by Len Levinson
The three cowboys rode down the side of an incline, and a vast grass-covered plateau lay before them, adorned with groups of cattle grazing in the sun. On the distant horizon, a row of hills sprawled like rounded teeth.
Duane knew that everything before him would be his someday, and he was astonished yet again by his great good fortune. I couldn't ask for a better woman than Phyllis Thornton, and she comes with all this! He imagined himself removing her garments slowly, and kissing whatever was revealed. It was almost too much to hope for, a ripe young woman, pure as newly fallen snow, together with the Bar T ranch. All I have to do is not get into fights, and keep my hands off her until our wedding night. I hope I can hold off that long.
There was a knock on the door, and Jay Krenshaw opened his eyes. “Who is it?”
“Riders comin’, boss.”
Jay pulled on his boots quickly, then grabbed a gunbelt hanging from the bedpost. He strapped it on, tucked in part of his shirt, put on his hat, and took down the Henry rifle from the wall. Then he jacked the lever, a cartridge rammed into the chamber, and he opened the door, hoping it wasn't Comanches.
He heard shouting in the yard as his cowboys prepared for the visitors. Jay stepped onto the porch and saw the cloud of dust approaching. “You men take cover,” he said. “This could be trouble.”
He ducked behind a water barrel and snaked his neck around so he could observe the advancing riders. It didn't look like a Comanche attack, but the Circle K was in a remote corner of Texas, and unannounced strangers weren't necessarily on missions of mercy.
“Looks like the Bar T,” said Morris Standfield, his ramrod.
“If they're a-lookin’ fer lead,” Jay replied, “we'll give ‘em aplenty.”
He stepped from behind the barrel and strolled toward the middle of the yard. His men joined him, and all carried loaded rifles, ready for anything. The riders from the Bar T galloped closer, and Big Al held up his hand as whorls of dust arose among their ranks. It appeared as though they were being borne forward on a white cloud.
Big Al's white horse came to a stop in front of Jay Krenshaw, and Big Al leaned forward, resting his forearm on his pommel. “This is a helluva welcoming party,” he said in his booming voice. “Did you think we was injuns?”
Jay spread his legs and pointed his forefinger at Big Al. “If yer a-lookin’ fer trouble—you come to the right place!”
“Trouble?” asked Big Al. Then he laughed. “I'm hyar to invite you and yer cowboys to the big shindig I'm a-throwin’ next Saturday. I'll invite yer daddy meself.” Big Al made a move to climb down from the saddle.
“Hold on!” shouted Jay. “My daddy don't talk to nobody! He asked me to keep folks away!”
Big Al climbed down from the saddle and looked Jay in the eye. “I ain't folks, so get out've my goddamned road.”
Jay could offer no resistance, because Big Al and Jay's father had known each other since San Jacinto, where a bunch of ranchers, cowboys, sheepherders, and dirt farmers had fought off the Mexican Army, and established the Republic of Texas. Old Lew Krenshaw and Big Al Thornton were considered founding fathers, almost godlike in the eyes of the younger generation.
Big Al strolled around the main house and headed toward a small cottage in back, with a big cottonwood growing near the front door. He knocked on the door, and a voice inside hollered, “Who the hell is it!”
“It's me, you old horned toad!”
“Wa'al I'll be damned! Come on in!”
Big Al opened the door on a skinny old man with a long white beard and sorrowful eyes sitting at the edge of a cot, his bony knees sticking into the air. Big Al held out his hand. “Yer lookin’ more like Rip Van Winkle every day, Lew!”
“Have a seat, you old varmint.”
Lewton Krenshaw reached underneath his pillow, extracted a bottle, of whiskey, and tossed it to Big Al, who pulled the cork and took a deep long swig as his eyes scanned the interior of the cottage. Books and pamphlets were piled everywhere, clothes hung from nails, everything covered with dust. Big Al sat on the only chair and looked at his longtime friend. “You look like hell, if'n you don't mind me a-sayin’ so, Lew.”
“Feel weak,” Lew Krenshaw said. “Sleep all the time. Lost me appetite. Nawthin’ to live fer.”
“What happened?”
“Don't feel like a-talkin’ ‘about it.”
Big Al slapped his hand on his old friend's shoulder. “Snap out of it, Lew. Whatever it is, it cain't be that bad. Why don't you git it off'n yer chest—you'll feel better.”
Lew looked down at the floor glumly. “You know what it is.”
“Jay?”
“The missus and me, we give him everythin’ he wanted, but he was an ornery li'l cuss from the day he was borned, just like yer daughter was a sweetheart from the day she was borned. I had my hopes on him, but he's . . . maybe I'd better not say it.”
“Why don't you kick his ass out've here? Let ‘im git along on his own fer a while, and find out what life's about?”
“He won't work, and somebody'd prob'ly shoot him.”
“What's that got to do with you a-holin’ up here like a lizard?”
Lew Krenshaw pointed to stacks of books. “I been a-tryin’ to understand, but I jest git more confused. One feller says this, the other feller says that, and some of ‘em have writ that God is dead, and we're all on our own down hyar.”
“Them fellers wouldn't know a bull's ass from a banjo. God ain't no person, so he can't die!”
“If'n he's up there a-lookin’ at us all the time, how come there's so much sufferin’ and badness in the world?”
“I'll ask the big feller next time I see ‘im, but I come here today to invite you to a shindig at my ranch next Saturday.”
“I don't travel no more, Al. Feel better in me little shack.”
“We'll have a band, and you used to stomp with the best of ‘em. You'll have a good time—I guarantee it!”
“Folks'll laugh at me.”
“That's ‘cause you ain't cut yer beard fer five years. You got to pull out of this hole yer in, Lew. It ain't yer fault that yer son's a no-good little fuck.”
“But I'm too old fer parties.”
“To hell with old. You know what I'm a-gonna do if'n I see Death a-comin’ fer me?” Big Al reached behind his belt and pulled his big Bowie knife out of its sheath. “I'll cut his balls off.”
“Why is it,” Lew asked, “that yer like you always was, and I'm so damned old?”
“Cause yer always a-lookin’ back, ‘stead of a-lookin’ ahead. If you don't come to my shindig, I'll hog-tie you and carry you on the back of my horse, and if that crazy son of your'n gives me any shit, I'll punch him through a window.”
CHAPTER 9
SAM 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 l
etter 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.
CHAPTER 10
TWO 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.
