed his gun before him, hammer back and ready to fire. Whores, outlaws, and vaqueros arose cautiously around him. The bartender opened the rear door and looked toward the privy. Then he moved cautiously toward the dark figure bleeding on the ground in front of it. “It's Amos Twilby!”

Duane pushed through the crowd, gun in hand, heart beating wildly. He erupted outside and saw the bartender kneeling over a prostrate figure on the ground.

“Shot in back of the head,” the bartender said. “Wonder what kind of low-down varmint'd do a thing like that?”

Obviously he'd been bushwhacked from behind. But why? Duane kneeled beside the grisly shattered head of his newest friend, and felt nauseated, his brow furrowed with confusion. It made no sense. “What'll happen to him now?” Duane managed to ask.

“Cemetery,” replied the bartender. “You a friend of his?”

“That's right. Who d'ya think did it?”

The bartender shrugged. “How the hell should I know?”

Duane tried to calm his uprooted mind and think it through. Evidently, someone had been waiting for Twilby to come out of the privy, then coldly and deliberately bushwhacked him from behind. Duane needed a drink to settle himself down.

“At least he died with his boots on,” somebody said. “Somebody grab his arms, I'll take his legs, and we'll carry ‘im to the undertaker.”

Duane reached for Twilby's wrists, and a stranger carried Twilby's legs. The dude wore a frock coat, stovepipe hat, and salt-and-pepper beard. “Who're you?” Duane asked.

“My name's Burkett, and I've got a gunsmith shop. I wonder why somebody shot the poor son of a bitch?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Duane replied, trying to digest the hideous deed. “You know him long?”

“A few years.”

“He have any enemies?”

“Who don't have enemies? But I can't think of anybody who'd shoot ‘im, except maybe one of them fellers you had a beef with earlier tonight, Mister Pecos Kid.”

Suddenly the plot came together in Duane's convoluted mind. The outlaws had taken his table, then tried to kill him. Duane fought back, shot one, and the others retreated to plan their next move. They'd eliminated Twilby first, with Duane next on their list, but they wouldn't just walk up to him and start shooting. They'd catch him when he wasn't looking, as they did Twilby.

The crowd was dispersing back to the saloons. It was another random, senseless killing in a border town, with no apparent cause, no justice, and no mercy. Duane and Burkett lugged Twilby's corpse
down a dark alley strewn with whisky bottles, and came to a house that carried a sign above the door: Caleb Snodgras, Undertaker.

Burkett kicked the door, and it was opened promptly by a tall thin man with deep-set eyes, wearing a black suit, white shirt, and black string tie. “I heard the shooting and figured you'd be here directly. It's turning out to be a busy night. Right this way, please.”

They followed the undertaker down the corridor to a small room with four cots. On one of them lay the naked corpse of Jones, the owlhoot shot by Duane earlier, washed clean of blood, with a red hole in the middle of his chest. A medicinal odor filled the room. The shelves were lined with vials and bottles of chemicals, while peculiar metallic implements lay on the desk. The undertaker clasped his bony hands together, his eyes glittering with barely concealed greed. “It appears that they shot him in the head. Tsk tsk. Are you friends of the deceased?”

“I am,” Duane replied. “I'd like to give him a decent burial.”

“Happy to hear it. You got twenty dollars?”

Duane reached into his pocket. “Where can I find a preacher?”

“The only one who went to divinity school is Reverend Herbert Berclair of Apocalypse Church. But I wouldn't disturb him at night, if I was you.”

Meanwhile, Burkett backed toward the door. “Got somethin' to do,” he said, as he disappeared into the night from whence he'd come.

Duane handed twenty dollars to the undertaker. “Did you know Twilby?”

“He took care of my horse, but I can't say we were pards. How long've you known him?”

“I just met him today. Is he married?”

“Hell no. Twilby generally kept to himself.”

“I can't help wondering why he was so friendly with me, since I never saw him before.”

“It's hard to know what's in a man's heart, cowboy. He lived in the stable with the horses.”

“What happens now?”

“If we had a sheriff, he could search Twilby's room.”

“Would it be against the law if I searched his room?”

“We haven't got any law in Escondido. You can do as you damn well please, provided you can back it up.” The undertaker sat at his desk and took out a sheet of paper. “What's your name?”

Duane saw no point in lying, since he'd already admitted being the Pecos Kid in the Last Chance Saloon. “Duane Braddock.”

The undertaker wrote
Duane Braddock
on the paper.

Duane looked over the undertaker's shoulder. “What's that for?”

“I've got to make a report for Austin.”

Duane grabbed the sheet of paper and tore it into little pieces. “My name's Joe Butterfield.”

“It's a misdemeanor to willfully make wrong statements.”