Free The Reckoning by Len Levinson Page A

if she says yes.
    Sergeant Mahoney approached, throwing a salute. “Ready to move out, sir.”
    Lieutenant Dawes drew himself to his full height, and surveyed the scene before him. The detachment was formed in two ranks, with the wagon to the right, and the guidon fluttering in the breeze. He marched to his horse, whose reins were held by a private with a chin cut during his morning's shave. Lieutenant Dawes raised himself into the saddle, and hollered, “Detachment—left face!”
    The men reined their horses in that direction as Lieutenant Dawes rode to their head. He was surprised to note a gathering of children at the edge of town, clumped around their tall, blond school-marm. He felt like a knight of the round table going off to war, cheered by his lady love.
    He took his position at the head of the column as his horse pranced nervously, raring to go. Lieutenant Dawes raised his right hand in the air, and shouted, “Detachment—forward—hoooooo!”
    He lowered his hand and put his spurs to the horse. The animal stepped out proudly, moving his head up and down, as Lieutenant Dawes sat firmly in his saddle, cavalry hat slanted low over his eyes.
    Ahead, the children and their schoolmarm congregated alongside the path of the oncoming soldiers. The little girls clapped their hands gleefully, while boys stared in awe at soldiers riding off to fight thedreaded Comanche. Lieutenant Dawes drew closer, and admired the woman he hoped to marry. He raised his right hand, fingers extended stiffly, and tossed her a salute.
    A light rain fell that night. The cowboys from the Bar T dined on the usual steak dinner, but the biscuits were soggy, and rivulets of rainwater flowed among the beans. McSweeny swore at the fire sputtering beneath the makeshift tarpaulin shelter, as if that would make the coffee boil faster.
    Duane sat in silence among the other cowboys. They all wore their ponchos, their feet wet, and a chill was on the range. Duane swallowed his last chunk of nearly raw steak, and washed it down with water from his canteen. He dipped his plate into the bucket of tepid water, cleaned it, and stacked it on the rainsoaked chuck wagon counter. Then he headed for his bedroll. He wanted to go to bed early, because McGrath had assigned him the second watch.
    Rain poured on him as he unrolled his blankets and tarpaulin. Then he pulled off his boots, removed his hat, and squirmed out from beneath his drenched poncho. In an instant he was inside his bedroll, his head withdrawing like a turtle's.
    Rain pelted him steadily, but the tarpaulin kept him dry. The storm howled around him, lashing the canvas atop the chuck wagon. A bolt of thunder rippled over the ground, and the earth heaved.
    The dramatic weather caused him to think of his wife-to-be in Shelby. I can't wait to see her onSaturday, he thought, hugging the blankets closer. What a great time we'll have.
    Fifteen miles away, a lone rider made his way across the rainswept plain. He slouched in his saddle, and the hood of his poncho make him look like a strange mad monk on an incomprehensible quest.
    But he was no monk, and his mission wasn't religious. Amos Raybart's eyes were closed, and he slept fitfully, transported through the night on the back of his soaking horse. The animal plodded onward, because Comanches offered more misery than cowboys, and if a horse became tired, the Comanche ate his liver.
    Raybart traveled at night, and slept during the day. The cowboy had been wanted once, and knew all the tricks. He drowsed in the saddle, and rain didn't bother him. He didn't have to punch cows, and was making extra money. What more could a man want?
    Somewhere in the pouring rain—Titusville. Raybart hoped to arrive on Saturday, unless he was delayed by Comanches. He saw himself lying on the plain, stripped naked, his bones whitening in the sun, while a Comanche wore his hat.
    He opened his eyes and perused the blackness that surrounded him. The