Free Outlaw Hell by Len Levinson Page A

who'd helped him to his room. Maybe she had told him where he was.
    Other bodyguards arrived, guns drawn. They didn't ask questions, because the obvious mattress lay before them, riddled with lead. Their eyes turned to Duane, who was wide awake and ready to kill.He strapped on his gunbelt, pulled on his boots, and adjusted his black hat. Silently they watched him walk out of the room and down the corridor. Prostitutes and customers inspected him from doorways as he passed. He came to the saloon, where a few drunkards still congregated, and an outlaw was passed out at the bar. Duane drew his Colt as he approached the man in the apron. “Get me Alice Markham now. ”
    Without hesitation, the bartender headed for the back rooms. Duane sat at a table against the side wall, closed his eyes, and gave thanks to the Apaches who'd taught him to listen for danger. If it hadn't been for them, he'd be on his way to the undertaker's parlor. He tried to calm himself with the commandment Thou shalt not kill , but it didn't accomplish the result he desired. Am I supposed to stand still and let these people kill me? How can I let some son of a bitch get away with shooting my father? What about justice and free will?
    Alice Markham emerged from the corridor, accompanied by a scrawny outlaw wearing a thick blond mustache. The outlaw patted her fanny, and she kissed his cheek. Then she headed for Duane.
    â€œYou wanted to see me?” she asked in a throaty sensual purr.
    Evidently she figured he was next in line to her bedroom, or so it appeared. “Did you tell anybody where I was sleeping tonight?”
    She stared at him for a few moments, surprised by his question. “Why should I do that?”

    â€œDid anybody ask where I was?”
    â€œI never said a word about you, even to the other gals.” She appeared embarrassed. “I'm always a-gittin’ blamed fer things I din't do.”
    Duane didn't know whether to believe her or not. “Sorry,” he said, as he turned toward the door.
    He needed fresh air and room to think. Outside, the street was deserted, while a few drunkards were passed out on benches that lined the planked sidewalk. Duane held his gun ready to fire as he scanned alleys, rooftops, gutters, and water troughs. For all he knew, the owlhoot in the silver buckle was there, drawing a bead on him. He figured that the stable was empty, except for horses, so he climbed to the hayloft, stacked some bales of hay, and reclined behind them, gun in his right hand. I'll be safe here, he hoped. Tomorrow I'll get to the bottom of this, if there is a bottom.
    He closed his eyes, as his Apache ears listened for footsteps, or the click of a hammer. Floating before him in the darkness was the sallow death mask of Amos Twilby intoning solemnly over and again: “. . . yer a grown man, and you got a right to hear the truth. ” Through the depths of a warm Texas night, Twilby's solemn chant rippled across Duane's soul.

CHAPTER 5

    D UANE AWOKE BEFORE DAWN, HOLDING his gun ready to fire. Then he looked out the window at the first red sliver of sun peeking over distant mountains. It reminded him of when he'd dwelled among the Apaches, hunted wild animals, drank tiswin , and had incredible visions concerning his grandfather.
    Duane wished he could be back with the Apaches, living a pure life close to nature, but warriors were always returning from raids wearing Mexican and American clothing and carrying rifles, ammunition, and other booty that they'd stolen. Their entire culture was on the dodge, and it was only a matter of time before the Army hunted them down.
    Duane craved a normal life with home-cookedmeals and honest ranch work. He'd loved his brief stint as a cowboy, but then he'd shot Otis Puckett, and his life had turned upside down ever since. When would the madness end? he often wondered.
    He found the washbasin, splashed water onto his face, and made his way toward the undertaker's house, as