The Reckoning

by Mike Torreano

  Ike pulled Ally into the first of four stalls and put a hand on the rickety wood rail door to close it behind him. As he did, a snore came from the next stall. He pulled out his sidearm, crouched as he eased around the corner, and thrust the pistol between the adjoining stall’s wooden slats. In the dark, he could just make out the dim outline of a person sleeping on some straw in the far corner. He opened the stall door and carefully walked over to the still form. An older man lay there, snoring lightly with each breath. Ike holstered his gun and walked back to Ally, where he untied his bedroll from his saddle. He returned to the other stall and draped a blanket over the sleeping man. He looked like he needed it more than Ike.

  Ike limped back to his stall and started to shut the door behind him. Before he could, though, the cat was off the hay and slipped in right behind him. The calico curled up at one end of the small enclosure as Ike unsaddled Ally and picked up handfuls of straw to rub her down with. He searched for the cleanest straw he could find and lay down on it. His nearly empty saddlebag made for a hard pillow as he shifted on it to get comfortable. Across the way, the calico’s eyes slowly closed. It didn’t take the cat long to get down to business. He stared at the dark stable roof above, giving silent thanks. Hard riding had finally caught up with him, and he quickly fell fast asleep in the crude bedroom, his left hand on his holster as he drifted off.

  The next morning Ally nudged him awake. There was something by his stomach. Ike looked down to see the cat stretching slowly next to him, arching its back and patty-pawing on his shirt. He must have been the warmest thing in the stable. A quick look over at the next stall revealed that the old man was still there. Ike’s head hurt as he forced himself up and led Ally outside in the cool, early morning, followed closely by his new four-legged friend. A trail of whitish breath hung in the air behind him as he limped to the water pump. Ike worked the handle and filled an old wooden bucket with fresh water, then discovered more oats in a nearby sack. He put a feedbag on Ally and offered some to the cat, but she just sat there, tail twitching. Rummaging through his saddlebag, Ike found some small, crumbly pieces of jerky and held them out toward the animal, which padded forward, then stopped and turned up her nose.

  “Oh, all right.” Ike went back into the stable and retrieved an old hardtack biscuit from his food bag, which the cat quickly accepted. She looked like she didn’t know whether to eat or drink first, as she sat looking at the water, then the food. She ate the biscuit, then sat and licked her front paws, eyes closing with each lick. After hiding his rifle under the straw and closing Ally back in the stall, Ike headed for the sheriff’s office.

  This was his first look at Cottonwood in the daylight. There wasn’t much to the town. A warped sign over the small mercantile was shot up and hung askew just below the storefront’s roofline. A couple of buildings down was the jail. Ike worked the door’s flimsy metal latch, walked in, and found the sheriff at his desk sipping coffee.

  “My name’s…Porter…Sheriff. Ike Porter. I’m here looking for my sister, Sue.” Porter was a name he’d used before, in Oklahoma territory and Kansas over the years when it suited his purpose. The alias would buy him some time here—time he guessed he might need to find Sue.

  The sheriff held a hand up. “Stop right there, young fella. Wait while I get somethin’ to write with.”

  Ike started to interrupt but thought better of it.

  The lawman rummaged through his desk. He brightened when he found an old stubby pencil and a crinkled piece of paper. “Now start over, will ya?”

  Ike looked at the jowly man. “Your name, Sheriff?”

  “Why sure. Name’s Tucker. The rest of it don’t matter. Why don’t you tell me about your sister, Mr. Porter?”

  Ike laid out why he’d come to Cottonwood and talked about Sue’s monthly letters and how he hadn’t gotten one last month.

  Tucker broke in. “You’re new here, ain’t you, son? And you say your sister was Sue Johnson?”

  The sheriff wasn’t impressing Ike. “What do you mean by was, Sheriff?”

  “Don’t mean nothin’ by it, slip of the tongue, son. Say, if she’s your sister, why do you have different last names?”

  Ike didn’t want to share any more information with a lawman he didn’t know anything about. “We just do. So, where can I find her?”

  Tucker hesitated. “Well, see, there’s the queer thing. She’s been gone for about a month. Don’t know what’s become of her.”

  “You mean she’s disappeared?”

  “That’s about the size of it, young fella. She just up and left.”

  Ike rubbed his beard hard. The sheriff had to know more than that. “Her letters said she was working at a dress shop here, The Sew Pretty. Where can I find that shop?”

  “Why, that’d be Margaret Pinshaw’s place. Just a little further down the street.” Tucker pointed to the right, reached a hand across his desk, and filled it with a coffee cup. “Say, while I’m at it, I hope you don’t mind me sayin’, but you could use a bath and a shave. They got ’em both over at the mercantile. But before you go, why don’t you set a spell and tell me about those letters?”

  But Ike was already headed out the door, on the lookout for The Sew Pretty. When he found the dress shop, he peered in the window of the small, darkened storefront. Shops back in Lawrence weren’t open on Sunday either. The Cottonwood saloon looked to be an exception though, from the sound of things. His gaze drifted to the mercantile down the way, then at his clothes. They were the next order of business.

  Ike knocked on the mercantile’s front door until the owner came down from upstairs and ushered him inside. The small man said, “Time to open up anyway. Say, you look like you need—I mean, you probably want a bath, right? Got a new metal tub in the back just right for bathin’. They call it ‘galvanized,’ now ain’t that somethin’.” Ike’s expression didn’t change as the storeowner chuckled to himself and filled the tub with buckets of nearly-boiling water.

  Ike drew the sheet curtain closed behind him, peeled his clothes off, and left them on the floor. He laid his Colt and hat within reach on a small table next to the tub. He eased in, the hot water at once both roasting and relaxing. The tub quickly cooled as the hot water soaked days of weariness away. His bad leg loosened up for the first time since he’d been on the trail.

  The owner poked his head around the sheet. “By the way, pardon me for not introducing myself. Name’s O’Toole, Ned O’Toole. What’s yours?”

  Ike’s fingers wrapped around his gun. He kept his hand on it as he said, “Porter, Ike Porter.”

  “That name’s got a good ring to it. You must be new in town ’cause I know ’most everybody around here.” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Got a straight razor right here, son, along with some lather and a tin mirror for a shave. Sharpest razor in town.” O’Toole started toward Ike with it in an outstretched hand.

  Ike raised the pistol as the shopkeeper brought the razor close. “I’ll do my own shavin’ if you don’t mind.”

  “Don’t mind at all, young feller.” O’Toole smiled and handed the shaving necessities to Ike, then while Ike shaved he reached down and gathered up Ike’s clothes before disappearing on the other side of the sheet.

  After he’d finished and dried off, Ike came out from behind the drape wearing nothing but a towel. He had a hat in one hand and his Colt .44 in the other.

  “You look a sight better now, son. Say, where’d you get that long scar on your arm? And the rest of them scars?”

  Ike didn’t miss a beat. “Got ’em in a knife fight with a store owner who asked too many questions.”

  O’Toole smiled, then sat Ike down in the only barber chair likely for miles around. “Now, let’s get you a haircut and see what you look like. It’s only a half dime.”

  Ike looked around the store. “Where’s my clothes?”

  “I’ll get to that.”

  As O’Toole moved in with the scissors, Ike said, “Just a trim all over, and the beard stays
.”

  When he’d finished, O’Toole said, “How ’bout a splash of sprinkle water too? Smells real good, and the ladies all love it. Just a penny is all.”

  Ike stiff-armed the shopkeeper. “Keep that stuff away from me.”

  O’Toole looked disappointed as he put the glass bottle back under the counter. “By the way, about your clothes, those old trousers and shirt of yours were so grimy and holey I threw ’em out.”

  Ike arched his eyebrows. “You threw my clothes away?”

  O’Toole smiled and raised a hand. “No need to thank me, young fella. I knew you didn’t want to put ’em back on anyway, did you? Not after you’re all clean and everything.” Without pausing, he said, “Now, come on over here and take a look at these newfangled pants I just got in from Denver.”

  Ike shook his head at the audacious shopkeeper. As he followed O’Toole around the store, Ike couldn’t decide whether to be mad or amused.

  O’Toole looked back at him. “You don’t say much, do you?”

  “I never miss a good chance to shut up.”

  O’Toole looked unfazed by the remark. “Here they are, they call ’em Levi’s. Real tough. I picked out this pair and this shirt for you.” He held them up to Ike. “Yeah, looks about right—see how they fit. But put these cotton long johns on first. Winter comes to the high country early.”

  Ike slipped the long underwear on, then the wool shirt, the Levis, and his old belt. The wool shirt scratched lightly at his chest even through the cotton long johns. “They’re fine.” He buckled his belt, tied it off on his leg, and cinched it tight. The new notch his buckle went in was a silent reminder of how much weight he’d lost lately.

  O’Toole said, “Why, you look all ready to go a-courtin’. Real fine. Say, you’re left-handed, are you? Don’t see many cowboys with holsters on that side. They say lefties are faster on the draw than right handers.” Ike didn’t respond. O’Toole smiled. “Don’t matter none. Now, about that hat of yours. I got just the thing. Step on over here…”

  Ike interrupted before he could finish. “Leave it be, Mister O’Toole. This hat might not look like much, but it stays.” He smoothed a hand over the faded felt brim and as he looked at the old hat, an imaginary trumpet sounded “Charge” in his head. He wiped sweaty hands on his Levi’s. “Where can I get something to eat?”

  “Well, at the other end of the street, just past the stable, is a little boarding house, run by Miss Lorraine. She serves the best food around here, but then it’s about the only food served around here, other than down at Tucker’s jail. Don’t know if you’re lookin’ for a room too, but she might have one if you are. I think she likes me.”

  To Ike, that meant she probably didn’t.

  “Tell her Ned O’Toole told you to stop by.”

  “If I did want a room, is that the only place in town where I could get one?”

  “Yup, only place in town ’til the major’s new hotel gets finished. It’s gonna be the grandest thing ’tween Denver and Salt Lake City.”

  Ike listened closely as O’Toole talked about the hotel going up just down the street. Since the hotel wasn’t open yet, the boarding house had to be where Sue stayed. It was the only place in town with rooms available. He paid the shopkeeper two silver dollars for the bath and clothes, tipped his hat, and headed down the mud-lined street. He looked around for the cat. They were two of a kind. The cat didn’t look like it had a home, and neither did he.

  Five buildings down was the little building O’Toole described. Set apart by itself, the boarding house was a dingy white affair with sun-faded blue trim. One of those places that probably looked old even when it was new. A small weathered step lay in front of a little wooden porch, latticework all around. White lace curtains browned from the sun hung down from inside the front windows, which framed a small woman’s face that quickly disappeared. Ike stepped up to knock on the front door, but it opened before he could.

  “Can I help you, sir?” A youngish woman with a broom in her hand stared out at him. Hard gray eyes, worn flowery dress, light brown hair. Her gaze fell down to the cat, which had followed Ike from the stable and now sat just behind him. Tail slowly twitching.

  Ike recognized her voice from last night on the trail. He unconsciously rubbed his backside, then hesitated and took off his hat. “…Yes, ma’am, if you’re Miss Lorraine you can.”

  “That’s Mrs. Blanchard, and who’s asking?”

  “Name’s Porter, ma’am. Ike Porter, and I’d like a room and a meal if you have one. Man down at the mercantile said you might have both.”

  “That’d be O’Toole. How long might you be stayin’?”

  “Just until I finish my business.”

  She brushed a strand of longish brown hair out of her face and squinted at Ike. “Sounds like you got somethin’ particular in mind, ’cause business around here is bad. And even in new clothes, you look bad for business.”

  Ike eyed her coolly. “Let’s say a couple weeks, then. Okay?”

  “All right, come on in and sit down, and I’ll fix you something to eat. Looks like you could use it. Leave your cat outside.”

  “That ain’t my cat.”

  She held the door open but closed it behind Ike before the cat could slip in. Ike devoured the lumpy stew she set in front of him and complimented her as she retrieved his dishes.

  “Thank you. Most of the cowboys around here just eat and run. Never even pick their heads up while they’re eatin’, neither. Don’t know as some of ’em ain’t mute. Come on, follow me. I’ve got a place in the back you can have. Room and half board is five dollars. One week in advance.” She gave him a once-over as he got up.

  He’d never rented a room before. He didn’t have any idea if that was a fair rate and would have agreed to almost anything at this point. “That’s fine, I don’t eat a midday meal anyway.”

  “Breakfast is at seven in the dining room. The privy is outside the back door. No spitting on the floor. That’s what the spittoons are for. No female visitors. This ain’t a saloon. That cat stays outside. And don’t be comin’ back here at night all sloppy drunk.” She led him down a dim, narrow hallway to the back of the house.

  Ike sported a small grin. “Any other rules, ma’am?”

  Lorraine turned and arched an eyebrow at him, then continued down the hall.

  When they reached the room, Ike said, “Is there a key?”

  “No key, never needed one so far. Do you usually need them in your ‘business’?”

  He hesitated. “No, ma’am, that’s fine.”

  “I’ll be around the place if you need anything.”

  “Thank you.” He closed the door behind her and put his meager belongings on the bed. He lifted his Colt from its holster, spun the gun’s cylinder, and put rounds in the two empty chambers. As he opened the door and walked toward the front of the house, Lorraine called out to him.

  “Leavin’ again so soon?”

  “Just got some things to tend to.” At the stable, he saddled Ally and rode south. A late afternoon wind shook the low brown sage that surrounded him on the basin floor. For the next several hours, he made a slow, wide circle outside of town, first along the valley, then up and down the nearby pine-covered hills that sporadically rose around Cottonwood. Satisfied that he had a better idea of the terrain, he rode back into town the same way he came and stabled Ally. The elevation here was that much higher than Kansas, and it had stolen his breath the last couple of days. He walked with a rocking gait to the boarding house, said hello to Lorraine, and closed his bedroom door behind him. He dropped his long coat over the chair and slung his holster crosswise over the top.

  There was a filmy window in the center of the far wall. Faded wallpaper that the sun, dust, and heat had reduced to almost nothing lined the room. The low swayback bed squeaked in protest when he sat on it. Noisy floorboards. He worked his boots off, each thudding to the floor, then lay back on the lumpy horsehair-stuffed mattress, propped a well-used pillow up under
his head, and drifted off to sleep.

  As a new moon rose in the evening sky, Ike was up again. He quietly left the boarding house and walked the town’s wooden sidewalks, stopping occasionally under angled porch roofs where darkness liked to gather the most. After he’d made a careful circuit around the front and back of the town’s buildings, he eased back into the boarding house and lay down. A couple of deep breaths and he was asleep. The next thing he heard was a determined knock on his bedroom door.

  “Mr. Porter…Mr. Porter.”

  “Yes.” He looked blankly around the small room. The thin white curtains weren’t keeping much light out.

  “It’s Mrs. Blanchard, Lorraine Blanchard, Mr. Porter. Breakfast is being served, and you’re going to miss it unless you come right now. And I’m not tellin’ you twice.”

  The sun peeking through the curtain verified what she said. His body protested as he propped himself up. “Thank you. I’ll be there in a minute,” but the landlady was already clip-clopping away down the hallway. Ike filled the white porcelain bowl on the dresser with water from a worn porcelain pitcher, splashed some of it in his face, and grimaced at the ragged reflection that loomed back at him from the cracked mirror. Crags where there ought to be smooth. Eyes that looked like they belonged to an old man. He grabbed at the small white towel that lay on the dresser, pressed it against his face, swiped a hand through his hair and beard, and headed for the dining room.

  Two men were at the table when Ike sat down. The man in the black frock coat, white shirt, and black bow tie introduced himself with a formal air as Professor Hugh Walnutt, “of the London Walnutts.” He said he was boarding here until spring came and made travel more “efficacious.” Ike stared silently at him until Walnutt looked away. The other man Ike judged to be local. He was scruffy-looking, older, and wolfing down a stack of Lorraine’s flapjacks with a finishing bit of ham. Ike recognized his old blanket that lay across the back of the man’s chair.