The Reckoning (13 page)

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?”

M
R. 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 street, 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.

The three cowboys rode down the side of an incline, and a vast grass-covered plateau lay before them, adorned with groups of cattle grazing in the sun. On the distant horizon, a row of hills sprawled like rounded teeth.

Duane knew that everything before him would be his someday, and he was astonished yet again by his great good fortune. I couldn't ask for a better woman than Phyllis Thornton, and she comes with all this! He imagined himself removing her garments slowly, and kissing whatever was revealed. It was almost too much to hope for, a ripe young woman, pure as newly fallen snow, together with the Bar T ranch. All I have to do is not get into fights, and keep my hands off her until our wedding night. I hope I can hold off that long.

There was a knock on the door, and Jay Krenshaw opened his eyes. “Who is it?”

“Riders comin', boss.”

Jay pulled on his boots quickly, then grabbed a gunbelt hanging from the bedpost. He strapped it
on, tucked in part of his shirt, put on his hat, and took down the Henry rifle from the wall. Then he jacked the lever, a cartridge rammed into the chamber, and he opened the door, hoping it wasn't Comanches.

He heard shouting in the yard as his cowboys prepared for the visitors. Jay stepped onto the porch and saw the cloud of dust approaching. “You men take cover,” he said. “This could be trouble.”

He ducked behind a water barrel and snaked his neck around so he could observe the advancing riders. It didn't look like a Comanche attack, but the Circle K was in a remote corner of Texas, and unannounced strangers weren't necessarily on missions of mercy.

“Looks like the Bar T,” said Morris Standfield, his ramrod.

“If they're a-lookin' fer lead,” Jay replied, “we'll give ‘em aplenty.”

He stepped from behind the barrel and strolled toward the middle of the yard. His men joined him, and all carried loaded rifles, ready for anything. The riders from the Bar T galloped closer, and Big Al held up his hand as whorls of dust arose among their ranks. It appeared as though they were being borne forward on a white cloud.

Big Al's white horse came to a stop in front of Jay Krenshaw, and Big Al leaned forward, resting his forearm on his pommel. “This is a helluva welcoming party,” he said in his booming voice. “Did you think we was injuns?”

Jay spread his legs and pointed his forefinger at
Big Al. “If yer a-lookin' fer trouble—you come to the right place!”

“Trouble?” asked Big Al. Then he laughed. “I'm hyar to invite you and yer cowboys to the big shindig I'm a-throwin' next Saturday. I'll invite yer daddy meself.” Big Al made a move to climb down from the saddle.

“Hold on!” shouted Jay. “My daddy don't talk to nobody! He asked me to keep folks away!”

Big Al climbed down from the saddle and looked Jay in the eye. “I ain't folks, so get out've my goddamned road.”

Jay could offer no resistance, because Big Al and Jay's father had known each other since San Jacinto, where a bunch of ranchers, cowboys, sheepherders, and dirt farmers had fought off the Mexican Army, and established the Republic of Texas. Old Lew Krenshaw and Big Al Thornton were considered founding fathers, almost godlike in the eyes of the younger generation.

Big Al strolled around the main house and headed toward a small cottage in back, with a big cottonwood growing near the front door. He knocked on the door, and a voice inside hollered, “Who the hell is it!”

“It's
me,
you old horned toad!”

“Wa'al I'll be damned! Come on in!”

Big Al opened the door on a skinny old man with a long white beard and sorrowful eyes sitting at the edge of a cot, his bony knees sticking into the air. Big Al held out his hand. “Yer lookin' more like Rip Van Winkle every day, Lew!”

“Have a seat, you old varmint.”

Lewton Krenshaw reached underneath his pillow, extracted a bottle, of whiskey, and tossed it to Big Al, who pulled the cork and took a deep long swig as his eyes scanned the interior of the cottage. Books and pamphlets were piled everywhere, clothes hung from nails, everything covered with dust. Big Al sat on the only chair and looked at his longtime friend. “You look like hell, if'n you don't mind me a-sayin' so, Lew.”

“Feel weak,” Lew Krenshaw said. “Sleep all the time. Lost me appetite. Nawthin' to live fer.”

“What happened?”

“Don't feel like a-talkin' ‘about it.”

Big Al slapped his hand on his old friend's shoulder. “Snap out of it, Lew. Whatever it is, it cain't be
that
bad. Why don't you git it off'n yer chest—you'll feel better.”

Lew looked down at the floor glumly. “You know what it is.”

“Jay?”

“The missus and me, we give him everythin' he wanted, but he was an ornery li'l cuss from the day he was borned, just like yer daughter was a sweetheart from the day
she
was borned. I had my hopes on him, but he's . . . maybe I'd better not say it.”

“Why don't you kick his ass out've here? Let ‘im git along on his own fer a while, and find out what life's about?”

“He won't work, and somebody'd prob'ly shoot him.”

“What's that got to do with you a-holin' up here like a lizard?”

Lew Krenshaw pointed to stacks of books. “I been a-tryin' to understand, but I jest git more confused. One feller says this, the other feller says that, and some of ‘em have writ that God is dead, and we're all on our own down hyar.”

“Them fellers wouldn't know a bull's ass from a banjo. God ain't no person, so he can't die!”

“If'n he's up there a-lookin' at us all the time, how come there's so much sufferin' and badness in the world?”

“I'll ask the big feller next time I see ‘im, but I come here today to invite you to a shindig at my ranch next Saturday.”

“I don't travel no more, Al. Feel better in me little shack.”

“We'll have a band, and you used to stomp with the best of ‘em. You'll have a good time—I guarantee it!”

“Folks'll laugh at me.”

“That's ‘cause you ain't cut yer beard fer five years. You got to pull out of this hole yer in, Lew. It ain't yer fault that yer son's a no-good little fuck.”

“But I'm too old fer parties.”

“To hell with old. You know what I'm a-gonna do if'n I see Death a-comin' fer me?” Big Al reached behind his belt and pulled his big Bowie knife out of its sheath. “I'll cut his balls off.”

“Why is it,” Lew asked, “that yer like you always was, and I'm so damned old?”

“Cause yer always a-lookin' back, ‘stead of a-lookin' ahead. If you don't come to my shindig, I'll
hog-tie you and carry you on the back of my horse, and if that crazy son of your'n gives me any shit, I'll punch him through a window.”