Outlaw Hell (21 page)

MacKenzie heard his underling close the door, as he perused newly arrived communications from the outside world. A West Pointer born in New York City, he'd been given the Fourth Cavalry only last December. Prior to that, he'd been commanding
officer of the Negro Forty-first Infantry at Fort MacKevitt.

MacKenzie wore a walrus mustache and a blue Army shirt with matching pants adorned by yellow stripes down each side, tucked into highly polished black cavalry boots. His hair was short, dark brown, parted on the side, and neatly combed. Sifting through the stack for important messages, he found one that had been sent from the Department of War. He tore open the envelope and read an inquiry from General Sherman himself. “What are you doing about Apache depredations in your Department?”

Colonel MacKenzie knew that congressmen and senators were breathing down Sherman's back, demanding quick solutions to complex problems, but Colonel MacKenzie preferred the art and science of gentle persuasion. He'd seen too many bloody battlefields to be impetuous with other men's lives.

The morning passed slowly as he worked through requisitions for supplies, reports of troop dispositions, accounts of skirmishes with Indians, complaints about a variety of complex issues, recommendations for action, promotion lists, etc. The higher you go in the Army, the more you push paper, he thought with chagrin. Unshakable in battle, indomitable under pressure, Colonel MacKenzie hated the administrative side of his job.

Three-quarters down the pile, he came to a plain
envelope with his name and address, but no return address or government marking. He smelled it, but it carried no perfume except possibly the faint trace of whisky.

He tore open the envelope and held the carefully printed message in front of him:

Dear Colonel MacKenzie:

All hell has broke loose down here in Escondido. Seven men shot last week, two wimmin cut to pieces, and no sign of let-up. Sheriff Duane Braddock is wanted for murders all across Texas. Dont you think its time to send the Fourth Cavalry, or are you gonter wait till we is all dead? I aint signin this cus I'm fraid somebody'll shoot me.

a citizen of Escondido, Texas

Colonel MacKenzie leaned back in his chair and lit the Kentucky burly in his corncob pipe.
Duane Braddock.
He'd read about a Braddock in other recent official reports from southwest Texas. Duane Braddock had had a few run-ins with the Fourth Cavalry already. Another kill-crazy cowboy with a fast hand and slow mind, Colonel MacKenzie concluded.

The Fourth Cavalry assisted local law enforcement whenever possible, but by the time the detachment would reach Escondido, the outlaws would be long gone. They'd set up business elsewhere, the Fighting Fourth would take the field again, and the outlaws would relocate once more. It
was an ongoing chess game, but served a collateral purpose. The troopers showed the Fourth Cavalry flag around Texas, and citizens didn't feel completely defenseless.

Colonel MacKenzie needed more men and better equipment, but most Americans rejected higher taxes for military appropriations. The best soldiers had returned to civilian life after the war, their places filled by misfits, morons, criminals, and the dregs of Europe. Colonel MacKenzie had troopers in his command who couldn't speak a word of English, and some of his officers were worse than the men. Fortunately, a small core of old soldiers like himself were able to hold the Fourth Cavalry together.

Colonel MacKenzie stood behind his desk and studied the map nailed to the wall. Through the open window, he heard hoarse shouts of drill sergeants on the parade ground, while a mounted patrol passed his window, clattering hooves and equipment. Colonel MacKenzie located Escondido on the map and saw that Fort Davis was the closest U.S. Army installation.

He sat at his desk and wrote the order:

TO: COMMANDING OFFICER

FORT DAVIS, TEXAS

Reports have been received by this headquarters of increased outlaw activity in Escondido. Dispatch a detachment there immediately, if you haven't already. Arrest Sheriff
Duane Braddock and hold him for questioning. I await your report on this matter.

Ranald S. MacKenzie

Colonel, 4th U.S. Cavalry

In Command

Unaware of his expanding notoriety, Duane Braddock dined on steak and eggs that morning at a corner table of the Last Chance Saloon. He'd just finished a two-hour arithmetic lesson with Alice, and his head spun with desire. But fortunately or unfortunately, he'd made the stupid mistake of mentioning Vanessa Fontaine's name in vain, and Alice had been resentful ever since. Maybe it's all for the best, he tried to convince himself. I couldn't bring Alice Markham to the Pecos country, because her life wouldn't be worth a dollar.

Duane finished breakfast and sipped a cup of coffee. It was another peaceful day in Escondido, and no one had been shot since that bloody Saturday night more than two weeks ago. Children could play out-of-doors, and ladies promenaded on the sidewalks during the day, an unheard-of event in the era before Duane had been sheriff. No additional attempts had been made on his life, and he was starting to feel safe again.

He was biding his time before he could depart for the Pecos country. He still didn't know what he'd do when he met Old Man Archer, but a debt had to be paid and the scales balanced out. I'll
worry about it when I find him, he promised himself. Duane expected to finish Alice's education in a few more weeks, then he'd hit the trail.

After breakfast, he headed for the stable, where Sam Goines had already saddled Steve. Alice sat in the office and practiced her penmanship, the tip of her tongue protruding between her lips. She didn't look at Duane as he climbed onto Steve's back and rode out the door.

Duane rocked back and forth in the saddle as Steve clomped down the main street of Escondido. A group of children watched him in wonderment from the planked sidewalk, and he touched his finger to the brim of his black cowboy hat as he passed by.

As he rode onto the desert, the town fell behind him, the sun floated midway toward the horizon, and a flock of black-and-white-striped birds flew overhead. He passed Ocotillo, Spiney Star, and Nipple cactus plants, as he browsed carefully for signs of Apaches. He'd lived among them, but they numbered many bands, some at war with each other, and they wouldn't stop to ask for credentials.

It felt good to be away from the noise and filth of Escondido. The sun shone brightly, and purple mountains in the distance seemed to pulsate with light. Duane sucked the clean desert air deep into his lungs. “I'm at my best when I'm alone,” he said to himself. The vast endless expanse made him realize how small and insignificant he was. This desert was here before I was born, and will be here long after I'm gone.

Sitting in the saddle, the sun beating down on him, he felt a kind of religious ecstasy. Something told him to get down on his knees and give thanks for his many blessings. “I haven't prayed for a long time, and it's about time.”

He pulled back Steve's reins and started to climb out of the saddle. Suddenly he heard the
crack
of a bullet over his head. Dirt kicked into the air a few feet away, echoing thunder came to his ears, and he was already on the ground. Another shot sent a spray of rock particles into the air, as hot lead ricocheted screamingly. Duane drew his Colt, crouched behind a boulder, and cursed himself for not yanking his Henry rifle out of its scabbard. Meanwhile, his faithful mount was running away with a forty-dollar saddle on his back.

Duane discerned the direction of his assailant from how the bullet had struck the ground. It was a lone rifleman high on the ridges, probably angry at himself for missing the shots. Duane gave silent thanks to the holy impulse that caused him to climb down from the saddle. If he'd remained on course, the bullet might've struck the back of his head.

He kept low and made plans. I'll wait until dark and then head back to town. He hoped he'd meet Steve later, because it was a long way to Escondido. His assailant hadn't been an Apache, because an Apache would creep close and take no chances on missing. He was waiting for me to go for my ride, Duane speculated. Sam Archer has sent another killer to town, or maybe this bushwhacker has been
here all along, biding his time. He knows I'll be on the lookout for him when I get back, and maybe he'll give himself away by a careless word or act.

Duane smoked cigarettes and waited patiently for night to fall. The more he thought about it, the more he was forced to conclude that the stranger who'd previously tried to bushwhack him hadn't acted alone. Every citizen, outlaw, and bandito in Escondido became a possible suspect once more, including Derek Wright.

At dusk, Steve poked his head through the foliage on the other side of the arroyo. He looked both ways, then crossed over and approached shyly. Duane patted his great neck and talked to him softly as darkness fell on the desert. Then Duane climbed into the saddle and pulled the reins toward the town glowing in the distance like an open pore of purgatory.

Duane climbed down from the saddle, loosened the cinch buckle, and threw the reins over the rail. Then he hitched up his gunbelt and climbed the stairs of Apocalypse Church.

Inside were the usual members praying for forgiveness and mercy, but Alice wasn't among them. She's probably studying, and maybe I should ease up on her, Duane thought. But the sooner she learns the material, the sooner I can go after Old Man Archer. Duane sidestepped into a pew, dropped to his knees, clasped his hands together, and prayed:
Dear Lord, thank you for saving my worthless life today.

Then his mind went blank. He didn't have the old religious fire anymore, and couldn't help wondering if religion was flummery like everything else. Injustice, deceit, and misery reigned everywhere, while preachers passed the collection plate. Duane wondered what he believed, and whether it made sense to believe anything.

“Sheriff?” asked a female voice.

It was Mrs. Berclair, the preacher's wife, smiling at Duane from the end of the pew. “My husband saw you praying here, and we were wondering if you might have a cup of tea with us. I baked some cookies today.”

Duane didn't care for tea, but home-baked cookies were his specialty, and he thought it might be good to palaver with a man of the cloth. “I'll have to take care of my horse first, but I'll be right back.”

“My husband is watering your horse even as we speak. This way, please.” She led him through a corridor to a kitchen with a stove, straight-backed wooden chairs, and a table covered with a red-and-white-checkered cloth.

“The reverend will be here shortly,” she said. “Have a seat.”

Duane examined the woman's stark cheekbones, bony jaw, and thick spectacles covering hazel eyes. She wasn't beautiful but conveyed a certain warmth that he found appealing.

“You were out riding today,” she said. “Aren't you afraid of Apaches?”

“I'm more afraid of the white man, to tell you the truth.”

“You sure don't act it.”

Duane had no idea what to say, for his death toll weighed heavily upon his heart. “It was a beautiful day,” he declared, in an effort to be conversational and light, the opposite of how he felt. “Not hot like August.”

The back door opened, and Reverend Berclair appeared, brimming with radiant good health, limping on his pegleg. “Howdy, Sheriff Braddock. Glad you could stop by. I just wanted to say how grateful we are for your good work here in Escondido. Things sure have settled down since you showed up.” He sat opposite Duane and reached for a cookie. “You were raised a Catholic—isn't that right? Well, I've got nothing against Catholics, but a man can't let somebody in Rome do his thinking.”

Mrs. Berclair poured cups of tea, as Duane stared at the preacher with new interest. “How'd you know I was a Catholic?”

The parson appeared surprised by the question. “I guess I heard somebody say so.”

“Can you remember who?”

“Lots of people come through this church, Sheriff. It's hard to keep track of them all. What difference does it make in God's grand scheme?”

Duane wondered if the preacher had taken a potshot at him earlier in the day. “Did you go for a ride on the desert earlier?” he asked casually.

“What for?” asked the preacher.

Patricia Berclair smiled at Duane. “My husband is afraid of the desert, and hasn't left town since we arrived two years ago.”

The preacher cleared his throat. “We've got plenty to do right here. More sinners than I ever imagined in such a small town. Why'd you ask if I went for a ride?”

“Saw some tracks of a shod horse on the desert today,” replied Duane. “Just curious who was out there.”

Patricia Berclair leaned forward and smiled. “They might've belonged to Mister Snodgras. I saw him riding in from the desert this afternoon. He's been taking a lot of time off lately, thanks to you.” The parson's wife winked. “Maybe you should've asked him for a percentage of the profits.”

Duane tied Steve to the hitching rail in front of the undertaker's house. He'd always thought there was something questionable about the man who profited from death. He knocked on the door, and presently it was opened by the undertaker. “Somebody get killed again?” he asked calmly.

Duane probed for signs of guilt. “I was riding on the desert today, and thought I saw you there. Mind if I come in?”

Duane brushed past him and entered the parlor. A wrinkled newspaper lay near the sofa; evidently the undertaker had been reading.

“If you saw me on the desert, why didn't you holler to me?” the undertaker asked.

“Too long a distance.”

“Then how do you know it was me.”

“I've got a spyglass.”

“Good thing to have,” Snodgras replied. “I've got one too. Like to look at birds. Their bones are hollow, did you know that?”