by Len Levinson
He thought of Cassandra standing naked in the moonlight, looking up at the sky. A mare in heat. Stone had seen mares tear up stables, nearly killing their studs and themselves.
He flashed on the Indian who’d attacked Cassandra, a beautiful ornate ceremonial war hatchet in his hand. Stone had been tempted to pick it up, but then Truscott ordered them to search the willows, and he’d forgotten. Maybe he could retrieve it on his way back to the camp, if nobody else got it. He could trade it for a bottle of whiskey in the first saloon they found, and maybe two bottles of whiskey if he talked fast enough. He made the firm decision to return to the stream for the hatchet when his two hours of night riding were finished.
~*~
The segundo gazed at the sleeping bodies around him. He’d just awakened, and figured it was a few hours before dawn. Raising his arm, he threw the blankets and his dog off him. Then he sat and pulled on his boots, and his feet slid in smoothly. He arose and looked around the campsite.
No one stirred, and he was tempted to shoot Truscott, but he’d have to fight the rest of the cowboys and didn’t like the odds. Maybe someday, on a quiet range, he’d put a bullet through the back of Truscott’s head, or maybe they’d meet in a cowtown someday, and he’d come up behind the old son of a bitch in an alley.
The segundo looked at Cassandra snuggled next to the fire. She’d spurned him, but the game wasn’t over yet. It was a long way to Abilene, and he was sure she wanted him deep down. She’d just acted persnickety because the others were close by. Next time he’d git her alone, and show her what a man could do.
He made his way to the latrine, hearing the chorus of night birds and bugs. Tomorrow he’d kick the shit out of the burrhead, on general principles. The burrhead got uppity at times, and had to be put in his place.
He heard a rustle near the latrine and yanked out his gun. A large animal had brushed something, but maybe it was just the breeze and his sleepy mind playing tricks. Holstering his gun, he continued his stroll toward the latrine.
He became aware of how comfortable his boots were. He’d bought them new in San Antone shortly before he left, and they were broken in already, whereas you could wear some boots for ten years, and they wouldn’t fit right. Finishing at the latrine, he returned to his blankets, and the boots felt so cool and nice he didn’t bother to take them off. Dropping onto the ground, he pulled his blanket over his face and soon was snoring loudly.
~*~
Stone’s nighttime guard duty was over, and he rode toward the campsite, thinking about whiskey.
The craving was on him, and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. If only he could have just one drink to warm his innards. But he had no whiskey, and there was no saloon nearby. Sooner or later they’d come to a town, and then maybe he could ride in. He had a few coins in his pocket, enough for a glass of whiskey.
The word “whiskey,” came out of his mouth, and merely saying it evoked the dusky fluid. He imagined whiskey spilling over his tongue, trickling down his throat.
He’d spend the rest of his life in saloons, if he had unlimited wealth. But he detested saloons and wanted to live on the clear open range. He weighed the two wide-spaced irreconcilable desires as willows came into view. The stream was down there, with the Indian hatchet. He could hear the rush of water.
The deep blue night sky was pebbled with stars, and the willows alive with crickets. He was pooped out, and the drive had only just begun. If he were smart he’d return to the campsite immediately and turn in, but his mind was enchanted by the ornate tomahawk flashing through the air, not to mention the bottle of whiskey at the end of the rainbow.
The air became cooler as he approached the stream, and he heard its merry bubbling song. Ripples and wavelets were covered with the silver patina of moonglow, and he saw, lying in the shadows near the shore, the form of the dead Indian. Tomahawk was skitterish, dancing nervously to the side. Stone patted his mane and said, “I’ll be right back, boy.”
He climbed down from the saddle, adjusted his gunbelt, and walked toward the dead Indian. Stone’s legs felt stiff; he’d be as bowlegged as Truscott by the time they got to Abilene. There was a pain in his back from constant riding, and he’d had a steady mild headache since leaving the ranch. A nauseating stench hit his nostrils, and he wondered if Slipchuck had taken a bath, his first in ten years.
He approached the Indian, whose form was dark and indistinct among the rushes at the edge of the stream. He recalled how the Indian had crept to Cassandra, to kill her. It was a good thing they were there to save her, but now she knew he’d been leering too, and it was embarrassing. Bending forward to look at the Indian more closely, his eyes widened with surprise when he saw the left shoulder and arm missing, while blood whorled in the water.
Something had been eating the Indian, and blood on the corpse was fresh, which meant the feeding had taken place recently. A low growl emitted from the dark willows, and Stone pulled out his gun. His scalp tingled as he peered into the shadows. What the hell was out there?
He heard a scrape and another growl. Stone ran toward Tomahawk, and a crashing massive hulk charged out of the willows. It was a black bear seven feet tall and nearly as wide, with arms big as tree trunks. Its mouth opened, and moonlight glinted on sharp white teeth.
“You leave me alone,” Stone said in a low voice, “and I’ll leave you alone.” He understood now that it was not Slipchuck who’d been taking his first bath in ten years.
The bear snarled and advanced toward Stone, who was between him and his meal. Stone moved toward the woods, to get out of the bear’s way, but the bear couldn’t be placated so easily. Stone steadied his aim and fired. The bear roared and stared at Stone through tiny savage eyes as bullets shot into his tough hide.
Stone fired at the bear’s head, and the night resounded with the explosions, but the bear kept coming, guttural sounds issuing from his throat. Stone fanned the hammer. Gunfire echoed across the plains. Click.
The gun was empty, and the bear only a few feet away. Stone pulled the Apache knife out of its sheath and rammed it into the bear’s thick leathery belly. The bear wrapped his arms around Stone.
Stone’s lungs compressed to nothing. Struggling for breath, all he got was flesh-besotted stench. He gulped wildly and stabbed the knife into the bear’s eye. The bear screamed and reeled backward. Stone fell to the ground, while blood poured from the bear’s eye.
Tomahawk attacked from the rear. The bear spun out and slammed Tomahawk alongside the head. Tomahawk fell to the ground, the stars spinning above him. Remind me, he thought, never to fuck with bears again. Stone pulled himself to his feet. Every bone in his chest felt broken. The bear swung a mighty paw, and Stone went flying through the air, landing in the water beside the dead Indian.
The taste of blood was in Stone’s mouth, and kill was in the bear’s heart. The hatchet glittered in the moonlight. Stone dived on it, rolled over, and came up with the weapon in his hand. The bear followed him, and Stone poised the heavy well-balanced implement of war, hearing the war drums of the Comanche nation pounding inside his skull. The bear swung a long-clawed paw at Stone, and Stone drove a hard chop into the bear’s arm.
The bear let loose a shriek that tore the night apart, blood oozed from his wounds. Stone swung the hatchet with all his strength, and thought his arm had broken as he flew through the air, landing on his face in the mud. He rolled over, his left arm was covered with blood. The bear rushed toward him, snapping his teeth, got low and raked his claws across Stone’s leg. Stone slammed the hatchet into the boulder that was the bear’s head, and the blade of the hatchet tore a patch of fur off the creature’s skull, but the force of the collision knocked Stone onto his back. The bear loomed above him, dripping blood onto Stone’s face. Stone swung the hatchet at the bear’s leg, and dove toward the woods, but he was slow, with broken bones, and blood soaking his torn shirt. The bear came after him, hopping on one leg, and whacked Stone from behind.
Stone was thrown
onto his face, but rolled over quickly and swung the hatchet. The blade struck the bear’s snout; he reared backward and howled. Stone picked himself off the ground and readied the hatchet, weak and woozy, nearly out on his feet. The curse was coming down hard—he saw the Gypsy fortune-teller’s eyes in the eyes of the bear. The bear lumbered closer, his teeth dripping blood, and Stone said, “Come on, you son of a bitch! You want to fight—I’ll give you a fight!”
The bear grabbed Stone, and Stone chopped. The bear fell on Stone, and ripped his claws across Stone’s left shoulder, then back-slammed him in the face. Stone was hurled to the muck at the edge of the stream, and the bear bent over him, breathing heavily. A feeling of peace swept over Stone in the moment of ultimate surrender. So this is it, he thought. Now I am the bear. The bear bent over to dig his fangs into his kill.
Lightning struck him in fifteen places, a hideous surprise. He raised his arms and lumbered over the riverbank toward the cowboys on the riverbank, thunder spouting from their guns. He never faltered in his charge.
They ran out of his way, but one cowboy stood his ground in the middle of the path, holding double-barreled death in his hands. He was Duke Truscott, ramrod of the Triangle Spur, one eye closed, sighting down the barrels. “Come on you twisty old son of a whore!” Truscott hollered. “I’m a-ready for you!”
Truscott pulled both triggers. The bear stood headless in the path, blood gushing from his neck, and then collapsed onto his back. Smoke arose from the twin barrels of the shotgun, and Truscott licked his lips in satisfaction. The cowboys came out of the woods, guns in their hands.
“Nothin’ better’n bear grease fer a man’s boots,” Truscott said.
Cassandra ran down the incline toward Stone, and saw him lying comatose, covered with blood. She kneeled beside him and felt his pulse.
“He’s alive!”
He wasn’t alive by much. His shirt was shredded and deep gashes oozed blood. He looked as if a butcher had gone to work on him. Cassandra knew they had to stop the bleeding, or else he’d drain dry. She untied her bandanna, dipped it in the water, and washed blood off Stone’s face, but more welled from the lesions in his skin.
“Looks like a goner,” Truscott said, ripping his own shirt for bandages. “Lost too much blood, I think.”
Slipchuck kneeled on the other side of Stone, and reached for the hatchet, but even in the depths of unconsciousness, Stone refused to let his weapon go. He was carrying it with him to the ghost land of the Comanche nation, the bear dancing beside him.
Chapter Four
They carried him on a stretcher of blankets and lay him beside the burnt-out fire. Stone was dead weight, his blood seeped through the blanket and dripped to the ground.
Truscott wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Git the shovel and dig the goddamned hole.”
Slipchuck clasped his bony fingers around Stone’s arm. “He’ll pull through. God protects an honest cowboy.”
“Bear sign all over the damn place, and this man walked right into it. I thought he was smart.”
“He don’t know spit about trackin’,” Slipchuck said. “I’ll teach ‘im when he gets better.”
“This man ain’t gittin’ better,” Truscott said. “Goes to show you why we lost the war.”
“Strongest man I ever met,” Slipchuck said. “He’ll be back.”
Cassandra turned to Truscott. “Where can we find a doctor?”
“Nearest town I know is Colton, about five-six days north from here.”
Joe Little Bear emerged from the woods, carrying his rifle.
“Where you been?” Truscott asked.
“Whenever white man hears shots, he runs toward them. Whenever Indian hears shots, he runs away from them.” Joe Little Bear’s eyes fell on Stone, lying by the fire.
“Damn fool picked a fight with a bear,” Truscott said.
Slipchuck looked up at Joe Little Bear. “Know any good injun medicine?”
“The plants do not grow here.” Joe Little Bear kneeled beside Stone and pulled back his eyelids. “This man will ride the ghost pony by dawn.”
Slipchuck said, “The man ain’t even daid yet, but already you’re plannin’ the funeral. I tell you, this is one strong son of a bitch. He was hit by a cannonball at Gettysburg.”
Cassandra turned to Ephraim. “You’ll have to make room for him in the chuck wagon.”
Ephraim was looking toward the edge of the campsite, where a figure could be seen beneath blankets.
“Who’s that?” Cassandra asked.
Truscott replied, “The segundo and his dog. Slept right through the whole mess. Ain’t that a bitch?”
Cassandra touched Stone’s hand, and it was cold as a corpse. She looked at his face, and the blood was coagulating. If he could stop the bleeding, he’d have a chance. “The herd moves out on schedule in the morning, because the sooner we reach Colton, the better for John. Carry him to the chuck wagon, he’ll be safer there.”
Slipchuck said, “I know this man well enough to know he’d druther be in the open air, under the open sky. I’ll look out for ’im.”
The others left Slipchuck alone with Stone in the lee of the chuck wagon. The former stagecoach driver bent over his fallen pard and spoke softly, “We got lots of road ahead of us, Johnny. You’re young, you ain’t even seen half the whorehouses yet. Perfumed ladies with fancy underwears, the biggest tits you ever seen, covered with powder, lyin’ on silk sheets, the best whiskey close to hand. We’ll do it all, Johnny, you and me,” the old man said, intoning his medicine chant.
~*~
Cassandra opened her eyes and saw the faint pale yellow glimmering of dawn on the horizon. The first thing she thought of was John Stone, and wondered if he’d survived the night. She threw the blankets off and reached for her boot, carrying it closer. The triangular head of a rattlesnake reared out of the top, its forked tongue bidding her good morning. Cassandra screamed and jumped to her feet. Cowboys came up out of their blankets all around her, guns in hands. Don Emilio was closest, saw the rattler crawl out of Cassandra’s boot, aimed his gun, and the rattler’s head blew off.
“Señora,” Don Emilio said with a slight bow, “always turn your boots upside down in the morning, because scorpions like them too, not to mention spiders and las cucarachas. Ah, but how could you blame them for wishing to be near your pretty little toes?”
Cassandra looked at the decapitated snake, then picked up the boot gingerly, to make sure nothing else had set up shop in it for the night. She sat on her blanket and pulled the boot on.
Slipchuck, Blakemore, and Duvall were gathered around Stone, and they made room for Cassandra. “He’s still alive,” Slipchuck said, eyes twinkling.
Cassandra knelt beside Stone’s barely breathing body. Ephraim built a fire and placed his skillet on the grill as the men rolled their blankets. In the remuda, Tomahawk had a seven-inch gash on his neck. The segundo’s dog was whining pathetically, pushing his nose into the segundo, who still was fast asleep.
Truscott walked toward the segundo and said, “Time to get up, Braswell!”
The segundo didn’t move. The mongrel cur got down on his stomach and pawed the ground, pathetic cries coming from his mouth.
“Braswell!” Truscott hollered.
The segundo was still, his head covered by his blanket. It was unhealthy to touch a sleeping cowboy, because he might wake up shooting, but Truscott kicked the segundo’s boot. “Let’s hit it, Braswell!”
It was like kicking a dead man. Truscott bent over and rolled the segundo onto his back. The blanket fell away from the segundo’s face, and his complexion had turned purple; his eyes were closed, his mouth hung open, and his tongue was black. The dog let out a terrible shriek and jumped up, legs shivering.
“Looks like a goddamn turnip,” Truscott said. “Must’ve drank horse piss.”
The other cowboys gathered around. Truscott dropped to one knee and placed his ear against the segundo’s chest. He listened for several mome
nts, then got to his feet, his brow wrinkled in mystification.
“This man’s dead.”
Everyone stared at the segundo. Only a few hours ago he’d been mean and cantankerous, and now he was dead? Slipchuck turned around, and saw Ephraim cooking steaks at the fire. Ephraim’s eyes met his, and Slipchuck turned away quickly.
Truscott took off his hat and scratched his thinning sandy hair. “I’ll be a hornswoggled son of a bitch.”
Cassandra pushed through the crowd of cowboys. “What’s wrong?” She looked down at the segundo, and her eyes widened.
“Dead,” Truscott said, “but don’t ask me how.”
Cassandra was shocked. The segundo was even more hideous in death than in life. “Anybody know if he had family?”
“A drifter,” Truscott said. “We’ll bury ’im after breakfast.”
They headed toward the campfire, and Ephraim threw steaks on their plates. Slipchuck didn’t look at Ephraim as he passed the skillet, and the men sat on the ground, their backs to the dead segundo. The mongrel dog lay at the segundo’s feet, whimpering.
Cassandra dropped beside Truscott. “What usually happens to a man’s belongings if he dies on the trail?”
“Cut a deck of cards, and the highest card takes his pick.”
“I think I should have his rifle. I’m the only person here without one.”
“You’re the boss.”
They finished breakfast, and the men took turns digging the segundo’s grave as the dog continued to mourn. Cassandra crawled into the chuck wagon and looked at John Stone. His lips were pale blue and only the slightest hint of breath escaped his nostrils. Cassandra took his hand and tried to rub life into it, but Stone was like a corpse. She’d escaped her creditors for the time being, but the cost was high.
Truscott’s head appeared over the side of the chuck wagon. “We’re ready to throw ‘im in the ground. Care to say somethin’?”
