The Reckoning Page 12

  Duane often wanted to turn Thunderbolt loose, but a man needed a horse if he wanted to survive on the massive distances of Texas. Besides, Thunderbolt was worth at least forty dollars, more than a month's pay.

  Thunderbolt made a sound in his throat, as if he understood what Duane was thinking. Duane often thought that Thunderbolt was more intelligent than he. Patting the shock of hair between Thunderbolt's ears, Duane said, “I'll take care of you, and you'll take care of me, all right?”

  Thunderbolt snorted suddenly and gazed apprehensively over Duane's shoulder. Duane spun around, reaching for his Colt. His shoulders relaxed when he saw Phyllis approaching with a thick, old, leather-bound tome. “We have an extra Bible, and my mother said I could give it to you. It's a little dog-eared, but no pages are missing.”

  “Today I was wishing that I had my own Bible,” Duane confessed. “Thank your mother for me.”

  Their fingers touched as the Bible passed hands. Thunderbolt examined them curiously, as a coyote howled mournfully in a far-off cave. Phyllis knew that she should return to the main house, but her feet wouldn't move. Duane struggled to find something socially acceptable to say, but wanted to wrap his arms around her.

  “Is that your horse?” she asked.

  “Yes—I broke him myself, and it's something that I'm not very proud of.”

  The rancher's daughter appeared surprised. “Why not?”

  “He doesn't sit on me, so why should I sit on him? Sometimes I think that I should turn him loose.”

  “But you need a horse, don't you?”

  “That's the problem.”

  “Didn't God say that animals were put here for us?”

  “I don't think that Thunderbolt would agree, but he's a very good horse, fast as the wind. If you appreciate a spirited animal, you might take a ride with him sometime.”

  Phyllis wondered if Duane were talking about Thunderbolt or himself when he referred to the spirited animal, and taking a ride with him. Meanwhile, Thunderbolt was aware that three was a crowd. With a whinny, he turned around and headed back toward the other horses, watching the human beings cautiously.

  Phyllis looked up into Duane's swirling eyes. “Why don't you go to town like the other cowboys?”

  “It's just a few shacks nailed together. There's nothing to do except get drunk and fall on your face.”

  “My father said that Mister Gibson is building an addition to the general store, with chairs and tables.”

  “You meet the strangest people in saloons.”

  “Don't people get killed from time to time?”

  Duane pulled out his Colt. “That's what this is for.”

  She looked at the gun, then raised her eyes and examined his facial characteristics close up. He'd cut his chin while shaving, but otherwise was extremely handsome in a roguish way. “I've never met anybody like you,” she admitted.

  “That's probably because you've haven't met many people period. Limited choice, it's called.”

  “I think you're special.”

  He wanted to be charming and devil-may-care, but decided to stick with the truth. “I think you're special, too. If things were a little different, I'd . . .” His voice trailed off into the night.

  She wouldn't let him off the hook so easily. “You'd what?”

  He became ill at ease, but again resolved to be honest. “You're the kind of woman who I'd want to settle down with. We're very similar, you know.”

  “If that's the way you truly feel,” she replied, “well—why don't we just get married?”

  Everything became silent, and even the coyote stopped howling in his far-off cave. “If I give you a ring,” Duane said, “your father will give me a bullet. I have no money, a bad reputation, and my prospects are poor. I think you could do much better.”

  “My mother owned more than my father when they got married, but they've been together for nearly eighteen years. I don't think I'd ever find anybody better than you, Duane.”

  It pleased Duane's vanity that she found him appealing, and he imagined himself writhing naked in the hayloft with her, but then a glimmer of rationality beamed through his surging animal lust.

  “Marriage is a big step,” he lectured, as if he were much older than she. “We can't run into it blindly, and I don't want to elope, because I'm convinced that your father would shoot me.”

  “We should be sensible,” she agreed. “Otherwise no one'll take us seriously. What do you think we should do?”

  He thought of the hayloft, the bunkhouse, and numerous other comfortable spots where two human beings could recline, but then Christian morality overcame him, accompanied by Victorian prudery. He cleared his throat, and said, “Tomorrow morning I'm giving you a shooting lesson, and that's all I can handle right now.”

  “I'd better go back to the house, or my mother will worry. Do you think, under the circumstances, since we're thinking about getting married, that we could kiss good night?”

  His willpower failed totally as he glanced around to make sure that her father wasn't sneaking up on them. Then he held his arms stiffly down his sides and lowered his lips to her. Meanwhile, she stood on her tiptoes and clasped her hands behind her back.

  Their lips drew closer, and his heart leapt with anticipation of her spotless beauty. He opened his eyes at the last moment, their noses almost crashed, then their lips touched softly, gently, tenderly, and his head spun with ecstasy. He thought it the most scrumptious sensation he'd ever known as the fragrance of prairie flowers arose from her bosom. His hands touched her waist, and he felt her go limp against him.

  Her lips were strawberries, and his brain became inflamed. Her dovelike palms came to rest upon his shoulders, their bodies touched, her sixteen-year-old nipples jutted into his shirt. Duane thought he was going mad and struggled to control himself. He tried to take three deep breaths, but her mouth was all over him like petals of the softest flower. He was about to rip off her dress, when he realized that she was a decent Christian girl, and you didn't violate her unless you placed a ring on her finger first. And then he recalled a famous line: If you ever lay hands on her—I'll kill you.

  Duane summoned his strength and pushed her away. Her eyes were ablaze with strange catlike madness, her complexion mottled by emotional confusion.

  “I never kissed anybody before,” she said plaintively, her voice trailing off.

  “I have,” he admitted, “but never as sweet as that.”

  Her eyes glittered in the darkness. “I love you, Duane. Do you think that we could do that again.”

  “If we do, I'll probably end up taking your clothes off.”

  Each took a step backward, and looked at each other longingly.

  “Well, we can't have that,” she said.

  “If we're going to get married,” he replied, “that means we wait a decent interval, and get engaged. About a year later, we'll get married.”

  She held out her hand, just like Big Al Thornton. “It's a deal.”

  They shook as if they'd just sold and bought three thousand head of cattle.

  “I think you'd better go back to the house now,” he said, gazing at her heaving bosom.

  She leapt forward suddenly, touched her lips to his, then turned and fled, her boot heels kicking high in the air. Duane was surprised by her impulse, and could taste her upon his tongue. With trembling hand, he pulled out his little white bag of tobacco. Another moment I would've had her on a haystack, yanking at her buttons.

  He strolled out of the barn, looked at ranch buildings, the corral, and the vast range full of Bar T cattle. If I marry Phyllis, this'll be mine someday! The more he thought about it, the more profound it became. It appeared as if all his dreams were finally coming true. It just goes to show you that if you try to lead a Christian life, the Lord will reward you. As it says in Jeremiah:

  Blessed is the man that trusteth in the Lord

  In back of Gibson's General Store, Vanessa was sitting to dinner with her new husband. In the middle of
the table, a platter of roast beef emitted trails of steam. Vanessa had prepared it under the tutelage of Mrs. Gibson, along with fried potatoes and onions.

  Lieutenant Dawes carved thick slabs of meat, as he said, “We'll have army engineers here in a week, and their first project, after my headquarters, will be our home. You can design it yourself, and supervise construction. Make sure you work in an extra bedroom for our first child.” He awaited her response and noticed that she was gazing past his shoulder at a blank space of wall behind him. “Are you all right, Vanessa?”

  She appeared startled, as if she'd just awakened from a dream. “I'm fine,” she said in a faraway voice.

  “You seem distracted lately, my dear. What's wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You don't want to tell me, but I know what it is. You're thinking about your former boyfriend, the one who likes to shoot people for the fun of it.”

  She glanced at him crossly. “You don't know Duane at all.”

  “Perhaps I know him better than you, because all you see is his pretty face, and can't perceive his violent and bloodthirsty nature, not to mention his outright lies.”

  “I wish you weren't so jealous of him,” she replied. “He's just a boy—can't you tell? If I knew he was all right, I could forget him. But he tends to get into trouble. For some reason, people like you hate him.”

  “I don't hate him, but I have a certain skepticism that you evidently lack. Perhaps it comes from my military training, or maybe I'm just a skeptic at heart. We've been married two weeks, and all you ever do is think about him.”

  She touched her hand to his arm. “You're exaggerating, because you know very well that's not all I do.”

  He placed his hand on hers. “Perhaps I'm being ridiculous.”

  “I just want to know how he's doing, that's all. Can't you ask one of the cowboys from the Bar T?”

  “Do you expect me to walk up to the ramrod and say, Can you tell me how my wife's former beau is doing?”

  “Then I'll have to ask him myself.”

  “You're my wife, and you're going to inquire about the health of your former boyfriend? That will make both of us look like fools! Why can't you forget him?”

  “It's an impossible situation,” she agreed.

  “I'll drink to that.”

  He reached for his glass of white lightning in his rough soldierly manner, and she couldn't blame him for being jealous. What would I do if he had an old girlfriend who he talked about all the time?

  But she knew that Duane hadn't come to town for two Saturday nights in a row, and she hoped that he wasn't brooding with his gun, working himself into a murderous mood. He's not my responsibility, she tried to convince herself. He'll have to get along without me now.

  But somehow, despite everything, she couldn't stop imagining him in her bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt.

  It was after midnight as Amos Raybart rode toward the main house of the Circle K Ranch. He was slouched in his saddle, for he'd ridden many long miles, and he'd even been chased by Comanches for several terrifying hours.

  Raybart felt as if he'd been plunged into hell after his rarified hours at the monastery in the clouds. The world of ordinary men seemed foul and wicked to his born-again eyes. He hadn't even taken a drink of white lightning at the general store in Shelby, where he'd gone to look for Jay Krenshaw, but the Circle K cowboys had told him that the rancher's son didn't come to town.

  I'll git my pay at the end of the month and give it to the abbot, Raybart thought. Then I'll stay at the monastery fer the rest of my life. He stopped his horse in front of the rail, climbed down from the saddle, and hitched up his belt. Then he entered the house and made his way down the long dark corridor to the room at the end.

  He knocked, but there was no answer. Opening the door, he stepped into the small smelly bedroom. A slanted ray of moonshine revealed Jay Krenshaw sprawled facedown on his bed, clothes on, boots off. Raybart lit the lamp on the dresser, revealing bottles everywhere. It appeared as though Jay Krenshaw was in a drunken stupor.

  Raybart didn't care to wake up Jay, because some drunks throw punches upon arising. Perhaps I should pray for him. Raybart clasped his hands together and bowed his head. “Dear Lord,” he whispered, “please put yer healin’ power on this poor soul, and give him . . .”

  “Who's ‘ere?” grumbled Jay Krenshaw, rolling over slowly in his mucked-up bed.

  “Amos Raybart, sir.”

  Jay raised one eye, but the other refused to open. He stared at Raybart in confusion and disbelief, then brought his legs around and sat upright. “Took you long enough,” he muttered. “I was about to send somebody after you.”

  “After Titusville, I rode into the Guadalupe Mountains,” Raybart explained, “where Braddock was raised at a monastery.”

  “He was really a priest!” Jay asked.

  “He didn't git that fur, but he was close to it. The abbot said he was a good boy, ‘cept he had a bad temper. He nearly killed one of the other orphans in a fight, and they threw him out. That's when he went to Titusville, where he met Clyde Butterfield, the old gunfighter—you ever heard of him.”

  “They say he was one of the fastest.”

  “He taught Duane his tricks, and that's how Duane could beat Saul Klevins. Then Braddock ran off with the purtiest woman in Titusville, and come here.”

  Jay Krenshaw leaned forward and looked into Raybart's eyes. “It sounds like a crock of shit to me.”

  “I tracked down the information myself, and it weren't easy. Accordin’ to the abbot, the Kid's loco ‘cause of his parents. His father was an outlaw who got shot or hung someplace, and his momma was a whore who died of some disease. They never bothered to git hitched.”

  Krenshaw smiled. “He's a little bastard, eh?”

  “He's also real good with a gun, accordin’ to the folks what seen him shoot Saul Klevins. I was you, I'd give ‘im plenty of room.”

  “You ain't me.” Jay Krenshaw took a sip of whiskey, rammed the cork back in with the heel of his hand, and leaned toward Raybart again. “Who's the fastest gun you ever heard of—who's still in business?”

  Raybart shrugged. “There's lots of ‘em.”

  “I want somebody who don't live far from here, and I don't care what it costs. Yer a lowdown skunk, Raybart, and if anybody knows—you do.”

  Raybart wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he searched through his memory. “Wa'al, you put it like that—how's about Otis Puckett from Laredo?”

  CHAPTER 8

  MR. GIBSON AND HIS carpentry crew heard a large number of riders headed toward town on Monday morning. At first they thought it was an Indian raid, but then Mr. Phipps shouted from atop the roof, “It's Big Al Thornton!”

  A smile wreathed Mr. Gibson's face, because the Bar T was the source of considerable business. Money was rolling in everywhere, and he could barely believe it. He'd struggled for years, opening stores across the frontier, losing his shirt every time, but now at last he'd landed in the right place at the right time. He wiped his hands on his apron and headed toward the middle of the street, to see the great man. The storekeeper fairly drooled in anticipation of the big order he expected to receive.

  Big Al rode his white gelding down the main street, followed by his men and the clatter of hoofbeats. He wore a big silverbelly hat with a wide flaring brim, and a cigar stuck out the corner of his mouth. “Howdy, Mr. Gibson,” he said. “I've come to invite you and the missus, and everybody else in this town, to a shindig at the ranch next Saturday afternoon. There'll be a barbecue, free drinks, and we're even a-gittin’ together a band!”

  The cogs of Gibson's mercantile mind spun furiously. “Need any white lightning.”

  “I figger about three kegs ought to do it.”

  “Could brew some beer,” Mr. Gibson offered. “And how's about a few sucklin’ pigs?”

  “Got my own pigs,” said Big Al as he put the spurs to his horse.

  The wealthy rancher rode down the str
eet, followed by his cowboy escort, headed toward the army encampment. He held his reins in his left hand, his right fist resting on his hip as he surveyed new construction underway. The town was growing, the region becoming more prosperous, and now they even had an army camp, although it was just some tents squatting on the edge of town.

  A freckle-faced sentry stepped forward, holding his rifle high. “Halt!” he said. “Who's goes there?”

  Big Al tipped his cowboy hat. “I wanna palaver with yer commandin’ officer,” he replied, not bothering to stop or identify himself further.

  “But . . . but . . .”

  The sentry sputtered as he dodged oncoming horses. The cowboys passed by, headed for the big white tent at the center of the encampment. Soldiers crowded around, and the rancher touched his forefinger to the brim of his hat as he smiled cordially. A tall, husky officer emerged from the tent, his campaign hat tilted jauntily over his eyes. Big Al climbed down from his horse and threw the reins at a private standing nearby, his jaw hanging open in surprise.

  Lieutenant Dawes held out his hand. “You must be Big Al Thornton.”

  “And yer Lieutenant Dawes. I want to say that my family has felt a lot safer since you and yer men've been in the vicinity. The only thing them goddamned injuns understand is lead, but that ain't why I'm here today. I'm a-havin’ a big shindig at my ranch next Saturday, and I'd like you and yer men to come as my guests, stay as long as you like, eat and drink all you want.”

  Lieutenant Dawes grinned. “I accept your invitation on their behalf. You can be sure that we'll be there, and if any of them gets a little drunk, I'll handle him myself.”

  “I heard you got yerself hitched not long ago. Don't forget to bring the little woman along. We've heard a lot about her, and my wife would love to meet her.”

  “Mrs. Dawes'll be happy to hear that,” the officer replied, “and she loves parties. It'd take an act of war to keep her away.”

  Not all Bar T cowboys were traveling with Big Al Thornton on that glorious day. Approximately half the crew had remained at the ranch, performing their usual jobs. Duane was one of them, and the ramrod had told him to sweep across the western range with Don Jordan and Uncle Ray, keeping their eyes peeled for screwworms and unknown cowboys with long ropes and peculiar branding irons.