Ralph Compton Face of a Snake

by Bernard Schaffer

  Finally, after the dreams of people he knew and did not know, of being freed, and everything else had passed, he dreamed about simple pleasures. A warm, comfortable bed. A clean room with no bugs. Being able to bathe with soap and scrub himself and his hair. And always, even after everything else passed, he dreamed of food.

  Food dreams, like his dreams of women and freedom and everything else, hurt him as much as they sustained him. He’d spend his days breaking rocks in the hot sun, tortured by the guards and their whips, but inside, he’d be relishing the details of whatever his imagination had concocted the night before.

  In that moment, lying on the cabin floor on the rug, he opened his eyes and sat up. He saw the old man bent over the fire, holding a pan. Whatever was inside the pan was sizzling.

  “Bacon and sausage,” McClusky said. “Biscuits and coffee are on the table. I always eat good before I go out to check the traps. Help yourself.”

  There were two plates and two cups on the table. Sinclair picked up the coffeepot and poured some into the cup but did not sit. He held the cup between his hands and felt its warmth but did not drink it.

  McClusky stood up with the pan and started scooping sausages and strips of bacon onto both plates. “You’re just out of prison, ain’t you?”

  Sinclair didn’t speak.

  “I can tell by them rags you’re wearing and how skinny you are. How long were you in for?”

  “I’ll leave,” Sinclair said.

  “I didn’t ask you to leave. I asked how long you were in for.”

  “Twenty years.”

  “You must have killed somebody.”

  “Sure,” Sinclair said. “Plenty.”

  “Any women or children?”

  “No. We never did that.”

  “You kill because you liked it?”

  Sinclair frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Go on, eat,” McClusky said. He sat down at the table and picked up a piece of sausage with his fingers and bit into it. “What I mean is, did you enjoy killing?”

  Sinclair pulled out the chair and sat down at the table. “I reckon I enjoyed being the one who didn’t get killed.”

  McClusky waited for Sinclair to take a bite of bacon and nodded with approval when the grease spilled down Sinclair’s chin and he mopped it up with his fingers and licked them.

  “There’s times I go out to check my beaver traps and I’ll find a deer, say, or some other creature, and it’s only half stuck,” McClusky said. “I can hear it whimpering and crying from half a mile away and it makes me want to get there as quick as I can just to put the thing out of its misery. You understand? I don’t get any pleasure from hearing it suffer, and when I kill it, I make sure I do it fast just to get it done with. Now, I never killed another man before. I never had cause to. But it occurs to me that if you had to kill a man, you’re either the kind who does it because he enjoys it or does it in the course of business, fast as he can.”

  Sinclair finished a sausage and took a sip of coffee to wash it down. “I only ever killed them that were trying to kill me and when I done it, you can believe I did it as fast as I could.”

  McClusky smiled and raised his coffee cup in salute. “I’ll drink to that.”

  “My man killing days are over,” Sinclair said.

  “Fair enough.” McClusky picked up another piece of bacon and chewed on it. “You went to prison and got yourself what they call a conscience. Is that it?”

  “If you say so.”

  McClusky nodded with approval. He sipped his coffee and asked, “You got any conscience when it comes to beaver?”

  * * *

  * * *

  Go on, then,” McClusky said.

  The water was cold and clear that morning. A wall of sticks had been assembled in the middle of the stream, all sharp, jagged edges, that looked like baffling designed to thwart a cavalry unit.

  Sinclair ran his fingers around the beaver’s underside and dug around to find the incision made in the fur.

  “You ready?”

  “I think so,” Sinclair said.

  “Now, once you get a real good grip on it, just peel it apart, wide as you can. Don’t force it, now. You don’t want to tear the pelt.”

  “All right,” Sinclair said. He did his best to tear the fur away from the connective tissue and stopped when McClusky told him that was far enough. McClusky passed him a tiny knife and told him to cut the rest. Sinclair took his time making sure it was right.

  “Take your time. Most important thing is you don’t poke no holes in the fur. We need a nice complete pelt. That’s the only thing the buyer takes.” McClusky leaned over Sinclair’s shoulder and said, “That’s it. Just like that. Now flip it over.”

  Sinclair stuck his hands under the beaver and grunted as he turned it around. “I never realized how big these things are.”

  “They’re big, ain’t they? That’s why they got all that good meat on their bones. Beaver’s my favorite thing to trap. You can do all sorts of things with it. I’ll render that tail down and make it into bait that’ll bring every coyote in the territory running. You can sell the skull for decorations. Here, let me show you something. Bet you never saw nothing like this before.”

  McClusky raised the animal’s tail up and bent his head down toward the vent just beneath it. He put his nose to the hole and sniffed it. “There it is,” he said, and smiled.

  Sinclair looked horrified, ready to vomit. “What are you doing?”

  McClusky leaned back and kept the tail raised. “Go on and give it a whiff.”

  “Hell no.”

  “Get in there, you big baby. I wouldn’t play tricks on you. Badman killer scared of sniffing a beaver’s butt. Come on, don’t be shy.”

  Sinclair wiped his hands on his pants as McClusky waved him forward. He braced himself, shook his head, and leaned forward to smell. He inhaled and backed away and said, “There, I smelled it.”

  “What did you smell?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Besides that, I mean.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, if you actually smelled it, you’d know it smelled like vanilla. Beaver’s got glands in his backside that secrete an oil we can sell if we handle them right. They put that oil in everything from perfume to food at fancy restaurants, by God.”

  “You’re lying,” Sinclair said.

  “No, I ain’t. You ever ate at a fancy restaurant?”

  “No.”

  “Well, if you had, you ate something flavored with a little of this here beaver-behind oil, I reckon. Here, let me show you how to get the glands out.”

  Sinclair watched McClusky use his knife to cut around the tissue covering the glands. “Makes me glad I never ate at no fancy restaurants,” Sinclair said.

  McClusky pulled the first gland free and held it up to his nose to inhale. “Mmm, just like vanilla.”

  He cackled as Sinclair threw up his hands in disgust and walked away. McClusky put his left hand against his chest and pressed his palm flat, like he was holding himself together, and made himself take a long, slow breath. When the pain passed, he called out, “Where you going?”

  “I’m not watching you sniff that thing’s nether regions again,” Sinclair called back.

  McClusky laughed. “I had no idea you were so squeamish, sir!”

  * * *

  * * *

  Paul Hanover owned the Boldfield General Store. He watched Gareth McClusky assemble the pelts on the counter in front of him, but every chance he got, he tried to check out McClusky’s new assistant. Hanover scratched the side of his face and tried to recall where he’d seen the man before.

  Sinclair lowered his head and used the brim of his hat to hide his face.

  “How long you been living out in these parts, friend?” Hanover asked.
<
br />   “Oh, him?” McClusky asked. “He’s my cousin. Just came out here a few months ago, right before the snow hit. He’s been helping me with the traps.”

  “I thought you had more than usual this time.”

  “Yes, sir. He’s getting pretty good at it. Got him doing all the skinning and boarding on his own already.”

  “I swear I’ve seen you before, mister. What’s your name?”

  McClusky interrupted by snapping his fingers. “That reminds me! We need to get him some clothes. He’s been wearing my stuff, but now that we’ve got some meat back on him, he’s growing out of them. You got anything?”

  “Just the usual over there on the shelf.”

  McClusky turned his head to look at the clothes there. “Perfect. That’ll suit him fine.” He tapped Sinclair on the arm. “Go on and pick out some pants and shirts and some boots if there’s any that fit. Some gloves too. Get whatever looks sturdy and warm. We’ll be out in the mud and rain once this snow thaws.”

  When Sinclair walked away, Hanover lost interest in figuring out who he was. He looked through the pelts McClusky had laid out and said, “These are real nice, Gareth. You brought me some good stuff today.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Hanover. I hope you give me a good price for them.”

  “I’ll do the best I can. You know I always do. But listen, just between me and you, when am I going to get my hands on your . . . What did you call it? Your secret stash?”

  McClusky laughed and said, “Well, I’m not ready to retire yet.”

  “What did you say you had again?”

  “Oh, just an albino fox fur, white as the new-fallen snow. A mountain lion big enough to make a coat out of. A blue buffalo hide. That sort of thing.”

  “Incredible. You think I could at least get a look at them?”

  “Sure. When I’m ready to retire, I’ll bring them right to you and you can look at them all you like. Right before you tell me how much money you’ll give me for them.”

  Hanover held out his hands in defeat. “I had to at least try. You know I did.”

  “I know. Way my heart’s been acting up, it won’t be long before I’m making my last delivery to you anyway.”

  “Well, wait a second. What happens if you die out there somewhere in the woods and nobody knows where to find your secret stash? Tell you what. Bring them here and I’ll be more than happy to store them for you, just for safekeeping.”

  “They’re safe enough,” McClusky said. Sinclair was in the corner of the store, holding a pair of pants against his waist to see if they fit. “My cousin knows where they are and what to do if anything happens to me.”

  * * *

  * * *

  They loaded McClusky’s wagon with a bag of coffee beans, sugar, flour, the rest of the clothes Sinclair had picked out, two jugs of whiskey, and whatever other supplies they needed. Sinclair climbed up into the wagon’s front seat next to McClusky and pulled the buffalo hide against his chest to stay warm. The ground was covered over by snow and the sun reflecting off of it made him shield his eyes.

  Try as he might, he could not keep from shifting in his seat and scratching under his arms and behind his neck. He scooped a little snow off the wagon’s rail and rubbed it against his raw red skin. “I forgot how uncomfortable new clothes are.”

  “They’ll break in,” McClusky said.

  “Thank you for getting them for me,” Sinclair said.

  “Oh, that weren’t nothing. You’ve been working your tail off every day with me, learning the trade. Those clothes are your cut of the money. Next time we bring our pelts into town, you’ll get half of whatever I get, minus our supplies for the cabin.”

  “That’s very generous of you.”

  “Least I could do.”

  “The least you could do was to kick me out of your cabin that day you found me breaking into it,” Sinclair said. “Or shot me or stabbed me right then and there. Hell, they’d have probably pinned a medal on you back in Twin Oaks.”

  “I don’t need no medals from Twin Oaks or any other place,” McClusky said. “What I need is someone to bury me next to my wife when I die. Won’t be long now, I expect.”

  Sinclair looked at him.

  “What?” McClusky asked.

  “You’re dying?”

  “That’s what I’m told. I get these pains in the center of my back and they shoot all the way down my arm. Doc said I don’t have long. Frankly, most mornings I’m surprised to be waking up.”

  Sinclair looked out at the snowbanks that stretched all the way out to the trees. The tops of the trees were all capped with snow. The road they’d come in on was covered over as well. If McClusky hadn’t been driving the wagon, Sinclair knew he’d have never found the way back. “Well, that’s just perfect, then.”

  McClusky snapped the reins and told the mule to keep moving. “What are you sulking about now?”

  “You ever think of telling me I might wake up and find you stiff and blue in your bed? You ever think of letting me know not to get too comfortable because any day now you were going to drop down dead and I’d be out in the cold again?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “What in the hell am I supposed to do if you’re not around?”

  “Same thing you’ve been doing. Trapping animals and skinning them. Harvest them for all you can. Living in the cabin same as you are now. When you run out of supplies, take your pelts into town and sell them. Just like I’ve been showing you.”

  “I don’t know how to do any of that stuff without you.”

  “You’ll be fine. You just need to have a little faith. I had faith someone like you would show up, and sure enough here you are.”

  “Someone like me,” Sinclair muttered. “I think your head must be bad instead of your heart if you wanted someone like me to show up.”

  “Listen, before you showed up, I thought I was going to die out here in these woods and the raccoons and coyotes would eat whatever was left of me. Or I thought I’d die in my cabin and all they’d find of me was a skeleton a few years from now.”

  Sinclair scratched his neck again. He could feel a welt starting there. He told himself he was going to take all the new clothes and soak them in the creek for a full day until they loosened up enough to be comfortable.

  “Now, one of the most important things a man can do before he dies is tell himself the truth about himself. I know I wasn’t always a good man,” McClusky said. “I wasn’t like you, but I did my share of bad things. Things I’m none too proud of. But you know what the best thing I ever done was? I married a good woman.” The mule slowed as they entered a snowbank, and McClusky snapped the reins and told it to keep moving. “Gertrude and I were married fifty years, and she was never nothing but the kindest, most gentle, patient creature on God’s green earth. Especially with me. Whenever I did wrong, she helped me make right. Does that make sense?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Sinclair said.

  “Weren’t you ever married?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, where is she now?”

  “Dead,” Sinclair said.

  “Well, I’m sorry to hear that. It’s hard for men like us to be without women. Without them we’re all just jagged edges and sourness. A woman’s like a drop of honey in your coffee. It makes the whole thing sweeter. What was your wife’s name?”

  “Edna,” Sinclair said. “She passed on while I was in prison. I wasn’t like you, though. I was never no good at being married to her. No good for her or our boy really.”

  “I didn’t know you had a son.”

  “In my mind, I reckon I don’t,” Sinclair said. “I asked him to come meet me at the prison when I got out and he never bothered to even show up. Left me out here to starve. I told myself, fine, that’s how it is. Guess he figures he’s paying me back for not being there all th
ose years. Whatever. It don’t matter now.”

  The mule pulled them out of the snowbank, and McClusky got it to head into the trees toward the cabin. They rode through the woods until the plume of smoke from the cabin’s chimney appeared in the sky ahead of them. McClusky told the mule to stop. He pointed west toward a round hill that overlooked the cabin. It was bare except for the snow. “You see that hill?” McClusky asked.

  Sinclair said that he did.

  “In the springtime, all manner of blue-and-white flowers are gonna pop up on that hill. Real pretty. That’s where I buried my Gertrude. If you go up there, you’ll see a cross I put in the ground to mark where she lays.”

  “All right,” Sinclair said.

  McClusky turned in the seat to face Sinclair. “When I die, in exchange for me taking you in and showing you how to survive out here and letting you stay with me, all you gotta do is one thing for me. Just one.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Haul my carcass up on that yonder hill and bury me next to Gertrude. I don’t care if you put a cross on me. That don’t matter much. But I need to be next to her.”

  Sinclair squinted at the hill. He leaned forward in the seat to see how difficult it would be to get the mule and wagon up it. There was a narrow ledge that wound around the hill’s side, covered with snow now, but manageable when there wouldn’t be any.

  “You need to promise me you’ll do it,” McClusky said.

  Sinclair raised an eyebrow at him. “Why do you care so much about what happens to your body after you die? I seen a lot of dead men, some who were like brothers to me, but the second they died, whatever was inside of them was gone. It weren’t them no more. It didn’t matter if they got pushed into a lake or burned up or left out in the woods for the raccoons and coyotes like you said.”

  “Well,” McClusky said, “ain’t you ever heard that when a man dies, he goes to his day of reckoning? Where you stand before your Maker, and he tallies up all the good and bad that you done in your life?”