by Len Levinson
“I was wondering,” Whiteside managed to get out, “whether you’d be interested in buying my ranch, including the herd.”
“How much?”
“How does twenty-five thousand dollars sound?”
The count looked at him with haughty repugnance. “Do not be idiotic. Your cattle are worth little in Texas, and your ranch property is a joke. But vhy do you want to sell, Vhiteside? I thought you vere sending your herd to Kansas. That is vhere to get your price.”
“I need the money now.”
The count wrinkled his brow, lay down his paintbrush, and swaggered toward Whiteside, examining his features as if a secret lay hidden within them.
“I vill offer ten thousand dollars,” he said.
Whiteside smiled. “Now you’re idiotic.”
“Am I? Vell, if you think so, leave.”
The count returned to his canvas and resumed painting, putting green on the grass of the prairie. It was as if Whiteside had ceased to exist, and Whiteside became perturbed. The man wasn’t even an American, and was treating him like dirt.
“Personally,” said Whiteside, “I don’t know why they let people like you into this country. You don’t know how to behave.”
The count raised his courtly eyebrows and chuckled. “They let every lowlife and criminal into this country, so vhy should they not let me in? I mean, they even let you in.”
“I was born here, sir,” Whiteside said proudly. “This is my country. I have given my blood for it, and now here I am insulted by a man who knows nothing of our proud traditions, and in fact doesn’t care about them at all.”
The count looked at Whiteside, then threw his paintbrush in a bowl. “Haf a seat,” he said. “Vould you like something to drink?”
“Whiskey, if you please.”
The count wiped his hands, then pulled a sash. A few moments later the butler arrived, and the count whispered something into his ear. Then the count sat on a chair opposite Whiteside, and Whiteside thought he’d taught the count a lesson about America. He was sure the count would treat him with greater respect in the future, because he’d stood up to him, and showed he couldn’t be pushed around.
The count rested his ankle upon his knee, and he wore highly polished Prussian officer’s boots. “I belief you know I vas a soldier, and I too fought in a var. It vas not a big var, but it was a var, and I saw my share of blood.
“I served on the staff of Field Marshal Helmuth Karl Bernhard Graf von Moltke, whom most Americans haf never heard of, but he was a great man, in the same class, I vould say, as your Generals Lee and Grant. One day I heard him say that most battles are von before the first shot is fired, because preparation is everything.
“Although I manage this ranch, I am still essentially a soldier, and I see all life as var. Therefore, when I came to this area, I made certain I had sufficient supplies, I made certain my location was correct, and I made it my business to find out everything about the people I vould be dealing vith. Haf you ever heard of the Pinkerton Agency.”
“Pinkerton was a spy for the Yankees,” said Whiteside derisively.
“Undt a very good one. I hired the Pinkertons to investigate every person of consequence in this region.”
The count gazed coolly at Whiteside, and Whiteside went pale. The butler entered with two glasses of whiskey, a bottle, and a folder. He served the whiskey and handed the folder to the count.
“Drink up,” the count said to Whiteside. “You are going to need it.”
Whiteside raised the glass to his lips, and his hand was trembling. The count sipped his whiskey, then opened the folder.
“Your real name is George Valmsley and you vere born in New York City, in 1820, the son of an actress, father unknown. Your mother traveled frequently, taking you vith her, undt your career on the stage began vhen you vere four. You vere first arrested at the age of ten for picking pockets. You vere arrested again at the age of twelve for petty thievery.”
“You don’t have to read that,” Whiteside said in a shaking voice.
“Oh, but I do, my dear colonel. After all, you told me I am not fit to be in this country, because I did not shed my blood for it, undt I feel compelled to introduce you to several facts. Please permit me to continue. After getting out of prison, you moved to Philadelphia and secured a position in a bank, but then, at the age of twenty-two, you vere arrested for embezzling bank funds, undt vent to prison again.”
“I’ve heard enough of this,” Whiteside said, getting to his feet.
“Sit down,” the count said in a deadly voice.
“I’m afraid I’m not feeling well.”
“You are going to feel a lot vorse if you do not sit down.”
Whiteside didn’t know what to do. Bending his knees, he dropped heavily into the chair.
“Then it appears you began your career of marrying vomen for their money, sucking them dry, undt leaving them. A few of your vives have died under mysterious circumstances, but no one has ever been able to charge you vith murder. Then the var came, your name was called for conscription, so you fled south to Virginia, but then the Confederacy drafted you. You deserted them too. They caught you undt put you in prison, but you promised to be a good soldier in the future, undt they released you. You were sent to Sharpsburg, but deserted again, undt vhile fleeing the battlefield, you vere vounded by cannon.
“Since the war, you haf played the part of wounded hero, knowing full well that most people never check the facts. But I do, because I served under Field Marshal von Moltke, undt learned my lessons well.” The count folded the dossier, placed it on the table beside him, and drank some whiskey.
Whiteside’s back had been to the wall many times in his life, and he was completely calm, calculating his chances. “What are you going to do?” He asked.
“I am not going to do anything,” the count replied. “Your life has no significance to me at all. I just vanted you to know that you must not play var hero vith me, because I am not a fool like everyone else around here.”
Whiteside finished off his whiskey and placed the glass on the table beside him. “My cattle are still for sale.”
“Your cattle? But they are your vife’s cattle, no? Her money bought them, am I wrong?”
“Under the laws of this country, my wife’s property is my property, and I’m legally entitled to sell it. You offered me ten thousand dollars, and I accept. If you have the money here, we can transact the business right now.”
“Not so fast,” the count said. “How do I know how many cattle you haf, and vhat their condition is? I must see vhat I am buying.”
“My cattle are in San Jacinto Valley, if you want to examine them.”
“I know vhere they are,” the count replied. “I even know vhere Rosalie Cowper is.”
Whiteside’s face turned red. “Now just a minute!”
The count smiled. “You are an utter scoundrel, but I think Maybe ve can do business, Vhiteside, or should I call you Valmsley? Vith a man like you, it is hard to know.” The count threw back his head and laughed.
Stone steered the wagon into the yard of the Triangle Spur, and Cassandra jumped to the ground before the wheels stopped turning. She ran to the bunkhouse, flung open the door, and saw Slipchuck nailing the table together, because it had broken down during lunch.
“Do you know where Truscott is!” Cassandra asked, gazing in amazement at the spindly old man in front of her. How could this man possible survive a cattle drive?
Slipchuck knew he was talking to the boss lady, and drew himself to attention. “He’s thataway!” He replied, pointing vaguely in a southwesterly direction.
“How far?”
“An hour’s ride.”
“Tell him I must speak with him as soon as possible.”
“But he told me to stay behind and—”
Slipchuck cut off the sentence in midair, because her eyes were absolutely ferocious. “Yes, ma’am,” he said.
He turned and ran out the door with a vitali
ty that surprised her, like a young boy in an old man’s body. Maybe he’ll make it after all, she thought whimsically, as she looked around the bunkhouse.
She’d never been here before, and it reeked with tobacco smoke and the odor of stale whiskey. The floor hadn’t been swept for weeks, maybe months, and had leaves and pinecones upon it. The cuspidor was overflowing in the corner. No beds were made, and pictures of naked women were nailed to the walls. Filthy clothes were strewn everywhere. How can they live like this?
A figure moved in the shadows, and she became frightened. “Who’s there?”
Ephraim stepped forward, shuffling his feet. “Jus’ me, ma’am.”
“You’re the cook, aren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I hear you’re very good.”
He clasped his hands together and bent slightly. “Yes, ma’am. I tries my best.”
“Where’s your kitchen?”
“This way, ma’am.”
He led her into the shadows, through a passageway, and then into a medium-sized room with a big black stove in the corner. The room was immaculately clean, and the aroma from the pots was heavenly.
“What are you cooking?”
“Beef stew. Care to try some?”
She watched as he ladled stew into a tin bowl, and thought him a fine example of his race, with his high cheekbones, beautiful brown eyes, and a physique that reminded her of John Stone, but he’d been in a fight recently, and his face was badly bruised.
He handed her the bowl, and she spooned some up. It tasted better than it smelled, and that was saying something. “Where did you learn to cook?” She asked.
“My momma taught me.”
“She taught you well. Where is she now.”
“She’s dead.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, but at least she gave you something to remember her by.”
“That’s so,” he replied. “It’s as if she’s still feedin’ me.”
“Did you hear me speaking with that old man a little while ago?”
“That’s ole Slipchuck, ma’am, and yes, I did hear.”
“I sent him for Truscott, because we’re taking the herd up the trail immediately. How soon can you have the chuck wagon ready to roll?”
“I’d have to go to town fo’ supplies, and then it’ll take a few hours to load the wagon and hitch the horses.”
Cassandra realized it was impossible to get the herd moving in the morning, but maybe the next morning. Yes, the next morning.
“I want you in town when the store opens in the morning, and charge everything to my account.”
“Somebody will have to come wif me. You see, ma’am, a darky like me can’t buy all that stuff unless a white man is along to vouch fo’ me.”
“Pick anybody you want, and tell him it was my orders.”
Suddenly it hit her. She’d have to leave the ranch too, otherwise her creditors would find her, and maybe they could put her in jail! She’d have to go into hiding, or go up the trail!
“You all right, ma’am.”
It was the best all-round solution, and when they reached Kansas, she’d ride ahead and make arrangements to sell the herd in Abilene. Then she could pay off her creditors, and hopefully she’d have enough left to start another venture.
“I’m fine,” she said to Ephraim. “Well, it’s been nice meeting you. I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot of each other from now on.”
She turned and walked out of the kitchen, passing through the main room of the bunkhouse, and the stench was incredible. She couldn’t understand how Truscott permitted it, but evidently he didn’t care how the men lived, as long as they did their work.
She didn’t see it the same way. Hereafter she’d supervise the men more carefully. They obviously had little self-respect. She couldn’t let them live like this.
She crossed the yard, heading for the main house, as the sun dropped behind the horizon, shooting rays into the sky. She felt better, as if she were fighting back, and she’d get the herd to Abilene even if she had to work side by side with the men.
She entered the main house, climbed the stairs to her room, and dropped into the chair beside her bed, looking at the tip of the sun as it sank below the horizon. The sky went green for a split second, and then was suffused with a bright red glow.
She pulled off her boots and leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes. A faint perspiration was on her forehead and cheeks, and her eyelashes were curled like tiny scimitars.
There was nothing more to do, and she was free to relax, think, and test her capacity to handle the pain.
Evidently Gideon had taken ten thousand dollars of her money, and bought that dancing girl a house. No one ever had betrayed her before, and it was a bitter pill.
She couldn’t imagine how anybody could be so cruel. Her mother had told her to beware of men, but she thought she could trust Colonel Gideon Whiteside.
Of course, she’d never known much about him. He’d been friendly with a group of other ex-officers, and she assumed he was like them, men of honor who’d given everything they had for the Cause. People from the better class of society certainly had respected Gideon in New Orleans.
She began to doubt her perceptions. Maybe she was passing too hasty a judgment on him. Perhaps there was a reasonable explanation, although it was hard to imagine what one was.
She’d give him a chance to explain, and reserve judgment until then. Yes, that was the proper way. A person was supposed to be innocent until proven guilty.
She arose and unzipped her dress, stepping out of it and putting on a comfortable cotton frock without a flounce or lace on the collar. She had work to do, because she was going up the trail to Kansas. She’d heard of other women who’d done it, and if they could, by God so could she.
She ran down the stairs to the kitchen, and saw Agnes, her maid, putting up vegetables in jars.
“Agnes,” Cassandra said, “I’m afraid there’s been a change in plans. We’re moving the herd out day after tomorrow, and I’m going too. You can come along with us, but if you don’t, I’m afraid tomorrow will be your last day.”
Agnes was forty-eight years old, with short, straight graying black hair, and a grin came over her rawboned, hard-working country-woman features. “You’d take me with you, ma’am?”
“If you don’t mind waiting until Abilene for your pay.”
“I been hearin’ cowboys talkin’ about going up the trail so much it’s been comin’ out of my ears, and I always wanted to know what it’d be like myself.”
“Here’s your chance,” Cassandra replied.
“How will you and Colonel Whiteside be travelin’, ma’am?”
Cassandra looked away. “I don’t think Colonel Whiteside will be coming with us.”
Tomahawk stood at the edge of the corral, watching Stone approach, his hat low over his eyes, his guns hung low, and a certain looseness in his gait that Tomahawk had never seen before.
“Hello, Tomahawk,” Stone said, patting him on the mane. “What’s been going on?”
Tomahawk smelled the woman on his shirt, and noticed the gentleness of his touch.
“Taking good care of you?”
Stone walked around Tomahawk, looking him over, making sure there were no sores or other signs of trouble, tapped him on the rear left hoof. Tomahawk craned his neck around and looked at him with his huge eyes.
“We’re going to Kansas pretty soon,” Stone said. “It’s going to be a hell of a trip, but you take care of me, and I’ll take care of you. Is it a deal?”
Tomahawk whinnied, and Stone stepped back. It was as if the animal understood what he said, but that was impossible.
“Rest as much as you can, because it’s going to be rough until we get to Abilene. See you in the morning.”
Stone turned and walked away, and Tomahawk shook his head from side to side. Then he turned and looked at the other horses in the corral. They were milling about, with nothing to do until one of the co
wboys had someplace to go, and then it was off with no notion of where you were going.
Tomahawk had been owned by cowboys who’d mistreated him, and it had been a harsh life. But the new boss never mistreated him, although he was awfully forgetful. Maybe now, after the woman, he wouldn’t forget so much.
Tomahawk raised his head and saw a palomino mare across the dust of the corral. She held her head high, her eyes bright, and she looked directly at him. He bowed his head and moved toward her.
It was dark when Duke Truscott climbed off his horse in front of Cassandra’s house. He was dusty, his ass hurt, and he wondered what the boss lady wanted.
He didn’t like to deal with her, because she didn’t know a goddamn thing about ranching. Neither did her husband, but at least he was a man. Women could drive a man crazy.
He knocked on the door, and it was opened by Agnes, with whom he was on friendly terms.
“What does she want?” Truscott asked, removing his hat.
“I think I’d better let her tell you, Ramrod. Take a load off yer feet, and how’s about some lemonade?”
“If you can pour a little whiskey into it, Miss Agnes, I’d be grateful.”
She walked away, and he sat on one of the chairs. He’d been cutting cattle all day, and was exhausted. But the herd was coming together. Should be able to move out in about another week.
Cassandra walked into the room, a big smile on her face, and Agnes was a few feet behind her, the glass of spiked lemonade on her tray, and she also was smiling. What the hell’s goin’ on here? Truscott wondered as he rose to his feet.
“You wanted to see me, ma’am?”
“Be seated, Mr. Truscott, and drink your lemonade.”
Truscott felt like a steer being sent to slaughter as he picked the glass of lemonade off the tray. Cassandra sat opposite him and crossed her legs, gazing at him, trying to measure the man.
She knew he didn’t want to have anything to do with her, but somehow she had to get him to do what she wanted. “There’s been a change in plans,” Cassandra told him, “due to a severe emergency. Today is Tuesday, and I’m afraid we have to put the herd on the trail first thing Thursday morning. I know it won’t be easy, but it’s an absolute necessity.”