Outlaw Hell by Len Levinson Page B

sounded educated, with good diction. “Where'd you go to school?” Duane asked.
    â€œThe Freedman's Bureau.”
    Duane had heard of the Freedman's Bureau. It had been formed by the federal government to assist ex-slaves. After Sam Goines left to perform his chores, Duane opened the book. A passage was underlined in black ink: The way men live is so far removed from the way they should, that anyone who abandons what is for what should be will end pursuing his downfall rather than his preservation.
    Duane flipped a few pages, and read: Is it better to be loved than feared? The answer is that the most benefits would accrue to he who is both loved and feared. But since the two seldom appear together, anyone forced to choose will find greater security in being feared than being loved.
    It seemed like Machiavelli was speaking directly to him. Duane recalled reading about the old Florentine diplomat at the monastery in the clouds, and knew that Machiavelli had been an advisor to the aristocracy of Old Italy but fell out of favor anddied in obscurity. Some historians considered him the epitome of wickedness, while others said the silver-tongued courtier had looked reality in the face and had merely spoken the truth. Duane searched for more advice that he could apply to his new job in Escondido.
    A man striving in every way to be good will meet his ruin among the great number who are wicked. You can't deny that, Duane agreed. In fact, it's exactly what happened to me. He touched the cut on his cheek, and it was caked with a scab. His left eye was nearly closed, his ribs ached, and teeth rattled painfully as he chewed a steak and onion sandwich. If I had any sense, I'd go back to the monastery and spend the rest of my life studying, praying, and singing Gregorian Chant. But unfortunately I don't have any sense.

CHAPTER 6

    D UANE TOOK A LEISURELY BATH IN THE light of oil lamps. He dressed in new black jeans with a blue shirt that Maggie had bought him, then pinned the tin badge above the left pocket. It was time to go to work.
    Slipping outside, he saw a big crescent moon hanging over the rooftops of Escondido. He eased down the alley beside the stable, pressed his back to the wall, held his gun in his right hand, and peered at three riders approaching in the middle of the street, smoking cigarettes and staring ahead balefully. Along the street, saddled horses stood hitched to rails, illuminated by lamplight gleaming within saloons. Duane holstered his gun and stepped onto the planked sidewalk, listening for clicks of hammers being cocked.

    He headed toward the Last Chance Saloon, his right hand near the butt of his gun, his black hat slanted low over his eyes, encircled with his hand-worked silver concho hatband. He pushed open the doors, and every eye in the house turned toward him.
    â€œLooks like the new sheriff,” said a half-loaded cowboy at the end of the bar.
    It was Friday night and the saloon was packed with the usual outlaw element plus cowboys and vaqueros from nearby ranches in town for a hot time. The bartender poured drinks rapidly, while waitresses carried glasses to patrons quaffing, gambling, arguing, and sleeping amid the constant tumultuous uproar. Then a man climbed onto the bar, pulled his gun, aimed it at the ceiling, and pulled the trigger. The saloon echoed with the explosion, as gunsmoke furled the air. “Let's put some goddamned life into this place!” he bellowed.
    Bradley appeared in the doorway, his face looking like the Union Pacific Railroad had run over it. “Who fired that shot!” he yelled, but most patrons paid no attention to him. “Goddamned sons of bitches!”
    Bradley yanked his gun and charged toward the bar as Duane entered the corridor that led to Maggie's office. Maggie looked up from her desk as he opened the door. She wore a purple satin dress. “What's the latest, Sheriff?”
    â€œWe ought to pass a law against firing guns in public