Devil's Brand

by Len Levinson

  Stone spread his legs for a good solid grip on the ground, and balled his fists. Ephraim’s lips were pressed together, his nostrils flared. The inevitable collision would take place in three seconds and then it would be punch and kick until somebody went down.

  The back door to the bunkhouse opened, and they heard the segundo’s voice. “Hey, burrhead, where you been, boy? You better git in here and fix another pot of coffee, or I’ll kick yer black ass!”

  Ephraim’s countenance changed, and he became the shuffling dumb Negro again. “Yessir. Ah’ll be right there!”

  His body bent submissively, Ephraim walked toward the rear door, and as he entered the bunkhouse, the segundo kicked him in the rear end. “Damned lazy burrhead—never around when you want him.” Then the segundo looked at Stone. “If’n it’s a bath you want, there’s a stream over yonder!”

  Stone thought that a fine idea. He walked toward the bunkhouse, and Slipchuck came out, emitting a burp.

  “Johnny boy,” he said. “When I saw you in there, I couldn’t believe me eyes. Just goes to show you, I’m like a bad penny, allus showin’ up.”

  “You’re no bad penny,” Stone said, slapping him on the shoulder. “You’re the best damned stagecoach driver I ever saw, but you stink like hell. Come on down to the river and take a bath.”

  Slipchuck waved his long bony finger back and forth. “I got my own ideas about that, Johnny. To my way of thinkin’, too much bathin’ weakens a man. Washes away his manhood. Doctor told me so.”

  “What kind of doctor?”

  “Sold rattlesnake oil from the back of a wagon. Claimed it’d cure anything. I still got some, if’n you ever feel the need.”

  “Hope I never feel the need, but if you don’t take a bath, the other cowboys might not let you sleep in the bunkhouse tonight. You smell like a fish that’s been dead for about two weeks and lying all that time in the sun.”

  “It’s that bad, Johnny? I didn’t know that. Are you sure?”

  “I’m about ready to pass out, Slipchuck, and we’re standing in the wind.”

  “If I get sick afterward, you might have to fetch my rattlesnake oil. I ain’t used to this sort of thing.”

  “I know, Slipchuck.”

  They entered the bunkhouse, and Stone saw Ephraim standing at the stove. They looked at each other, and Stone could see the fierce gleam of hatred in Ephraim’s eyes.

  Someday we’ll be alone, and nobody’ll stop us, Stone thought. Then we’ll fight it out to the death.

  Ephraim’s eyes replied: I pray for that day.

  In the main house, Cassandra lay alone in bed, staring at the ceiling. She hoped Gideon hadn’t been ambushed by Indians, because he hadn’t yet returned from town.

  Gideon stayed away from home occasionally, and she always worried about him. She knew about his shortness of breath when he exerted himself, the pain in his lower back, and he was really quite delicate, despite his robust appearance. He did no work or exercise, but no one should expect anything from a man who’d given as much to the South as he.

  She had to admit that her worries were tinged with jealousy. She’d sacrificed her youth on the altar of his greatness, and if he ever were unfaithful, it would destroy her.

  But that was so unthinkable it was beneath her concern. A man like Gideon wouldn’t engage in cheap squalid dalliances when he owned the love and fortune of a beautiful young woman.

  Cassandra knew very well that she was pretty. People had been telling her so all her life, and she’d been on dates with many young men, but they couldn’t hope to compete with Gideon. They were beginning their lives, and had no accomplishments, whereas Gideon was a war hero, disabled at the height of his manhood, cast out by the cruel vicissitudes of life, and practically impoverished when she met him. And she’d saved him. If he were to cheat on her now, it would be a knife in the back.

  She knew sometimes he gazed with more than passing interest at other women, and sometimes women flirted with him in the subtle ways that woman know best. But she was certain he wouldn’t do anything. He had a right to look, as long as he didn’t touch. Gideon was too fine a gentleman to attach scandal to his illustrious name.

  Anyway, she had more important things to worry about, such as ten thousand dollars. Tomorrow morning she’d go to the bank and find out what happened to it. John Stone would drive the buckboard, an interesting road companion if she could pry him out of his shell. At least she’d feel safe with him. The other cowboys scared her to death, especially the segundo.

  Things weren’t turning out the way she’d hoped, when she left Louisiana two years ago. Gideon had said great wealth could be made easily on the frontier, but so far it’d been hard work, no success, and if that ten thousand dollars were missing, the whole operation could go down the drain.

  She told herself she was worrying needlessly. The money was deposited somewhere, and the only problem was finding it. She’d know the truth tomorrow, and now the best thing to do was sleep.

  She closed her eyes and tried to drift off, fretting over ten thousand dollars, Gideon’s absence, and her lost innocence, as the big grandfather clock downstairs tolled midnight.

  A full moon shone brightly overhead, as Slipchuck poked his head out of the bunkhouse. He hadn’t been feeling well since he took that bath in the river, and now was on his way to the privy. It was like the doctor said, too much water weakened a man’s vital energies.

  He crossed the yard, his shirt untucked and long gray hair awry on his head. He entered the privy, constructed of unpainted posts and planks rotting away, and could see stars through gaps in the roof. Must be fun when it rains.

  Slipchuck returned to the bunkhouse, thinking of how lucky he was to land the job at the Triangle Spur. Thirty bucks a month and all he could eat. Couldn’t top that. And he was going to Abilene, where they had the finest whorehouses in the world. What more could a man ask?

  Slipchuck noticed a sliver of light in the part of the bunkhouse occupied by Ephraim. His curiosity piqued, he thought he’d see what the cook was doing that time of night. He took a route that would carry him past Ephraim’s window, and when he came close, he tiptoed the rest of the way. Maybe the Negro had a bottle, and Slipchuck could wheedle a swallow. There was nothing like whiskey to restore a man to health.

  Slipchuck came to the window covered with curtains, but at the edge was a crack through which a sharp-eyed old fox could peer if he angled his head sufficiently.

  Ephraim sat cross-legged in the middle of the floor, wearing a white turban and white robe, while around his neck, on a leather thong, hung the claw of a hawk.

  Spread before him was a rectangle of leather covered with the shell of a turtle, the head of a coyote, the rattles of a rattlesnake, a crucifix, a candle, and several bones, some of which looked suspiciously human.

  Ephraim ground leaves in a bowl, while rocking back and forth, murmuring weird incantations. Slipchuck stared, the hair raising on the back of his neck. He’d heard rumors about strange Negro hoodoo religions, and here it was, right in front of him. Was Ephraim putting a hex on somebody?

  Suddenly Ephraim glanced up at the window, an angry expression on his face, and Slipchuck pulled back, his heart frozen with fear. Slipchuck turned and fled into the darkness, his heart beating wildly, hoping Ephraim hadn’t recognized him.

  Slipchuck ran into the bam and dived behind a bale of hay, listening to the sound of blood pumping past his eardrums. Then he crawled into a dark comer and crouched behind a stack of barrels.

  He expected Ephraim to appear at any moment, and do something terrible, but time passed and nothing happened. Gradually Slipchuck began to feel safe. Ephraim couldn’t’ve seen him. The curtain had been nearly closed. He was being foolish.

  Chortling to himself, he arose, dusted himself off, and strolled out of the bam. Got carried away for a moment. He headed toward the bunkhouse, passing a wagon, and suddenly a dark form arose behind it, reaching forward and grasping Slipchuck by the throat, squee
zing the scream out of him.

  Ephraim’s great black head loomed in the darkness before him. “You shouldn’t look in people’s windows,” he said. “Say something about what you just seen—I’ll turn you into a bug, or a worm, or a lizard, or a pig, and you know I can do it, old man.”

  Slipchuck nodded. Ephraim let him go, turned, and walked back to his room, disappearing into the shadows. Slipchuck scratched his head, swallowed hard, and made his way toward the bunkhouse, wondering if he’d really seen Ephraim with those claws and bones, or if it had just been another old man’s nightmare.

  Chapter Six

  At ten minutes to eight in the morning, two matched chestnut geldings pulled a buckboard toward the main house of the Triangle Spur. Stone sat on the front seat, the reins in his hands and a cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth. He’d bathed, shaved, wore clean clothing, and felt like a new man, except his hands shook uncontrollably at times, but he was sure those symptoms would pass soon, and he’d be healthy again.

  He pulled the horses to a halt in front of the main house, and wished he didn’t have to go to San Antone. Towns were cesspools of sin and temptation for a man, and he had to stop drinking, there could be no doubt about it.

  Fortunately, he had no money, and couldn’t afford to drink. He’d just pass the time in the stable, or maybe even go to church and have a chat with Brother Ezra.

  The door to the main house opened, and Cassandra stepped onto the porch, wearing a pastel purple dress with a flounce in back, and a matching bonnet. She walked toward the buck-board, carrying a briefcase filled with financial documents.

  “Morning, ma’am,” he said, tipping his hat, trying to stuff his emotions down his throat, because she looked so much like Marie.

  “Morning, John,” she replied. “We’d better get going—we have a lot to do today.”

  He climbed down from the wagon and helped her aboard, holding her soft hand in his rough one, easing her up with his other hand on her waist, and she felt just like Marie.

  She settled into her seat, laid the briefcase in the boot. He circled the back of the wagon and climbed beside her, let go the brake, snapped the reins, and they were off.

  “Have you been fighting, John?” She asked, peering sideways at him.

  “Fell down.”

  “You know very well you can’t get hurt like that by just falling down. Guess you lost the fight.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “You won?”

  “A draw.”

  “What did you fight about?”

  “Don’t like each other.”

  “Why not?”

  How could he put something that deep and visceral into mere words? “Hard to say.”

  “You can’t even explain what you were fighting about, but it looks as though you’ve taken a serious beating. Does that make sense, John?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  She sighed in exasperation, and they rode out of the yard, onto the open prairie, heading down the trail to San Antone. Stone glanced at her, sitting next to him in the sunlight, holding her hand over her eyes as she scanned the terrain ahead. Her resemblance to Marie was unearthly. She was Marie and not Marie at the same time.

  Stone had taken many buckboard rides with Marie in the old days. They’d find a lonely path, tie the horses to a tree, tear off each other’s clothes, and feast upon each other’s bodies.

  She turned to him, her features serious as a Sunday school teacher describing the Resurrection. “John, I don’t want to intrude myself into your life, but you’re not like the rest, and you should stop acting like them. You’ve got to pull yourself together. Do you have any family?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Then you’ll have to do it yourself, and if you need any help from me, I’ll be happy to assist in whatever way I can. You may’ve forgotten, but you’re a gentleman, not riffraff.”

  Stone felt as though he were seated beside Marie, although he knew that wasn’t so. Marie and Cassandra merged with each other, then separated again before his eyes.

  “I’m trying my best,” he said.

  “A good start would be to swear off fighting. A second would be to stop drinking. I hope you don’t plan to indulge while we’re in town.”

  “Can’t afford it.”

  “That’s a start. My husband always says if a man wishes to control others, he must first control himself.”

  “How does he do it?”

  “Inner strength. Will. His indomitable spirit.”

  “Must be quite a man.”

  “The best.”

  “Maybe if I try hard, I can be like him.”

  “Maybe you can.”

  She detected the irony in his voice, but chose not to respond. He puffed his cigarette as he looked ahead at the vast prairie, the long colonnades of mountains trailing toward the horizon, and puffs of cotton-candy clouds floating across the sky. I’ll spend the day in church, he thought. A man can’t get in trouble in church.

  It was a busy day in San Antonio, and the wide main boulevard was crowded with traffic. Stone piloted the horses through the mass of people and animals, and Cassandra looked ahead at the bank, praying the money was deposited in an account she didn’t know about, so she could have a good laugh at herself, and then take tea at one of the finer hotels in town, perhaps even have some lunch and a piece of pastry.

  Stone looked up at the corner suite of the Barlowe House as he passed by, and wondered if Veronika were there, wearing a black lace nightgown, or maybe nothing at all, lying in bed alone, hoping he’d stop by.

  He brought the horses to a stop in front of the bank, climbed down, then helped Cassandra descend to the muck of the street. “I’ll meet you in front of the Barlowe House at three o’clock in the afternoon,” she said. “Leave the team at the stable, and bill everything to the ranch. Please don’t get into any trouble, all right?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “No drinking?”

  “Not a drop.”

  She smiled. “Sobriety is a beautiful thing, John.”

  “I can see all it’s done for your husband.”

  There it was again, that little dig. She decided not to let this one pass. “Don’t you think you’re being a little nasty, John?”

  “I guess I get you mixed up with my old girlfriend sometimes, ma’am.”

  “I’m not her, and try to keep that in mind. Also, I don’t want you denigrating a man who gave his arm to his country.”

  Stone lowered his head. “Sorry,” he replied.

  “You have so much potential,” she said, “but you always take the low road. I find that very sad.”

  She turned abruptly and walked toward the bank. Stone gazed at her outline beneath her dress, then shrugged philosophically, climbed back into the buckboard, rode it into the stable, and unhitched the horses.

  Twenty minutes later he was back on the street, wondering what to do with himself. He should go to church and meditate, but somehow that didn’t seem like an appropriate place to spend the afternoon in one of the frontier’s greatest cities, San Antone.

  He decided to wander around and see if anything interesting turned up. Maybe he’d run into an old friend from the past who wouldn’t try to kill him, or maybe somebody’d stand him a drink at one of the local saloons.

  This might be his last time in town for weeks, maybe months. The cattle drive would be long, with much hardship along the way. He wished he had some money. All he owned worth anything were his guns and Tomahawk, and he couldn’t sell either of them.

  A crazy idea entered his mind, as his eyes fell on the Barlowe House. Maybe he should visit Veronika, ask her what happened last night, and see if they could resume their little game.

  He turned toward the Barlowe House, ran light-footed across the street, feeling clear and good inside, his strength returning, with spring in his muscles and fire in his heart. He slowed down as he approached the Last Chance Saloon.

  His mouth watered as he though
t of whiskey in a glass sitting on the bar. His hands trembled, and the drinking urge came on him. He wanted to keep walking by the Last Chance Saloon, but somehow his legs wouldn’t move in that direction. They were carrying him, almost by themselves, toward the batwing doors.

  He pushed them open and entered the saloon, looking around for a familiar face, and his eyes fell on Haliday, sitting alone at a table, staring through half-closed eyes at a half-full glass of whiskey.

  Stone pulled up a chair next to him. “How’s about a drink, old buddy?”

  Haliday stared at him, reached into his pocket, and spilled a handful of coins onto the table. Stone picked up enough to buy a drink of whiskey, and carried the coins to the bar. The bartender placed a glass in front of him, filled it to the line.

  Stone sipped the top off the whiskey, then carried the rest to the table, dropping down beside Haliday, who looked at him with disgust. “If’n you hadn’t come along last night, everythin’d be all right.”

  “What you don’t realize,” Stone replied, “is you’re going to Kansas with the Triangle Spur.”

  “What you don’t understand, you crazy son of a bitch, is I hate cattle. They’re the dumbest creatures God made.”

  “No dumber than soldiers. Didn’t we walk into the slaughterhouse too? By the way, is the no-account count in town today?”

  “Not that I know of. Why d’ya want to know? Hey—wait a minute—you’re not thinkin’ …!”

  Stone winked as he raised his whiskey to his lips. “Why not?”

  Mr. Dohenney, president of the Alamo Central Bank, sat at his desk and studied his record through pince-nez glasses. He had a nose like a ferret, and that’s what he’d been all his life, looking for the lie in a column of numbers, the deceit in a bank draft, and all the other types of chicanery employed by swindlers, forgers, and embezzlers.

  Cassandra sat opposite him, trying to be calm. His office had polished wood walls and heavy drapes over the windows. They might be sitting in a bank office in New Orleans, instead of one on the wild frontier.