The Reckoning (15 page)

Meanwhile, Vanessa noticed that Phyllis was distracted, and then saw a faint smile come over the younger woman's face. Phyllis was looking toward the barn, and Vanessa turned in that direction. Her blood ran cold when her eyes fell on a slim young man wearing a black cowboy hat with flashing silver conchos. Is this what he's been up to behind my back? Vanessa wondered.

Midway between the Bar T Ranch and the Rio Grande was an open stretch of country populated mainly by armadillos, gila monsters, and rattlesnakes.
Occasionally a stagecoach might pass through, followed by a detachment of cavalry, or possibly a raiding party of Commanches, but otherwise the land had been still and untrammeled for thousands of years.

Somewhere in that tangled tractless wilderness, a pear-shaped man sat beside a fire, roasting the tenderloin of an antelope shot earlier in the day. Otis Puckett prepared his dinner, for he wouldn't let anything interfere with meals. He'd shot an animal nearly every day, leaving most of it for buzzards and wild dogs.

As the meal cooked, he prepared mentally for the gun duel that lay ahead. He preferred not to shoot a man in the back, like some of his more unsporting brethren. He'd rather kill before a crowd if possible, so he could impress potential customers.

One moment he was sitting by the fire, turning the antelope loin, and the next second he was on his feet, hauling iron. He shot a red blossom off a barrel cactus, the yellow blossom off a sea urchin cactus, and the white blossom off a whiskey cactus. Dropping to one knee, he drilled a devil's head cactus through the middle, and then blew away the arm of a cholla cactus.

His gun was smoking, as, with a half smile, he thumbed new loads into the chambers. He was pleased with his performance, and seldom missed a target. He'd been given a wonderful gift, and no one could ever steal it away. He considered himself fortunate, and particularly loved the magic moment when an adversary dropped before him, as if in acknowledgment of his great skill.

A rivulet of sweat roiled down his temple as he thought of Rosita and his son back in Mexico, waiting for him to return, or at least that's what he hoped. He found it difficult to trust Rosita completely, for he had flabby flesh around his middle, and the face of a bulldog. He knew she didn't love him deeply, but hoped she feared him. She'd seen him kill in the dirty cantina where she'd been a prostitute, and knew his capabilities.

No stagecoaches or trains went to Shelby, so he had to travel on horseback through hostile country. The shooting performance had been for the Comanches, to show that many would die if they tried to steal his horse.

But he knew deep in his heart that one day, on a shaded street or open prairie, his aim might be slightly off, or his hand too tardy in the classic fast draw, and he'd meet his own dark destiny. He tried not to think about it, and knew it was unlikely, but he wasn't the only talented fast hand in the world.

He'd lived with Sister Death so long, she was an old friend sitting silently on a nearby boulder, wearing a black cloak encrusted with diamonds, watching the fat man perform his fast draw, while the antelope loin crackled and spat at the fire.

Farther north, clouds of smoke arose from another fire, wafting over the crowd at the Bar T Ranch. The cowboy musicians tuned up for the first dance, when a new horde of riders appeared over the top of a hill.

“It's the Circle K!” hollered Uncle Ray.

Every Bar T cowboy checked his armament once last time. Meanwhile, on the front lawn, Big Al gazed at the approaching riders. The success of the shindig would depend upon how well Big Al handled Jay Krenshaw and his unruly cowboys.

The Circle K cowboys rode into the front yard, and Jay Krenshaw sat firmly in his saddle, hat low over his eyes, as he scanned the gathering. His eyes fell on a silver concho hatband beside the barn, and he ground his teeth together angrily, intensifying an ache in his jaw that had been bothering him ever since Duane had punched him out.

The disgraceful day came back with full force, and Krenshaw felt volcanic rage. He wanted to draw his gun and ride straight for Duane, shooting him down like a dog, but knew full well that the opposite outcome probably would occur, for Duane Braddock was the Pecos Kid, and he'd shot Saul Klevins in Titusville. I'm just a-gonna bide my time, Jay counseled himself. Otis Plunkett'll show up one of these days, and that'll be the end of one little son of a bitch in a funny hat.

Meanwhile, riding among the Circle K cowboys, Amos Raybart and his beady eyes sought out Duane Braddock; it didn't take long to spot the silver conchos. Maybe I'll have a talk with ‘im later, and find out what he's about, he thought.

Big Al strolled down the lawn, a smile on his face, followed by his wife and daughter. They headed for the wizened old man on the sorrel gelding.

“So you made it—you wooly, old bear!” Big Al hollered at Lew Krenshaw. “Come on down, and let me shake your hand!”

Lew Krenshaw laboriously raised his leg over the saddle, then lowered himself to the ground. Big Al grabbed his hand, they shook solidly, then embraced each other like brothers. It was a dramatic and clear signal that a day of peace would exist henceforth between the Circle K and Bar T.

Lew Krenshaw gazed through rheumy eyes at the ranch house, barn, and other buildings. “You sure got the place all spruced up!”

“It ain't that we've got it spruced,” Big Al replied. “It that yer spread is so damned run down. Say hello to the missus.”

Mrs. Thornton wrapped her arms around her old friend and neighbor, while spindly Lew Krenshaw nearly disappeared in her ample bosom. Then Phyllis said, “Remember me?”

Lew's jaw dropped open as he stared at her. “I'll be hornswaggled—you must be little Phyllis, only you ain't so little anymores.” His eyes roved over her, and he thought, now that there's the kind of woman who can give a man sons. “You know my Jay, don't you?” He grabbed a sleeve and pulled his son forward.

Jay felt like jumping out of his skin, but said in a muffled self-conscious voice, “Howdy.”

They looked awkwardly at each other, and then she stepped back to the side of her father. Meanwhile, approximately ten yards away, Lieutenant Dawes sat near his wife, observing the newcomers.

“Do you see that man talking to Miss Thornton?” Lieutenant Dawes asked Vanessa. “That's Jay Krenshaw. You may recall me telling
you that he hates your former lover's guts.” Lieutenant Dawes placed his hand reassuringly on his wife's arm. “If they start shooting, just hit the dirt.”

“In my best dress?”

The band broke into a quadrille, and the crowd applauded. Big Al gallantly took his wife's hand and led her to the yard. Everybody watched as he placed one hand on her waist, held her palm, and danced her away, her skirts whirling through the air.

Then the cowboys moved inexorably toward the daughters of farmers and ranchers who lived throughout the county. The cowboys tried to comport themselves like gentlemen, and no one chewed tobacco as they asked women to dance. Soon the yard filled with country folk whirling in time to the music.

Vanessa knew that Duane wouldn't dare ask her to dance, out of fear that her father would shoot him. That meant that some other cowboy would ask her, and she couldn't say no. A dark shadow passed between her and the sun, and she realized that Jay Krenshaw was standing in front of her.

“Wanna dance?” he asked awkwardly.

She looked at his sallow cheeks, dull eyes, and droopy lips. There appeared something demented about him, and she'd perceived it even when they'd been children. All she could do was smile and say, “Love to, Jay.”

He took her hand and led her to the yard. She
looked him over critically, trying to figure out what it was that she despised, and noticed that his shirt was too small, pants too big, he had no discernable hindquarters, his shoulders slouched, and he reminded her of a camel.

They came to the section of the yard that had been designated the dance floor. He held her hand and waist and gazed deeply into her eyes, hoping to ignite a fire with his desire, but she merely glanced at Duane sitting against the barn. Jay tried to lead her into the dance, but he had no sense of rhythm, and immediately stepped on her left toe.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“I've got nine more,” she replied, hoping to settle him down.

“Don't dance much,” he admitted.

“Why don't you let me lead you?”

He shook his head. “Wouldn't be right.”

“Who cares? Let's go.”

“We'll go when I'm good and ready,” he replied testily.

She tried to smile, but he'd bathed with a perfumed soap that furled her throat. Again, he took her hand and waist, clumsily moving her across the yard, while she kept her feet out of the way as much possible, but it was arduous with a man galumping haltingly.

This is the party that I've been planning six months, she thought, and I'm having a terrible time. She tried to adjust to Jay's elusive timing, not to mention his quirky motions, as other dancers hopped and bucked gaily all around her.

Guests with hearty appetites lined up anxiously at the main table, where Seamus McSweeny cut fat strips of juicy barbecued beef off steaming carcasses, and stacked them on platters, surrounded by bowls of potato salad, beans, pickles, and loaves of bread. A pot of coffee bubbled atop another fire, adding to the fragrance, and at the end of the table were arrayed a mouth-watering variety of pies and cakes, for every woman had brought her specialty to the party.

The fiddler drew his bow back and forth, while the guitarist strummed chords. The first keg of whiskey was half empty, and some of the cowboys swaggered about as though in their favorite saloons.

Big Al returned to his chair and sat heavily. When I was a kid, he thought, I could dance all night, then go to work at dawn. Now, I dance a few steps, and that's it.

His gigantic chest rose and fell with his respirations, and the first thing he reached for was his glass of whiskey. He slurped amber liquid, then leaned back in his chair, smiling happily as his eyes fell on his beloved daughter trying to dance with Jay Krenshaw. She'll never marry that bow-legged polecat, even though it's the best thing for this ranch.

Big Al turned his gaze to Duane Braddock, who smoked a cigarette and leaned against the barn, watching the show. Big Al lit a cigar as he tried to view Duane Braddock from a woman's viewpoint. Wa'al, he ain't an
ugly
feller, and he ain't afraid of nawthin'. Still young enough to learn, and prob'ly
wishes somebody'd teach him, just as I did when I was his age. Mebbe I'll have a little talk with ‘im later, and see what he's made of.

The dance came to an end, and the participants applauded the band. The corners of Big Al's mouth turned down as he watched his beloved daughter turn away from Jay Krenshaw, and it appeared that she was heading toward Duane Braddock! She wouldn't be so brazen as to ask that boy for a dance in front of the rest of us, would she?

Duane stiffened as he wondered what Phyllis was doing. She appeared to be walking straight toward him, and everybody was looking at her. An odd smile played on her face, and she betrayed a certain bounce in every step. “Care to dance, Mister Braddock?”

“Have you gone loco?” he asked between his teeth. “Your father is looking right over here.”

“I planned this party so's I could dance with you, and since you haven't asked me to dance, I'll have to ask you. Besides, it's time that he found out about us, don't you think? I hope you're not going to be a fraidy-cat.”

She took his hand, and before he knew it, she was leading him toward the dance ground. All he could do was follow, like a dog on a leash.

“Did you see that?” Lieutenant Dawes nudged his wife. “It appears that she's set her cap for your ex-lover.”

At that moment, Vanessa hated Lieutenant Dawes. Before she could purge the poisonous emotion, she said, “Well, he's a very handsome boy.”

“If you like boys.”

His remark made her feel like a lecherous old lady who'd seduced a mere youth, although the truth was that she and Duane had blundered into each other's arms under unusual circumstances, similar to how she'd wandered into her current husband's bed. My life, since the war, has been a series of desperate moves, she concluded.

Lieutenant Dawes guffawed. “It appears that he doesn't even know how to dance.”

On the dance ground, Phyllis took Duane's hand, and then touched his shoulder. “You're supposed to place your free hand on my waist,” she said.

He did as he was told, expecting a bullet from Big Al at any moment. “Do you think we could sit down?” he asked in a chocked voice.

“It's disgraceful that you don't know how to dance at your age,” she retorted, “but I guess it's due to your life in the monastery. Dancing is easy, but you must
feel
the music inside you, and then you move in time to it, like this.”

She maneuvered him to the left, but his big toe tripped over his ankle, he lost his balance, and held out his arm before his head crashed into the ground. Laughter burbled around him, and his ears turned red as he arose. The loudest voice belonged to Jay Krenshaw standing on the far side of the clearing, surrounded by his cowboys, a glass of whiskey in his hand.

Phyllis noticed the expression on Duane's face and realized that she'd embarrassed him. Supremely sure of herself a few moments before, she became confused.

He noticed her bewilderment and saw that he was making her uncomfortable. “Wa'al,” he declared, trying to effect a certain cowboy nonchalance, “I guess I'm not a-goin' to win any dance contests here today, but do you think we can try it again, Miss Phyllis?”

If she'd had any remaining doubts about him, they melted away at that moment. Her confidence returned, and she took his hand once more. “It's one step to the left, and two to the right. That's not so difficult to memorize, is it?”

“We'll see,” he replied.

“Loosen up. You might even like it.”

She eased him to the side, but this time he didn't lose his balance. Her feet advanced in one direction, while his retreated in another. Somehow he couldn't catch up with her, and then he tripped over his feet again.