Bad to the Bone (18 page)

“I studied it at the monastery,” explained Duane. “My favorite character was Sancho Panza.” He looked both ways, then lowered his voice. “Have you changed your mind?”

“About what?” she whispered.

“Coming with me.”

“Why would I change my mind?”

“You're giving up an awful lot.”

“When you ask certain questions, I think you don't feel as I do.”

“I can't believe you'll really run off with me.”

“That is because you don't see yourself as I do.” She reached beneath her black shawl, yanked the gun out of its holster, and lay it on the table. It was a Colt .44, just like his, but with gold inlaid custom grips and apparently never fired.

“Maybe you'd better put it away before somebody sees it,” said Duane. “Do you think you can make it to the barn around midnight without being seen?”

“No, because they watch me closely. However, there is one place where they will never follow—the house of my father's woman, Conchita. I will visit her
and my baby brother late this afternoon, just before nightfall. You will be waiting behind her home with a horse for yourself and another for me. We will leave then, and no one will miss us for a long time, I hope.”

He analyzed her plan, studied its frail edges, and tried to poke a hole through the center. “Where will I get the second horse?”

“You'll buy it from Don Carlos, and he might even give it to you. You'll need a packhorse, won't you?”

“I don't have that many things to pack.”

“Lie,” she said, as the Devil giggled victoriously in a corner of the library.

“I hope your husband doesn't suspect anything,” uttered Duane.

“I think he does, actually. We must be careful, and we shouldn't be seen together again until tonight.”

They pursed lips and kissed long-distance. Then she arose, returned the book to its spot on the shelf, and walked in measured steps to the door. He undressed her with his eyes, and recalled grappling with her on the desert. I can't believe, when it comes right down to it, that she'll be at Conchita's tonight, he told himself. Cowboys like me aren't
that
lucky.

Doña Consuelo walked the corridors of the hacienda, passing sofas, chairs, and tables holding bowls of ripe fruit. She felt relieved and at peace with her decision, although she feared deadly consequences. But what is life without love? she wondered. And what does it profit a woman if she gains a fortune but loses her soul?

My marriage was inspired by convenience, while I,
little Doña Consuelo, got lost in the shuffle. She relived the wrestling match with Duane Braddock's firm strong body, the scent of desert in his hair, and his all-engulfing passion that had transported her to the pinnacle of ecstasy. I can't live without him, and I don't know what'll happen to me, but maybe we'll get married one day, after we make the proper contribution to the right bishop.

Don Patricio sat in his office, the top button of his shirt unfastened, his cravat untied and hanging loose. A bottle of Spanish brandy sat on the table, next to a goblet made from cut glass. The landowner hadn't shaved since the funeral, and a foul reek emanated from his body, as he looked at Don Carlos through bloodshot eyes. “I apologize for not being more hospitable ...” began Don Patricio.

“I understand, of course,” replied Don Carlos, standing before him. “I've come to tell you that Doña Consuelo and I shall leave first thing in the morning.”

“Go with God, my friend. I hope that our next meeting will be under happier circumstances.”

Don Carlos retreated from the office, anxious to be alone with his thoughts. Jealousy nagged him mercilessly, and he wondered what to believe. Is Doña Consuelo having a love affair with Duane Braddock behind my back?

Suddenly the Pecos Kid appeared around the corner of the corridor, a big friendly smile on his face. “Just the person I'm looking for,” he said.

Don Carlos smiled back falsely. “What can I do for you?”

Duane hitched his thumbs in his belt and peered
into Don Carlos's eyes. “I've decided to hit the trail first thing in the morning, and I'd like to buy a horse.”

“What's wrong with the one you have?”

“I need another for a packhorse.”

Don Carlos raised his hands generously. “You may have whichever horse you like. Nothing is too good for the man who saved my wife's life.”

They shook hands. “If I don't see you before I leave,” said Duane, “thanks for the hospitality.”

Duane receded down the corridor, and Don Carlos envied his youth, vitality, and undeniable good looks. The old nobleman felt a twinge of jealousy, although Duane Braddock was a callow young man, in his estimation. Is he putting the horns on me? wondered the caudillo.

Don Carlos de Rebozo knew there was no honor among men where women were concerned, and even blood brothers sometimes stole each other's wives. Duane Braddock just looked me straight in the eye, but if I were sleeping with his wife, I'd do the same thing.

Don Carlos knew the wickedness that dwells in the hearts of men, because he'd seduced other men's wives as a devil-may-care student in Seville. Once his limbs had been as sound as Duane Braddock's, and he'd climbed balconies to be with his ladies, who themselves were deceiving husbands or fathers.

Don Carlos knew that proper religious ladies like Doña Consuelo could be the most outrageous once they broke with Holy Mother Church. He removed a lace handkerchief from his pocket and mopped the slick of sweat on his brow, overwhelmed by disgraceful and unworthy considerations. The vaqueros are probably laughing behind my back, he feared. He turned the corner, and nearly bumped into García.
“I have something to tell you, sir,” the captain of vaque-ros said solemnly.

Now what? Don Carlos asked himself. “Out with it, and don't spare my feelings.”

“A dead Apache has been found in the desert. Evidently he came to raid last night, but someone killed him with a knife.”

“Perhaps the Apaches were fighting among themselves.”

“There were boot tracks just like the gringo's.”

Irony tinged García's answer, and it wasn't lost on the nobleman. It would explain why Braddock was dirty and ragged when he returned from the desert, but on the other hand, it proved that he was there at the same time as Doña Consuelo. Perhaps they'd met before or after Braddock killed the Apache?

Don Carlos was getting a headache from so much speculation. “I'll be in my room, if you learn additional information.”

García bowed, as Don Carlos proceeded to his chambers. He removed a bottle of brandy from a cabinet, poured a stiff drink, and gulped it down. Events were moving too quickly, and he didn't know what to believe.

He sat on the balcony chair, and was just getting comfortable when the door opened. It was Doña Consuelo, an angry expression on her face. With great effort, the great man arose to greet his possibly errant wife.

“What are you doing to me?” she began indignantly. “Why am I being followed everywhere by your vaque-ros? Do they think I'm going to run into the desert?”

“I have no idea . . .” he lied, backed against the wall.

“Tell them to stay away from me. Understand?”

“I will give the orders right now. García!”

“He is coming,” replied a voice on the other side of the balcony.

Doña Consuelo's eyes were narrowed with barely concealed rage. “If I see one more of those hounds behind me, I'll fire him.”

“But Doña Consuelo ...”

She didn't reply, and Don Carlos speculated that her magical transformation was taking a turn for the worse. They heard running footsteps, then García turned the corner. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

“Yes,” replied Don Carlos, “I—”

Doña Consuelo interrupted him. “I'll give the orders, if you don't mind, my dear husband.” She turned slowly toward García, who shriveled beneath her merciless glare.

“García, hereafter you and your men will stop following me, and if I catch them up to their old tricks, they and their families, and you and your family, will no longer be employed by us. Do I make myself clear?”

García bowed in terror. “Yes, Doña Consuelo.”

The vaquero backed around the corner, as Don Carlos studied his wife with new interest. Never could he imagine such words coming out of Doña Consuelo's mouth. She reminded him of titled ladies whom he'd met in Seville, who'd managed immense households as El Cid had commanded his army in the battle for Valencia. “You've frightened poor García,” he said with a forced chuckle.

“Excellent,” she replied, “because that was my intention. I'm going to town later in the day, and may not be back for dinner.”

Hesitant about asking, he did so anyway. “Why are you going to town?”

“I want to spend time with my new brother before we leave, if you don't mind.”

“Don't you think there'll be a scandal?”

She raised her eyebrows in scorn. “My father's infidelities are practically an institution, and everybody has accepted them except me. But the boy is part of my family, and I'd like to give him a little present. It is not proper for a Vásquez to live like that.”

“I'm certain that your father will make new arrangements, now that your mother has ... departed.”

“I think that Conchita and Pepito should move into the hacienda. There's plenty of room, and the boy should receive an education, don't you agree?”

“Absolutely, your royal highness. My, how you've changed these past few days, Doña Consuelo. I've never seen such a conversion in my life. What has happened to you?”

“I'm in mourning for my mother, and I'd like to be alone.”

“Don't forget that we're leaving first thing in the morning.”

“I'll get to bed early,” she replied. “I promise.”

Duane cleaned his Winchester, then loaded it with seventeen cartridges. He ran a patch down the barrel of his Colt .44, blew out the chambers, and cleaned dust from little crannies with a brush that he'd bought in Escondido, his last stop in the good old U.S. of A.

He packed his saddlebags, noting that he was low on ammunition, and that one of his shirts was getting threadbare. We'll have to buy supplies in the first town, he reminded himself. He counted his funds,
approximately two hundred American dollars in coins.

He felt like a rich man, but the desert was full of Apaches. He doubted that Doña Consuelo would adapt to life on the dodge, but told himself not to worry. She's not running away with me, because she's not that stupid.

There was a knock on the door, and Don Carlos made his grand entrance. “Ah, you're packing,” he said. “I'm glad I've caught you.” He held out a leather bag the size of a grapefruit. “This is for you, from Don Patricio and me.”

Duane opened the bag, and his eyes bugged at the sight of gold coins, approximately two thousand dollars worth. “I don't deserve it,” he said, “but I sure as hell won't turn it down.”

Don Carlos couldn't help smiling. He's just the kind of lost rake that women love. They want to save him from himself, or at least that's what the little vixens tell themselves, but what they really want is his ...

Duane Braddock held out his hand. “Thanks for everything, sir. You've been real good to me.”

Their hands embraced, as they performed the ancient ritual. Don Carlos peered into Duane's eyes, and said, out of the blue: “Tell me something, Mister Braddock. I can't help wondering—are you having a love affair with my wife?”

Duane's eyes dilated, and he noted the position of the cuckold's hands. “I may be a wanted man, but I'm not
that
bad,” he said.

Don Carlos realized the enormity of what he'd just admitted to a strange gringo, but couldn't stop. “Sometimes even the most elegant ladies surrender their dear little hearts to utter scoundrels.”

Duane smiled. “I guess there's no telling what goes on in a woman's mind.”

“Sometimes I wonder if they have minds in the first place.” The difficult moment passed, and Don Carlos took the opportunity to retreat. “Have a safe journey, my friend,” he said, as he made his way toward the door.

Don Carlos traversed the corridor, wondering if Duane Braddock was romancing Doña Consuelo in the nooks and crannies of the hacienda, as he, Don Carlos, had done in Seville, when he'd clambered across treacherous rooftops to reach the boudoirs of certain ladies.

You can't put anything past young lovers, Don Carlos admitted ruefully. Nothing keeps them apart, once they make their minds up, and isn't it clever how Doña Consuelo arranged for the vaqueros to stop guarding her?

The caudillo could place his wife in shackles and chains, declare her insane, and transport her back to his hacienda, where she'd be under guard for the rest of her life, but he'd been a young cavalier once, had fought duels over matters of honor, and would have contempt for any man who'd lock up his wife.

She's a grown woman, Don Carlos acknowledged. If she wants to leave me, I wouldn't stop her. But Doña Consuelo has too much dignity to take up with a low-class gringo, no?

But Don Carlos had been viewed as a low-class provincial himself when he'd arrived in Seville nearly forty years ago. Many fine titled ladies who should have known better had admitted him to their beds, because the sad truth was that even the most exquisite women were attracted to wastrels and outlaws. Perhaps they need somebody to look down upon, speculated the
man of the world. They probably say to themselves:
He's such a fool, he couldn't possibly judge me.

Don Patricio saw his daughter standing before him, wearing a black shawl. “I need some money, father.”

“What in the world for?”

“Personal reasons.”

“Why don't you ask your husband?”

“Because I'm asking you.”

She looked like the Madonna of death in her black shawl, and he shivered involuntarily. “In my office, the bottom drawer on my desk—take whatever you need.”