Bad to the Bone (2 page)

Duane Braddock rode down the center of the town, struck by the beauty of the woman he'd just seen. She'd had big brown eyes, a straight, perfectly chiseled nose, and petulant, pouting lips that begged to be kissed. Must be some rich man's wife, he decided, as he searched both sides of the street.

He passed the church, a variety of stores closed for the night, and lamps shining in the windows of jacales. Gregorian chants echoed down the street, but Duane tried not to hum the melodies. An old cowpoke had told him to study a town before he climbed off his horse, because nobody wants to blunder into danger. It looked like a sizable settlement, in the real Mexico where Americans seldom came.

Duane maintained his hand close to Colonel Colt's invention as he came to a two-story hotel with a wide veranda, where gentlemen and ladies sat with food and
drink. Duane was tempted to join them, but knew he wouldn't feel comfortable without a wall to his back.

He glanced at rooftops, to make sure nobody was taking a bead on him, and hoped no American bounty hunters were in town, because they'd shoot him on sight like a rabid dog. I should keep riding onward, but I have to stop sooner or later, he persuaded himself. What the hell—a man can't live on the desert forever.

The road narrowed into a neighborhood of shacks, huts, and vaqueros strolling the sidewalks, wearing long, flowing mustaches, gaudy bandannas, and immense sombreros. I must appear outlandish to them, speculated Duane, stroking his beard. I should shave but leave the mustache, and buy a sombrero and a pair of pants with stitching down the sides, with wide bottoms. When he'd lived in Texas, Mexicans had been the foreigners, but now the shoe was on the other hoof.

He rode through the town, then turned around and headed back, his eyes probing shadows, rooftops, and darkened alleyways. He noted the location of the calaboose, the bank, and the gun shop. Following his natural instincts, he found himself headed once more toward the cantina district. Hungry, thirsty, and lonely, he inclined his big black horse toward a complex of adobe huts that had no sign above the door. He climbed down from the saddle, threw the reins over the hitching rail, and gazed into the animal's luminous eyes.

Duane had “borrowed” him from an outlaw band farther north, and named him Midnight. He didn't know much about Midnight's history, but figured he'd been stolen somewhere along the way, which gave Duane something else to worry about.

“I'm going to have a drink,” Duane explained, “but
I shouldn't be long. If anybody tries to steal you, kick him in the ass. We'll probably spend the night on the desert, so enjoy yourself while you can.”

Midnight plunged his snout into the water trough, as Duane loosened the two cinches beneath the saddle. Duane tried to treat Midnight as a friend, rather than mere transportation, but Midnight didn't seem to like him much. The Pecos Kid tossed his saddlebags over his shoulder, headed for the front door of the cantina, never letting his right hand stray from his Colt. He opened the door, and saw three drunkards sitting at a table in front of him. “Look at the gringo,” said one of them.

Their glassy eyes probed as he retreated into the shadows. Ahead were tables and chairs all the way to the end of the large enclosed space. The bar was to the left, three deep with vaqueros, and every table was taken. Duane realized it must be Saturday night, of all times to come to town, but he wasn't about to ride away after just arriving.

He couldn't get close to the bar, but he noticed an empty length of wall between two vaqueros and backed into it. Waitresses and prostitutes in low-cut gowns moved among the crowd, sitting on men's laps or accompanying them to and from back rooms, while candles burned merrily on tables, casting dancing shadows on adobe walls. Above the bar hung a poster showing a naked blond lady reclining on a sofa covered with leopard skin.

A waitress passed, and Duane called out: “Señorita—would you bring a glass of mescal?”

She stared at him for a few moments, as if seeing him for the first time. “You are a long way from home, eh Americano?”

“I am very thirsty, if you do not mind.”

She raised her right eyebrow skeptically, then headed for the bar. Meanwhile, on a small stage at the rear of the establishment, a vaquero strummed his flamenco guitar. Duane was struck by how similar the cantina was to the average Texas saloon; only the tune was different.

The waitress returned with the mescal, and he tossed her a few coins, tipping her extravagantly. “What's the name of this town?” he asked.

“Zumarraga.”

“
Gracias,
” he said, bowing slightly, anxious to be polite, so as not to offend anybody.

She continued to look askance at him, as if he wasn't deceiving her. “What are you doing here, Americano?”

“I needed a drink.” He tossed down the remainder of the mescal, placed his empty glass on her tray, and wanted to say
hit me again,
but a terrible conflagration had broken out in his chest. He swallowed hard, and his face turned red. The waitress walked away laughing.

Duane raised his hand to his mouth and broke into paroxysms of coughing. The mescal had gone down the wrong tube, and nearby Mexicans chuckled at his distress. I'm making a fool of myself, and holding Texas up to ridicule, he thought. Why do I constantly feel the need to show off in front of women, even ones I don't even give a damn about?

The musician wailed a sad song, and Duane could hear the pure romance of his wild vaquero life. Duane had been a cowboy once, and dreamed that he'd have his own ranch someday, raising his own family, after the law left him alone.

He began to feel a happy glow, as mescal filtered
through his bloodstream. He loved the beverage because it produced interesting hallucinations, and the former acolyte enjoyed reflecting upon theology, morality, lost worlds, and the wisdom of the ages. What does it all mean, and why should I care? he asked himself, as the waitress returned with his next glass of mescal. Duane again tipped her abundantly, then raised his glass in a toast. “To Mexico,” he said.

“What crimes are you wanted for?” she replied.

“What makes you think I'm wanted for crimes?”

“Why else would you be in Mexico?”

“My doctor said the climate is good for my heart.”

“You do not seem sick to me, and you are not bad looking either ... for an Americano.” She fluttered her eyelashes. “Want to go upstairs?”

“Not today.”

“What is wrong with today?”

He felt himself becoming nervous, because he didn't want to offend her. “I'm in love with somebody else.”

“Where is she?”

“Far away.”

“I'm right here, and I will love you with all my heart.”

“I don't have much money.”

“Too bad.” She gave her shoulder a toss. “Perhaps some other time.”

She walked away saucily, as Duane noticed vaqueros at the bar looking at him and talking earnestly, as if planning a necktie party. The troubadour continued to warble about romance till the end of time, as additional mescal poured into Duane's bloodstream. The cantina took on an orange haze. He saw the flush of men's faces as they played cards, while waitresses and
prostitutes sashayed past, casting sultry glances, and lamplight pulsated everywhere.

Fermented maguey juice flowed through Duane's brain, as he felt the strange rhythms of Mexico pounding within him. Mayan priests, Spanish conquistadors, and armies of Catholic missionaries shimmered before him in the huge, unlikely cantina.

Duane had studied Mexican history at the monastery, and remembered a few facts. During the late 1850s, Mexico had defaulted on European loans, and soon endured invasion by France, England, and Spain. France had become dominant in the coalition, defeated the Mexican Army, and Napoleon III had installed an Austrian duke named Maximilian of Hapsburg as emperor of Mexico, with Maximilian's wife, Carlota, as his empress. They had ruled until 1867, when Mexican patriots under Benito Juárez had placed Maximilian before a firing squad. Empress Carlota had then booked passage on the next boat to Europe, where she subsequently went mad. Juárez was still president in early 1872, but large regions were dominated by banditos, Apaches, and wealthy caudillos who held the power of life and death over hundreds and sometimes thousands of peasants.

As Duane drained the glass and looked for the waitress, the door opened, and another gringo entered the cantina. He was approximately six-foot-two, his wide-brimmed silverbelly cowboy hat on the back of his head, and curly blond hair spilled down his forehead. He took one look at the crowd around the bar, hesitated, and backed out of the cantina.

Now there's a cautious man, figured Duane. Whoever he is, he's not looking for trouble, while I blithely walked
in here, drank two glasses of mescal, and now my head is spinning. I've got to eat something, otherwise I'll pass out.

All the tables were taken. A different waitress walked by, and he placed his empty glass on her tray. He wanted to ask for a restaurant recommendation, but was afraid to open his mouth.

A vaquero and a woman entered the cantina as Duane headed for the door. The woman had wavy black hair, wide hips, and the vaquero's hand protecting the small of her back. As Duane drew closer, he became increasingly astonished by the sheer size of the woman's bosom. They must be awful heavy for her to carry around, he mused.

“What are you looking at!” demanded an angry voice.

The vaquero stared at Duane with undisguised rancor, and Duane realized too late that he'd been staring at the Mexican woman's breasts like a lecherous fool. The Americano smiled weakly. “I am sorry, señor, but I have drunk too much mescal, and I was on my way out of here.”

“I saw you flirting with her,” the vaquero said angrily. “You do not fool me.”

All eyes in the vicinity turned toward the confrontation near the door. “I meant no insult to you or your woman,” replied Duane. “It was a mistake.”

The vaquero was four inches shorter than Duane, but with larger shoulders, a barrel chest, and thick arms. “It was no mistake, because I saw your shameless eyes.”

He's drunk, Duane realized, as he wondered how to extricate himself from the situation into which he was
sinking. “I was looking at her, but you should take it as a compliment. She is, after all, a beautiful woman.”

The woman smiled broadly, while the vaquero noticed her response with dismay. Duane realized that he'd said the wrong thing again, as the vaquero raised both fists to the fighting stance. He's not going to punch me, is he? wondered Duane. The vaquero cocked his left fist and threw it toward Duane's head, but Duane timed it coming in, and easily ducked beneath it. Then he took a few steps backward, as the crowd coalesced around them. It appeared that the entertainment had arrived.

The big-bosomed woman turned toward her vaquero and said reproachfully: “Leave him alone, Pablo. He is just a boy, and he meant no harm.”

“He does not look like a boy to me,” Pablo replied, his eyes bloodshot from excessive mescal. “Do you like him?”

“I do not know him—how could I like him?”

“I saw the way you were looking at him, and he was looking at you!”

The woman became pale. “But Pablo, it does not mean anything. You are always so suspicious.”

A fiendish gleam came to Pablo's eyes. “I asked you—do you like him?”

“But you know that I love you!”

“I do not know any such thing, the way you flirt with men all the time. I'll show you what I do to men who look at you, and then maybe you will never flirt again.” Pablo turned toward Duane, raised his fists, and advanced with mayhem in his eyes.

Duane backstepped, holding his hands down to his sides, not wanting to provoke anybody. “Now just a minute—let's not—”

Duane was unable to finish the sentence, because a big, hairy fist was zooming toward his very nose. He dodged to the side, the fist whizzed harmlessly by, and Duane was on his way toward the door. But vaqueros and prostitutes were crowded around, there was no clear path, and Pablo darted nimbly to cut him off.

Duane was the only gringo in the cantina, and he wanted to avoid showdowns. He steadied himself, turned toward Pablo, and said: “If I've offended you in any way, I apologize from the bottom of my heart. I promise never, under any circumstances, to do it again.”

Pablo responded with a right toward Duane's mouth, but Duane danced away lightly, still holding his hands down his sides. I've apologized from the bottom of my heart, I promised never to do it again, and if that's not good enough for this son-of-a-bitch, I guess I'll have to fight him.

But Duane realized he was in no condition to fight, as Pablo squared off again. The lone gringo was half drunk on an empty stomach, but adrenaline kicked in like a horse, causing his right leg to tremble, always the signal that he was getting into his fighting mode.

“Señor Pablo,” Duane intoned carefully, “I'm going to tell you one last time. If you don't leave me alone, I'm going to start punching back. I don't know what the outcome will be, and maybe you'll kill me, but I promise you one thing, if you continue to press me, you will regret it.”

The swarthy Mexican launched a long, looping overhand right at Duane's skull. Duane snatched his opponent's wrist out of the air, spun sharply, and threw him over his shoulder. The Mexican went flying over the bar, and crashed against the row of bottles
beneath the mirror. Meanwhile, Duane headed for the door, and vaqueros in wide-brimmed sombreros made way. He reached the hitching rail, where Midnight dozed among other horses. “Wake up,” Duane said. “We're in trouble again.”

Duane tossed the saddlebags over Midnight's ebony haunches, then kneeled and tightened the two cinches beneath Midnight's massive belly. He untied the reins from the hitching rail, and was placing his foot into the stirrup, when the door of the cantina opened and Pablo appeared on the dirt sidewalk. “Not so fast, gringo!”

Vaqueros and their women crowded out the door to see the next installment of the fight. Duane wanted to jump onto Midnight and ride the hell out of there, but feared getting shot out of the saddle.