Ralph Compton Face of a Snake

by Bernard Schaffer

  “All right,” Sinclair said. “And?”

  “Well, I’m getting to that. See, your son, William, owned some land that Mr. Granger was interested in buying out in Elan Valley. That’s where I’m sheriff. Mr. Granger has what folks call a vision for that entire area. He wants to build a railroad and a town and give people plenty of jobs and opportunity. He politely asked William to sell, and William got real indignant. William started making all kinds of wild accusations about Mr. Granger wanting to buy up all the competing cattle ranches so he’d be the only one with cattle and he could set the price for the entire market. Long story short, William and him was in a business dispute, but it seemed to me that it was mainly due to William being stubborn.”

  “So Granger killed him?”

  “No. No, no. Did I say that? I didn’t, did I?” Reuben Jr. asked. “What I said was that they were in a business dispute over selling land. That’s all. Now, there’s all kinds of rumors and cross talk and sorts of other nonsense about Mr. Granger hiring some men who lay in wait for William, but I’m telling you, Mr. Granger ain’t that sort of person. No, sir.”

  “So how did William die?” Sinclair asked.

  “Well, it seems that he was out hunting and had a mishap with his firearm. I investigated his death myself and consulted with the local doctor and together we determined his death had to be due to some kind of unfortunate accident. That’s all it was. I just wanted to come here and let you know that it was an accident so you don’t get any wrong ideas.”

  “What kind of ideas?” Sinclair asked.

  “The kind that might make you take up your old ways on account of your son,” Reuben Jr. said. “That’s why I asked if you had any guns when I first arrived. So are we clear?”

  “Clear on what?”

  “Clear that your son’s death was just a tragic mistake, and there’s no need for any further action. That you’re okay with that determination and you’ll stay put in this here cabin without making no—how do you say—rash decisions.”

  “You come all the way out here to tell me somebody who ain’t come to see me but once in thirty-some-odd years has died and you want to make sure I won’t pick up a gun and go looking for revenge?”

  “That’s right,” Sheriff Reuben Jr. said.

  Sinclair shrugged. “Doesn’t sound like any of it has anything to do with me. Good day, Sheriff.”

  He went inside his cabin and sat down on the bed to slide on his boots. He walked over to the mantel and picked up the cutting tools and instruments that he would need for the day. When he came back out, Reuben Jr. was still on his horse, waiting.

  “You’re welcome to go inside and search for those guns if you want to, Sheriff. I can’t sit around with you, though. I’ve got work to do.”

  “You’re serious, then?” Reuben Jr. asked.

  “About what?”

  “About what I told you. About William. The matter is settled?”

  Sinclair walked past Reuben and headed toward the woods. “You could have saved yourself a trip, Sheriff. That boy was dead to me a long time ago.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Sinclair checked all the traps that day, even the ones that weren’t due to be checked until the end of the week. He kept moving. When he finally went back to the cabin, he walked over to the pile of logs and started to chop them. One after another, he set them on the tree stump that he used for chopping wood and swung his ax high in the air and down as hard as he could swing. He worked until his shirt was soaked in sweat. He worked until it got too dark to see where he was chopping and he missed a few times. He worked until he started to cough too much to go on and tossed the ax into the weeds and went into the cabin. Then he sat at the table and looked at the fire and drank whiskey out of the jug.

  Sinclair drank. He drank until his eyes started to close by themselves and the jug felt light in his hand. He picked up the cork and fumbled with it around the bottle’s spout until it was seated. Then he walked, stiff-legged, to the bed and collapsed upon it.

  High winds rattled the cabin door in its frame. Soon, the rain would come. Outside, he could hear animals scurrying in the woods, some of them desperately seeking shelter, others hopeful for one last meal before the storm.

  Something banged against the cabin door and it made Sinclair jump up in bed. He stared at the door in confusion and listened. It was nothing. He laid his head back down and closed his eyes.

  There was a second bang, louder than the first, and Sinclair sat upright and spun in bed to lay his feet on the floor. “Who’s there?” he called out.

  No one answered. He told himself it was probably just the wind. If anything, it was some traveler lost out in the woods who didn’t want to sleep outside in the rain. Sinclair waited and listened.

  “Get the hell on, or I’ll get my gun,” Sinclair shouted.

  He listened to the first drops of rain against the cabin’s roof. It started to fall harder. There were no more bangs at the door. He lay back down and closed his eyes.

  * * *

  * * *

  The little boy stood on a slanted rock near the edge of the water and held his fishing pole the way he’d been shown. The creek was full and high with rushing water. The boy crept forward on the rock too close to the edge, where he’d been told not to go. “The water’s so clear, I can see them, Pa.”

  “Get back up on the bank, or you’ll fall in,” Sinclair said.

  “The water’s so clear, I can see them!” The little boy leaned forward with the fishing pole and reached forward to dunk the hook in the water instead of casting it.

  “Damn it, that’s not how I showed you.”

  “But I can see them. I’m going to catch one like this.”

  “Get back before you fall in, I said.”

  Sinclair watched the child slip. He heard the splash of water and saw it come up out of the creek and felt it spray his upraised arm. He hurried down to the water and snatched the boy by the back of the neck just as he became submerged. “What did I tell you?” Sinclair shouted.

  The boy spit water out of his mouth and gasped for air. “I almost had one.”

  Sinclair smacked him on the back of the head. “I told you not to go on the rock!”

  “I was just—”

  Sinclair smacked him again, and the child started to cry. “I said don’t do it. You did it anyway. You don’t ever listen. You’re lucky you didn’t drown. Get back to your mother.”

  The child wiped his tears on his wet arm. “I won’t do it again. I’ll listen. Let’s stay. Please?”

  Sinclair raised his fist and clenched his teeth. “So help me, boy, I’ll beat you until you can’t see straight if you don’t get back to your mother this instant.”

  William wailed as he ran up the hill and Sinclair bent over to collect their fishing gear.

  * * *

  * * *

  Sinclair opened his eyes and looked at the cabin door. It was still dark out. The rain had stopped and now all he could hear was wind.

  He lay back down and did not close his eyes again.

  It was still a few hours before sunrise and he lay in bed, thinking on his dream. That day they’d gone fishing in the creek had been a long time ago, but he still remembered the smell of the water and the light reflecting off the smooth, wet surface of the slanted rock. He remembered how when he got home, Edna had already put William in a hot bath and was stroking the boy’s hair.

  “It’s all right. You and Pa will go out again tomorrow, and you won’t fall in. You’ll show him you can listen and he’ll show you how to catch the biggest fish in the whole creek. I’ll fry it up real nice and we’ll eat it for supper,” she said. She looked over her shoulder at Sinclair as he stood in the doorway and said, “Isn’t that right, Ash?”

  “I reckon so,” he said. But he didn’t mean it and they never went.


  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Paul Hanover looked up with excitement from behind the counter of his store when the front door opened. He wrapped the wires of his glasses behind his ears and clapped his hands together. “Is today the day? I can feel it. Today is the day!”

  “Today’s not the day,” Sinclair said. “It almost was. A few nights back I was ready to pack it in for good.”

  A clerk went out the store’s back door to unload Sinclair’s wagon, leaving just Sinclair, Paul Hanover, and another customer inside. Sinclair didn’t recognize the other customer. The man was standing in the corner near the canned goods, and all Sinclair could see was the back of the man’s dusty coat and his long silver hair, which he let hang free. It came down from the brim of his hat to the center of his back. The man was making a close inspection of the store’s cans of tomatoes and keeping his back turned.

  “I know it is close,” Hanover said. “I’ve been anticipating something coming. I can’t sleep at night. I can’t sit still. There is a white fox pelt pure as new snow and a blue buffalo and a bobcat with spots as large as silver dollars coming my way soon. I can feel it.”

  “Well, for now you’ll have to settle for a few beavers and a couple squirrels. I had a coyote in one of the traps, but he fought his way out and by the time I caught up to him, his pelt was ruined and he only had three legs.”

  “Oh, dear. What did you do with him?”

  Sinclair reached into the bag slung around his shoulder and removed a coyote skull. He set it on the store’s counter. “Made him into bait. Coyotes aren’t particular about eating their own kind, so hopefully I’ll catch the rest of them. I thought you might want the skull, though.”

  “Yes, of course,” Hanover said. He went down the steps to inspect the skull. “You would not believe what those people back East will pay for these things. They love filling their houses with skulls and rusty horseshoes and rattlesnake heads. I suppose it helps them forget the drudgery of city life. Do you ever see any rattlesnakes out where you are?”

  “Sometimes,” Sinclair said.

  “Make sure you bring them directly to me. I’ll pay you top dollar for them.”

  “Can’t do that,” Sinclair said. “I don’t kill snakes.”

  “You don’t?”

  “Call it professional courtesy.”

  “I’m sure the snake would not feel the same way. There’s good money in them.”

  Sinclair laid his hand on the coyote skull. “Take this here coyote. They sneak around at night, eating whatever they find. They’ll eat chicken, rat, deer, and anything else. Don’t matter if it’s a fresh kill or been dead two weeks. They’re opportunists and all they think about is how to get more. They’ll wait until you’re asleep and come snatch a baby girl right out her crib if you let them. By themselves, they’re cowards. If you confront them, they run away and won’t come back until they’ve got larger numbers. This coyote right here, that’s the law. That’s the government. That’s your trainmen and the scum they hire to protect those trains. You understand?”

  “All right,” Hanover said. “If you say so.”

  “But a snake? See, a snake’s different. Snake keeps to himself. He stays away. He glides beneath it all. He’ll eat and move on and most he’ll do is go sun himself on a warm rock. The only time you’ll find one is if you go looking for it. A snake won’t fight you unless you corner it, and when it does fight, only one of you is walking away.”

  The man in the corner chuckled.

  “Something funny, sir?” Sinclair asked.

  The man held his hand up and shook his head and kept checking the tomatoes.

  “So are you the snake?” Hanover asked.

  “No, I ain’t no snake,” Sinclair said. “Guess I used to be, though.”

  * * *

  * * *

  It was dark by the time Sinclair finished at the store. He walked out onto the porch and watched the clerk load his wagon up. Behind him, Paul Hanover turned the store open sign to store closed and locked the door. On the far end of the porch, someone struck a match and singed the air with the smell of sulfur. Sinclair looked over to see the same man with the long hair standing against the porch’s railing.

  The man waved the match in the air until it went out, and he tossed it over the side. He took a long drag of his cigarette and said, “You know, I never heard anybody describe the outlaw life in such poetic terms before.”

  Sinclair squinted in the dark. “Do I know you, sir?”

  “Sir?” The cigarette glowed bright red and illuminated the man’s face, showing his long silver mustache and dark, narrow eyes. “You used to call me your brother, jefe.”

  Sinclair squinted to get a better look. “Lorenzo?”

  Lorenzo Escalante tossed his cigarette aside and laughed. He threw his arms wide to embrace Sinclair and said, “Ever since the day you were set free, I have been looking for you! How in the hell did you wind up in this place?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “When I heard the greatest outlaw of our time was living in the woods, skinning beavers to make fur hats for ladies, I said, ‘You must be kidding.’ But here you are! I cannot tell you how happy I am to see you are still alive, old friend.”

  “What are you doing here?” Sinclair asked again.

  “What do you mean? You act like I came for some suspicious reason. I came to see you, to buy you a drink and some dinner and catch up on old times!” Escalante turned sideways to show off his belly. The rest of him was skinny as a beanstalk except for a roundness to his belly on which he rubbed his hand up and down. “Look how fat I am now! My wife, madre de dios, she can cook. She make me so fat, I can’t even fit in my pants some mornings.”

  The clerk loaded the last bag into the back of Sinclair’s wagon and said, “You’re all set, sir.”

  Sinclair looked back at Escalante. “It’s good to see you again, Lorenzo. But as you can see, I’m all loaded up and I can’t let the wagon sit here. Someone might steal it.”

  “Don’t be crazy. This town doesn’t even have a sheriff, it’s so nice and gentle. Hey! You, young man?” Escalante snapped his fingers at the clerk. “Are you done for the day?”

  “Yes, sir,” the clerk said.

  “I’ll pay you to watch my friend’s wagon so we can go get a drink. Can you do that?”

  “Sure thing, sir.”

  Escalante put his arm around Sinclair’s shoulders and said, “See? Now we have all the time in the world.”

  They walked across the street to the saloon and sat at a table. Escalante waved his hand in the air and told the bartender to bring them two beers. “Are you hungry?”

  “I had some beaver jerky before I rode in.”

  “Beaver jerky?” Escalante said with a laugh. “My God, even when the Snakes were at our lowest, we never stooped to eating river rat.”

  The beers arrived and Escalante picked up his mug and took a long sip. He wiped foam from his mouth and said, “They have good beer here. Hey, give us two more after these.”

  Sinclair didn’t drink. “So how is it you was never caught?”

  “I turned myself in,” Escalante said.

  “Yeah, right.”

  “It’s true, jefe. After ten years of running, I couldn’t take it anymore. I made it all the way to Cincinnati, but I was broke and starving. I’d sold everything I owned. My guns. My saddle. Even my boots and hat. I couldn’t find work and I was constantly looking over my shoulder to see if the law was coming. Finally I couldn’t take it and I walked into the nearest courthouse and told them I surrender.”

  “I bet they didn’t know whether to wet their pants or go blind,” Sinclair said. “What happened?”

  “The judge asked me who the hell I was. They had no idea.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “That judge who sentenced you—what was
his name?”

  “Gilstrap.”

  Escalante snapped his fingers. “That’s the one. I had read in the paper that he sent you to prison for twenty years, so I told them to contact him. I was ready to take my punishment. I hoped they would send me to the same prison as you. But instead, Judge Gilstrap had retired and moved back East. I told them to get ahold of the Twin Oaks sheriff, because I was certain he would know me. I heard he put my name in a book that he wrote and said he’d catch up to me if it was the last thing he ever did.”

  “Good old Elliot Reuben. May he not rest in peace. What did Reuben say?”

  “Nothing. He never wrote back. The judge told me he had no evidence to use against me and wanted me to leave. I told him no. I was tired of running. I told him I’d robbed banks and trains and killed people, and I wanted to be punished.”

  Sinclair laughed and shook his head. “By God, Lorenzo, you always was insane.”

  “The judge thought so too. He told me if I wanted to be charged with a crime so bad, he would charge me with disturbing the peace and fine me five dollars. So that’s what he did. Except I didn’t have five dollars, so they put me in jail for two weeks and let me go. I’ve been a free man ever since.”

  Sinclair raised his beer to his lips and sipped it. The bartender brought two more and set them down on the table. “Have you heard from anyone else over the years?”

  “There is no one else. The rest have all died.”

  Sinclair nodded. “I guess that’s what I figured happened. I thought you were dead too.”

  “Not yet. It’s just the two of us left now, jefe.” He raised his glass. “The best for last.”

  Sinclair grunted and sipped his beer.

  “I have to tell you, one of the reasons I was never caught is because of you,” Escalante said. “I owe you my life for never telling them where to find me.”

  “It’s not like I knew where you were.”