Outlaw Hell by Len Levinson Page A

stopped him, and he landed flat on his back, as pigeons sang madrigals inside his skull. Bradley stood a few steps away, thumbs hooked in his suspenders. “This is some sheriff we've got here,” he drawled.
    The crowd laughed, and Duane felt shame roll over him like a load of cow manure. Brother Paolo had taught him never to lunge with his punches, but he'd thrown caution to the winds, and Bradley had made him pay.
    â€œSonny jim,” said Bradley, “I think it's time fer you to climb on yer horse and ride out of town. Otherwise I'm liable to rip yer fuckin’ haid off.”
    Duane wiped blood off his cheek, as wrath came on like a stampede of longhorns. He got to his feet, stepped toward Bradley, and flicked out a tentativejab. Bradley picked it off easily and countered with a left hook, but Duane was gone, with Bradley off balance, leaning forward, wide open. Duane slammed him on the ear, cracked him in the mouth, harpooned him in the belly, then connected with a solid uppercut to the tip of the chin. Bradley went swaying backwards, but friends in the crowd grabbed his shoulders and pushed him back toward Duane, who worked Bradley's midsection for a spell, then went upstairs and hammered his head. Methodically, Duane took Bradley apart. Bradley's knees weakened, and he wobbled around the backyard as Duane's fists pounded him relentlessly. Bradley made one last desperate attack to turn the fight around, but Duane stepped deftly to the side, loaded up his right hand, and sent it streaking toward his opponent's chin. Bradley was lifted off his feet by the impact of the blow and landed on his back. His eyes were closed, and only his heaving chest moved.
    Duane's arms were sore from punches he'd blocked, and blood oozed out of the cut on his cheek. Somebody passed him a bottle of whisky, and he rinsed out his mouth. Some of his teeth were loose, and his left eye was half-closed, but he noticed the assembled townspeople and outlaws viewing him with new interest.
    â€œWho's next?” he asked.
    Nobody said a word. An unfamiliar face handed him a bucket of water. Duane upended it over his head and washed the blood and dirt away. Then he put on his hat and slogged away from the battleground.Outlaws, vaqueros, and gamblers made way for the new sheriff, and everybody realized that a new era of law and order had dawned on a certain little Texas border town.
    Duane slept the rest of the day in the loft above the stable, his Apache ears tuned for danger. He awakened at ten o'clock at night, aching all over. He climbed stiffly down the ladder and found a muscular Negro approximately Duane's age studying ledgers in a small office at a corner of the stable. “You must be Mister Braddock. I'm Sam Goines . . . yer new stable man.”
    Duane looked at him askance, because he appeared familiar. “Are you kin to Maggie's cook, by any chance?”
    â€œThat's my mother, Dolores Goines.”
    Duane realized that Maggie had sent him there, and he'd probably been a slave too. “Where can I get a bath in this town?”
    â€œI'll fix one up for you, suh. Maggie sent over some new clothes and sandwiches.”
    Sam Goines pointed to a sack at the corner of the desk, but Duane's eyes were drawn to a wooden crate filled with books in the corner. “Where'd they come from?”
    â€œI found ‘em under a pile of hay.”
    The former acolyte was curious about the books. They were littered with dust and straw, and didn't look as if Twilby had been interested in them.Maybe a professor on the dodge went broke and gave them to Twilby in payment for stable fees, Duane speculated. Haphazardly, he picked up a black leatherbound volume from the middle of the pile and wiped the cover with his sleeve. It said, in gold letters, The Prince by Niccolo Machiavelli.
    â€œIf you like books,” Sam Goines said, “my mother's got lots of ‘em that she's been carrying around fer years.”
    The Negro