The Reckoning (18 page)

Duane was flabbergasted by the sudden turn of events. Phyllis wrapped her arms around him and kissed his cheek. “I'll always love you no matter what.”

Duane felt her body flush against him, and his resolution wavered. Cowboys and soldiers gathered around, and Duane thought that perhaps they understood what he felt, and some of them had illicit backgrounds, too.

“I'll die if you go away like this,” Phyllis said.

Then Lew Krenshaw moved closer, hat in hand, a downcast expression on his face. “I'd like to ‘pol-ogize fer what my son done said,” he uttered. “He shouldn't've put yer bizness in front of us like that. I hate to say it, ‘cause he's my son and all, but mebbe he deserved to git the shit beat out of him. If any-body'd said it to me, I'd do the same damned thang!”

Silence fell over the gathering as Duane held Phyllis in his arms. The warmth of her body filtered through his clothes, and he speculated that perhaps he wasn't as dirty as he'd thought. Just because my mother and father never got married, it doesn't mean that they didn't love each other, and even if they hated each other, what's that got to do with me?

The Bar T ramrod shuffled onto the scene, his hat crooked on his head, gun belt low on his hips. “Where the hell do you think yer a-goin!” he bellowed. “I don't recall a-firin' you!”

Duane carried his bedroll back toward the bunkhouse, as Big Al shouted, “What happened to the music!”

J
AY KRENSHAW HAD the worst headache of his life, and no matter how much he drank, it wouldn't go away. His mouth felt empty, because he'd lost three teeth, and he no longer could breathe through his nose.

He went to bed for several days, refused to bathe or change clothes, and brooded hour after hour. Sometimes he'd pace the floor, imagining how wonderful it would be to bludgeon Duane Braddock to death.

A younger man had beaten the daylights out of him. He couldn't imagine a worse humiliation, and the worst part was that his own father had never returned home. Evidently he was living at the Bar T, sickened by his son's behavior.

Jay felt abandoned by his own father and
blamed Duane Braddock. How can Big Al let his daughter marry that weasel? The more he thought about it, the more demoralized he became. And where in hell in Otis Puckett? He prob'ly din't git my letter, and I'll have to find another gunfighter to do my killin'.

Jay spent hours in bed, unable to move. He felt as if a massive weight lay upon him as he drifted in and out of consciousness. He saw himself hacking Duane to pieces with an ax, or shooting out his eyes with a gun, or stabbing him with a Bowie knife. Images of blood and revenge gushed through his mind. No matter what it takes, Duane Braddock is going to die.

Lew Krenshaw slept in the hayloft of the Bar T, although the Thorntons had offered him the guest room in the main building. Every morning he looked out the window at range land extending to the horizon and wondered at the splendor of God's creation.

He took his meals in the main house, and during one breakfast, Big Al turned to him and asked, “What're you gonna do about that rotten son of yer's?”

They were seated at the dining room table, with Phyllis and her mother in the kitchen. Lew Krenshaw shrugged and said, “Damned if I know. He should've died afore he was borned.”

“Now, now,” Big Al consoled. “That ain't no way ter talk about yer own flesh and blood.”

“I ain't got no use fer a man who carries on like Jay, and I don't care whose son he is.”

“But mebbe you and him can have a talk.”

“You think I ain't tried? There's somethin' wrong with ‘im, always has been, and always will be. Damned if I know whar it comes from.”

“If you don't do somethin' about yer ranch, pardner, you ain't a-gonna have nawthin' left,” Big Al counseled.

“You're a-gonna give up yer ranch someday, too, whether you want to or not. There'll be no room fer it in yer grave.”

“But I ain't in that grave yet, and I don't want to fade away like some old fart.”

“You always was happy ‘bout somethin',” Lew recollected, “but my Jenny died when Jay was a baby, and Jay has growed up to be a snake in the grass. I know it's turrible to say, but it's true.”

“Mebbe you should have a talk with him. Might be all he needs.”

“He ain't innerested in nawthin' ‘cept bossin' people, gittin' drunk, and actin' rowdy. I used to try, don't think I din't, but he was stubborn, mean, an' no good practically from the day he was born.”

It was late Thursday night, and Fred Gibson stood behind the bar of his new saloon. A few soldiers played cards at one table, a carpenter sprawled at another, and the blacksmith stood at the end of the bar, chatting with a traveling salesman who'd arrived on the stage yesterday.

Gibson poured himself a glass of whiskey, and took a sip off the top. Life was going well, and it appeared that he was on his way to financial security,
provided nobody opened a saloon across the street, an unlikely prospect since he owned nearly all of the town. He felt confident that the army post would grow in size, attracting other investors and businessmen to the area. If the railroad constructed a special trunk line to Shelby, he'd be dirty filthy stinking
rich!
I'll build Gertrude a house three stories high, and we'll have servants. He imagined the governor visiting his flower gardens, when suddenly the front door of the saloon opened.

Gibson returned from his reverie. A stranger with narrow shoulders and a potbelly appeared spectrally in black pants, white shirt, and black vest, his hat crooked on the back of his head. The stranger took one look around, then tramped toward the bar.

“What can I do fer you?” Mr. Gibson asked cheerfully, for everyone new meant additional wealth.

“Whiskey,” the man said.

Gibson poured the drink and pushed it forward. The man raised the glass to his chapped lips, leaned back, and drained the glass. Then he placed it on the counter.

“Hit me again.”

Gibson refilled the glass. “Ain't seen you a-fore.”

The stranger winked. “You may never see me again.”

“Movin' on?”

“I'm a-lookin fer an hombre name of Jay Krenshaw. Know whar he lives?”

“Out at the Circle K.” Gibson pointed in a northeasterly direction. “Are you a friend of Jay's?”

The stranger didn't reply. Instead, he raised the second
glass of whiskey and knocked it back. He threw some coins onto the counter, then headed for the door. In seconds, he was gone. Mr. Gibson scooped up the coins and tossed them into his coin box.

He felt a chill up his back. There'd been something odd about the stranger, who hadn't introduced himself, or said what he wanted to see Jay Krenshaw about. Gibson lived in fear of outlaws. There was no bank to lock his money in, and it was hidden beneath the floorboards of his bedroom. I mustn't take counsel of my fears, the shopkeeper reminded himself. I'm sure he's just another harmless stranger passing through, on his way to God Know's Where.

Vanessa Fontaine sat in the combination parlor and dining room of her new home, which had been built by soldiers in their usual slapdash manner. The furniture consisted of a few pieces crafted by the same soldier carpenters, and the table leaned in one direction, the chairs in another, while the bed was lopsided, and the ceiling leaked when it rained.

But Vanessa was trying to make the best of it, although her husband had been on a scout for the past four days, and she wondered whether he'd return in one piece. She felt vaguely dissatisfied as she looked around her ramshackle home. It was the sort of hasty structure that her father's slaves had lived in, but at least her financial problems were over. Never again need she worry about becoming a prostitute, and if Comanches killed Lieutenant Dawes, she'd receive a small widow's allowance, and perhaps even an inheritance.

She could go for a walk, except there was nothing to see. If she roamed onto the sage, a Comanche might grab her. There was no library and she had nothing to read. She'd quit her schoolmarm job because she couldn't manage unruly children who'd rather run and jump than learn to read.

Sometimes she experienced pleasant memories of her singing career, traveling from town to town, singing old Confederate Civil War songs for veterans of that massive conflict. It had given her a strange satisfaction, and she'd loved their enthusiastic applause, but the work was unsteady, and her finances fluctuated radically. She'd arrived in Titusville practically destitute, and if it hadn't been for a stroke of luck, she might've ended in the cribs.

At least I'm safe from that, she thought. There are worse things than being an officer's wife. When she felt most despairing, she recalled a certain young man. She couldn't help wondering if he still thought of the woman with a cashbox where her heart was supposed to be.

“Time to get up.”

Duane Braddock opened his eyes. He lay on the ground near the campfire on a stretch of open range. The face of Ferguson hovered above him.

“I'm awake,” Duane said.

Ferguson headed for his bedroll, while Duane pulled on his boots. Then he stood and strapped on his Colt as his teeth chattered in the cool night air. He pulled on an old red sweater, looked around, and saw no Comanches sneaking up on him. He sat
on a rock near the dying embers of the fire and rolled a cigarette in the darkness.

Men slept around him like caterpillars in cocoons, and he was their eyes and ears for two hours. If the ramrod caught anybody napping on guard, it meant immediate dismissal. Duane was scheduled to marry the boss's daughter, but determined to pull his weight along with the others.

He shuffled toward the remuda, to make certain no Comanches were stealing horses. Then he examined the chuck wagon, to assure that no Comanche was setting it on fire. Finally he returned to the men sleeping around the fire pit to check whether a Comanche was slitting anybody's throat.

Duane returned to the rock and felt fading warmth in the seat of his pants. The sky blazed with stars, the moon a gleaming scimitar floating through wisps of clouds. He absentmindedly flexed the knuckles of his right hand, and winced at the pain. The recently deceased Clyde Butterfield had warned about fistfights, because they produced bruised knuckles, which impeded the classic draw. Duane hoped his hand would heal by the weekend, because the Bar T cowboys were throwing a party in his honor at Gibson's General Store, to celebrate his engagement in appropriate cowboy fashion.

Duane had gone from rank tenderfoot to king of the hill in only a month. Everyone deferred to the future son of the boss, and even McGrath had become more conciliatory. They knew that Duane would give the orders someday, and nobody was anxious to get fired.

My future looks wonderful, Duane considered.
It just goes to show you that if you lead a decent Christian life, all good things will come to you.

The same silver scimitar hung over the chimney of the Circle K ranch as Otis Puckett climbed down from his saddle. He looked around to make sure no one was creeping up on him, then headed for the front porch, where a guard arose from a chair, rifle in hand.

Before the guard could reach full height, a startling phenomenon took place. One moment a fat man walked toward him, and an instant later the guard found himself looking down the barrel of a Colt.

“Drop it,” Puckett said.

The rifle fell to the floorboards, and the cowboy raised his hands. Puckett stepped forward, his toes pointed outward like a duck's. “I'm here to see Jay Krenshaw.”

“Foller me.” The cowboy led Puckett into the house and pointed to a door. “In there.”

The cowboy retreated as Puckett knocked, but there was no answer. He knocked again, waited a few moments, and then opened the door. A dark figure lay on the bed, wrapped in blankets. Puckett lit a lamp, and couldn't help grinning. Jay Krenshaw was fast asleep, sucking his thumb like a baby.

Puckett wondered if he himself did anything strange while he was asleep. He took out his leather tobacco bag, rolled a cigarette, and scraped a match on the floor. The man on the bed didn't stir. It was the first time Puckett had seen a grown man suck his thumb, but Puckett had worked for many different clients throughout his career, and once had been hired by a woman.

He puffed the cigarette lazily, content that his long journey was finally over. He was ready for a bath, a hot meal, and then get on with the job. The sooner he finished, the sooner he'd be with Rosita and her smooth golden body that thrilled and delighted him continually.

“Who's there?” The figure stirred on the bed, and his hand reached beneath the pillow for his Colt.

Puckett drew his gun and pressed the cold metal barrel to Jay's head. “Don't move,” he uttered.

Jay Krenshaw thought the Pecos Kid had finally got him, except the voice didn't sound like the Kid's. Jay turned and was surprised to see a man who looked like Humpty Dumpty in a cowboy hat. Jay wanted to laugh, except Humpty Dumpty was aiming a gun at his head. “Who're you?” Jay asked.

“Din't you send fer me, Mister Krenshaw?”

A smile creased Jay's face as the truth dawned upon him. “I thought you'd got lost!”

Puckett spun the cylinder of his Colt with the side of his thumb, then dropped the weapon into its holster. “Who do you want dead, and where can I find ‘im?”

“His name's Braddock, and they calls him the Pecos Kid. Ever hear of the name?”

“They've got a Kid fer every corner of Texas—I can't keep up with ‘em all. What's he done?”

“He shot Saul Klevins.”

Puckett's ears perked up. “What else you know about Mister Pecos?”

“His father was an outlaw named Joe Braddock, and his mother was a whore, but they never got
married.” Jay gazed into Puckett's little pig eyes. “I want you to kill him.”

Puckett examined the split lip, broken nose, and toothless mouth before him. “Looks like he beat the shit out of you.”

Jay glanced away. “He hit me when I weren't lookin'.”

“That's why yer supposed to keep yer eyes open. Where is he now?”

“He works at the Bar T. They're a-throwin' a party fer him in town on Saturday night, and that might be the best time to nail ‘im.”

“Don't know if I want to wait ‘till Saturday night. I got a wife and family to go home to.”

“If you ride out to the Bar T, you'll have to take on the bunkhouse.”

“What's the party fer?”