The Reckoning (20 page)

He noted the Kid's relaxed manner as he made his way to the bar. The Kid had wide shoulders and a narrow waist, exactly the opposite of Puckett, and the gunfighter felt a twinge of envy. I'll bet Rosita would fall for him, if she ever saw him, but she
never will, and neither will anybody else after tonight.

A Bar T cowboy shouted, “Here's to Duane and Miss Phyllis!”

They touched Duane's glass, then bolted down the whiskey, but Puckett noticed that the Pecos Kid only took a sip. A terrific commotion occurred at the bar as cowboys slapped Duane on the back, shook his hand, and wished him well. Even Sparky was elated, jumping around and snapping his jaws in acknowledgment of his boss's great good fortune.

At the far end of the bar, Jay Krenshaw nearly choked on bitter rage. To see his enemy receiving accolades was almost too much to bear. Jay wished he were the object of such adulation, respect, and comradely love. But he was despised even by his father, and men followed his orders for the money, like whores.

Against the back wall, Raybart arose from his chair. The time had come to make his move, and he didn't dare waste another moment. He pulled the slip of paper out of his pocket, held it tight in his fist, and strolled toward the bar as if to refill his glass.

He entered the cluster of cheering Bar T cowboys, and it reminded him of Jerusalem when Christ arrived on the back of a donkey, the throngs throwing palm leaves, and shouting
Hosanna in the highest!
He lurched drunkenly toward Duane, bumped against him, and placed the slip of paper into his hand. “Sorry,” he burped, and then leaned against the bar. “Whiskey!”

Raybart didn't dare turn around, so he couldn't see the paper fall to the floor. Duane bent over to pick it up, for he'd felt it press urgently into his
palm. He raised himself to his full height, and read the scrawled warning:

Fat man been hired to kill you. Git the hell outer here fast as you kin.

a friend

Just when everything had been going so well, he had to receive such a warning. Cowboys continued to congratulate him, and he mumbled his thanks as he scrutinized the usual crowd of cowboys and soldiers. He glanced at Jay Krenshaw at the end of the bar and noticed the position of his right hand.

Duane continued to scan faces, but nothing seemed threatening. He was looking for a big, fat man, not a short, roly-poly fellow sitting at a table in the darkness. He believed that he could handle Krenshaw, and the Bar T cowboys would back him if anyone else tried to jump in. Maybe it's a joke, and I can't just walk out of here in the middle of the party. McGrath and the other's'll think I've gone loco. So he raised his glass, and decided to stay awhile.

“I always hoped Miss Phyllis'd notice me someday,” said Don Jordan as he slammed his palm on Duane's shoulder, “but how could I guess that she'd fall in love with
you!
”

The good-natured banter went back and forth as bartenders filled glasses. No one from the Bar T noticed that the Circle K cowboys were unusually subdued, and an overweight stranger was arising from his table against the left wall.

Otis Puckett had studied his opponent carefully, and knew what he was up against. But an experienced
fast hand could defeat a flash in the pan any day, he told himself. He crossed the aisle and plunged into the array of tables, on his way to the bar. No one noticed him, until he approached the Bar T cowboys congregated around the Pecos Kid. They wouldn't move out of Puckett's way, so the gunfighter grabbed one by the scruff of his neck, and pushed him to the side.

The cowboy lost his balance and crashed into the nearby wall, suddenly electrifying the saloon. Men arose from tables, and a few Bar T cowboys went for their guns, but Punkett's hand dropped, and a split second later he was aiming his Colt toward them.

It was silent in the saloon, and everyone heard a drop of water fall from the counter to the floor. All eyes ogled the fat cowboy, who said, “I'm here for Duane Braddock.”

Duane had seen the draw, and now understood the import of the note. He wished he'd taken the advice, but too late now. All he could do was reply, “I guess that's me.”

“My name's Otis Puckett. I'm a-goin' to shoot you, so say yer prayers.”

“Whoa!” said a new voice. It was McGrath stepping forward, a friendly grin on his weather-beaten visage. “Mister Puckett—I saw you at work some years ago in El Paso, but this boy ain't done nawthin' to you, and we're a-celebratin' his weddin' engagement. Why don't you have a drink with us, and cool off?”

“Out of the way,” Puckett replied, “because lead's a-gonna fly in about a minute.” The hired
killer faced Duane. “I got no time to play with you, boy. Make your move.”

“But . . . why do you want to kill me?” Duane asked, mystified.

“Business,” spat Puckett.

Duane turned toward the end of the bar, and saw Jay Krenshaw with a faint grin covering his toothless mouth. Cold malevolence passed over Duane as the pieces came together in his mind. He broke into a cold sweat and hoped someone would stop the nightmare, but it didn't appear so. He'd plummeted from the pinnacle of life to the depths of hell in seconds. “Would you mind if I have another whiskey?” he asked. “You're really taking me by surprise.”

“I ain't got time. Make yer move, or I'll make mine.”

Duane spread his legs and dropped into his gun-fighter's crouch. Powerful chemicals from glands working overtime dumped into his bloodstream, and his heart beat furiously. It was a showdown to the death, out of the blue, and he tried to remember everything that his mentor, Clyde Butterfield, had taught him. Then he grit his teeth, measured his opponent, and reached for his Colt.

Observers afterward would argue over what happened next. Some thought Duane drew first, others Puckett, but all agreed that a dog had growled in the vicinity of Puckett's boots just as Puckett went for his gun. The professional killer was distracted for a moment, but then whipped out his Colt, took aim at the center of Duane's chest, and felt his head crack apart.

Somehow Duane fired the first shot, and it landed
in the middle of Puckett's forehead. Puckett's eyes stared glassily as he limped from side to side, blood pumping out the hole. The famous fast hand dropped to his knees, took one last look at the man who'd ended his career, and pitched onto his face.

Gunsmoke filled the small, enclosed space, and every cowboy's ears rang. Duane turned, aiming his gun at Jay Krenshaw, who was in the act of drawing, his intention a fast shot in Duane's back. Jay's fingers hung in the air above his gun, an expression of horror forming over his face. Somehow, against all the odds, Duane Braddock had shot Otis Puckett! Jay didn't know what to make of it. It looked like he'd come to the end of his road.

But Duane found that he couldn't shoot a man in cold blood. “I'll give you a chance,” he said. “Go ahead and draw.”

“Not me,” Jay replied in a shaky voice. “Yer too fast.”

“You hired him to kill me, you sneaky son of a bitch!”

Jay pointed at the dead body of the fat gunfighter. “I never seed him afore in my life.”

“Not true!” hollered Raybart, who pointed accusingly at Jay. “He's had Puckett at the ranch all week, and Puckett's was a-practicin' fer a-shootin' you!”

“Keep yer mouth shut!” screamed Krenshaw.

But Raybart had a strange holy gleam in his eye. “Today God has triumphed over the Devil, my brethren! See it, and believe!”

“You little fuck!”

Krenshaw drew his Colt and fired at Raybart. The saloon echoed with the shot, the air became
dense with gunsmoke, and Raybart collapsed onto the floor, a beatific smile on his face. “My Lord,” he whispered, “I see you . . . waiting ...”

Raybart went slack as his spirit departed. Duane wondered what his strange game had been as Krenshaw slowly holstered his gun. “I ain't a-gonna draw on you, Kid. If yer too fast fer Otis Puckett, yer too fast fer me.”

Duane realized once again that he couldn't shoot anybody in cold blood, but still wanted revenge. So he holstered his gun, turned his back to Jay, and reached for his glass, hoping that Jay would attempt a dirty trick.

Something rustled behind him, like a sleeve moving up a man's arm when he reaches for his gun. Duane spun, yanked his Colt, and saw Krenshaw in the middle of his draw. Duane pulled his trigger, the gun fired, and Jay Krenshaw was drilled through the chest. Jay's gun fired at the floorboards, sending splinters whizzing through the air, then he sagged downward, his eyes glazing over; the gun dropped from his hand. He fell in a clump and lay still in a widening pool of blood.

Duane reached for his glass with his left hand, while the gun in his right emitted a wisp of smoke. He shook all over as he raised the glass; a few drops spilled onto his shirt. Everyone was looking at him as he struggled to calm down. He'd just shot two men in less time than it takes to smoke a cigarette.

Something rustled near his feet, and he looked at Sparky, his faithful dog. Duane patted Sparky's head. “Thanks, pardner. When I move into the main house, so do you.”

The front door was thrown open, and Lieutenant Dawes stood there, his tunic half unbuttoned, hat crooked on the back of his head. He'd dressed hastily, and had an angry expression in his eyes as he stepped into the saloon, service revolver in hand. “What the hell's going on here?”

Sergeant Mahoney saluted and gave his report. “There was a shootin', sir. That man,” he pointed to Puckett, “braced Mister Braddock, but Mister Braddock won the draw. Then Mister Krenshaw shot that cowboy”—he pointed at Raybart—“and after that, he tried to shoot Mister Braddock in the back, but Braddock fired first.”

Lieutenant Dawes took in the bloody scene, trying to understand how such incredible mayhem could occur a short distance from where he'd been engaged in a transcendent act with his wife. Then his eyes fell on Duane leaning one elbow on the bar, sipping a glass of whiskey.

Dawes was in an extremely filthy mood, due to the interruption. It had been, without question, the most passionate instant of his life, and Duane Braddock had wiped it away with the pull of a trigger. Before the West Pointer could stop himself, the words were out of his mouth, “You're under arrest! Drop that gun, or I'll shoot you where you stand!”

Duane contemplated a quick draw, but Lieutenant Dawes aimed his service revolver steadily, and Duane figured that a man couldn't become an officer unless he knew how to shoot straight. “Krenshaw hired this professional gunfighter to kill me,” he explained. “Then Krenshaw tried to shoot me in the back. You're going to arrest me for that?”

“You're goddamned right. Sergeant Mahoney— take his gun.”

Mahoney wasn't sure Duane would give it up easily. It was a tense moment, then the Bar T ramrod spoke, his hands spread in supplication. “But he was only defendin' hisself. You cain't arrest a man fer that in Texas!”

Before Lieutenant Dawes could open his mouth, somebody shouted, “That's a lie!” It was Reade, still earning his pay. “Braddock suckered Jay into the fight, so's he could kill him!”

A hubbub filled the saloon as both bunkhouses moved into battle positions. A gun fired suddenly, and a bullet burrowed into the ceiling. “Hold it right there!” hollered Dawes, with an irresistible argument in his right hand. “Take these men's weapons,” he said to Sergeant Mahoney.

“You ain't a-gittin' my gun!” said Uncle Ray, whipping it out quickly, for he'd shot a few people, too, in his long and checkered career.

“Mine neither!” added Ross, hauling iron.

Guns were drawn all across the saloon, and Duane wasn't about to get left out. He stood with his back to the bar, gun in hand, ready for anything. Dawes looked at the sea of weapons and realized that the situation had deteriorated considerably since his arrival. “A crime has been committed here,” he said levelly, “and I'm the lawfully constituted authority. If you civilians don't start obeying my commands, I'll have to treat you like Comanches. Sergeant Mahoney—tell the men to open fire at the civilian nearest him on my command.”

The cowboys became uncertain as soldiers readied
their rifles. McGrath spread his great arms once more and smiled ingratiatingly. “Yer a-makin' a mountain out of a molehill, sir. No jury'll convict that man fer defendin' his life.”

“The jury can do what they like, but right now he's under arrest for murder, and I'm taking him away. He'll come peacefully, or he'll come feet first, but as long as there's the Fourth Cavalry—he's coming.”

Duane could shoot Lieutenant Dawes, plus a few innocent bluecoats, but after that they'd get him, and maybe some of his friends would be killed. “I know why you're doing this,” Duane said, narrowing his eyes at Dawes. “Once your wife was my woman, and it pisses you off!”

Lieutenant Dawes faced the greatest temptation of his life, but he was a fiercely disciplined man. “Sergeant Mahoney, I believe I just gave you an order.”

“Yes, sir.” Sergeant Mahoney advanced toward Duane, service revolver in his right hand, and left hand open. “Hand it over,” he said to Duane, “or yer a dead son of a bitch.”

Duane passed the Colt handle first, Sergeant Mahoney accepted it, turned toward Lieutenant Dawes, and said, “His weapon is secured, sir.”

“Take him to the camp, tie him up, and post a guard. And if he tries to escape, do
not
aim over his head, and do
not
aim at his legs. You will aim at the center of the prisoner's back, and
bring him down
”

L
IUETENANT DAWES FELT felt exhausted as he hung his hat near the door of his home.

“What happened?” asked Vanessa, waiting in the parlor. “Did anybody get hurt?”

Lieutenant Dawes poured whiskey into a glass, then sat on the makeshift sofa, its green lumber creaking as his weight settled. “Two civilians dead, and guess who pulled the trigger?”

Her face drained of color. “Duane?” “Evidently Jay Krenshaw hired somebody to kill him, but your boy got the drop on him. Then he turned around and shot Krenshaw for good measure. The Pecos Kid is having himself a helluva night, but I charged him with murder, and that ought to calm him down for a while.”

“But,” Vanessa protested, “it sounds like he was only protecting himself.”

“I have reason to believe that he killed Krenshaw in cold blood, but made it look like a shootout so that he could plead self-defense. You weren't there, you haven't seen a damned thing, but you've already decided that he's innocent. Very interesting, the way you always defend that reckless little killer.”

“That's not why you arrested him,” she replied in a deadly voice. “You can fool others, but I know you too well. You arrested him out of ordinary disgusting human jealousy.”

“It may please your vanity to think that, but I arrested him fundamentally because he shot two men. And speaking of vanity, would you care to explain why a woman your age might run off with a desperado like that? Were you trying to convince yourself that you were still young, or were you so jaded that you needed a killer to make you feel alive?”

His words hit her like a slap in the face, and she lost her Charleston composure. “You damned Yankee!” she screamed. “I've had just about enough of your bullshit! When the next stagecoach comes, I'm going to be on it! Until then, I'll thank you to stay out of this house!”

Duane held his hands over his head as soldiers marched him through the encampment. They came to a wagon loaded with supplies, a canvas roof stretched overhead. “Sit in front of that wheel,” Sergeant Mahoney ordered.

“You're not going to tie me down, are you, Sarge?” Duane asked in disbelief.

“I said sit in front of the wheel.”

Duane panicked and dashed toward the open sage, but a trooper jumped in front of him, blocking his path. Duane tried to wrestle the rifle from the trooper's hands, but then received another rifle butt upside his head. His vision blurred, he lost his balance, and felt himself being dragged to the wheel. The soldiers tied his hands to the spokes, then wrapped rope around his ankles and bound them together tightly.

“That ought to hold the li'l fucker fer a while,” Sergeant Mahoney said. “Private Jansen, you let ‘im git away, you'll serve his time.”

“He ain't goin' nowheres,” replied the guard.

Duane's head felt whacked in two as he watched the soldiers march away. Private Jansen sat nearby, cradled the rifle in his arms, and said, “I wouldn't try nothin' if'n I was you. I'd blow yer fuckin' brains out, rather'n serve yer time.”

Sweat poured from Duane's face, like Christ in the Garden of Olives. Never in his life had he been tied down, and he felt like shrieking. He felt crushed, suffocated, and his body broke into a million itches that he couldn't scratch. They'd tied his hands too securely, and his fingertips proceeded to go numb.

He wished he were back at the bunkhouse, entwined in his blankets and dreams of Phyllis Thornton. This is what can happen to a cowboy who goes to town on a Saturday night. God only knows how I'll get out of this one, and they might even hang me!

Phyllis sat at the hayloft window, watching for Duane. She thought he'd be back by now, and wondered if he'd forgotten her during his party in Shelby.

She'd put on her cowboy outfit and snuck out of the house like a Comanche, eluding the guard. Then she slipped into the barn, climbed the ladder to the hayloft, and had been waiting impatiently ever since. She couldn't wait to see him, but no matter how hard she searched, she couldn't detect his silver conchos flashing in the moonlight. More time elapsed, and she began to fidget.

She wondered if the Comanches had got him, or if he'd been in a fight with another cowboy. Maybe he's forgotten all about me, she speculated. He's probably got his arms around some Mexican girl, or maybe he's passed out drunk in a corner, with a cuspidor for his pillow. If he doesn't show up, I'll break off the damned engagement. I couldn't marry a man who could
forget
about me.

She heard faint rumblings in the distance and thought it rolling thunder, but then gradually it became a large number of horses coming fast. She knew that strangers in the night meant trouble and feared that something had happened to Duane. She ran across the hayloft and descended the ladder swiftly.

Meanwhile, on the front porch, the cowboy on guard also heard hoofbeats. He charged into the house and knocked loudly on Big Al's door. “Riders a-comm'!”

Big Al reached underneath his pillow, drew out his Colt, jumped toward the window, and looked outside. Hoofbeats pounded closer, and he wondered if they were Comanches. Myrtle put on her robe and took down the shotgun from the wall. Big Al jumped into his boots, dropped his hat on his head, sailed through the door, and joined the cowboy guard on the front porch.

Riders came into view, and Big Al let out a sigh of relief. It was his own cowboy crew, and McGrath rode in front like a calvary colonel. He drew back his reins as he came abreast of the house, his leg was over the saddle before his horse came to a halt, and he dropped to the ground. His men followed him up the lawn to where Big Al and Myrtle stood on the porch.

“Duane's been arrested by the army,” McGrath reported. “Jay Krenshaw hired somebody to shoot Duane, but Duane outdrew the son of a bitch. Then Jay tried to shoot Duane in the back, but Duane plugged him first. Next thing we knew, Lieutenant Dawes arrested Duane for murder, and he's in the army camp, tied to a wagon like a dog!”

Big Al didn't have to think about it. “Have one of them cowboys saddle my horse!”

Myrtle asked her husband, “Where the hell do you think you're going!”

“We're a-gonna turn Duane loose!”

“Get ready to fight the Fourth Cavalry, because that's what it'll take. The best thing would be for us to talk to that lieutenant
reasonably
first thing in the morning. You can't jail a man because he defended himself, and if the lieutenant is too dumb
to see that, we'll hire the best lawyer we can find. But if you ride to that army post in the middle of the night, there'll be a massacre.”

Big Al rubbed his cheek thoughtfully. “Mebbe we'd better think this through, but I'll tell you this: Just as sure as I'm a-standin' here—when I get through with that fancypants lieutenant, he'll be a-walkin' a post in
Alaska!
”

Duane slept fitfully, tied to the wagon wheel. His bones and muscles ached, but he could do nothing to ease the pain. There were moments when he awakened suddenly and nearly panicked. It was terrifying to be helpless and unable to move in a land of snakes, scorpions, and Comanches.

He hung from the wagon wheel, and found himself detesting the lieutenant who'd arrested him. If I ever get my hands on him, God help him. He saw something move, and the guard aimed his rifle in the direction of the sound. “Halt! Who goes there!”

Sparky came into view, chin low to the ground, wagging his tail sadly. He walked past the guard, came to a stop in front of Duane, and gazed into his eyes.

“I wish you knew how to untie knots,” Duane said.

But I don't, Sparky's eyes seemed to say.

The dog lay beside Duane and placed his chin on Duane's leg. I'll get out of this mess sooner or later, Duane thought optimistically. They can't hold me for defending myself. He tried to sleep, but couldn't find a comfortable spot on the wagon
wheel; his spine felt as if tiny pins were sticking into it. Night breezes fluttered the canvas of tents, and he heard a man and woman arguing somewhere in the distance, but figured it was a bad dream as he drifted in and out of slumber.

Vanessa and Lieutenant Dawes faced each other across the dining room table, and they'd been going at it for hours, hurling insult after recrimination, clawing into each other's most sensitive spots.

“I never realized,” Vanessa said, “how petty you could be! I thought you were a gentlemen, but you're a horrible person!”

“You think you're so beautiful,” he retorted, “that I'd arrest somebody because of you? How little you understand me, but what else could I expect from an adventuress who ran off with an eighteen-year-old killer!”

“He's
not
a killer, and I wish you'd stop saying that! It's not his fault that he stands out in a crowd, and everybody wants to shoot him. Is he supposed to cooperate with them?”

“If he'd been five feet tall, and his nose had been three inches longer, you would never have looked at him twice. It's his pretty face that attracts you, just as my steady army paycheck lured you into our so-called marriage. Have you ever thought of doing it for love, Vanessa?”

She threw a pot at him, which he caught in mid-dair, but he wasn't fast enough to prevent a dish from breaking against the wall over his head. Cowering, blocking airborne plates and other
kitchen utensils, all he could do was conduct a strategic retreat, and file for divorce. They'd laugh at him at the Officers' Club, but it was better than being drummed out of the army for murdering his wife.

“I regret the day I ever set eyes on you!” he shouted as he headed for the door. “You're nothing but a high-classed slut!”

“Weakling!” she shrieked. “Coward! Jealous bird-brained idiot!”

But he was already out the door, headed for the army post, his stomach like a den of angry rattlesnakes. Behind him, he could hear more china and crockery bursting against the walls of his former home. Lieutenant Dawes shook with rage, most of it directed toward himself. Why did I marry that crazy woman? I didn't even know her! This is why people are supposed to have long engagements, so they can get to know each other. I was lonely and desperate, and now I'm worse off than before.

He came to the long row of tents, grumbling about women. They all pretend to be great ladies, but when nobody is looking, they sleep with filthy bums. You can't trust them, and they're all crazy. He approached the wagon where the prisoner was held, and the guard jumped to his feet. “Halt—who goes there!”

Lieutenant Dawes identified himself, and the guard permitted him to pass. Duane opened his eyes sleepily, and Sparky raised his chin as the Lieutenant kneeled before his prisoner.

“You've got people fooled,” Lieutenant Dawes said, “but you're just a slimy little killer, and the
sooner you hang, the better the world will be. I wish you'd try to escape, so that I can shoot you.”

“It was self-defense, and you know it,” Duane replied through his teeth. “You're exceeding your authority.”

“I'll leave it to the judge to decide, and I hope that he hangs you, you little son of a bitch.”

Duane made a tight little smile. “Next time you see Vanessa, say hello for me.”

Lieutenant Dawes wanted to draw his service revolver and put one between Duane's eyes, but instead mumbled something incoherent, and headed for his command post tent, where he sat upon the cot and stared at the darkness. I got married to escape this goddamned lonely life, but now I'm lonelier than ever, thanks that to murderous little varmint. If he thinks he's getting off easily, he's in for a surprise. So far he's killed two men, ruined my marriage, and undermined my career. I hope the judge takes his own sweet time to dispose of the case, and the Pecos Kid rots on that wagon wheel.

Or maybe I should simply shoot him and say that he tried to escape.

On a barren far-off range, two horses galloped through the night, kicking clods of dirt behind them. One of the animals, a chestnut stallion, was riderless, while Phyllis Thornton sat low on the other, working with the motions of the horse's great musculature. She wore her cowboy outfit and a Mexican poncho that concealed a gun belt with one Colt in the holster and another jammed into the
waist. Her saddlebags contained more guns and ammunition, and a Henry rifle rattled in its scabbard attached to the saddle.

The two horses were the best that her father owned, and she'd stolen them along with food, money, and additional clothes. She was on her way to Shelby, to free Duane from the Fourth Cavalry. She couldn't let Duane spend the next few weeks tied to a wagon wheel, while waiting for the slow wheels of injustice to turn.

The horses' hooves thundered against the ground as they raced toward Shelby. Phyllis believed that she didn't have a moment to lose, because for all she knew, a Circle K cowboy might be sneaking up on Duane that very moment to put a bullet into his skull. Somehow she had to turn him loose, no matter what the price. He was her first love, and she had to stand by her man.

She knew that her future had taken a dramatic new direction when she'd stolen the horses and guns, but she couldn't sleep knowing Duane was a prisoner of the Fourth Cavalry. The legal system might spit him into a jailhouse, or onto a gallows.