Free Devil's Creek Massacre by Len Levinson Page A

insouciant half smile on his sallow face. Dudley shook his big paw, then made the introductions. “Howard Sutcliffe,maybe I present Mrs. Vanessa Dawes.”
    Sutcliffe bowed, took her hand, and kissed her knuckle. “I was admiring you from afar, madam, and thought I'd come for a closer look.”
    â€œPerhaps I'm more admirable at a distance, the greater the better,” Vanessa riposted.
    â€œYou're too modest, madam. Why, I was just thinking, before I took my first step in this direction, that you were the most beautiful woman here.”
    â€œYou're very kind to an aging widow, sir.” She fluttered her eyelashes in appropriate Charleston fashion and hoped she wasn't being ridiculous.
    â€œHoward is a lawyer,” explained Dudley. “He argues cases before the Texas Supreme Court.”
    â€œI also have very good ears,” added Sutcliffe immodestly. “I hear all the news. So you're the Mrs. Dawes thac everyone is talking about. I must say— you're far lovelier than I'd imagined.”
    She raised her fan to cover her vain smile. “Now I understand why you win so many cases, sir.”
    His eyes twinkled with mischief. “Some say I defeat my opponents through bribery, perjured witnesses, tampered evidence, and such, but one should not believe idle gossip.”
    He was a rogue, he made no bones about it, and she couldn't help liking him. “What regiment did you serve with in the war?”
    â€œI served as an undersecretary in the Department of the Treasury, because my muscles are in my mind, not my arm. Care to dance?”
    â€œI'm afraid not,” she replied.
    â€œI forgot—you're in mourning. You know, black becomes you. It makes you look sinister. Are you dangerous, Mrs. Dawes?”

    â€œLittle me?” she asked innocently, although bloody scandals had surfaced twice in her past. “How can you think such a thing?”
    Dudley Swanson tried desperately to assert himself, but the conversation kept moving away. Finally Sutcliffe shot him a glance that said, “get lost.” Dudley coughed, fumbled, excused himself, and backed toward the bar.
    Vanessa looked at Sutcliffe with a mixture of fascination and disapproval. “That was cruel,” she said, her smile becoming a frown.
    â€œI'm don't want to share you, Mrs. Dawes. You should forgive the follies committed for your sake. Come, let us observe the dancers.”
    Before she could answer, he took her arm and was leading her to the next room. He seemed sure of himself, while she felt uncertain about everything. He obviously was rich, if he argued cases before the Texas Supreme Court, and wasn't that bad-looking, but there was something presumptuous and overbearing about him, as if he could have anything he wanted, including the former Miss Vanessa Fontaine.
    They came to the dance floor, a large room devoid of furniture, with a band at one end, and the crème de la creme of Austin's old Confederate aristocracy at the other, performing carefully choreographed dance movements in which participants seldom touched one another. Vanessa followed Sutcliffe to a dark stretch of wall; they turned to each other, and he said, “I don't like to be dishonest, despite my reputation, so I'll confess that I know all about you, Mrs. Dawes. I have an affiliation with the law firm that represented your interests in the probate of your husband's will, and discovered a curious fact, to wit: You had filed for divorce prior to your late husband's untimely demise.”

    She didn't like his manner, the more she got to know him, not to mention the tone of his voice, although he was correct in his facts. “It's not my fault that Apaches killed my husband,” she replied. “Despite what you may think, I loved Lieutenant Dawes when I married him.”
    â€œOf course you did, although there were certain rumors about another young man. I don't claim to be a gentleman, but I know how to button