Ralph Compton Face of a Snake

by Bernard Schaffer

“I guess,” Sinclair said.

  “If you’re buried with your kin, they’re the ones who walk you to the place where you are judged. It’s them that stand with you and speak on your behalf. That way, no matter how much wrong you did, you’ll have someone there to account for some of the good you did too. Gertrude, she knew me.” McClusky cocked his head toward the hill and paused as his eyes searched for the cross set in the ground up there. “She knew what was in my heart. It’s her that will tell the Almighty what kind of man I was, even if His list of my sins tells Him different.”

  Sinclair laughed and said, “That’s the biggest bucket of hogwash I ever heard in my whole damn life.”

  McClusky snapped the reins to get the mule moving. “Well, you believe what you want and let me believe what I want. Only thing that matters is you bury me up there like I said. Otherwise, I’m gonna haunt you the rest of your days, you mean bastard.”

  “Okay, calm down. I’m just giving you a hard time,” Sinclair said.

  “You promise you’ll do it?”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “You have to promise.”

  “I promise I’ll do it,” Sinclair said. The wagon arrived at the cabin and Sinclair got down to fetch the supplies from the rear. “You know, I’m a little surprised you told that store owner back in town about your special pelts.”

  “Oh, hell. Paul Hanover’s been bothering me about those pelts for years. Won’t hurt him to wait a little longer.”

  “I’m just saying I’m surprised, is all.”

  McClusky climbed over the back of the wagon and hoisted a sack of grain over the side to Sinclair. “Why is you so surprised?”

  “Anyone I ever knew found out you were sitting on a pile of rare riches out here in the middle of nowhere, you can best believe they’d be coming to get those riches in the middle of the night and think nothing of slitting your throat when they did it.”

  “Is that the kind of man you were?”

  “I reckon I was,” Sinclair said.

  “Well, I’m glad I met you now instead of back then,” McClusky said.

  “How much are these things worth anyway?”

  “Oh, a small fortune.”

  “Enough to buy a saloon?”

  McClusky laughed. “You think if I could buy a saloon I’d be living out here in this cabin with you?”

  “I always thought having my own saloon was the way I’d spend out my days. That was always the plan back when I rode with the Snakes. Make enough money to go out west and open a saloon and sell beer to thirsty miners and ranch hands.”

  “You’d better be one hell of a trapper to get that much money,” McClusky said. “My special stash is for when I’m at the end of my days and can no longer work. It’s enough to pay for a room and board and a doctor and whatever medicines I need to keep me out of too much pain. Now, if I pass on without needing them, they’re all yours, as long as you do what you promised with my body. My advice to you is to keep adding to that stash and then, by the time your body gives out, you’ll be able to find some peace.”

  “I wouldn’t know what to do with peace if I ever found it,” Sinclair said. He picked up the rest of the sacks from the back of the wagon and carried them inside.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Sinclair looked at what he had caught in the trap and said, “Well, I’ll be damned. A bobcat.”

  He nudged it with the toe of his boot to make sure it was dead, and when it didn’t move, he bent down to undo the trap and free the creature’s leg. He stretched it out on the grass and stuck his hands underneath it to raise it off the ground. It had to be at least seventy pounds.

  “Look at you. Hey, McClusky!” he called out. “Come see this!”

  When there was no answer, Sinclair thought maybe he was being tested. He leaned back on his haunches and studied the bobcat and worked out a plan in his mind on how to break it down. He knew he’d harvest the paws for trinkets and the skull for an ornament. Mr. Hanover at the store would pay decent money, then sell them to some banker’s wife back in New York City who wanted to wear its teeth dangling from her earlobes or some such. But the big money was going to come from the pelt.

  The cat had a nice wide belly and was covered in spots, which gave it a value far beyond the norm. He knew he had to be careful with it. If he took the pelt off clean, it was a guaranteed addition to McClusky’s secret stash. Maybe even one of its most valued pieces. Sinclair found himself doubting whether or not he had the skill to do the job correctly.

  “McClusky!” Sinclair called out. “I got something to show you!”

  When no answer came, Sinclair took a deep breath. He removed his tools from his pockets and laid them out on the grass. Sweat ran down his face, and he wiped it off with his sleeve. He took off his coat. It was only spring and already the afternoons were getting hot.

  He raised the bobcat’s hind leg and made his first cut, going straight down from paw to inside the animal’s thigh. After that, he worked the creature with expert precision, forgetting its value and just concentrating on getting each cut correct. Half an hour later, he was able to pull the pelt completely off. He held it into the sunlight to inspect it. No holes.

  Sinclair gathered up the paws and the skull and put them in his sack. There were still seventy pounds of bobcat meat to contend with. Like all the animals they harvested, he knew it was important not to waste anything. McClusky had once claimed he’d eaten bobcat a few times and it wasn’t bad if you added enough bacon grease to it, but Sinclair had no great desire to find out. Instead, the meat would make good bait. Probably perfect bait for wolves and coyotes and foxes, he thought. He’d never met a dog in his life that wouldn’t chase a cat. Let them old boys come chase this.

  He put a hook through the bobcat’s shoulder meat and dragged it across the ground with a rope, giving himself a good lead. It was like fishing on land and instead of getting the creature in the boat, you had to get it around trees and pull it through bushes. He gave himself enough of a lead that if a bear caught scent of it, all he had to do was let go of the line and run for his life. He hoped that if a bear did show up, it preferred a prepared meal of skinned bobcat to the fun of chasing a fleeing man. Maybe bears were somehow cousins to dogs and felt the same way about cats that the dogs did.

  Sinclair dragged the cat meat back over to where the beaver traps were and looked for McClusky. He called out for him again and looked up and down the embankment, then stopped. There McClusky was. He was alongside the creek as it glittered in the sunlight, a few feet from an unchecked trap with a beaver still in it, lying facedown in the mud.

  * * *

  * * *

  Getting McClusky’s body rolled up in an old blanket and carrying it to the top of the hill turned out to be the easy part. The mule had hated going up the narrow trail, but Sinclair coaxed it into changing its mind. Digging the damn hole was another story. It was hard work that left him spent and huffing air and he thought, If I drop dead digging this hole and never get to bury you, it’s your fault.

  When he was finished digging, he bent forward to catch his breath and looked down inside the hole. It was right next to the mound where McClusky’s wife lay. “Well, I guess we’re both lucky I didn’t die and fall down in this hole instead of you. Then your wife would have to go with me and vouch for me at my judgment, and from what you told me, she’s not the kind who cared much for old outlaws.”

  He dragged McClusky to the edge of the hole and rolled him down inside of it.

  It was sunset by the time he got all the dirt shoveled back in and had covered McClusky up. Sinclair took off his shirt and used it to wipe sweat off his face and chest and underarms. There was no ceremony he knew or words he had in his mind to say. He leaned against the shovel and looked at the grave. Sinclair wondered how long it would take to settle back down into the earth and be covered over with grass. Maybe by next spring, he t
hought. By then it might be covered with blue-and-white flowers like McClusky’s wife’s grave. For now, it was just a pile of loose soil filled with rocks and worms.

  “That’s that, I reckon,” Sinclair said. “I did what you asked.”

  He walked over to the wagon and tossed the shovel in the back and grabbed the side to pull himself up into the driver’s seat.

  He stopped, climbed back down, and walked over to the grave again. He wiped his face and neck with his shirt once more.

  “No one ever asked me to say any kind words for them or anything. I guess I never knew many kind words to begin with. I’ll take care of the cabin. Good luck being judged. Hope they go easy on you.”

  Sinclair rode the wagon back down the hill. He disconnected it from the mule and let the mule into its pen. He went into the cabin and shut the door behind him. It was quiet. There was stew cooking in the pot and two plates on the table for when they returned.

  Sinclair went to the shelf and picked up McClusky’s jug of whiskey. He popped the cork off and took a long swallow from it. Then he walked over to the bed, rearranged the pillows, and sat down on it for the first time. He hadn’t been in a bed since before he’d gone to prison. He kicked off his boots and lay down. The bed was nice and soft, and it was his now. He closed his eyes.

  * * *

  * * *

  Paul Hanover opened the general store’s front door when he saw Sinclair’s wagon out front. The wagon was piled with so many pelts, it was tilted in the back. Hanover snapped his fingers for one of the clerks to go fetch a wheelbarrow and help Sinclair unload. Sinclair’s coat was covered in snow that shook off his shoulders when he moved.

  “My, my, that’s quite a haul,” Hanover said.

  “It’s been a busy winter,” Sinclair said.

  “I see you’re adjusting to doing the work all by yourself.”

  “McClusky was a good enough teacher, I guess.”

  “God rest his soul. Come on in here and have a hot cup of coffee. My boys can get that all unloaded for you.” Hanover held the door open and waved Sinclair inside. Sinclair stopped on the porch to kick snow off his boots. “Any chance you brought me some of those special pelts our dearly departed friend used to talk so much about?”

  “Not yet,” Sinclair said.

  “Well, I do trust you will bring them to me and no one else when you are ready to.” Hanover poured a mug of hot coffee for Sinclair and passed it to him. “I’ve just gotten some hair oil in all the way from New York City that is supposed to work wonders for a man’s beard. Make it smooth and soft as some of these furs you brought me. With the way yours has come in, as thick as it is, I’d be happy to let you try out a bottle. It smells like mint. No charge.”

  Sinclair ran his fingers through his beard to see if there were any leaves or food stuck in it. “I appreciate that,” he said.

  Hanover tapped his fingers on the counter as he regarded Sinclair. “You know, there’s something I have been meaning to ask you.”

  Sinclair took a sip of coffee and kept the mug in front of his face when he said, “What’s that?”

  “I know our friend Mr. McClusky said you were his cousin and all, but that’s just not true, now, is it?”

  Sinclair set the coffee mug on the counter and wiped his mouth.

  “You’re Ashford Sinclair, the famous outlaw, aren’t you?”

  Someone was at the store’s back door. Sinclair could hear it creak open and the sound of boots walking across the floorboards on the porch outside. “What makes you say that?”

  “Well, it wasn’t me who said it. Not at first anyway. A few people in town have been saying it ever since you first showed up. I ignored them, but then I saw a few pictures of you that were published in the newspaper and then I started thinking about when you showed up and how you looked at first, and suddenly, it all made sense.”

  Sinclair looked sideways and caught one of the clerks staring. He was standing at the open back door, holding a wheelbarrow full of his pelts and not moving as he waited for Sinclair to answer.

  Sinclair turned back toward Hanover. “If I was, and I’m not saying I am, would that make a difference about me coming here to do business with you?”

  “No, sir,” Hanover said. He put his hands in the air and smiled and said, “Just don’t rob me, ha-ha. Oh, I’m just playing. If you robbed me, I’d be the most famous general store owner in this whole region. Shoot, when my wife found out you come into my store, she was more excited than I’d seen her in years. She keeps asking if she can meet you.”

  “I imagine the reality is a lot different from whatever she has in her mind,” Sinclair said.

  “You know, if it was you, we could order some of those photographs from the newspapers. You could sign them. I could sell them right here in the store and we could split the money. There’s a high demand for that sort of thing.”

  “What about the high demand of some fool who got shot and wounded a long time ago who might show up here looking for revenge and kill me, you, your workers, and your wife if she’s here. How about that kind of demand?” Sinclair asked. “That worth the few pennies you’d get for selling them photographs with my signature on them? Maybe one of them pictures will get all our brains splattered on ’em. Bet that fetches a high dollar.”

  Hanover’s face fell. “All right, sir. No need to get upset about it. I’m sorry if I imposed.”

  Sinclair sighed and said, “Listen, I’m grateful to you for not running me out on the rails for even thinking I’m that fella you heard about. Trust me when I tell you I’m not trying to draw any attention to myself. That kind of life might sound exciting when you read about it in the newspapers, but when it’s staring down the barrel of a gun at you, I promise, it ain’t so much fun. Let’s just you and me go back to what we’re supposed to be doing. Me bringing you pelts and you buying them. All right?”

  “Of course.” Hanover waved his worker forward and told him to start putting the pelts on the counter.

  An hour later, Sinclair walked out of the store with money in his pocket and not having to carry any supplies. The same clerk who’d been gawking at him in the store was loading up his wagon and calling him “sir” while he did it. Sinclair thanked him and tossed him a coin as a tip when the wagon was loaded.

  When he climbed up into the driver’s seat, he saw a man hurrying across the street toward him, waving a letter in his hand. “Mr. Sinclair? Mr. Ashford Sinclair?”

  “Damn you all to hell,” Sinclair muttered.

  “Mr. Sinclair?” the man called out again. People in the street were staring at him.

  “Would you stop shouting, if you don’t mind?”

  “This letter came to the post office for you the other day. I’ve been keeping an eye out for when you might show up.”

  “Letter?” Sinclair said. He held out his hand to take it. He looked at the sender’s name and handed it back. “I’m not Ashford Sinclair.”

  “But, sir, this letter is from your son. He paid extra to make sure it was delivered to you.”

  “You send that back and tell whoever sent it I have no son,” Sinclair said. He snapped the reins and told the mule to get on.

  * * *

  * * *

  The snow had thawed and left everything a sopping-wet mess by the time the covered wagon arrived at Sinclair’s cabin. He was standing outside in his britches when he first heard it coming down the trail. It was hot enough that afternoon that he’d stripped naked and washed his clothes and boots in the river to get all the mud off and walked back to the cabin with them. He’d wrung them out in the weeds and gone in to dry off and put on his britches.

  He had a good stew cooking that would be ready soon and a fresh jug of whiskey to uncork. His plan was to put his feet up on the table and warm them by the fire while he sipped the whiskey and waited for the stew to finish. But that all ch
anged when he heard the horse snort.

  He waited to see if the wagon would keep going. More than likely, the driver was just lost. The trail was too narrow for most travelers in that region and didn’t lead anywhere worth getting to. Of course, there were plenty of other trails that led plenty of other places for anyone to come that far out by accident. A man would either have to be wandering hopelessly through the woods like Sinclair had been or come all that way out with intent.

  Sinclair caught sight of the driver and saw that the man kept his head lowered so that the brim of his hat covered his face while he worked his horse.

  The driver held up at the tree line and climbed down from the carriage. He had a scarf over his mouth to keep out the dust and he didn’t pull it down as he walked toward Sinclair.

  “That’s close enough,” Sinclair called out.

  The driver stopped.

  “State your business.”

  “I’m here to see Ash Sinclair.”

  “Ain’t nobody here by that name, so just turn around and go back to wherever you came from.”

  “Now, we both know that’s not true, old man.”

  Sinclair shook his fist. “Go on! Get out of here. Don’t make me get my gun.”

  The driver started walking toward him again. He was taller than Sinclair and had broad shoulders and stout arms. Sinclair stepped back. “I mean it, boy! I’ll get my gun!”

  “Go on and get it then.”

  “I’ll do it!”

  “Go do it.”

  Sinclair put his hands on his hips. “Just what in the hell do you want from me, you smart-mouth little punk? Come all the way out here just to harass an old man. That make you feel brave? Or maybe you come all the way out here just to get a look at me in my britches. Is that it? Like what you see, boy?”

  “I didn’t come out all this way to look at you in your britches, old man.” The driver took off his hat and unwound the scarf from his mouth to reveal his face. “I came all the way out here to see my father.”