The Reckoning Read online

  “Do you, Miss Vanessa Fontaine, take this man, Lieutenant Clayton Dawes, Fourth Cavalry, to be your . . .”

  Vanessa realized that her long travail was finally over, and she was safe at last. “I do!” she replied emphatically.

  Parson Jones continued with the ceremony, and Lieutenant Dawes couldn't believe his exceedingly good fortune. Now he wouldn't have to spend his life drinking whiskey, playing cards, and chasing whores. He'd have a genuine woman to sleep with every night, an impossible dream just a few months ago.

  “I pronounce you man and wife.” Parson Jones closed his Bible dramatically. “You may kiss the bride.”

  The intrepid officer pecked his wife's cheek, while the Gibsons threw handfuls of rice. The deed is done, thought Vanessa, as her lips touched her new husband. But somehow, inexplicably, she found herself thinking about Duane Braddock. I wonder what happened to him, she speculated, as her husband's arms wrapped around her. I hope he's all right.

  After breakfast, behind the bunkhouse, Duane set up a row of cans on a plank between two barrels. Then he stood about twenty yards away and assumed his gunfighter stance, with his legs slightly bent, shoulders hunched, right hand just above his Colt .44. He pretended that Lieutenant Clayton Dawes stood before him, reaching for his iron.

  Duane's shoulder jerked, his gun flew into his hand, he raised the barrel, took aim, and pulled the trigger. The gun bucked in his hand, as the can flew into the air. Duane held his arm straight as he continued to fire, the air filled with gunsmoke, and finally his hammer went click.

  He counted five cans for five bullets, a perfect score. After loading five more cartridges, he hol-stered the Colt. He pretended to be strolling away from the cans, when suddenly he spun out, yanked the Colt, fired three cartridges in rapid succession, and three more cans were demolished. He holstered the gun, turned in another direction, took a few steps, then dove to the ground, rolled over, and fired the final two cartridges. The first landed on target, but the second went astray.

  He loaded the Colt again, then pretended to give it to someone. Suddenly, he flipped it around and drilled a can through the middle. He tossed the gun into the air, caught it behind his back, and ventilated the next can. But he knew from bitter experience that it was considerably more difficult to hit a target that was firing back. And he realized that no matter how fast a gunfighter, there was always somebody faster.

  He loaded the chambers again and noticed a blue dress appear around the corner of the bunkhouse. “I thought the Comanches were attacking,” said Phyllis Thornton. “What're you doing?”

  “Just practicing.”

  She moved closer. “Mind if I watch.”

  “It's your ranch, Miss Thornton.”

  “Where'd you learn to shoot?”

  “A friend taught me.”

  “I've never seen tricks like that. Do you think you could teach some to me? I've fired guns before, and I know the basics.”

  “Your Daddy might not want me to.”

  “I think he'd be pleased. It's important to know how to shoot.”

  “In that case, the first lesson is never point a loaded gun at anybody, unless you intend to kill him.” He passed the gun to her. “I'll set up some cans.”

  Duane pulled an armful out of the gunnysack, while Phyllis felt the warmth from his hand on the walnut grip. He wore black pants, a black shirt, and a red bandanna, with his silver conchos hatband flashing rays in all directions.

  “Go ahead,” he told her, stepping out of the line of fire.

  She raised the gun, thumbed back the hammer, and sighted along the barrel.

  “Lock your elbow,” Duane said. “And maybe you'd better put a leg behind you, because that gun kicks like a mule. Here, I'll show you.”

  He came up behind her, took her wrist in one hand, and her shoulder in the other. “Like this.”

  Their bodies touched, and her hand trembled slightly. She felt strange, but grit her teeth as she locked her elbow. “Okay to fire?”

  He stepped back. “Whenever you're ready.”

  The gun exploded, simultaneously kicking into the air. It knocked her against Duane, who thrilled at the touch of her body. But she didn't put a hole through anything. “I had it in my sights,” she complained.

  “You're supposed to hold your breath, and squeeze the trigger. Go ahead—try again.”

  She lined up the sights on a can, while he checked her posture. She was healthy, full-bodied, and made Vanessa Fontaine look like a beanpole, although he still considered Vanessa extremely beautiful, and he missed her with all his heart. He noticed the tip of her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth like a berry. The gun exploded, and a can was launched into space, a hole drilled through the top.

  “Not bad,” Duane said.

  Big Al Thornton came into view around the bunkhouse. “What the hell's a-goin’ on here!”

  Duane's eyes darted nervously as he searched for an avenue of escape, but Phyllis turned to her father and said, “Duane was teaching me how to fire his gun.”

  Duane held up his hands. “I figured that everybody should know how to shoot.”

  Big Al looked at him coldly, then said, out the corner of his mouth: “Phyllis, I believe yer mother wants you fer somethin’.”

  She passed the gun to Duane, and their eyes met. “Thanks for the lessons.” Then she headed toward the main house, and Duane gazed at her retreating posterior view, in many ways more beautiful than her front, but then realized that he was leering at the boss's daughter! He tried to smile. “She's a good learner,” he said to Big Al.

  The rancher looked down at Duane, and Duane felt like crawling beneath the nearest rock. “I was a cowboy myself once,” Big Al said, “and I know what yer up to, so let me make somethin’ perfeckly clear. You ever lay hands on her—I'll kill you. Understand?”

  Duane tried to smile. “Yessir.”

  Without another word, Big Al walked back to the house.

  Big Al was grumbling beneath his breath as he opened the front door. Phyllis stood in the middle of the parlor, her arms crossed. “What did you say to him?” she inquired.

  “I know cowboys better than you. They'll do anything to get what they want from a woman, and Duane Braddock has prob'ly kilt a few people in his day. You don't handle a gun like that unless yer a professional.”

  “Then he's the ideal teacher, but you've scared him away. He'll probably run next time he sees me.”

  “He'd better,” Big Al said as he inclined toward his office. He hung his hat on the peg, sat in his chair, and lit a cigar. His head became enveloped in blue smoke as he contemplated imminent discord in his family. He knew that he was too protective of Phyllis, but only because he didn't want her hurt by some fast-talking cowboy. I don't care how good with guns he is. I'll come up behind him with a shotgun and blow his goddamned head off.

  The door to his office flew open, and his wife stood there, with his daughter. Big Al considered jumping through the window and running for his life.

  “What have you done!” his wife demanded, fists on her hips, as she charged like the Fourth Cavalry into his office. “Phyllis was talking with a nice young man, and you embarrassed her? Have you gone loco? How is she ever going to get married if you scare away potential husbands?”

  “That weren't no potential husband,” Big Al replied. “He's a cowboy, and I told him that I'd shoot him if he ever stepped out of line with her!”

  “You old buffalo!” she hollered. “That's not how you get your daughter married off, or don't you want her to have a husband?”

  “She's not marryin’ no cowboy as long as I'm alive!”

  “No matter who he is—you'd find something wrong with him.”

  “Duane Braddock is headed for jail or a grave. Fast hands don't make the best husbands.”

  “I'd rather have a husband who's a fast hand,” Phyllis chimed in, “than a slow hand.”

  Big Al looked skeptically at his daughter. “I can see that he's pulled the
wool over yer eyes, but he don't fool me one bit. I know what's in that varmint's mind, and if I ever catch him with one little finger on you, I'll tear him apart with my bare hands.”

  It was silent as the family reflected upon the patriarch's last remark. Then his wife's voice came like the edge of a Bowie knife. “I know what's wrong with you, you old buzzard. You don't want anybody else to have her, so she can be your own little girl forever, but she's not a little girl anymore, and it's time she got married. You'd better not interfere, or else you'll have to deal with me!”

  Big Al feared no man, but couldn't cope with his wife and daughter allied against him. “She's too young to get married,” he protested weakly.

  “She's older'n most women when they get married. I don't want you interfering with her friends anymore. Is that clear?”

  He knew that if he offered resistance, it would be cold meals and a cold bed, not to mention malevolent glares and no conversation until he surrendered unconditionally. He ran the ranch, but his wife ran his life, and he was too old to find another woman. “All right,” he muttered, “but if she marries a desperado who gets shot someday, don't come a-cryin’ to me.”

  Duane examined the steak sizzling in the pan, then flipped the fried potatoes, and smelled bread toasting atop the stove.

  It was still peaceful in the bunkhouse, and no one had returned from town yet. It was becoming the most spiritual Sunday since he'd left the monastery in the clouds, except for the few moments when the boss had threatened his life.

  Phyllis reminded him of a newly opened rose, while Vanessa was a shrine to Old Dixie. Vanessa was better educated, and worlds above him in manners, but Phyllis Thornton was a frontier kid like he, and they understood each other. Unfortunately, her father hadn't been very friendly.

  Duane shoveled dinner onto a tin plate and carried it to the table. Someone knocked on the door, and he thought it might be John the Baptist. “Come on in.”

  Phyllis Thornton stood in the entry, backlit by the sky. “I apologize for my father,” she said, as if reciting a lecture in school. “He didn't mean anything personal. My mother and I had a talk with him, and he's agreed to let me continue shooting lessons.”

  “I'm free for the rest of the day,” Duane replied. “I'm willing to take the chance, if you are.”

  He wolfed down his food, while she stood in the doorway, becoming aware of the incredible filth of the bunkhouse. It exuded a powerful reek, clothing was strewn everywhere, not one bed was made, and cigarette butts littered the floor, along with a variety of stains, not to mention bones of unnameable creatures.

  She turned to the cowboy eating ravenously at the table and observed his aquiline nose, high cheekbones, and long black sideburns. He's a prince living in a junkpile, she ruminated. “I'll be back in about an hour.”

  The door closed as he slathered a slice of bread with butter. Phyllis possessed a wonderfully rounded caboose, and the mere thought of touching her anatomy caused a delightful sensation. Vanessa Fontaine was a frail, fairy princess, whereas Phyllis was sturdy, steady, and ready. He wanted to take her back to his bunk, but instead had to give her shooting lessons.

  He washed the tin plates in the basin behind the bunkhouse, and realized that rats could no longer be heard gnawing. He filled buckets with water and poured them into the tub atop the stove. Then he tossed in his dirty clothes and soap shavings.

  He stirred the clothes with a wooden paddle, and thought of Phyllis changing clothes at the main house. Whatever I do, I mustn't step over the line. If her father ever caught us, he'd kill me—no doubt about it.

  Phyllis paced the floor of her bedroom, her brow creased with concern. Then she sat on the edge of her bed and chewed her thumbnail. She felt an unfamiliar and indescribable disturbance, and couldn't quite fathom what it meant.

  She couldn't sit still, so she arose and resumed strolling across the floor. There was something about Duane with his long body and big shoulders that she couldn't put out of her mind. He'd eaten heartily, and she found that stimulating, the movements of his sinuous lips.

  I think I'm falling in love with him, she realized with dismay. The sensations were peculiar, for it had never happened before. I wonder what he thinks of me? A frown came over her bright youthful features. He's nice to me because I'm the boss's daughter, that's all. If he met me under other circumstances, he wouldn't even look twice. But I don't want a man to marry me because he's in love with my father's ranch. I would never use my father's wealth to get what I want, or would I?

  She undressed in front of the mirror, trying to appraise herself objectively, noticing blemishes and deficiencies that existed only in her imagination. A boy like Duane could get any girl he wants, and wouldn't waste his time with the likes of me, if I weren't the boss's daughter. She changed into her cowboy clothes, arguing with herself. At least I'll get some shooting lessons out of the deal.

  Duane strapped on his Colt and positioned it low for a fast easy draw. Then he tied the leather thong to his leg, gunfighter style. He put on his hat and slanted it low over his eyes, the silver conchos flashing sunlight through the windows. Outside, Sparky stood ten feet in front of the door, and it appeared that he'd gained considerable weight since Duane had seen him last.

  Duane patted him on the belly. “You don't have to eat them all,” he counseled. “Just kill them all.”

  Sparky barked, and Duane had the uncanny impression that the dog understood every word he said. The faithful animal followed Duane to the shooting gallery behind the bunkhouse, lay in the shade of a cottonwood tree, and observed him carefully.

  Duane lined up tin cans and bottles on the board, then sat on the ground beside Sparky and placed his hand on the animal's back. Duane didn't want to waste ammunition, because he couldn't buy more for a week. He twirled the chamber, holstered the gun, and waited for Phyllis to arrive. The sun shone upon him, and his future appeared full of glittering possibilities. Vanessa still danced in his heart, but now he had somebody new to occupy his thoughts.

  After an interval, she came into view, wearing her cowboy outfit, a big ten-gallon hat shading her features, and she carried four boxes of cartridges. “Daddy gave us these,” she said cheerily, “so that you won't have to use your own.”

  He made no clever remark about getting shot, and maintained his respectful distance. “Practice is the most important part of shooting, so just stand where you are and shoot at the targets. If I see you doing anything wrong, I'll tell you. When your aim improves sufficiently, I'll show you some tricks.”

  He drew his gun, tossed it into the air, caught it behind his back, dropped to one knee, and fired. A bottle exploded atop the board, and the plains echoed with the sound.

  She couldn't help smiling. “How'd you do that?”

  “Practice, that's all.” He handed her the gun, grip first. “Don't forget to keep your elbow straight. The more rigid you are, the better.”

  She turned toward the row of bottles and cans, spread her legs, held the gun with both hands, narrowed one eye, and stuck the tip of her tongue out the corner of her mouth. He took a step backward and evaluated her scientifically. This is a woman who was made for bearing children, he comprehended. She wore black jeans and a red and white polka dot cowboy shirt. There was something jaunty and fearless about her, a full-bodied outdoors girl who rode horses and shot guns just like he.

  The Colt fired, her hands kicked into the air, but no can was drilled, and no bottle shattered. She frowned. “Missed.”

  “Hold the gun steady, line up the sights, and squeeze the trigger. Don't wait so long.”

  She raised the gun in both hands, while Duane moved a few steps for the side view. The artery in his throat began to throb as he noticed the rise of her breasts. The cartridge detonated, and a can rocketed backward, a bullet hole through the label.

  “Do it again,” he said.

  She shifted aim for another shot, and he took a few steps backward, for the long view. She fired, and blew a bottle to smith
ereens.

  “Good shot,” called a voice behind Duane.

  Myrtle Thornton wore a long gray dress with a white apron, as she arrived on the scene, eager to see the man who'd captured the heart of her daughter. She found him sensitive looking, with dramatic cheekbones and piercing eyes. “You must be a good teacher,” she said.

  He didn't know how to reply, while Phyllis appeared embarrassed. The mother scrutinized the shifty-eyed young man, and still was certain that a sheriff looking for him somewhere. “Phyllis said that you do gun tricks. Mind showing me one?”

  Duane loaded his gun and holstered it easily. Then he scratched his nose thoughtfully, as if he were distracted by a wayward fly, when suddenly his hand darted to his gun, he whirled, and a crescendo of gunfire rocked the solitude of the morning. Four cans and one bottle were demolished nearly simultaneously.

  “Who taught you how to shoot like that?” Mrs. Thornton asked.

  “Friend of mine.”

  Mrs. Thornton could understand why her daughter was so taken with him. She hoped that Phyllis wouldn't commit any foolish indiscretions, but didn't want to be a meddling mother either.

  “I've got work to do,” she said. “Duane— thank you for giving Phyllis shooting lessons.”

  The boss lady walked away, and Duane breathed a sigh of relief. The woman terrified him, for some bizarre reason.

  “I think that my mother likes you,” Phyllis said.

  “She thinks I'm an outlaw.”

  “Aren't you?”

  They looked into each other's eyes, and Duane saw the spotless innocence of her soul. He took three deep breaths, and one step backward. Then he reloaded the gun, and passed it to her.

  She took it from his hands and aimed down the barrel at an empty bottle of Old Crow, as he sized her once more. We'd be perfect together, he realized. She squeezed the trigger, and shards of glass exploded into the sunny morning, glittering like a rainbow.