The Reckoning (10 page)

Duane dodged into the nearest alley, tucking the sandwiches underneath his arm. He made his way to the back of the general store, and glanced up at Vanessa's window. The light was out, and he was certain that Lieutenant Dawes had just been there. Duane felt like putting his fist through the wall.

He came to the open range, placed a sandwich on the ground, sat crosslegged a few feet away, and rolled a cigarette. Now I've got the Circle K
and
the Fourth Calvary mad at me, and my bride-to-be is screwing somebody else. What next?

Lieutenant Dawes returned to Vanessa's bedroom, and tossed his hat onto the bedpost. “It was a fight, and guess who was in the middle of it—your boy Duane Braddock again.”

She lay beneath the covers, her long golden hair flowing over the pillow. “Did he get hurt?”

“Not yet, but I wouldn't give you a plugged nickel for his life. He just beat up Jay Krenshaw, the most dangerous man in this town.”

Vanessa sighed in exasperation. “Sometimes I think Duane's crazy. All those years with the priests and monks have taken their toll.”

“I hope you won't be angry, but I think that's all a big bald lie. A man doesn't spend his life in a monastery and then get into fights like that.”

“You don't know Duane very well. He's one of a kind.”

“He's a cold-blooded killer, and you were going to marry him?”

“He needs somebody to take care of him.”

“He makes any more trouble,
I'll
take care of him. He'll end up at the end of a rope, and I don't care how unique he is.”

Duane sat on the ground like an Indian, hoping that the dog would appear, but so far he'd seen nothing except a heaven full of stars and the mountains of the moon. He wished he could be on that glowing crescent, or anywhere else except inside his skin. From the first moment he'd met Vanessa Fontaine, he'd been lost. She was, quite simply, the
most beautiful women he'd ever imagined, nearly perfect in every way, except that she didn't love him.

He couldn't understand how she could dump him so quickly. It dispirited him to think that he'd never touch that long, lissome body again. He wanted to keel over and die, the pain was unbearable, and he gasped for air. I'm ugly, disgusting, and repulsive, which is why she doesn't love me. What made me think that I deserved a woman like that? He drew his gun, thumbed back the hammer, and pointed it at his right temple. Squeeze the trigger, and you won't have to think about Vanessa anymore.

Something moved straight ahead, and Duane froze. A medium-size dog materialized out of the darkness, creeping ever closer to the sandwich on the ground. All thoughts of suicide vanished from Duane's mind in an instant. “It's all right, boy,” he whispered. “Go ahead—take a bite.”

The dog growled suspiciously, as if warning Duane to keep his distance. It advanced, snatched the sandwich in his jaws, and put on a burst of speed. One moment Duane saw him, and the next he was gone. Duane knew that the mutt was out there someplace, gulping down the sandwich, looking over his shoulder for wildcats and coyotes, not to mention nighthawks that swept out of the sky, grabbed you in their talons, and carried you off.

Duane held the second sandwich in his hand. “When you're finished with that one, I've got another.”

Two ferocious little eyes appeared in the darkness, examining him carefully. The creature stepped forward apprehensively, his little black nose twitching.
He had a coyote's face, a beagle's body, and a terrier's hair, matted and filthy. One-quarter of his left floppy ear had been torn off by animal or animals unknown. If cleaned, he'd probably be white with black spots, one of them surrounding his right eye, giving him a comical aspect.

“Go ahead—take it,” Duane said. “I brought it for you.”

The dog cocked his head to the side, and appeared to say,
why?

“I've got a job for you. All the rats you can eat, and if you run out of rats, we've got more beef than we know what to do with. You play your cards right, you can be the mascot of the Bar T.”

The dog shivered with excitement as he took the sandwich out of Duane's hand. The sole survivor of a wagon train massacred by Comanches, he'd made his way to Shelby, and now at last had found legitimate employment. He gulped the sandwich swiftly, burped, and looked expectantly at his new boss.

“Just one problem,” Duane said as he led the dog back to the general store. “You'll have to convince the ramrod that you're as good as a cat.”

It was quiet in Titusville, compared to the days when saloons and whorehouses burst at the seams with Saturday night revelers. Now, only a few horses were tethered in front of two saloons still open, the rest of Main Street nearly deserted.

In front of the Carrington Arms Hotel, a lone figure tied a bedroll to the back of his saddle. Amos Raybart glanced around, to make sure nobody was
about to bushwhack him from a blind alley. Then he rode up the street, heading for the open range, a bent cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth.

A tin badge lay in his jacket pocket. He'd bought it under false pretenses from the blacksmith, who'd hammered SHERIFF across its face for a few extra coins. A long journey lay ahead, and it might come in handy up the road.

He'd elicited sufficient information for Jay Krenshaw, but Raybart himself had become curious about the Pecos Kid. Was he an innocent man fresh from a monastery, or a murderous galoot who lied as fast as he drew his Colt?

Could it be possible that an orphan raised in a far-off monastery could become, within the space of a few weeks, the Pecos Kid? According to testimony, he'd shot five people, made a trip to the cribs, and then ran off with the most beautiful woman in town. Raybart had never heard of anyone like Duane Braddock.

What's the truth? Raybart wondered. Is he a saint, the son of the devil, or a little of both?

Duane ambled back to the general store, and was certain that the fissure in his heart would never heal. Vanessa was probably in bed with Lieutenant Dawes at that very moment, and the mere thought nearly drove Duane to his knees.

He tried to catch his breath. The pain was worse than being punched. The dog looked up at him, an expression of concern on his canine features. Duane
scratched the animal's ear, and tried to focus on the business at hand. “We're going to see the ramrod, and if he doesn't like you, you don't get the job. So try to look good, all right?”

The dog barked, and Duane looked him over once more. He didn't appear impressive, and in fact was one of the mangiest dogs that Duane had ever seen. With his black eye, he looked like he'd just been in a saloon brawl. “I think I'll call you . . . Sparky,” Duane said. “Let's talk to the ramrod, and for Chrissakes, don't bite him.”

They came to the square in front of the general store, where groups of cowboys and soldiers drank whiskey, threw dice, conversed in loud tones, or lay flat on the ground, passed out from excessive white lightning. Duane spotted Uncle Ray in the crowd. “You see the ramrod around?”

“Inside.”

Duane snapped his finger, and Sparky followed, nose raised, tail high in the air, pumping himself up for his job interview. They entered the general store, and it reeked with sweat, tobacco smoke, and whiskey. Duane picked up the dog and carried him like a babe in his arms as he searched for McGrath, finally noticing the stalwart cattle expert seated alone in a corner, legs splayed before him, a bottle in his hands.

Duane dropped to one knee in front of him and placed the dog on the floor. “Ramrod, are you awake?”

“I stay awake,” McGrath uttered, one eye open and the other closed.

“I've been all over town, and the only cats
they've got available are kittens who'd probably make little snacks for the rats in the bunkhouse. But then I ran into Parson Jones, and he told me that the best thing for big rats is a dog about this size.”

Duane pointed to Sparky, and McGrath opened his other eye. “What the hell is it?”

“It's a rat-catcher. Haven't you ever seen one before?”

McGrath gazed suspiciously at Duane. “Are you tryin' to bullshit me, boy?”

“This dog can catch any rat that ever lived. He'll clean out that bunkhouse in no time at all.”

McGrath wrinkled his venous red nose. “He don't look like much.”

A growl emitted from Sparky's mouth as he barred his fangs and tensed his legs, about to leap. The ramrod raised his hand. “Okay—okay. I believe you—calm down.”

“This dog could whip a wildcat if he put his mind to it,” Duane said.

“He don't git rid of them rats, I'll kick his ass off the Bar T.”

Duane patted Sparky's head. “Sounds like you've got the job on a trial basis.”

Duane looked at McGrath in gratitude and realized that the old ramrod had a soft heart beneath his leathery exterior. The mission was accomplished, so Duane dropped down beside the ramrod, put his back to the wall, and rolled a cigarette. Sparky lay at Duane's feet, placed his chin on his paws, and closed his eyes.

“You'll have to clean him up,” McGrath said. “He looks like hell.”

“I'll toss him into the first stream I find. He'll be all right.”

The ramrod handed Duane the bottle, and Duane took a swig. Ramrod and newest hand sat side by side, facing a roomful of men in advanced stages of inebriation, mouthing garbled sentences to each other, or attempting to play cards in the darkness, while at the counter, Mr. and Mrs. Gibson counted the take thus far.

Duane felt emptiness in the pit of his stomach as he recalled Vanessa Fontaine in a room at the back of the building, in bed with Lieutenant Dawes. He moaned, and closed his eyes.

⃁You poor son-of-a-bitch,” McGrath declared. “Nothin' can fuck up a man like a woman. “When they're not a-naggin', they're a-lyin'.”

The ramrod spat tobacco juice toward the nearest spittoon, but missed by four inches, hitting the boot of a cowboy trying to read a wrinkled old newspaper. “When a man gits mixed up with
a
woman, it gener'ly starts real nice, don't it? But then, not too long after, it's starts a-gittin' pretty bad.”

Duane looked at the wise old ramrod of the plains, and somehow he didn't seem so foreboding now. “Ramrod,” he said, “there's something I've been wanting to talk with you about. When I first met you, you said something about an old-time gunfighter named Joe Braddock. I pretended that I didn't know him, but ... to tell you the truth, he was my old man. I be mighty grateful if you'd tell me what you know about him.”

The ramrod became more alert, as he examined
Duane's face. “Afraid I don't know a helluva lot. As I recall, Joe Braddock was in a gang that operated south of here, so they could slip over the border when things got hot. They got mixed up in a range war and was strung up by some vigilantes in one of them little border towns.”

Duane had suspected that his father had been hung, and now it was confirmed by the venerable ramrod. He didn't know whether to cry, laugh, or yank out his Colt and shoot a hole through the ceiling. Why didn't you just be a cowboy, Daddy? How come that wasn't good enough? “You ever hear anything about Joe Braddock's woman, ramrod?”

“Don't get me wrong, Kid. Joe Braddock's just a name to me, and maybe I've got him mixed up with some other outlaw. You know how it is with fast hands. They all come to a bad end.”

All lights were out at the Circle K ranch, except for one coal oil lamp burning in the bedroom of Jay Krenshaw. The son of the boss stood in front of his mirror and examined his left eye, which had turned a hideous purple. He couldn't see out of it, his nose felt broken, and his jaw was loose on its hinges. Worst of all, one front tooth had been knocked out. He forced himself to smile, and appeared an imbecile with the big black gap.

Jay bellowed like a wounded buffalo and banged his fist on the dresser. Then he screamed like a woman, because he thought that he'd broken his hand. If Duane Braddock were standing in front of him, Jay would shoot him between the eyes.

He thought of Raybart traveling across the wilderness, tracking down Duane Braddock's past. I hope he gets back soon, so I'll know what I'm dealing with. If he's who I think he is, I'll hire the fastest gun in West Texas to kill him. It'll cost plenty, but that little son-of-a-bitch has got to die.

D
UANE OPENED HIS eyes. It was Sunday morning, and he was alone in the bunkhouse. He'd returned from town early, accompanied by the new Bar T mascot, but none of the other cowboys had come back yet. The bunkhouse was as silent as the monastery in the clouds, as a shaft of light broke through the filthy window.

Duane was seized by the urge to go outside. He pulled on his pants, jumped into his boots, wrapped his blanket around his shoulders, and was out the door. The yard spread before him, basking in the sun, and beyond, a mesa covered with grass and mesquite stretched toward the horizon, where a mountain range glowed purple and gold.

Duane felt the power of the universe in his
bones. He dropped to his knees, clasped his hands together, and prayed. “My Lord, thank you for the bounty of this day. Thank you for my job, and good health. Please forgive my many transgressions, and please help me to forget Miss Vanessa Fontaine.”

Then, in the middle of the prayer, something prompted him to open his eyes. To his astonishment, Phyllis Thornton stood twenty yards away, looking at him curiously. “Didn't mean to disturb you,” she said. “I was just taking a walk, and there you were.”

She looked like the Virgin of Guadalupe with her black hair and tanned features. Taken by surprise, he rose to his feet. “Good morning,” he spluttered.

“You didn't go to town with the other cowboys?”

“Yes, but I came back early.”

“I've never seen a cowboy pray before. You're very different from the others.”

She reminded him of a newly ripened peach, and he wanted to bite her fanny, but then realized that it was Sunday morning, and lust was the work of the devil. He turned toward the mountains and tried to catch his breath. They stood in awkward silence for a few moments.

“What do you do around here?” Duane asked.

“I milk the cow, and then help Mother in the kitchen. In the afternoons, my father usually has work for me in the office, and sometimes I run errands for him. Why did you come back from town so soon?”

“I'd rather be here, because it's so quiet. It reminds me of church, but you probably think I'm being foolish.”

“You're not being foolish at all,” she said indignantly. “I can't understand how anybody can look at those mountains, and not believe that there's a God.”

He noticed the gentle curve of her nose, and her lower lip protruding slightly, tantalizingly. They gazed into each other's eyes, and he coughed to clear his throat. “I've got to make breakfast. Nice talking with you.”

That's the kind of woman who'd make the perfect wife for a rancher, he thought, as he headed back to the bunkhouse. But unfortunately, I don't have a ranch. I'd better stay away from her, otherwise I'm liable to get fired.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today ...” Parson Jones began the wedding ceremony in the parlor of the Gibson home, as Vanessa and Lieutenant Dawes stood before him, with Fred Gibson as best man, and Mrs. Gibson as matron of honor. Lingering odors of whiskey and tobacco smoke from the general store permeated the atmosphere.

“Do you, Lieutenant Clayton Dawes, Fourth Cavalry, take this woman, Vanessa Fontaine ...”

The parson droned through the ancient Christian ritual, adding his own special flourishes, while Lieutenant Dawes and Vanessa entered the holy estate of matrimony. A beatific smile creased Mrs. Gibson's face, for she loved weddings, while
Mr. Gibson wondered how soon he and the blacksmith could build the whorehouse that would make them rich.

“Do you, Miss Vanessa Fontaine, take this man, Lieutenant Clayton Dawes, Fourth Cavalry, to be your . . .”

Vanessa realized that her long travail was finally over, and she was safe at last. “I do!” she replied emphatically.

Parson Jones continued with the ceremony, and Lieutenant Dawes couldn't believe his exceedingly good fortune. Now he wouldn't have to spend his life drinking whiskey, playing cards, and chasing whores. He'd have a genuine woman to sleep with every night, an impossible dream just a few months ago.

“I pronounce you man and wife.” Parson Jones closed his Bible dramatically. “You may kiss the bride.”

The intrepid officer pecked his wife's cheek, while the Gibsons threw handfuls of rice. The deed is done, thought Vanessa, as her lips touched her new husband. But somehow, inexplicably, she found herself thinking about Duane Braddock. I wonder what happened to him, she speculated, as her husband's arms wrapped around her. I hope he's all right.

After breakfast, behind the bunkhouse, Duane set up a row of cans on a plank between two barrels. Then he stood about twenty yards away and assumed his gunfighter stance, with his legs
slightly bent, shoulders hunched, right hand just above his Colt .44. He pretended that Lieutenant Clayton Dawes stood before him, reaching for his iron.

Duane's shoulder jerked, his gun flew into his hand, he raised the barrel, took aim, and pulled the trigger. The gun bucked in his hand, as the can flew into the air. Duane held his arm straight as he continued to fire, the air filled with gunsmoke, and finally his hammer went
click.

He counted five cans for five bullets, a perfect score. After loading five more cartridges, he hol-stered the Colt. He pretended to be strolling away from the cans, when suddenly he spun out, yanked the Colt, fired three cartridges in rapid succession, and three more cans were demolished. He holstered the gun, turned in another direction, took a few steps, then dove to the ground, rolled over, and fired the final two cartridges. The first landed on target, but the second went astray.

He loaded the Colt again, then pretended to give it to someone. Suddenly, he flipped it around and drilled a can through the middle. He tossed the gun into the air, caught it behind his back, and ventilated the next can. But he knew from bitter experience that it was considerably more difficult to hit a target that was firing back. And he realized that no matter how fast a gunfighter, there was always somebody faster.

He loaded the chambers again and noticed a blue dress appear around the corner of the bunkhouse. “I thought the Comanches were attacking,” said Phyllis Thornton. “What're you doing?”

“Just practicing.”

She moved closer. “Mind if I watch.”

“It's your ranch, Miss Thornton.”

“Where'd you learn to shoot?”

“A friend taught me.”

“I've never seen tricks like that. Do you think you could teach some to me? I've fired guns before, and I know the basics.”

“Your Daddy might not want me to.”

“I think he'd be pleased. It's important to know how to shoot.”

“In that case, the first lesson is never point a loaded gun at anybody, unless you intend to kill him.” He passed the gun to her. “I'll set up some cans.”

Duane pulled an armful out of the gunnysack, while Phyllis felt the warmth from his hand on the walnut grip. He wore black pants, a black shirt, and a red bandanna, with his silver conchos hatband flashing rays in all directions.

“Go ahead,” he told her, stepping out of the line of fire.

She raised the gun, thumbed back the hammer, and sighted along the barrel.

“Lock your elbow,” Duane said. “And maybe you'd better put a leg behind you, because that gun kicks like a mule. Here, I'll show you.”

He came up behind her, took her wrist in one hand, and her shoulder in the other. “Like this.”

Their bodies touched, and her hand trembled slightly. She felt strange, but grit her teeth as she locked her elbow. “Okay to fire?”

He stepped back. “Whenever you're ready.”

The gun exploded, simultaneously kicking into the air. It knocked her against Duane, who thrilled at the touch of her body. But she didn't put a hole through anything. “I had it in my sights,” she complained.

“You're supposed to hold your breath, and
squeeze
the trigger. Go ahead—try again.”

She lined up the sights on a can, while he checked her posture. She was healthy, full-bodied, and made Vanessa Fontaine look like a beanpole, although he still considered Vanessa extremely beautiful, and he missed her with all his heart. He noticed the tip of her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth like a berry. The gun exploded, and a can was launched into space, a hole drilled through the top.

“Not bad,” Duane said.

Big Al Thornton came into view around the bunkhouse. “What the hell's a-goin' on here!”

Duane's eyes darted nervously as he searched for an avenue of escape, but Phyllis turned to her father and said, “Duane was teaching me how to fire his gun.”

Duane held up his hands. “I figured that everybody should know how to shoot.”

Big Al looked at him coldly, then said, out the corner of his mouth: “Phyllis, I believe yer mother wants you fer somethin'.”

She passed the gun to Duane, and their eyes met. “Thanks for the lessons.” Then she headed toward the main house, and Duane gazed at her retreating posterior view, in many ways more beautiful
than her front, but then realized that he was leering at the boss's daughter! He tried to smile. “She's a good learner,” he said to Big Al.

The rancher looked down at Duane, and Duane felt like crawling beneath the nearest rock. “I was a cowboy myself once,” Big Al said, “and I know what yer up to, so let me make somethin' perfeckly clear. You ever lay hands on her—I'll kill you. Understand?”

Duane tried to smile. “Yessir.”

Without another word, Big Al walked back to the house.

Big Al was grumbling beneath his breath as he opened the front door. Phyllis stood in the middle of the parlor, her arms crossed. “What did you say to him?” she inquired.

“I know cowboys better than you. They'll do anything to get what they want from a woman, and Duane Braddock has prob'ly kilt a few people in his day. You don't handle a gun like that unless yer a professional.”

“Then he's the ideal teacher, but you've scared him away. He'll probably run next time he sees me.”

“He'd better,” Big Al said as he inclined toward his office. He hung his hat on the peg, sat in his chair, and lit a cigar. His head became enveloped in blue smoke as he contemplated imminent discord in his family. He knew that he was too protective of Phyllis, but only because he didn't want her hurt by some fast-talking cowboy. I don't care how good
with guns he is. I'll come up behind him with a shotgun and blow his goddamned head off.

The door to his office flew open, and his wife stood there, with his daughter. Big Al considered jumping through the window and running for his life.

“What have you done!” his wife demanded, fists on her hips, as she charged like the Fourth Cavalry into his office. “Phyllis was talking with a nice young man, and you embarrassed her? Have you gone loco? How is she ever going to get married if you scare away potential husbands?”

“That weren't no potential husband,” Big Al replied. “He's a cowboy, and I told him that I'd
shoot
him if he ever stepped out of line with her!”

“You old buffalo!” she hollered. “That's not how you get your daughter married off, or don't you want her to have a husband?”

“She's not marryin' no cowboy as long as I'm alive!”

“No matter who he is—you'd find something wrong with him.”

“Duane Braddock is headed for jail or a grave. Fast hands don't make the best husbands.”

“I'd rather have a husband who's a fast hand,” Phyllis chimed in, “than a slow hand.”

Big Al looked skeptically at his daughter. “I can see that he's pulled the wool over yer eyes, but he don't fool me one bit. I know what's in that varmint's mind, and if I ever catch him with one little finger on you, I'll tear him apart with my bare hands.”

It was silent as the family reflected upon the patriarch's last remark. Then his wife's voice came like the edge of a Bowie knife. “I know what's wrong with you, you old buzzard. You don't want anybody else to have her, so she can be your own little girl forever, but she's not a little girl anymore, and it's time she got married. You'd better not interfere, or else you'll have to deal with me!”

Big Al feared no man, but couldn't cope with his wife and daughter allied against him. “She's too young to get married,” he protested weakly.

“She's older'n most women when they get married. I don't want you interfering with her friends anymore. Is that clear?”

He knew that if he offered resistance, it would be cold meals and a cold bed, not to mention malevolent glares and no conversation until he surrendered unconditionally. He ran the ranch, but his wife ran his life, and he was too old to find another woman. “All right,” he muttered, “but if she marries a desperado who gets shot someday, don't come a-cryin' to me.”

Duane examined the steak sizzling in the pan, then flipped the fried potatoes, and smelled bread toasting atop the stove.

It was still peaceful in the bunkhouse, and no one had returned from town yet. It was becoming the most spiritual Sunday since he'd left the monastery in the clouds, except for the few moments when the boss had threatened his life.