The Reckoning Read online

  CHAPTER 7

  AMOS RAYBART LEANED forward on his saddle as he rode up the winding mountain path. The air filled with the fragrance of ponderosa pines, and birds flitted among the branches. It was midafternoon, and he'd been on horseback for most of the past week.

  The monastery lay straight ahead, according to what he'd been told in the town below. Soon he'd know the truth about Duane Braddock, better known as the Pecos Kid. Was he a priest, a trigger-happy killer, or just a dumb kid?

  The bone that stuck most in Raybart's craw was that Duane had run off with the most beautiful woman in Titusville. The rodentlike cowboy was jealous, for he'd never got anything from women unless he paid cash on the barrelhead. Why did God make me ugly, and Duane Braddock a lady's man?

  He turned a bend in the trail, and a scattering of log buildings could be seen. One was substantially larger than the others, with a tall spire and big cross nailed to the front wall. Raybart realized that he'd finally arrived at the monastery in the clouds.

  The ground leveled, and in the distance, through brilliantly clear air, he saw an array of mountain peaks bristling with trees. He felt as though he were in heaven, far above the filth and blood of the cowboy world. Men in brown robes worked a large field, while cows and sheep grazed nearby.

  Raybart climbed down from his horse, threw the reins over the rail in front of the church, and pushed the front of his hat back. He looked for a source of information, and his eyes fell on a young man in a brown robe, pushing a wheelbarrow full of boulders. Raybart slunk toward him, trying to smile warmly, but it looked like a cross between a leer and a grimace. “Howdy. I'm a-tryin’ to track down a feller who used to live here, name of Duane Braddock. Ever hear of ‘im?”

  The young monk let down his wheelbarrow, and his face froze into an expression of suppressed horror. “What's he done?”

  “He used to live here?”

  The monk looked at the phony badge shining on the front of Raybart's black leather vest. “He kill somebody?”

  Raybart cocked an eye. “What makes you say that?”

  “If you want to find out about Duane Braddock, sir, talk to the abbot. He probably knew Duane better than anybody. You'll find him in that building over there.”

  “Could you get some water for my horse?”

  The young monk dutifully lead the horse toward the stable, and Raybart soon found himself in a moderate-size room with a middle-aged monk writing in a ledger. “May I help you, sir?”

  “I'd like to speak with the abbot.”

  “He's in there.”

  Raybart opened the door and was struck with the stark image of an aged man in a black skullcap reading a book at his desk. Raybart approached on his tiptoes, so as not to disturb him. The abbot was extremely thin, with a salt and pepper beard. The bogus lawman waited patiently for the holy man to acknowledge his presence.

  But the abbot seemed completely absorbed in his reading, and Raybart wondered what it was. Raybart wasn't a churchgoing man, and tried not to think about God, because he'd committed numerous sins throughout his life. He wanted to believe that when you die, that's it. No God or Judgment Day. But other times he believed every word in the Bible, and figured he'd spend eternity in the devil's frying pan.

  Slowly the abbot raised his head and looked into his eyes. “God forgives all sins,” he said. “Have a seat.”

  Raybart was taken aback, and he had an impulse to run out of the abbot's office, jump onto his horse, and ride away, but then caught himself, and sat. “I'm a lawman,” he began. “I'm a-lookin’ fer Duane Braddock.”

  “What's he done?” asked the abbot.

  “What makes you think he's done anything?”

  “Has he killed someone?”

  Their eyes were fastened upon each other, and it was flint on steel. “More than one, I'm afraid,” Raybart confessed.

  The abbot appeared to deflate as he leaned backward in his chair. “My God,” he muttered, clasping his hands together. Then he shook his head sadly from side to side. “How'd it happen?”

  “It's hard to know the truth. Some folks say he used to be a priest. Is that so?”

  “Duane was never ordained, but he spent most of his life here, studying and praying with the rest of us. He was a pious boy, but he had a terrible temper. He nearly killed one of the other boys, and that's when we had to send him away. He's very sensitive, perhaps because of his parents.”

  “Who were they?”

  The abbot sighed, and it didn't occur to him that the man before him might be wearing a tin badge that he'd bought for a few pennies. “Well, his father evidently was an outlaw, and his mother . . . she was one of those ladies who works in saloons.”

  “A whore?” Raybart offered.

  The abbot nodded knowingly. “Some of the boys found out, and one of them began to ridicule Duane, calling him a ... bastard ... in front of the others. That's the one Duane nearly killed. What's he done now?”

  “He's shot five people, but some people say it was self-defense, while others think he's a hired gun called the Pecos Kid.”

  The abbot fingered the wooden cross that hung from his neck. “Duane had the makings of a good priest, with deep feelings for God. But he hurts inside, and it makes him angry. Are you going to arrest him?”

  “He ain't wanted fer nothin’,” Raybart blurted.

  “Then why are you looking for him?”

  Raybart realized that he'd given himself away, but smiled with the confidence of an ex-outlaw. “Official investigation.”

  “You're welcome to stay overnight as our guest. You might want to stop off at the church. Duane spent a lot of time there.”

  Raybart swaggered out of the monastery office with his precious information, but it was growing dark, and he didn't dare go down the mountain when he couldn't see the trail. His eyes fell on the church where Duane had spent so much time. It seemed incredible, but Duane Braddock actually had been raised in the monastery, and then shot five men. The Pecos Kid may've been the partial invention of a drunken reporter, but that didn't make Braddock less deadly.

  Raybart passed from bright sunlight to the darkness of the church interior, and his vision was drawn to a carved wooden statue of the Virgin bathed in candlelight. Raybart moved toward it in strange fascination. He wasn't a Roman Catholic, and preferred whiskey-toting Bible-bashing preachers who ranted against the workings of the devil.

  The closer he came to the statue, the more crude it appeared, painted in bright garish colors. It seemed odd that someone would worship such a thing, but he liked the serenity of the church, and it sounded as if choirs sang softly in the rafters. He sat in a pew and looked at the rough-hewn altar facing a crucifix of Jesus twisting on the cross, drops of red blood on his breast.

  Raybart had attended many prayer meetings in his life and knew what Christianity demanded. You repented, washed yourself in the blood, and were saved. But Raybart had never stepped forward, because he didn't believe that much, and besides, preachers were in it mainly for the money, weren't they? He figured religion was just another crooked business.

  He looked around the church curiously and tried to imagine Duane Braddock praying. The gun-happy cowboy and Bible-toting acolyte didn't fit together somehow. Where'd he get his fast hand? Raybart wondered. He felt an urge to get down on his knees, and lowered himself to the floor. “My God,” he whispered, clasping his hands together. “I guess I'm a no-good son of a bitch.” He thought of the things he'd stolen, the people he'd punched, the lies he'd told, and the times he'd dealt from the bottom of the deck. A terrible remorse came over him, because he knew that his soul had been besmirched by a lifetime of dirty deeds.

  But there was a way to wash them off, according to the preachers. You say that you're sorry from the depths of your heart, and start anew, cleansed by forgiveness of Jesus. Raybart felt alien to himself as he clasped his hands together in the pew. Maybe it's time to be a decent Christian fer a change.

  A delicious feeling came over hi
m, as if he were being bathed in warm blood. He shuddered in the pew, and tears ran down his cheeks. I've been a no-good weasel fer most of my life, but I don't have to be one no longer. I don't want to burn forever in the fires of Hell. What if there's really a God?

  The Bar T cowboys returned to the ranch late Saturday afternoon two weeks later. They headed for the corral, while the ramrod tied his cayuse in front of the main house. He spat out the plug of tobacco and headed for the front door.

  It was opened by Phyllis, a concerned expression on her face. “How'd it go?”

  “Same as last week. Where's yer dad?”

  “His office.”

  He made his way down the hall as she rushed to the window, peering sideways from behind the curtain at cowboys disappearing around the corner of the barn. She caught a glimpse of him atop his favorite horse, and then he was gone.

  “Looking for something?” asked her mother, who'd silently entered the parlor.

  Phyllis turned around. “The cowboys are back,” she explained.

  “Could there be a special cowboy that you've been worrying about, ruining your appetite, keeping you up at night?”

  Phyllis blushed to the roots of her hair.

  “I know everything about you, young lady,” her mother said. “I think it's time you and I had a little talk.”

  The ramrod found Big Al seated at his desk, reading a report on the Texas cattle industry. Big Al looked up, and McGrath could see his boss's eyes bleary from paperwork.

  “We've got most of the calves branded,” he said. “Another week on the north range should do it.”

  “See any injuns?”

  “A few in the distance. Reckon they steal a beeve whenever they get hungry.”

  “I don't mind a beeve once in a while, as long as nobody gets killed. See the Circle K?”

  “No, thank God.”

  Big Al leaned back in his chair. “The air has got so poisoned ‘twixt the Circle K and us, the missus and I've decided that we should throw a big shindig, and invite everybody in the territory, so's we can have some fun fer a change. It'll be next Saturday night, and we'll have plenny to eat and drink, with musicians and all. Natcherly we want you and the cowboys to be there, but I don't want no fights, and no trouble, so pass the word along.”

  McGrath wrinkled his forehead in disapproval. “You invite the Circle K here, somebody'll git shot. They hate us, and we hate them.”

  “I'm going to palaver with old Lew Krenshaw, to make sure there's no gunplay. We're all on this range together, and we've got to git along, like in the old days.”

  “Tell that to Jay Krenshaw.”

  “I will, and you tell them cowboys of your'n that they'd better be a-wearin’ clean clothes, and take baths, ‘cause I don't tolerate no pigs around my daughter. And if any of them gets the notion to start trouble, he'll have to deal with me. By the way, how's that new feller doin'—Braddock?”

  “Hard worker. Keeps to ‘imself. No trouble a'tall.”

  Big Al didn't want to ask more questions about Duane, because he didn't want the ramrod to know his interest. “Git cleaned up, and tell the boys what I said.”

  McGrath departed, and Big Al scratched his chin thoughtfully as he gazed out the window. The mark of a man could be found in his work, and Duane was acceptable to the ramrod, a harsh taskmaster. At least he's not completely useless, Big Al thought.

  He had the unsettling feeling that he was losing his daughter. She'd worshiped him throughout her life, but now he had a rival, and knew that the man who'd changed her diapers would become second-best to a saddle tramp who rode in out of nowhere, with owlhoot written all over him. Big Al scowled as he lit a fresh cigar, filling the air with blue tobacco smoke. People will ask who my daughter married, and I'll tell them The Pecos

  Kid.

  ***

  McGrath stomped into the bunkhouse, reared back his head, and hollered, “The boss is a-givin’ a big shindig next Saturday night, and yer all invited!”

  The bunkhouse erupted with howls of delight. McGrath waited patiently for them to quiet down, but they jumped about like a circus full of monkeys, and Ross swung from the rafters, kicking his legs in the air.

  “Settle down!” McGrath shouted. “I ain't finished. There'll be gals here, and Miss Phyllis, too, so you'd better watch yer manners. And every man will take a bath aforehand, and wear his best duds, because we don't want to look like a bunch of bummers, do we?”

  The bunkhouse rocked on its foundations as cowboys shouted and jumped gleefully. “Gals!” one of them shouted. “Goddamn!”

  McGrath headed for his shack to prepare for Saturday night at Gibson's General Store, while in the bunkhouse, the men set to work heating water for baths. In the far corner, Duane pulled off his cowboy boots and lay on his bunk.

  “Coming to town?” asked Don Jordan, a few bunks away.

  “It's not that much of a town,” Duane replied.

  His intention was to spend another peaceful Saturday night alone in the bunkhouse, and save money for the ranch he hoped to own someday. In addition, he didn't want to run into Vanessa Fontaine and her new husband, the fancypants lieutenant.

  He dozed on his bunk, as others took baths, changed clothes, and prepared for town. Eventually they rode off, and the bunkhouse quieted except for an occasional gust of wind whistling past shingles. Duane lit the lamp, heated water, and took his bath. Then he put on blue jeans, a red shirt, and a green bandanna. He ate steak and biscuits at the table, reveling in his solitude.

  He had to admit that he'd never felt better in his life. The outdoors seemed to agree with him, his face had become deeply bronzed, and he looked like an Indian.

  After supper, he decided to look at Thunderbolt, and then search for something, anything to read. It was dark as he approached the barn, but an oil lamp sent golden effulgence through the windows. Duane stepped inside and saw that the lantern was halfway down the stalls, on the left. A cowboy was brushing a horse, but Duane had thought all the cowboys went to town. Then he noticed a certain curvature of the hip as Phyllis Thornton turned around. “Oh—it's you, Duane. You're not going to town again?”

  “I'd rather take it easy here.”

  She bent over to brush Suzie's forelocks, and Duane caught a glimpse of perfect form. Ashamed of himself, he turned in another direction. She glanced at him over her shoulder.

  “Heard about the shindig?”

  “Yes—McGrath told us.”

  “People will come from miles around, and if the governor wasn't a scalawag, we'd invite him, too. We'll have a band and dancing all night long. Do you know how to dance, Duane?”

  “Not a step,” he admitted.

  “Then you'll have to learn. Maybe I should teach you, as payment for your shooting lessons. I've been practicing with one of my father's Colts while you were away, and I'm getting real good. Maybe you can show me some fancy tricks, like when you catch the gun behind your back.”

  “You're liable to shoot your leg off. It's best to stick with the basics.”

  He noticed that she was sweaty from her exertions, and her complexion glowed with vitality. Her movements were firm and strong, and she was no fragile wraith like Vanessa Fontaine. Duane wondered what it would be like to walk behind her and grab her breasts.

  He swallowed hard, and the artery in his throat pulsated insistently. His foul thoughts embarrassed him, and he took three deep breaths. Meanwhile, she stood erectly and wiped her forehead with the back of her arm, the gesture pulling her blue plaid cowboy shirt against her breasts, revealing more of their shapes than Duane usually saw.

  He appeared in a trance, and she didn't know if it was good or bad. “Could you at least show me how to fast-draw?”

  They were alone in the barn, and the cowboys had gone to town. “Anytime you want.”

  Her innocent eyes twinkled with mischief, and she became awkwardly flirtatious. “Will you dance with me at the party?”

  “I told you that I don't know how to dance.”<
br />
  “And I told you that I'll teach you. It's much less complicated that firing a gun.”

  “I believe your father said he'd shoot me if I ever laid a hand on you.”

  “I believe I told you that he'd apologized for that barbarian remark.”

  Duane smiled. “I'd be happy to dance with you, Miss Phyllis.”

  He pondered whether to invite her to the hayloft, for a little stargazing. Meanwhile, she gathered her brushes and combs. “I've got to get back to the house. Can I have a shooting lesson after breakfast?”

  “Sure, and by the way, do you have anything interesting to read in the house?”

  “I'll see what I can find. Where will you be?”

  “The corral.”

  She headed for the door, and once more he admired a certain outstanding segment of her anatomy, which was set off to perfection by her tight jeans. Duane blew out the lamp, then made his way out of the barn. As he approached the corral, he saw the dark forms of horses in the moonlight, milling around, free of saddles and bridles, having their own special sabbath evening.

  He came to a stop at the rail fence, rested his arms on the top rung, and peered inside at sleek muscular animals. He considered them the most beautiful creatures in the world, and wondered what they thought of the two-legged creatures who had enslaved them.

  One horse detached himself from the mass and moved toward Duane cautiously. Duane reached into his shirt pocket and removed a handful of raisins, which he held out. Thunderbolt lowered his head and scooped up the tasty kernels with his lips.

  Duane patted Thunderbolt's neck, feeling his incredible power. God creates horses, and we ride them into the ground. I'll bet there's much that you could teach me, Thunderbolt. Sometimes I wish that I could be a horse, and run free, but the Comanches would capture me, or the cowboys, and I'd be locked in a corral every night like you.