Bad to the Bone (3 page)

“Were you trying to sneak away?” asked Pablo, gazing malevolently at Duane. Pablo had cut the side of his head on a broken bottle, and blood oozed into his thickly matted hair, as his sombrero hung on leather thongs down his back.

“You shouldn't have followed me,” replied Duane, “but you won't listen to reason.”

The Mexican lunged toward Duane, who was standing between Midnight and a strange horse, leaving little room to maneuver. Duane tossed a short right jab to Pablo's nose and it connected on target, but the Mexican kept coming. He grabbed at Duane's throat, but Duane took a handful of Pablo's hair, pushed his head into the muck, leapt over him, and landed in the middle of the street.

Pablo growled as he arose, covered with mud and manure, stinking to high heaven. Meanwhile, a larger
crowd was forming, and Duane spotted the blond American outlaw hanging in the shadows, watching the show. Pablo lowered his head, then charged Duane, flinging a wild hook at Duane's head, but Duane caught Pablo's wrist, pivoted, and let Pablo's forward movement carry him over Duane's shoulder.

The Mexican dropped onto the ground, rolled over, and came up with a knife in his hand. “I am going to kill you, gringo!” he screamed.

Moonbeams rolled along the seven-inch blade, and Duane took a step backward, for a knife raised the ante drastically. “Whoa,” he said to the Mexican. “Are you sure you want to
die
over something that I've already apologized for?”

“You are the one who is going to die!”

Pablo charged, slashing the blade toward Duane's face, but Duane darted to the side and stuck out his foot. The Mexican tripped over Duane's ankle, and landed on his face. This time he didn't get up so quickly.

Duane decided that the time had come to appeal to the common sense of the crowd. “Señores and señoritas,” he declaimed, “if this man doesn't stop attacking me, I will kill him, or he will kill me. Doesn't he have a friend who can talk him out of it?”

Nobody stepped forward, especially not the woman with large breasts at the edge of the crowd. It appeared that everybody was afraid of Pablo, who was raising himself off the ground, the knife in his fist. “What is wrong, gringo?” he asked. “Are you afraid to stand still and fight?”

“Because I looked at your woman?” asked Duane. “You're acting like a fool.”

Duane regretted the words the moment they'd left
his mouth, but his nerves were jangled after three weeks in the saddle. Meanwhile, Pablo set his lips in a grim line, as his eyes narrowed for his next attack.

“Señor,” said Duane. “If you come at me once more, I'm going to cut you, so help me God.”

The Mexican got low and waved his blade from side to side menacingly. “Say your prayers, gringo.”

Duane pulled his Apache knife out of his boot. It had a ten-inch blade crowned with a bear bone handle. He'd lived among Apaches for a spell, and they'd taught him the niceties of close combat with knives, rocks, fists, and anything else that might come to hand. He poised on the balls of his feet, when the Mexican suddenly stopped, feinted to the left, sidestepped to the right, and thrust his knife up suddenly, its point streaking toward Duane's belly.

Duane caught the Mexican's wrist in his left hand, stopping it cold, while stepping forward and touching the point of his knife to his adversary's throat. The iron point poked through Pablo's skin, and a dot of ruby red blood appeared.

“Drop the knife,” said Duane.

The blade stung Pablo, and it wouldn't take much to puncture his jugular. His fingers loosened, as his weapon fell at Duane's feet.

“Señor Pablo,” Duane told him, “if you ever come near me again—you're dead meat. Do you understand?”

Pablo sweated profusely, as blood trickled down his throat and made a blotch on his white shirt.

“And don't think,” Duane continued, “that you'll sneak behind me someday, because I've got sharp ears, I shoot first, and ask questions later.”

Pablo couldn't understand what had happened to
him. He usually defeated other people easily, although he never picked fights with bigger men, of course.

“I asked you a question,” Duane said, sticking his knife in another sixteenth of an inch.

“I understand,” croaked Pablo reluctantly.

Duane heard footsteps behind him, and thought he was under attack. He withdrew his knife, spun around, and saw an astonishing figure at the edge of the crowd. The newcomer was taller than Duane, and wore a black leather jacket, ruffled white shirt, and silver conchos stitched down the seams of his black wide-bottomed trousers. He had silver hair and a silver mustache, and Duane pegged his age at the mid-fifties. “What is going on here!” he demanded.

A vaquero approached the personage and bowed. “Don Carlos, there was a fight. Pablo pulled a knife on that Americano, and the Americano nearly killed him.”

Don Carlos's eyes flashed wry amusement, as he turned toward Pablo, who held his fingers to the puncture wound at his throat. “So you have been fighting again, eh?”

“The gringo has insulted my woman,” Pablo replied. “He was trying to steal her from me.” The vaquero looked like a hurt little boy who'd just lost his mommy.

Don Carlos turned toward Duane. “What is your side of the story?”

“I was on my way to a restaurant, and happened to look at his woman. It was not an incident worth fighting over.”

Pablo's eyes bounced about excitedly. “My woman is not worth fighting over?”

Don Carlos chuckled. “Come now, Pablo. You are always angry about something, and maybe you are
more trouble than you are worth. Go back to the hacienda, and I will speak with you later.” Don Carlos placed one hand on his hip and glanced among the assembled vaqueros. “Has anyone seen my wife?”.

A vaquero bowed. “She left the church a half-hour ago, sir.”

He must be the richest caudillo in the province, Duane thought. The Mexican nobleman had the physique of a young man, with a narrow waist and flat stomach. Just goes to show you that a cowboy doesn't have to get old when he's old, thought Duane.

Don Carlos ambled away, surrounded by his vaquero bodyguard. The woman with large breasts pulled a handkerchief from within her bosom, and wiped blood from Pablo's throat. “
Querido mío,
” she said tenderly, “you must be loco, and perhaps that is why I love you so.”

Duane scratched his head in confusion as they walked off arm in arm. He became aware of a short, pudgy Mexican standing beside him. “I am Fernando, and you are one fast son-of-a-bitch with a knife. Are you part Apache?”

“That's right,” replied Duane. “What about you?”

“I work for Don Carlos, and when I look at a woman, nobody gives a damn.”

“I wonder what women see in men like Pablo?”

Fernando showed the palms of his hands. “Nobody has ever explained love, señor.”

“I'm hungry—do you know of a good restaurant? I'd be happy to buy you supper.”

Fernando led Duane into an alley, as vaqueros in the street mumbled amongst themselves. Duane touched his fingers to the grip of his Colt as he searched the shadows
for a bushwhacker. He knew he should get out of Zumarraga immediately, but was tempted by the notion of a good hot meal.

“What can you tell me about Don Carlos?” asked Duane, as they crossed the backyard.

“He owns this town and all the land around here for miles and miles.” Fernando winked as he waddled on his stubby legs. “And he has a pretty young wife.”

“Where did he come from?”

“His family has always been here, señor. He is descended from an officer in the army of Hernán Cortés.”

Cortés was the conqueror of Mexico, a hero to his Spanish descendants, but not loved by the Indians. Duane and Fernando approached a rectangular adobe hut with bright lights in the windows. Fernando opened the door. Men and women were seated at tables in a crowded space redolent with the fragrances of tobacco, mescal, and chili peppers.

Duane selected an empty table against the far wall, sat facing the door, and rolled a cigarette. Fernando motioned to the waitress. “I want a bowl of chili and a steak.”

Duane noticed a face in the window, and it belonged to the blond American whom he'd seen earlier in the cantina. Now there's a man who knows what he's about, deduced Duane. I wonder who he is? The waitress was looking at Duane expectantly. “Bring me a plate of enchiladas,” Duane told her, “and do you have mescal?”

The waitress headed for the kitchen as Duane lit his cigarette. He noticed everyone glancing at him cautiously, or staring in undisguised curiosity. “It's no fun,” he said to Fernando, “living in a country where people don't like Americanos.”

“Well, your country has stolen a substantial portion of this one.”

“But I wasn't even alive then!”

“Do you think America should give Texas back?”

Duane decided to change the subject. “What do you think of President Juárez?”

“He is a great man,” declared Fernando, “and he will make Mexico a great nation.”

Duane puffed his cigarette as he examined the other denizens of the restaurant, many of whom were casting glances in his direction. I'll eat my meal, then hit the trail, he determined. One of these Mexicans is liable to kill me if I stay in this village much longer.

D
OÑA
C
ONSUELO DE
R
EBOZO SAT AT THE
end of her long dining room table, picking at roast chicken, stewed yams, and fried bananas. A silver rococo candelabra provided illumination, while a uniformed butler stood alertly in the shadows, awaiting her next request.

Doña Consuelo had been attended by servants all her life, and considered them part of the decor. She gave them presents and gifts of money whenever the mood struck her, and if they stole pieces of silverware and articles of jewelry from time to time, far be it from her to make a fuss. Her husband could afford it, and she wasn't there to judge anybody. Doña Consuelo wouldn't say boo to a goose.

She looked at the big grandfather clock against the wall, and wondered when Don Carlos would return. She missed his commanding presence, ringing laughter,
and the clever remarks that he always made. He never failed to light up a room, he was the finest man she'd ever known, finer even than her father. It gave her comfort to know that Don Carlos de Rebozo was all hers till death them did part, according to vows they'd taken before Holy Mother Church.

She hoped she didn't have to sleep alone that night, because she needed him more than usual, in the way a healthy woman sometimes needs a man. The butler, whose name was Alfonso, approached from the shadows and bowed reverently. “Would you like me to have your meal reheated, Doña Consuelo?”

“I'm finished, and you may take it away.”

“Coffee?”

“No, thank you, and I don't want dessert. But leave the wine.”

“As you wish, Doña Consuelo.” With deft hands, Alfonso cleared the table of everything except bottle and glass. He retreated toward the kitchen, leaving Doña Consuelo alone in the dining hall.

Portraits of Don Carlos's illustrious ancestors stared down at her from the walls, while a suit of conquistador armor stood in the corner, helmet attached, and holding a lance. Doña Consuelo felt honored, ennobled, and glorified to be married to one of Mexico's most illustrious families, but if she didn't produce a son soon, God only knew the result.

Don Carlos didn't want a distant relative to inherit the Rebozo holdings when he died. No, he wanted a son of his own, but his first wife had been sickly, had failed to produce a child, and died from cholera. Don Carlos had mourned her death ten years, refusing to touch another woman, but then, at the urging of family
members, he'd agreed to consider a girl of good family as second wife.

The most beautiful women in Mexico had been paraded before Don Carlos's discriminating eyes, sometimes at dinner parties in private homes, other times at receptions in government palaces. Doña Consuelo would never forget the instant she'd first set eyes on Don Carlos de Rebozo. She'd heard of him, of course, for his family's lineage was even older than hers, but she'd expected a bald, wrinkled, and portly gentleman with teeth missing and tobacco juice on his mustache. Instead, Don Carlos de Rebozo had looked like El Cid in his immaculately tailored suit. They'd met at a reception for the governor at her uncle's mansion in Durango, and she'd been struck by Don Carlos's slender figure, full head of hair, and the intelligent glint in his eye.

She'd thought such a man could never love a silly young thing such as herself, without a brain in her head, and possessing no skills for managing a household. Yet she knew that she was considered pretty, though she suspected not as pretty as most of the young ladies in attendance. The concept of flirting was repugnant to her sequestered religious nature.

“Walk past him,” her mother had suggested. “You must show yourself to your best advantage.”