Outlaw Hell Read Free Page B

whore,” she whispered to the face in the mirror, “every night is Halloween.”

CHAPTER 3

    T HE P ECOS K ID RODE DOWN THE MAIN street of Escondido, his eyes alert for the posse members and the Fourth Cavalry. Light from saloons spilled onto the planked sidewalk, illuminating armed men swaggering along, while others sat on benches, watching the passing show. Laughter and the tinkling of a piano could be heard from within saloons, and a few whisky-soaked souls were passed out cold in alleyways.
    Duane tried to appear casual, but maintained his hand near his Colt .44. He wondered if the padre had recognized him, but Texas was full of outlaws far more notorious than he. He hoped no one would pay attention to the lone stranger.

    A whiff of broiling steak came to him from the Silver Spur Saloon, mingling with the fragrance of whisky, beer, and manure in the middle of the dusty street. The Pecos Kid rode all the way through town, because Clyde Butterfield, the old gunfighter, had taught him the importance of knowing the territory.
    He passed a Protestant church, a hardware store closed for the night, and a barber shop with a painted pole. There was an adobe hotel, the stable, and a tobacco shop, but saloons were the primary business in Escondido. No guns aimed at him from behind windows, and he saw no one with a badge. He steered Steve through the proscenium door of the stable, climbed down from the saddle, and looked around cautiously. If anybody made a false move, it'd be draw and fire.
    An old bearded man came out of the shadows. “He'p you, sir?”
    â€œI'd like you to take care of my horse. Give him plenty of oats, and you got any apples around?”
    â€œI can buy some in the morning, sir.”
    Duane flipped him a five-dollar coin. “Take good care of Steve here, and I'll take good care of you.”
    â€œI'm Amos Twilby.” The old man bit the coin with his two remaining teeth, then dropped it into the front pocket of his jeans. “The best hotel is the Belmont, and the best saloon is the Last Chance. They give you a good pour, and got the best gals in town.”
    Duane pulled the saddlebags off Steve's back and positioned them on his own shoulder. As he neared the door, he looked both ways, hand near hisColt. It felt odd to be in civilization again, but a short beard covered his features, and he didn't think anybody would recognize the man who'd shot Marshal Dan Stowe.
    Duane found the tobacco store a few doors down, but it was closed for the night. Not sure of his next move, he sat on the bench in front, leaned against the wall, and placed his right hand on the walnut grip of his Colt.
    Two cowboys walked by, laughing heartily and smoking cigarettes. Duane smelled tobacco, and his lungs cried for more, but the store wouldn't open until morning. Only one other place to buy tobacco—the saloons.
    But if he went to a saloon, he might be recognized by a drunkard from his past, and the overfed priest had said that saloons were the cause of all Duane's troubles. Unfortunately, killers and back-stabbers loafed in saloons, and a calamity could befall an unsuspecting citizen at any moment. Yet, on the other hand, he had to admit that the most fascinating individuals could often be found in drinking establishments, plus entertainment and free food were sometimes provided.
    He needed a cigarette desperately. I'll just stroll into the nearest saloon, buy some tobacco, and leave immediately. I'm not that morally weak. He touched the rosary beneath his shirt as he stared across the street at a sign that said Desert Palace Saloon.
    A chill came over him, which he attributed to the cool night breeze.

    Four cowboys rode tall in their saddles down the middle of the street, their hat brims slanted low over their eyes. They all wore guns, and Duane wondered which sheriff was chasing them. He waited till they passed, then crossed over.
    A Mexican in a sombrero was sleeping on the bench in front of