by Len Levinson
Duane's vivid imagination saw his head splitting like a rotten watermelon. But he knew how to fight a shorter man with less reach, thanks to the lessons of Brother Paolo. Keep him on the ends of your punches, pound him relentlessly, and whatever you do, don't clinch with him.
“Move it up, Braddock!” hollered the ramrod.
Duane pulled the calf closer to the fire, while the little creature fought to break loose. One rastler reached over the calf, grabbed a foreleg, and yanked the animal onto his back. The rastler held down the calf's foreleg, while another rastler positioned his backlegs. The brander pulled an iron from the fire, blew on the Bar T configuration until it glowed cherry red, and then pressed it against the calf's hide.
Duane closed his eyes, because he couldn't bear to watch the baby's suffering. The odor of burned fur came to his nostrils, the calf wailed as the rastler pulled the iron away. Duane felt relieved that the little animal's misery was over, when suddenly, a man with a knife stepped forward. With a flash of steel, the calf's reproductive organs were removed. The calf screeched horribly as a rastler slathered grease over the wound. Duane's rope was removed from the animal's neck, and the calf was kicked in the rump. The calf ran off bawling, looking for his mother.
Duane broke out into a cold sweat as his Catholic moral training fell upon him like a flaming blanket from hell. Do we have a right to castrate other creatures? In the monastery, his every action had come under intense personal scrutiny for gradations of right and wrong. The secular world was more of a shock than he'd ever imagined. Most people did as they pleased, without regard for the suffering of others. Duane watched the castrated calf disappear into the sea of cattle. But what about him? At least monks don't harm other creatures.
“Somebody's comin!” hollered Ferguson. They turned in the direction of his finger, and saw riders approaching across the mesa. “Looks like a bunch from the Circle K.”
McGrath set his mouth in a grim line, and his eyes narrowed into tiny malevolent jewels. “Settle down, boys. We're not a-lookin’ fer trouble, but if it come's—I want us to be ready.”
Duane took a swig from his canteen, as Bar T cowboys coalesced around McGrath. Duane drifted toward Don Jordan, who was hanging toward the back of the pack. “What's going on?”
“There's bad blood between the Circle K and us,” Jordan replied.
“Over what?”
“Cattle, horses, land, water—all the usual stuff.”
Duane eased his Colt out of its holster, then let it drop back in, so it would be smoother on the draw. He exercised the joints of his right hand, as the riders advanced closer, led by a big rawboned cowboy in a pearl-colored cowboy hat, red and black checkered shirt, and green bandanna. “Top of the morning to you, Mister McGrath,” he said with a wry smile. “Just a-checkin’ the stock—that's all.”
“It's yer privilege, Mister Krenshaw, but I'll ask you to stay out'n the way of my men, ‘cause we've got work to do.”
“As long as your men don't lasso the wrong calves, everything'll be fine.”
“I don't think you've got much ter worry ‘bout there. We know the diff'rence between the Circle K brand and the Bar T.”
“Nothin’ personal, but I've seen Bar T brands that looked like they was burned on top of Circle K brands. Why is it that the Bar T's herd seems to grow so much faster than everybody else's?”
“ ‘Cause we work harder, ‘stead of goin’ around checkin’ up on other people. You and your crew'd git a lot more done if you minded yer own bizness.”
The Circle K and Bar T riders sat on their mounts only a few feet apart and eyeballed each other across the sunny afternoon. Duane figured that gunplay wasn't out of the question, due to the allegations. He continued to unlimber his fingers.
“When other cowboys put their brands on our calves,” Krenshaw said, “it is our bizness. Come over to the ranch sometime—I'd be happy to show you some funny brands, though I reckon you've seen ‘em before.”
Wind rustled the sagebrush, and the moo of a cow could be heard. Duane studied the hands of the men from the Circle K, because it looked like war. Then McGrath said, “We wasted enough time with yer humbug, Mister Krenshaw. Time to git back to work.”
The Bar T cowboys wheeled their horses and returned to the herd, while McGrath angled toward the chuck wagon, where the cook stood with a double-barreled shotgun in his hands, gazing back at Krenshaw.
“We'll be a-lookin’ fer Circle K stock in this herd,” Krenshaw said. “Hope you won't mind.”
“Jest stay out of our way,” McGrath called over his shoulder.
Duane rode Thunderbolt into the herd, to find another Bar T calf. The atmosphere was tense, with cowboys from different ranches intermingling. One of the Circle K riders moved toward him, and Duane thought he'd try Christian friendliness. “Howdy,” he said, touching his finger to the brim of his hat.
The Circle K rider frowned. He was deep-chested, around Duane's height, wearing a brown wide-brimmed hat with a flat crown, and leather leggins. Hatred emanated from his eyes, although he'd never seen Duane in his life. Duane decided to ignore him and search for his next calf.
He moved among the cattle, aware that the Circle K cowboy's eyes were upon him. Thunderbolt snorted and jerked his head forward. Duane saw the short legs of a calf nudging his mother's teat. He circled around, to make sure that the brand was Bar T.
But the brand was Circle K, and he had to move on. He stood in his stirrups, in an effort to find another calf.
The Circle K cowboy called out, “Bet you would've branded him, if'n I ain't been a-watchin’ you, you crooked son of a bitch!”
The insult felt like a slap in the face, although Duane hadn't done anything wrong. I'm going to mind my own business, he thought, and ignore this false accusation. He angled Thunderbolt deeper into the herd, and it wasn't long before his eyes fell on another calf grazing amid a swarm of cattle. It wasn't clear which was the calf's mother, so he'd have to wait and see which cow the calf went to.
He heard a raspy voice behind him. “If'n I wasn't here, bet you would've got that one, too.”
Duane looked him in the eye and said levelly, “You'd better be careful that I don't put a brand on you, Mister.”
“Like to see you try it, kid.”
Duane swung his leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground, surprising the Circle K cowboy, who lowered his hand to his gun. Before his fingers closed around the grip, he found himself staring into the barrel of Duane's Colt .44. The Circle K cowboy smiled weakly, because he knew that Duane had the right to blow him away.
“A problem over there, Reade?” called Krenshaw, in another part of the herd.
Reade replied, “Caught this feller about to cut one of our calves, but he saw me and backed off.”
All eyes turned to Duane, who felt guilty although he hadn't done anything wrong. He raised his Colt, and aimed at the center of Reade's chest. “Get down from that horse.”
“Now jest a minute!”
Duane's finger tightened around his trigger. “I'll count to three ...”
Reade raised his left leg, and stepped down from the stirrup. Duane holstered his gun, and both men stared at each other across ten feet of grass. They were surrounded by swirling masses of cattle, while cowboys from both ranches rode closer.
“You've got a big mouth,” Reade said. “I ought to put my boot up yer ass.”
Duane felt ice cold, now that violence was about to commence. “You're going to apologize to me, Mister Reade, or I'm going to beat on you.”
Reade spat into the dirt. “Apologize, hell.”
Before Duane could think, he was running toward Reade, who loaded up his right fist, to catch Duane coming in, but Duane never faltered in his headlong charge. When six feet away, he dove toward Reade, intending to rip him apart.
A nearby steer hooted as Reade launched a right hook to Duane's head. The punch connected, Duane saw stars, then his arms closed around Reade's thighs, and he twisted hard. Reade l
ost his balance, and both went sprawling into the grass.
Duane tried to find leverage for a solid punch to the head of his adversary. He blocked a flying elbow with his nose, then received a backhand to the left temple. He and Reade rolled and tumbled near the legs of cattle and horses, and kicked up a cloud of dust as they scuffled wildly, throwing punches from all angles.
Duane took a hard fist to the forehead and realized that he was in a serious fistfight, not a mere barroom brawl with a drunken opponent. Duane and Reade jumped to their feet, and Duane dodged a jab down the middle as he threw a hard chopping right to Reade's head, while Reade dug a left into Duane's ribs.
Duane grunted as he wrapped his fingers around Reade's throat, while Reade tried to kick him in his private parts. Duane exploded into a flurry of punches, fists flew like blurs in all directions, both men took heavy shots, and then one of Duane's right leads connected solidly with Reade's jaw. Reade closed his eyes and flopped onto his back, where he lay motionless. The fight had come to an abrupt end.
Duane stood unsteadily, a trickle of blood showing at the corner of his mouth. His hat had fallen off and hung down his back, attached to his neck by the black leather strap. As his head cleared, he saw himself and his opponent ringed with men on horses. Reade opened his eyes, and returned to Texas, 1871.
“Get on your horse,” Duane told him evenly.
“Go to hell,” replied Reade.
Duane charged again, but this time, when he came within punching range, he darted to the side, in an effort to fake his man out. It worked, the cowboy turned in the new direction, but Duane was already on his way back to the previous one, and when his feet touched the ground, he launched a right to Reade's ear, while Reade whacked him with a paralyzing kidney shot.
The air expelled from Duane's mouth, and he found it difficult to move. Reade smashed Duane with a left, a right, and then another left to the mouth. Duane backpedaled, trying to elude punches, and looked for an opening. He took one step to the side, ducked a left jab, and countered a right hook. Then he ate another left jab, but managed to land a kidney shot of his own. Reade's eyes squinched with pain, and his fists dropped two inches. Duane slammed him on the forehead with all his weight, and Reade dropped to his knees. Duane watched in morbid fascination as the Circle K cowboy then collapsed slowly onto his face.
Reade didn't move, and a cheer went up from the Bar T cowboys. Duane realized that he'd won the fight, although his kidney still hurt, and his face felt like raw beef. Two beams of light seemed to be drilling into the side of his head, and he turned toward Krenshaw, leader of the Circle K cowboys. Their eyes met, and Duane knew that he'd made an enemy, so why stop there?
“Want to be next?” Duane asked.
“If I get off this horse, boy—I'll kill you.”
Duane pointed at the man lying on the ground. “That's what he thought.”
“I wouldn't dirty my hands on you.”
It was the wrong thing to say to an orphan who fundamentally felt like damaged goods. Duane found himself running toward Krenshaw, and the leader of the Circle K cowboys heard him coming. Krenshaw went for his gun, but Duane was already launched into the air. He tackled Krenshaw, tore him out of the saddle, and threw him onto the ground with such force that Krenshaw was knocked cold.
A sudden shot was fired, startling everybody. McGrath, smoking pistol in hand, rode toward Duane. “Git on your horse. You got work to do.”
Every cowboy in the vicinity had his gun out, and deadly tension crackled like electricity in the air. Duane didn't want to be left out, so he whipped out his Colt, thumbed back the hammer, and wondered who to shoot first.
“Mister Krenshaw,” said McGrath, “I think it's time you and your men cleared out of here, otherwise somebody's liable to git kilt.”
All eyes turned to Krenshaw, who had regained consciousness. He perched on his knees, then drew himself to his full height, his white shirt streaked with dirt, his hat fallen off. Krenshaw turned to Duane and said thickly, “Maybe some other time.”
“You know where to find me,” Duane replied.
Krenshaw picked up his hat, punched out the crown, and climbed onto his horse. The cowboys from the Circle K followed Krenshaw as he rode away, while cattle milled around, unperturbed by the violence that had just occurred. Duane felt jittery as he slapped dirt and dust off his jeans. He took off his black hat, smacked it against his leg, and then restructured the brim. A horse approached, and he looked up to see McGrath, gun in hand.
“If'n I was you,” McGrath said, “I'd ride back to the chuck wagon, get my blanket, and light a shuck. Mister Krenshaw, who you just throwed out've his saddle, ain't a-gonna let you live long. Yer so green, you don't even know who he is.”
Duane moved his holster so that his gun was in line with his outer thigh. “He's the man who owns the Circle K, right?”
“Wrong. It's even worse than that, ‘cause you can reason with Old Man Krenshaw. Jay Krenshaw is his son, and meanness is his middle name. He ain't the type that fergives and fergits.”
Duane thought for a few moments, and then said, “Neither do I.”
Lieutenant Dawes strode through the detachment area, hands clasped behind his back, cavalry hat low over his eyes. He'd studied the great battles of history, was familiar with the tactics of Caesar and Napoleon, but it meant little in the sagebrush wasteland of West Texas, land of the Comanche and Apache, the most practiced guerrilla fighters in the world.
His father could've obtained a staff position in Washington for his son, but the newly commissioned lieutenant had asked for field duty, and since then served in a succession of forts and posts across the frontier, fighting numerous skirmishes with Indians, and had seen bloody results of Indian depredations. The experience had matured him, but also made him introspective. He was no longer enthusiastic about military life, and even sympathized with the Indians, who made treaties that the white man consistently violated. And if that weren't enough, he thought that many of his fellow officers were idiots.
One of these days, I'll get an arrow through my skull, he thought morbidly. The Indians'll be subdued with me or without me, so what'm I doing here?
Lieutenant Dawes came to stop at the edge of the encampment, and gazed at a flat-topped mountain standing alone like an isolated figure in the dance of time. Solitary, embattled, it reminded him of himself. Lieutenant Dawes was tired of sleeping alone, and couldn't help thinking of Vanessa Fontaine, beautiful, sophisticated, well educated. Now there's potential officer's wife material, he calculated.
Footsteps approached from his rear, and he turned around suddenly. Corporal Hazelwood approached, followed by a small boy. The corporal saluted smartly and said, “Sir, this young gentleman would like to speak with you.”
Lieutenant Dawes looked down at the boy, no older that six or seven. “What can I do for you?”
The boy's eyes glittered with worship as he handed the detachment commander a note.
Dear Lieutenant Dawes:
You are cordially invited to supper tonight at our home, six o'clock sharp.
Mr. & Mrs. Fred Gibson
Jay Krenshaw tried to behave as though the violent confrontation signified nothing of importance as he led the Circle K cowboys out of the valley. But nothing could be further from the truth. The boss's son was in a murderous mood. The cowboys wouldn't respect a weakling, and there was no doubt that the stranger called Braddock had defeated him.
Crooked outfits steal my daddy's cattle, and we can't be everyplace. Maybe Big Al hired himself a fast hand, but we can do the same, he thought angrily. Jay Krenshaw turned around in his saddle. “Raybart—git yer ass up here!”
A rider detached himself from the pack, and rode forward. Raybart was older than the other cowboys, soft around his middle, and always looked as though he needed a shave. His nose was a small potato suspended above fleshly lips, and he had no discernible chin.
The boss's son leaned toward him. “Know who that feller was back thar?”
“Never see'd him afore.”
“McGrath said his name was Braddock. That mean anything to you?”
“There was a Braddock what got shot long time ago.”
“This one's got hired gun written all over him. How can I find out about him?”
“He probably stopped off in Shelby. Maybe Gibson knows who he is.”
Krenshaw thought for a few moments, as if reaching a decision. Then he said, “Go to town and have a talk with Gibson. See what he knows about Braddock, and then git back to me.”
“I just can't walk up to ‘im and starting askin’ questions, ‘cause he'll git suspicious. I'll have to buy something, and work into it—know what I mean?”
Krenshaw reached into his pocket, pulled out some coins, and passed them to Raybart. “Get going.”
CHAPTER 3
VANESSA SAT AT her window, and watched the copper sun sink through orange streaks of clouds. Somewhere on that measureless range, her husband-to-be was working cattle, otherwise he would've returned home by now with a hangdog expression. At least he won't be a financial liability in the short run, she deduced in the practical lobe of her brain. I barely earn enough to take care of myself as it is.
She looked around her room, a far cry from her boudoir back at the old plantation. She'd had brocade drapes and a big plush feather bed, with a closet filled with fashions from New York, London, and Paris. Now all she possessed were her saloon costumes, which she wouldn't dare wear in Shelby, and some well-tailored but not particularly stylish dresses left from the old days.
Now that money was in short supply, her clothing was starting to fall apart, and she had a small hole in her right shoe. I was crazy to run off with Duane. He's so poor.
Sometimes she wondered what made her tick. How can a woman of thirty-one fall in love with a man of eighteen, who has no money? Is groping in bed so important that it blots out all other considerations? She closed her eyes and sighed as she thought of sleeping with Duane, but it didn't pay the bills. Women who don't plan carefully can end up in deep trouble.