by Len Levinson
His heart quickened as he thought Marie might be down there in one of those very buildings. He rode through cattle munching grass, and wondered what he’d do if he saw her. He just couldn’t take her in his arms, if she was married to another man. But why’d she marry another man? Too many questions, not enough answers. Soon he’d know it all, maybe.
Rocking back and forth in his saddle, he rolled a cigarette. He’d left tobacco in the cave with Duvall, and Duvall had warned him one last time to forget Marie.
Stone couldn’t forget her. A woman could worm her way into your heart, and you’d never get rid of her. He’d been a vagabond for five years, because of Marie.
He approached the farm buildings, and a cowboy shoveled manure into a wagon. Stone leaned over his pommel. “Know where I can find Mrs. Whiteside?”
“In the main house,” the cowboy said, pointing his thumb over his shoulder.
Stone rode into the yard that separated the main house from the barn and outbuildings. A tall cottonwood tree sat in the backyard, and a clothesline ran from it to the house. Ladies’ underwear hung from the line, next to the clothing of a man, and Stone felt a lump in his throat.
He pulled back Tomahawk’s reins, and Tomahawk stopped in front of the ranch house. Tomahawk turned his head and looked at the barn, hoping that’s where he’d wind up, in a cool stall with hay and oats, and the possibility for rest.
Stone climbed down from the saddle, threw the butt of his cigarette to the ground, and smoothed the front of his shirt. Then he squared his shoulders and walked toward the front porch. He climbed the stairs, knocked on the door, and there was no answer. He knocked again, and heard light footsteps.
They came closer, and anxiety mounted inside him. The door opened, and he saw a middle-aged woman with graying, thinning hair.
“I’d like to see Mrs. Whiteside,” Stone said.
“What about?”
“Just want to see her. It’s kind of important.”
“Who’re you?”
“John Stone, from South Carolina.”
The woman looked him over, and he was a mess, his clothes worn and tattered, covered with the dust of the prairie.
“Come in,” the woman said. “Have a seat.”
Stone entered the living room and saw over the fireplace a huge painting of a man wearing the uniform of the Confederacy, with the rank of colonel on his shoulder straps, his hand resting on his sword. The man had black muttonchop whiskers, and the blue sash around his waist indicated he’d been in the infantry.
The maid disappeared down the hallway, and Stone’s insides were quaking. Around him were chairs and a sofa, situated so people could sit near the fireplace. A nice comfortable room, a few cuts above what one would ordinarily find on the frontier.
He heard footsteps approaching in the hallway, and turned toward them. A young blond woman in a light blue dress entered the living room, and Stone took an involuntary step toward her, because it was Marie!
He felt as if he were going to have a heart attack, and an expression of alarm came over her face, but then, as she came closer, Stone realized with a second jolt that this woman wasn’t Marie, but looked very much like her!
“Are you all right?” she asked. “Would you like to sit down?”
He sank onto a chair and stared at her in disbelief. She was taller than Marie, and Marie’s face had been more finely chiseled, but this woman could be Marie’s sister, or Marie herself with five more pounds.
“What’s wrong?” She asked.
He opened his shirt pocket and showed her the picture. She took it from his hand. “Why, she looks like me!”
“I thought you were her at first,” Stone explained. “I’ve been looking for this woman for five years. A man in Arizona told me about you, and another man, who lives near here, also told me it was you, but I can see now it’s not you, although the resemblance is uncanny.”
“You were in love with a woman who looked like me?”
“All my life, practically.”
“What happened to her?”
“I have no idea.”
“If I’d been her, you would’ve tried to take me away from my husband?”
‘That’s right.”
“How odd.”
“But you’re not her, and I’m sorry to bother you.” Stone arose, and all he wanted was the nearest saloon. “Good day to you.”
He bowed like a southern gentleman, and headed for the door.
“Wait a moment! I want to talk with you about something, and you haven’t had tea yet!”
“I could use something a little stronger than tea, ma’am.”
“Whiskey?”
“Just what the doctor ordered.”
Stone returned to his chair, and she took his hat, hanging it on a peg beside the door. Her figure was similar to Marie’s, and he felt like grabbing her, which was probably how Duvall wound up at the southern end of a rope.
The maid arrived with a pot of tea on a tray, setting it on a low table. Cassandra poured a stiff glass of whiskey from a decanter, and handed it to Stone, who raised it to his lips, taking a substantial first swig that sizzled all the way through his innards.
It settled him down, and he leaned back in the chair, staring at Cassandra Whiteside, spotting more differences between her and Marie. This was a rancher’s wife, in control of her situation, whereas Marie had been the spoiled daughter of a rich man, and all she ever did was go to parties.
“I imagine you must be very disappointed,” Cassandra said. “I’m sorry I’m not the person you seek.”
“I was thinking about moving to the nearest cave and not coming out for the rest of my life.”
“A handsome fellow like you won’t have any trouble finding another girl, I’m sure. Would you need a job by any chance? My husband is hiring men for a cattle drive north to the rails. He’s paying thirty dollars a month and your chuck.”
“I don’t know much about cattle, I’m afraid.”
“You can learn on the trail. I can tell by your hat that you were in the cavalry, so you must know horses. Maybe you can be the wrangler, and handle the remuda.”
“I’m a little confused right now,” Stone said. “I’ll have to think about it.”
“The drive will begin in ten days. My husband’s signed a contract with an eastern broker, and if we don’t deliver by October fifth, we’re in default. That could be a severe economic blow to this ranch, and maybe the end of it.”
“Why did you wait so long to get started?”
“It’s taken more time than we thought to gather the herd.”
Stone swallowed whiskey, and thought he really didn’t have a reason not to take the job. He was down to his last twenty dollars, and would have to find work soon.
“Hate to make a snap decision,” he said. “Better run it through my mind.” He wasn’t sure he wanted to work for a man whose wife looked like Marie.
“Do you have prospects for another job?”
“Nope.”
“Then your choice is working for us or working for the Diamond D. Now I can see that you fought for the Confederacy. Well, so did my husband. He left his right arm at Sharpsburg, but the man who owns the Diamond D doesn’t care about the Confederacy, he’s not even American, he’s from Germany, and the D in Diamond D stands for Deutschland. Now I’ve met the gentleman, and have nothing against him personally. In fact, I’ve found him to be courteous in every way. If you were to work for him, I’m sure you’d find him a fair employer, but he didn’t leave his arm at Sharpsburg”
“If I decide to remain in this area,” he said, “you can be sure I’ll ride for the Triangle Spur. If you don’t mind, I’d like to take a walk and think things over.”
“If you take the job,” Cassandra said, “someday you can tell your grandchildren you went up the trail to Kansas.”
“I’ve heard about John Chisholm’s trail,” Stone said. “Three hundred miles of Indians, rustlers, tornadoes, stampedes, floods, and folks who
don’t like Texans.”
She smiled faintly. “Exactly.”
“A man shouldn’t blunder into major enterprises. Got to think it through.”
Cassandra gazed at him thoughtfully as he emptied the glass of whiskey. “You must’ve loved her very much to’ve come this far.”
“Never loved anybody else in my life.”
“What was it about her that you loved?”
“The closer to her I got, the better I felt.”
“It’s different for a woman,” Cassandra said. “A man’s appearance doesn’t mean as much to us. A woman falls in love with a man’s mind, and my husband, Colonel Whiteside, is the finest man I ever knew. Since you’re a fellow officer, I’m sure he’ll want to meet you personally. Why don’t you have dinner with us tonight, regardless of your decision? I set my table as fine as anybody in San Antone.”
“Be delighted to join you,” Stone said, because usually he found himself gnawing on half-cooked meat under open skies.
“The colonel and I look forward to seeing you.”
Stone walked out of the house, into the big yard. Tomahawk looked at him hopefully and made a blubber sound with his lips. Stone led him to the barn. Inside was the man who’d been shoveling manure, and now was pitching hay into troughs.
“Can I put my horse in one of these stalls?” Stone asked.
“Help yerself,” the man said.
Stone led Tomahawk into an empty stall, took off the saddle and bridle, and fed him hay. Then he walked toward the man, who was examining the hoof of a horse.
“Been working here long?” Stone asked.
The man had a round moon face, and grinned, revealing several missing teeth. “What you want to know fer?”
“I’m thinking about working for Colonel Whiteside.”
“Only been here two weeks, but it seems okay. ‘Course, I ain’t never worked on no ranch before, so I got nothin’ to compare it with.”
“How’s the food?”
“Cook’s a little bonkers, but knows his way around a stove, I’ll tell you that.”
“What’s the ramrod like?”
“Knows his stuff.”
Stone held out his hand.
“Moose Roykins,” the man replied. He was in his early thirties, of medium height, chunky, with pants too big, hanging loose on his hips.
“Boss treat you all right?”
“Colonel Whiteside don’t have much to do with the runnin’ of the ranch. Ramrod takes care of that. Mrs. Whiteside sure is a purty piece of fluff—you meet her yet?”
“I have.”
“What did you think?”
“Not bad.”
“Like to git her alone in the hayloft sometime, but to tell you the truth, I prefer an older woman, because they know what it’s all about.” Roykins giggled and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.
“You going on the cattle drive?”
“Sure am. Why don’t you come with us? We’ll have a damn good time!”
“Where you from, Roykins?”
“Canada. Used to be a lumberjack.” Roykins grinned, and he looked like a big kid.
“Don’t reckon you’ve dealt with Indians and rustlers before?”
Roykins pulled his Colt. “Let the bastards come.”
Stone walked out of the barn and found a barrel propped against a well, facing the open range. He sat and rolled a cigarette.
Buffalo grass carpeted the rolling prairie, and clusters of cattle grazed in the sun. In the distance a tall rock formation looked like a pyramid for a long-forgotten pharaoh. He saw cowboys riding among the cattle, and he could be one of them, all the way to Abilene.
The bleak devastation of his soul hit him suddenly like a sledgehammer in the stomach. He’d been following Marie all the way from South Carolina, fighting Indians, drunken cowboys, trigger-happy outlaws, and psychotic lawmen all the way, showing her picture in every town, and it’d been for nothing. He was broke, dressed in rags, a lost wanderer on the face of the earth, and there wasn’t even a square foot of land, in all that vast country, that he could call his own.
Cassandra Whiteside had been the last straw. He’d been hoping and praying she’d be Marie, but she wasn’t, and his gallant soldier’s spirit had finally been defeated by five years of nothing.
He puffed the cigarette and looked at cowboys chasing cattle in the valley. He’d always wanted to learn the ranching business, and this was as good a place as any to start.
He forced himself to remember Marie’s defects. She’d do anything to get her way, and threw objects when she got mad. Other women usually didn’t like her, and she could be awesome when crossed.
She’d been the most exciting creature he’d ever known, and never failed to thrill him with her touch, but five years of dusty trails and broken-down frontier towns were enough. He was going to forget her and get on with life. The world was full of beautiful women, and someday he’d find one to replace Marie, who’d be even prettier and nicer.
He tried to convince himself of this as he gazed at cowboys riding through great masses of cattle grazing in the sun.
Inside the main house, Cassandra Whiteside sat at her desk in the main office, doing her accounting, but somehow the numbers fuzzed. The experience with John Stone had unnerved her.
The poor man had traveled for years, searching for a woman who looked like her. How peculiar, and almost mystical. She’d never forget the madness in his eyes when he’d first seen her. She’d thought for a moment he was going to attack her, but then disappointment came over his face when he realized she wasn’t the woman he sought.
Am I like her? Cassandra wondered. Is there a connection between us, some hidden membrane linking us across time? Do we think alike? Cassandra recalled Stone’s weather-beaten features, and he was a southern gentleman through and through.
I don’t feel attracted to him myself, Cassandra thought. John Stone is a mere child compared to my husband.
She tried to convince herself of this as she added up the long columns of numbers.
It was six o’clock in the evening, and Stone approached the front door of the main house, anticipating his first decent meal since leaving Santa Fe. He’d bathed in a stream in the woods, and let the water flow through his clothes. Now they were mostly dry, and he felt reasonably presentable.
He knocked on the door, and the middle-aged maid opened it up. It was obvious that she’d never been a maid before, because she was awkward and nervous, trying to do her best.
“Come on in,” she said. “Let me take yer sombrero.”
He handed her his hat and entered the living room, gazing at the portrait of Colonel Whiteside above the fireplace. At that moment Cassandra appeared in the hallway.
They looked at each other, and there was an awkward moment, but then she cleared her throat and said, “Well— have you made up your mind?”
“I’ve decided to sign on.”
A broad smile came over her face. “The colonel will be happy to know that. Can I get you a drink?”
“Whiskey, if you please.”
“Did you see anything of our spread?”
“Thought it was beautiful.”
“It’s paradise, except for the Indians and outlaws, but they don’t bother us too much here. We’re like a small army post. Too many armed men for them to fight.”
“How’s the cattle business working out?”
“This drive’ll make or break us.”
“I want to get into the cattle business myself,” Stone said. “Don’t know how I’ll raise the money, but if other people do, so can I.”
“Many ranchers started with nothing more than a branding iron and a horse.” She handed him a glass of whiskey, and they were close enough to see the colors of each other’s eyes, blue all around.
He raised his glass in the air. “To the cattle business.”
A deep raspy masculine voice roared into the room. “To hell with the cattle business!”
Stone turned and saw
a tall gentleman with graying mutton-chop whiskers enter the room, and he only had his left arm.
“This is John Stone,” Cassandra said. “My husband, Colonel Whiteside.”
Stone shook the colonel’s left hand, noticed the expanse of the colonel’s chest, and the colonel was getting a belly. Stone estimated his age in the fifties, while Cassandra was in her early twenties.
“Heard you were in the war,” Whiteside said, his eyes glittering with pleasure. “What outfit?”
“Hampton Brigade.”
“Fine man, Wade Hampton. What was your rank?”
“Captain.”
“I served under General Stonewall Jackson, and of course I was in the infantry. It’s my considered opinion that there isn’t much use for cavalry in war anymore, but you boys certainly put on a fine show at parades. In the end, however, it’s always the infantry, the queen of battle, that decides the ultimate outcome of war. I see you already have a drink. Cassandra, a glass for me, if you please.”
Cassandra returned to the bar, and Whiteside sat in front of his portrait. The officer on canvas was trimmer, less gray, more dynamic, and had two arms.
“You toasted the cattle business as I entered the room,” Whiteside said. “I’m afraid I can’t join you, because the cattle business makes me ill. It’s a mundane activity, fattening beasts for the slaughterhouse. I miss the great days of our Cause. Do you?”
“No.”
“Surprised to hear you say that. Life’s been dull for me since I left the regiment.”
Cassandra lowered her eyes, because she’d been with him since he left the regiment.
“What’ve you been doing since the war?” Whiteside asked Stone.
“Drifting and drinking.”
“You’re with the Triangle Spur now, and your life has purpose again. You’re going up the trail to Kansas, and by Christ, I wish I could go with you, but I have to stay with my wife.”
“Bring her along,” Stone said. “I’ve heard of women going up the trail with the men.”
“Wouldn’t want to expose her to the danger. It’s not for a woman. Were you at Sharpsburg, by any chance?”
“Afraid so.”
Cassandra compared them as they discussed the battle of Sharpsburg. Stone was a vital young animal, with tanned good looks and shaggy dark blond hair, while her husband was a lofty intelligence. He’d done magnificent things, he had the profile of a king, with long, wavy, graying hair sweeping over his leonine head.
