The Reckoning (2 page)

There was a knock on the door. “Come in.”

Mrs. Gertrude Gibson, wife of the man who owned the general store and house where Vanessa was residing, stood in the doorway. A jolly woman with fluffy white hair, wearing glasses and a long navy blue dress, she said: “We're ready to see you, dear. Follow me, please.”

Vanessa felt as if she were going before a firing squad, as she followed Mrs. Gibson through the small unpainted house, a far cry from the opulent old family plantation. They passed a series of small rooms and narrow corridors, finally arriving in the main room of the general store, where eight people had gathered among canned goods, bolts of cloth, bridles, ranch hardware, and bags of beans. Mrs. Gibson introduced Vanessa to Mrs. Phipps, the blacksmith's wife; Mrs. Longwell, the blacksmith's assistant's wife; Mrs. Boylan, wife of a jack-of-all-trades, and finally, last but not least: the baldhead-ed, sleepy-eyed Parson J. Whittaker Jones.

“Shelby's got eight children,” declared Mr. Gibson, the stout, florid-faced only merchant in town. “We've often talked ‘bout advertisin' fer a schoolmarm, but we din't ‘spect someone to come here at her own expense, and then maybe git turned down. We want the best fer our children, not a schoolmarm who can barely read and write herself. Would you mind telling us
your
qualifications, Miss Fontaine?”

Vanessa stood in the best available lighting, her back to the window, sunlight surrounding her head with a halo of gold. She'd expected the question, and rehearsed her lines in advance.

“I may not be the best candidate,” she began modestly, “but I know much more than merely how to read and write. I was educated at Miss Dalton's School in Charleston, and have read many of the world's great classics. I've also performed research on a variety of subjects, and wrote essays reporting my findings. My professors were among the best
available in the South, and my piano instructor had been a friend of Franz Liszt.”

Mrs. Phipps wrinkled her long skinny nose. “Who?”

Parson Jones replied nasally, “Didn't he run off with somebody's wife?”

“I was referring,” said Vanessa, “to his professional competence.

The parson's coal-black eyes glittered with barely concealed fanaticism. “Your background is most impressive, Miss Fontaine, but there's another matter to which we must attend. As you know, a schoolmarm is expected to set a high example of morality to the children. Here I'm afraid that I must be frank with you. We're aware that you've come to town with a ... certain young man with whom you aren't married—is that correct?”

“We intend to get married as soon as we locate a parson, and it seems as though I've just found him. My fiance will be here on Saturday night, and perhaps you can do the honors Sunday morning?”

The parson smiled, for he knew that a financial contribution was headed his way. “I'd be honored, my dear,” he said with an obsequious bow. Vanessa looked each of them in the eye, as though she were onstage at the Round-Up Saloon. “I've had a thorough education, and I remember well the lessons that my own teachers used. I can promise you a hardworking, honest effort to educate your children.”

Mr. Gibson smiled. “Well, I guess it's time for us to vote. We'll have to ask you to return to your room, Miss Fontaine.”

Before Vanessa could leave, they heard a commotion on the street. Mr. Gibson yanked a pistol out of his belt, and rushed to the window. Parson Jones took down a double-barreled shotgun. Massed hoofbeats came to their ears, as if a large number of riders had come to town, possibly a Comanche war party, or a roving band of outlaws. Mr. Gibson opened the front door and peered down the street. A smile creased his face, as he declared: “It's the army!”

Everyone rushed outside, and stood on the dirt sidewalk in front of the store. Dust-covered blue uniforms approached, yellow bandannas fluttering in the breeze. A tall brawny officer rode in front, beside a private carrying a guidon flag of the Fourth Cavalry.

“Sure is good to see them boys,” said Mrs. Phipps.

“Fer a moment, I thought they was injuns,” added Mrs. Longwell nervously.

“Hope there ain't no trouble,” offered Mrs. Boylan.

The detachment drew closer, and Vanessa could see the blond mustache of the officer. He sat erectly in his saddle, and raised his glove in the air. “Detachment—halt!”

The soldiers stopped in the middle of the street, and the officer climbed down from his saddle. He was six-feet-four, and wore his wide-brimmed cavalry hat slanted low over his eyes. “I'm Lieutenant Dawes. We were wondering if you've had any problems with Indians lately.”

“Are they on the warpath again?” Mr. Gibson asked.

“Do they ever go off the warpath?” Lieutenant Dawes replied dryly. “We've been ordered to set up an outpost here, until further notice. Hope that won't be an inconvenience.”

“This territory won't be safe,” Gibson said, “until we kill all the injuns.”

“If my men cause any difficulties, I hope you'll let me know.” Lieutenant Dawes remounted, wheeled his horse, and led the detachment out of town.

“Nothing I'd druther see than the cavalry,” Gibson announced, as he headed back to the general store. “Hope they stay permanent, so's we don't have to worry no more about them goddamned Comanches.”

Vanessa stood near the door, and observed the lieutenant's perfect riding posture, elbows close to his sides. He looks like a West Pointer, she mused. I wonder if he was one the bluecoat bastards who burned old Dixie down?

The cowboys filed into the bunkhouse, groaning, cursing, grumbling, and burping. One of them asked, “What's fer supper tonight, cookie?”

“Same as last night,” retorted the man in the kitchen.

Another voice joined the conversation. “I'm so goddamned sick of beef, I'm ready to kill somebody.”

Duane sat on his bunk, trying to evaluate what kind of men they were, and how dangerous. One burly fellow with light brown hair stopped
at the next bunk. “Who the hell're you?”

“Just got hired today. Where's the ramrod?”

“In his cabin out back.”

Duane strolled to the door, and tried to look rough, but they appeared skeptical of his very existence, and he figured there'd be a rattler in his bunk when he returned.

Long shadows crossed the backyard as the sun sank toward red-toothed horizons ablaze with flame. At least nobody tried to shoot me in the back
yet,
Duane thought, trying to be optimistic. He crossed to the rear of the bunkhouse, and came to a small cabin adorned with the sun-bleached skull of a steer. Duane knocked on the door.

“Who's ‘ere?”

“Big Al hired me this morning.”

Duane heard a curse, and then the door was opened by a mean-looking man approximately Duane's height, but with a flowing brown mustache and a substantial gut. “What's yer name?”

“Duane Braddock.”

“Where'd you work afore?”

“The Lazy Y, near Titusville.”

McGrath had the jowls of a bulldog, and suspicious eyes. “Seems I heard of a Braddock once.”

Duane spat casually at the ground. “There was an outlaw named Joe Braddock awhile back, but he was no kin of mine.”

“Got hung, I believe.”

“That's what I heard. Do you know where?”

“Cain't say that I do.” McGrath looked at him disapprovingly. “It's brandin' time, and we work hard here. I'll expect you to keep up.”

“I'll do my best, sir.”

Duane touched his forefinger to the brim of his hat, as the door slammed in his face. In the distance, the half-moon floated in the sky like a Viking ship, the heavenly sea ablaze with stars. Duane thought he'd walk to settle himself down. He'd just met someone who'd heard of his father, and wondered how to wheedle more information.

Duane had come to the Pecos Country with one principal purpose: to find out what happened to his parents. According to records in the monastery office, Duane's father had been hunted down and killed by unnamed lawmen, while his mother died shortly thereafter of a strange disease. They hadn't got married, and evidently she was a dance hall girl, probably a prostitute. Duane was humiliated by his illicit parentage, and it had caused the fight that got him thrown out of the monastery.

His thumbs hooked in the front pockets of his jeans, a cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth, and his hat perched on the back of his head. He strolled in the moonlight, wondering if his father had been a cattle rustler, or a back shooter. All Duane could remember was a black mustache, the aroma of tobacco and whiskey, and a certain bluff devil-may-care attitude toward the world.

He'd suckled at his mother's breast for a year, then she was gone. He didn't even know her name. He often wondered what she was like, and how much of himself was her's alone. Whenever he thought of her, he had vague recollections of warmth, comfort, delicious perfume, and blond curls. But what can a one-year-old remember, and
how much was wishful thinking? Duane intended to track down news of her, too.

If lost parents weren't enough to occupy a man's mind, Duane also had his bride-to-be in town, subject to possible temptations. They'd lived together nearly a month, and he'd seen her in the wan dawn light like a tall farm girl with an impossibly long neck. Her nose had a strange bend that he hadn't been aware of when they'd first clawed at each other's clothes, and she was terribly cranky at times. Sometimes, in harsh light, she looked awfully old.

He'd discovered that his great golden goddess was merely a person, yet he couldn't forget her Mona Lisa smile, the eyes that drilled into his soul, the crown of golden hair, regal bearing, he could go on and on, remembering her advantages, not to mention her assets, nobility, courage under pressure, wit, cosmopolitan charm, etc. His heart swelled with love, and he couldn't wait for Saturday night, when he'd writhe in her arms, and to hell with the rest of the world.

He heard something, and stopped cold in his tracks. Vanessa Fontaine vanished, his hand lowered toward his Colt, he spit the cigarette out of his mouth and stepped on the red dot. The faint sound of footsteps came to him, he hauled iron, and thumbed back the hammer.

A woman stepped into a shaft of moonlight, hands clasped behind her back, head bowed in thought. Duane stood like a statue as she strolled closer. “Miss Thornton?”

She looked up suddenly, yanked the Remington out of her belt, eyes widening with surprise.

“I saw you walking,” he said with a grin, “and thought I should announce myself, so you wouldn't think I was a Comanche.”

He couldn't help noticing her mouth, which reminded him of a rosebud, compared to the relatively thin-lipped Vanessa Fontaine. He also checked her bosom development, much more substantial than that of his soon-to-be wife.

She recovered quickly, and the rosebud became a smile. “You're the new cowboy that my father just hired today.”

“Duane Braddock,” he replied, removing his hat politely. “I saw you this afternoon, and at first thought you were a man.”

“I was returning from an errand for my father, and had ridden a fairly long distance.”

“Weren't you afraid of Indians?”

“You can't stop living because of the Indians. I remember seeing you this afternoon, too, and thought you were an owl hoot. Are you?”

“Not as far as I know. How long have you lived here?”

“Just about all my life. What are you from?”

“Long distance from here.”

They gazed at each other in the moonlight, and he realized that she was a fresh ripe fruit waiting to be plucked, but he was engaged to Vanessa Fontaine.

He heard her say, “If you're not afraid to work, you'll get along all right. My father and mother started with a little shack, and built up the Bar T from there. We're not owned by Eastern or British investors.”

“I like to work hard,” Duane said with a grin. “Builds up the muscles.”

Their eyes shimmered in the darkness, and a coyote howled mournfully in a far-off cave. Duane felt drawn to her, then remembered Big Al.

“Got to get up early tomorrow. Nice meeting you, Miss Thornton.”

“Call me Phyllis, and I enjoyed talking with you, too, Duane. Good luck.”

She headed back to the main house, leaving Duane shrouded in shadows. Duane had little experience with women, but was impressed by her womanly glow. He experienced lecherous thoughts, as he headed toward the bunkhouse. A man has to stay on course, otherwise he becomes a fool, chasing every skirt in sight. I will never be unfaithful to Vanessa Fontaine, not even in my mind.

Clayton Dawes climbed down from his horse in front of the moon-dappled general store. Lights shone through the window, carving his sturdy profile as he threw his reins over the hitching rail. Then he adjusted the service revolver on his hip, and opened the front door.

Next to the iron stove, a group of men sat at a round table, playing cards. Coins adorned the top of the table, with a bottle of white lightning. “Evening, Lieutenant,” said Mr. Phipps, who looked like a praying mantis playing poker.

Lieutenant Dawes nodded as he made his way to the counter, where Mr. Gibson sat, reading an old Austin newspaper. “What can I do fer you?”

“My men'll start drifting in here later, and choirboys don't generally join the army. If they give you any trouble, just call my name. You can expect to sell a lot of whiskey, though, and by the way, could you pour me a glass?”

“Hope your boys don't shoot the place up, like the last bunch from the Fourth Cavalry what passed this way.”

“Can't promise you that,” Lieutenant Dawes replied, as he placed a coin on the counter. “They're a wild bunch of boys.”

Gibson filled a tumbler half full of whiskey. “Injuns've got everybody in this town scared to death. We pay taxes just like everybody else, and seems to me we're entitled to army protection.”

“The decisions are made in Washington, and I'm just the junior officer who gets the dirty jobs.” Lieutenant Dawes scratched his bronzed cheek, and added casually, “Thought I saw a new face today— tall blond woman, late twenties. Who's she?”