The Reckoning by Len Levinson Page B

filled the glass to the halfway mark. Then he served it to Raybart. “If you need me for anythin’ else, just ring the bell.”
    Raybart reached out and grabbed Gibson's wrist. He drew him closer and said in a low voice, “What d'ya know ‘bout a feller named Braddock, who rides fer the Bar T?”

    Gibson placed his forefinger in front of his lips. “Shhhh. His woman's back there.”
    â€œSiddown.”
    The shopkeeper dropped to a chair. “I don't have much time ...”
    â€œIs he a hired gun?”
    â€œNot that I know of.”
    â€œWhere's he from?”
    â€œTitusville, but I'm afraid I really don't know much about him. You don't really think that he's an outlaw, do you?”
    â€œWho's his woman?”
    â€œThe new schoolmarm.”
    Raybart narrowed his eyes skeptically. “Keep yer ears open. Find out all that you can about them.”
    â€œBut ...” Gibson's voice trailed off into the sound of wind rattling the windows of the general store. The unofficial mayor of Shelby felt menaced by the cowboy, whom he barely knew. “Now listen,” he said in a shaky voice, “I'm not a spy.”
    Raybart gazed deeply into his eyes. “You're not dead either, yet.”
    The cowboys sat around the campfire, gnawing steaks, their eyes half closed with fatigue. Tomorrow they'd be up before dawn for another day of roping and branding. There was little conversation, and the cowboys kept glancing apprehensively at Duane.
    All insults had stopped following the encounter with the riders from the Circle K. Even Duane wonderedwho the wild man was who'd punched strangers in the mouth and yanked them out of saddles. I should've called McGrath over, instead of challenging that cowboy. McGrath is getting paid to be ramrod, not me.
    He and Ross were scheduled to battle that evening, but Ross appeared uninterested in pursuing the conflict. They'd all become chary of Duane, treated him with deference; he wasn't the tenderfoot anymore. He'd learned the hard way that in the secular world, naked brutality was considered the pinnacle of human achievement.
    Duane didn't know what to think of himself. Violence was clearly a sin, yet Christ physically threw the moneylenders out of the temple precincts. It could be this, or it could be that. Duane wished he could revive the rock-solid certainties of monastery life, but they'd melted like ice in the flames of hell. What could be worse than the hatred, jealousy, and greed of the secular world?
    The ramrod's voice came to him from across the campsite. “Braddock—can I talk to you a moment?”
    â€œYes, sir.” Duane was on his feet in an instant, carrying his tin plate, heading toward the great man. The other cowboys watched his progress, as firelight cast writhing shadows on the side of the chuck wagon. Duane sat opposite the ramrod and said, “What's up?”
    The ramrod scrutinized Duane carefully. “Who are you, kid?”
    â€œWhat're you driving at?”

    â€œYou nearly got a lot of men killed today. Do you know that?”
    â€œThat Circle K cowboy accused me of being a rustler. Was I supposed to lie down and take it?”
    â€œYes.”
    The ramrod sliced off a chunk of steak and placed it into his mouth, ruminating like a cow. Duane wondered if he should apologize, but for what? “Nobody calls me a rustler and gets away with it.”
    â€œThis range don't need another hothead. Old Man Krenshaw's all right, but that son of his is a little loco. Then you ride by and knock him out of the saddle. Jay Krenshaw ain't the type what fergits, and he can hire all the guns he wants. You'd better watch yer back, if you want to see nineteen.”
    It was midnight when Amos Raybart returned to the Circle K Ranch. All the lights were out except for one in the corner of the main house, while wind whistled the shingles of the barn. Raybart tied his horse to the rail, entered the main house, and the