The Reckoning (4 page)

He raised his right hand. “The name's Dawes. Have a seat. Can I get you some coffee? I don't suppose you'd care for whiskey.”

“Wouldn't be schoolmarm here long if I did. I'm Vanessa Fontaine.”

“You're just about the most beautiful woman that I've ever seen in my life, Miss Fontaine. What can I do for you?”

Vanessa smiled politely. “My students have invited you to speak to them about what it's like to be in the army.”

Lieutenant Dawes opened his mouth to render an unequivocal
no,
but possibly General Sheridan would pass through Shelby someday, and the pretty schoolmarm might tell him about kind, helpful Lieutenant Dawes. “I'd be happy to speak before your students, Miss Fontaine, provided you answer a simple question. What's a rare flower like you doing in such a godforsaken part of Texas?”

“You're very gracious, sir, but perhaps you've been away from women too long, or the sun is starting to bake your brain, but there's nothing exceptional about me, I assure you. I've come here with the man I'm going to marry. He's looking for work as a cowboy, and I'm the schoolmarm.”

She's dirt poor, in other words, Lieutenant Dawes thought. There were many questions that he'd like to ask, but she was betrothed to another man, and Lieutenant Dawes was no bird dog. “What part of the South are you from?”

“Charleston. How about you?”

“I grew up in Washington, and if you're wondering if I fought in the war, I didn't. Besides, it's time to forgive and forget.”

“I wouldn't go that far,” replied the former Charleston belle.

The cowboys rode into the herd, searching for calves to brand. It was early afternoon, the slightly off-center sun beginning it's long drop toward the California canyons. Duane whirled his rope through the air lazily, as he spotted a calf. First he had to check the mother's brand, because range wars started over the misbranding of other people's calves.

The cow carried the Bar T brand, so Duane resumed circling the lasso over his head. He aimed, then let the lasso fly. The calf flinched as the hemp fell over him. Duane pulled him toward the fire, but the calf dug his little hooves into the turf, and bleated pathetically. Thunderbolt paid no attention as he
plodded onward.

Duane rocked back and forth in his saddle, noticing other cowboys lining up with their calves. He caught a whiff of burning mesquite mixed with the fragrance of the sage as he came to the end of the line.

He heard somebody clear his throat, and spun around. It was Ross, with a roped calf. The two cowboys looked at each other in silent hatred for a few moments, then Ross grinned. “Hope yer havin' fun today, kid, ‘cause tonight I'm a-gonna bust yer haid wide open.”

Duane's vivid imagination saw his head splitting like a rotten watermelon. But he knew how to fight a shorter man with less reach, thanks to the lessons of Brother Paolo. Keep him on the ends of your punches, pound him relentlessly, and whatever you do, don't clinch with him.

“Move it up, Braddock!” hollered the ramrod.

Duane pulled the calf closer to the fire, while the little creature fought to break loose. One rastler reached over the calf, grabbed a foreleg, and yanked the animal onto his back. The rastler held down the calf's foreleg, while another rastler positioned his backlegs. The brander pulled an iron from the fire, blew on the Bar T configuration until it glowed cherry red, and then pressed it against the calf's hide.

Duane closed his eyes, because he couldn't bear to watch the baby's suffering. The odor of burned fur came to his nostrils, the calf wailed as the rastler pulled the iron away. Duane felt relieved that the little animal's misery was over, when suddenly, a man
with a knife stepped forward. With a flash of steel, the calf's reproductive organs were removed. The calf screeched horribly as a rastler slathered grease over the wound. Duane's rope was removed from the animal's neck, and the calf was kicked in the rump. The calf ran off bawling, looking for his mother.

Duane broke out into a cold sweat as his Catholic moral training fell upon him like a flaming blanket from hell. Do we have a right to castrate other creatures? In the monastery, his every action had come under intense personal scrutiny for gradations of right and wrong. The secular world was more of a shock than he'd ever imagined. Most people did as they pleased, without regard for the suffering of others. Duane watched the castrated calf disappear into the sea of cattle. But what about him? At least monks don't harm other creatures.

“Somebody's comin!” hollered Ferguson. They turned in the direction of his finger, and saw riders approaching across the mesa. “Looks like a bunch from the Circle K.”

McGrath set his mouth in a grim line, and his eyes narrowed into tiny malevolent jewels. “Settle down, boys. We're not a-lookin' fer trouble, but if it come's—I want us to be ready.”

Duane took a swig from his canteen, as Bar T cowboys coalesced around McGrath. Duane drifted toward Don Jordan, who was hanging toward the back of the pack. “What's going on?”

“There's bad blood between the Circle K and us,” Jordan replied.

“Over what?”

“Cattle, horses, land, water—all the usual stuff.”

Duane eased his Colt out of its holster, then let it drop back in, so it would be smoother on the draw. He exercised the joints of his right hand, as the riders advanced closer, led by a big rawboned cowboy in a pearl-colored cowboy hat, red and black checkered shirt, and green bandanna. “Top of the morning to you, Mister McGrath,” he said with a wry smile. “Just a-checkin' the stock—that's all.”

“It's yer privilege, Mister Krenshaw, but I'll ask you to stay out'n the way of my men, ‘cause we've got work to do.”

“As long as your men don't lasso the wrong calves, everything'll be fine.”

“I don't think you've got much ter worry ‘bout there. We know the diff'rence between the Circle K brand and the Bar T.”

“Nothin' personal, but I've seen Bar T brands that looked like they was burned on top of Circle K brands. Why is it that the Bar T's herd seems to grow so much faster than everybody else's?”

“ ‘Cause we work harder, ‘stead of goin' around checkin' up on other people. You and your crew'd git a lot more done if you minded yer own bizness.”

The Circle K and Bar T riders sat on their mounts only a few feet apart and eyeballed each other across the sunny afternoon. Duane figured that gunplay wasn't out of the question, due to the allegations. He continued to unlimber his fingers.

“When other cowboys put their brands on our calves,” Krenshaw said, “it
is
our bizness. Come over to the ranch sometime—I'd be happy to show
you some funny brands, though I reckon you've seen ‘em before.”

Wind rustled the sagebrush, and the moo of a cow could be heard. Duane studied the hands of the men from the Circle K, because it looked like war. Then McGrath said, “We wasted enough time with yer humbug, Mister Krenshaw. Time to git back to work.”

The Bar T cowboys wheeled their horses and returned to the herd, while McGrath angled toward the chuck wagon, where the cook stood with a double-barreled shotgun in his hands, gazing back at Krenshaw.

“We'll be a-lookin' fer Circle K stock in this herd,” Krenshaw said. “Hope you won't mind.”

“Jest stay out of our way,” McGrath called over his shoulder.

Duane rode Thunderbolt into the herd, to find another Bar T calf. The atmosphere was tense, with cowboys from different ranches intermingling. One of the Circle K riders moved toward him, and Duane thought he'd try Christian friendliness. “Howdy,” he said, touching his finger to the brim of his hat.

The Circle K rider frowned. He was deep-chested, around Duane's height, wearing a brown wide-brimmed hat with a flat crown, and leather leggins. Hatred emanated from his eyes, although he'd never seen Duane in his life. Duane decided to ignore him and search for his next calf.

He moved among the cattle, aware that the Circle K cowboy's eyes were upon him. Thunderbolt snorted and jerked his head forward. Duane saw the
short legs of a calf nudging his mother's teat. He circled around, to make sure that the brand was Bar T.

But the brand was Circle K, and he had to move on. He stood in his stirrups, in an effort to find another calf.

The Circle K cowboy called out, “Bet you would've branded him, if'n I ain't been a-watchin' you, you crooked son of a bitch!”

The insult felt like a slap in the face, although Duane hadn't done anything wrong. I'm going to mind my own business, he thought, and ignore this false accusation. He angled Thunderbolt deeper into the herd, and it wasn't long before his eyes fell on another calf grazing amid a swarm of cattle. It wasn't clear which was the calf's mother, so he'd have to wait and see which cow the calf went to.

He heard a raspy voice behind him. “If'n I wasn't here, bet you would've got that one, too.”

Duane looked him in the eye and said levelly, “You'd better be careful that I don't put a brand on you, Mister.”

“Like to see you try it, kid.”

Duane swung his leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground, surprising the Circle K cowboy, who lowered his hand to his gun. Before his fingers closed around the grip, he found himself staring into the barrel of Duane's Colt .44. The Circle K cowboy smiled weakly, because he knew that Duane had the right to blow him away.

“A problem over there, Reade?” called Krenshaw, in another part of the herd.

Reade replied, “Caught this feller about to cut
one of our calves, but he saw me and backed off.”

All eyes turned to Duane, who felt guilty although he hadn't done anything wrong. He raised his Colt, and aimed at the center of Reade's chest. “Get down from that horse.”

“Now jest a minute!”

Duane's finger tightened around his trigger. “I'll count to three ...”

Reade raised his left leg, and stepped down from the stirrup. Duane holstered his gun, and both men stared at each other across ten feet of grass. They were surrounded by swirling masses of cattle, while cowboys from both ranches rode closer.

“You've got a big mouth,” Reade said. “I ought to put my boot up yer ass.”

Duane felt ice cold, now that violence was about to commence. “You're going to apologize to me, Mister Reade, or I'm going to beat on you.”

Reade spat into the dirt. “Apologize, hell.”

Before Duane could think, he was running toward Reade, who loaded up his right fist, to catch Duane coming in, but Duane never faltered in his headlong charge. When six feet away, he dove toward Reade, intending to rip him apart.

A nearby steer hooted as Reade launched a right hook to Duane's head. The punch connected, Duane saw stars, then his arms closed around Reade's thighs, and he twisted hard. Reade lost his balance, and both went sprawling into the grass.

Duane tried to find leverage for a solid punch to the head of his adversary. He blocked a flying elbow with his nose, then received a backhand to the left temple. He and Reade rolled and tumbled near the
legs of cattle and horses, and kicked up a cloud of dust as they scuffled wildly, throwing punches from all angles.

Duane took a hard fist to the forehead and realized that he was in a serious fistfight, not a mere barroom brawl with a drunken opponent. Duane and Reade jumped to their feet, and Duane dodged a jab down the middle as he threw a hard chopping right to Reade's head, while Reade dug a left into Duane's ribs.

Duane grunted as he wrapped his fingers around Reade's throat, while Reade tried to kick him in his private parts. Duane exploded into a flurry of punches, fists flew like blurs in all directions, both men took heavy shots, and then one of Duane's right leads connected solidly with Reade's jaw. Reade closed his eyes and flopped onto his back, where he lay motionless. The fight had come to an abrupt end.

Duane stood unsteadily, a trickle of blood showing at the corner of his mouth. His hat had fallen off and hung down his back, attached to his neck by the black leather strap. As his head cleared, he saw himself and his opponent ringed with men on horses. Reade opened his eyes, and returned to Texas, 1871.

“Get on your horse,” Duane told him evenly.

“Go to hell,” replied Reade.

Duane charged again, but this time, when he came within punching range, he darted to the side, in an effort to fake his man out. It worked, the cowboy turned in the new direction, but Duane was already on his way back to the previous one, and
when his feet touched the ground, he launched a right to Reade's ear, while Reade whacked him with a paralyzing kidney shot.

The air expelled from Duane's mouth, and he found it difficult to move. Reade smashed Duane with a left, a right, and then another left to the mouth. Duane backpedaled, trying to elude punches, and looked for an opening. He took one step to the side, ducked a left jab, and countered a right hook. Then he ate another left jab, but managed to land a kidney shot of his own. Reade's eyes squinched with pain, and his fists dropped two inches. Duane slammed him on the forehead with all his weight, and Reade dropped to his knees. Duane watched in morbid fascination as the Circle K cowboy then collapsed slowly onto his face.

Reade didn't move, and a cheer went up from the Bar T cowboys. Duane realized that he'd won the fight, although his kidney still hurt, and his face felt like raw beef. Two beams of light seemed to be drilling into the side of his head, and he turned toward Krenshaw, leader of the Circle K cowboys. Their eyes met, and Duane knew that he'd made an enemy, so why stop there?

“Want to be next?” Duane asked.

“If I get off this horse, boy—I'll kill you.”

Duane pointed at the man lying on the ground. “That's what he thought.”

“I wouldn't dirty my hands on you.”

It was the wrong thing to say to an orphan who fundamentally felt like damaged goods. Duane found himself running toward Krenshaw, and the
leader of the Circle K cowboys heard him coming. Krenshaw went for his gun, but Duane was already launched into the air. He tackled Krenshaw, tore him out of the saddle, and threw him onto the ground with such force that Krenshaw was knocked cold.