Devil's Brand

by Len Levinson

  The maid entered the parlor. “Dinner is served.”

  They walked toward the hall, and Whiteside placed his arm around Stone’s shoulder. “It’s good to see another officer. One feels isolated out here. Most of the people we meet are quite primitive. Did you go to West Point?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “I never did, but I guess you knew that. You West Point fellows are a brotherhood I was never privileged to join. Didn’t you like West Point?”

  “I learned a lot I had to forget.”

  They came to a small dining room, with four chairs. Cassandra motioned to one of them, and Stone took his position behind it. On the far wall hung a painting of Stonewall Jackson on a horse, with a Confederate flag fluttering behind him.

  Whiteside noticed Stone looking at the portrait. “That’s the man I fought for,” Whiteside said. “Ever meet him?”

  “Once.”

  Whiteside puffed up his chest. “General Jackson was the finest man I ever met, and in my opinion one of the greatest field commanders in the history of warfare. You ever study the Shenandoah Valley Campaign? I was there when General Jackson said, ‘If this valley is lost, Virginia is lost, and if Virginia is lost, the Confederacy is lost.’ So the proud old foot cavalry fought Yankees from Harrisburg to the Blue Ridge Mountains, in a series of battles that are pored over by the scholars and historians to this day, and we beat the shit out of the Yankees. They couldn’t even find us most of the time. Your glass is empty. Agnes!”

  The maid appeared in the doorway.

  “Set the bottle on the table, and hurry with the dinner will you? My wife is hungry.” Whiteside filled Stone’s glass, then his own. “By God, it’s good to be with a fellow officer again. I feel like a fish out of water here.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Virginia originally, and then New Orleans. The disease called Reconstruction took all the pleasure out of life, so we came to Texas, and it’s better than the Yankee and nigra-dominated South of today, but it’s not much compared to Old Dixie. Cassandra told me you’re from South Carolina. What did your family do?”

  “We were planters.”

  “You must’ve known Wade Hampton personally, then.”

  “We were neighbors.”

  “Then you know he never went to West Point either, never commanded troops in his life, and knew nothing of war, but became an outstanding officer, isn’t that so?”

  “Some of us thought he was better than Jeb Stuart.”

  “My point exactly. You don’t have to go to West Point to learn war, and in fact, maybe you can’t learn it at all. Perhaps you must be born with it. What do you think?”

  “Right now, all I’m interested in is the cattle business.”

  “The main thing you’ve got to do in the cattle business is hire a good foreman and let him take care of everything. It’s not a very edifying enterprise, let me tell you. The cattle eat all day long, and when they’re fat you send them to the butcher. No grand strategies are required, no noble acts of courage, no brilliant tactical concepts. It’s sad, but old soldiers such as we have to go on living somehow.”

  Agnes entered the room with a tureen of soup, and placed it on the table. Cassandra took the ladle and poured soup into her husband’s bowl, then Stone’s, and when her eyes met Stone’s, she thought: When he looks at me, he thinks of the woman he loved all his life.

  “I’d like to change places with you,” Whiteside said to Stone. “If I were your age, and had my other flipper back, I’d return to the service. It’s the only life for a man, in my opinion. I don’t want to pry, but can’t help being curious— why didn’t you return?”

  “Got tired of soldiering.”

  “How can anyone get tired of it? It was something new every day, and I felt as if my life had great purpose!”

  Stone said nothing as he dipped into chicken consommé. He wondered how a man who lost an arm at Sharpsburg could be so enthusiastic about war.

  “The best part of it,” Whiteside continued, “was the wonderful men I met. I’m not ashamed to say that I was a great admirer of General Jackson. He truly was a stonewall, unshakable and indomitable at all times, even in the worse circumstances. Yet he was a God-fearing man, moderate in his habits, modest in demeanor, quite unlike your Jeb Stuart, who wore peacock plumes in his hat and sang songs with his staff. General Jackson was no singer of songs.”

  Again, Stone didn’t respond. He recalled being presented to General Jackson en masse with the other officers of Wade Hampton’s command, shortly before Second Manassas. General Jackson had the aura of command, and was correct in every movement he made. He listened carefully to what was said, and had been especially friendly to the younger officers like Stone. General Jackson had spoken of the importance of receiving accurate up-to-date intelligence information, and said he was counting on his cavalry to provide it. Many of General Jackson’s senior commanders had attended the gathering, but Stone didn’t recall Colonel Whiteside. Maybe the colonel had been on duty that night.

  The colonel said, “We may be brother officers, but my ramrod treats all the men alike. Duke Truscott is a hard man, let me tell you. I hope my wife hasn’t given you the impression that you’ll have an easy time of it here. After this evening, you’ll eat with the men. That won’t be as onerous as you might think, because they’ve got an extremely fine cook. He’s a nigra, but hand him a piece of anything edible, and he’ll turn it into the most delicious meal you ever ate. I’d like to bring him into my own kitchen, but I think my cowboys would quit if I did.”

  Agnes cleared away bowls and the tureen, then returned with a platter covered with a silver dome, which she placed in front of Whiteside.

  He removed the dome, revealing a leg of lamb swimming in gravy, garnished with potatoes and okra. Taking the carving knife in his one good hand, he sawed thick slices off it.

  “We’re still shorthanded for the drive,” Colonel Whiteside said. “If you know anybody who might be looking for a job, I’d appreciate it if you’d steer him in this direction. We need more men, and I don’t know where they’re going to come from because we’re scraping the bottom of the barrel as it is.”

  Stone flashed on Luke Duvall in the cave. “I have a friend, but he’s unusual.”

  “It what way?”

  “Not very friendly.”

  Whiteside leaned back in his chair and laid down the knife. “There’s nothing wrong with being discriminating in our choices of friends. I, for one, do not tolerate fools either.”

  Cassandra filled Stone’s plate and handed it to him. “We desperately need cowboys,” she said. “We’d appreciate it if you’d tell your friend about us.”

  “I’ll see him tomorrow, if that’s all right with you.”

  “By all means.”

  Their eyes met, held for a few seconds, then ran away. She cut her husband’s meat into small pieces, while he sipped his whiskey.

  Whiteside leaned forward and declared, “I think courage is the most important quality a man can have, and what is courage? Nothing more, in my opinion, than holding steady under fire. That I saw at Sharpsburg, and it was the supreme moment of my life. Men were shot down all around me, and I myself was severely wounded, but my regiment held their ground, not one man broke and ran.”

  Stone listened politely, but he’d never been in a battle where somebody didn’t break and run. Sometimes even battle-hardened veterans cracked under the strain of long bombardment, and Stone himself had been through numerous tight situations where he thought he wasn’t going to make it. Maybe he would’ve run too, if he hadn’t commanded old Troop C, and the men depended on him.

  Colonel Whiteside continued to talk about Sharpsburg, while Cassandra studied them both, a faint smile on her face. Her husband was a grand gentleman, and his every gesture bespoke breeding and character, while Stone was withdrawn, gloomy, and smoldering with a deep intensity. He seemed almost like an infant compared to her husband, but she supposed there were superficial
women who’d prefer Stone only because he was youthful and melancholy, a lost wandering poet.

  Stone’s mind was wandering, he didn’t like to talk about the war. It reminded him of too many dead friends, too much suffering, all that futility, and the lost paradise his youth had been. Something made him glance toward Cassandra, and their eyes met once more. For a millisecond he thought she was Marie, and made a motion toward her, then checked himself and returned to his lamb.

  It was uncanny to have her sitting there, looking so much like Marie, but she was another man’s wife, and he had to stop thinking about her. Fortunately he wouldn’t see her much after this meal. He’d be in the bunkhouse, riding for the brand, and he’d rather be a cowboy in Texas than an officer at Sharpsburg any day.

  “There’s something I’d like to show you,” Whiteside said. He pushed his chair back, arose from the table, and walked out of the dining room.

  Cassandra turned to Stone. “I hope you’re enjoying your meal.”

  “If the cook in the bunkhouse is better than this, he must be spectacular.”

  “I don’t think you’ll have any complaints. Is it unsettling for you to sit with a woman who looks like the one you were supposed to marry?”

  “Does it show?”

  “Sometimes when you look at me, I think you’re looking at her, and it unnerves me, because I start imagining I’m her. Do I really look much like her?”

  “The resemblance is amazing.”

  “Do I behave like her? Is my voice like hers?”

  “Let’s just say it’s too close for comfort.”

  “I hope I’m not causing you any distress. I don’t mean to.”

  “On the contrary, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable at your own table.”

  She placed her hand on his arm. “You must never be false, not to me, not to anyone. I can take care of myself, so relax, we’re happy to have you with us for dinner.”

  Whiteside returned to the dining room with a box made from hand worked Spanish leather. He opened it, and inside was an arrangement of medals displayed against purple velvet.

  “I’m not ashamed to say,” Whiteside told Stone, “that these are my most valuable possessions. I realize I may appear foolish, and a bit vainglorious, the vestige of an era long past, but I’m proud to say I belonged to the old Stonewall Brigade, I stood steady with it at Sharpsburg, and that’s the highest honor that can come to any man!”

  Stone looked at the medals, and they were the usual ribbons and tin junk they gave you if you were there and somehow survived, and if you didn’t survive, they sent the whole clanking mess to your mother.

  “I imagine you must have medals of your own that you treasure,” Whiteside said, returning to his seat, leaving the display case open beside him. “Would you like to get them?”

  “Don’t have them anymore.”

  “What happened?”

  “Traded them for a bag of groceries.”

  Whiteside turned purple. “You gave up your medals for one bag of groceries!”

  “The man said that’s all they were worth.”

  “You should’ve shot him!”

  “I was mainly interested in the groceries.”

  Whiteside stared at him in horror, then an expression of sympathy came over his face. “I’ve run into men like you, demoralized by our defeat, but just remember we old soldiers must always remain brothers no matter what our circumstances become. When you go to the bunkhouse, and become one of my cowboys, we’ll still be comrades in arms, and if you ever feel the need to speak with me about anything, don’t hesitate to knock on my door.”

  Dinner was over, and Cassandra watched her husband and their new hand make their way through the moonlit darkness toward Truscott’s cabin. She stood at the dining-room window, a cup of tea in her fingers, wondering about the woman John Stone had followed. What must she’ve been like, to have a man so much in love with her?

  Cassandra wished she knew some of her tricks, because her husband wasn’t that affectionate. If he had his choice, he’d rather shoot the breeze with other ex-soldiers, and she accepted that, as long as she could be part of his life.

  John Stone had his charms, but he didn’t have the greatness of Colonel Gideon Whiteside. Stone had been sullen and withdrawn throughout the meal, although sometimes he’d said something pointed, or made a wry observation. He’d been respectful to her husband, deferring to him as a junior commander would to his senior, but it was obvious that Stone thought her husband a blowhard. It was true that Gideon was rather grand in his mode of expression, but he was no blowhard.

  She watched as they walked side by side across the yard, and Stone towered over her husband. Stone had wide shoulders and looked solidly packed; he must’ve been spectacular in his uniform. Too bad he’d become a morose young man, but that was part of his immaturity. A real man like her husband would be constant in his temperament regardless of outer circumstances, and that’s why they’d given him a regiment in the Stonewall Brigade, whereas John Stone only led a troop of cavalry, just another captain, quite a low rank without nearly as much responsibility.

  When Stone looked at her during dinner, she felt uneasy. Now alone, she hugged herself and laughed softly, because it was so amusing. She looked like the woman he loved, and both of them were becoming spooked. It was like a game, or the ingredients for a French farce. Sometimes she imagined she was the woman, and sometimes Stone thought she was too, to judge by the passion that came into his eyes during those moments.

  She saw them stop at Truscott’s cabin, and her husband knocked on the door. A few moments later the door opened, and then Truscott put on his hat and came outside.

  Stone looked at Duke Truscott in the light of the moon, and read him as a tough son of a bitch. He had a thick brown mustache that drooped down at the ends, and his jaw looked as if it had been carved out of granite. His skin was deeply tanned, he was around forty years old, and whiskey was on his breath.

  “I’d like to introduce you to our new hand,” Whiteside said to Truscott. “This is John Stone, and he was with the cavalry during the war.”

  Truscott looked Stone up and down. “You ever work cattle?”

  “No.”

  Truscott turned to Whiteside. “How d’you expect me to take this herd to Kansas with a crew of inexperienced men?”

  “You’ll have to teach them what they need to know. Captain Stone here is skilled with horses. Perhaps he can handle the remuda.”

  “We’ve already got a wrangler. This man’ll ride the drag.”

  “Whatever you say.” Whiteside shook Stone’s hand. “The best of luck to you. If you ever want to talk, just knock on my door.”

  Colonel Whiteside walked back to the house, and Stone saw Cassandra standing behind the dining-room window.

  “Let’s understand each other from the get-go,” Truscott said to Stone. “I don’t care what you did in the war, and I don’t care if you’re Whiteside’s long-lost brother from New Orleans, you work for me—you do what I say. Get it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m a fair man, or at least I try to be, but a man gives me trouble, I’ll fire him on the spot, and I don’t care if it’s in the middle of Indian Territory. Go to the bunkhouse and report to the segundo. Any questions?”

  “Colonel Whiteside said I could take tomorrow off, because I have a friend who might want to sign up.”

  “He got any ’sperience with cattle?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Truscott spat into the dust. “I never seen such a screwed-up outfit in my life!”

  “Why do you stay?”

  Truscott looked at him, narrowing his eyes. “My personal life is none of yer goddamned business. I told you to report to the segundo. Get goin’.”

  Stone tipped his hat, then strolled toward the bunkhouse. He figured there weren’t many foreman jobs available, and Truscott had to take what he could get.

  Stone came to the bunkhouse, and a grou
p of men sat around a table, playing cards. Others lay on their bunks, reading old worn-out magazines in the dim light of the lantern. One young man sat on his footlocker, repairing a bridle.

  “Who’s the segundo?” Stone asked.

  “Who wants to know?” Asked a heavyset man with grizzled jowls and thick lips.

  “My name’s John Stone, and I’ve just been hired.”

  The man stood, and he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Thick slabs of muscle covered his torso, and the mangy cur sitting next to him arose and growled softly at Stone.

  “I’m the segundo” he said. “Name’s Braswell. Take any empty bunk. You eat yet?”

  “Yep.”

  “Know anything about cattle?”

  “Nope.”

  “’At’s what I figgered.” The segundo introduced Stone around the bunkhouse, and Stone knew he’d never remember all the names. Finally they came to the Canadian lumberjack.

  “We’ve met,” Stone said.

  Moose Roykins shook his hand happily. “We’ll have a damn good time!”

  A Negro tall as Stone emerged through the back door.

  “This is our cook,” the segundo said. “Ephraim’s his name, and he may be a nigra, but he knows his grits.”

  Stone looked at Ephraim, and felt ill at ease. Stone’s family had owned slaves before the war, and it was difficult for Stone to regard them as free men, with the same rights and privileges as he.

  Ephraim gazed at Stone, and at first it appeared that Ephraim didn’t like what he saw, but then Ephraim grinned and held out his hand. “Howdy.”

  Stone hesitated a moment, then shook hands with him. “Howdy.”

  The dog at the segundo’s feet growled, and the segundo kicked him halfway across the room. “I toldja to shut up, you damned flea-bitten son of a whore!” Then he turned to Stone and said, “We rise at dawn, and tomorrow we’re doin’ what we been doin’ for the past month, formin’ up the herd, but I don’t suppose you know anything about that.”