The Reckoning

by Len Levinson

  Duane went cold, and his mouth formed a thin indomitable line. Jay felt that his moment of triumph had finally arrived. He pointed toward Duane and said, “This feller here—he ain't the angel what everybody thinks. Duane Braddock is a fast hand what shot five men that I know about, and God only knows how many others!”

  The crowd was silent, and not even Big Al knew what to say. Duane felt as if his heart would stop as Phyllis clutched his hand tightly.

  “Duane Braddock,” Jay continued, “is a killer, but that ain't all I know about him. The rest of us here, no matter who we are, had parents who was married, but Duane Braddock is the bastard son of a dance hall whore and an outlaw named Joe Braddock, who got hung from a tree!”

  The words echoed across the yard, bounced off the barn, and ricocheted against the main house. Duane tried to catch his breath as all eyes turned toward him. It was his most hideous secret exposed to the world, and it felt as though the ground opened up, swallowing him and all his dreams.

  Jay leaned toward Phyllis, painted a cocky half smile on his face, and said, “If'n you want to marry this li'l white trash bastard, that's yer bizness, ma'am, but don't ‘spect me to congratulate you.”

  Something snapped inside Duane as he charged Jay Krenshaw. Jay was prepared for that eventuality, and threw a vicious left hook at Duane's head coming in. Duane blocked it with his right arm, and shot a stiff left jab to Jay's nose. Jay's head snapped back, and Duane cut loose a lifetime of pent-up embarrassment as he hurled a blizzard of unrelenting punches. Everything connected, and Jay was dazed, reeling, struggling to stay on his feet, while Duane bashed him unmercifully. The cartilage of Jay's nose cracked, his front teeth were knocked loose, and a cut opened over his right eye as he struggled to cover up and get away.

  Duane stayed after him, throwing heavy shots with both fists, trying to inflict as much damage as possible. An overhand right sent Jay sprawling against the side of the barn, as Duane moved in for the kill. A tiny part of Duane's mind begged for caution, but Duane had never been so enraged. Duane slammed Jay in the mouth, split his lower lip, and Jay's head bounced off the side of the barn. Duane pushed him backward, whacked him in the liver, and threw a straight right down the middle, flattening what remained of Jay's nose. Jay's head crashed into the barn, bounced, and Duane clocked him with a solid left jab.

  Jay was ready to drop, but Duane wouldn't let him fall. Jay's eyes were bloused, his mouth a bloody mass, and Duane was loading up for another overhand right, when a gang of soldiers and cowboys jumped onto him, to end the gory massacre.

  Duane felt their arms clamp over him, but wouldn't give up. He threw one soldier to the ground, elbowed another on the cheek, but then they were all over him, and the weight of their numbers forced him to the ground. They piled on top of him and buried him as he struggled to get loose. He heard women screaming, men shouting, and then the voice of Lieutenant Dawes. “Let him up!”

  The soldiers and cowboys removed themselves from the pile as Duane tried to work himself free. Finally the last man climbed off, and Duane saw Lieutenant Dawes pointing his service revolver at him. “You're under arrest!”

  Meanwhile, Circle K cowboys gathered around the prostrate form of Jay Krenshaw. “He's still alive,” one of them said.

  The time had arrived for Big Al to take control of his ranch. He stepped in front of his guests and said, “You can't arrest this man fer fightin’. Why, after the lies that Jay Krenshaw said—what'd you expect him to do?”

  A weak voice replied haltingly, “They ain't lies.”

  Everyone turned toward Jay Krenshaw struggling to regain his feet, assisted by his cowboys. Jay's face was a red mask, he spat out a tooth, blood leaked from his left ear, and he looked as if a stagecoach had run over him.

  “Where's Raybart?” he asked.

  In the darkness at the fringe of the crowd, a short chinless man said, “Here I am, boss man.”

  “Tell ‘em the truth.”

  All eyes refocused on Raybart, who felt a strange thrill at being center of attention. He wanted to help Duane Braddock, but had to tell the truth, no matter who got hurt, and where the chips fell. “I went to a Cathlick monastery in the Guadalupe Mountains, where Duane Braddock growed up, and I found out ...” Raybart's throat went dry, because he saw himself as Judas Iscariot, “... that his father was an outlaw, and his mother was a ... soiled dove, and they wasn't married.”

  Duane felt naked, vulnerable, and loathsome as he lowered his eyes. The disgrace overwhelmed him, and he felt their glares as a painful force. He had to get away, and almost wished someone would shoot him in the back as he headed toward the bunkhouse. Now everyone knew the unmentionable truth.

  He felt sick to his stomach, his beautiful dream exploded in his face. It took an eternity to reach the bunkhouse, and inside, he gathered his paltry belongings, stuffed them into his saddlebags, rolled his blanket, and hiked it to his shoulders. Then he heard a sound, and looked down to see Sparky, who whimpered sadly. “You can come with me,” Duane said, “but it's not going to be easy.”

  Duane opened the door, and Phyllis stood before him, with her parents, while behind them, other party guests congregated expectantly.

  “Where are you going?” asked Phyllis.

  “Away,” he replied laconically, carrying his bedroll toward the corral.

  “But I don't want you to leave.”

  Duane couldn't talk about the most embarrassing fact of his life, so he continued on his way. But then Big Al cut in front of him. “Now hold on, than You don't run out on my daughter, ‘specially after I made the announcement.”

  Duane looked him in the eye. “Get out of my way or I'll go right through you.”

  An expression of tenderness came over Big Al's eyes. “It don't matter where you come from, or who yer daddy was. All God cares about is what you do from now on.”

  Myrtle Thornton reached toward Duane. “You'll break Phyllis's heart if you leave. You're not the only one whose folks weren't hitched. Sometimes it happens that way, but all a body can do is just keep going.”

  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!”

  CHAPTER 12

  JAY 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 throu
gh 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.