The Reckoning (5 page)

A sudden shot was fired, startling everybody. McGrath, smoking pistol in hand, rode toward Duane. “Git on your horse. You got work to do.”

Every cowboy in the vicinity had his gun out, and deadly tension crackled like electricity in the air. Duane didn't want to be left out, so he whipped out his Colt, thumbed back the hammer, and wondered who to shoot first.

“Mister Krenshaw,” said McGrath, “I think it's time you and your men cleared out of here, otherwise somebody's liable to git kilt.”

All eyes turned to Krenshaw, who had regained consciousness. He perched on his knees, then drew himself to his full height, his white shirt streaked with dirt, his hat fallen off. Krenshaw turned to Duane and said thickly, “Maybe some other time.”

“You know where to find me,” Duane replied.

Krenshaw picked up his hat, punched out the crown, and climbed onto his horse. The cowboys from the Circle K followed Krenshaw as he rode away, while cattle milled around, unperturbed by the violence that had just occurred. Duane felt jittery as he slapped dirt and dust off his jeans. He took off his black hat, smacked it against his leg, and then restructured the brim. A horse approached, and he looked up to see McGrath, gun
in hand.

“If'n I was you,” McGrath said, “I'd ride back to the chuck wagon, get my blanket, and light a shuck. Mister Krenshaw, who you just throwed out've his saddle, ain't a-gonna let you live long. Yer so green, you don't even know who he is.”

Duane moved his holster so that his gun was in line with his outer thigh. “He's the man who owns the Circle K, right?”

“Wrong. It's even worse than that, ‘cause you can reason with Old Man Krenshaw. Jay Krenshaw is his son, and meanness is his middle name. He ain't the type that fergives and fergits.”

Duane thought for a few moments, and then said, “Neither do I.”

Lieutenant Dawes strode through the detachment area, hands clasped behind his back, cavalry hat low over his eyes. He'd studied the great battles of history, was familiar with the tactics of Caesar and Napoleon, but it meant little in the sagebrush wasteland of West Texas, land of the Comanche and Apache, the most practiced guerrilla fighters in the world.

His father could've obtained a staff position in Washington for his son, but the newly commissioned lieutenant had asked for field duty, and since then served in a succession of forts and posts across the frontier, fighting numerous skirmishes with Indians, and had seen bloody results of Indian depredations. The experience had matured him, but also made him introspective. He was no longer
enthusiastic about military life, and even sympathized with the Indians, who made treaties that the white man consistently violated. And if that weren't enough, he thought that many of his fellow officers were idiots.

One of these days, I'll get an arrow through my skull, he thought morbidly. The Indians'll be subdued with me or without me, so what'm I doing here?

Lieutenant Dawes came to stop at the edge of the encampment, and gazed at a flat-topped mountain standing alone like an isolated figure in the dance of time. Solitary, embattled, it reminded him of himself. Lieutenant Dawes was tired of sleeping alone, and couldn't help thinking of Vanessa Fontaine, beautiful, sophisticated, well educated. Now there's potential officer's wife material, he calculated.

Footsteps approached from his rear, and he turned around suddenly. Corporal Hazelwood approached, followed by a small boy. The corporal saluted smartly and said, “Sir, this young gentleman would like to speak with you.”

Lieutenant Dawes looked down at the boy, no older that six or seven. “What can I do for you?”

The boy's eyes glittered with worship as he handed the detachment commander a note.

Dear Lieutenant Dawes:

You are cordially invited to supper tonight at our home, six o'clock sharp.

Mr. & Mrs. Fred Gibson

Jay Krenshaw tried to behave as though the violent confrontation signified nothing of importance as he led the Circle K cowboys out of the valley. But nothing could be further from the truth. The boss's son was in a murderous mood. The cowboys wouldn't respect a weakling, and there was no doubt that the stranger called Braddock had defeated him.

Crooked outfits steal my daddy's cattle, and we can't be everyplace. Maybe Big Al hired himself a fast hand, but we can do the same, he thought angrily. Jay Krenshaw turned around in his saddle. “Raybart—git yer ass up here!”

A rider detached himself from the pack, and rode forward. Raybart was older than the other cowboys, soft around his middle, and always looked as though he needed a shave. His nose was a small potato suspended above fleshly lips, and he had no discernible chin.

The boss's son leaned toward him. “Know who that feller was back thar?”

“Never see'd him afore.”

“McGrath said his name was Braddock. That mean anything to you?”

“There was a Braddock what got shot long time ago.”

“This one's got hired gun written all over him. How can I find out about him?”

“He probably stopped off in Shelby. Maybe Gibson knows who he is.”

Krenshaw thought for a few moments, as if reaching a decision. Then he said, “Go to town and have a talk with Gibson. See what he knows about Braddock, and then git back to me.”

“I just can't walk up to ‘im and starting askin' questions, ‘cause he'll git suspicious. I'll have to buy something, and work into it—know what I mean?”

Krenshaw reached into his pocket, pulled out some coins, and passed them to Raybart. “Get going.”

V
ANESSA SAT AT her window, and watched the copper sun sink through orange streaks of clouds. Somewhere on that measureless range, her husband-to-be was working cattle, otherwise he would've returned home by now with a hangdog expression. At least he won't be a financial liability in the short run, she deduced in the practical lobe of her brain. I barely earn enough to take care of myself as it is.

She looked around her room, a far cry from her boudoir back at the old plantation. She'd had brocade drapes and a big plush feather bed, with a closet filled with fashions from New York, London, and Paris. Now all she possessed were her saloon costumes, which she wouldn't dare wear in Shelby, and some
well-tailored but not particularly stylish dresses left from the old days.

Now that money was in short supply, her clothing was starting to fall apart, and she had a small hole in her right shoe. I was crazy to run off with Duane. He's so poor.

Sometimes she wondered what made her tick. How can a woman of thirty-one fall in love with a man of eighteen, who has no money? Is groping in bed so important that it blots out all other considerations? She closed her eyes and sighed as she thought of sleeping with Duane, but it didn't pay the bills. Women who don't plan carefully can end up in deep trouble.

But a scheming woman can get herself into even more trouble. The dinner invitation had originated in Vanessa's convoluted brain, and she'd dropped the hint to Mrs. Gibson, who'd relayed it to Mr. Gibson. Now the lieutenant was coming, and Vanessa entertained serious doubts about the entire dubious enterprise.

He wore the uniform of the Yankee invader, but obviously was a well-bred man, no raving abolitionist by any means, and even Bobby Lee himself had been opposed to slavery. But I'm going to be a married woman, and if I flirt, he'll think I'm a slut, which I probably am. Whatever happened to me? she pondered.

She wasn't sure, but it had something to do with her rootlessness after the war as she traveled from town to town in stagecoaches, meeting a variety of men along the way, most of them liars, villains, and utter swine. Duane's got a good heart, at least. He'd
never take advantage of anybody, if he could avoid it, she rationalized.

There was a knock on the door. “Time for dinner, dear.”

“Be right there,” Vanessa replied in a cheery tone. She looked at herself in the mirror, and hoped she didn't come across as genteel poor, because there was nothing more pathetic. She wore a jade green dress with a high-buttoned collar, and no jewelry or cosmetics. Bringing her face closer to the mirror, she noted a new wrinkle beneath her left eye. I'll be a toothless old schoolmarm in a few years, unless I do something quickly. She pinched color into her cheeks, and ran her tongue over her teeth. Then she narrowed her eyes and attempted to appraise herself objectively. I'm not quite what I was ten years ago, but I'm perfectly presentable, and refinement can be found in my every pore, she told herself.

She realized that her heart raced as she walked down the corridor. What is this madness? Why, I hardly know the man. She entered the ramshackle parlor, where Mr. Gibson sat with his wife and a printed portrait of Sam Houston suspended from the wall.

“Our other guest ain't arrived yet,” Mr. Gibson said, rubbing his hands in anticipation of a sumptuous repast.

Vanessa sat on the edge of a chair, because Miss Dalton's school had taught her to keep her back straight at all times. “Perhaps he was detained by army business,” she suggested.

Mr. Gibson harumphed, looking like an old
walrus. “What army business? They're all just layin' around camp. You can see right into the lieutenant's tent, and all he ever does is read books.”

There was a knock on the door, and the conversation came to an end.

“I'll bet that's him now,” Mrs. Gibson said, as though they lived in a large town, and any number of gentlemen might be calling. She swept grandly across the room, and opened the door. Standing there, backlit by the moon, stood Lieutenant Clayton Dawes, U.S. Fourth Cavalry.

“Come in, sir,” Mrs. Gibson said, with something that appeared a bow.

The West Point officer entered the parlor, and his eyes immediately were drawn to the schoolmarm. “Good evening, Miss Fontaine. So good to see you again.”

Vanessa was amused, because they were behaving as if they were at a grand dinner in Washington, instead of a clapboard shack alongside Comanche territory. But the graduate of Miss Dalton's School had been trained to guard against unwarranted displays of ostentatious manners. Instead, she smiled and said, “How kind of you to take time from your schedule to be with us.”

Fading rays of sun glinted on his gold shoulder boards as he stood before her. Mrs. Gibson took the officer's hand. “This way, sir.”

She led him to the dining room, and told him where to sit, which happened to be the spot directly opposite Vanessa. The plates were already set, and covered with folded white napkins. We're putting on
the dog tonight, Vanessa thought, as she took her seat.

Mrs. Gibson carried in a silver tureen of soup, and placed it on the table. She proceeded to ladle out chicken and vegetables, as Mr. Gibson turned toward the lieutenant. “How much longer do you think your detachment will be in town?”

“Depends on Colonel Mackenzie. Could be permanent.”

They slurped soup, and Vanessa glanced at him out the corner of her eye. He was much taller than Duane, with thicker arms. She wanted to say something scintillating, but nothing came to mind.

He turned toward her abruptly. “Understand you've just arrived in town, Miss Fontaine.”

“Only a few days before you.”

“Where from?”

“Titusville.”

“Were you the schoolmarm there?”

“Just passing through.”

Lieutenant Dawes had been on the frontier long enough to know the unwritten code: Don't ask too many questions. Close up, in the light of lamps, she appeared almost queenly, with her conservative clothing and erect carriage. She'd shine like a jewel on any army post, and make a great general's wife, he thought. “I hope you won't think me rude, Miss Fontaine, but if I'd had a schoolmarm like you, I might've been a better student.”

“I understand that you're a West Pointer,” she replied. “What was your favorite nonmilitary subject?”

“History. How about you?”

“I enjoyed reading novels.”

“Who's your favorite author?”

“Dickens, of course. Do you have a favorite author?”

“Giovanni Battista Vico. He was an Italian, and said that only philosophers can understand history.”

Mr. Gibson decided that it was time to become part of the conversation, although he hadn't the slightest idea of what was being discussed. “History repeats itself,” he said. “Rome fell, and so will America one day—mark my words.”

“Is the soup all right?” asked Mrs. Gibson, adding her own dissonant note to the conversation.

Lieutenant Dawes wished that he could be alone with Vanessa Fontaine, because he felt that they could have an intelligent conversation. But unfortunately Mr. Gibson wanted to discuss the need for permanent protection against the Indians, and Mrs. Gibson continued to ask about the acceptability of her cuisine.

The next course was roast beef with potatoes and carrots. The harmless but mindless conversation touched a variety of pointless subjects such as the weather, as Lieutenant Dawes waited patiently for a lull. Then he turned toward Vanessa, and said, “I hope you were far away from the fighting during the recent war, Miss Vanessa.”

“Unfortunately,” she replied, “my home was in the direct path of General Sherman's march to the sea.”

“Modern warfare can be very harsh on civilian populations, which is regrettable. But I was a schoolboy in Washington, D.C., in those days. We
expected Bobby Lee to burn the capitol to the ground.”

“Too bad he didn't,” she replied with a charming smile.

He sliced thoughtfully into his roast beef. Burn the capitol to the ground? He realized that the beautiful lady sitting opposite him was something of a fanatic.

On the other side of the table, Vanessa perceived his change of mood. I went too far that time, she admitted. He probably thinks I'm a diehard Confederate, and I am!

Mr. Gibson realized that his dinner party was in danger of total disarray. “The war was hard on all of us,” he declared, “but it's no secret that we in the South suffered most, and some of those scars don't heal so quickly. Sherman's army was not exactly on a mission of Christian charity.”

“They were on a mission to break the will of the South,” Lieutenant Dawes replied. “Before people make war, perhaps they should ponder the consequences.” He turned to Vanessa, and their eyes met. “I value people who speak their minds, instead of making the requisite ‘nice' remark. The Civil War has torn this nation apart, and not much good has come from it, except for the freeing of the slaves. But I hope we're not going to get into an argument about slavery. I'd much rather talk about something else, if you don't mind.”

A bell rang in the general store, and Lieutenant Dawes instinctively reached for his Colt service revolver. Mr. Gibson wiped his mouth with his napkin, as he rose to his feet. “A customer.”

He hurriedly departed the room, and a moment later his wife rose to her feet. “Let me clear the table.”

She gathered the dishes, carried them to the kitchen, and disappeared. Vanessa and Lieutenant Dawes were left alone, and a few moments of awkward silence ensued. Vanessa was about to make a banal remark about the weather, when she heard the deep mellifluous voice of Lieutenant Dawes. “I suppose you don't like me very much, because of the uniform I wear. If I were you, I'd probably feel the same way.”

The room fell silent again, and she realized that the next move was her's, as though they were playing chess. “You're wrong,” she replied, “I don't dislike you at all. And you're right, the war
is
over. It makes no sense to look back, but sometimes I can't help it. As Mr. Gibson said, the scars don't heal so easily.”

“I understand,” he replied.

She found his voice soothing. This is a sensitive man, yet he's also confident, strong, and steady as a mountain. “Something tells me that you'll go a long way in the army,” she said. “It's very easy to be with you.”

“Nice of you to say so. I, too, feel a certain affinity between us.”

“Why is it that a man like you has never married?”

“There aren't many available women in this part of Texas,” he explained.

“But surely some colonel's daughter or general's niece ...”

“The competition is fierce, and most of them
can do better than a mere First Lieutenant.”

“But what can a man's rank have to do with true love?”

“Everything.”

The customer shuffled a deck of cards at the round table in the general store. Illuminated by a coal oil lamp, he wore his curl-brimmed cowboy hat low over his eyes, shadowing most of his face, as he turned up the ace of spades.

Gibson recognized him as one of the waddies from the Circle K. “What can I do fer you, Mr. Raybart?”

“Three bags of tobacco,” said Jay Krenshaw's courier.

Gibson moved to the shelves, to retrieve the merchandise. “Sounds like the bunkhouse ran out of smokes.”

“That's what happened all right.”

Gibson dropped tobacco on the table, and accepted payment. “Ain't often that I see you boys in town during the week.”

“Whiskey,” replied Raybart.

Gibson returned to the counter, picked up a bottle of homemade white lightning, and filled the glass to the halfway mark. Then he served it to Raybart. “If you need me for anythin' else, just ring the bell.”

Raybart reached out and grabbed Gibson's wrist. He drew him closer and said in a low voice, “What d'ya know ‘bout a feller named Braddock, who rides fer the Bar T?”

Gibson placed his forefinger in front of his lips. “Shhhh. His woman's back there.”

“Siddown.”

The shopkeeper dropped to a chair. “I don't have much time ...”

“Is he a hired gun?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Where's he from?”

“Titusville, but I'm afraid I really don't know much about him. You don't really think that he's an outlaw, do you?”

“Who's his woman?”

“The new schoolmarm.”

Raybart narrowed his eyes skeptically. “Keep yer ears open. Find out all that you can about them.”

“But ...” Gibson's voice trailed off into the sound of wind rattling the windows of the general store. The unofficial mayor of Shelby felt menaced by the cowboy, whom he barely knew. “Now listen,” he said in a shaky voice, “I'm not a spy.”

Raybart gazed deeply into his eyes. “You're not dead either, yet.”

The cowboys sat around the campfire, gnawing steaks, their eyes half closed with fatigue. Tomorrow they'd be up before dawn for another day of roping and branding. There was little conversation, and the cowboys kept glancing apprehensively at Duane.