Devil's Creek Massacre Read Free Page B

lost his rock-solid faith since leavingthe monastery, and now was adrift in the Apache storm. He reached into his shirt and touched the crucifix of the rosary-bead necklace that hung from his neck. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. As he prayed, he reflected upon his brief life, admitting that he hadn't accomplished any of his great goals. As he faced his final hour, in the extremities of fear and doubt, one final unlikely image somehow sprang to mind: a tall willowy blond temptress, his former fiancee: Miss Vanessa Fontaine.
    Even with his head on the chopping block, Duane remembered Miss Vanessa Fontaine. The former Charleston belle had made a more profound impression on his soft clay mind than sixteen years of Catholic education. Perhaps she'd lacked knowledge of the Nicene Council, but Duane missed her more than his theological mentors as he faced Sister Death for the last time.
    Vanessa had dumped Duane for an officer in the Fourth Cavalry, and Duane considered her the most selfish bitch alive. Yet he couldn't evict her from the bedrooms of his mind even as Apaches were lining their sights on him. He recalled her long sinuous legs that she liked to wrap around him, not to mention her naughty tongue and wicked fingers. He could go on endlessly extolling her many charms, recalling this or that clever remark that she'd made, or burning nights in a little Texas town called Titusville. Duane had been ready to die for her, but she married for money and social position, producing a scar in Duane's heart that no salve could mend.
    He found himself yearning for Miss Vanessa Fontaine's long slim configuration, although she was hundreds and perhaps thousands of miles away, probably lying in her husband's arms. Duane detested herbetrayal, yet would be overjoyed to see her again, as in the good old days (approximately six months ago).
    He heard faint sounds of Apache warriors working closer to him. The flora was too thick to see well, but fortunately they couldn't locate him either. Sooner or later one of them would show himself, and Duane would kill him. Then the final act would begin.
    He lay with his Winchester and saddlebags and wondered what might've been. It looked as though he'd be killed like his father, surrounded by enemies, and the irony wasn't lost on him. I'd rather die a lion than a lamb, he tried to convince himself.
    Something rustled to his right, and he turned silently in that direction. It was an Apache crawling forward, searching for the white eyes, as the white eyes silently aimed his rifle in that direction. But the Apache stopped suddenly, because Duane wasn't as quiet as he'd thought. The Apache slithered toward a nearby pile of rocks as Duane took aim at the Apache's left kidney. He squeezed the trigger, the Winchester kicked into his shoulder, smoke billowed in the air, and the Apache jolted as the bullet found its intended spot.
    The Apache screamed in pain, rolled over and clutched his wound as Duane jacked the lever. He lined his sights on the convulsive Apache, but another rifle fired somewhere to Duane's left, and something incredible crashed into Duane's shoulder. For a few seconds Duane didn't know what happened to him, then ferocious pain tore him apart. He gasped, gritted his teeth, and looked at his shoulder. Blood literally poured out; it was a deep flesh wound, and the bullet had cracked his shoulder bone. He couldn't move his left arm at all.
    An ocean of blackness fell over him as he reached for his Colt, but his movement was slow and the pistolunusually heavy. Another bullet slammed into his right thigh and felt like a flaming spear. He tried to clear his head as the universe broke apart all around him. A new bullet whacked the ground two inches from his nose, making him flinch as he drew back the hammer of his Colt. Harrowing pain throbbed through him as he recalled an old saloon rat telling him that if he ever got surrounded by Apaches, save the last bullet for himself.
    He