The Reckoning Page 19

  Vanessa reflected upon his response. “It doesn't solve the problem of what to do right now.”

  “We could go to bed,” he offered. “It's too early.”

  “Not for me.”

  “All you ever think of is procreation and food. Then you ride off for four days, and I'm left alone with nothing to do. You have a career, and I have this broken-down shack. Somehow it doesn't seem fair.”

  He leaned toward her and looked into her eyes. “My dear, there are many days when I wish I could live your life, sitting here in this cozy little home, without worrying about water, heat, and five hundred Comanches sneaking up on me. Perhaps you should count your blessings.”

  She became exasperated. “I know I sound like a spoiled child, but I can't help it if I have an active mind. I need something to entertain me.”

  “I'll teach you how to play poker.” He strolled in his big cavalry boots to the bedroom, where he removed a worn deck of cards from his saddlebags. Then he returned to the table.

  “What'll we play for?” she asked.

  “It wouldn't make sense for us to gamble for money, because whether I won or lost, it all comes from the same place.” He snapped his fingers as if he'd just had a great idea. “I know—we can play Strip Poker.”

  She wrinkled her pretty nose. “What's that?”

  “When one of us loses a game, that person has to remove an article of clothing. The person who has no more clothing left is the loser.”

  “It sounds like an awfully stupid game,” she said, “and I'm sure I'll regret it for the rest of my life, but I'm so bored—go ahead and deal.”

  At the other end of town, the cowboys from the Circle K were arriving, led by Jay Krenshaw and Otis Puckett. They rode down the main street and came to a stop in front of Gibson's General Store. Only a few horses were tied to the rail, and none carried the Bar T brand.

  “They ain't here yet,” Jay said.

  Puckett climbed down from his horse, threw the reins over the rail, and headed for the door. A cowboy opened it, and Puckett entered the saloon. Straight ahead was the bar, with two bartenders grinning at him. “Howdy,” one said.

  Puckett's belly hung over his belt, his shirt was unevenly tucked, and he looked tike a slob, but there was a mean gleam in his eye as he climbed onto a stool. “Coffee.”

  The bartender poured a steaming cup and pushed it toward Puckett. The gunfighter raised it to his lips as the other cowboys crowded around the bar. Jay Krenshaw sat at the far end, where he'd be out of the line of fire.

  Puckett had shot men in houses, hotels, saloons, and once he'd even ventilated a gentleman's head during a solemn church service. But most of the time it was a saloon, not very different from the one he was in. Just another night's work, he tried to convince himself.

  But he knew it was a lie. Tonight he'd be facing another fast hand, and one younger than he. Puckett knew that he was losing his powers gradually, but the Kid would improve for another several years. Puckett couldn't take the Kid lightly, since he'd out-drawn Saul Klevins. The gunfighter spat into the brass cuspidor. I've practiced all week, and still as good as ever.

  Some Circle K cowboys sat at tables, while others drank at the bar. It wasn't their typical Saturday night in Shelby, and they were jumpy, ill at ease, and fearful, because flying bullets sometimes struck the wrong cowboy. They had no personal stake in the outcome, and hoped it would end quickly.

  Raybart sat with his glass of whiskey in the darkest corner. He didn't want to be Peter, who denied Christ three times on that tragic night of nights. Raybart's hand fingered the note in his pocket. How can I give it to ‘im without a-gittin’ caught?

  At the end of the bar, Jay Krenshaw savored his glass of whiskey. His nose might never be straight, and chewing would be a problem for the rest of his life, but at last his hour of vengeance was at hand. He yearned to see Duane Braddock lying dead on the floor, so that he could laugh at him.

  Mr. Gibson entered the saloon from the corridor in back, and was struck by a sense of foreboding. Instead of the usual drunken merriment, his saloon had the atmosphere of a wake. Maybe I need some musicians, or a dancing girl.

  His ambition was a hotel, saloon, and gambling hall towering into the sky like a mountain, with bright lights, and throngs of well-dressed couples strolling about with drinks in their hands. Maybe someday, he thought. John Jacob Astor started with a few beaver skins, and became the richest man in New York.

  The cowboys, bartenders, and hired gun sat with their dreams and demons, waiting for it to happen, only the entrepreneur hadn't a clue about what it was. A few men played cards, but it was difficult to concentrate on the game. Other cowboys were afraid to talk, because they didn't want to disturb the fat man at the bar.

  They continually glanced at him, because it wasn't every day that they saw a famous fast hand. It was difficult for them to believe that such an odd-looking person could be a killer. His legs were short, and he had virtually no shoulders as though he'd never worked in his life. Yet they'd seen him practicing behind the main house, and no one dared antagonize such blinding speed.

  They waited and sipped whiskey in the silence; even the bartenders felt obliged to keep their mouths shut. Damnation and the faint trace of brimstone filled the air as the minutes ticked away in the cuckoo clock above the bar. Puckett was beginning to feel the strain. He wanted a stiff shot of whiskey, but had to remain steady if he was going to shoot The Pecos Kid.

  “Somebody's comin’,” said Reade. He looked out the window, and his voice fell in disappointment. “It's soldiers.”

  The men in blue, off duty at last, piled into the saloon and assaulted the bar. Puckett arose from his stool and meandered to a table against the left wall, where he sat alone, pleased that his audience was growing. He'd give the soldiers something to remember for the rest of their lives.

  A tiny worm of doubt continued to plague him, because the Pecos Kid had shot Saul Klevins. Was it beginner's luck, or raw talent? Maybe Saul Klevins had been a fraud, and really didn't have a fast hand. There were so many variables, Puckett was getting a headache. I wish he'd show up, so I can get this mess over with.

  At first he thought it was blood rushing past his ears, but then became aware of hoofbeats on the street outside. Reade dashed to the window, and his face brightened. “It's the Bar T!”

  All eyes turned to Puckett, for the time had come to earn his money. He leaned against the wall, lowered his hat over his eyes, and watched the door. Reade was supposed to point out which one was the Pecos Kid, and then the fun would start.

  They heard cowboys in front of the saloon, and the jangling of spurs. Horses snorted, a man laughed, and somebody shouted, “Whoopee!” The Bar T had arrived for their big bachelor party, but it was going to be a funeral.

  The door was thrown open, and a cowboy appeared, followed by others. The men from the Bar T swaggered into the saloon, and Puckett scanned them quickly, trying to pick out the Pecos Kid. His eyes fell on a glittering silver concho hatband, and the youthful handsome face beneath it. A chill came over Puckett as Reade indicated him clandestinely. The Pecos Kid vaguely resembled the Angel of Death whom Puckett had seen in his dreams.

  He noted the Kid's relaxed manner as he made his way to the bar. The Kid had wide shoulders and a narrow waist, exactly the opposite of Puckett, and the gunfighter felt a twinge of envy. I'll bet Rosita would fall for him, if she ever saw him, but she never will, and neither will anybody else after tonight.

  A Bar T cowboy shouted, “Here's to Duane and Miss Phyllis!”

  They touched Duane's glass, then bolted down the whiskey, but Puckett noticed that the Pecos Kid only took a sip. A terrific commotion occurred at the bar as cowboys slapped Duane on the back, shook his hand, and wished him well. Even Sparky was elated, jumping around and snapping his jaws in acknowledgment of his boss's great good fortune.

  At the far end of the bar, Jay Krenshaw nearly choked on bitter rage. To see his enemy receiving accolades was almost to
o much to bear. Jay wished he were the object of such adulation, respect, and comradely love. But he was despised even by his father, and men followed his orders for the money, like whores.

  Against the back wall, Raybart arose from his chair. The time had come to make his move, and he didn't dare waste another moment. He pulled the slip of paper out of his pocket, held it tight in his fist, and strolled toward the bar as if to refill his glass.

  He entered the cluster of cheering Bar T cowboys, and it reminded him of Jerusalem when Christ arrived on the back of a donkey, the throngs throwing palm leaves, and shouting Hosanna in the highest! He lurched drunkenly toward Duane, bumped against him, and placed the slip of paper into his hand. “Sorry,” he burped, and then leaned against the bar. “Whiskey!”

  Raybart didn't dare turn around, so he couldn't see the paper fall to the floor. Duane bent over to pick it up, for he'd felt it press urgently into his palm. He raised himself to his full height, and read the scrawled warning:

  Fat man been hired to kill you. Git the hell outer here fast as you kin.

  a friend

  Just when everything had been going so well, he had to receive such a warning. Cowboys continued to congratulate him, and he mumbled his thanks as he scrutinized the usual crowd of cowboys and soldiers. He glanced at Jay Krenshaw at the end of the bar and noticed the position of his right hand.

  Duane continued to scan faces, but nothing seemed threatening. He was looking for a big, fat man, not a short, roly-poly fellow sitting at a table in the darkness. He believed that he could handle Krenshaw, and the Bar T cowboys would back him if anyone else tried to jump in. Maybe it's a joke, and I can't just walk out of here in the middle of the party. McGrath and the other's'll think I've gone loco. So he raised his glass, and decided to stay awhile.

  “I always hoped Miss Phyllis'd notice me someday,” said Don Jordan as he slammed his palm on Duane's shoulder, “but how could I guess that she'd fall in love with you!”

  The good-natured banter went back and forth as bartenders filled glasses. No one from the Bar T noticed that the Circle K cowboys were unusually subdued, and an overweight stranger was arising from his table against the left wall.

  Otis Puckett had studied his opponent carefully, and knew what he was up against. But an experienced fast hand could defeat a flash in the pan any day, he told himself. He crossed the aisle and plunged into the array of tables, on his way to the bar. No one noticed him, until he approached the Bar T cowboys congregated around the Pecos Kid. They wouldn't move out of Puckett's way, so the gunfighter grabbed one by the scruff of his neck, and pushed him to the side.

  The cowboy lost his balance and crashed into the nearby wall, suddenly electrifying the saloon. Men arose from tables, and a few Bar T cowboys went for their guns, but Punkett's hand dropped, and a split second later he was aiming his Colt toward them.

  It was silent in the saloon, and everyone heard a drop of water fall from the counter to the floor. All eyes ogled the fat cowboy, who said, “I'm here for Duane Braddock.”

  Duane had seen the draw, and now understood the import of the note. He wished he'd taken the advice, but too late now. All he could do was reply, “I guess that's me.”

  “My name's Otis Puckett. I'm a-goin’ to shoot you, so say yer prayers.”

  “Whoa!” said a new voice. It was McGrath stepping forward, a friendly grin on his weather-beaten visage. “Mister Puckett—I saw you at work some years ago in El Paso, but this boy ain't done nawthin’ to you, and we're a-celebratin’ his weddin’ engagement. Why don't you have a drink with us, and cool off?”

  “Out of the way,” Puckett replied, “because lead's a-gonna fly in about a minute.” The hired killer faced Duane. “I got no time to play with you, boy. Make your move.”

  “But . . . why do you want to kill me?” Duane asked, mystified.

  “Business,” spat Puckett.

  Duane turned toward the end of the bar, and saw Jay Krenshaw with a faint grin covering his toothless mouth. Cold malevolence passed over Duane as the pieces came together in his mind. He broke into a cold sweat and hoped someone would stop the nightmare, but it didn't appear so. He'd plummeted from the pinnacle of life to the depths of hell in seconds. “Would you mind if I have another whiskey?” he asked. “You're really taking me by surprise.”

  “I ain't got time. Make yer move, or I'll make mine.”

  Duane spread his legs and dropped into his gun-fighter's crouch. Powerful chemicals from glands working overtime dumped into his bloodstream, and his heart beat furiously. It was a showdown to the death, out of the blue, and he tried to remember everything that his mentor, Clyde Butterfield, had taught him. Then he grit his teeth, measured his opponent, and reached for his Colt.

  Observers afterward would argue over what happened next. Some thought Duane drew first, others Puckett, but all agreed that a dog had growled in the vicinity of Puckett's boots just as Puckett went for his gun. The professional killer was distracted for a moment, but then whipped out his Colt, took aim at the center of Duane's chest, and felt his head crack apart.

  Somehow Duane fired the first shot, and it landed in the middle of Puckett's forehead. Puckett's eyes stared glassily as he limped from side to side, blood pumping out the hole. The famous fast hand dropped to his knees, took one last look at the man who'd ended his career, and pitched onto his face.

  Gunsmoke filled the small, enclosed space, and every cowboy's ears rang. Duane turned, aiming his gun at Jay Krenshaw, who was in the act of drawing, his intention a fast shot in Duane's back. Jay's fingers hung in the air above his gun, an expression of horror forming over his face. Somehow, against all the odds, Duane Braddock had shot Otis Puckett! Jay didn't know what to make of it. It looked like he'd come to the end of his road.

  But Duane found that he couldn't shoot a man in cold blood. “I'll give you a chance,” he said. “Go ahead and draw.”

  “Not me,” Jay replied in a shaky voice. “Yer too fast.”

  “You hired him to kill me, you sneaky son of a bitch!”

  Jay pointed at the dead body of the fat gunfighter. “I never seed him afore in my life.”

  “Not true!” hollered Raybart, who pointed accusingly at Jay. “He's had Puckett at the ranch all week, and Puckett's was a-practicin’ fer a-shootin’ you!”

  “Keep yer mouth shut!” screamed Krenshaw.

  But Raybart had a strange holy gleam in his eye. “Today God has triumphed over the Devil, my brethren! See it, and believe!”

  “You little fuck!”

  Krenshaw drew his Colt and fired at Raybart. The saloon echoed with the shot, the air became dense with gunsmoke, and Raybart collapsed onto the floor, a beatific smile on his face. “My Lord,” he whispered, “I see you . . . waiting ...”

  Raybart went slack as his spirit departed. Duane wondered what his strange game had been as Krenshaw slowly holstered his gun. “I ain't a-gonna draw on you, Kid. If yer too fast fer Otis Puckett, yer too fast fer me.”

  Duane realized once again that he couldn't shoot anybody in cold blood, but still wanted revenge. So he holstered his gun, turned his back to Jay, and reached for his glass, hoping that Jay would attempt a dirty trick.

  Something rustled behind him, like a sleeve moving up a man's arm when he reaches for his gun. Duane spun, yanked his Colt, and saw Krenshaw in the middle of his draw. Duane pulled his trigger, the gun fired, and Jay Krenshaw was drilled through the chest. Jay's gun fired at the floorboards, sending splinters whizzing through the air, then he sagged downward, his eyes glazing over; the gun dropped from his hand. He fell in a clump and lay still in a widening pool of blood.

  Duane reached for his glass with his left hand, while the gun in his right emitted a wisp of smoke. He shook all over as he raised the glass; a few drops spilled onto his shirt. Everyone was looking at him as he struggled to calm down. He'd just shot two men in less time than it takes to smoke a cigarette.

  Something rustled near his feet, and he looked at Sparky,
his faithful dog. Duane patted Sparky's head. “Thanks, pardner. When I move into the main house, so do you.”

  The front door was thrown open, and Lieutenant Dawes stood there, his tunic half unbuttoned, hat crooked on the back of his head. He'd dressed hastily, and had an angry expression in his eyes as he stepped into the saloon, service revolver in hand. “What the hell's going on here?”

  Sergeant Mahoney saluted and gave his report. “There was a shootin’, sir. That man,” he pointed to Puckett, “braced Mister Braddock, but Mister Braddock won the draw. Then Mister Krenshaw shot that cowboy”—he pointed at Raybart—“and after that, he tried to shoot Mister Braddock in the back, but Braddock fired first.”

  Lieutenant Dawes took in the bloody scene, trying to understand how such incredible mayhem could occur a short distance from where he'd been engaged in a transcendent act with his wife. Then his eyes fell on Duane leaning one elbow on the bar, sipping a glass of whiskey.

  Dawes was in an extremely filthy mood, due to the interruption. It had been, without question, the most passionate instant of his life, and Duane Braddock had wiped it away with the pull of a trigger. Before the West Pointer could stop himself, the words were out of his mouth, “You're under arrest! Drop that gun, or I'll shoot you where you stand!”

  Duane contemplated a quick draw, but Lieutenant Dawes aimed his service revolver steadily, and Duane figured that a man couldn't become an officer unless he knew how to shoot straight. “Krenshaw hired this professional gunfighter to kill me,” he explained. “Then Krenshaw tried to shoot me in the back. You're going to arrest me for that?”

  “You're goddamned right. Sergeant Mahoney— take his gun.”

  Mahoney wasn't sure Duane would give it up easily. It was a tense moment, then the Bar T ramrod spoke, his hands spread in supplication. “But he was only defendin’ hisself. You cain't arrest a man fer that in Texas!”