Devil's Brand

by Len Levinson

  It was crisscrossed with deep scratches from her long fingernails. The blood had dried now, and it looked like brown ink.

  “I am very sorry about that, schatzchen” she said. “Sometimes I go crazy vhen I make love. I cannot help myself. I vill kiss it better.”

  She came behind him and touched her lips to his back. He turned around, and they embraced. She looked into his eyes. “You look sad,” she said. “I hope you do not feel bad about anything.”

  “The only thing I feel bad about is I don’t want to leave. Isn’t there some way I can stay for a while?”

  “I do not think so, schatzchen. You are just a poor cowboy, and it vould never vork.”

  “We could get along all right, with the both of us working.”

  “I do not vant to get along all right. I vant to get along veil. Undt besides, you vill only leave me someday, because all the others haf, undt you are no different from any other man, except in one particular area, vhere you are quite excellent, by the way. I like you very much, undt if you were as vealthy as the count, I vould probably fall in love vith you, but since you are not, there is nothing to fall in love vith. The count is a jealous man, as I told you before, and he vould not hesitate to kill you, so I think you had better leave.”

  “I’m not easy to kill,” he said, pulling her closer to him.

  She pressed the tips of her fingers against his chest, and pushed him away. “Do not get any ideas,” she said. “It did not mean anything at all.”

  “That’s not true.” He reached for her again, because it felt so good to touch a woman after such a long time.

  “You must not make it more than it was, schatzchen. Please go now. Do not start trouble for me.”

  Stone was a southern gentleman, and would only push so far. “Maybe we’ll run into each other someday,” he said, stepping back.

  “That vould be lovely, but please put on your boots.”

  He sat on a chair and reached for his socks, as she lit a cigarette and watched him. He pulled on his boots, donned his shirt, and strapped on his matched Colts. Then he picked up his hat and held it in his hands.

  “I’ll never forget you,” he said.

  “That is what the cowboys say to all the girls,” she replied. “Good-bye, Johnny. Try to stay out of trupple.”

  Stone pecked her lips, then moved into the hall, putting on his old Confederate cavalry hat, tilting it to a rakish angle. “If you ever want something money can’t buy, just call my name, and I’ll be there.”

  He winked, touched his finger to the brim of his hat, and strolled down the hall toward the stairs.

  “What can I do for you, Mrs. Whiteside?” Asked the elderly lady behind the desk.

  “I’m interested in purchasing a certain piece of property, and I’d like to know who owns it.” She told the clerk the address.

  “Of course, Mrs. Whiteside.”

  The old lady, who wore a green eyeshade, pulled down a big book, laid it on the desk, and flipped through the pages. “Here it is,” she said. “That property belongs to Miss Rosalie Cowper.”

  “Who’s she?”

  “One of the dancers at the Last Chance Saloon.” The old lady raised one of her brows, revealing her bleary rheumy eyeball.

  “When did she buy the property?” Cassandra asked.

  “About a month ago. Oh, my goodness!”

  The old lady stared at the book, an expression of surprise on her face.

  “What’s wrong?” Cassandra asked.

  “It says here that she bought the property from your husband!”

  Cassandra felt a dagger pierce her heart. “How much was the property?” Cassandra asked.

  “Ten thousand dollars.”

  For the third time that day, Cassandra nearly collapsed. She reached to the desk for support.

  “Is anything wrong, Mrs. Whiteside?

  “Haven’t been feeling well lately.”

  “Maybe you should see Dr. Linden.”

  Cassandra walked out of City Hall. Weathered wooden benches leaned against the wall, and a group of cowboys sat on them. She lowered herself onto an empty spot, and tried to assimilate what was happening. It was like a nightmare where circumstances kept going from bad to worse, while her terror mounted.

  She felt as though her world had been torn apart, and didn’t know what was real. Gideon was stealing her money and giving it to a dancing girl? It was the kind of thing a cowboy might do, but not a man like her husband. He was one of the Confederacy’s great heroes, he’d left his arm at Sharpsburg, it was impossible.

  The written record didn’t lie. She was confused, in pain, with tears streaming down her cheeks. She had no close friends, her husband was her life, and she had nowhere to turn.

  The unmistakable aroma of cow manure arose to her nostrils. She saw a filth-encrusted handkerchief hanging in front of her face, held by the cowboy sitting beside her. It was splattered with a suspicious substance, and a dead beetle was entwined in its shrouds. The odor suggested that the cowboy had used it to wipe off his boots.

  “No thank you,” she said.

  “It always hurts to see a lady cry,” the cowboy said, and it looked as though he were on the verge of tears himself.

  Cassandra couldn’t help smiling. “Thank you anyway,” she replied, rising to her feet, “and if you’re looking for a job, I’m hiring at the Triangle Spur.”

  “You the boss lady of the Triangle Spur?” The cowboy asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Now I know why you’re cryin’!”

  The other cowboys guffawed, and Cassandra felt offended. “What’s wrong with the Triangle Spur?” She asked.

  “Waal,” the cowboy drawled out the side of his mouth, “they say the Triangle Spur has got the most stove-up cowboys in Texas.”

  “That’s not true!” Cassandra said indignantly. “They’re as fine a bunch of men who ever rode the range!”

  The cowboys burst into laughter, holding their sides. Cassandra walked toward the Barlowe House, and the big brass clock suspended from the front of the bank said it was nearly one o’clock in the afternoon. She was anxious to return to the ranch, because no matter what her husband was doing, she had to get the herd moving.

  She looked back and forth, hoping to see John Stone, but he wasn’t visible on the crowded sidewalks. She decided to return to the Barlowe House and have lunch at one of the window tables, where she might see him on the sidewalk.

  I’m going to stay calm, she said to herself as she crossed the street. I’m going to get through this somehow.

  Stone sat in a corner of the Last Chance Saloon, sipping a glass of whiskey, and he hadn’t felt this relaxed in years. It was as though a thousand tiny anxieties had evaporated in Veronika’s arms.

  It had been totally insane for a while there, more like two tigers coupling in the mountains than two human beings. His back was ripped to shreds, and he had sucker bites all over his body.

  Now he realized what he’d given up during the years he searched for Marie, and it had been his essential manhood, he’d snuffed the life out of it, for Marie’s sake.

  What if Marie still were alive, and what if he saw her again someday? How could he tell her? Well, maybe she’d have a lot to tell him too. They’d tell each other, have a laugh, and go to bed.

  Marie had been subtle, able to drive him wild with a sigh, or a sly little movement, whereas Veronika had nearly broken him into pieces. Her mouth had been ambrosia, her breasts ripe fruit. No longer did he want to punch a stranger in the mouth. It was all gone, and he realized how unhealthy it’d been, to be without the love of women for so long.

  He looked around the saloon, and it was the usual afternoon crowd of cowpokes, gamblers, Mexican vaqueros, and ladies who’d do anything for a price. He wished he could’ve spent the afternoon with Veronika.

  He wanted to go back to her, because he wasn’t nearly finished. There were lots of things he wanted to do, and was sure she’d be willing. They didn’t g
et much wilder than Veronika. But he’d probably never see her again, because of the count. She’d rather be a rich man’s darling than a poor man’s slave.

  He looked around the saloon at the sporting ladies, and didn’t want to pay for it. He’d feel degraded, couldn’t do it, so he’d have to find someone else, but what woman in her right mind wanted a poor wandering cowboy?

  If he were a rancher, with his own spread, then he could have any woman he wanted. Somehow he had to learn the cattle business, but that’s what he was doing. He was going up the trail with the Triangle Spur, and that should teach him what he needed to know. He’d save his money and build a little camp, hire a few cowboys, and brand mavericks. Many a herd had started in just that manner.

  He wondered what brand he’d use. Maybe the Bar JS, for his initials? He dreamed of his own herd, his ranch house in the middle of the prairie, and a good woman at his side, but somehow her face was indistinct.

  “I thought you’d be in here!” said Cassandra Whiteside.

  He raised his eyes, and for a moment felt a stab of remorse for what he’d done with Veronika, but then realized it was Cassandra Whiteside, his employer.

  He jumped to his feet. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I asked the waiter at the Barlowe House what the most lowdown, filthy saloon in town was, and he said this one. I thought you’d be here.”

  “Weren’t we supposed to meet at three?”

  “Something’s happened. I’ll tell you on the way back to the ranch.”

  “Can I finish my whiskey?”

  “Oh, God—go ahead!”

  He downed it, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and followed her out of the Last Chance Saloon.

  “May I see you tomorrow?” Asked Gideon Whiteside, standing in the vestibule of the home he’d bought for Miss Rosalie Cowper.

  “I’ll be busy,” she replied. “Sorry.”

  His coat was on, and he was ready to leave, but he said, “Busy doing what?”

  “Goin’ shoppin’ with a friend of mine. Care to come along?”

  “No thank you,” he replied, because her shopping trips were always hazardous to his wallet. “But I hope you’re not seeing another man behind my back, are you?”

  “I’m a one-man woman,” she replied. “You got three months to git that money, so’s we can git hitched. After that, I ain’t promisin’ nothin’, Gideon.”

  “I understand, darling. Now give me a kiss and I’ll be on my way.”

  She pursed her lips, and he touched them with his, pressing his body against hers, feeling her firm young breasts, becoming intoxicated.

  She opened the door. “Nice seein’ you again, Gideon. There’s nobody I’d rather take a bath with than good old Gideon.”

  He raised his finger to his lips. “Ssshhhhh …” he said, turning and walking away.

  He placed his hat on his head, tapped it down, and headed for the center of town, a spring in his step that hadn’t been there before. That was the effect she had on him. He felt young and sleek again, capable of anything, instead of the graying wreck he saw in the mirror every morning.

  Somehow he had to get his hands on a large sum of money, so he could stay with her longer, and there was only one thing to do: sell the herd to Count Von Falkenheim at the Diamond D or Shannon at the Bar XT.

  He didn’t think there’d be any trouble. Everybody thought he held the purse strings of the Triangle Spur, and Cassandra played along with it. He’d take the money and run with Rosalie, maybe to St. Louis or some other big city where he could find a rich new wife.

  It was getting more difficult all the time, and he’d probably have to settle for an old lady next time, with pouches under her eyes and varicose veins. It was too horrible to contemplate, but it was the only way to get money without working, and there wasn’t much work for a one-armed man who thought everything beneath him.

  He glanced into the street, and was startled to see his wife and John Stone in the buckboard, heading his way. He ducked into the nearest alley and stood in the shadows, peering at them. It looked as though they were engaged in serious discussion, as their wagon passed through the traffic in the middle of the wide boulevard.

  He waited until they were gone, then slipped out of the alley and headed toward the stable, to get his horse. He intended to visit Von Falkenheim at the Diamond D, and begin negotiations for sale of the herd.

  He thought of lying in the tub with Rosalie, while she did all those wicked things, and quickened his pace, because the sooner he sold the herd, the sooner he’d be back in the tub with her.

  Cassandra never did wicked things. She was a lady, and far too proper. But Rosalie was a dancing girl, and she’d do anything.

  The cowboys and loafers watched Whiteside walking swiftly over the sidewalk, swinging his arm vigorously through the air, on his way to the Diamond D, to sell his wife down the river.

  “Now let me get this straight,” Stone said as the wagon rocked over the trail. “If we don’t move the herd out tomorrow morning, you’re wiped out completely?”

  “I’m afraid that’s so,” she said.

  “Don’t know much about cattle, but didn’t think they could be moved that fast.”

  “I’ll have to talk with Truscott as soon as I return. He’ll do it for me. He’s the finest foreman in Texas.”

  “I’ve never seen him sober.”

  “The man knows his cattle.”

  Stone turned sideways and looked at her. “Why do we have to leave so quickly?”

  “A large sum of money is missing, and drafts have been written against it. When the holders of those drafts can’t get paid, they’ll take the cattle. That’s why I’ve got to get the herd out of here, otherwise I’m ruined, and you might see me in a saloon someday, selling what those other girls sell.”

  “I’d never let that happen to you.”

  She laughed darkly. “What could you do?”

  Stone made a fist and flexed his arm. “I’ve got this, and with it I could take care of you and me until you got on your feet.”

  She looked at him, and was touched. “But you don’t even know me.”

  “I know you well enough. As long as I’m around, you’ll never have to sell yourself in the Last Chance Saloon.”

  “I think I’m going to cry.”

  She pulled her handkerchief out of her sleeve and sobbed softly. This was the cry she wanted to have when she’d been in town, but she hadn’t wanted anybody to see her. Now she could let go, and Stone placed his arm around her shoulders.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “They’ll have to fight the bunkhouse to get that herd, and I for one would hate to go against that bunch. They’re one mean crew of cowboys.”

  “But we don’t have enough of them for the drive. Last time I spoke with Truscott, he needed at least five more.”

  “We’ll make it—don’t you worry. But what’s the rush? What happened to your money?”

  “Somebody spent it, but – Ah – That’s personal, and I don’t think I should discuss it with you.”

  “I know who spent it,” Stone said. “You don’t have to say a word.”

  A tear rolled down her cheek, and then she sobbed. His arm still was around her shoulder, and he hugged her tightly, to give her strength.

  “I can’t believe he’d do this to me,” she said, pain and hurt in her voice.

  Tears rolled down her cheeks, and she sobbed uncontrollably as the betrayal sank deeper and deeper into her soul.

  Chapter Seven

  Atop his prancing horse, Gideon Whiteside admired the Diamond D’s huge main residence, constructed like an imperial Prussian hunting lodge, with chalet windows and a steep gabled roof, incongruous among the barns and other outbuildings nearby.

  Everything was freshly painted and in good repair, unlike the Triangle Spur, where everything was falling apart. Whiteside looked at the cowboys, and they were a hardy bunch, unlike the physical wrecks and misfits at the Triangle Spur. No wonder nobody respects
me, Whiteside thought. I own a second-rate spread, but not for long.

  He dismounted in front of the main house, tied his horse to the rail, and marched stalwartly toward the front door, knocking on it with his fist.

  The door was opened by a middle-aged man in a butler’s uniform. “Yes?”

  “I’d like to see the count, if you don’t mind.”

  “Who shall I say is calling, sir?” The butler asked in a German accent.

  “Colonel Whiteside.”

  “Please haf a seat, Colonel. I vill see if the count is available.”

  Whiteside dropped into the nearest chair and looked at paintings of well-dressed men and women, and the landscapes of Prussia interspersed with mounted heads of buffalo, antelope, wild pig, and mountain sheep. There was a huge fireplace made out of boulders, and a suit of armor in a corner, standing like a sentinel.

  This is what real money can do, Whiteside thought, realizing he must, for the sake of comfort, start marrying wealthier women.

  He’d thought Cassandra was wealthy, but it turned out she didn’t have that much. He’d found her in the nick of time, though. He’d been penniless, nearly reduced to begging, when she’d come along. She was a patriotic girl, thank God, but she was too nice, and a little too old; he preferred slutty teenagers for companionship.

  The butler returned and bowed. “Vould you come vith me, please?”

  Whiteside arose and followed him up a flight of stairs, to a wide veranda facing the open prairie. At the edge of the veranda, standing at an easel, was Count Von Falkenheim, a paintbrush in his hand. Beside him was a table with pots of paint, and he was dressed in the style of a Prussian nobleman, with tight pants and billowing shirtsleeves.

  “I didn’t know you painted,” Whiteside said, gazing at the landscape on the canvas. “It’s quite good, but personally, I prefer battle scenes that show the glory of—”

  “Vhat do you vant!” The count said sharply, interrupting him.

  “Well … I …”

  The count shot a cold glance at him, then dabbed a white cloud onto the blue sky. He appeared annoyed, and that made Whiteside more nervous.