Free Outlaw Hell by Len Levinson Page B

Twilby's chant continued to ring in his brain. “ Yer a grown man, and got the right to hear the truth. ” The undertaker lived on the east side of town in an adobe house, with window frames trimmed in white. Duane knocked on the door, and the tall, severe-looking trafficker in corpses opened it. His eyes widened at the sight of the Pecos Kid.
    â€œI'm here for the funeral,” announced Duane.
    Snodgras led him to a back room, where a plain wooden coffin contained the late Amos Twilby. The undertaker had bathed and shaved the corpse, dressed him in a suit, dyed his mustache, and powdered his nose. Duane was revolted by the transformation of his friend. Will I look like that when they bury me? Duane wondered.
    â€œHave you spoken with the parson yet?” asked the undertaker.
    â€œI'll see him at the cemetery.”
    â€œReverend Berclair doesn't work that way. He'll have to palaver with you first, to make sure you're a good Christian. He takes his job seriously. He's not in it for the money.”
    Duane noticed four other corpses lying on tables nearby. One was Jones, the owlhoot in the brown hat whom Duane had shot in the Last Chance Saloon.Second was the owlhoot wearing the green shirt, and the next corpse was the one with the pointy nose, both of whom Duane had outgunned in the street the previous night. Duane turned toward the fourth corpse, and his eyes dilated at the sight of the owl-hoot with the silver-star belt buckle, whom Duane had thought got away! “What happened to him?”
    â€œBled to death. He was found behind a stack of firewood with a bullet in his leg.”
    So I got him after all, thought Duane, as previous conclusions flipped in his mind. “Wait a minute,” Duane said. “If a man gets shot in the leg like this, how long before he loses enough blood to conk out?”
    â€œThe bullet severed his popliteal artery. I'd say fifteen minutes to a half hour.” Then the undertaker smiled proudly. “I studied to be a doctor before I became an undertaker.”
    Duane was struck by a disturbing new thought. If this outlaw died fifteen minutes after I shot him, then who tried to blow me to bits while I was asleep behind the Last Chance Saloon? A chill came over Duane. Is somebody who I don't even know trying to kill me?
    Apocalypse Church was a white house with desert swallows flitting about the steeple and belfry. Duane had never been in a Protestant church. Most Texans were Protestants, whereas Mexicans attended the Catholic churches. He glanced behind him, tosee if a bushwhacker with a shotgun was lurking in an alley.
    The inside of the church was plain white, with no statues of saints, no candles burning, and no Jesus on the bare cross suspended behind the altar. A young woman prayed in the front pew, her shoulders bent in supplication before the Lord. Whoever she is, she really believes, Duane thought. He headed for the door that led to the parson's office, and the young woman's head spun around in alarm.
    â€œDidn't mean to scare you,” he said. “I was looking for the Reverend Berclair.”
    She was a frail-looking, pale-complexioned teenaged girl with black hair pulled to a ponytail behind her head, and she wore a gingham dress with a high collar. “Through there,” she replied, pointing toward a door.
    Duane opened it. An older woman appeared in the corridor, her features austere, and she was dressed in black. “May I help you, sir?”
    â€œI want to see Reverend Herbert Berclair about a funeral. My name's Duane Braddock.”
    She made an uncertain smile. “Everybody's talking about you, Mister Braddock. I'm the parson's wife, Patricia Berclair. Right this way.”
    As she led him to a small parlor, he noticed she was in her mid-thirties, and was tall and angular. “Make yourself comfortable. I'll get my husband.”
    She headed for the door, and he decided that he liked the holy lady. He sat on an upholstered