The Reckoning (7 page)

He opened his eyes and perused the blackness that surrounded him. The rain hissed as if it disapproved of him. He'd been a thief, had killed a man in Arkansas, and sold whiskey to Osage warriors. The son of a mud hut farmer, he'd been poor all his life, and didn't expect anything significant to change.

Just a few more days, he thought, fingering the coins. I'll get me a nice hotel room, and then I'll go to the cribs. Might as well have some fun while I'm at it, he thought as he rode toward the darkness at the edge of the storm.

T
HE COWBOYS RETURNED to the Bar T Saturday afternoon. They herded the horses into the corral, and proceeded to feed and water them, while the Ramrod made his way to the main house.

The front door was opened by Myrtle Thornton. “No trouble, I hope.”

“Only once.” McGrath removed his cowboy hat. “The boss in?”

Myrtle led McGrath to Big Al Thornton, who was seated with his daughter on wooden chairs behind the house, facing the open range. Phyllis wore a pink dress with a high buttoned collar, while the top three buttons of the rancher's shirt were undone.

“Have a seat, McGrath,” Myrtle said. “Let's hear about it.”

McGrath smelled of sweat, tobacco, and horses as he dropped onto a chair. “We had a blowout with the Circle K. They showed up while we was on the north range, and Jay said we was abrandin' their calves. One thing led to another, and before I knew it, that new man you hired beat the hell out of Billie Reade, then he knocked Jay out of the saddle, and I thought for sure there'd be gunplay. You never told me that Braddock was a professional.”

Thornton appeared surprised. “I din't know it myself!”

“His hand moved awful fast.”

Myrtle Thornton interjected: “I told you that he was an owlhoot.”

“Just because he's got a fast hand,” Big Al replied, “that don't mean he's a hired gun. But we don't need no more hotheads around here than we've got already. Tell Braddock that I want to talk to him.”

The cavalry detachment saw no Comanches, witnessed no atrocities, and now were back at their encampment, anxious to prepare for their big Saturday night on the town.

The troopers lined up in front of Lieutenant Dawes, and he inspected them with merciless objectivity. They were covered with dust, wilted in their saddles. If Comanches had attacked on the way in, no telling what might've happened.

Sergeant Mahoney rode toward him, and threw a salute. “Any special orders, sir?”

“I'm going into town for about a half hour. Carry on.”

The detachment commander felt as though his legs were permanently bowed, as he climbed down from his horse. He knew that he should take a bath, shave, and change clothes, but couldn't wait that long. He tossed his reins to the orderly, then headed toward the general store.

Vanessa had been on his mind throughout the patrol, and his future hung in the balance of her decision. Perhaps she changed her mind, he thought, but how could a rational woman prefer an ordinary cowboy to me? He considered himself a first-rate candidate for marriage, but if Vanessa rejected him—it would devastate his vanity, and he'd resume his depressing bachelor career. One day he'd get careless, and somebody's husband would shoot him, or a Comanche would get his hair.

Please say yes, he implored silently, as he strolled down Shelby's only street, headed for Gibson's General Store.

Fred Gibson fretted behind his store window, as he observed the Army encampment on the edge of town. He'd laid in a special stock of white lightning, prepared in a washtub with the aid of his wife, because he'd foreseen demand increasing during the months ahead, as both the Bar T and Circle K added more cowboys, and the Army camp became a permanent adjunct to the town.

Gibson needed capital, his fondest ambition a full-fledged saloon with gambling tables and girls.
Maybe Mr. Phipps and I can build it, and between the two of us, we can become rich men!

The door opened, interrupting his luxurious reverie. Lieutenant Dawes appeared filthy, as if he'd crawled down main street on his belly. “Glad to see you back, sir,” said Gibson, flashing his shopkeeper's smile. “Have a whiskey on me.”

He poured the glass, and Lieutenant Dawes accepted it with shaky hand. He sipped off an inch, then asked: “Is Miss Fontaine in?”

“Don't know where else she'd be. You look like you've had a rough patrol. Hope there weren't no trouble with injuns.”

“Would you tell Miss Fontaine that I'd like to see her?”

Mr. Gibson departed for the back of the building, and Lieutenant Dawes pushed the glass away, because he didn't dare get drunk at this crucial juncture. Vanessa Fontaine could hurt him far worse than any Comanche, and he tried to calm himself, but believed deeply that his last chance for happiness was on the line. Sure, he might meet another desirable single woman someday, but it was unlikely in remote West Texas. And if he did find another, she'd probably want a rich man, not a mere Lieutenant in the Fourth Calvary.

Mr. Gibson reappeared through the curtain, and lowered his eyes demurely. “Miss Fontaine is waiting for you in the parlor.”

Lieutenant Dawes passed into the corridor, and found Vanessa seated next to the fireplace. She arose as he approached, and they beheld each other tentatively.

“I apologize for my appearance,” he said stiffly, “but I was anxious to see you. Have you reached a decision concerning . . .”

His voice trailed off, because he was afraid to say it. He felt awkward, despicable, and bedraggled as he awaited her verdict. She opened her mouth to speak, and he thought he'd faint from suspense.

“I've given considerable thought to your proposal,” she began, “and I've realized how fortunate I am to have found you. We're not children anymore, blinded by foolish passions, but a man and a woman with a good share of experience behind us. I believe that we can have a happy life together.”

He felt as if a sunflower burst inside him, as he took her in his arms. “I've dreamed of you every night,” he whispered into her ear. “I'll try to be a good husband—I promise.”

He closed his eyes, and felt her tall lithe body against him. This is the pinnacle of my life, he thought. With this woman at my side—I cannot fail.

“But there's just one problem,” she whispered softly. “Somehow, I'll have to tell Duane.”

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

Big Al was seated alone in his backyard and casually examined Duane Braddock standing above him. Braddock had a wispy beard, and his rumpled clothes were covered with dried mud. “Have a seat.”

Duane dropped to the chair, wondering if he was going to get fired. “I heard you had a little problem with the Circle K,” Big Al began. “What's yer side of it?”

“One of the Circle K cowboys called me out, then Jay Krenshaw braced me.”

Big Al leaned forward and looked into Duane's eyes. “Are you a professional?”

“Not me, but what would
you
do if Jay Krenshaw drew on you?”

Big Al stared at him. “Let me explain the lay of the land. Jay's father and I are old friends, but Jay's been a hellion practically from the day he could walk, and he's got a mean streak a mile wide. Anyhow, we generally tolerate his ornery nature, because we don't need gunplay on this range. So next time you see Jay Krenshaw—back off.”

“If nobody stands up to him,” Duane countered, “he'll get worse. Sooner or later somebody'll get shot, and do you want it to be one of your cowboys, or one of his?”

Thornton was surprised by the answer, because most cowboys generally clammed up when called before the boss. “Don't you like to work here, boy?”

“Nobody calls me a rustler and gets away with it.”

“A man fights to defend what's right, and not just work the poison out of his system. Whether you realize it or not, you've made an enemy for life. Keep your holster oiled, and take care of your right hand. I'm a-telling you, as sure as I'm sitting here—Jay Krenshaw will try to kill you afore long.”

Phyllis Thornton watched from behind her curtain as Duane headed back to the bunkhouse. Her eyes roved over his hips, the tilt of his hat, his cowboy
swagger. There was something about him that made her nervous, and she chewed her lower lip absent-mindedly, wondering whether she should actually get down from her high horse and
do
something to attract his attention.

Most girls flirted like harlots, and if all else failed, they showed a little leg, but she detested hypocrisy and pretense. On the other hand, Duane Braddock was the best-looking boy she'd ever seen.

She looked in the mirror, and saw imaginary wrinkles around her eyes. It appeared that she was getting a double chin. Her hips were too wide. I don't want to be an old maid—that's all I know. She left the bedroom, and found her father in the backyard, watching the sun sink toward the horizon. He spun around and reached for his gun. Phyllis sometimes wondered whether her father adorned an old wanted poster in a faraway post office.

She plunked onto the chair beside him and thrust out her lower lip. “I'm unhappy,” she declared. “It's the same routine day after day. I wish we could have some fun once in a while.”

Big Al Thornton narrowed his eyes as he scrutinized his one and only daughter. She was a fussy child, and possessed a vitriolic temper, reminding him of himself when he was young, always restless, looking for excitement. “Perhaps you might want to visit your Aunt Lulu in Denver, although I'd hate to lose you to a Shoshoni warrior along the way. Is there anything that we can do here?”

“Yes, but as soon as I say something, you'd tell me that it's impractical, or costs too much.”

“You're not even giving your father a chance!”

“Well, since you put it that way ... I think it might be nice for you to throw a big shindig. You could invite people from across the county, and maybe there'd be less trouble on this range if we all had some fun together.”

Big Al sucked a tooth and wondered what game she was playing this time. “Wa'al, if you think we all need a shindig
that
bad, work it out with your mother. As far as the cost goes—don't worry—I'll pay. What else are fathers for?

Duane shaved in a mirror with a diagonal crack in a rusting frame. It was nailed to a cottonwood tree behind the bunkhouse, near the table maintaining the wash basin and pitcher. He cut himself twice, dried himself with the towel, and returned to the bunkhouse.

The others were preparing for Saturday night. Ross said, “Ramrod wants to talk to you, Braddock.”

Duane buttoned his shirt as he made his way toward the ramrod's shack. He knocked on the door, and it was opened a few moments later by the great man himself.

“I got a job fer you, kid. We need a cat, ‘cuzz we got too many damned rats. It's up to you to get one.”

“But I don't know anything about cats, ramrod. Where should I go?”

“That's yer problem.” The door slammed in Duane's face.

Titusville twinkled straight ahead as the sun merged with the horizon. Amos Raybart was pleased that the first leg of his journey was finally coming to an end. Now he could get a drink of whiskey, a hotel room, and a bath.

He was surprised that Titusville was so huge, because the surrounding range didn't appear very populated. He could perceive buildings in various stages of abandoned construction. On the main street, many buildings were deserted, with windows boarded up. The town seemed to be dying, but Raybart had seen many go bust as gold mines petered out, investment dried up, or the men on Wall Street routed the railroad someplace else.

It felt eerie to be riding down the main street of a mostly unpopulated large town. Raybart kept his right hand near his gun, in case somebody tried to bushwhack him. Farther down the street, he saw more boarded-up saloons and stores, but one drinking establishment wasn't closed, and lights glowed in both windows. The sign above the door said: LONGHORN SALOON.

Raybart licked his lips in anticipation as he reined his horse toward the hitching rail, stepped down from the saddle, and loosened the cinch. The horse drank thirstily from the trough in front of the saloon, as Raybart hitched up his pants. Then he headed for the batwing doors.

A few cowboys sat at the bar, while others were gathered at tables, playing cards, reading old newspapers, or staring mindlessly into space. Above the bar hung a painting of naked women cavorting in a bath, but it was marred by bullet holes. Raybart
slouched to the bar, placed his foot on the rail, and said: “Whiskey.”

The bartender filled a glass and pushed it toward him. “First one's on the house.”

Raybart flipped a few coins on the bar. “What the hell happened to this town?”

“The railroad was supposed to come, but it din't. Let me tell you—this was a real wild-ass place fer awhile there. We had a killin' damn near every Saturday night, and one night there was
six
killin's. But thank God it's settled down. Hard to think straight, when lead is flyin' around.”

The bartender waited on another customer, while Raybart tossed down his whiskey. “Hit me again.”

The bartender returned with his bottle, and topped off Raybart's glass. Raybart leaned closer and said, “I'm a-lookin' fer somebody. You ever hear of Duane Braddock?”

The bartender's eyes bugged out. “That's the Pecos Kid—the feller what's done most of the killin'!”

Now it was Raybart's turn to register surprise. “Is he a hired gun?”

The bartender pointed over his shoulder. “You want to know about the Pecos Kid, that man a-sit-tin' at the table over thar, the one in the stovepipe hat—he knows him about as well as anybody. His name's Farnsworth, and he used to run the newspaper, but now he's a-drinkin' hisself to death.”