For the Brand

by Ralph Compton

  Elfie Tyler was bubbling with delight now that the sale of the Bar T was near to being finalized and she could at long last return to her beloved Saint Louis. Abe was not as gleeful, and several times Willis noticed him stare longingly out a window.

  Laurella mentioned that she would like to go into Cottonwood early the next day, and Willis immediately offered to drive her. Neither said exactly how early they were leaving, which might spark questions.

  The rest of the day was an agony of suspense and a bed of pleasure: suspense, in that Willis could not wait to be shed of his father; pleasure, in that he and Laurella went for a ride and spent the afternoon off in the timber. Armando wanted to go along but she would not let him.

  That night was another night of unrelieved restlessness. Willis turned in early in order to get plenty of sleep but he could not fall asleep no matter how long he lay quiet and still. He tossed, he turned, and he fidgeted until past midnight.

  With a low gasp, Willis sat up and gazed worriedly about him. He had been asleep, but he knew not how long. He glanced at Reuben’s clock, the hands visible in the glow from a lamp that was always left burning low so that when punchers got up in the middle of the night to use the outhouse, they did not stumble over someone else and wake them.

  It was only three. Willis had another hour before he was to hitch the team to Laurella’s buckboard. He lay back down and halfheartedly sought to get more sleep. It would not come. He thought about Laurella, miracles, second chances, and the oddity called life.

  A few minutes before four, he was up and limping to the door. Only a few of the cowhands were snoring, and when his right knee popped, it sounded to Willis like a gunshot. But no one stirred, and soon he was nearing the stable and rubbing his palms together to warm them against the brisk air. Unless he was mistaken, they were in for an early fall.

  One of the stable doors was partway open, and from within came furtive sounds. Slowing in surprise, Willis dreaded that someone else was up early and their plans would be thwarted. He peered inside and saw Laurella.

  She wasn’t alone. Armando was hitching the team.

  “What’s this?” Willis asked.

  “He insisted on comin’ along, and I can hardly refuse him. My father made him give his word never to let me out of his sight.”

  Armando said something in Spanish, and after Laurella responded he looked at Willis and said in English, “I did give my word, senor—a promise I have broken more than once so that you and she could be alone. But I will not break it today. The town is far, and I do not trust this Flour Sack Kid, even if he is your padre.”

  “I don’t trust him either,” Willis said. To Laurella, he asked, “How long has he known about my father?”

  “I tell Armando everything. He was always nearby when I took food and water to him.”

  Willis wondered if Armando was always nearby when he and she were together and simply did not tell her. Surely not, he thought, and saw Armando smile.

  “You need not worry, senor. Your secrets are safe with me.”

  “That’s nice,” Willis said. But it was not nice at all, and he would talk to Laurella about it after they got back from town.

  “We should go get Matthew,” she proposed.

  The ranch house was dark yet Willis had the unsettling feeling unseen eyes were on them as they crossed to the gully. Before he could start up it, a dark figure rose up from concealment.

  “I’m all set,” his father announced with a smile. “I didn’t want to keep you waitin’, son.”

  As Willis retraced his steps to the stable, he caught a glimpse of someone at a ground-floor window. He could not be positive but he had the impression it was Little Sparrow. She stayed over now and then, in a guest room. He crooked his neck to see if any lamps came on but none did.

  Both the stable doors were open. Armando was at the rear of the buckboard, holding up the edge of the canvas that covered the bed. “Under you go,” he said it mockingly.

  The Kid complied without comment. Armando walked around to the front and held out his arm to boost Laurella up. Then he climbed on beside her.

  Willis climbed up on the other side and lifted the reins. The seat was not really wide enough for three people, and Laurella sat so she was closer to him than Armando, with the result she was pressed against his side, a development he had not foreseen but liked.

  For a while they had the stars overhead and the northwest wind at their backs. Then pink emblazoned the horizon, the pink changed to yellow, the yellow to orange and then yellow again, and the sun rose in all its splendor.

  “What a lovely sunrise,” Laurella declared.

  “Not nearly as lovely as you,” Willis said, forgetting Armando was there. After that blunder he did not say anything for a long while.

  They were over halfway to town when from under the canvas the Kid asked, “Mind if we stop for a couple of minutes? I’m not as young as I used to be and all this bouncin’ around is takin’ a toll.”

  Willis was tempted to tell his father to hold it in, but the glance Laurella gave him changed his mind. “Just hurry up,” he grumbled.

  The hours crawled by. Laurella talked about growing up in Texas, and a trip she had made to Arkansas once. Willis did not say much. He had something else on his mind.

  A dusty haze shrouded Cottonwood. A few stick figures moved about but otherwise the town looked as lively as a cemetery.

  Twisting in the seat, Willis said, “Stay under that canvas until I say it’s safe to climb out.”

  “Whatever you want, son. But remember. No one knows me without my flour sack on.”

  “Maybe so, but I don’t want to be seen with you if I can help it,” Willis said. “I’ll buy the tickets and slip them to you, and then we part company.”

  Fred Baxter, a broom in hand, waved at them from the boardwalk in front of the general store. A pig darted across the street and Willis had a hankering for ham.

  The stagecoach was out in front of the stage station but neither the driver nor the shotgun nor any passengers nor the station manager or his wife were to be seen. Willis went on by and brought the buckboard to a stop beside the feed and grain. Smacking the canvas, he said, “Stay put. I’ll be right back.” He swung his good leg over, then his bad leg, and gingerly lowered himself.

  “I’m taggin’ along,” Laurella said. “I need to stretch my legs.”

  Armando was already down, and followed.

  The door to the stage office was closed and the shades had been pulled. Willis opened it and let Laurella and her protector enter ahead of him. He limped inside, and nearly collided with Armando, who had unaccountably stopped. Stepping past him, it took a few seconds for what Willis was seeing to sink in.

  Connelly, the stage manager, was on the floor, as still as a statue and as pale as paper except for a bright scarlet smear on his head and the scarlet ring spreading outward from his body.

  Over against the far wall, lined up with their hands in the air, were Jenks, the driver, and Trask, the shotgun, his crushed nose seeping blood, along with three people who must have been passengers, one a woman in a blue bonnet and blue dress with tears streaking her cheeks. But it was the three men in the middle of the room that caused Willis to gasp and take a step.

  “Well, what have we here?” Varner Wilkes said, a leveled revolver at his waist. “It’s the cripple! And he’s brought a lady friend and a Mex.”

  Thatch Nargent wagged the rifle he was holding. “Let’s get out of here, cousin. We have the travelin’ money we need.”

  “In a minute,” Varner said. “I aim to have me some fun first.”

  Mason was by the window. His fancy revolvers with the ivory grips filled his slender hands. “We have no time for your nonsense, Wilkes.”

  “Don’t prod me,” Varner said, turning toward Laurella. “What’s with the veil, lady? Are you shy?” He reached out and Laurella jerked back.

  “Don’t!”

  Armando stepped to the left, blocking Willis’
view. “You will not touch my mistress, senor.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “Sí.”

  “Damned uppity Mex,” Varner said, and shot him.

  Willis heard the thwack of the slug. Armando grunted.

  Then Armando’s pistol was out and he and Varner and Tote Nargent and Mason fired all at once.

  Willis leaped, wrapping his arms around Laurella, and bore her to the floor. Letting go, he rolled onto his back and stabbed for his revolver.

  Tote Nargent was on his knees. Varner had a hand to his side but was grinning as if the blasts of gunfire were music to his senses. Mason was unscathed.

  But Armando had been hit three of four times and his legs were giving way. He banged a last shot at Varner as he went down.

  Tote and Mason both fired and Armando stopped moving, his eyes rolling up in his head.

  By then Willis had his revolver out and he fired at Tote. He snapped a shot at Varner and felt a searing pain in his side. Mason, had fired twice into him, and Mason never missed.

  Suddenly everything seemed to slow down. Everyone moved as if they were made of molasses.

  Willis saw Laurella scramble toward Armando’s fallen pistol. Mason swung toward her but did not shoot. Varner swung toward her, too, and he was leering in sadistic glee.

  “No!” Willis bawled. He tried to roll between them to take the shot himself even as he fired but he knew he could not save her.

  That was when the front door crashed inward and in hurtled the Flour Sack Kid. He had a black-handled revolver in each hand and he fired both revolvers at Varner and Tote even as Mason put two into him, and then he fired as Mason fired and fired into the floor as his knees gave way and his flour sack hit the floorboards with a thud.

  “Pa!” Willis cried.

  Mason dashed to the door but he was not moving as fluidly as he usually did. He leaned on the jamb as he went out.

  Pushing on his good knee, Willis made it to the door himself. He, too, had to cling to the jamb. He extended his arm but he did not shoot.

  Just past the hitch rail stood Mason. Beyond him, in the center of the street, was Johnny Vance, and pinned on the gambler’s vest was a badge, the same tin star once worn by Marshal Keever.

  “Drop them!” Vance commanded.

  “I can’t,” Mason said.

  Their eyes met. There was a blur of motion, and one shot, and the man in gray tottered against the hitch rail. His body slumped until his elbows caught on the rail. He smiled at Johnny Vance and said, “I’m glad it was yuh.” Then he was gone.

  A warm hand turned Willis and another touched his face and suddenly the stage station was filling with people and everyone was talking and he was being carefully lowered to the floor.

  Laurella’s veil brushed his face. “He only grazed you. You’ll live! Do you hear me, Will? You’ll live.”

  Willis was glad, mostly. He was suddenly very tired. Fighting the urge to close his eyes, he rose on his elbows.

  “What are you doin’?” Laurella asked.

  Willis did not feel strong enough to stand but he was strong enough to crawl. He slid to the Flour Sack Kid and raised the head in the flour sack and gently placed it in his lap. People were watching. He placed his hand on the flour sack and in the quiet that descended, he said, “This was my pa. He cared for me more than I thought he did. He cared an awful lot.”