by Len Levinson
John Stone didn’t expect too much from the Texas range—just the chance he’d be reunited with the only woman he ever loved. But that was before he laid eyes on Cassandra Whiteside, the beautiful mistress of the Triangle Spur ranch ... and a dead ringer for his long-lost Marie.
It doesn’t take long for Stone to get on the bad side of the old colonel who calls the Triangle Spur and Cassandra his private property. And after a wild night of salooning, Stone adds a pair of scheming cowhands and the wicked owner of a rival ranch to his dance card of enemies. Who said ranches live longer than soldiers?
DEVIL’S BRAND
THE SEARCHER 6
By Len Levinson writing as Josh Edwards
First Published by Diamond Books in 1991
Copyright © 1991, 2015 by Len Levinson
First Smashwords Edition: March 2015
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
Cover image © 2015 by Tony Masero
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Series Editor: Mike Stotter ~ Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with the Author.
Chapter One
It was night, and Stone couldn’t see anything through the pouring sheets of rain. He was somewhere west of San Antone, and the prairie was a sea of mud and twigs flowing in turbid rivulets toward the Pecos.
He was exhausted and soaked to the skin, drooping on his horse, which plodded stolidly across the puddles, his large round eyes luminescent in the darkness.
The rain had hit that afternoon, after being cloudy all morning and most of the previous night. At first it had been a fine mist, but then became steadier and more intense. By six in the evening it was lashing him like a big black whip in the hand of a giant.
By midnight, he was chilled deep to the bone, and his boots were full of water. He tried to amuse himself by inventing self-baling footwear, and the world would beat a path to his door, only he had no door, only the open prairie and a piece of ground for a bed at night.
He still wore his beat-up old Confederate cavalry officer’s hat, but it was little more than a sponge now, and water dripped down his five-day growth of dark blond beard. Sometimes he fell asleep, hunched over the saddle, dreaming he was drowning in a swamp.
He noticed Tomahawk slowing down, and roused himself from slumber as the horse came to a halt in the middle of the pouring rain.
“What’s the matter with you?”
The horse stood sullenly in the muck, like a trooper who didn’t give a damn anymore. Stone spurred him, but Tomahawk made no reaction. Tomahawk was on his last reserves of energy, and all he wanted to do was sleep.
Stone climbed down to see what was wrong, because it was uncharacteristic of the animal to simply give out. He looked around in the blackness, as rain poured upon his old rawhide leather jacket with fringes that were supposed to leach rain away, but failed miserably.
He walked forward, and then saw it: a stone wall. Tomahawk had stopped because he’d seen the wall and didn’t know whether to go right or left. Stone was supposed to be in charge—let him make the decision.
Stone had no idea of where he was. For the last hour or two he’d had the impression they were going around in circles. He couldn’t navigate by the stars, and he’d stepped on his compass in a Santa Fe saloon.
A bolt of lightning rent the sky, and for a brief second he saw a rock ledge overhang ten feet away. He pulled Tomahawk toward it, and at that point Tomahawk would go anywhere, even off the edge of a cliff.
They moved beneath the ledge, and it shielded them from the rain, while the mountain blocked the wind. Stone thought it might be a good spot to bed down. He undid the cinch, pulled the saddle off Tomahawk, peeled away the soaking blanket, and lay it against the side of the mountain. He didn’t bother tying Tomahawk to anything, because Tomahawk wasn’t going anywhere.
Stone unrolled his blanket; it was soaked all the way through. It was going to be a bad night, like the ones during the war when he’d slept in the mud, cannons booming constantly in the distance, but no one would shell him here, and Phil Sheridan wouldn’t attack at dawn.
He sat with his back to the wall, twenty-nine years old, his cigarette papers soaked, but he had food and dry matches. If he could find dry wood, maybe he could put his life together again. He crept alongside the mountain, hoping to find an outcropping that protected a few combustible pieces of wood, when he came upon a dark mass that turned out to be the mouth of a cave.
It was four feet wide and four feet high. Stone bent down and looked inside, but it was pitch-blackness. For all he knew, there might be a five-hundred-foot drop just ahead.
He got down on his hands and knees, crawling forward, feeling ahead for the long drop. After several feet he drew himself to his full height, six feet two inches tall. He reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out his waterproof container of matches, unscrewed the lid, and pulled one out.
“Hold it right there,” said a deep baritone voice inside the cave. “I got you in my sights.”
Stone was so surprised he dropped his matches all over the floor.
“Raise yer hands!”
Stone lifted his arms and faced the voice. “I’m on my way to San Antone, got lost in the rain, and found this cave. I’m not looking for trouble.”
“You ain’t the law?”
“Hell no. There’s probably a few sheriffs who’d like to get their hands on me, though.”
“You ain’t the only one.”
Stone heard the man circle to his back, then felt the barrel of a rifle against his spine. Stone’s two Colts were pulled out of their holsters.
“If I’m disturbing you,” Stone said. “I’d be happy to move along.”
“Sit down.”
Stone dropped to the floor cross-legged like an Indian, and wondered what he’d got himself into this time. There was a scratch sound, and a match sputtered to life, revealing a bearded, long-haired man wearing a black scarf around his throat, lighting a candle. The wick took fire and glowed, illuminating a cavern with a fireplace against the wall.
“Got a name?”
“John Stone.”
“I’m Luke Duvall, and you’re the first person what’s been in this cave for three years. You’d better not try any thin’ funny, because yer life don’t mean a damned thing to me.”
Stone leaned forward and spread out his hands to show they were empty. “I’m just a drifter on my way to San Antone. I was just looking for a dry spot to lie down.”
“That yer hat, or you buy it from some poor old soldier?”
“Mine.”
“What outfit were you with?”
“Wade Hampton.”
“I served under George Pickett.”
Duvall reached across the open space between them, and they shook hands.
“Can’t be too careful,” Duvall said. “Goddamn territory is full of killers, thieves, and scalp-huntin’ injuns.” He passed Stone’s guns back. “You look like a drowned rat. I’ll build the fire.”
Duvall moved away, and there was something simian about him, with his hulking shoulders and bowed legs. With flint and steel he set a spark in some shavings, and blew them into a flicker of light. Then he carefully piled twigs around the growing flame, showing a delicacy unexpected in a grizzled beast.
When the large pieces of wood were burning and crackling,
Duvall returned to Stone. “Might as well lay yer clothes in front of the fire, and wrap yerself in one of them buffalo robes over there. ’Spect you could use somethin’ to eat.”
“If it’s no bother.”
“I ain’t much of a cook, tell you that right now.”
“You wouldn’t happen to have any whiskey around, would you?”
“Haven’t touched a drop in three years.”
Duvall rustled around the fire, produced a black greasy cast-iron frying pan, and threw a chunk of meat into it. Stone removed his clothes and wrapped himself in a warm fluffy buffalo robe that smelled like fur and leather. Its warmth enveloped him, thawing his frozen bones, and he held his cigarette papers in front of the candle, to dry them out.
“How come you’re hiding in this cave?” Stone asked.
“Sick of the world,” Duvall replied. “Can’t take it anymore.”
“Don’t you get lonely?”
“People cheat and steal, and send honest men to die.”
Stone became aware that Duvall’s speech was thick and awkward, as if he weren’t accustomed to speaking. The papers were dry now, and Stone rolled a cigarette, lighting it with the candle. “Want some tobacco?”
“Don’t smoke, don’t use nothin’ that ain’t absolutely necessary to keep body and soul together. A man searches for the most godforsaken spot he can find, digs in, and next thing he knows some other galoot shows up askin’ if he wants a smoke. A man can’t escape no matter where he goes.”
Stone made a motion to get up. “I’ll just leave, if I’m such a bother.”
“Now that you’re here,” Duvall replied, “we might as well make a night of it. What’s goin’ on out there in the world?”
“You’ve been here three years?”
“Go to town about once every six months to trade for things I can’t git here, like gunpowder and such. Don’t spend much time, ’cause I don’t like it there, but I keep my nose open, to see which way the wind’s blowin’, if you git my meaning.”
“Don’t you miss women?”
“It’s a woman what put me here.”
Duvall handed a tin plate to Stone, and on it were venison and beans with a fork laid on top. Duvall threw a canteen at Stone’s feet.
Stone put out his cigarette and dug into the food. “Is there anything for a horse to eat?”
“I’ll take care of him,” Duvall said. “You just feed your face.”
Duvall wrapped himself in a buffalo skin and went outside as Stone wolfed down the food. It had a strange taste, but he was used to trail food, and had eaten many strange things in his day. He looked around at the walls of the cave, now that his eyes were adjusting to the dimness, and saw weird old Indian paintings of horses, warriors, buffalo, coyotes, and snakes.
Then, on the opposite wall, a more sinister painting emerged out of the darkness. It showed a man hanging by his neck at the end of a rope, and the twisted tormented face was a likeness of Luke Duvall.
A chill came over Stone, and he wished he had a drink of whiskey. Duvall returned to the cave, took off his buffalo robe, and threw some logs over the fire. Then Duvall removed his black scarf, hanging it on an outcropping of rock. Stone looked at Duvall’s throat and saw the rope scar.
“What you goin’ to San Antone for?” Duvall asked.
“Looking for somebody.” Stone took a photograph in a silver frame out of his shirt pocket and handed it to him. “Ever see her?”
Duvall held the photograph up to the light and frowned. “Well,” he said, “lots of people look alike. What makes you think she’s around here?”
“A rancher in Arizona told me he saw her in San Antone, but didn’t know her name.”
Duvall shrugged. “Hate to bet my life on it, but this looks somethin’ like … Well … It’s hard to say. What’s she to you?”
“We were supposed to be married, but don’t be coy, because this is important to me. Who does this person remind you of?”
Duvall gazed into his eyes. “Forget about her.”
“I can’t forget about her, and don’t think I haven’t tried.”
“The woman I’m thinkin’ about is married. Her husband might put a bullet in yer ass.”
“I want to find out what happened.”
“Never ask a woman what happened, for two reasons. The first is she’ll prob’ly lie, so you still won’t know—or she’ll tell you the truth, and you’ll wish you never asked.”
“I’ve got to see her face-to-face,” Stone said.
“There was a gal I had to see once,” Duvall said. “I should’ve let her alone, but I pushed it, and wound up on the end of the rope. I know you seen the mark—you keep a-lookin’ at it. Well you’re liable to get one of these too, if’n you persist after that woman. She belongs to another man.”
“She’ll have to tell me that, not you, and if she does, I’ll just ride away.”
“What’s the name of the woman you’re lookin’ for?”
“Marie Higgins.”
Duvall shook his head. “Wrong name.”
“People change their names. Which one is she using here?”
“Cassandra Whiteside. She’s the wife of Gideon Whiteside, and they got a ranch about ten miles southeast of here, the Triangle Spur. Now you know every thin’. Don’t expect me to come to yer funeral.”
“I doubt whether there’ll be a funeral. I just want to know why she left me.”
Duvall shrugged. “Women leave men all the time. You can’t trust any of ’em, especially when they look you in the eye and swear to God.”
“They’re not all that way.”
“What I got to go on is my ’sperience, and in my ’sperience, they’re a bunch of lyin’ polecats—every dang one of ’em.”
“Whoever she was, you must still be in love with her, to carry on this way.”
Duvall looked down at the floor. “You’d think God would give a man some peace after three years, but I ain’t had none yet. I cain’t forget her, but she was no good. ‘Course, she was young. Only fourteen when I met her.”
“Did you kill her?”
“Killed her boyfriend, and that was good enough for the hangman.”
“How’d you get away?”
“Maybe the hangman didn’t know his job. All I know is I woke up lyin’ on a slab in a doctor’s office, and had the worst sore throat of my life. I jumped out the window and didn’t stop runnin’ till I got here, so all I got to tell you is forget that gal and ride on through to somewhere else.”
“Wish you had some whiskey.”
“The way I see it, whiskey is the downfall of the human race.”
Stone looked at the painting of the hanging man flickering in the light of the fireplace. “What did your woman look like?”
Duvall fumbled nervously. “She was a big gal, stronger than most men. Weren’t nothin’ she couldn’t do. Had red hair. God, what kids we would’ve had, but then she ran off with a rich man, and I killed him.”
“You shot him in cold blood?”
“We got in a fight, actually.”
“It was self-defense, in other words.”
“That’s what my lawyer said, but they hung me anyway. Whatever you do, don’t shoot a rich man in Georgia.”
“You’re probably innocent, and there’s no need to be hiding here. Texas is full of men on the dodge, and they’re not in caves.”
“I got fresh water, all the food I need, God’s good clean air, and peace until you showed up. This is my mountain fortress, and I ain’t never givin’ it up.”
“There are gophers who live better than this, Duvall. You should come back to the world, find yourself another woman, plant some potatoes, live like a man.”
Duvall shook his head slowly and turned down the corners of his mouth. “Where’ll you go if that gal tells you to buzz off?”
“Start looking for another gal.”
“You can lie to yerself,” Duvall said, “but you can’t lie to me. You look like a man who’ll e
nd up in a cave, but this one’s already took. You’ll have to find one of yer own.”
“You’ll never see me in a cave. I love life too much.”
“We’ll see how much you love life after that little lady tells you to move on. Ever stop to think you’re the last person she wants to see right now? I know a nice cave about five mile south of here. Might still be vacant, if you’re interested.”
Chapter Two
It was two o’clock on the next afternoon, and Stone rode through a sea of cattle grazing in the hot sun. It had been like this for the past three hours, and he figured he was on the range of the Triangle Spur.
For five years he’d searched for Marie, from South Carolina to Kansas, Texas, Arizona, and now was back in Texas again. Here and there men said they’d seen her, sending him on wild goose chases, and in one town an old cowboy lied for a glass of whiskey.
Other veterans were building new lives for themselves, while John Stone roamed the frontier, looking for the only woman he ever loved. She’d lived on the next plantation, and the first time she smiled at him, he felt enveloped in a dazzling radiance. He’d loved her all his life, they were engaged to get married, and then the war broke out.
He rode off to the front, went through five long years of bloody war, and when he returned home, he found Albemarle burned to the ground, his parents dead, and Marie gone. Someone told him she’d headed west with a Union officer, but Stone found that hard to believe. Marie wouldn’t go anywhere with a Yankee, at least not the Marie he knew, but he’d come to the frontier looking for her anyway, because he had nothing else to hold on to.
There’d been many temptations along the way, but he’d always been stopped by the memory of Marie. Every town had beautiful women, but there was only one Marie.
Cassandra Whiteside might not be Marie. Sometimes people looked alike, but the rancher in Arizona and Luke Duvall in the cave had said it was her, and maybe it was.
Stone came to the top of a hill, and a broad valley covered with cattle stretched out before him. In the middle of the valley, smoke rising from chimneys, were a complex of buildings, and if Stone’s dead reckoning was right, it was the Triangle Spur Ranch.
