by Len Levinson
Puckett wondered if he himself did anything strange while he was asleep. He took out his leather tobacco bag, rolled a cigarette, and scraped a match on the floor. The man on the bed didn't stir. It was the first time Puckett had seen a grown man suck his thumb, but Puckett had worked for many different clients throughout his career, and once had been hired by a woman.
He puffed the cigarette lazily, content that his long journey was finally over. He was ready for a bath, a hot meal, and then get on with the job. The sooner he finished, the sooner he'd be with Rosita and her smooth golden body that thrilled and delighted him continually.
“Who's there?” The figure stirred on the bed, and his hand reached beneath the pillow for his Colt.
Puckett drew his gun and pressed the cold metal barrel to Jay's head. “Don't move,” he uttered.
Jay Krenshaw thought the Pecos Kid had finally got him, except the voice didn't sound like the Kid's. Jay turned and was surprised to see a man who looked like Humpty Dumpty in a cowboy hat. Jay wanted to laugh, except Humpty Dumpty was aiming a gun at his head. “Who're you?” Jay asked.
“Din't you send fer me, Mister Krenshaw?”
A smile creased Jay's face as the truth dawned upon him. “I thought you'd got lost!”
Puckett spun the cylinder of his Colt with the side of his thumb, then dropped the weapon into its holster. “Who do you want dead, and where can I find ‘im?”
“His name's Braddock, and they calls him the Pecos Kid. Ever hear of the name?”
“They've got a Kid fer every corner of Texas—I can't keep up with ‘em all. What's he done?”
“He shot Saul Klevins.”
Puckett's ears perked up. “What else you know about Mister Pecos?”
“His father was an outlaw named Joe Braddock, and his mother was a whore, but they never got married.” Jay gazed into Puckett's little pig eyes. “I want you to kill him.”
Puckett examined the split lip, broken nose, and toothless mouth before him. “Looks like he beat the shit out of you.”
Jay glanced away. “He hit me when I weren't lookin’.”
“That's why yer supposed to keep yer eyes open. Where is he now?”
“He works at the Bar T. They're a-throwin’ a party fer him in town on Saturday night, and that might be the best time to nail ‘im.”
“Don't know if I want to wait ‘till Saturday night. I got a wife and family to go home to.”
“If you ride out to the Bar T, you'll have to take on the bunkhouse.”
“What's the party fer?”
“He's a-gittin’ married.”
Puckett puffed his cigarette as he gazed into Krenshaw's puffy and blackened eyes. “That's one wedding that'll never take place.”
Big Al struggled to breathe. He felt as if a giant were sitting on his chest, as he opened his eyes. He gasped, coughed, and finally the air came through. He took a deep breath, sat up in bed, and reached for a glass of water.
“Are you all right?” Myrtle asked sleepily.
“Natcherly,” he replied reassuringly.
But he wasn't all right. Often he awoke in the middle of the night, unable to breathe, with pains in his chest. And he knew that one night the air wouldn't come, and he'd die. It was as though Death were heralding his arrival.
Big Al rolled out of bed, threw on his shaggy Buffalo robe, and sat in the chair by the window. The horizon was a faint scrawl in the moonlight, while the heavens sparkled with millions of stars. He felt ancient, and knew that his days were numbered.
Big Al had few regrets. He'd been blessed with a good wife, a beautiful daughter, and the Bar T Ranch. His property would pass to Phyllis someday, and then to Phyllis's heirs, until the end of time.
Big Al preferred to take the long view, because short term considerations were gruesome. He'd get progressively weaker, and shortness of breath would become more prevalent. One day he'd keel over like a sack of potatoes, and then the worms would get him.
Sometimes he thought the Apaches had the right idea. When their people got old, they were left alone with a leather bag full of water, and a few handfuls of food. He'd rather die alone on a forgotten desert than have people staring curiously at his final creaking debilitations. But if I had to play the same hand over, I'd throw down the cards exactly the same way.
The words were brave, but Big Al felt the icy breathe of Death upon him. It made him shiver, but he didn't stop to think that maybe Death was searching for somebody else.
Otis Puckett lit the lamp in the guest room, revealing a bed and chair. Exhausted, he sat on the bed and pulled off his boots. His confidence was challenged by news that he'd have to fight a fast hand, instead of the usual easy opponent. He resolved to start practicing in earnest tomorrow morning. He didn't want to take the chances of not seeing Rosita and little Julio ever again.
Puckett knew that even the fastest gunfighter was slow if he'd drunk too much, and maybe that's what did in Saul Klevins, or maybe he'd been sick, or perhaps he'd just been with a woman, and was weakened. Puckett would let no whiskey pass his lips until after he killed Duane Braddock. Neither would he sleep with a woman, or expose himself to cold drafts. He wanted to be in perfect condition for the fast hand from the Bar T, who was scheduled to marry the boss's daughter. Am I going to ruin his plans, Puckett thought sardonically.
He pulled out his Colt .44, and it boasted well-worn ivory grips. He'd purchased it in St. Louis when he'd been fifty pounds lighter, and fifteen years younger, at the beginning of his gunfighting career. Since then he'd traveled back and forth across the frontier, killing for dollars.
He plotted his career like any banker or government functionary, and expected a big boost after he shot the man who'd outdrawn Saul Klevins. People would pass the word along, and more work would come his way. Saturday night, the job will be done, Puckett told himself. I'll have my money, while Duane Braddock can visit his father in the next world.
Phyllis dreamed about making love with Duane Braddock. She was sprawled belly down on her bed, hugging her pillow as if it were flesh and blood. Duane writhed beneath her ministrations, a half smile on his face, his body perfectly formed, a healthy fragrance arising from his chest, reminding her of morning on the sage. “Oh, my darling,” she whispered. “I love you so much!”
Duane became splattered with blood, and she screamed, awakening herself. She pulled back, opened her eyes, and the mangled pillow lay beneath her, her body covered with perspiration, and she was filled with a terrible foreboding.
Her door flung open, and her mother entered the bedroom, her long pigtail trailing behind her. “Are you all right?”
“I had a bad dream,” Phyllis said weakly. “I saw Duane get killed.”
Myrtle sat beside her daughter and wrapped her arm over her shoulders. “Don't worry about Duane,” she soothed. “He's perfectly capable of taking care of himself.”
“But somebody might shoot him in the back,” Phyllis whimpered, “or he could get into an accident.”
“It might be raining pink frogs in Kansas, and the moon might be made of green cheese. We can't lead our lives on might and if and maybe. Duane is a strong young man, and soon you'll be married to him. Now go to sleep, because we all have work to do.”
Myrtle kissed her daughter on the forehead, then departed. Phyllis dropped to her damp sheets and pulled the covers over her. Despite what her mother said, the queasy feeling remained, and would continue to haunt her in the days to come.
CHAPTER 13
JAY KRENSHAW HAD seen fast hands in his day, but nothing like Otis Puckett. The gunfighter drew so quickly, Krenshaw couldn't perceive the individual hand movements. It reminded him of the sudden lunge of a rattler, or the kick of a mustang. It seemed as if no man could move that quickly, particularly with so much fat around his middle.
Jay lounged against a cottonwood tree, watching Otis Puckett practice. Bottles and cans were lined on a plank behind the kitchen, and Puckett sent glass and tin flying through the sky.
Puckett worked systematically, with no trick moves or flashy conceits. All he did was draw and fire with incredible speed, never missing. Krenshaw didn't dare open his mouth to break the master's concentration. You git what you pay fer, Krenshaw thought happily, and I paid fer the best.
Jay had taken a bath, shaved, and changed his clothing. He felt as if his life were turning around, because soon he'd wreak vengeance against Duane Braddock, and everybody would know that they'd better watch out for Jay Krenshaw. And maybe little Phyllis will see me in a new light. I'll end up with that gal yet, if'n I play my cards right.
Suddenly Puckett spun around and aimed his gun at the corner of the toolshed. “Who's there?”
A figure emerged, with a sheepish expression and no discernable chin. “I was just a-wonderin’ what all the shootin’ was about,” said Amos Raybart.
Puckett turned toward Jay. “Get him out of here.”
Krenshaw arose, hiked up his gun belt, and strolled toward Raybart, who smiled nervously. “You heard what he said. Get the hell out've here. And by the way, why ain't you with the others?”
“The ramrod told me to fix the stovepipe. I was jest a-gittin’ started, when I heard the shootin’. Thought it might be Comanches a-raidin’ the horses.”
“Go back to the stove,” Krenshaw growled. “And keep yer mouth shut about what you seen here.”
“Yessir,” replied Raybart. He scooted away, acting the fool, but knew that he'd just seen something significant. Ordinary cowboys don't draw that fast, he told himself. I'll bet Jay hired him to kill Duane Braddock!
Raybart sat at the table inside the bunkhouse, listening to steady gunfire, and wanted to warn Duane, but Jay would fire him, and Puckett might even kill him. Yet he couldn't let the former acolyte walk into a gunfight with a professional.
Raybart puffed a cigarette nervously and looked out the window at the clear blue sky. Maybe I should let God take care of it. If He wants Duane to die, it's His business, not mine. Raybart fretted, as in the distance he could hear the thunder of the gun-fighter's Colt.
“What d'ya wanna kill him for?” Puckett asked as he and Krenshaw were having dinner in the main house that afternoon.
Krenshaw looked up from his big bowl of Son of a Bitch Stew, consisting of the brains, heart, kidneys, liver, marrow gut, and sweetbreads of a steer. The question was so preposterous, Jay couldn't think of anything to say.
“I hope you don't mind me a-askin’,” Puckett said, “but sometimes I git curious. Why don't you just fergit about ‘im, and go on with yer bizness?”
“The li'l bastard beat the shit out of me when I wasn't a-lookin’. You ain't a-backin’ out've the deal, are you?”
“Don't git me wrong, Mister Krenshaw,” Puckett replied. “When I show up in town, somebody's a-goin’ to die.”
The cavalry detachment returned to Shelby that evening, and Lieutenant Dawes headed for his home immediately after dismissing the formation. He found his wife dropped to one knee before the stove, examining something that smelled slightly burned. “My God—what are you doing?” he asked.
“I'm learning to cook.”
He took her in his dusty arms and pressed his dried lips against hers. She felt warmed by the touch of his beard, while his massive physicality turned her on.
“I thought you hated to cook,” he said. “What happened?”
“I needed something to do, otherwise I'll go loco.”
“I know the feeling,” he admitted, as he kissed her nose. “You've been on my mind constantly while I've been on patrol. You look lovely as always.”
“There's no one to talk with when you're not here, and I have difficulty sleeping. I hope we'll be able to move to Fort Richardson soon.”
“Unfortunately, we're stuck here for the time being, and we've got to make the best of it. The worst thing about these small, out-of-the-way towns is that nothing exciting ever happens.”
CHAPTER 14
ON SATURDAY AFTERNOON, the Bar T cowboys returned to the ranch, herded their horses into the corral, stowed gear, and began preparing for Saturday night. Since it was Duane's party, he got to use the bathtub first. Then he shaved, put on a clean pair of black jeans, black shirt, and green bandanna. He planted his black hat firmly on his head, and headed toward the main house, while the others took their turns in the bathtub.
Duane looked forward to the party, although he knew that it invariably would turn into the usual drunken brawl, with cowboys vomiting over themselves, and probably a few fights. He worked the joints of his right hand gingerly, because the pain hadn't gone entirely. Duane swore that he wasn't getting into any more fistfights, no matter what the provocation.
He approached the front door of the main ranch building, soon to become his residence. Cowboy carpenters had been laboring on a new addition, where he and Phyllis would sleep in a big brass bed, if it ever arrived from Chicago. He came to the front door, knocked three times, and the moment his knuckle parted company with the door, it opened. Phyllis stood before him, a big smile on her face. “Why, it's Duane,” she said, as if expecting someone else. “Has something happened?”
“Let's take a walk.”
He took her hand, an acceptable familiarity now that they were officially engaged. Side by side they advanced onto the sage, their arms and legs touching, sending thrills from body to body.
“What's bothering you?” she asked.
He pinched his lips together, then said, “I can't stop thinking about you. If we don't . . . pretty soon, I think I'll die.”
“I haven't slept a wink since you've been gone,” she confessed. “I've never been so sick in my life.”
“Maybe I can ask McGrath to put me in a line shack, but I don't think it'd help. The thought of you gets me going, like now.”
They stopped, turned, and faced each other only inches apart. “Maybe we should just do it and get it over with,” she said wearily.
“Where do you think we can go?”
“Meet me in the hayloft after you get back from town.”
They gazed into each other's eyes, and both realized that they'd come to the ultimate decision. “I feel better already,” he said.
“I hope you're not going to get too drunk tonight.”
“I'm practically a married man, and it's time for me to grow up.”
“I hope you won't lose your temper with somebody. We don't want any more fights.”
“I'm not looking for trouble,” Duane replied, “and if trouble comes looking for me, I'll just walk the other way.”
At the Circle K, cowboys and their horses stood in front of the main house, waiting for Jay Krenshaw and Otis Puckett to come out. They smoked cigarettes in the gathering twilight, mumbling about gunfighters, shootouts, and bloodshed. On a decently managed ranch, they would've been good cowboys, but Jay Krenshaw was disorganized and capricious, and they'd become a lazy bunch with no purpose to their lives. If the job weren't so easy, they would've left long ago.
The front door of the house opened, and two men stepped onto the veranda. One was tall, the other short, round, and funny looking, but nobody dared laugh. Without a word, Krenshaw and Puckett walked toward their horses and mounted up. They wheeled the horses toward Shelby, and the cowboys followed dutifully.
Some cowboys wanted to see Duane Braddock die, because they liked blood, but a few hoped he'd win, since they favored the underdog. Amos Raybart carried a message scrawled on a scrap of paper, which he hoped to slip to Duane Braddock:
Fat man been hired to kill you. Git the hell outer here fast as you kin.
a friend
The cowboys from the Bar T climbed into their saddles and were about to ride off, when a small rotund creature with a black eye appeared before them, his tail wagging excitedly as he let out a strangled yelp.
McGrath pulled back on his reins. “What the hell do you want!” he roared. “You don't think yer a-comin’ to town with us, do you?”
Uncle Ray replied, out of the corner of his
mouth, “Reckon he wants to go to the party, too.”
McGrath wagged his gnarled sausagelike finger at the mongrel. “You can come, long as you stay out've trouble.”
Sparky barked in agreement, McGrath put the spurs to his horse's flanks, and the Bar T crew headed toward Shelby. They passed the main house, and Duane saw light in the parlor, where Phyllis and her parents were spending a quiet evening with Lew Krenshaw, permanent resident of the barn.
Duane rode in the midst of the cowboys, not on the periphery as when he'd been tenderfoot. Not only had they accepted him, they also treated him like the boss's son, which sometimes made him feel a freak, but at least he didn't have to worry about rattlesnakes in his bed anymore. Sparky and the cowboys advanced onto the open range as Duane meditated upon his future prospects. I'm going to own this ranch someday, so I can't be a drunken fool anymore. If a man can't manage himself, how can he expect to manage others?
Lieutenant Clayton Dawes and his wife, the former Vanessa Fontaine of Charleston, South Carolina, sat in their parlor and looked at each other blankly. They were finished with supper, a soldier had washed their pots, pans, and dishes, and now they were alone.
“What do we do now?” she asked, a trace of boredom in her voice.
“I'm conversant on many topics. Take your pick.”
“What do most officers’ wives do in circumstances like this.”
“They have children.”
Vanessa raised her eyebrows. “Don't get any ideas, please.”
“I suppose I should've asked before I married you, but my mind was on other things. Don't you like children?”
“Of course I like children. Do you think I'm a monster? But I don't think I'm in any condition to have a child. I mean, what if I need a doctor?”
“If you became pregnant, then I suppose I'd have to let you live at Fort Richardson, near the sawbones.”