The Reckoning (14 page)

S
AM WHEATLY SAT behind the counter of his post office, general store, and real estate office in Laredo. It was a slow day, the region sparsely populated, and few people stopped by. He wore a green eyeshade, long drooping mustache, and baggy eyes.

Once in a while banditos passed through, but Wheatly made it a practice never to argue with loaded guns. Then the cavalry would arrive and spend enough to make up for what the banditos had stolen.

He tabulated bags of coffee and cans of tomatoes, making careful notations on his ledger. Laredo was a small town of saloons, a barber shop, a few whorehouses, and Wheatly's General Store. Peaceful during the day, Laredo could get fairly wild at night,
but he closed the establishment at six, and retired to the back rooms with his wife and three children.

The store was unusually quiet, for his children were in school, and his wife visiting a sick friend. He lit a cigar and blew smoke into the air, content with his humble lot. The store earned a decent living, and he had every expectation that it would continue to prosper as trade increased between Texas and Mexico. I'll be just fine, as long as no bandito shoots me.

The door opened and a fat man was silhouetted in bright sunlight, his black hat low over his eyes. “Howdy, Mister Puckett,” Wheatly said. “Got a letter fer you.”

Puckett was shaped like an egg, narrow in the shoulders, wide in the waist, with heavy jowls and a dour expression. He advanced toward the counter, spurs jangling, and held out his hand.

Wheatly dropped the envelope into it. He'd often wondered about Otis Puckett, who'd ride out of nowhere about once every two weeks, to get his mail. He lived in Mexico, but Wheatly didn't know where.

“Nice day,” Wheatly said, trying to make conversation, and draw out Puckett.

“What's so nice about it?” Puckett growled as he headed for the door.

On the dirt sidewalk, Puckett read the return address on the envelope. Then he tore it open, read the letter, and a cynical smile came over his face. He spat into the street, tucked the letter into his back pocket, and headed for the nearest saloon.

It was a large adobe hut, and a few Mexicans sat bleary-eyed among the tables, with more at the bar. Puckett waddled toward it and said to the bartender, “Tequila.”

The bartender filled a glass and Puckett carried it to a solitary table, where he sat with his back to the wall. Then he reread the letter. His services were requested in Shelby, fifty dollars upon arrival, and another fifty upon completion of the job.

It was the only proposition he'd received all month, because he lived far from main population centers, and folks tended to forget fast hands, as younger men came to the fore. Puckett was forty-two years old and had been a hired killer for most of his life. Across the West, whenever fast hands were discussed, his name would invariably come up. But he lived in Mexico, because he wanted normal family life.

Puckett had an eighteen-year-old Mexican wife, plus a little son. Between jobs, he worked his few head of cattle, and his garden. It was a decent life, and the extra money really helped out.

Sometimes he wanted to move to San Antone or El Paso, so he'd be available for more assignments, but he preferred remote Mexico with his little family. Rosita actually seemed to love him, although he was old enough to be her father, and much too fat.

He placed his hand upon the great solid mass of his stomach. No matter what he did, it kept getting bigger. He knew that he appeared ridiculous to other people, but if they said anything insulting, their lives would come to abrupt ends.

He relaxed, sipped tequila, made plans. I'll go
back to the
ranchero,
say goodbye to Rosita, then hit the trail. Should take about a week, provided the Apaches don't get me.

He wondered vaguely who he'd have to kill this time, and why. In dreams, he'd seen a gunfighter in a black cowboy outfit, with a halo around his head: the Angel of Death. Sometimes, in the morning, the smell of the grave had been in his bedclothes. He knew that one dark night, like every other mortal being, he'd die, but expected that far in the future, and didn't think anyone could defeat him in a standard gunfight.

I wonder what my man is doing right now, and if he knows that he's going to die.

T
WO STEERS SIZZLED and spattered over hot coals, sending a cloud of smoke roiling across the Bar T. It was the morning of Big Al's shindig, and a crew of cowboys ran bright-colored ribbons from the main house to the barn, and then to the bunkhouse. Other cowboys tuned their guitars and fiddles, attempting to practice, while more cleared wagons, barrels, and refuse from the front yard, where the dancing would take place. A different crew hammered together long rough-hewn tables for the food and drink.

An atmosphere of excitement permeated the Bar T, and even Big Al could feel it in his office. It was a day to stuff your belly, meet new people, and have a grand time that you could talk about for the rest of your life.

He remembered when he was young, traveling for days to a party, and raising merry hell. But now he was a parent, and Duane Braddock was giving his daughter shooting lessons. He'd heard that she was becoming a dead shot, and falling in love with him. Big Al had seen the sickly glaze in her eyes when she'd returned from target practice.

He didn't like it, but Myrtle had taken Phyllis's side. Big Al could barely handle one of them, but not both. So he kept his mouth shut, bided his time, and waited for Duane Braddock to step out of line.

Big Al knew that a cowboy would do anything necessary to get his hands on a woman, including lying, cheating, and stealing, and he suspected that Duane Braddock was attempting to seduce his daughter.

I'll watch ‘im like a hawk, Big Al thought grumpily. Let ‘im put one hand in the wrong place—I'll shoot it off.

Meanwhile, Phyllis was buttoning on her favorite white dress. She'd washed it yesterday, and had to lower the hem, because she was growing so rapidly. She looked at herself in the mirror, turning from side to side, trying to see herself from every possible angle. She wanted to look perfect for her father, so that he'd be proud of her.

Her complexion flushed with excitement, and her eyes danced brightly. This was the day she'd planned for, and she looked forward to seeing girls and boys whom she'd met over the years at weddings, funerals,
and other shindigs. Most of all, she wanted to dance with Duane.

She examined herself critically and thought her ears too big, nose too small, and she was getting fat. In a few years, I'll be an old lady, but at least I'll have today. She felt as if her body belonged to somebody named Duane Braddock.

She looked into the courtyard, where steer and hog carcasses turned on spits, basted with a secret concoction by Seamus McSweeny, the cowboy cook. Gaily colored ribbons fluttered in the breeze, and then she spotted
him
sitting atop the barn roof, nailing a ribbon to the beam. He looked down at the point of contact, his hatbrim covering his face, and light flashed on his silver concho hatband as he raised the hammer high.

She experienced a strange sensation as she observed the hammer fall. Maybe it was the rhythm, or he looked like a Greek god seated atop the barn. Something delicate gave way inside her, and she felt afraid of him, for she
needed
him.

He glanced up, and their eyes met across the courtyard. She raised her fingers to her lips and blew him a kiss. He didn't move for a few moments, and she wondered if he'd actually seen her, when suddenly he threw back his head, and roared: “Yiiippppeeeeeeeee!” his voice ricocheting across the hills, melting into the morning breeze.

“Detachment—right face!” shouted Sergeant Mahoney. “First squad—column of two's from the right, forward hoooo!”

Horses' hooves slammed into the ground, and equipment jangled as the detachment moved out, trailed by the townspeople's wagons. It was nearly ten o'clock in the morning, a few wisps of cloud floated across the sky, and everyone anticipated the big shindig at the Bar T.

Lieutenant Dawes rode at the head of the long column, his yellow bandanna flying in the breeze, brass and leather shining. He chewed his lips nervously, because he knew that Duane Braddock would be at the shindig, and believed Vanessa still was in love with him. Maybe I married her too quickly, he speculated darkly.

Behind Lieutenant Dawes rode his detachment of cavalry soldiers, and they, too, were spruced for the shindig, their heads aswim with expectations. They led brutal, dangerous lives, were poorly paid, and were considered lazy, worthless imbeciles by large numbers of taxpayers. The best they could hope for were dank, filthy saloons serving the most horrific whiskey imaginable, and whatever warmth could be provided by fifty cents' worth of prostitution.

But now they were going to a real shindig, with decent people, and real women would be there. Each trooper dreamed that he'd find the prairie princess of his dreams, and she'd fall madly and hopelessly in love with him.

In the end of the column, accompanied by their own special cavalry escort, came five wagons full of men, women, and children wearing their best Sunday clothing. They chattered incessantly about the day that lay ahead, who would be there, and
what they'd eat. Like the soldiers, the townspeople led difficult, repetitive lives, their only entertainment an old newspaper or magazine, or one of the books that was passed from hand to hand, coming apart at the seams.

Seated among them, next to Parson Jones, was Vanessa Fontaine, and the day was going from bad to worse for her. That morning she'd had her first intensive argument with her husband as he'd accused her of being in love with Duane Braddock, and she'd called him a jealous idiot. If that wasn't enough, her husband spent most of his time with the detachment, while she had an empty room for a companion.

But her main worry was Duane Braddock. She didn't know what he'd do when he saw her at the party. He probably hates me, she thought worriedly, and might even shoot Clayton. Maybe I can talk sense to him, but I doubt it. Something tells me that this is going to be the worst day of my life.

Fifteen riders made their way across the range, led by Jay Krenshaw. Their horse's hooves kicked up dust that trailed all the way back to the Circle K as a flock of birds flew over their heads. The cowboys wore their newest outfits, with boots shined and hats brushed clean. They, too, hoped that women would fall in love with them, although they knew it extremely unlikely.

Jay owned a dark business suit, but refused to wear it to the party. Instead, he had on one of his regular rumpled black and white checkered shirts,
with a blue bandanna, and a white hat. He'd bathed, shaved, and wanted to look his best, because he knew that Phyllis Thornton would be there, and he'd loved her in his twisted, malignant way for most of his life.

They'd met as children, but never got on well. Jay had the impression that Phyllis thought him beneath her, which made him angry because he actually did feel inferior to her. She could read and write better than he, and his tongue always stuck to the roof of his mouth whenever he tried to speak with her.

But he had a special advantage: the Circle K Ranch. Jay's father had made no secret about his desire for Jay to marry Phyllis someday, but Phyllis was too young to see practical benefits. Time is on my side, Jay reckoned. The older she gets, the more sense it'll make to her. I'll get my hands on her someday, if I just bide my time.

Next to him, his father sat atop a sorrel stallion, surveying the vast sprawling ranch land. He'd come here as a boy from Louisiana, full of hope and dreams, and now, many years later, he'd achieved his highest aspirations. But somehow it gave him no pleasure, because he knew that he was going to die within the next five to ten years. Sometimes he thought it was better not to've been born.

He glanced at his son and wondered where he and his deceased wife had gone wrong. Instead of a man to take over the Circle K, Jay was erratic, moody, and drank too much. Every cow and building will be gone not long after they plant me in the ground, he predicted.

But Lew Krenshaw had an ace in the hole. He believed that a good woman could redeem a man, and he'd always hoped that Phyllis Thornton would marry Jay. Then Jay would have a family, and settle down, but on the other hand, Jay might continue in his present direction, and become a rotten husband and father. Lew wondered what was bothering his son, and what made him so . . . stupid.

I tried to lead a decent life, Lew said to himself. I believed in God and fought for Texas. What'd I do to deserve such a lazy, useless son of a bitch?

Cowboys positioned chairs around a low rough-hewn table in front of the house, with a view overlooking the yard. Then Big Al made his grand entrance, wearing striped pants and a white shirt with ruffles in front, and a black string tie. He strolled across the lawn, sat on a chair, stretched his legs, and said, “I'm not doin' one goddamned lick of work for the rest of the day.”

A cowboy brought him a glass of whiskey, he took a sip, and then leaned back, proud of all he'd achieved. The ranch was sound financially, if beef prices held. His family would never starve, as long the grass grew. Sometimes he thought about running for Congress, but didn't want to spend the rest of his life fighting liars in Washington. No, he'd rather stay in West Texas, and it gave him satisfaction to be able to entertain his friends and neighbors, for he knew that they worked hard and deserved some fun. “It was a great idea to have this party,” he muttered to himself. “I'm glad I thought of it.”

“Are you talking to yourself again, Daddy?” Phyllis descended the stairs of the veranda, wearing her white dress with red velvet trim.

“Cain't help it,” he replied. “I'm the most interesting man I know.”

She raised her hand to shade her eyes. “I believe somebody's coming.”

He squinted in the direction of her gaze. “Cain't see nawthin'.”

“Looks like the army.”

They watched silently, the daughter standing and her father sprawled on the chair, a glass of whiskey in his hand, as the detachment rode into the yard, accompanied by a cloud of dust. Their brawny commanding officer shouted orders, and then dismounted. He walked toward the wagons, picked up a blond woman by the waist, and gently lowered her to the ground. Then he took her hand and led her toward Big Al.

“Looks like she's the one everybody's a-talkin' about,” Big Al said. “Lordy, is she a tall drink of water, or what?”

“I think she could use a decent meal,” his daughter replied sarcastically.

He glanced at her, because the reactions of women fascinated him. “I would've thought that you and her would be friends, since yer both around the same age.”

“She's practically an old lady!”

The lieutenant escorted his elegant wife up the lawn, and Big Al noted her narrow waist, small breasts, and gleaming golden hair. He'd heard of Duane Braddock's romance with her, and wondered
how a woman of such poise and dignity could get mixed up with a dumb cowboy.

Lieutenant Dawes cleared his throat. “May I present my wife, Vanessa?”

The golden goddess held out her hand, and Big Al didn't know whether to kiss it, shake it, or get down on his knees and kiss her shoes, but she sensed his confusion and boldly grabbed his paw, giving it a warm squeeze. Her smile dazzled him, as she said, “I've heard so much about you, sir.”

Her voice carried magnolia blossoms and mint juleps, and he realized that she was a former belle. “I'm happy to know you, ma'am. If there's anythin' you need, jest ask.”

Phyllis glided behind her father and kicked him in the calf. He let go Vanessa's hand, then grabbed the lieutenant's. “It's always a pleasure to see the army. Is it true that you'll be a-stayin' in the neighborhood fer a while?”

“We're building a small camp here. Thirty-forty men, probably.”

Big Al leaned forward and narrowed his eye. “I guess you'll be a-needin' ter buy beef fer the troops.”

“Reckon so,” replied Lieutenant Dawes, drifting into the area of dollars and cents that tended to cause trouble for officers. “If you want to make your bid for the contract, you'll have to speak to Colonel Mackenzie.”

“In the meantime, who's a-buyin' yer beef?”

“Me, I suppose.”

Big Al grinned, and sunlight sparkled off his front gold tooth. “We'll talk about this some other
time, but now, let me introduce my daughter, Phyllis.”

Phyllis curtsied and fluttered her eyebrows in the appropriate virginal manner. Lieutenant Dawes judged her a ripe young plum ready to be plucked, and she'd inherit the biggest ranch in the territory. Too bad I didn't come for a visit before I met Vanessa, he conjectured. “How do you do.”

Phyllis thought him stiff and affected. “Welcome to the Bar T, Lieutenant.”

The front door of the house opened, and everyone turned to the queen of the Bar T. Attired in a purple dress with yellow trim, she swept down the lawn, and her husband introduced her to the gathering. A conversation of social platitudes ensued on the surface, while Lieutenant Dawes continued to examine Phyllis slyly out the corners of his eyes. Her beauty captivated him, and also caught the attention of Vanessa, who was surprised to find such a delightful creature in the wilderness of West Texas.