Ralph Compton Face of a Snake

by Bernard Schaffer

  “But you still could have told them what you did know. A thousand things about me that would have made it easier. You could have told them where all the bodies were buried and told them it was my fault. But instead, you said nothing. For that, I owe you my life. I owe you the lives of my children.”

  “Children?” Sinclair asked. He finished his first beer and started on the second. “How many?”

  “Five,” Escalante said. “All girls. All beautiful. God, they drive me crazy.”

  Sinclair laughed. “The way you caroused back then, it’s a fitting punishment that you had five girls.”

  “You think you had it rough in prison for twenty years. I promise you, it’s not as bad as having five daughters and their mother under one roof.”

  “I’m pretty sure prison’s worse.”

  “Of course, I’m kidding,” Escalante said. He touched Sinclair’s hand. “I know you were in hell. I prayed every day for you to escape or at least that you were able to kill a few of those bastards in the process.”

  “I never tried,” Sinclair said.

  “No? I cannot imagine that. I always pictured you making your own knife and stealing one of the guards’ guns and setting all the other prisoners free. I figured you’d form a new gang with all the other prisoners and lead them to their deaths in a blaze of glory.”

  “Those are the thoughts they beat out of you first,” Sinclair said. “Then, when they’re gone, they beat you so that they never come back.”

  Silence fell between them and both of them drank their beers. Sinclair pulled a piece of beaver jerky out of his pocket and bit a chunk off of it and chewed. He offered some to Escalante, who scowled at it and said, “Stop eating that. It stinks. I’ll buy you real food if you’re hungry.”

  “You seem to be doing pretty well for yourself,” Sinclair said. “Did you marry into money?”

  “No. My wife is a hard worker and she insisted I be one too. I never had a real job before I met her, but together we’ve done okay.”

  “That’s good,” Sinclair said. He swallowed the chunk of jerky and finished his beer. He watched Escalante tap the table with his fingers and look around. “So you came all the way out here just to tell me about your daughters and buy me a few beers? Is that it?”

  “Sure. I told you, I would have come to see you sooner if I had known where you were.”

  Sinclair leaned back in his seat. “You know what you have?”

  “What’s that?”

  “An honest face. You always had an honest face, Lorenzo. That’s why you were my second, because good, bad, or ugly, I knew exactly what you were thinking. Everybody else shined my boots with their lips while they plotted against me, but I always knew where I stood with you. I never listened to the words coming out of your mouth, but I always looked at you when you said them. So let’s try this again, old friend. Why did you come all the way out here to see me?”

  Escalante finished his beer and tilted it to stare into the bottom of the empty glass. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I wanted to see you, jefe. That part is the truth. I did think about you and I did look for you. It’s just, with my family, I lost track of time.”

  “Go on,” Sinclair said.

  “A man paid me to come find you. It was good money. I couldn’t say no.”

  Sinclair sighed. He looked down at the table. “So you brought someone here who wants to kill me over some old grudge? Is that it?”

  “Of course not. Is that what you think of me after all this time?”

  “Well, tell whoever it is, I don’t want to speak to them.”

  “I’m sure you don’t,” Escalante said. “But he needs to speak with you. I’ll be back. Don’t move.”

  Escalante collected their empty beer mugs and stood up to go toward the bar. When Escalante’s back was turned to flag the bartender, Sinclair pushed his seat back and went to get up from his seat to leave. Instead, a hand came down on his shoulder from behind.

  “Hello, Ashford. It’s been a long time.”

  The voice made Sinclair flinch. He spun in his chair to see Henry Odell standing over him. Odell’s hair and beard were white but he was the same old mean-looking bastard Sinclair remembered.

  Odell still had him by the shoulder and pressed down to keep Sinclair from getting up. Odell’s right hand was stuffed in his coat pocket and hidden from view. Sinclair stared at the coat pocket and expected to see the bright flash of a muzzle firing through its fabric the moment he looked.

  “Just calm down for a second,” Odell said. “I only want to talk. That’s all.”

  Sinclair stayed in his seat as Odell walked around the table to sit.

  “I got nothing to say to you,” Sinclair said. “The only thing kept me alive in prison all those years was hoping you’d died under torture of the United States government.”

  “Oh, they tried,” Odell said. “Believe me, they tried their very best.”

  Escalante returned to the table with two mugs of beer, two shot glasses, and a bottle of whiskey. He set everything in the middle of the table and said, “I thought this might help.”

  Escalante opened the bottle of whiskey and filled up Sinclair’s glass until it spilled over the sides. He moved the spout to Odell’s glass and Odell went to put his hands around the glass to hold it steady, except instead of a right hand, there was just a stump.

  Sinclair looked at the scarred skin that covered the lump of ruined flesh above Odell’s wrist. “Need a hand?”

  Odell downed the shot and set the empty glass down. He stretched out his mouth to work out the aftertaste. “After the judge sentenced me, they sent me all the way out to the Territorial Prison in Wyoming. I figured they just wanted to keep me and you separated, but no, the warden there had specifically requested me. Turns out, his kid sister worked at a bank my group hit a few years earlier. The bank job didn’t go so well and a lot of folks died. Including the warden’s sister. If you recall, you shot me in my right hand back in Twin Oaks. The jailhouse doctor there was pretty good. He cleaned out the wound and got me all bandaged up and said it would heal. When I got to Wyoming, the warden disagreed. He looked at my hand and declared that it had turned gangrenous and ordered his men to cut it off. They held me down right there in my cell and did it. Didn’t even give me a piece of wood to put between my teeth.”

  Sinclair picked up his shot glass and drank the whiskey inside. It burned and he smiled. He filled up another glass and drank that too and by the time he finished it, he was laughing. He laughed so hard, people in the bar turned and looked. He kept laughing. He laughed until he slapped the table and tears came out of his eyes. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his coat and started to cough but kept laughing, even as he coughed.

  Sinclair shook his head and tried to collect himself. “Henry, I have to say, that’s the best thing I ever heard. All these years I hoped you were dead, but knowing that you’re a cripple now because I’m the one who shot you, well, that’s even better.” Sinclair drank some of his beer and pushed back his chair. “I’m done here. Don’t ever come looking for me again unless you want another stump.”

  “You and me have business to discuss, Ashford,” Odell said.

  “All our business is over and done with, Henry. Long ago. Unless you’re looking to buy pelts, in which case I refuse to sell to the likes of you, even if I was starving to death.”

  “You know what business I’m talking about. Your boy, my daughter, their son. Our family. That’s right. As much as you might hate the idea of it, it’s our family now, and they’re in trouble. They need help and me and you need to discuss what we’re going to do to give it. Now, sit down and drink your drink and let’s figure something out.”

  “No.”

  “Damn you!” Odell said. “You can’t just walk away from this. Our destinies are tangled together now.”

  “My boy�
�s dead,” Sinclair said. “Seems my part in things is untangled just fine.”

  “I know,” Odell said. “And whether you believe it or not, I’m truly heartbroken to hear it. William didn’t like me much, but he was a good man. A good husband and a good father, which is a damn sight more than anyone will ever say about me or you. I’m sorry for Jesse and Connor, and I’m even sorry for you, you old bastard.” He filled another glass for Sinclair and himself. “But that’s not what I want to talk about. Our grandson, Connor? He’s in trouble. Bad trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?” Sinclair asked.

  “Somebody killed his daddy and he’s got both our blood boiling inside his veins. What kind of trouble do you think?”

  Sinclair waved the idea off. “How old’s he now? Twelve?”

  “He’s almost eighteen.”

  “Well, whatever. Don’t they live on some big old ranch? Kid probably grew up with servants and field hands and nannies his whole life. Let me guess. He went to school? Probably a fancy one with books and all?”

  “Of course. Best they could afford.”

  “Okay, so what is this spoiled little schoolboy going to do to some rancher he thinks killed his daddy? Sue him in court? Oh, God, not that. Please, anything but that.” Sinclair sneered and sipped his whiskey.

  “You know, me and you, we aren’t that much different, Ashford.”

  “Me and you are exactly that much different, Henry. You led a gang of bloodthirsty trash. I led outlaws. You killed whoever got in your way—women, children, it didn’t matter. My men had a code and we lived by it. We were taking back from the rich folk who took from us. There’s a difference.”

  “There are a lot of things I’ve done that I’d take back if I had the chance. I’m not proud of who I was. I’d give my life in a second if it meant returning life to some of those people I killed. But I can’t. All I can do is try to do some good with what I have left,” Odell said. “Our grandson is in trouble. Connor’s hired a bunch of gunslingers and degenerates to try to protect the ranch from this Nelson Granger person. That boy is going into the darkness and he has no idea what’s waiting there for him. Now, I’m asking you, as his other grandfather, to help me save him.”

  Sinclair rubbed the sides of his head. All the drink was making his eyes heavy. He squeezed them shut and opened them wide again. “Why don’t you just ask your daughter to reel him in? Go talk to her and get her to talk sense into the boy.”

  “I’m afraid she and I don’t speak very much,” Odell said. “Like I said, William never thought much of me and I was not allowed often into their home. I was shocked when they offered me a piece of their land to live on. I could tell William wasn’t happy about the idea, but Jesse seemed to think fair was fair, and if they were offering you a place, they had to offer me one too. I’m guessing they came to see you and made you that offer.”

  Sinclair nodded and said, “They did.”

  “Well, it must not have gone so well.”

  “Our conversation? It went fine. I just said no, that’s all. They came in and we had dinner. I showed them how I was trapping and selling pelts now and told them I didn’t need any charity. It was a good visit. They came back a few more times over the years.”

  “Funny that Jesse never mentioned that to me,” Odell said.

  “Well, actually it was just William who came to see me,” Sinclair said. “He wanted to keep it between us, I suppose. He probably didn’t tell her.”

  “Well, our conversation after they went out to offer you to live with them did not go so well,” Odell said. “I was all set to go live there. I really needed that break, to be honest with you. I was broke and living in the basement of a feed store. I couldn’t wait to come be near my family again. Then William told me the deal was off. You weren’t coming to live on the property, so I wasn’t either. We had words. Hard, bad words. Now that he’s gone, well, there’s some things I said that can’t be unsaid. He was a good man, your boy. Even if we didn’t get along, I always respected him for what he made of himself.”

  Sinclair finished his beer and cocked his mouth to the side to let out a long belch.

  “Anyway,” Odell said, “I would visit Connor when I was able, for the holidays and such, but pretty soon it was apparent that he was growing up and had no interest in spending time with an old man. I tried, though. That’s the one thing I took away from prison. I realized family is the only thing we have in this world. Jesse had already moved on with her life and didn’t need me no more and William wanted nothing to do with me, but I figured that maybe with Connor, a grandson of my own, I could do better, so I tried.”

  “Well, keep on trying, Henry. Good luck with it. I have to go.”

  Before Sinclair could get up, Odell said, “Now, hang on a second. Just hang on. I didn’t even tell you my plan.”

  “Plan for what?”

  “To help them. For me and you to help our grandson.”

  “Last thing that kid needs is two more gunslingers to add to his posse, both of them elderly and one of them, shall we say, shorthanded.”

  “No. What me and you are going to do is ride out to meet with this Nelson Granger fellow before things get any worse. We’ll talk some sense into him and make peace.”

  “Make peace. Me and you?”

  “That’s right. We made enough war in our lifetimes. How about we go make some peace instead for once?”

  Sinclair poured the rest of the whiskey into his glass. There wasn’t much left. He laughed to himself and shook his head, then finished off his glass and set it on the table. “Henry, in all the years I known you, I never knew you had such a sense of humor. This has been the most laughs I’ve had in a long time. I’ve got to hand it to you.”

  “None of this was a joke, Ashford. We have to do something or that boy is going to get killed! Don’t you understand? This is our chance to do one goddamn thing right in both of our miserable lives!”

  Sinclair pushed himself away from the table and stood up. His legs wobbled slightly and he had to grab the table for support. Odell reached for his arm to keep him steady and Sinclair snatched his arm away. “Don’t touch me, Odell trash. I’ll kill you. You hear me? I’ll kill all of you.”

  Lorenzo Escalante came over from the bar and said, “Everything okay, jefe?”

  “Sure thing, old friend. Say hello to those five daughters for me. Matter of fact, bring them next time instead of this crippled old fool.” Sinclair staggered toward the door and went outside. He headed toward his wagon and shoved the clerk’s hand away when the boy tried to help him climb up.

  * * *

  * * *

  Sinclair fell asleep at the reins while he was still in the woods, but the mule knew the way and stayed on the path. When he awoke, he raised his head with a gasp and spun around in his seat, shocked to find the wagon parked in front of the cabin. He climbed down and felt his way toward the door.

  There were things in the way and he kicked them out of the way. He tore off his coat and shirt and tossed them to the floor. He collapsed facedown on the bed and closed his eyes. Beer and whiskey sloshed around in his gut and threatened to come back up his throat while he slept. He turned over on his side and propped his head up. Soon he was sleeping.

  He awoke and it was still dark.

  The drink had left his system. His throat was stricken and in need of water, but he knew there wasn’t any in the cabin. He did his best to swallow. He lay there, licking his lips with his dry tongue and working his mouth, trying to get something to moisten.

  Outside, he could hear the wind rustle the leaves. Branches swayed across the cabin’s roof. Back and forth, they swept across the roof above his bed and made circles. He listened to them slide down the wall behind him. They went down the wall and dragged around the corner, going toward the door.

  Sinclair rolled over and looked at the door.

>   The firelight flickered dimly, giving off only a light red glow. The wind shook the door enough that Sinclair could see gaps of moonlight along the top and sides. The shaking grew stronger, and the moonlight grew brighter.

  Something scratched the door with claws that scraped the wood like knives. It was trying to get in. Sinclair bunched up the blankets to cover himself and shouted, “Go away!”

  The door rattled in its frame and then something banged hard against it, loud as any gunshot, and Sinclair gasped.

  Just like the gunshots inside of Homesteader’s Bank of Hickory County, where Sinclair had put his pistol against the side of the manager’s head for refusing to open the safe, and pulled the trigger. The gunshot had lit the manager’s hair on fire.

  It sounded like the gunshots inside the secured train car at the Nebraska–Iowa border after the Pinkerton guarding the door refused to open it. Sinclair lined up the other railroad detectives in front of the door.

  “Please, don’t kill me,” the detective begged. “I have a wife and a son, and they need me.”

  “You hear that, man guarding the door?” Sinclair called out. “Your fellow Pinkerton here has a wife and son you’re about to orphan if you don’t open up.” Sinclair waited another five seconds while the man pleaded for his life, and then he fired. He pushed the Pinkerton’s body aside and grabbed the next one by the collar. “How about you, Pinkerton? You got a wife and son too? Seems the man guarding the door don’t care about them. I’ll give you five seconds to change his mind.”

  Sinclair covered his ears and the banging continued. “Go away!”

  The second guard’s voice pleaded over and over, “I have a wife and a son too!”

  “I said get the hell away from me!” Sinclair cried. He threw back the blankets and charged across the room.

  A wife and a son. Gunshots.

  Sinclair grabbed the door and ripped it open but there was nothing there. Just moonlight. Only the wind.

  CHAPTER EIGHT