The Reckoning (8 page)

Raybart stared at a rotund man sitting in a corner, staring into a glass and mumbling.

“Is he loco?”

“If he ain't, he's damn close.”

Raybart approached the newspaperman cautiously, because Farnsworth gave the appearance of a maniac about to blow his cork. Bedraggled blond hair poked beneath his hat, the crown of which was dented on the side. He hadn't shaved for several days, and the odor of whiskey radiated from his being. Raybart stopped in front of the table and said: “I'm a-lookin' fer Duane Braddock.”

“Ungrateful little bastard,” Farnsworth replied. He blinked as his watery eyes recognized a new face. “Who're you?”

“It's don't matter,” replied Raybart, as he sat opposite Farnsworth. “What d'ya know about ‘im?”

“Last thing I heard, he was headed south.”

“The bartender said he shot some people here.”

“Five to be exact.”

“Is he a hired gun?”

“There's some that says he is, and some that says he ain't, so you tell me? But I saw him shoot Saul Klevins outside on Main Street, and Klevins was the fastest gun in these parts.”

“If Braddock wasn't a hired gun, how could he shoot the fastest gun in these parts?”

“He had a good teacher, for one thing. You ever heard of Clyde Butterfield?”

Raybart nodded sagely. “They say he was one of the best what ever was.”

“Butterfield taught him everything he knew, and then some. But that doesn't explain anything. Duane had to have something for Butterfield to mold in the
first place. Sometimes I ask myself: Did I create the Pecos Kid, or did he create me?”

“I'm a-tryin' ter figger out who Braddock really is. Do you know anything about whar he come from?”

“He grew up in a monastery in the Guadalupe Mountains. They say he was studying to become a priest.”

Raybart was astonished by this news. “Maybe they lied. Do you know if Braddock is wanted by anybody?”

“If he is, I pity the lawman who's on his tail.”

“What else can you tell me about him?”

“He ran off with the most beautiful woman in town, and I wonder where he is now. What did you say your name was?”

Raybart leaned closer, and gazed into the journalist's eyes. “You never met me, and we never had this conversation.”

Vanessa felt as though God had smiled upon her, as she sat by the window of her room. At last she was getting married to a gentleman of substance, and the past would return in slightly altered form. She'd be treated like a lady again, instead of a loose woman on the deck of life.

As for the bed part, she wasn't wildly in love with Lieutenant Dawes, but felt superior to silly romantic nonsense. Duane would arrive in town soon, and she wondered how to break the news. If she told the truth, there was the possibility that he'd become violent. I'll have to lead into it slowly, and
reassure him every step of the way. He must understand that I'll always reserve a special place in my heart for him.

She thought of being naked with Duane, and a flush came to her cheek. Her mind filled with images that the average Christian would consider lewd. Except for her deceased first love, she'd never enjoyed it as much as with Duane.

It's time to make rational decisions for a change, she lectured herself. I'll have to speak with him alone. She found Mrs. Gibson in the kitchen, preparing roast beef sandwiches for the multitude of cowboys and soldiers who were supposed to show up that evening.

“I've come to ask you a favor, Mrs. Gibson,” Vanessa said. “This may come as a shock, but I've decided not to marry Duane Braddock. I know it sounds terrible, but please try to understand.”

“A woman mustn't rush into these things,” Mrs. Gibson replied, “and cowboys don't exactly make the best husbands. But a West Pointer is quite another matter.”

Vanessa's jaw dropped open. “You know!”

“I seen how both of you look at each other. It's none of my business, but I think you'd be far better off with Lieutenant Dawes. My dear, women like you are not supposed to marry cowboys. You're a lady, and you require a gentleman like Lieutenant Dawes. I consider him an extremely handsome officer, by the way.” Mrs. Gibson giggled like a schoolgirl at her indiscretion.

“That brings me to the favor I need to ask,” Vanessa said quickly. “I need to tell Duane of my
decision, and I'd like to speak with him alone, where he can feel comfortable. Would you mind awfully if I invited him to my room?”

“We wouldn't want a public display, would we? When he arrives, Mr. Gibson will send him directly to wherever you prefer.”

In Titusville, a prostitute with a gimp leg led Amos Raybart down a corridor lined with canvas walls. Her left arm was semiparalyzed, and she held it like the front paw of a squirrel. Meanwhile, on the other side of the shack, a customer groaned like a buffalo during mating season. Raybart's prostitute was pretty if you like big-boned farm girls.

They entered her tiny room, and it too had canvas walls. Her cot was narrow, jammed against the wall, and she had a dresser dotted with tiny bottles of cosmetics. “Fifty cents,” she said.

He dropped the coins into her hand, while the oil lamp cast shadows over his unshaven features. “I want you to ask you a few questions.”

She became suspicious immediately, and made sure that he had nothing in his hands. “Questions ‘bout what?”

He looked into her eyes. “I want you to tell me everythin' you know about Duane Braddock. I understand that he screwed you onc't.”

Her eyes widened at the sound of the name from her past. “He was only here fer a few minutes. It's not like we was friends.”

“Did he say anything ‘bout hisself?”

Her caution grew, and she took a step backwards.
“What you wanna know fer?”

He grabbed her arm, yanked his Remington, and pointed it at her nose. “I'll ask yer agin'. Did he say anythin'?”

“The onliest thang I remember ‘bout Duane Braddock was that while he was here, he got in a fight with three other cowboys, and before it was over, they damn near beat him to death.”

“He took on
three
other cowboys, you say?”

“I know it sounds loco, but ask any of the other girls—you don't believe me.”

Raybart maintained his aim on her nose. “You ever see ‘im again, you better not tell him about me. Understand?”

“I never saw you a-fore in my life, mister..”

He grinned fiendishly, as he holstered his gun. “You can take yer clothes off now.”

It was dark when the Bar T cowboys rode into Shelby. They came to a halt in front of the general store, and tied their horses to the hitching rail.

“Braddock!” shouted the ramrod.

Duane shambled forward. “What d'ya want?”

McGrath pointed his finger at Duane's nose. “I don't care if you get drunk, pass out in an alley, or shoot somebody, but don't fergit the cat.”

“If there's a cat in this town, you can bet your bottom dollar that I'll get him, ramrod.”

McGrath looked at him dubiously, then moved toward the front door, followed by his crew. Duane untied a gunnysack from the back of his saddle and threw it over his shoulders. His plan was to stuff a
cat into the gunnysack, and ride him back to the bunkhouse.

He looked around at the few shacks that comprised Shelby and didn't see any cats. Where should I go? he wondered. He decided to worry about it after he saw Vanessa, and a smile creased his face at the mere prospect of kissing her again. It had been so long since he'd seen her, he'd dreamed about her every night, and now at last they could be together again. He suspected that she'd made arrangements for their imminent wedding, and hoped somebody would give them a cat for a wedding present.

He opened the door of the general store. Before him were soldiers and cowboys sitting at the round table, or on the floor. Another contingent was crowded around the counter, which had become a bar. Mr. and Mrs. Gibson worked frenziedly behind it, pouring whiskey and collecting money, their eyes aglitter with naked greed. Duane tried to attract their attention, but had to compete with shouting soldiers and cowboys.

Then Mr. Gibson noticed the silver conchos reflecting light off his two oil lamps. “In back!”

Duane circled the gang at the bar and came to the curtained door that led to the rear of the house. He pushed it aside and disappeared from view.

Meanwhile, seated in the corner, Lieutenant Dawes watched him go. He'd been curious about Vanessa's former husband-to-be, and now at last had seen him. Just the kind of pretty face that ladies love, he thought cynically, as he raised the bottle of white lightning to his lips.

The voice of Corporal Hazelwood came to him
from the far side of the room. “You fellers see that galoot what just walked in here—the one with the fancy hat?”

“What about ‘im?” asked Private Cruikshank.

“That's the Pecos Kid!”

“Who's the Pecos Kid?”

“When I was in Titusville a few weeks ago, on my way back from furlough, I saw ‘im shoot Saul Klevins!”

“Who's Saul Klevins?”

“The fastest gunfighter in Texas, some said, but he weren't faster than the Pecos Kid. Shot him right through the fuckin' heart, and I was there—I saw ‘im do it!

Lieutenant Dawes was astonished by the news. He hadn't realized that his wife-to-be had been living with a killer! It put a new complexion on the enterprise. If he makes any trouble here, I'll personally arrest him, and I don't care who the little son-of-a-bitch shot.

Duane paused for a look at the parlor, ever fascinated by real homes, where people sat together in the glow of familial love. The priests and brothers at the monastery had been patient, but not parents. Duane desired his own family, and his key to happiness resided right down the hall. He knocked on her door, and waited impatiently as footsteps crossed the floor on the other side.

The door opened, and Vanessa smiled nervously. “Hello Duane—won't you come in?”

Duane was surprised by her formality. Usually,
when they met, they ripped off each other's clothes and caught up on events afterwards. Something seemed out of place, but he chose to ignore it.

She took a deep breath. “I have to talk with you, so you'd better sit down. Would you like a drink?”

He had the premonition that something terrible was going to happen. His lungs deflated, he sat on the chair, tipped up the front brim of his hat, and stretched out his left leg. “What's going on, Vanessa?”

She sat opposite him, looked into his eyes, and said, “We're not getting married.”

The cavern in his stomach opened wide, and he felt like gagging. “What're you talking about?”

“Please stay calm?”

“I'm calm.”

“Promise me that you won't tear the place up?”

“Maybe I'd better have that whiskey now.”

She opened a drawer and took out a pint of Mr. Gibson's homemade white lightning. He accepted it from her hand, pulled the cork, and took a copious swig. It went down like fire, his brain sizzled, and he was jolted into a keener awareness of his emerging situation.

She kneeled in front of him, placed her hands on his knees, and tears filled her eyes. “I'm sorry, Duane, but I've been thinking that we're not such a good couple after all. I'm much older than you, and my needs are far different. Surely you can understand that.”

He couldn't understand anything, and the ache was becoming unbearable. “I always thought we got
along fine,” he mumbled.

“What future could we have together with no money? It's just hardscrabble existence, and in ten years we'll both be worn out.”

He scowled. “You don't believe in me, because I'm younger than you. You think I'm an idiot, but you're wrong. We have something special between us. You can't just throw it away.”

“Every blade of grass and grain of sand is special, but money is the only protection we have against the harshness of the world. It can actually
buy happiness.
”

He hung his head and looked at the floor. “You don't love me.”

“It's out of love that I'm doing this. You shouldn't be tied down to an old hag like me for the rest of your life. When you're thirty—I'll be forty-two. Think about it.”

He stood abruptly. “Now you're trying to humbug me. If I know you—you wouldn't dump one man unless you had another. Who is he?”

“Please don't raise your voice. They can hear you all over the house. I'm the new schoolmarm, and can't tolerate scandal.”

“What's the weasel's name ?”

“I don't think your knowing his name would help anything.”

“I'll find out anyway, so what is it?”

Her eyelashes fluttered, and she appeared as though she were undergoing a tremendous ordeal. “He's in the army,” she said softly.

Duane felt as if someone had hit him over the head with a two-by-four. He staggered from side to
side, as he recalled the general store full of soldiers guzzling white lightning. “You're marrying one of those drunkards!”

She drew herself to her full height, raised her nose, and said, “He's an officer.”

Duane smiled cruelly. “An officer in fancy pants, and you grabbed him like the desperate woman that you are. It didn't even matter that he's wearing a
blue
uniform.”

“The war is over, and it's time to put it behind us. Besides, I don't know how someone your age can talk about the war. You didn't go through it and couldn't possibly know what it was like.”

He took another swig of whiskey, but his heart was ripping down the middle. “You've never taken me seriously.”

“Duane, look at me.” She took his face in her hands and gently turned him toward her. “If I didn't take you seriously, I would never've let you touch me, and I certainly wouldn't've run off with you. But Lieutenant Dawes is a West Point graduate, and could become a general someday.”

“And an Apache might cut off his head. If you loved me, it wouldn't matter where I went to school, and whether I'll be a general.”