The Reckoning (12 page)

“It's not that much of a town,” Duane replied.

His intention was to spend another peaceful Saturday night alone in the bunkhouse, and save money for the ranch he hoped to own someday. In addition, he didn't want to run into Vanessa Fontaine and her new husband, the fancypants lieutenant.

He dozed on his bunk, as others took baths,
changed clothes, and prepared for town. Eventually they rode off, and the bunkhouse quieted except for an occasional gust of wind whistling past shingles. Duane lit the lamp, heated water, and took his bath. Then he put on blue jeans, a red shirt, and a green bandanna. He ate steak and biscuits at the table, reveling in his solitude.

He had to admit that he'd never felt better in his life. The outdoors seemed to agree with him, his face had become deeply bronzed, and he looked like an Indian.

After supper, he decided to look at Thunderbolt, and then search for something, anything to read. It was dark as he approached the barn, but an oil lamp sent golden effulgence through the windows. Duane stepped inside and saw that the lantern was halfway down the stalls, on the left. A cowboy was brushing a horse, but Duane had thought all the cowboys went to town. Then he noticed a certain curvature of the hip as Phyllis Thornton turned around. “Oh—it's you, Duane. You're not going to town again?”

“I'd rather take it easy here.”

She bent over to brush Suzie's forelocks, and Duane caught a glimpse of perfect form. Ashamed of himself, he turned in another direction. She glanced at him over her shoulder.

“Heard about the shindig?”

“Yes—McGrath told us.”

“People will come from miles around, and if the governor wasn't a scalawag, we'd invite him, too. We'll have a band and dancing all night long. Do you know how to dance, Duane?”

“Not a step,” he admitted.

“Then you'll have to learn. Maybe I should teach you, as payment for your shooting lessons. I've been practicing with one of my father's Colts while you were away, and I'm getting real good. Maybe you can show me some fancy tricks, like when you catch the gun behind your back.”

“You're liable to shoot your leg off. It's best to stick with the basics.”

He noticed that she was sweaty from her exertions, and her complexion glowed with vitality. Her movements were firm and strong, and she was no fragile wraith like Vanessa Fontaine. Duane wondered what it would be like to walk behind her and grab her breasts.

He swallowed hard, and the artery in his throat pulsated insistently. His foul thoughts embarrassed him, and he took three deep breaths. Meanwhile, she stood erectly and wiped her forehead with the back of her arm, the gesture pulling her blue plaid cowboy shirt against her breasts, revealing more of their shapes than Duane usually saw.

He appeared in a trance, and she didn't know if it was good or bad. “Could you at least show me how to fast-draw?”

They were alone in the barn, and the cowboys had gone to town. “Anytime you want.”

Her innocent eyes twinkled with mischief, and she became awkwardly flirtatious. “Will you dance with me at the party?”

“I told you that I don't know how to dance.”

“And I told you that I'll teach you. It's much
less complicated that firing a gun.”

“I believe your father said he'd shoot me if I ever laid a hand on you.”

“I believe
I
told you that he'd apologized for that barbarian remark.”

Duane smiled. “I'd be happy to dance with you, Miss Phyllis.”

He pondered whether to invite her to the hayloft, for a little stargazing. Meanwhile, she gathered her brushes and combs. “I've got to get back to the house. Can I have a shooting lesson after breakfast?”

“Sure, and by the way, do you have anything interesting to read in the house?”

“I'll see what I can find. Where will you be?”

“The corral.”

She headed for the door, and once more he admired a certain outstanding segment of her anatomy, which was set off to perfection by her tight jeans. Duane blew out the lamp, then made his way out of the barn. As he approached the corral, he saw the dark forms of horses in the moonlight, milling around, free of saddles and bridles, having their own special sabbath evening.

He came to a stop at the rail fence, rested his arms on the top rung, and peered inside at sleek muscular animals. He considered them the most beautiful creatures in the world, and wondered what they thought of the two-legged creatures who had enslaved them.

One horse detached himself from the mass and moved toward Duane cautiously. Duane reached into his shirt pocket and removed a handful of
raisins, which he held out. Thunderbolt lowered his head and scooped up the tasty kernels with his lips.

Duane patted Thunderbolt's neck, feeling his incredible power. God creates horses, and we ride them into the ground. I'll bet there's much that you could teach me, Thunderbolt. Sometimes I wish that I could be a horse, and run free, but the Comanches would capture me, or the cowboys, and I'd be locked in a corral every night like you.

Duane often wanted to turn Thunderbolt loose, but a man needed a horse if he wanted to survive on the massive distances of Texas. Besides, Thunderbolt was worth at least forty dollars, more than a month's pay.

Thunderbolt made a sound in his throat, as if he understood what Duane was thinking. Duane often thought that Thunderbolt was more intelligent than he. Patting the shock of hair between Thunderbolt's ears, Duane said, “I'll take care of you, and you'll take care of me, all right?”

Thunderbolt snorted suddenly and gazed apprehensively over Duane's shoulder. Duane spun around, reaching for his Colt. His shoulders relaxed when he saw Phyllis approaching with a thick, old, leather-bound tome. “We have an extra Bible, and my mother said I could give it to you. It's a little dog-eared, but no pages are missing.”

“Today I was wishing that I had my own Bible,” Duane confessed. “Thank your mother for me.”

Their fingers touched as the Bible passed hands. Thunderbolt examined them curiously, as a coyote
howled mournfully in a far-off cave. Phyllis knew that she should return to the main house, but her feet wouldn't move. Duane struggled to find something socially acceptable to say, but wanted to wrap his arms around her.

“Is that your horse?” she asked.

“Yes—I broke him myself, and it's something that I'm not very proud of.”

The rancher's daughter appeared surprised. “Why not?”

“He doesn't sit on me, so why should I sit on him? Sometimes I think that I should turn him loose.”

“But you need a horse, don't you?”

“That's the problem.”

“Didn't God say that animals were put here for us?”

“I don't think that Thunderbolt would agree, but he's a very good horse, fast as the wind. If you appreciate a spirited animal, you might take a ride with him sometime.”

Phyllis wondered if Duane were talking about Thunderbolt or himself when he referred to the
spirited animal,
and taking a ride with him. Meanwhile, Thunderbolt was aware that three was a crowd. With a whinny, he turned around and headed back toward the other horses, watching the human beings cautiously.

Phyllis looked up into Duane's swirling eyes. “Why don't you go to town like the other cowboys?”

“It's just a few shacks nailed together. There's nothing to do except get drunk and fall on your
face.”

“My father said that Mister Gibson is building an addition to the general store, with chairs and tables.”

“You meet the strangest people in saloons.”

“Don't people get killed from time to time?”

Duane pulled out his Colt. “That's what this is for.”

She looked at the gun, then raised her eyes and examined his facial characteristics close up. He'd cut his chin while shaving, but otherwise was extremely handsome in a roguish way. “I've never met anybody like you,” she admitted.

“That's probably because you've haven't met many people period. Limited choice, it's called.”

“I think you're special.”

He wanted to be charming and devil-may-care, but decided to stick with the truth. “I think you're special, too. If things were a little different, I'd . . .” His voice trailed off into the night.

She wouldn't let him off the hook so easily. “You'd what?”

He became ill at ease, but again resolved to be honest. “You're the kind of woman who I'd want to settle down with. We're very similar, you know.”

“If that's the way you truly feel,” she replied, “well—why don't we just get married?”

Everything became silent, and even the coyote stopped howling in his far-off cave. “If I give you a ring,” Duane said, “your father will give me a bullet. I have no money, a bad reputation, and my prospects are poor. I think you could do much better.”

“My mother owned more than my father when
they got married, but they've been together for nearly eighteen years. I don't think I'd ever find anybody better than you, Duane.”

It pleased Duane's vanity that she found him appealing, and he imagined himself writhing naked in the hayloft with her, but then a glimmer of rationality beamed through his surging animal lust.

“Marriage is a big step,” he lectured, as if he were much older than she. “We can't run into it blindly, and I don't want to elope, because I'm convinced that your father would shoot me.”

“We should be sensible,” she agreed. “Otherwise no one'll take us seriously. What do you think we should do?”

He thought of the hayloft, the bunkhouse, and numerous other comfortable spots where two human beings could recline, but then Christian morality overcame him, accompanied by Victorian prudery. He cleared his throat, and said, “Tomorrow morning I'm giving you a shooting lesson, and that's all I can handle right now.”

“I'd better go back to the house, or my mother will worry. Do you think, under the circumstances, since we're thinking about getting married, that we could kiss good night?”

His willpower failed totally as he glanced around to make sure that her father wasn't sneaking up on them. Then he held his arms stiffly down his sides and lowered his lips to her. Meanwhile, she stood on her tiptoes and clasped her hands behind her back.

Their lips drew closer, and his heart leapt with
anticipation of her spotless beauty. He opened his eyes at the last moment, their noses almost crashed, then their lips touched softly, gently, tenderly, and his head spun with ecstasy. He thought it the most scrumptious sensation he'd ever known as the fragrance of prairie flowers arose from her bosom. His hands touched her waist, and he felt her go limp against him.

Her lips were strawberries, and his brain became inflamed. Her dovelike palms came to rest upon his shoulders, their bodies touched, her sixteen-year-old nipples jutted into his shirt. Duane thought he was going mad and struggled to control himself. He tried to take three deep breaths, but her mouth was all over him like petals of the softest flower. He was about to rip off her dress, when he realized that she was a decent Christian girl, and you didn't violate her unless you placed a ring on her finger first. And then he recalled a famous line:
If you ever lay hands on her
—
I'll kill you.

Duane summoned his strength and pushed her away. Her eyes were ablaze with strange catlike madness, her complexion mottled by emotional confusion.

“I never kissed anybody before,” she said plaintively, her voice trailing off.

“I have,” he admitted, “but never as sweet as that.”

Her eyes glittered in the darkness. “I love you, Duane. Do you think that we could do that again.”

“If we do, I'll probably end up taking your clothes off.”

Each took a step backward, and looked at each
other longingly.

“Well, we can't have that,” she said.

“If we're going to get married,” he replied, “that means we wait a decent interval, and get engaged. About a year later, we'll get married.”

She held out her hand, just like Big Al Thornton. “It's a deal.”

They shook as if they'd just sold and bought three thousand head of cattle.

“I think you'd better go back to the house now,” he said, gazing at her heaving bosom.

She leapt forward suddenly, touched her lips to his, then turned and fled, her boot heels kicking high in the air. Duane was surprised by her impulse, and could taste her upon his tongue. With trembling hand, he pulled out his little white bag of tobacco. Another moment I would've had her on a haystack, yanking at her buttons.

He strolled out of the barn, looked at ranch buildings, the corral, and the vast range full of Bar T cattle. If I marry Phyllis, this'll be mine someday! The more he thought about it, the more profound it became. It appeared as if all his dreams were finally coming true. It just goes to show you that if you try to lead a Christian life, the Lord will reward you. As it says in Jeremiah:

Blessed is the man that trusteth in the Lord

In back of Gibson's General Store, Vanessa was sitting to dinner with her new husband. In the middle of the table, a platter of roast beef emitted
trails of steam. Vanessa had prepared it under the tutelage of Mrs. Gibson, along with fried potatoes and onions.

Lieutenant Dawes carved thick slabs of meat, as he said, “We'll have army engineers here in a week, and their first project, after my headquarters, will be our home. You can design it yourself, and supervise construction. Make sure you work in an extra bedroom for our first child.” He awaited her response and noticed that she was gazing past his shoulder at a blank space of wall behind him. “Are you all right, Vanessa?”

She appeared startled, as if she'd just awakened from a dream. “I'm fine,” she said in a faraway voice.

“You seem distracted lately, my dear. What's wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“You don't want to tell me, but I know what it is. You're thinking about your former boyfriend, the one who likes to shoot people for the fun of it.”