I have no clean clothes.â
âI'm sure that I can find whatever you need. Leave your dirty things out, and they'll be washed. A meal will be served within the hour, and someone will come for you. Or, if you prefer, you may wander wherever you like. We have a chapel and a library in back of the hacienda, you may be interested to know.â
Domingo retired, and then two uniformed manservants carried an ornate porcelain tub into the room, followed by four additional liveried footmen with a barrel of hot water. They placed the tub near the open window, then poured water into it, the steam filling the air, and maids laid out fresh clothing on the bed. Mean-while, other maids scooped up Duane's dirty clothes and mangled boots, while two more turned down his bed.
âAnything else, sir?â asked the maid, who wasn't much older than he.
My God, Duane thought, as he stared into her innocent eyes. âNo, thank you, and if you don't mind, I'd like to be alone.â
The maids withdrew silently, closing the door behind them. Duane drew his Colt, stood with his back against the drapes, and peered outside. The crowd had disappeared from the courtyard, and the stagecoach was on its way to the stable, followed by his unfaithful horse, Midnight.
Duane felt safe in the thick-walled hacienda. He wanted to drop to his knees, and thank El Señor for his good fortune, but didn't want the bathwater to get cold. It might be a good idea to get a shave, he figured. Duane meditated upon available funds as he sank into the hot bathwater. He had a few hundred dollars in American coins, which seemed a small fortune, but the wealth Duane now observed was beyond his wildest imagination.
He couldn't help reflecting on the strange twists and turns of a man's life. He'd been born on the dodge, raised in a monastery, worked as a cowboy, been a sheriff, and lived among the Apaches. Now he found himself in opulence, and all the money he'd earned in his life couldn't buy the bed.
The easy life has got to make people soft, he speculated. I'd rather sleep on the desert than that bed, because the desert will make you a warrior, while a bed will turn you into a lazy bummer, and you'll spend your life there with some Mexican maid.
The ceiling seemed to go on forever, like the roof of the church at the monastery in the clouds. He lay in the warm water, and let his thoughts float toward his hostess, Doña Consuelo de Rebozo. In many ways, he mused, she's even more beautiful than Miss Vanessa Fontaine.
He didn't like to think about Miss Vanessa Fontaine, but sometimes she popped into his mind at the damnedest times. The saloon singer had raised him to the empyrean heights of love, then ditched him for an Army officer, and Duane hadn't been right since. He'd become involved with other females subsequently, and nearly married a rancher's daughter once, but she got tired of the fugitive life, and returned to Daddy. Duane wantedto forget Miss Vanessa Fontaine, and was confident that he would as soon as he found another woman.
Whatever happens, I must never make a display of affection toward Doña Consuelo de Rebozo. This isn't a saloon prostitute that I'm talking about here, or even a woman of the world like Miss Vanessa Fontaine. Doña Señiora de Rebozo is a real lady, and adultery is a mortal sin, especially when premeditated. If you ever lay even one hand on her, you'll go straight to hell, and the little red devils will put you into their hottest oven till the end of time.
A maid opened the door, and Doña Consuelo tiptoed into her mother's bedroom. Moonlight slanted through the open window, illuminating a frail figure in the middle of a large canopied bed. Tears filled Doña Consuelo's eyes, and she pulled a handkerchief out of her sleeve and daubed her eyes.
My poor dear mother, she thought, as she stood at the side of the bed. The matriarch had lost half her body weight, as the cancer ate her alive. She appeared ninety years
âI'm sure that I can find whatever you need. Leave your dirty things out, and they'll be washed. A meal will be served within the hour, and someone will come for you. Or, if you prefer, you may wander wherever you like. We have a chapel and a library in back of the hacienda, you may be interested to know.â
Domingo retired, and then two uniformed manservants carried an ornate porcelain tub into the room, followed by four additional liveried footmen with a barrel of hot water. They placed the tub near the open window, then poured water into it, the steam filling the air, and maids laid out fresh clothing on the bed. Mean-while, other maids scooped up Duane's dirty clothes and mangled boots, while two more turned down his bed.
âAnything else, sir?â asked the maid, who wasn't much older than he.
My God, Duane thought, as he stared into her innocent eyes. âNo, thank you, and if you don't mind, I'd like to be alone.â
The maids withdrew silently, closing the door behind them. Duane drew his Colt, stood with his back against the drapes, and peered outside. The crowd had disappeared from the courtyard, and the stagecoach was on its way to the stable, followed by his unfaithful horse, Midnight.
Duane felt safe in the thick-walled hacienda. He wanted to drop to his knees, and thank El Señor for his good fortune, but didn't want the bathwater to get cold. It might be a good idea to get a shave, he figured. Duane meditated upon available funds as he sank into the hot bathwater. He had a few hundred dollars in American coins, which seemed a small fortune, but the wealth Duane now observed was beyond his wildest imagination.
He couldn't help reflecting on the strange twists and turns of a man's life. He'd been born on the dodge, raised in a monastery, worked as a cowboy, been a sheriff, and lived among the Apaches. Now he found himself in opulence, and all the money he'd earned in his life couldn't buy the bed.
The easy life has got to make people soft, he speculated. I'd rather sleep on the desert than that bed, because the desert will make you a warrior, while a bed will turn you into a lazy bummer, and you'll spend your life there with some Mexican maid.
The ceiling seemed to go on forever, like the roof of the church at the monastery in the clouds. He lay in the warm water, and let his thoughts float toward his hostess, Doña Consuelo de Rebozo. In many ways, he mused, she's even more beautiful than Miss Vanessa Fontaine.
He didn't like to think about Miss Vanessa Fontaine, but sometimes she popped into his mind at the damnedest times. The saloon singer had raised him to the empyrean heights of love, then ditched him for an Army officer, and Duane hadn't been right since. He'd become involved with other females subsequently, and nearly married a rancher's daughter once, but she got tired of the fugitive life, and returned to Daddy. Duane wantedto forget Miss Vanessa Fontaine, and was confident that he would as soon as he found another woman.
Whatever happens, I must never make a display of affection toward Doña Consuelo de Rebozo. This isn't a saloon prostitute that I'm talking about here, or even a woman of the world like Miss Vanessa Fontaine. Doña Señiora de Rebozo is a real lady, and adultery is a mortal sin, especially when premeditated. If you ever lay even one hand on her, you'll go straight to hell, and the little red devils will put you into their hottest oven till the end of time.
A maid opened the door, and Doña Consuelo tiptoed into her mother's bedroom. Moonlight slanted through the open window, illuminating a frail figure in the middle of a large canopied bed. Tears filled Doña Consuelo's eyes, and she pulled a handkerchief out of her sleeve and daubed her eyes.
My poor dear mother, she thought, as she stood at the side of the bed. The matriarch had lost half her body weight, as the cancer ate her alive. She appeared ninety years
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