The Reckoning

by Mike Torreano

  Ike stared off in the distance. “I need to find her before it gets any colder and winter grabs hold. When do the heavy snows start around here, Buster?”

  “They can come any time now, for sure by Thanksgiving.”

  Ike strode to his horse and swung up without a word.

  “Mr. Porter, wait up. Don’t be doin’ nothin’ hasty now. Where you off to?”

  “Emerald Valley Ranch.”

  “Hold on, now. We don’t know as any of what we just said is really the case here.”

  Ike leveled a steady stare at Buster. “You know that’s what happened, Buster, don’t you? In your heart, you know someone from Emerald Valley shot George, right?”

  Buster hesitated, then nodded.

  “Well, I know it too.” Ike yanked Ally’s reins hard, and the horse reared.

  Buster grabbed Ike’s reins and held them tight. “Stop!” He startled Ike with his unlikely outburst. “Ain’t gonna do you no good to go ridin’ out to the ranch all worked up. Kelly’d shoot you on sight. Shoot you right off your horse, and nothin’ good could come of that. Besides, we don’t know nothin’ for sure yet. Why don’t we go back to town and make a plan, okay?”

  “Whaddya mean, ‘we’? You’re not part of this, Buster.”

  “I figger I already am. If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t be here at this creek, and you wouldn’t know what you think you know, now would you?”

  Ike stared at the handyman, then nodded. “Let’s go.” He felt for the mangled bullet in his pocket and guided the mare away from the creek. He wasn’t sure he was on any track, much less the right one as he swung up on Ally. Where was Sue?

  Buster mounted up, tugged his flask out of his pocket, and raised it just short of his lips. Then he paused. He slowly stuffed the top back on and jammed the bottle back in his saddlebag. He yanked his horse’s reins hard, and the two would-be detectives started back to Cottonwood at a steady gallop.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Late the next morning, Lorraine answered the knock on the boarding house door to see Sheriff Tucker standing on her front porch. “This is a surprise, Sheriff. What brings you out this time of day?” Her scowl said it wasn’t a pleasant surprise.

  “Can I come in, Miss Blanchard? I mean, Mrs. Blanchard?” His rifle hung loosely down by his side.

  “Depends. Have I done somethin’ wrong?”

  “Not so far as I know. This is just a friendly visit. Okay, ma’am?”

  “Suit yourself, Sheriff, but I’m workin’ on dinner right now.” She headed back toward the kitchen.

  “That’s fine. By the way, whatever you’re cookin’ sure smells good.”

  There was a hopeful note in his voice as she walked back into the kitchen. “No need for compliments, Sheriff. I’m just boilin’ up parts of an old saddle, and mixin’ in a dirty bandana for flavor.”

  “No need for sarcasm either, Mrs. Blanchard. I just wanted to ask you a few questions.”

  “Free country. I’d ask you to sit, but you won’t be here that long.” She picked up a large knife and resumed cutting up vegetables and dumping them in her stew pot.

  “So, Lorraine…”

  “That’s Mrs. Blanchard to you.”

  “Yes. Mrs. Blanchard. What can you tell me about your new boarder, Mr. Porter?”

  Lorraine’s ears perked up. “Why?”

  “Because I asked, that’s why.”

  She looked down at Tucker’s rifle. “And put that thing down while you’re a guest in my house.”

  Tucker leaned down and placed the weapon by the kitchen stove, barrel up.

  Lorraine pursed her lips and added more salt to the stew. “I’m gonna need to hear a better reason than that.”

  Tucker struck the black iron stove with the butt of his rifle, and Lorraine started at the harsh sound. She spun toward Tucker and was about to yell at him when he said, “Because he may be a wanted man, that’s why.” He rested the rifle back against the wall.

  “Wanted? Wanted by who?” Her blood was up now.

  “Well now, that’s better.” Tucker stuck both thumbs in the top of pants that strained against his ample waist. “See now, Porter’s from Kansas, which you didn’t probably know.” He puffed his chest so his badge stuck out more.

  Lorraine didn’t respond.

  Tucker said, “Turns out he mighta got himself in a little trouble back there after the war. Seems like someone who looks a lot like him, and another fella been huntin’ down some of the raiders who may have killed his folks.”

  “And that’s supposed to be a bad thing?”

  Tucker’s eyes widened. “Well, sure it is. You can’t just go around shootin’ people ’cause they killed your family.”

  “You can’t?” Lorraine gave Tucker a flinty stare. “Sounds to me like a reasonable thing to do. Say, Sheriff, what were you doin’ during the war? I heard you came here from Kansas too.”

  Tucker took a step back and paused. “This ain’t about me, Lorraine. It’s about a couple of murderin’ vigilantes, and one of ’em might be your new boarder.”

  “I suppose there’s proof of that?” Lorraine turned back to the stove and kept stirring.

  “I reckon there is. Probably. Sheriff back there sent word that he didn’t know nothin’ about it, but I done some more diggin’, see.”

  Lorraine kept her back to him and continued to cut up vegetables at the chopping board.

  “But sounds like this vigilante didn’t get all of the fellas he was huntin’ before some of ’em lit out.” Tucker shifted again, but Lorraine continued to chop without answering. “So then later, he comes out here looking for his sister, he says. But she’s got a different last name than he does. Somethin’ fishy about that. Sounds to me like he’s runnin’ from the law back there.”

  Lorraine gave him a sideways glance and more of the silent treatment.

  Tucker wiped at his brow. “Uh…so the way I figure it, maybe his sister’s just a cover, and he’s using Cottonwood as a hideout.” He cleared his throat loudly.

  Lorraine turned back toward him with the large butcher’s knife still in her hand.

  “So that makes him a dangerous man,” Tucker said.

  Lorraine gave him her best bored look. “Anything else, Sheriff?” She waved the knife about in small circles with a hand on her hip.

  “Just that you need to be on the lookout.”

  “For what?”

  “For anything funny that he does.” Tucker’s voice wasn’t nearly as booming as when he first came into the kitchen. Lorraine continued to brandish the knife about.

  “Exactly what might that be?”

  “I don’t know,” Tucker said, his voice rising, “anything out of the ordinary. Where is he, anyway?”

  “Funny you should ask. I haven’t seen him since breakfast, but I’ll be sure to watch him real close from now on. And now that I think on it, he did eat his eggs this mornin’ kind of like I think a wanted man would. I did notice that.”

  Tucker whacked his hat against his pants leg. “Damn it, Lorraine, I’m serious.”

  Lorraine put a lid on the steaming iron pot and turned back toward the lawman. “Well, I hope I’ve answered all your questions.” She smiled a sugary smile. She hadn’t answered even one.

  Tucker frowned at her.

  She grabbed him by the arm and guided him to the front door. Tucker looked befuddled. “Why, yes ma’am, thank you for your time.”

  “You’re welcome, I’m sure.” She gave him a gentle push toward the porch, closed the door behind him, and turned back to the kitchen with a small smirk. As she cleaned up, the smirk turned to a frown. Maybe the major ought to know about this.

  Lorraine closed up the boarding house and set out straight for the general store, where O’Toole collected messages and letters that came in by stagecoach. Inside, O’Toole was in a hushed conversation with Scratchy. She waited by a table with men’s clothing on it for a moment while they continued to talk, all but ignoring her. No telling h
ow long that old fool Scratchy might be.

  She stomped over to the two and was about to interrupt when Scratchy said, “And I need that there stuff now. You bring it out to the ranch when you got it all together.” The cowhand turned and as he walked away, he tipped his hat to Lorraine.

  O’Toole said in a low voice directed at no one, “He’s a strange one, all right.”

  Lorraine watched Scratchy disappear, then paused in thought before she turned back to the proprietor. “Mr. O’Toole.”

  “Morning, Miss Lorraine, how can I help you?”

  Lorraine wasn’t above a white lie or two if need be. “I was just wondering about the messages the sheriff sent to Kansas recently. He wanted to know if there were any more that came in from back there.”

  O’Toole shook his head. “Not since that one I gave him yesterday. He seemed mighty pleased when he read it.”

  So Tucker was telling the truth. Lorraine hurried out of the store and headed for the stable. Without waiting for Red, she strode inside the squat building, pulled a gelding out of a stall, and saddled him. By then, Red had roused himself from a nap two stalls down. He didn’t ask what she was doing, or where she was going with his horse, he just yawned and boosted her up into the saddle. She set off south out of town.

  Cutting across an open field, Lorraine joined the faint dirt trail that led down to the small creek. She galloped steadily until the row of cottonwoods appeared in the distance ahead, then slowed as she neared the gently flowing water. There was lots of recent horse track. Still a little muddy. No telling who’d left the hoof prints; the trail wasn’t used much. She picked her way across the small stream, spurred her horse on south, and half an hour later had the ranch in view below her. It lay in a beautiful setting beneath low rises that surrounded it. She halted out of sight in a stand of lodgepole pines that grew on the hill that formed a semi-circle behind the ranch. Kelly was down by the barn, with the major nowhere in sight. That clown Scratchy should be riding in from town any time now.

  Just then Scratchy appeared on the main road below, riding at an easy pace. When he got to the ranch, he pulled up to a hitching post by the corral and threw the horse’s reins around it.

  Kelly walked over and huddled with Scratchy for a moment. He rolled a cigarette, and Scratchy held a match up while the foreman cupped his hands around it. They talked for a while longer, then split up. Kelly headed for the main house, stomping his cigarette out in the dirt before he entered.

  Lorraine started her horse down along the faint dirt trail that wound toward the ranch. After a few steps, she reined her mount in. Uncertainty made her stop. Maybe Tucker had already told the major what he’d told her. Besides, Ike didn’t seem like an outlaw hiding out to her. She’d been running to Tompkins with problems ever since her husband died. She was through doing that. He didn’t seem like her protector anymore anyway. After hesitating for a moment, she wheeled her horse sharply back into the evergreens before picking up the little trail back toward town.

  White puffy clouds softened an intense blue sky while another set of eyes watched her ride off.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ike rounded the street corner by The Sew Pretty and came face to face with Margaret Pinshaw not five feet away. He continued to walk in her direction, longcoat unbuttoned, rifle pointed down. Piercing green eyes under his wide-brimmed gray felt hat.

  Margaret stopped in front of him. “Mr. Porter. I, um…you startled me for a moment.”

  “Ma’am?” He touched his hat.

  “Yes, well, I was just closing my shop, you see…and then there you were all of a sudden.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He pointed the rifle barrel further away.

  “Well, good day then.” Margaret pulled one side of her sky blue hat down as if to secure it more tightly.

  “Ma’am.” A hand to his brim again and a nod. As Ike walked away, he took a brief glance backward. Margaret’s blue parasol was spinning above her head. He turned back and headed straight for the boarding house, and the first warm meal he’d had all day. He’d been riding hard for hours. Daylight was fleeing over the mountains as he opened the squeaky door and walked inside. An agreeable aroma met him, and the dining room table was set for three. Buster was already seated, and as Ike sat, Professor Walnutt made an appearance from his room upstairs.

  Walnutt swept his coattails aside with a flourish as he sat. “It’s very good to see you again, Mr. Porter. You have not been around much lately.”

  “That’s right.”

  Buster looked back and forth at his two tablemates, fidgeting in his chair. Lorraine brought the stew pot in and scooped up helpings with a big ladle.

  The handyman broke into a big smile. “Oh, that smells so good, miss.” She plopped a portion on his plate, then on the other two plates as well. Between bites, Buster said, “Say, Miss Lorraine, I heard you had someone else admiring your cookin’ this morning too.” He fixed his attention back on his dinner and attacked a gravied potato.

  Lorraine glared at him. “Suppose I did, Buster. What of it?” Her voice carried no pleasantness.

  Buster glanced at Ike, then back at Lorraine. “Don’t mean nothin’ by it, miss. If I was a bachelor sheriff, I’d be hangin’ around over here too, ’cause you’re the best cook in town.”

  Lorraine looked like she was about to say something when Walnutt interrupted. “The sheriff was here this morning? Whatever for, my good woman?”

  “None of your business, mister, and I ain’t your good woman. And don’t be askin’ for seconds, ’cause there likely ain’t gonna be any for any of you tonight.” She waved the ladle ominously about.

  Ike continued eating, but the professor wouldn’t let him be. “As I said, Mr. Porter, where do you keep yourself during the day?”

  “Didn’t know I had to account to you, Walnutt.”

  Buster squirmed a little and spoke up again quickly. “This is even better than your last stew, Miss Lorraine.” But Ike wasn’t paying attention to him anymore.

  “Well now, it’s just a polite inquiry, Mr. Porter. I’m just making conversation.” He glanced over at Buster and Lorraine.

  Ike looked up from his food and fixed Walnutt with a stare. “It’s not a conversation, and there’s nothin’ polite about it.”

  Buster broke in again, in a high voice. “Say, Professor, what are you a professor of, anyway?” He looked at Walnutt, then seemed to force a smile Porter and Lorraine’s way.

  “I’m a professor of anthropology, sir. Graduated from Cambridge. That’s in England, of course. I studied how man’s basest impulses have driven him during different time periods. As I said, I’m travelling around America gathering material for a seminar I plan to give soon in San Francisco.” He turned his attention back to Ike. “It seems that your American west is a fine laboratory in which to observe man in his most aggressive state. My guess is you would agree, Mr. Porter?”

  Ike laid his fork down, and his left hand disappeared under the table. He rested it lightly on his holster. After staring at Walnutt and considering for a moment, he brought it back up again, gripped his coffee cup harder, and emptied it in one swallow. He turned to Lorraine in the kitchen. “Thank you, ma’am, for a fine meal. Buster said your stew was the best for miles around, and now I know that’s true.”

  As Ike rose to leave, Walnutt needled him some more. “I suspected that my remark would elicit either a surly response or no response at all from you, Mr. Porter. Which it did.”

  Ike squinted at Walnutt, then forced himself to turn and leave for his bedroom. He closed the door behind him, unbuckled his holster, and hung it over the chair by the bed. He threw several handfuls of water in his face and toweled off. He took a deep breath, then undressed and lay down on the lumpy bed in his longjohns. A rising moon shining through the window played hide and seek with scudding night clouds as he drifted off.

  A shot shattered his sleep, and a bullet ripped through the outer part of his right shoulder. He dove for the floor as a secon
d shot from the window buried itself into the wall behind the bed. He winced and reached up for his holster just as a third shot knocked the bedside chair over, freeing his gun. He got off four quick shots toward the open window before stopping to listen. Gravel crunched underfoot as the would-be assassin fled. Ike pushed himself up, limped to the window, and fired off the last two shots into the darkness before slumping to the floor.

  When he woke up, he was back in bed, and his bedroom was all lit up. Lorraine sat nearby with someone she introduced as the town doctor. Doc Early closed his medical bag and had a hushed conversation with Lorraine. Before he passed out, he heard the doctor say, “The laudanum should kick in soon.”

  Ike woke up to a bright sun, and this time he stayed awake. He reached his good arm up and felt around the wound. His shoulder was heavily bandaged with his arm in a sling. Lorraine was still there, dabbing at his forehead with a cool cloth and wearing a worried look. Buster sat in a chair against the wall. When Ike looked over at Lorraine, her face brightened, and she launched into an impromptu speech.

  “There you are. Doc says you’re the luckiest fool cowboy he’s ever seen. Why, no one could have survived that shooting unless they were meant to. That man had you dead to rights. You got no business still bein’ alive.”

  Ike tried to smile. “Does that mean you’re disappointed that I am?”

  “No, because if you was dead, I’ve have to find another boarder, and since I’m already overcharging you for the room, there’s likely no chance I’d find another fool like you.”

  Ike said, “I believe that’s the first nice thing you’ve ever said to me. As for this”—he pointed to his wound—“at least when you shot at me you had the courtesy to miss.” He smiled a wan smile.

  Lorraine beamed. “I would have hit you if I had wanted to. And don’t you go bleedin’ all over my sheets neither. These came direct from back east. They ain’t no Denver homemade ones.”