The Reckoning

by Len Levinson

  But a scheming woman can get herself into even more trouble. The dinner invitation had originated in Vanessa's convoluted brain, and she'd dropped the hint to Mrs. Gibson, who'd relayed it to Mr. Gibson. Now the lieutenant was coming, and Vanessa entertained serious doubts about the entire dubious enterprise.

  He wore the uniform of the Yankee invader, but obviously was a well-bred man, no raving abolitionist by any means, and even Bobby Lee himself had been opposed to slavery. But I'm going to be a married woman, and if I flirt, he'll think I'm a slut, which I probably am. Whatever happened to me? she pondered.

  She wasn't sure, but it had something to do with her rootlessness after the war as she traveled from town to town in stagecoaches, meeting a variety of men along the way, most of them liars, villains, and utter swine. Duane's got a good heart, at least. He'd never take advantage of anybody, if he could avoid it, she rationalized.

  There was a knock on the door. “Time for dinner, dear.”

  “Be right there,” Vanessa replied in a cheery tone. She looked at herself in the mirror, and hoped she didn't come across as genteel poor, because there was nothing more pathetic. She wore a jade green dress with a high-buttoned collar, and no jewelry or cosmetics. Bringing her face closer to the mirror, she noted a new wrinkle beneath her left eye. I'll be a toothless old schoolmarm in a few years, unless I do something quickly. She pinched color into her cheeks, and ran her tongue over her teeth. Then she narrowed her eyes and attempted to appraise herself objectively. I'm not quite what I was ten years ago, but I'm perfectly presentable, and refinement can be found in my every pore, she told herself.

  She realized that her heart raced as she walked down the corridor. What is this madness? Why, I hardly know the man. She entered the ramshackle parlor, where Mr. Gibson sat with his wife and a printed portrait of Sam Houston suspended from the wall.

  “Our other guest ain't arrived yet,” Mr. Gibson said, rubbing his hands in anticipation of a sumptuous repast.

  Vanessa sat on the edge of a chair, because Miss Dalton's school had taught her to keep her back straight at all times. “Perhaps he was detained by army business,” she suggested.

  Mr. Gibson harumphed, looking like an old walrus. “What army business? They're all just layin’ around camp. You can see right into the lieutenant's tent, and all he ever does is read books.”

  There was a knock on the door, and the conversation came to an end.

  “I'll bet that's him now,” Mrs. Gibson said, as though they lived in a large town, and any number of gentlemen might be calling. She swept grandly across the room, and opened the door. Standing there, backlit by the moon, stood Lieutenant Clayton Dawes, U.S. Fourth Cavalry.

  “Come in, sir,” Mrs. Gibson said, with something that appeared a bow.

  The West Point officer entered the parlor, and his eyes immediately were drawn to the schoolmarm. “Good evening, Miss Fontaine. So good to see you again.”

  Vanessa was amused, because they were behaving as if they were at a grand dinner in Washington, instead of a clapboard shack alongside Comanche territory. But the graduate of Miss Dalton's School had been trained to guard against unwarranted displays of ostentatious manners. Instead, she smiled and said, “How kind of you to take time from your schedule to be with us.”

  Fading rays of sun glinted on his gold shoulder boards as he stood before her. Mrs. Gibson took the officer's hand. “This way, sir.”

  She led him to the dining room, and told him where to sit, which happened to be the spot directly opposite Vanessa. The plates were already set, and covered with folded white napkins. We're putting on the dog tonight, Vanessa thought, as she took her seat.

  Mrs. Gibson carried in a silver tureen of soup, and placed it on the table. She proceeded to ladle out chicken and vegetables, as Mr. Gibson turned toward the lieutenant. “How much longer do you think your detachment will be in town?”

  “Depends on Colonel Mackenzie. Could be permanent.”

  They slurped soup, and Vanessa glanced at him out the corner of her eye. He was much taller than Duane, with thicker arms. She wanted to say something scintillating, but nothing came to mind.

  He turned toward her abruptly. “Understand you've just arrived in town, Miss Fontaine.”

  “Only a few days before you.”

  “Where from?”

  “Titusville.”

  “Were you the schoolmarm there?”

  “Just passing through.”

  Lieutenant Dawes had been on the frontier long enough to know the unwritten code: Don't ask too many questions. Close up, in the light of lamps, she appeared almost queenly, with her conservative clothing and erect carriage. She'd shine like a jewel on any army post, and make a great general's wife, he thought. “I hope you won't think me rude, Miss Fontaine, but if I'd had a schoolmarm like you, I might've been a better student.”

  “I understand that you're a West Pointer,” she replied. “What was your favorite nonmilitary subject?”

  “History. How about you?”

  “I enjoyed reading novels.”

  “Who's your favorite author?”

  “Dickens, of course. Do you have a favorite author?”

  “Giovanni Battista Vico. He was an Italian, and said that only philosophers can understand history.”

  Mr. Gibson decided that it was time to become part of the conversation, although he hadn't the slightest idea of what was being discussed. “History repeats itself,” he said. “Rome fell, and so will America one day—mark my words.”

  “Is the soup all right?” asked Mrs. Gibson, adding her own dissonant note to the conversation.

  Lieutenant Dawes wished that he could be alone with Vanessa Fontaine, because he felt that they could have an intelligent conversation. But unfortunately Mr. Gibson wanted to discuss the need for permanent protection against the Indians, and Mrs. Gibson continued to ask about the acceptability of her cuisine.

  The next course was roast beef with potatoes and carrots. The harmless but mindless conversation touched a variety of pointless subjects such as the weather, as Lieutenant Dawes waited patiently for a lull. Then he turned toward Vanessa, and said, “I hope you were far away from the fighting during the recent war, Miss Vanessa.”

  “Unfortunately,” she replied, “my home was in the direct path of General Sherman's march to the sea.”

  “Modern warfare can be very harsh on civilian populations, which is regrettable. But I was a schoolboy in Washington, D.C., in those days. We expected Bobby Lee to burn the capitol to the ground.”

  “Too bad he didn't,” she replied with a charming smile.

  He sliced thoughtfully into his roast beef. Burn the capitol to the ground? He realized that the beautiful lady sitting opposite him was something of a fanatic.

  On the other side of the table, Vanessa perceived his change of mood. I went too far that time, she admitted. He probably thinks I'm a diehard Confederate, and I am!

  Mr. Gibson realized that his dinner party was in danger of total disarray. “The war was hard on all of us,” he declared, “but it's no secret that we in the South suffered most, and some of those scars don't heal so quickly. Sherman's army was not exactly on a mission of Christian charity.”

  “They were on a mission to break the will of the South,” Lieutenant Dawes replied. “Before people make war, perhaps they should ponder the consequences.” He turned to Vanessa, and their eyes met. “I value people who speak their minds, instead of making the requisite ‘nice’ remark. The Civil War has torn this nation apart, and not much good has come from it, except for the freeing of the slaves. But I hope we're not going to get into an argument about slavery. I'd much rather talk about something else, if you don't mind.”

  A bell rang in the general store, and Lieutenant Dawes instinctively reached for his Colt service revolver. Mr. Gibson wiped his mouth with his napkin, as he rose to his feet. “A customer.”

  He hurriedly departed the room, and a moment later his wife rose to her feet. “Let
me clear the table.”

  She gathered the dishes, carried them to the kitchen, and disappeared. Vanessa and Lieutenant Dawes were left alone, and a few moments of awkward silence ensued. Vanessa was about to make a banal remark about the weather, when she heard the deep mellifluous voice of Lieutenant Dawes. “I suppose you don't like me very much, because of the uniform I wear. If I were you, I'd probably feel the same way.”

  The room fell silent again, and she realized that the next move was her's, as though they were playing chess. “You're wrong,” she replied, “I don't dislike you at all. And you're right, the war is over. It makes no sense to look back, but sometimes I can't help it. As Mr. Gibson said, the scars don't heal so easily.”

  “I understand,” he replied.

  She found his voice soothing. This is a sensitive man, yet he's also confident, strong, and steady as a mountain. “Something tells me that you'll go a long way in the army,” she said. “It's very easy to be with you.”

  “Nice of you to say so. I, too, feel a certain affinity between us.”

  “Why is it that a man like you has never married?”

  “There aren't many available women in this part of Texas,” he explained.

  “But surely some colonel's daughter or general's niece ...”

  “The competition is fierce, and most of them can do better than a mere First Lieutenant.”

  “But what can a man's rank have to do with true love?”

  “Everything.”

  The customer shuffled a deck of cards at the round table in the general store. Illuminated by a coal oil lamp, he wore his curl-brimmed cowboy hat low over his eyes, shadowing most of his face, as he turned up the ace of spades.

  Gibson recognized him as one of the waddies from the Circle K. “What can I do fer you, Mr. Raybart?”

  “Three bags of tobacco,” said Jay Krenshaw's courier.

  Gibson moved to the shelves, to retrieve the merchandise. “Sounds like the bunkhouse ran out of smokes.”

  “That's what happened all right.”

  Gibson dropped tobacco on the table, and accepted payment. “Ain't often that I see you boys in town during the week.”

  “Whiskey,” replied Raybart.

  Gibson returned to the counter, picked up a bottle of homemade white lightning, and filled the glass to the halfway mark. Then he served it to Raybart. “If you need me for anythin’ else, just ring the bell.”

  Raybart reached out and grabbed Gibson's wrist. He drew him closer and said in a low voice, “What d'ya know ‘bout a feller named Braddock, who rides fer the Bar T?”

  Gibson placed his forefinger in front of his lips. “Shhhh. His woman's back there.”

  “Siddown.”

  The shopkeeper dropped to a chair. “I don't have much time ...”

  “Is he a hired gun?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Where's he from?”

  “Titusville, but I'm afraid I really don't know much about him. You don't really think that he's an outlaw, do you?”

  “Who's his woman?”

  “The new schoolmarm.”

  Raybart narrowed his eyes skeptically. “Keep yer ears open. Find out all that you can about them.”

  “But ...” Gibson's voice trailed off into the sound of wind rattling the windows of the general store. The unofficial mayor of Shelby felt menaced by the cowboy, whom he barely knew. “Now listen,” he said in a shaky voice, “I'm not a spy.”

  Raybart gazed deeply into his eyes. “You're not dead either, yet.”

  The cowboys sat around the campfire, gnawing steaks, their eyes half closed with fatigue. Tomorrow they'd be up before dawn for another day of roping and branding. There was little conversation, and the cowboys kept glancing apprehensively at Duane.

  All insults had stopped following the encounter with the riders from the Circle K. Even Duane wondered who the wild man was who'd punched strangers in the mouth and yanked them out of saddles. I should've called McGrath over, instead of challenging that cowboy. McGrath is getting paid to be ramrod, not me.

  He and Ross were scheduled to battle that evening, but Ross appeared uninterested in pursuing the conflict. They'd all become chary of Duane, treated him with deference; he wasn't the tenderfoot anymore. He'd learned the hard way that in the secular world, naked brutality was considered the pinnacle of human achievement.

  Duane didn't know what to think of himself. Violence was clearly a sin, yet Christ physically threw the moneylenders out of the temple precincts. It could be this, or it could be that. Duane wished he could revive the rock-solid certainties of monastery life, but they'd melted like ice in the flames of hell. What could be worse than the hatred, jealousy, and greed of the secular world?

  The ramrod's voice came to him from across the campsite. “Braddock—can I talk to you a moment?”

  “Yes, sir.” Duane was on his feet in an instant, carrying his tin plate, heading toward the great man. The other cowboys watched his progress, as firelight cast writhing shadows on the side of the chuck wagon. Duane sat opposite the ramrod and said, “What's up?”

  The ramrod scrutinized Duane carefully. “Who are you, kid?”

  “What're you driving at?”

  “You nearly got a lot of men killed today. Do you know that?”

  “That Circle K cowboy accused me of being a rustler. Was I supposed to lie down and take it?”

  “Yes.”

  The ramrod sliced off a chunk of steak and placed it into his mouth, ruminating like a cow. Duane wondered if he should apologize, but for what? “Nobody calls me a rustler and gets away with it.”

  “This range don't need another hothead. Old Man Krenshaw's all right, but that son of his is a little loco. Then you ride by and knock him out of the saddle. Jay Krenshaw ain't the type what fergits, and he can hire all the guns he wants. You'd better watch yer back, if you want to see nineteen.”

  It was midnight when Amos Raybart returned to the Circle K Ranch. All the lights were out except for one in the corner of the main house, while wind whistled the shingles of the barn. Raybart tied his horse to the rail, entered the main house, and the living room was silent, with a few embers glowing dully beneath fireplace ashes. He made his way down the corridor and knocked lightly on a door.

  “Come in,” said the voice on the other side.

  Raybart entered a small, smelly room, where Jay Krenshaw lay fully clothed on a bed. The boss's son rolled over, his eyes half open, and looked at Raybart. “What'd you find out?”

  Raybart sat on the wooden chair in the corner. An empty bottle stood on the dresser, and the odor of stale whiskey hung mournfully in the air. “I talked to Mr. Gibson, like you said. He told me that Braddock came from Titusville, and his woman is the new schoolmarm.”

  Jay Krenshaw sat up in bed. “He's got a woman?” The boss's son reached for the whiskey bottle, saw that it was empty, and threw it across the room, where it crashed into the wall, sending shards of glass flying in all directions. Raybart had to raise his arm to protect his eyes.

  Jay had slept fitfully since going to bed, because the embarrassment still rankled. And if that wasn't enough, he had to sleep alone while Braddock had his own woman. “What'd she look like?”

  “Din't see her.”

  Jay couldn't forget the horrible incident, which smoldered in his mind like burning rags. I'll never be able to head up this ranch, if I get the reputation that any filthy cowboy can throw me out've my saddle.

  “Go to Titusville,” Jay said. “Find out all you can about Braddock.” He reached into his pocket, and pulled out money. “Don't come back until you know who he is, and what he's done. I think he's an owlhoot, and maybe we can get the law to string him up. Otherwise we'll have to do it. Are you still here?”

  Lieutenant Dawes walked down the deserted street, on his way back to the encampment. His hands were clasped behind his back, head bowed to the ground in deep thought. Miss Fontaine is in difficult straits, he ruminated. The collar of he
r dress was frayed, and she had a worried expression in her eyes.

  Lieutenant Dawes could converse endlessly on topics intellectual or spiritual, but seldom felt warmth for other people. He was basically a lonely soldier boy, but now, after dinner with Vanessa Fontaine, he saw new hope for the happiness that he'd long ago despaired of ever finding. Somehow, I must make sure she doesn't marry, he thought darkly.

  Lieutenant Dawes wanted to be an honorable man, and a credit to the officer corps, but needed a wife desperately. He knew that many women married the wrong men out of financial desperation, and wondered if that was driving her into the arms of her cowboy husband-to-be. She probably thinks I'm just another tin soldier, and a damn Yankee to boot.

  He pulled aside the tent flap, and Corporal Hazelwood sat at the desk, writing a letter home. Lieutenant Dawes removed his cavalry gloves, as Corporal Hazelwood made his report. Then the corporal departed, leaving Lieutenant Dawes alone in his tent. He looked at the logbook, sat heavily on the canvas cot, and stared into the middle distance. I can't put in twenty years on the frontier without a wife, but if I had Vanessa Fontaine waiting for me at the end of every day, it wouldn't be so bad. How can I broach the subject without making a fool of myself?

  Less than three hundred yards away, Vanessa Fontaine lay in bed with her own romantic notions. She was at the crossroads of life, and could go up or down, according to decisions of the next few days. She'd noted the lovesick glaze in Lieutenant Dawes's eyes, and he'd appeared uncomfortable in his uniform. Moreover, she knew that women were scarce in Texas, and men generally considered her attractive. I'm still a desirable commodity, but how much longer can it last?

  I'll be an old lady soon, and Duane will start looking for someone his own age. He'll weep and moan, but he'll abandon me nonetheless. On the other hand, a West Point officer closer to my age would be less likely to create a scandal that could jeopardize his career.