Ralph Compton Face of a Snake

by Bernard Schaffer

  His skin around the wound was scorched and blackened and the wound was temporarily scabbed over. He had stopped the bleeding, even if only for the moment. Escalante took off his shirt and used Dunning’s knife to cut it into strips, which he wrapped around his stomach and tied in a knot to hold his guts inside.

  He groaned as he got to his feet. There were still men in the throes of death. It would take them a while yet to die.

  “I’m sorry, my friends,” Escalante said. “I do not have the strength left to help you now.”

  He found a dead body that was not covered in vomit or blood and took the man’s shirt off and did his best to slide it onto himself without passing out from the pain. He scolded himself for whimpering and wiped sweat from his face and eyes in order to find the wagon.

  Escalante forced himself to climb up into the wagon and pressed his hand against his stomach, more worried that blood would seep through the bandages and his new shirt than he was about how much was leaking out of him.

  “Mirta,” he gasped. “Your papa is coming back to you.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Sinclair pressed the field glasses to his face. “Here he comes.”

  He could see Escalante in his wagon coming toward the entrance. The wagon was rocking side to side as it approached the guards sitting on top of the stagecoach.

  Sinclair moved the glasses to look behind Escalante. The wagon was uncovered and he could see there were no more mason jars inside it. “Good sign,” Sinclair said. “He’s not coming back with any liquor.”

  “Thank God we had all that whiskey and poison sitting around,” Jesse said. “Right now William is somewhere looking down on me saying, ‘I told you so.’”

  “Hang on,” Sinclair said.

  Escalante rode past the entrance and held up his hand to wave to the guards on top of the stagecoach.

  “That’s the sign,” Sinclair said. He lowered the field glasses and looked past Jesse at Mirta. The young woman was already raising her bow and nocking her first arrow.

  “You realize if you miss, I’ll have to shoot,” Sinclair said.

  Mirta closed one eye and peered down the arrow’s shaft. She centered its tip on the guard sitting to the right.

  “If I have to shoot, everyone in that house will come running and it will be too late.”

  “I don’t think you’re helping here, Ash,” Jesse said.

  Mirta drew the bowstring back to her ear. The muscles in her left arm tightened.

  Sinclair handed Jesse the field glasses and picked up the Spencer rifle. “On my mark. Ready. Set.”

  Mirta let the first arrow fly.

  Sinclair heard the bowstring twang and cursed that she hadn’t waited for him. He looked through the scope to see if the arrow had landed and decided to shoot the other guard. They’d take their chances, he thought. He aimed at the guard on the left, and as he squeezed the trigger, he saw a second arrow spike the man through his left eye.

  Both of the guards fell over the back of the wagon and landed in the dust. Sinclair set the rifle down.

  Jesse laughed aloud and clapped Mirta on the back. “That was one hell of a shot, miss. Did you ever see anything like that, Ash?”

  “Her father used to shoot like that,” Sinclair said.

  Mirta smiled with embarrassment.

  “’Course, he always had the sense to wait until I said ‘go,’” Sinclair added.

  * * *

  * * *

  When they reached Escalante sitting in the wagon, his eyes and mouth were closed and he was taking deep breaths through his nose. Mirta galloped toward him.

  Escalante’s eyes flickered open at her approach and he smiled. “Good shooting,” he said.

  “What is wrong, Papa?” Mirta said as she got down and ran to his side.

  “Nothing, nothing at all,” Escalante said. “I am fine.”

  “You don’t look fine,” Sinclair said. “You look sweaty and pale.”

  Escalante waved at him with his right hand but kept his left arm braced against his side. “Okay, you got me. I confess. I had a little bit to drink at the camp.”

  “Of the poisoned whiskey?” Jesse said.

  Escalante chuckled and nodded. “But just a tiny bit.”

  “Why did you do that, Papa?” Mirta asked. She climbed up into the wagon beside him.

  “I was thirsty,” Escalante said and smiled at her. He ran his fingers through her long dark hair. “Don’t ever drink liquor, mi vida,” he told her. “It makes you do stupid things.”

  “Should we be worried about him?” Jesse asked.

  “I’ve seen him drink worse than poison,” Sinclair said. “He’ll be fine.”

  “See?” Escalante said. “I’ll be fine. So what’s the plan, jefe?”

  Sinclair steered his horse through the gate and went around the stagecoach. He looked down at the dead guards and said, “Mirta, collect your arrows. You might need them.”

  The others lined up alongside him and Sinclair pointed down the road at Granger’s mansion in the distance.

  “Didn’t you say you had some sort of warning bell at your ranch when Granger and his men showed up?” Sinclair asked Jesse.

  “Sure. We usually used it for fires or troubles with the animals or whatever else. Everyone on the ranch knew if you heard that bell, you come running and were prepared for anything.”

  “I’m willing to bet Granger’s got one too, especially with most of his men stationed so far away. You didn’t happen to give any of those giants your special liquor at the ranch, did you, Lorenzo?”

  “No. No giants. Just two-bit gunslingers.”

  “That’s what I figured,” Sinclair said. “So we know there’s at least two giants in the house and probably a few others. But what’s going to happen is, we show up there, and he’s going to ring his bell for all his men to come running up from that encampment.”

  “And when his men don’t come, he’s going to send someone to find out why,” Jesse said.

  “That’s what I figure,” Sinclair said. “He’s going to try to keep me talking and stalling until his men arrive. I’m going to do the same with him. What I want both you women to do is ride down toward the camp and wait. When you see that messenger boy coming from Granger’s house, you take care of him. After that, come right back to this stagecoach and wait for me and Lorenzo to come back.”

  Mirta got back on her horse and put the two bloody arrows back in her quiver. “Where are you going with Papa? I don’t want to leave him.”

  “He’s fine,” Sinclair said. “He’ll be with me.”

  “I’ll go with you instead, Mr. Ash,” Mirta said. “He needs to rest. I’m a better shot than he is now anyway. You said so yourself.”

  “You said what, jefe?” Escalante asked.

  Sinclair laughed. “Afraid it’s true, old friend. This girl’s better than you ever was.”

  “Betrayed by my own blood. I can’t believe it,” Escalante said. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back.

  “I won’t go,” Mirta said. “He doesn’t look right.”

  “I’m fine. Stop worrying,” Escalante said.

  “Listen, I need him more than I need you,” Sinclair said. “He knows all my old signals and you don’t. You do remember my signal for when to start shooting, don’t you, Lorenzo?”

  “The one where you get too drunk to fight and fall off your horse? That’s when I always had to do the most shooting.”

  “No. The other one.”

  “I can’t leave you, Papa,” Mirta said.

  Jesse’s eyes met Escalante’s. She looked at Mirta and said, “Listen, I’ll go alone and wait for that messenger if you need to stay. I sure could use you out there. You’re much better in a fight than I am.”

  Mirta didn’t move.

  “Go, mi vida,
” Escalante said. “Be brave. For your papa.”

  Mirta’s eyes darkened with tears, but she said that she would and spun her horse around. Jesse followed after her into the night.

  Sinclair waited for them to go before he rode up beside the wagon. The night air was cool, but Escalante had sweated through his shirt. “Well, how bad is it?”

  “How bad is what?” Escalante asked. “The poison I drank? Just a little.”

  “You ain’t poisoned, Lorenzo. If you was, you’d be dead by now. Show me.”

  Escalante groaned and raised his left arm to let Sinclair look. A font of blood spilled down his side.

  Sinclair lowered his head. “Damn it, Lorenzo. All right. You stay here and rest. I’ll finish this up as fast as I can and come back to get you some help.”

  “No,” Escalante said. “I’m coming with you.”

  “Like hell you are. You can’t hardly sit up straight.”

  Escalante grabbed Sinclair by the arm to pull himself up. “I am coming. I am going to help you get your grandson back and in return you are going to promise me something.”

  “What?”

  “No matter what happens, Mirta must get back home safe to her mother.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “No! You promise. If I die, it’s one thing, but if anything happens to Mirta, her mother will follow me to hell and I’ll spend the rest of eternity running from her. She’s a monster. You must promise.”

  Sinclair laughed. “All right, I promise.”

  “Okay, then. Now I am ready.” Escalante took the Spencer rifle and laid it across his lap. He picked up the reins and said, “It’s the last ride of the Venom Snakes, jefe.”

  “One last time, old friend.”

  PART FOUR

  EVERYBODY DIES

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Granger’s mansion was so white, it shined in the darkness. Sinclair’s son walked with him on the path headed toward it.

  “You remember that time I let you shoot the Spencer?” Sinclair asked.

  William said nothing.

  “You were about, what, eight? Ten? Maybe younger. I don’t recall.”

  Sinclair looked over his shoulder to check on Escalante. He’d driven the wagon toward a cluster of trees facing the front of the mansion.

  “You think them trees are more than five hundred yards?” Sinclair asked his son. “That’s all the Spencer’s good for. That’s if Lorenzo don’t pass out in his seat and die on us.”

  William said nothing.

  “You kept asking me to shoot it. ‘Let me shoot it. Let me shoot it, Daddy.’ That’s all you’d say. ‘It’s too big for you,’ I kept saying. ‘It’ll break your shoulder.’ You wouldn’t listen. You weren’t much for listening. You kept at me so much, I said, ‘Fine,’ and took you outside to let you shoot it just so you could see how much I was right and it was going to hurt. We found that tree stump, and I showed you how to hold the gun. You couldn’t hardly lift it with them skinny arms of yours. Your arms were shaking. Your legs were shaking. ‘Just breathe,’ I told you. Remember that? ‘Just breathe out as slow as you can and pull the trigger. Let it go off on its own. Let it be a surprise to you.’”

  The night air was muggy for that time of year. Sinclair could feel his shirt sticking to his skin. On a muggy night, a long coat was only good for carrying whatever weapons a man had hidden beneath it. The mansion was not that far away now. Sinclair took a deep breath and let it out slow. It was a fine coat. It would be a shame to ruin it with blood and bullet holes. He took off the coat and laid it on the grass.

  “‘Maybe I shouldn’t,’ you said. I could tell you were afraid of pulling the trigger. You were afraid of missing it and being embarrassed and getting hurt. ‘You can do it,’ I told you. I didn’t even yell. Remember that?”

  William said nothing.

  “I didn’t yell once—and I always yelled,” Sinclair said.

  He kept walking. William stayed with him.

  “When you pulled that trigger, it knocked you back on your rear end,” William said. He found himself smiling at the memory. “Planted you right down in the grass. You sat there with your mouth wide open in total shock. ‘I told you that was gonna happen,’ I said. Then I grabbed the gun and lifted you off the ground by your arm. You had tears in your eyes and bit your lip, trying to keep from showing me how much it hurt. But when we checked, you saw that you’d blasted that damned stump to pieces. There was bark all over the place. ‘Direct hit!’ I hollered out, and I mussed your hair and I wiped one of them tears away with my thumb. You laughed and said, ‘Let me shoot it again.’”

  The mansion was only a few hundred feet in front of him then. Sinclair could make out the guard standing on the porch under the lights, but the guard could not see him yet.

  “I don’t think we ever went shooting after that, but you did good that time. You were a natural shot,” Sinclair said. “I was proud of you, boy. Proud to be your father. I just never thought to say it. No one ever said it to me. That don’t make it right, though.”

  Sinclair fixed his hat tight to his head and he positioned the snake guns forward in their holsters, where they were ready to be drawn. He walked the rest of the way alone.

  * * *

  * * *

  Todd Tremaine was done with his shift, but he was still standing on the porch with Chuck Woolworth when a man appeared on the path, coming toward the mansion. Tremaine and Woolworth had been talking about how they were going to spend their money in town at the end of the week. It was always either cards, liquor, or women. Glancing over his shoulder and putting his hand over his eyes to shield them from the porch’s overhead light, Tremaine called out, “Who goes there?”

  When no one answered, both Tremaine and Woolworth raised their rifles and cocked the levers.

  “Halt, or we’ll shoot!” Woolworth shouted.

  “Hold your fire,” Sinclair called out. He raised his hands to show they were empty, and he kept on walking. “The guards at the front let me come in.”

  The mansion’s front door opened, and a human being larger than any human being Sinclair had seen before came through. It was one of the giants, he realized.

  Ulai lowered his head to get it under the doorframe and stood behind Woolworth and Tremaine. He was tall enough that the lantern hanging from the porch’s ceiling swung next to his ear.

  “Well, go on and identify yourself, then!” Tremaine shouted.

  Sinclair nodded toward the giant. “I’m from the circus. One of our freaks got loose. Looks like you found him for us.”

  Ulai growled at Sinclair and Tremaine raised his arm to hold him back. “Easy there. I want to see who this old man is before you tear his arms off and beat him to death with them.” He grinned at Sinclair. “You got a fresh mouth for such an old-timer, especially one looking down the barrels of two rifles and Ulai here. He’ll tear you apart with his bare hands, I turn him loose. Now, state your name and your business. Mr. Granger don’t take kindly to unwanted strangers showing up in the middle of the night.”

  “Go tell him Ashford Sinclair is here,” Sinclair said. He rested his hands over the handles of his pistols. “Tell him he’s come for his grandson.”

  Chuck Woolworth ran into the house and shouted for everyone to come. Within minutes, three more men came running out. They stood on either side of the giant, each of them armed with a rifle and struggling to pull up their suspenders, get their pants buttoned, and wipe the sleep out of their eyes.

  Nelson Granger came through the door behind them, wearing a black silk robe embroidered with two dragons. Bright red flames covered the robe’s sleeves. With one hand, Granger cupped the bowl of an ornate pipe with a long stem and smoked from it as he waited for his men to move aside and let him pass.

  Granger stopped next to Todd Tremaine and leaned in to whisper something into his ear. Tre
maine nodded and disappeared back into the mansion.

  Granger stood looking down on Sinclair, sucking on the stem of his pipe and blowing smoke from the corner of his mouth. The pipe’s tobacco was so strong, Sinclair could smell it from where he stood.

  “Mr. Ashford Sinclair,” Granger said. “What a surprise.”

  “Mr. Granger,” Sinclair said.

  “I’ve always hoped I’d one day get the chance to meet you. You were quite famous when I was younger. I read all about you and your little, what was it, Hissing Snake Gang? Are they with you by chance?”

  “None of them is alive anymore,” Sinclair said.

  “What a pity.” Granger sucked on his pipe in thought. “Let me see what I recall. There were all the train and bank robberies, of course. Cattle rustlings. More battles with those Pinkerton boys than one could count.” Granger snapped his fingers and said, “What about that time when you all signed up as bounty hunters in Oklahoma? That was one of my favorite stories. Didn’t last long from what I recall.”

  “Wasn’t our finest hour,” Sinclair said.

  “I expect it wasn’t,” Granger said. “Tell me, Mr. Sinclair, how was prison?”

  “Can’t say that I recommend it.”

  From the roof of the house, Sinclair heard a bell ring three times. It was a large brass bell that would sound for miles. He looked up and searched the roof for the man ringing it.

  Granger smiled with the pipe clenched in his teeth and clapped his hands. “Ashford Sinclair! Famous outlaw! At my front door. Imagine that! Now, I heard, and do correct me if I am wrong, that you came out of prison and went out into the wilderness somewhere. I heard you were nothing but a big old hermit, tucked far away from everyone and everything. I heard your boy came to see you, but you wouldn’t have anything to do with him on account of his having a baby with some Odell trash girl. Is that true?”