Ralph Compton Face of a Snake

by Bernard Schaffer

  Escalante took off his hat and bowed. “I am Joseph Smith. I have come to offer my services to Mr. Nelson Granger. I can see from the magnificence of your suit that you must be him, for no regular man could wear a thing of such brilliance.”

  Granger put his hand on his chest and said, “You’re a very observant older fellow, aren’t you? What services did you come to offer me, exactly?”

  “In my youth, I was a hired gun. But my true talent lies in cooking for men in a camp. You give me a fire and a pot and I will feed them so well, they will never complain and never want to leave.”

  Granger cocked an eyebrow at him. “Well, that sounds perfect. Come in.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Escalante looked around the foyer in wonder. “Your home it is magnificent. I have never seen anything like it.”

  “I would think not,” Granger said. He headed back inside and waved his fingers over his shoulder for Escalante to follow. “That dining room on your right? Three different governors have eaten there. Last year, I hosted Joel Chandler Harris. Do you know who that is? The author?”

  “No, I can’t say I do,” Escalante said.

  “What a delightful man. Just full of good sense and wisdom. We could use more of his kind around here. We wouldn’t have some of the problems that we have now. You can be assured of that.”

  “Yes, sir,” Escalante said as he followed. “So where are the men I’ll be cooking for? Are they here? I’d like to get a look at the camp before I get my things so I know how many to prepare for.”

  “What did you say your name was?”

  “Joseph Smith,” Escalante said.

  “You don’t look like a Joseph Smith.”

  “My father wanted his children to be real Americans and not have any ridiculous names, sir.”

  “He sounds like someone I’d have been glad to meet,” Granger said. “Well, Joseph Smith, as far as my men go, they’re near enough. You know, when you first knocked, I was in the middle of conducting some business with two of my guests. I wonder if you’re familiar with them.”

  “I doubt it,” Escalante said. “I’m new to this area.”

  “Is that so?” Granger pushed the door open to his parlor and waited for Escalante. “I’ve been getting all manner of visitors to my home as of late and one can never be too sure.”

  Escalante went through the parlor door and saw an even larger giant standing behind a sofa with two men sitting on it. The man to the right was younger and had curly blond hair and had to be Connor Sinclair. Henry Odell was seated on the other side.

  Odell sat up when he saw Escalante and almost called out to him, but instead Escalante turned back to Granger and said, “These men don’t look like guests.”

  Granger tapped the front of his lips as he regarded Escalante. He turned and looked at Odell. Odell lowered his head and looked at the floor. “You don’t know either of them?”

  “No. Who are they?”

  Granger walked over to Connor Sinclair and grabbed the young man by the chin. “You don’t know that this is the son of a bitch who brought men here to try to kill me instead of doing business like a gentleman?”

  Escalante walked over to where Connor was sitting and leaned down to get a better look. He put his hands on his knees and leaned forward. “Is that true, you little son of a bitch? You brought men here to kill Mr. Granger?”

  “I brought men here to get him to leave me and my ma alone!” Connor shouted.

  Escalante grabbed Connor by the back of the hair and spit in his face. He watched saliva slide down from Connor’s eye to his nose. “How dare you even speak in the presence of such a great man? I should cut out your tongue for saying one bad word against him and put it in my next stew.”

  “All right, all right,” Granger said with a laugh. He pulled Escalante away from Connor and said, “You really are enthusiastic for a man of such seasoned years, aren’t you?”

  “I am sorry, Mr. Granger. I just hate men like this who stand in the way of greatness.”

  “So do I, my friend. I like your approach to things, Joe. My men are camped a quarter mile down the road, at the edge of my property where they can carry on however they like and won’t disturb the peacefulness of my home. You go on down there and ask for Bucky Dunning. He’s the man I have running the camp. You tell him Mr. Granger said you’re the new cook and he’ll get you whatever supplies you need.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Granger,” Escalante said. He grabbed Granger’s hand and pumped it with both of his own. “I thank you so much. I will never forget this.”

  “It’s all right,” Granger said. He pulled his hand away and wiped it on his suit pants. “Go on ahead now. Supper’s in an hour, so you won’t have time to get set up, but go on down there and get yourself a plate so you can see what they’ve been eating.”

  Escalante clapped his hands together. “Mr. Granger, I have one small request.”

  Granger sighed. “I knew this was too good to be true. Let me guess. You need some money up front.”

  “No, sir! No, nothing like that. I was wondering if I could have time to go back and get my wagon to bring to the camp. It has all my cooking things and some special ingredients I will need. If I go now, I will be back before it gets too dark and I will be able to make them something tonight as a way to introduce myself to the camp. With your permission, of course.”

  “You know what?” Granger said. “I think the men would enjoy that. My permission is granted.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Escalante rode back to the meeting place on the hill and reported that he’d volunteered to be the camp cook for Granger’s men.

  Sinclair scratched his beard. “Plan was for you to be one of the guns. What made you say that?”

  “An idea came to me as if from God himself.”

  Escalante told them the plan and how it had come into his mind like it had been delivered on the wings of a bird from heaven while he was talking to the men on top of the wagon. He’d brought only his shotgun and knew it would not impress anyone, nor would they be impressed with his physical appearance either. But every camp that has ever had men needs food and every camp that has ever had food needs someone who knows how to cook it.

  “So you’re in as their cook now,” Jesse said. “Either way, at least we know where they are.”

  “But wait,” Escalante said. “Being their cook was only part of the idea. You haven’t heard the rest yet.”

  * * *

  * * *

  At the far end of Granger’s ranch where the hired guns were encamped, Bucky Dunning looked over the group of reprobates assembled there and felt ill at ease. The whole camp had a stink about it that Dunning recognized. He’d smelled it years ago, back in ’seventy-nine at Milk Creek.

  Back then he had been just a buck private under the command of Major Thomas T. Thornburgh. So young and skinny that his uniform jacket hung down over his hands and he had to yank up his sleeves to hold his rifle. Thornburgh had run a loose camp too, and why not? They had a force of six companies and two of them were cavalry. They’d been called in to assist the men stationed at the White River Indian Agency due to some trouble with Colorow and his Utes. Major Thornburgh used to laugh and make jokes about the Utes. He told anyone who would listen, in great detail, how the Indians were going to cry out in sheer terror when they came up against such an awesome force.

  The older soldiers had put Dunning through a rite of passage that night. They’d made him drink a whole bottle of whiskey and spin himself in circles until he vomited. It had taken only a few spins.

  Laughter filled their camp. People singing and playing the harmonica. A few of the soldiers got into fistfights and had to be held apart. That camp stunk of spilled liquor and vomit, raw sweat and campfire smoke. Many men were passed out and others played at urinating into the fire to make it hiss, which made their fellows laugh. Everyone was
enjoying himself. No one bothered paying attention to anything else.

  In his dreams, Dunning could still see the Ute brave creep out of the darkness. He had a blade in each hand and he moved in silence. Snatching Major Thornburgh from behind, he dragged his knife across the major’s neck and split it wide open like it was nothing but raw chicken. Dunning was close enough that the major’s arterial blood spurted out and hit him in the face.

  All around the camp, screams rang out. Fallen soldiers were being scalped, some of them still alive. Dunning fell to his knees and buried his head in his hands. When he looked up, he was aghast to see Colorow himself walk past. The Indian chief was bare chested and covered in paint. He carried a knife that was smeared with blood. There were feathers tied in his hair and his eyes shined with firelight. Dunning begged not to be scalped. Words spilled out of him that he could not control but would stay in his mind ever after. His mind was scarred by his own cowardice. The soldiers all around him said the same things, but that did not matter. Dunning had said them, and he could not forget saying them, and that’s what did.

  “Please, great Chief, spare me,” Dunning begged.

  Colorow walked past him and barely looked in his direction when he said, “We’re only killing warriors today, small rabbit. Do not tremble so.”

  Now Bucky Dunning looked at the men camped all around him and it was as if he were back in Milk Creek all those years ago. No, he thought. Even Major Thornburgh would never have allowed such degenerates as the ones Mr. Granger had hired.

  The sounds of a wagon approaching snapped Dunning out of his thoughts. He could hear glass bottles rattling and wooden wheels turning, and somewhere, hidden under that, the sound of a man singing.

  Dunning stood up when he saw the wagon that was approaching. He threw a hand in the air and called out, “Hold up there.”

  The man driving the wagon raised his hand in response and said, “Are you Bucky Dunning?”

  “I am.”

  “Mr. Granger told me to come find you. I’m your new cook.” Escalante looked at the gun and the knife on Dunning’s belt. The knife handle had an Army stamp. Escalante saluted and said, “Nice knife.”

  “Well, I don’t know what you brought in that wagon, but these boys already ate supper.”

  Escalante wagged his finger and smiled. “I did not bring supper. No, no. I brought dessert.” Escalante leapt down from the wagon and called out, “Gentlemen! I come bearing gifts for you hardworking souls! With permission from our most generous employer, Mr. Granger, I present the strongest whiskey you’ve ever tasted in your lives!”

  Escalante ripped off the wagon’s cover to reveal two dozen mason jars filled with liquor. “Now, wait. This is not for the faint of heart. I promise you, this liquor is so strong, only real men can drink it!”

  The men standing near the wagon let out a whoop of joy and ran to grab a jar for themselves. The ones standing farther away saw the other men running and came running too.

  “There’s plenty for everyone!” Escalante shouted. “Take some and pass it around!”

  The ones who had jars devoured the liquor so fast, it splashed out of their mouths and ran down their shirts. Anyone standing next to them ripped the jars away to drink. Jars were passed back and forth and there was yelling and arguing and shoving all around the wagon.

  “What the hell kind of whiskey is this?” one of the men gasped.

  “Too strong for you, amigo? I warned you it was only for real men. It will put hair on your chest and everywhere else.” Escalante laughed. “This is the good stuff they serve to rich people back East! Make sure everyone gets some!” He rested his arm on the wagon and made sure everyone was drinking. “Drink it. It’s good! Better than you ever had in your life.”

  Bucky Dunning tapped Escalante from behind and said, “What’d you say your name was?”

  “Joseph Smith. I’m your new cook.”

  “And Mr. Granger sent you down here with all this liquor and said it was all right to give it to these men?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “You have anyone who can vouch for that?”

  Escalante looked around the camp and pointed. Russel Woodburn was standing at the end of the wagon, hogging a jar to himself. “He was one of the guards who let me in. Hey! Friend!”

  Woodburn looked up from the jar and belched. His eyes were glassy and red. “Hey, it’s the cook!” he said.

  “Did you hear Mr. Granger say it was okay for me to give you all free liquor?”

  Woodburn’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion. Escalante winked at him. Woodburn’s eyes were half lidded and he smiled and said, “Yes, I did!”

  “See?” Escalante said. “Everything is fine. You should drink some. Enjoy yourself. You’ve been working too hard.”

  Some of the men were getting so drunk, they were staggering into one another. Dunning had to step out of the way of one of the hands barreling past with two jars in his arms and hollering he was going to drink both by himself.

  “Where’d you get all this whiskey from anyway?” Dunning asked.

  “I stole it,” Escalante said. “I was with a group that robbed a supply train, and this is what’s left of my share. I tried to sell it, but none of the saloons wanted it because they said it got customers drunk too fast and they didn’t spend enough money. You should try some, amigo.”

  “Why don’t you try it?” Dunning asked.

  “This is only half of what we took. I drank so much of it, I almost burned a hole in my stomach. When I told Mr. Granger I had it, he wanted me to come share it with all of his hardworking gunslingers.” Escalante pumped his fist in the air and called out, “Viva, Mr. Granger! Drink, drink!”

  The men shouted Granger’s name back and they drank.

  Escalante removed a jar from one of the men slumped against the wagon and handed it to Dunning. “Here you go, amigo. Try it. You’ll see.”

  Dunning looked down at the jar. He pushed it back toward Escalante. “You first, amigo.”

  “Me?” Escalante pushed it toward Dunning. “If I drink this, I won’t be able to wake up in time to make you the greatest breakfast you’ve ever had in your entire lives.”

  “I never met a saloon owner in my whole life who wouldn’t buy stolen liquor. You drink it or I’ll pour it down your throat.”

  “Hey, no need to be hostile, my friend,” Escalante said. “I’m just doing what Mr. Granger told me to do. You want to see me drink this?”

  “I do.”

  “No problem.” Escalante raised the jar to his open mouth and poured the liquor in.

  Someone staggered into Dunning from behind. Dunning spun around and saw it was Mark Johnson. He grabbed Johnson in time to keep him from falling. Johnson opened his mouth to speak and nothing but a long unintelligible groan came out. Johnson grabbed Dunning by the shirt and clenched his eyes shut. He was trying to say something.

  “What?” Dunning asked.

  Johnson’s eyes were red. He kept talking, but it was like his tongue was dislocated from his body.

  While Dunning’s back was turned, Escalante let the whiskey spill out between his lips. He spit quietly to get the rest out and reached behind his back.

  “What the hell are you trying to say?” Dunning asked.

  Johnson’s head fell and he vomited on the grass between Dunning’s boots. Dunning pushed him away in disgust and realized the vomit was bright red from blood. All around him, more men were doubled over or collapsed on all fours. They were opening their mouths to let out torrents of blood.

  “Son of a bitch,” Dunning whispered. He unseated his gun from his holster and spun around to shoot.

  Escalante leapt forward with his knife slashing through the air. The edge of his blade caught Dunning across the wrist before he could pull the trigger and Escalante grabbed the gun’s barrel and twisted. When Dunning
wouldn’t let go, Escalante sliced him again and again on the wrist until he did.

  Dunning unsheathed the Army knife from his belt and charged forward. Escalante spun in time to catch Dunning in midstep with the point of his knife aimed at the soft place beneath Dunning’s throat. Dunning never saw it. He ran forward and impaled himself and was speared through the throat before he knew it. Dunning stood upright, gurgling hot blood from his mouth and nose, until his legs gave out and he collapsed.

  Escalante gasped to try to catch his breath. All around him, the men of the encampment writhed in pain or had already died. He would go around to each of them, one by one, and if they were not already dead, he would put them out of their misery in the fastest way he could. There were twenty men, at least. It was going to take a while.

  Escalante went to take his first step and his stomach knotted in pain. He looked down in confusion and saw the handle of a knife sticking out of his abdomen. The US Army stamp was covered in blood.

  “Ah, Mirta,” he whispered. “They’ve done it to your papa.”

  He could feel his life draining away. He knew that if he pulled the knife out, the rest of his life would follow behind it. For now, as much as it hurt to move, he had to leave the knife inside his guts.

  Escalante stumbled toward the fire and collapsed to his knees. Each breath felt like the knife’s blade was twisting and cutting him apart from the inside. He held his breath and bit his lower lip, then grabbed the knife by its handle and pulled it free. He needed to scream. He forced himself not to.

  He pressed his palm against the open wound, but his blood pumped out hot and sticky between his fingers. He held the knife in the fire until it glowed hot and bright.

  “Okay,” Escalante whispered. “Okay, okay, okay. No problem.”

  He slapped the blade against his stomach and held it there. His skin hissed and smoked and he could feel it peeling away from the heated metal. He held it there for as long as he could. Then he pulled it away and looked down.