The Reckoning (19 page)

“He's a-gittin' married.”

Puckett puffed his cigarette as he gazed into Krenshaw's puffy and blackened eyes. “That's one wedding that'll never take place.”

Big Al struggled to breathe. He felt as if a giant were sitting on his chest, as he opened his eyes. He gasped, coughed, and finally the air came through. He took a deep breath, sat up in bed, and reached for a glass of water.

“Are you all right?” Myrtle asked sleepily.

“Natcherly,” he replied reassuringly.

But he wasn't all right. Often he awoke in the middle of the night, unable to breathe, with pains in his chest. And he knew that one night the air
wouldn't come, and he'd die. It was as though Death were heralding his arrival.

Big Al rolled out of bed, threw on his shaggy Buffalo robe, and sat in the chair by the window. The horizon was a faint scrawl in the moonlight, while the heavens sparkled with millions of stars. He felt ancient, and knew that his days were numbered.

Big Al had few regrets. He'd been blessed with a good wife, a beautiful daughter, and the Bar T Ranch. His property would pass to Phyllis someday, and then to Phyllis's heirs, until the end of time.

Big Al preferred to take the long view, because short term considerations were gruesome. He'd get progressively weaker, and shortness of breath would become more prevalent. One day he'd keel over like a sack of potatoes, and then the worms would get him.

Sometimes he thought the Apaches had the right idea. When their people got old, they were left alone with a leather bag full of water, and a few handfuls of food. He'd rather die alone on a forgotten desert than have people staring curiously at his final creaking debilitations. But if I had to play the same hand over, I'd throw down the cards exactly the same way.

The words were brave, but Big Al felt the icy breathe of Death upon him. It made him shiver, but he didn't stop to think that maybe Death was searching for somebody else.

Otis Puckett lit the lamp in the guest room, revealing a bed and chair. Exhausted, he sat on the bed and pulled off his boots. His confidence was challenged by news that he'd have to fight a fast
hand, instead of the usual easy opponent. He resolved to start practicing in earnest tomorrow morning. He didn't want to take the chances of not seeing Rosita and little Julio ever again.

Puckett knew that even the fastest gunfighter was slow if he'd drunk too much, and maybe that's what did in Saul Klevins, or maybe he'd been sick, or perhaps he'd just been with a woman, and was weakened. Puckett would let no whiskey pass his lips until after he killed Duane Braddock. Neither would he sleep with a woman, or expose himself to cold drafts. He wanted to be in perfect condition for the fast hand from the Bar T, who was scheduled to marry the boss's daughter. Am I going to ruin his plans, Puckett thought sardonically.

He pulled out his Colt .44, and it boasted well-worn ivory grips. He'd purchased it in St. Louis when he'd been fifty pounds lighter, and fifteen years younger, at the beginning of his gunfighting career. Since then he'd traveled back and forth across the frontier, killing for dollars.

He plotted his career like any banker or government functionary, and expected a big boost after he shot the man who'd outdrawn Saul Klevins. People would pass the word along, and more work would come his way. Saturday night, the job will be done, Puckett told himself. I'll have my money, while Duane Braddock can visit his father in the next world.

Phyllis dreamed about making love with Duane Braddock. She was sprawled belly down on her bed, hugging her pillow as if it were flesh and blood.
Duane writhed beneath her ministrations, a half smile on his face, his body perfectly formed, a healthy fragrance arising from his chest, reminding her of morning on the sage. “Oh, my darling,” she whispered. “I love you so much!”

Duane became splattered with blood, and she screamed, awakening herself. She pulled back, opened her eyes, and the mangled pillow lay beneath her, her body covered with perspiration, and she was filled with a terrible foreboding.

Her door flung open, and her mother entered the bedroom, her long pigtail trailing behind her. “Are you all right?”

“I had a bad dream,” Phyllis said weakly. “I saw Duane get killed.”

Myrtle sat beside her daughter and wrapped her arm over her shoulders. “Don't worry about Duane,” she soothed. “He's perfectly capable of taking care of himself.”

“But somebody might shoot him in the back,” Phyllis whimpered, “or he could get into an accident.”

“It might be raining pink frogs in Kansas, and the moon might be made of green cheese. We can't lead our lives on
might
and
if
and
maybe.
Duane is a strong young man, and soon you'll be married to him. Now go to sleep, because we all have work to do.”

Myrtle kissed her daughter on the forehead, then departed. Phyllis dropped to her damp sheets and pulled the covers over her. Despite what her mother said, the queasy feeling remained, and would continue to haunt her in the days to come.

J
AY KRENSHAW HAD seen fast hands in his day, but nothing like Otis Puckett. The gunfighter drew so quickly, Krenshaw couldn't perceive the individual hand movements. It reminded him of the sudden lunge of a rattler, or the kick of a mustang. It seemed as if no man could move that quickly, particularly with so much fat around his middle.

Jay lounged against a cottonwood tree, watching Otis Puckett practice. Bottles and cans were lined on a plank behind the kitchen, and Puckett sent glass and tin flying through the sky.

Puckett worked systematically, with no trick moves or flashy conceits. All he did was draw and fire with incredible speed, never missing. Krenshaw didn't dare open his mouth to break the master's
concentration. You git what you pay fer, Krenshaw thought happily, and I paid fer the best.

Jay had taken a bath, shaved, and changed his clothing. He felt as if his life were turning around, because soon he'd wreak vengeance against Duane Braddock, and everybody would know that they'd better watch out for Jay Krenshaw. And maybe little Phyllis will see me in a new light. I'll end up with that gal yet, if'n I play my cards right.

Suddenly Puckett spun around and aimed his gun at the corner of the toolshed. “Who's there?”

A figure emerged, with a sheepish expression and no discernable chin. “I was just a-wonderin' what all the shootin' was about,” said Amos Raybart.

Puckett turned toward Jay. “Get him out of here.”

Krenshaw arose, hiked up his gun belt, and strolled toward Raybart, who smiled nervously. “You heard what he said. Get the hell out've here. And by the way, why ain't you with the others?”

“The ramrod told me to fix the stovepipe. I was jest a-gittin' started, when I heard the shootin'. Thought it might be Comanches a-raidin' the horses.”

“Go back to the stove,” Krenshaw growled. “And keep yer mouth shut about what you seen here.”

“Yessir,” replied Raybart. He scooted away, acting the fool, but knew that he'd just seen something significant. Ordinary cowboys don't draw that fast, he told himself. I'll bet Jay hired him to kill Duane Braddock!

Raybart sat at the table inside the bunkhouse,
listening to steady gunfire, and wanted to warn Duane, but Jay would fire him, and Puckett might even kill him. Yet he couldn't let the former acolyte walk into a gunfight with a professional.

Raybart puffed a cigarette nervously and looked out the window at the clear blue sky. Maybe I should let God take care of it. If He wants Duane to die, it's His business, not mine. Raybart fretted, as in the distance he could hear the thunder of the gun-fighter's Colt.

“What d'ya wanna kill him for?” Puckett asked as he and Krenshaw were having dinner in the main house that afternoon.

Krenshaw looked up from his big bowl of Son of a Bitch Stew, consisting of the brains, heart, kidneys, liver, marrow gut, and sweetbreads of a steer. The question was so preposterous, Jay couldn't think of anything to say.

“I hope you don't mind me a-askin',” Puckett said, “but sometimes I git curious. Why don't you just fergit about ‘im, and go on with yer bizness?”

“The li'l bastard beat the shit out of me when I wasn't a-lookin'. You ain't a-backin' out've the deal, are you?”

“Don't git me wrong, Mister Krenshaw,” Puckett replied. “When I show up in town, somebody's a-goin' to die.”

The cavalry detachment returned to Shelby that evening, and Lieutenant Dawes headed for his home
immediately after dismissing the formation. He found his wife dropped to one knee before the stove, examining something that smelled slightly burned. “My God—what are you doing?” he asked.

“I'm learning to cook.”

He took her in his dusty arms and pressed his dried lips against hers. She felt warmed by the touch of his beard, while his massive physicality turned her on.

“I thought you hated to cook,” he said. “What happened?”

“I needed something to do, otherwise I'll go loco.”

“I know the feeling,” he admitted, as he kissed her nose. “You've been on my mind constantly while I've been on patrol. You look lovely as always.”

“There's no one to talk with when you're not here, and I have difficulty sleeping. I hope we'll be able to move to Fort Richardson soon.”

“Unfortunately, we're stuck here for the time being, and we've got to make the best of it. The worst thing about these small, out-of-the-way towns is that nothing exciting ever happens.”

O
N SATURDAY AFTERNOON, the Bar T cowboys returned to the ranch, herded their horses into the corral, stowed gear, and began preparing for Saturday night. Since it was Duane's party, he got to use the bathtub first. Then he shaved, put on a clean pair of black jeans, black shirt, and green bandanna. He planted his black hat firmly on his head, and headed toward the main house, while the others took their turns in the bathtub.

Duane looked forward to the party, although he knew that it invariably would turn into the usual drunken brawl, with cowboys vomiting over themselves, and probably a few fights. He worked the joints of his right hand gingerly, because the pain hadn't gone entirely. Duane swore that he wasn't
getting into any more fistfights, no matter what the provocation.

He approached the front door of the main ranch building, soon to become his residence. Cowboy carpenters had been laboring on a new addition, where he and Phyllis would sleep in a big brass bed, if it ever arrived from Chicago. He came to the front door, knocked three times, and the moment his knuckle parted company with the door, it opened. Phyllis stood before him, a big smile on her face. “Why, it's Duane,” she said, as if expecting someone else. “Has something happened?”

“Let's take a walk.”

He took her hand, an acceptable familiarity now that they were officially engaged. Side by side they advanced onto the sage, their arms and legs touching, sending thrills from body to body.

“What's bothering you?” she asked.

He pinched his lips together, then said, “I can't stop thinking about you. If we don't . . . pretty soon, I think I'll die.”

“I haven't slept a wink since you've been gone,” she confessed. “I've never been so sick in my life.”

“Maybe I can ask McGrath to put me in a line shack, but I don't think it'd help. The thought of you gets me going, like now.”

They stopped, turned, and faced each other only inches apart. “Maybe we should just do it and get it over with,” she said wearily.

“Where do you think we can go?”

“Meet me in the hayloft after you get back from town.”

They gazed into each other's eyes, and both
realized that they'd come to the ultimate decision. “I feel better already,” he said.

“I hope you're not going to get too drunk tonight.”

“I'm practically a married man, and it's time for me to grow up.”

“I hope you won't lose your temper with somebody. We don't want any more fights.”

“I'm not looking for trouble,” Duane replied, “and if trouble comes looking for me, I'll just walk the other way.”

At the Circle K, cowboys and their horses stood in front of the main house, waiting for Jay Krenshaw and Otis Puckett to come out. They smoked cigarettes in the gathering twilight, mumbling about gunfighters, shootouts, and bloodshed. On a decently managed ranch, they would've been good cowboys, but Jay Krenshaw was disorganized and capricious, and they'd become a lazy bunch with no purpose to their lives. If the job weren't so easy, they would've left long ago.

The front door of the house opened, and two men stepped onto the veranda. One was tall, the other short, round, and funny looking, but nobody dared laugh. Without a word, Krenshaw and Puckett walked toward their horses and mounted up. They wheeled the horses toward Shelby, and the cowboys followed dutifully.

Some cowboys wanted to see Duane Braddock die, because they liked blood, but a few hoped he'd win, since they favored the underdog. Amos
Raybart carried a message scrawled on a scrap of paper, which he hoped to slip to Duane Braddock:

Fat man been hired to kill you. Git the hell outer here fast as you kin.

a friend

The cowboys from the Bar T climbed into their saddles and were about to ride off, when a small rotund creature with a black eye appeared before them, his tail wagging excitedly as he let out a strangled yelp.

McGrath pulled back on his reins. “What the hell do you want!” he roared. “You don't think yer a-comin' to town with us, do you?”

Uncle Ray replied, out of the corner of his mouth, “Reckon he wants to go to the party, too.”

McGrath wagged his gnarled sausagelike finger at the mongrel. “You can come, long as you stay out've trouble.”

Sparky barked in agreement, McGrath put the spurs to his horse's flanks, and the Bar T crew headed toward Shelby. They passed the main house, and Duane saw light in the parlor, where Phyllis and her parents were spending a quiet evening with Lew Krenshaw, permanent resident of the barn.

Duane rode in the midst of the cowboys, not on the periphery as when he'd been tenderfoot. Not only had they accepted him, they also treated him like the boss's son, which sometimes made him feel a freak, but at least he didn't have to worry about rattlesnakes in his bed anymore. Sparky and the
cowboys advanced onto the open range as Duane meditated upon his future prospects. I'm going to own this ranch someday, so I can't be a drunken fool anymore. If a man can't manage himself, how can he expect to manage others?

Lieutenant Clayton Dawes and his wife, the former Vanessa Fontaine of Charleston, South Carolina, sat in their parlor and looked at each other blankly. They were finished with supper, a soldier had washed their pots, pans, and dishes, and now they were alone.

“What do we do now?” she asked, a trace of boredom in her voice.

“I'm conversant on many topics. Take your pick.”

“What do most officers' wives do in circumstances like this.”

“They have children.”

Vanessa raised her eyebrows. “Don't get any ideas, please.”

“I suppose I should've asked before I married you, but my mind was on other things. Don't you like children?”

“Of course I like children. Do you think I'm a monster? But I don't think I'm in any condition to have a child. I mean, what if I need a doctor?”

“If you became pregnant, then I suppose I'd have to let you live at Fort Richardson, near the sawbones.”

Vanessa reflected upon his response. “It doesn't solve the problem of what to do right now.”

“We could go to bed,” he offered.
“It's too early.”

“Not for me.”

“All you ever think of is procreation and food. Then you ride off for four days, and I'm left alone with nothing to do. You have a career, and I have this broken-down shack. Somehow it doesn't seem fair.”

He leaned toward her and looked into her eyes. “My dear, there are many days when I wish I could live your life, sitting here in this cozy little home, without worrying about water, heat, and five hundred Comanches sneaking up on me. Perhaps you should count your blessings.”

She became exasperated. “I know I sound like a spoiled child, but I can't help it if I have an active mind. I need something to entertain me.”

“I'll teach you how to play poker.” He strolled in his big cavalry boots to the bedroom, where he removed a worn deck of cards from his saddlebags. Then he returned to the table.

“What'll we play for?” she asked.

“It wouldn't make sense for us to gamble for money, because whether I won or lost, it all comes from the same place.” He snapped his fingers as if he'd just had a great idea. “I know—we can play Strip Poker.”

She wrinkled her pretty nose. “What's that?”

“When one of us loses a game, that person has to remove an article of clothing. The person who has no more clothing left is the loser.”

“It sounds like an awfully stupid game,” she said, “and I'm sure I'll regret it for the rest of my life, but I'm so bored—go ahead and deal.”

At the other end of town, the cowboys from the Circle K were arriving, led by Jay Krenshaw and Otis Puckett. They rode down the main street and came to a stop in front of Gibson's General Store. Only a few horses were tied to the rail, and none carried the Bar T brand.

“They ain't here yet,” Jay said.

Puckett climbed down from his horse, threw the reins over the rail, and headed for the door. A cowboy opened it, and Puckett entered the saloon. Straight ahead was the bar, with two bartenders grinning at him. “Howdy,” one said.

Puckett's belly hung over his belt, his shirt was unevenly tucked, and he looked tike a slob, but there was a mean gleam in his eye as he climbed onto a stool. “Coffee.”

The bartender poured a steaming cup and pushed it toward Puckett. The gunfighter raised it to his lips as the other cowboys crowded around the bar. Jay Krenshaw sat at the far end, where he'd be out of the line of fire.

Puckett had shot men in houses, hotels, saloons, and once he'd even ventilated a gentleman's head during a solemn church service. But most of the time it was a saloon, not very different from the one he was in. Just another night's work, he tried to convince himself.

But he knew it was a lie. Tonight he'd be facing another fast hand, and one younger than he. Puckett knew that he was losing his powers gradually, but the Kid would improve for another several years.
Puckett couldn't take the Kid lightly, since he'd out-drawn Saul Klevins. The gunfighter spat into the brass cuspidor. I've practiced all week, and still as good as ever.

Some Circle K cowboys sat at tables, while others drank at the bar. It wasn't their typical Saturday night in Shelby, and they were jumpy, ill at ease, and fearful, because flying bullets sometimes struck the wrong cowboy. They had no personal stake in the outcome, and hoped it would end quickly.

Raybart sat with his glass of whiskey in the darkest corner. He didn't want to be Peter, who denied Christ three times on that tragic night of nights. Raybart's hand fingered the note in his pocket. How can I give it to ‘im without a-gittin' caught?

At the end of the bar, Jay Krenshaw savored his glass of whiskey. His nose might never be straight, and chewing would be a problem for the rest of his life, but at last his hour of vengeance was at hand. He yearned to see Duane Braddock lying dead on the floor, so that he could laugh at him.

Mr. Gibson entered the saloon from the corridor in back, and was struck by a sense of foreboding. Instead of the usual drunken merriment, his saloon had the atmosphere of a wake. Maybe I need some musicians, or a dancing girl.

His ambition was a hotel, saloon, and gambling hall towering into the sky like a mountain, with bright lights, and throngs of well-dressed couples strolling about with drinks in their hands. Maybe someday, he thought. John Jacob Astor started with a few beaver skins, and became the richest man in New York.

The cowboys, bartenders, and hired gun sat with their dreams and demons, waiting for
it
to happen, only the entrepreneur hadn't a clue about what it was. A few men played cards, but
it
was difficult to concentrate on the game. Other cowboys were afraid to talk, because they didn't want to disturb the fat man at the bar.

They continually glanced at him, because it wasn't every day that they saw a famous fast hand. It was difficult for them to believe that such an odd-looking person could be a killer. His legs were short, and he had virtually no shoulders as though he'd never worked in his life. Yet they'd seen him practicing behind the main house, and no one dared antagonize such blinding speed.

They waited and sipped whiskey in the silence; even the bartenders felt obliged to keep their mouths shut. Damnation and the faint trace of brimstone filled the air as the minutes ticked away in the cuckoo clock above the bar. Puckett was beginning to feel the strain. He wanted a stiff shot of whiskey, but had to remain steady if he was going to shoot The Pecos Kid.

“Somebody's comin',” said Reade. He looked out the window, and his voice fell in disappointment. “It's soldiers.”

The men in blue, off duty at last, piled into the saloon and assaulted the bar. Puckett arose from his stool and meandered to a table against the left wall, where he sat alone, pleased that his audience was growing. He'd give the soldiers something to remember for the rest of their lives.

A tiny worm of doubt continued to plague him, because the Pecos Kid had shot Saul Klevins. Was it
beginner's luck, or raw talent? Maybe Saul Klevins had been a fraud, and really didn't have a fast hand. There were so many variables, Puckett was getting a headache. I wish he'd show up, so I can get this mess over with.

At first he thought it was blood rushing past his ears, but then became aware of hoofbeats on the street outside. Reade dashed to the window, and his face brightened. “It's the Bar T!”

All eyes turned to Puckett, for the time had come to earn his money. He leaned against the wall, lowered his hat over his eyes, and watched the door. Reade was supposed to point out which one was the Pecos Kid, and then the fun would start.

They heard cowboys in front of the saloon, and the jangling of spurs. Horses snorted, a man laughed, and somebody shouted, “Whoopee!” The Bar T had arrived for their big bachelor party, but it was going to be a funeral.

The door was thrown open, and a cowboy appeared, followed by others. The men from the Bar T swaggered into the saloon, and Puckett scanned them quickly, trying to pick out the Pecos Kid. His eyes fell on a glittering silver concho hatband, and the youthful handsome face beneath it. A chill came over Puckett as Reade indicated him clandestinely. The Pecos Kid vaguely resembled the Angel of Death whom Puckett had seen in his dreams.