Devil's Brand

by Len Levinson

  “I’m the man

  Who broke the bank

  In San Antonio!”

  Cassandra sat in her office, trying to figure out what happened to ten thousand dollars. She’d detected the discrepancy late that afternoon, and had been examining the maze of her and her husband’s financial dealings ever since, but the money hadn’t turned up.

  If it was gone, the Triangle Spur was in worse trouble than she’d thought. Drafts had been written against the money, and creditors wouldn’t be paid. They’d show up soon demanding money, and Texans usually settled their difficulties with guns.

  She wasn’t an accountant, and might’ve put a sum into the wrong column, although she’d been looking for hours and hadn’t found it yet.

  Her head hurt, her vision blurred, and she felt her bones turning to jelly. It was time to go to bed, and tomorrow she’d find the discrepancy, if that’s what it was. She arose, blew out the lamp, and walked soundlessly down the hall to the master bedroom, undressed in the moon shadows, and gazed down at the master bed, where her husband lay on his side, snoring softly.

  His truss hung from the bedpost, because he’d suffered that injury too in the war, and he had a paunch, but to Cassandra he still looked like the noble Galahad in the portrait downstairs, hand resting on his sword.

  She dropped a flimsy nightgown over her curvaceous body and crawled into bed with him, snuggling against the sweet aroma that emanated from his body, because he bathed daily and administered a variety of lotions and unguents to his skin.

  Somehow, for some strange reason, she thought of John Stone. She’d seen him ride out earlier, and he was probably in a whorehouse like all the rest of the men, except her husband, whose standards were too high. Poor John Stone had a dream that exploded in his face. Such a man was capable of anything.

  She found herself worrying about him, because he was like a little boy whose puppy just died, and now that she thought of it, Stone had been boyish in many ways, such as his twinkling mischievous eyes, and the play in the corner of his mouth when her husband had been holding forth about the war. She guessed that Stone had been a real terror when he was young.

  He reminded her of the wounded soldiers in the New Orleans hospital where she’d visited her cousin Frank. They all had the same haunted look, as if they couldn’t assimilate all they’d seen.

  So sad, she thought, drifting off into slumber.

  The rough-hewn tables groaned under the weight of platters covered with enchiladas, burritos, tortillas, mountains of refried beans, towers of broiled chorizo sausages, the head of a goat, the leg of a pig, the braised testicles of a bull, a variety of chicken parts, garlands of black blood sausage, and lots of bottles.

  Stone, Blakemore, and Duvall sat at a table in a corner, and they were the only gringos in a hole in the wall filled to brimming with Mexican men and women eating, laughing, smoking, and most of all drinking.

  Blakemore’s mouth was full of food as he grabbed a pitcher of cold beer off the tray of a passing Mexican waitress and filled his glass to the brim, the white foam spilling down the sides of the glass onto a table carved with initials and expressions in Spanish. Then he turned to John Stone. “You look like somebody killed your best friend, Johnny Reb. What’s on yer mind?”

  “Nothing that would interest a damn Yankee.”

  “Why is it, Johnny Reb, that you can’t answer a simple goddamn question—what’s eating you?”

  Luke Duvall interjected, “He was like that when he fust came to the cave. Din’t want to volunteer no information, as if somebody gives a rat’s ass about his life, and what he done, and what bothers him.”

  Stone raised his finger drunkenly in the air, as six inches behind him a Mexican vaquero kissed his girlfriend on the mouth, and she dug her blood red fingernails into his back. “I was talking to a Gypsy woman,” Stone said, “and she told me I was going to die young, and somehow, I don’t know exactly why, it bothers me, do you know what I mean?”

  Blakemore said, “Madam Lazonga! She told me the same damn thing, after I crossed her palm with silver a few times. That the way it went with you?”

  “She saw something, and I had to pay extra to find out what.”

  “Whether you’re a Yankee or a rebel,” Blakemore said, “that woman will cheat you anyways.”

  Duvall replied, “We ought to teach her a lesson. Why don’t I go see her, and when she tells me the same story, you two walk in. We’ll see how she talks her way out of it.”

  Stone smiled. “I like the ring of that.”

  “So do I,” said Blakemore, “but first I want a few more of these burritos, and we ain’t even seen what they got for dessert yet, so don’t rush a man while he’s stuffin’ his face, boys, ’cause it ain’t healthy.”

  Stone thought of how gullible he’d been. The Gypsy cheated him, but that’s why they called them Gypsies, and he would’ve worried about dying young for the rest of his life.

  Somebody touched his shoulder, and Stone turned to Pancho, portly and sweaty, wearing a dirty apron. “Don Emilio requests that you have a drink with him at his table, senor.”

  “Be right back,” Stone said to Blakemore and Duvall.

  Stone threaded past the crowded tables, and saw Don Emilio sitting in the corner with a young Mexican woman on his lap. Don Emilio was hatless, one arm was wrapped around his girl, and she was sticking her tongue into his ear.

  Don Emilio held a black cigarillo in his free hand, and beckoned to the empty chair. Stone sat on it, and in the middle of the table was a bottle of clear liquid with something white floating inside. Stone brought his eyes closer to the bottle, and saw that it was a white maggot.

  “Have you ever drunk mescal, gringo?”

  “Don’t believe so.”

  “Help yourself.”

  Stone looked at the worm. “I don’t think so.”

  Don Emilio’s face clouded. “Why not?”

  “What’s that worm doing in there?”

  “That worm has et up all the poison, and it kill him. I have drunk, Francesca here has drunk, and I am inviting you to drink with us.”

  “I never turn down free booze,” Stone said.

  He filled up a glass, raised it to his lips, and said to himself: I’ve got to show him what a gringo is made of—so he swallowed the entire contents of the glass in five steady gulps.

  He placed the glass on the table and waited for the kick, as his eyes glazed over. But the kick didn’t come, only a warm glow from deep in his belly. “This stuff isn’t bad,” he said.

  “The worm gives it that special taste,” Don Emilio replied, and Francesca still had her tongue in his ear.

  Stone filled another glass and drank an inch off the top. He’d heard about mescal, but this was the first time he’d tried it.

  “I wanted to tell you,” Don Emilio said, “that I saw your fight earlier. Where did you learn to use a knife like that?”

  “Was in Arizona, and watched Apaches.”

  “Why were you in Arizona?”

  “Looking for a woman, but not anymore.”

  “You were in love with her?”

  “Still am.”

  “Then you’ll never stop looking for her, though you might try.”

  Francesca withdrew her tongue from his ear. “Do you love me, Don Emilio?” She asked.

  “You know I do, mi mariposa blanca.”

  “Yes,” she said, raising one eyebrow, “and the moment you find somebody else who catches your eye, you will love her too.”

  Don Emilio laughed, his straight white teeth flashing in the light of candles. “I love beautiful flowers, chiquita, I do not lie to you.”

  “I do not know why I stay with you,” she said with a pout. “You are so bad.”

  She snuggled against him, and he said to Stone sadly, “Everything I have ever done in my life, I have done for women, so they would love me, and all they do is tell me I am bad.”

  Stone looked at him, and it appeared as if Don Emilio’s ski
n was tinged with gold. Red and blue lights flickered behind Don Emilio’s head, and Stone felt mildly euphoric. He wanted to laugh, run, sing, anything.

  “Why not work for me, gringo?” Don Emilio said. “I am driving my herd to Kansas soon, and I think it would be better for my health if I had some gringo cowboys with me, to smooth over possible, shall we say, problemas, because I know what you gringos think of Mexicans. You call us greasers, I believe.”

  “And you call us gringos, I believe. Your people and mine fought a war once over these very matters, but I’ve had too much to drink, and I don’t feel like fighting just now, and moreover …”

  Stone wanted to say something additional, but his mind blanked out. He sat on the chair, eyes half-closed, a crooked smile on his face, or maybe it was a frown.

  Don Emilio looked at him with an expression of pity and mild concern. “You will probably not live long, gringo, at the rate you are going. I almost killed you, another man almost killed you, and the night is still young. Why not climb on your horse and go home?”

  Stone leaned forward and looked him in the eye. “Because I have a date at two o’clock with a beautiful woman. Do you know the time?”

  Don Emilio pulled out a gold watch large as a turnip, carved with ornate designs. “A few minutes after one. I hope she is not far.”

  “Up the street.”

  “I would not stop off in any more saloons, if I were you.”

  “I can take care of myself, Don Emilio. I always have, and I always will.”

  “You are beginning to think you are invincible, and that is the first step toward your casket. I look at you and see a crazy gringo. You are capable of many things tonight, and I hope love is one of them.”

  Francesca looked at Stone, through hooded eyes. “This gringo is not bad-looking. I know just the girl for him.”

  Don Emilio laughed. “This Francesca here, she is Cupid’s little helper, no?”

  “He looks like a wild horse,” Francesca said, and then she wrinkled her nose. “He smells like one too.”

  Stone remembered Tomahawk tied in front of the Last Chance Saloon. “Got to go,” he said, rising from his chair. “Thanks for the mescal.”

  “Have one more?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  Stone filled his glass half-full, guzzled it down, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and staggered across the restaurant, passing a stout Mexican stuffing goat brains into his mouth.

  Stone dropped heavily at the table with Duvall and Blake-more.

  “What did the greaser want?” Asked Blakemore.

  “I’ve got to look at my horse.”

  Duvall said, “I thought we was goin’ to Madam Lazonga’s? That old cayuse of yours can wait a few more minutes.”

  Stone tried to get up, but his legs wouldn’t obey the command. He felt numb, as if his head were expanding.

  “C’mon,” Duvall said with a grin, pulling him to his feet.

  The three gringos stomped out of Pancho’s and landed on a deserted street not far from the downtown saloon district. They found their bearings, stuffed their hands into their pockets, and walked with heads down toward the Gypsy woman’s parlor.

  Stone felt as if he were a puppet, and the man pulling the strings had gone home for the night. The wear and tear of too many years of hard drinking, plus too much fighting, and his share of hardship were taking their toll. I’ve got to get some rest, he said to himself. I’ve got to regroup and rebuild my reserves.

  “The old humbug is on this street,” Blakemore said. “If she don’t give me my money back, I’ll stuff that crystal ball down her throat.”

  Stone thought he should bring Veronika a gift, but he had no money. Maybe he could walk to the edge of town and pick some flowers.

  “There’s her house, but it looks closed for the night.”

  “We’ll open ’er up!” Duvall said.

  The house was darkened, and the sign gone from the window. Duvall pounded his fist on the door. “Open up!” He hollered. “I want to know my fortune!”

  There was silence for a few minutes, and Stone rolled a cigarette. “Maybe we ought to forget about this.”

  “I want to see the look on her face when she sees all of us together,” Blakemore said.

  The door swung open, and an old man with long white mustaches stood there in his long underwear, aiming a double-barreled shotgun at Blakemore’s head.

  Blakemore raised his hands. “Whoa! Just a minute!”

  Duvall stepped forward. “I come to see Madam Lazonga, to git my fortune told.”

  “Who’s Madam Lazonga?”

  “The old Gypsy woman who lives here and tells fortunes for twenty-five cents a shot.”

  “I live with my cat, and you knock on my door again this time of night, it’ll be you and me to the bitter end.”

  The old man slammed the door.

  “Maybe,” said Duvall, “this is the wrong house.”

  “Looks like the right one to me,” Blakemore said, pushing his forage cap to the back of his head. “What do you think, Johnny Reb?”

  Stone was sure it was the Gypsy’s house, but where was the gypsy? Then he remembered Veronika. It was time to pay his call. “See you boys back at the bunkhouse.”

  Stone wheeled, nearly fell over, and scuffed down the street, heading toward the Barlowe House, the tips of his fingers in his front pockets, the cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth. Maybe Madam Lazonga lived on another street, and they’d made a mistake.

  He recalled the flowers, and swerved into an alley, heading for the open prairie at the edge of town, stumbling, bumping into a shovel and knocking it over, it clanged as it struck the ground, and he stepped over it, only to fall onto a wheelbarrow, painfully bruising his knee, and the wheelbarrow tipped over, depositing him upon the ground.

  He looked up and saw flowers growing out of a window box. He plucked a handful of them, trimmed off the roots with the blade of his Apache knife, and arranged a tasteful bouquet.

  “Who the hell’s out there!” Bellowed a man’s voice, and Stone smiled like a fox as he tiptoed out of the alley and back to the sidewalk.

  He made his way toward the center of town, and climbed the stairs of the Barlowe House, holding the bouquet in front of him like a trooper carrying the guidon on parade. The lobby was deserted except for a man dressed like a dude, wearing a stovepipe hat, asleep on a chair in the corner. Stone climbed the stairs to the third floor, thinking of the beauteous Veronika.

  He walked down the hall, the cigarette still hanging out of his mouth, his eyes nearly closed, knees bent, his shoulders scraping the walls on both sides. He didn’t feel romantic, but was sure he’d get in the mood as soon as they touched. He felt himself coming back to life as he approached the door marked 321.

  He removed his hat, took a deep breath, and knocked on the door. There was no response, and he thought maybe she’d fallen asleep, so he banged again.

  Footsteps approached, and he readied himself, flowers in his hand, Lancelot visiting fair Guinevere. The door opened, and Stone saw a sleepy man with a large swooping mustache with the ends turned up, a shaven head, and a maroon silk robe.

  “Ja?” The man asked, gazing with surprise at the bouquet of flowers in front of his face.

  “I think I have the wrong room,” Stone stuttered.

  “Who vere you looking for?”

  “A lady named Guinevere.”

  “Try the whorehouse.”

  The door slammed in Stone’s face, who looked again to make sure the number on the door was 321, and it was. Someone had arrived before he; you could never trust a woman. Stone dropped the bouquet of flowers in the middle of the hallway and skulked toward the stairs. He didn’t know what happened, and didn’t care. He was exhausted deep in his body, and all he wanted to do was sleep.

  He walked out the door and made his way over the sidewalk, heading for the Last Chance Saloon. The street was dark and deserted, and only a few horses were
tied to the rails; most everybody had gone to bed long ago.

  He thought of Marie, Cassandra, Madam Lazonga, Veronika, and his mother back in South Carolina before the war. He realized that he, as Don Emilio said, had spent his life trying to make women love him. Why do men go to war? Because the women are watching.

  He spotted a cowboy sprawled in the gutter, a pint of whiskey near his hand. Glancing in both directions, Stone picked up the whiskey and held it in the moonlight. It was three-quarters full, so he removed the cork and took a few swallows, then hissed through his teeth, replaced the cork, and placed the bottle into his back pocket. Raising his eyes to the sidewalk, he saw a hatless figure standing in the shadows.

  “Who’s there?” He asked, lowering his hands to his six-guns.

  “Stealin’ another man’s whiskey?” Ephraim asked, a taunting note in his voice. “Why, Massa John, I’m surprised at you.”

  Stone approached silently, while Ephraim stood in the shadows.

  “What’re you doing here?” Stone asked.

  “I can go wherever I want, Massa John. It’s a free country now. But I still gotta say massa to all the po’ white trash, so’s they leaves old Ephraim alone, but I guess things have got pretty bad when the boss man’s son has got to rob whiskey from drunken cowboys lying in the gutter.”

  Stone cocked his head to the side and looked at him, and Ephraim, exactly his height, was packed with muscles that strained against his tight blue shirt.

  “I thought there was someplace nigras went,” Stone said, “so white men don’t have to look at them.”

  “There is, Massa John, but sometimes I likes to see how the white man lives”—he winked—”and the white women.”

  “Don’t push too far.”

  “I say somethin’ wrong, Massa John? I’m so sorry. I hopes you’ll forgive this poor old darky, but I’m a man like you, and feel what you feel, and want the same things you want. I bet you looked at some purty nigra women in yer time, and had thoughts you didn’t want to tell nobody.”

  “You got that one wrong.”

  Ephraim chortled. “Then you ain’t yer daddy’s son, because your daddy liked to visit the slave quarters at night, when your momma was asleep, and he liked ’em young, ’round fourteen or fifteen, so don’t turn up yer nose at me, Massa Stone, I know more than you think.”