The Reckoning

by Len Levinson

  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.

  “You're not listening to the rhythm, Duane.”

  He tried to adjust to her movements, moved his feet as best he could, and suddenly, to his amazement, discovered that he was actually dancing! Two to the left and one to the right, he said to himself, as he let her maneuver him across the floor. Her form was fluid, she seemed floating on air, while he struggled to be in the correct spot at the exact time.

  “Now you've got it,” she said.

  The dance wasn't as complicated as he'd thought, and even an idiot such as himself could remember one to the left and two to the right. He became aware that his hand was on Phyllis's slim waist, and her small callused palm rested easily in his. He couldn't help contrasting her country body with the cosmopolitan former Miss Vanessa Fontaine. “You're the woman for me,” he murmured. “I wish we could get married today, so that we could be together all the time.”

  “Maybe we can get engaged on Christmas.”

  “Your father would never tolerate it.”

  “Leave him to my mother and me. Everything'll be fine, you'll see. Don't you understand that I want the same thing as you?”

  They undressed each other with their eyes as they moved smoothly among the other dancers. He saw a nubile maiden with bright cheeks and laughing eyes, while she observed a long lanky cowboy with wide shoulders and black hair on his chest. Their eyes met, and an unmistakable communication passed between them. Both knew that one day they'd be together, regardless of earthquakes, tornadoes, Indian raids, or civil insurrections.

  “They seem to be getting along rather well,” Lieutenant Dawes drawled to his wife as they sat side by side on the lawn. “Phyllis is an only child, and the Pecos Kid has his eyes on the family ranch, evidently.”

  Vanessa knew that she should keep her big mouth shut, but it was impossible. “Duane could never be coldly calculating like that!”

  “Just like he'd never kill somebody, I suppose. I can't help wondering why you keep defending him.”

  “Why do you persist in attacking him? He's only a boy, for God's sakes.”

  “If he's only a boy, then why did you sleep with him? I can't understand what you ever saw in him. He's not that good looking.”

  “Perhaps not to you.”

  “To you?” he asked, sitting straighter in his chair.

  She became cross. “Do you think we could talk about something else?”

  He knew that envy was getting the better of him, but couldn't stop. “Are you saying that you still find him attractive?”

  “In an aesthetic sense—yes—but he was extremely immature and silly at times. Yet, despite his youth, he never insulted me.”

  Lieutenant Dawes raised his eyebrows. “When have I ever insulted you?”

  “Every time you mention his name. I'm going to tell you something right now, my dear husband. You keep it up, and you'll regret it.”

  He could see that she was becoming angry, and didn't want a public scene. “I'm sorry. I thought we were joking.”

  “Perhaps you were, but I wasn't. I think it best if we never mentioned Duane Braddock again. Otherwise I'll leave you, because anything's better than this.”

  He'd be the laughingstock of the officers’ club when word got around that he'd met a strange woman, married her a week later, and then was divorced. Senior commanders might surmise that something was wrong with his mind, and pass him over for promotion.

  “I apologize from the bottom of my heart,” he said. “You can be sure that I'll never mention that person again.”

  The dance ended, and Phyllis clapped her hands while the musicians bowed, doffed their hats, and headed for the main table groaning beneath pounds of food.

  “Let's get something to eat,” she said to Duane.

  “I don't think we should spend the rest of the afternoon together,” he replied. “I don't want to make your father angry.”

  “It's only a party, Duane.” She grabbed a handful of his sleeve and pulled him toward the food. All he could do was follow, worried about possible retaliation from his future father-in-law. If he weren't so exhilarated by her presence, he would've noticed a far more serious threat on the other side of the clearing, where Jay Krenshaw sipped a glass of white lightning.

  Jay could see that the Pecos Kid was a far better dancer than he, and Phyllis preferred his company. It rankled like acid poured onto Jay's guts. He wanted desperately to be viewed as a great man like his father, but whatever he did, he always fell short.

  If these people knew who Duane Braddock's mother and father were, they'd be in for a big surprise. I should tell Big Al, but I'd look like a sneaky son of a bitch. Maybe I should just wait for Otis Puckett to get here. He'll take care of the Pecos Kid, and then maybe I'll have a chance with little Phyllis.

  Lew Krenshaw sat next to Big Al and ate from a massive plate of sliced beef. “You put on a good feed,” he said, his mouth full. “I ain't had a meal like this since I can't remember when.”

  “You look it!” Big Al boomed. “Mebbe it's time you hired a cook, or you might even think of a-git-tin’ married agin’. I'll bet there's plenny of women who'd love to marry Lew Krenshaw.”

  “I don't want nobody to marry me fer my ranch, and besides, love is fer the young, like that galoot what was a-dancin’ with yer Phyllis. Who the hell is he?”

  Big Al growled. “One of my cowboys.”

  Myrtle leaned forward and looked at Lew Krenshaw. “His name's Duane Braddock.”

  “I think she's sweet on him.”

  “Like hell she is!” roared Big Al.

  “Seems like a nice enough boy,” Lew Krenshaw said. “Reminds me when I was young.”

  Myrtle Thornton looked at him askance. “You talk as though you're already in the grave.”

  “Nawthin’ never turned out right fer m
e,” Lew complained. “Life's downright discouraging.”

  “You've got a lot to be thankful for, seems to me.”

  Big Al interjected, “Lew's been like this ever since I met ‘im. No matter what happens, it ain't enough. If he ever made it to heaven, he'd tell Jesus that it weren't what he'd hoped for.”

  Big Al noticed the approach of his daughter and Duane Braddock, each carrying plates covered with food. Big Al muttered something unmentionable, while Lew Krenshaw turned toward the couple. He couldn't help comparing Duane to his son, and something told the old man that the Circle K and Bar T would never merge, which provided a new reason for unhappiness. I ain't a-gonna git no grandsons, he thought mournfully.

  Duane looked as if he'd rather be in Santa Fe as he sat on a chair beside Phyllis. He kept undressing her in his imagination, but her parents terrified him, and the wizened old man sitting nearby peered at him curiously. Duane figured that her ex-cowboy father knew precisely what was occurring in the deepest convolutions of his billy goat mind.

  He tried to eat calmly, but his main ambition was to go to a quiet place with Phyllis Thornton, and remove her clothing. I'll never last till Christmas, he thought. I wonder if there's any way I can get her alone?

  Meanwhile, the quantity of whiskey steadily diminished, while dancing became more uninhibited. The men clattered like horses and jumped like rabbits, as the women spun smoothly through the air, their skirts and petticoats rising, affording an occasional glimpse of leg. The afternoon hadn't reached midpoint yet, but a few cowboys already had passed out from injudicious drinking habits.

  The cowboys from the Bar T and Circle K kept away from each other, to avoid sudden death. Males outnumbered ladies eight to one, and vied for dance rights, while shy, aging, or philosophical cowboys sat on the sidelines, got drunk, and watched the activities.

  Don Jordan came to a stop in front of Duane and said, “Ramrod wants to see you, pronto.”

  Duane wiped his mouth with his napkin, winked at Phyllis, and said, “Excuse me.” Then he followed Jordan across the yard. “What's up?”

  “Ramrod didn't tell me, but it sure looks like you're doing all right with the boss's daughter, you lucky son of a bitch.”

  The ramrod sat in a wagon, his back against the slats, a bottle of whiskey in his hand. “Come on in here, Mister Braddock, and have a seat. I want to talk with you.”

  Duane climbed into the wagon, sat opposite the ramrod, and waited for his assignment.

  “You was a-lookin’ a little green around the gills,” McGrath said, “so I thought I'd git you away fer a spell. You ain't a-screwin’ Miss Phyllis, are you?”

  “Hell no,” Duane said. “We're just . . .” Duane struggled for a word to describe what he and Phyllis meant to each other.

  “Let me tell you about Big Al. He's not as mean as he looks, and his daughter has got him wrapped around her little finger. You shouldn't have nawthin’ to worry ‘bout, less'n he catches you with yer hand up her dress, afore yer married. You got any preference about whar you want to git buried?”

  “You don't have to dig a hole, ramrod. Just leave me for the buzzards.”

  Duane felt two small coals burning into the side of his head, and noticed Vanessa Fontaine Dawes looking at him. Their eyes met, and Duane flashed on her naked in bed with the Pecos Kid, clawing and biting passionately, but now she sat demurely, fully clothed, a paragon of dignity, fashion, and virtue. He decided that he wanted to be alone, so that he could think things through.

  “Got to stretch my legs,” he said

  He climbed out of the wagon, then headed for the open range. If the boss's daughter likes you, suddenly people start paying attention. It reminded him of the night he'd shot Saul Klevins. He passed the bunkhouse, and filled his lungs with pure clear air. After twenty yards, he dropped to a cross-legged sitting position on the open range. All I want is a simple, peaceful life. Why does everything happen to me?

  He heard a growl behind him, and spun around, reaching for his Colt. It was Sparky pointed to the corner of the bunkhouse, baring his teeth. “Who's there?” Duane asked.

  A man with a black hat and no chin stepped into the open embarrassedly. “Just me,” said Amos Raybart.

  Duane recognized him as a Circle K cowboy. “What can I do for you?”

  “Just takin’ a walk. Ain't you the feller called Duane Braddock?”

  “What if I am?”

  “I heered that you lived the monk's life not long ago, and I was a-wonderin’ if you ever missed it.”

  Duane was taken aback by the question. “Sometimes . .. why do you ask?”

  Raybart looked Duane over at close range, looking for a mark of the devil, and instead caught clear sharp eyes that made him turn away. “I'm a religious man, too,” he admitted. “D'ya think we could pray together?”

  Again, Duane was surprised. “All right,” he agreed, closing his eyes, but not all the way.

  Raybart clasped his hands together. “Lord, show us righteousness. Give us your strength. Teach us your wisdom.”

  Raybart droned on, and Duane tried to figure his game. The encounter had been too sudden, and it appeared that Sparky had caught the stranger spying. Finally, Raybart came to the end of his prayer. “Thank you, Jesus, fer all yer many blessin's.” He opened his eyes and smiled beatifically.

  “What's your name?” Duane asked.

  Raybart told him, but it didn't ring bells in Duane's mind. “How come you're talking to me? I thought the Circle K cowboys were mad at the Bar T.”

  “Has God ever spoken with you?”

  Duane blinked in surprise at the latest question. “Sometimes,” he confessed. “How about you?”

  “He said that I should follow Him unto the ends of the earth.”

  “Then you should.”

  Raybart appeared to be undergoing a powerful spiritual experience. His hands trembled and his face drained of color. “Thank you, sir,” he replied. “You been very kind.”

  Tipping his hat and bowing, Raybart backed toward the corner of the bunkhouse. Duane watched his hands, because the man obviously was insane. The Pecos Kid could imagine no other reason for his bizarre and inexplicable conduct.

  Raybart walked alongside the bunkhouse, so deep in thought that he barely was aware of what occurred around him. He'd seen a force in Duane's eyes that reminded him of the monastery in the clouds. He's told me what I've gotta do, Raybart realized.

  Raybart felt purified as he approached the front of the bunkhouse. I'll take my pay at the end of the month and head for the Guadalupe Mountains. Then I'll follow Jesus to my dying day, for he has forgave me my sins.

  A hand reached suddenly out of the shadows, and grabbed him around the neck. “What you think yer doin’, asshole?”

  Raybart looked fearfully at the sinister features of Jay Krenshaw accompanied by tobacco stench issuing from his rotten teeth. “Just takin’ a walk, boss man.”

  “What'd you and Braddock talk about?”

  “We prayed together.”

  Krenshaw's eyes widened, and he took a step backward. “You what?”

  “Prayed together.”

  “Are you tryin’ to shit me?”

  “He's a god-fearin’ man, and so am I. You may not realize it, but God is a-watchin’ every move we make.”

  Jay Krenshaw had considered Amos Raybart a wicked little man who'd do anything for a dollar, including murder, and the sudden religious talk unnerved him. “Git out of my sight, and don't ever let me see you talking to Braddock again. If you mention a certain trip that you took recently—you'll wake up a-swingin’ from a tree.”

  CHAPTER 11

  DANCERS HOPPED ABOUT the dance ground, an endless line passed diminishing barbecued animals, and new guests arrived from faraway districts, as the sun sank in a sky mottled with purple, red, and gold.

  Big Al's working ranch looked like a carnival, with fiddlers, guitar pickers, and brightly colored ribbons. He felt like a monarch bestowing favors upon his subjects as
he blew ash off the end of his cigar. We ought to do this more often, he thought happily.

  A Bar T cowboy climbed a ladder and lit the lamp suspended over the steer and pig carcasses as nearby guests gobbled huge quantities of savory meat. One keg of whiskey had been tapped out, and the second already one-quarter gone. Several cowboys were passed out cold, and numerous others staggered about in advanced stages of inebriation, but the overwhelming majority had paced themselves for the long haul.

  Duane strolled toward the dance ground, a cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth, thumbs hooked in the front pockets of his jeans. His hat sat on the back of his head, and his Colt glowed evilly in the light of an oil lamp lit by cowboys at the entrance to the barn. His eyes roved the riotous scene, and he spotted Phyllis Thornton dancing with an unknown man in a tight-fitting suit. The prettiest girl in the party tried not to look bored, as a line of men awaited their turn with her.

  Duane found himself sinking into a vile mood. He wanted to be alone with Phyllis, but instead had to share her with the world. He made his way toward the kegs, filled a glass, and looked for a place to sit down. He found a length of barn and dropped to his heels.

  It seemed that every path to happiness was blocked to him. He couldn't have Phyllis, Vanessa didn't want him, and Jay Krenshaw kept stalking through the crowd, tossing hostile glances his way. And then there was the strange cowboy who'd asked to pray with him, and now eyed him thoughtfully from a position near the fire.

  The dance came to an end, and a freckle-faced private from the Fourth Cavalry approached Phyllis for the next one. She shook her head, and the corners of his mouth drooped in disappointment. Phyllis headed for the refreshment table, trailed by admirers, and Duane was about to follow, when a pale blue dress caught the corner of his eye. It was Vanessa Fontaine Dawes, moving in the same direction. Duane feared that Phyllis and Vanessa would meet, with the topic of conversation himself. Vanessa had an acid tongue, and Phyllis might push her into a water trough. It appeared that the main event of the evening was about to begin.