The Reckoning

by Len Levinson

  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 build
ings 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.”

  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 s
ay 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.