For the Brand

by Ralph Compton

Willis’ memories dissolved in a burst of anger. “There’s a little more to it than that, don’t you think?”

  “It’s not my place to pass judgment,” Sam said, “but you’ve been up in the mountains too long. You’re overdue to socialize.”

  Charlie glanced from one to the other, and laughed. “Listen to him, will you? Sam’s on the mossy side of thirty and he’s never been hitched, yet he talks like he’s an authority on socializain’.”

  “Go wrestle a grizzly.”

  “Now, now. Let’s be nice,” Charlie said. “We should be celebratin’, not squabblin’. If it wasn’t so early, I’d break out my flask.”

  “Early, hell.” Sam smacked his lips. “Abe is up to the house and we passed Reuben on the way in, ridin’ west. A few sips won’t get us in much trouble.”

  “Not so long as we’re not caught,” Charlie agreed.

  “The sips can wait,” Willis said. Alcohol was another thing Abe was a stickler about. No drinking was allowed in the bunkhouse, ever. Anyone who broke the rule was fired so fast, they were dizzy.

  “Shucks,” Sam said. “When you were younger, you took more chances.”

  Willis stared at his left knee. “I know.”

  Charlie went to his bunk and pulled a deck of cards from under his pillow. “How about a few hands, then? So long as we play for toothpicks, Abe doesn’t mind.”

  Barely had the cards been dealt than more punchers showed up and Willis had to again go through the ritual of being greeted and teased about his long stay up in the mountains. He didn’t mind, though. He was genuinely glad to be among his own kind again, to be with friends and acquaintances who did not judge his worth by whether or not one of his legs worked.

  Willis was having such a good time, it stunned him when Charlie Weaver commented, “Didn’t you say you have to be at the Big Augur’s by six? It’s a quarter till now.”

  Willis had never been much of a clock watcher. He yielded his chair to another cowhand and limped out back to redo his hair and recheck his shirt and pants. He was as ready as he was going to be.

  His mouth went dry as he climbed the knoll to the house. Abe Tyler opened the door at his second knock. Elfie relieved him of his hat and hung it on a hat tree. As they ushered him to the dining room, Willis passed a full-length mirror and checked that his cowlick was behaving.

  “I do so hope you are hungry, Mr. Lander,” Elfie was saying. She never called the hands by their first names. “We’re having chicken with all the trimmings, and for dessert apple pie fresh out of the oven.”

  Willis’ stomach chose that moment to rumble. He had not realized how hungry he was.

  “You’re in for a treat,” Abe said, rubbing his hands together. “My wife is about the best cook west of the Mississippi.”

  That was not how Willis heard it. Elfie was passable in the kitchen, if by passable it was understood she cooked chicken for every special occasion.

  “Oh, Abe, please,” their modest hostess gushed, “don’t be flattering me or Mr. Lander is bound to be disappointed.”

  Willis was about to sit at the big oak table when he saw she was waiting for Abe to seat her, so he politely waited, giving thanks to his ma for her insistence on learning proper manners. He wondered who was going to wait on them if she wasn’t, and soon found out. The Shoshone girl Abe had hired to clean the house five days a week did the honors. Little Sparrow, Willis believed her name to be.

  Whoever taught her had done the job well. Wearing what Willis took to be a uniform of some sort, with her hair done up white-woman style, Little Sparrow was a whirlwind of efficiency. She brought dish after dish from the kitchen, and between trips hovered at Elfie’s elbow.

  The soup was occasion for Elfie to say how happy she was that Willis accepted their invitation, and how glad she was he had come down from the line shack, where he never should have gone in the first place.

  The main course was occasion for Elfie to extol the many and sundry virtues of Saint Louis, and how much she looked forward to moving back and enjoying the delights of “polite society,” as she phrased it.

  During dessert she did not say much. She was too fond of the apple pie.

  Then they were done, and Little Sparrow was filling their coffee cups, and Abe cleared his throat and finally got down to business.

  “You must be curious about why we invited you tonight.”

  “To put it mildly.” Willis was drowsy from all the fine food and had to struggle to concentrate.

  “It has to do with Laurella Hendershot,” Abe said.

  For the life of him, Willis could not think of how, and commented as much.

  Abe and Elfie swapped adoring glances, and Elfie grinned and said, “It’s simple, Mr. Lander. We would like for you to be her escort.”

  Chapter 6

  Willis was always annoyed with himself when his brain did not work as he wanted. He was not the fastest of thinkers, and when he had too much to drink or eat, he was slower yet. So much so, his thoughts tended to plod along like turtles. “Escort?” he repeated uncertainly. “You want me to fetch her here from Texas?”

  Elfie squealed in mirth. “No, goodness, nothing like that. When I say escort, I’m thinking of someone who escorts a woman to a cotillion or a quadrille.”

  “You want me to dance with her?” Willis was even more confused.

  Elfie laughed again.

  Abe leaned forward on his elbows and said, “Permit me to explain to him, my dear. You see, Will, before the papers are signed and the sale is finalized, Miss Hendershot wants to spend four or five days looking over the Bar T. She’ll need someone to show her around. We would like for it to be you.”

  Astonishment replaced Willis’ confusion. “But that’s rightly Reuben’s job,” he objected.

  “Mr. Marsh is a top-notch foreman,” Elfie said, “but a special touch is called for, and I happen to think you can provide that special touch.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “My wife believes you can do a better job than Reuben,” Abe elaborated. “I’ve already talked it over with him and he agrees.”

  “You have?” Willis was desperately trying to make sense of this startling development but it was beyond him.

  Elfie folded her hands and smiled benignly. “Miss Hendershot and you have a lot in common, Mr. Lander. The two of you will hit it off quite well, I should imagine. Trust me. I’m a woman and I know about these things.”

  Willis was at a loss. “I don’t see how that’s possible, ma’am.” He looked at Abe. “Not to show any disrespect, but can’t you get somebody else? Charlie Weaver is a friendly cuss. And Hank is as polite as can be.”

  “I’d rather it was you,” Abe insisted.

  To cover his bewilderment, Willis swallowed some coffee and aligned his cup on the saucer, then said, since he saw no way out of the predicament short of quitting, “All right, I’ll do it.”

  Elfie beamed. “Marvelous.”

  “But I want one thing understood,” Willis said. “Don’t blame me if it doesn’t work out. I don’t have much experience with females. I’d as soon be in the company of a rabid wolf as most women I’ve met.”

  Elfie’s smile faded. “That’s hardly flattering, Mr. Lander.”

  “It’s not got anything to do with you personally, ma’am,” Willis assured her. “It’s just that females scare me.”

  “Scare you?” Elfie was amused, and winked at Abe.

  “Yes, ma’am. Females are peculiar, if you don’t mind my sayin’ so. The only one I ever halfway understood was my ma, and then only because she wasn’t out to throw a loop over me.”

  “Is that your opinion of womanhood?” Elfie asked, taking the subject more seriously. “That all we care about is marriage?”

  “No, ma’am. There’s been a few doves I’ve met who were more partial to havin’ fun than they were to cookin’ or mendin’ or raisin’ sprouts. Although the older they get, I’ve noticed the proposition has more appeal.”

  “Why, Mr. Lander, I h
ad no idea you were such the philosopher,” Elfie said gaily.

  “I only know what I’ve seen, ma’am,” Willis said.

  “Well, rest assured Laurella Hendershot is not out to throw a loop over you, as you cowboys so quaintly describe wedlock,” Elfie said. “She’s never been married, and from the few comments she’s dropped, I would say she evidently never wants to be.”

  “She’s a man hater?” The last one of those Willis ran into was in Laramie. He’d been drunk and taken a shine to a mousey dove named Marabelle but the dove’s friend, a woman twice his size had come over and pushed and poked him, saying as how she would be damned if she would let him take liberties with her Marabelle, and the next thing, she had pushed him so hard he nearly fell over a chair. That got him so mad, he broke a whiskey bottle over her head. Then he and Charlie and Hank hightailed it out of there before the law showed up.

  Elfie was speaking. “Not at all. She just has no interest that I could see.”

  “Yet you want me, a man, to be her escort?” Willis said. “Wouldn’t it be better if maybe you did the honors?”

  “We have already decided you should do it,” Elfie responded a trifle stiffly. “And it is an honor, I hope you realize. My husband is taking an awful chance. Miss Hendershot was here once and liked what she saw, but she wants to go over the entire ranch from end to end before committing herself. If anything goes wrong, anything at all, it could jeopardize the sale.”

  “I wouldn’t want to spoil it for you,” Willis said. The extra weight did not sit well on his shoulders.

  “We’re counting on you, Mr. Lander,” Elfie said earnestly. “Our future is in your hands.”

  “He’ll do fine,” Abe said.

  “I can’t stress enough how important this is to me,” Elfie said. “I miss Saint Louis. I miss it more than I have ever missed anything in my whole life, Mr. Lander. Does that give you some idea?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Willis said, recalling Charlie’s comment that it was a mistake for Abe to marry a city girl because you could take the girl out of the city but never take the city out of the girl. Sometimes Charlie was downright smart.

  “If something should go wrong, no matter how small a trifle, I will be most displeased.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Elfie rose and placed her napkin on the table. “Stress the importance to him, Abe. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” She went down the hall with Little Sparrow trailing in her wake.

  “I apologize for my wife,” Abe said. “I’m sure I don’t need to stress anything.”

  Willis wanted to say that Abe had changed. The old Abe would never have dragged him down from the line shack so his wife could ramrod him. Instead, Willis said, “If I had my druthers, I’d rather not do it.”

  “I’m sorry. You’ll understand, I hope, in time.” Abe paused. “Let’s talk about something else.” He glanced down the hall. “Reuben tells me the tally from the south valley came in six head short.”

  “Maybe the cows strayed into the high timber,” Willis said.

  “Maybe. But two weeks ago I had a tally of the north valley cattle taken so I would have an accurate count for Miss Hendershot. It came in a dozen cattle short.”

  “A whole dozen?” The implication hit Willis like a physical blow. “Has there been any talk of brand artists hereabouts?”

  “None that I’m aware of,” Abe said, “but eighteen cows in a month is a lot of cows to go missing.”

  “Hell in a basket. What are you fixin’ to do about it?”

  “I told Reuben to add extra men to the herds and to have them be on the alert for sign. But these things take a while to work themselves out, and Miss Hendershot will be here in a few days.” Abe stopped and stared hard at Willis, then said, “She’ll want you to show her the whole ranch.”

  Willis was not quite sure what his boss was getting at. “I said I’d do it and I will.”

  “The thing is,” Abe said, and abruptly averted his gaze, “do we tell her about the missing cows or do we keep quiet?”

  Like the sun rising to light the new day, comprehension lit Willis. “You’re afraid if she finds out the Bar T is havin’ rustler problems she might not go through with the sale?”

  “There is that possibility,” Abe conceded.

  Willis felt a funk coming on. It was bad enough he had been forced to serve as an escort, now Abe wanted him, in effect, to deceive the woman. Abe wasn’t asking him to lie—probably because Abe knew lying went against his grain. “Spell it out for me.”

  “I would take it as a personal favor if you would not tell her about the rustling. Unless, of course, the subject comes up.”

  “Of course.”

  “It could be nothing. Like you said, maybe the cattle drifted into the high timber. It happens.”

  “Sure it does,” Willis said.

  “For what it is worth, I dislike imposing on you. If it were up to me, I would show Hendershot around myself.”

  “We go back a long ways,” Willis said, letting Abe know that was the only reason he was going along with the proposition. “I owe you for keepin’ me on when I became useless.”

  “Will you stop that?” Abe asked with a touch of exasperation. “You are as good a hand as any on the spread.”

  Willis refused to ignite another argument. “It will be, what, three or four days before the Hendershot woman gets here? What do you want me to do in the meantime?”

  “Elfie has a lot to do to get ready. She’ll need to make several trips into town, and I have too much to do around here to go along. I was hoping you would drive the buckboard.”

  So it’s come to this, Willis thought. “That’s one thing I can still do, I reckon.” But his bitterness deepened. He had been able to hold it at bay at the line shack. Up there, he could convince himself he was doing something worthwhile. He could pretend he was still a valued hand. But down here all he was good for was minding a buckboard.

  Later, after Willis had thanked the Tylers and gone to the bunkhouse, he lay staring morosely at the ceiling, oblivious to the snores that threatened to shake the rafters, and pondered his lot in life.

  In his estimation he had fallen as low as he could fall short of moving to town and spending his days with his mouth glued to a bottle. It was an insult to a top hand to be asked to watch after womenfolk, but then, he wasn’t a top hand anymore, was he?

  Reaching down, Willis touched the brace. At moments like this, he wanted to take a hammer and beat his leg to a mashed wreck. Why not, when it was already next to worthless?

  Sometimes Willis thought about ending it, about taking his pistol and putting the end of the barrel to his head and leaving the world to those who could enjoy it. He sure couldn’t. Any zest for life he had once had was long since dried up.

  Willis slid his right arm off the bunk to the pile of his clothes beside it, and the holster lying on top of the pile. He slipped his Colt free and held it close to his face so he could see it clearly. All he had to do was cock the hammer and squeeze the trigger. Cock and squeeze, and the shame would end. He put the muzzle to his temple.

  The metal was cool against his skin. Willis curled his thumb around the hammer and took a deep breath. The seconds became a minute and the minute became two minutes, and he replaced the Colt and said in a whisper, “I’m worse than useless. I’m a coward to boot.”

  Cottonwood had not changed much since Willis was there last. There was the same lone dusty street flanked by buildings that looked fit to blow away with the next chinook, some with false fronts and some with boardwalks. But mostly Cottonwood had the air of a tired old woman who had been out in the elements too long.

  The Bank of Cottonwood was an exception. Built from mortar and stone brought from the Tetons, it could withstand any tempest. Directly across from it was the Lucky Dollar, the most popular establishment in town. To the east of the saloon was the Cottonwood General Store, recently made the talk of the territory thanks to the Flour Sack Kid. Further east, at the end of th
e street, stood the church, painted as white as snow, with a belfry and a bell that could be heard for miles when the parson rang the call to services.

  Willis brought the buckboard to a stop near the general store. His backside was ferociously sore from the trip, so sore he could barely stand to sit. He was scanning the street to see if there were any faces he recognized when there was a low cough besides him.

  “You are a gentleman, I trust?” Elfie Tyler asked.

  Willis flushed red. “My apologies, ma’am.” He shifted in the seat and lowered his right leg to the ground, then carefully slid his left leg down. He held on to the side while he made sure the left leg would bear his weight; then, as quickly as he could, he limped around to the other side and held out an arm. “Here you go.”

  Elfie daintily draped a hand on his wrist and swung down. “Thank you. I’ll be a couple of hours, so feel free to indulge yourself as you desire. Only no whiskey, you hear? I need you sober for the ride back.”

  “Sober it will be, ma’am,” Willis said, thinking thoughts that would make her madder than a wet hen were she to read his mind.

  With a sweep of her dress, Elfie whisked into the general store.

  “Consarn it!” Willis muttered, and limped across the street to the Lucky Dollar. Pushing through the batwing doors, he limped to the bar, where Slim was rolling dice with a man Willis had never seen before. At a table along the south wall Timmy Easton and Jim Palmer were sharing a bottle. At a corner table, playing solitaire, was Johnny Vance, the gambler. The doves were not in evidence but it was much too early for them yet.

  Slim’s lower jaw dropped. “As I live and breathe! Is it a ghost or have my eyes stopped working?” He pumped Willis’ hand. “It’s great to see you again, you ornery cow nurse.”

  “Howdy, Slim,” Willis said, pleased by the reception. “I didn’t think anyone would miss me.”

  “Not miss one of my best customers? Are you loco?” Slim gestured. “What will it be, a brandy sour or a bimbo? You never could make up your mind which one you liked more?”

  Willis’ mouth watered. He was enormously fond of brandy sours, which consisted of brandy mixed with lemon or lime juice, but he would love to have a bimbo just then, which was brandy mixed with sugar and a dash of lemon. He could down five or six without them having an effect. But he had to settle for saying, “A beer will do.”