by Len Levinson
She paused to let him speak, and he stared at her incredulously, thinking that all women were insane, but he couldn’t tell her that, because she was the boss lady.
“Ma’am,” he said stiffly, “it just plain can’t be done.”
“I understand that,” she replied. “An ordinary ramrod could never work under that kind of pressure, but you’re different, Truscott, and you know it. You know more about cattle than anyone else in the world, and the men’ll do anything you say. You can do it—I know you can.”
Truscott raised his right palm. “You don’t realize what it takes to form a herd, ma’am. Yer cattle is scattered all over the county.”
“I thought you’ve been rounding them up.”
“We don’t have ’em yet by a long shot.”
“How many do you have?”
“Around two thousand head.”
“We’ll leave with them, and whatever else you can gather tomorrow.”
“But, ma’am, you’re throwin’ away nearly half yer herd!”
“Two fifths, to be exact, and I know it, and I don’t like it, but you see, Mr. Truscott, if I don’t get that herd moving, I’ll be in serious financial difficulties, and I may not be able to pay your back wages.”
Truscott shrugged. “Could take my wages in cattle.”
“That’s true, and I’ll tell everybody you left me in the lurch, and you’ll see whether you ever work as a foreman again. But I’d hope it wouldn’t come to that, Mr. Truscott. I’d hope you’d follow orders, as the ramrod of the Triangle Spur.”
“What does yer husband say?”
“He has nothing to do with this. This is my ranch, bought with my money. Who hands you your wages at the end of every month? I’m in charge here, and I’ve given you your instructions. Are you or aren’t you going to follow them?”
Truscott finished off his glass of lemonade, and a tray appeared magically in front of him, in Agnes’s hands. He placed the glass onto it, and Agnes said, “Why don’t you stop bein’ a hardass, Truscott, and do what you’re told like all the rest of us around here?”
Truscott had known he was defeated when he saw both of them coming at him with lemonade. “I’ll do my best,” he grumbled, reaching for his hat. “Might as well git started right now.”
He arose and walked out of the living room. Cassandra and Agnes waited until he closed the door behind him, and then embraced triumphantly in the middle of the dining-room floor.
“The man ain’t never been borned,” Agnes said, “who can stand up to two determined women and some good old-fashioned lemonade!”
Truscott walked into the bunkhouse and saw four men gathered around the table, playing cards in the light of the lamp, and the rest of the cowboys in bed.
“Everybody up!” He hollered, whacking sleeping men over their heads with his leather gloves. “Let’s hit it—you sons of bitches!”
Stone was in a deep sleep when the gloves smacked his ear. He opened his eyes and rolled over to see what the commotion was about.
“Drop yer cocks and grab yer socks!” Truscott roared, pulling the segundo out of his bed by his hair, and the dog, who was wrapped in the segundo’s arms, yelped and kicked his legs, trying to escape from the dreaded ramrod of the Triangle Spur.
“On yer feet!”
Stone climbed down from his bunk, wearing only his underwear, and it reminded him of West Point, the surprise inspections in the middle of the night, but this was a bunkhouse that hadn’t been cleaned for many months, maybe even years, whereas the barracks at West Point had been spotless, and you could eat off the floor, should that ever become necessary.
The cowboys moved toward the open area near the table, and surrounded Truscott, who wore his old banged-up range hat with the high crown covered with dents and rain stains.
“Tomorrow we git up two hours early!” Truscott told them. “We got to form the herd, because we’re goin’ up the trail first thing on Thursday morning!”
“Ain’t enough time!” The segundo protested, a surprised look on his face.
“I just gave you yer orders!” Truscott replied. “Ephraim— check the chuck wagon, and if it needs any work, ask the segundo to assign somebody to do it! The rest of us’ll ride to San Jacinto Valley to form up the herd! Are there any questions!”
Blakemore raised his hand.
Truscott scowled at him. “I kinda thought the Yankee would open his big mouth. What is it now, Blakemore?”
“I was wonderin’ if we could have time to go to town and have our last good time, because Abilene is a long ways off.”
“You’re sayin’ you want to git drunk? Is that what I’m hearin’, Blakemore? Well tell me this. After we form up the herd, who’s gonna keep it together if all you cowboys go into town to get drunk?”
“Can’t the cattle just stay by themselves for the night?”
Truscott gazed at him for several seconds with an expression of supreme distaste, then stepped toward the door and said, “From now on, nobody goes to town without my permission! Git some sleep, cowboys—this might be yer last chance till we hit Abilene!”
Truscott slammed the door behind him, and the men looked at each other.
“Goddamn son of a bitch bastard whoremaster!” The segundo said, driving his fist into the wall.
The cabin shook, and the men grumbled as they returned to their bunks. They’d thought they’d have one last night on the town. But their next town would be Abilene, two to three months away.
Stone crawled into his bunk and pulled his scratchy wool blanket over his shoulders. Truscott was like an old sergeant major, and Stone one of the troopers, not the young captain who gave orders to the sergeant major.
Thursday morning he was going up the trail, and by the time he got to Abilene, he’d know everything necessary to go into the cattle business. He closed his eyes, and drifted off into the deep restful slumber that comes to the lucky man who’s made love to a passionate woman that day. A chorus of wheezes and snores surrounded him in the darkened bunkhouse as the full moon threw spears through the windows and the segundo cuddled up to his dog.
Around midnight, Gideon Whiteside rode his bay onto the grounds of his ranch, and saw all the lights out in the windows. He urged the bay into the stable, dismounted, loosened the cinch, and put the horse in a stall. Tomorrow morning one of the cowboys could remove the saddle and blanket. Whiteside didn’t feel like taking the time, because he was tired.
He walked toward the main house, wearing his dusty frock coat and wide curve-brimmed hat, the empty sleeve dangling weirdly in the breeze. He hadn’t wanted to come back, but thought it necessary to allay any suspicions Cassandra might have. He’d leave soon as he had the count’s money in his hand, and to hell with Cassandra and this pathetic excuse for a ranch.
He climbed the steps to the porch and opened the front door, stepping into the darkened living room. A ray of moonlight shone onto the painting of himself in the colonel’s uniform, and somehow he’d like to take it with him when he left, because it impressed people and added resonance to his charade.
He climbed the stairs to the second floor, made his way through the shadows to the room he shared with Cassandra, and went inside.
The window was open, and the breeze fluttered the white curtains. Cassandra lay on her stomach, wearing a thin white cotton nightgown, and Whiteside undressed silently, because he didn’t want to waken her.
“Is that you, Gideon?” she asked sleepily.
“Who else were you expecting, my dear?” he asked jovially, and then bent toward her, kissing her cheek.
“I’d like to speak with you, if you don’t mind.”
“Not now, dear. It’s late.”
“I’m afraid it can’t wait.”
She arose and lit the lamp, suffusing the room with a golden glow. Her face was pale, hair mussed, and eyes half-closed, but she still was beautiful, he could see that, though not as beautiful as Rosalie.
“Anything wrong?” he asked, peeling
off his shirt, showing the gray hairs on his chest and the bulge of stomach.
“I’m afraid there is,” Cassandra said. “Ten thousand dollars is missing from our accounts.”
Gideon put a mystified expression on his face. “What happened?”
“You sent it to the Denver Investor’s Syndicate—don’t you remember?”
“Oh, that,” he said with a munificent wave of his hand. “I remember now.”
“What was the money for?”
“A solid investment that might very well make us rich someday.”
“An investment in what?”
“Silver mines in Colorado. If just one of them hits the mother lode, we’ll be able to buy Texas.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He threw the shirt over the chair and stood bare-chested before her, the stump of his arm grotesque in the light of the lamp. “I didn’t think it was important,” he explained. “It was only ten thousand dollars, not a lot of money, and I wanted to surprise you, dear, when we struck the mother lode.”
He moved toward her, wrapped his arm around her waist, and kissed her cheek, but she pushed him away gently, and he was surprised, because usually she was a fool for affection.
“This is a surprise, Gideon,” she said, “and ten thousand dollars really is quite a lot of money. You’ve put us in rather a bad situation. Can’t you get the money back?”
“You couldn’t expect me to back out of a deal, could you? I mean, my reputation is on the line here.”
Her heart was beating like a tom-tom, and she felt lightheaded, as if she were going to faint. “I know about the house in San Antone,” she said softly.
“What house is that?” He asked.
“The house you bought for Miss Rosalie Cowper, on Chestnut Street.”
There was silence for a few seconds as they stared at each other across the bed. He wracked his mind for a response; he was an old flimflam man, had appeared in many plays, and could represent the full spectrum of a man’s moods.
He sighed, went limp, and dropped into a chair. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said, “but it’s not true. Miss Rosalie Cowper is the daughter of Captain Digby Cowper, my operations officer during the war. Captain Cowper fell at Sharpsburg, shielding my body from shrapnel with his own body. He lost his life, and I only lost my arm, but perhaps it would’ve been better the other way around, I don’t know.
“A short time ago, through a series of odd circumstances, I happened to meet his daughter in town, and she was destitute. I felt it incumbent upon me, as an officer and a gentleman, to help her, so I bought her that house. No matter what happens to her now, at least she’ll have a roof over her head, and that’s the least I can do for the daughter of the man who saved my life. But, my dear, I thought we could afford it.”
“If she was destitute, what did she do with the money she earns as a dancer in the Last Chance Saloon?”
Whiteside had no plausible answer, so the time had come to change the texture of his performance. He rose to his feet and banged the heel of his fist on the dresser.
“How dare you hurl these accusations at me, as if I were a common philanderer! What did you expect me to do when I saw the poor suffering daughter of the man who’d saved my life? Should I’ve turned my back on her? Why how can you even, in your wildest dreams, think there’d be anything improper between that child and me? It hurts me deeply, Cassandra, to know that you have so little faith in me. Evidently it’s not enough for a soldier to lose his arm on the field of battle. He has to be insulted and vilified as well, and be called a common thief by his own wife who swore, before God, not more than two years ago, to love and cherish him forever! Very well, if that’s what you think of me, I might as well leave, and join the other poor homeless soldiers roaming the frontier, taking our chances on the roulette wheel of life! I never dreamed I’d see the day when my own darling Cassandra would become a jealous petty shrew!”
Is that what I’ve become? She asked herself. Have I unjustly accused my husband? It was a plausible enough story—he’d helped the child of an old comrade. Gideon never had been knowledgeable about business, and would have no concept of the havoc he’d wreaked.
While Whiteside had been talking, he searched for a better way to sell his story, like any flimflam man trapped in a corner. “You asked before,” he said, “why she was out of funds while working as a dancer. The reason is she was sick much of last year, and couldn’t work. Her situation was quite desperate when I ran into her, and although it’s not polite to say, I must tell you that she was on the verge of becoming a prostitute. I’ve saved her from that, and if I was wrong, I’ll submit willingly to the judgment of God, but as for the money, Cassandra, you know there are some things, like honor and decency, that are far more important than mere filthy lucre!”
She wanted to believe him, so she did, because the alternative was too horrible and ugly. “Please forgive me, Gideon,” she said, “but I’ve been under tremendous strain lately.”
She ran toward him, and he took her in his arm.
“I understand, my dear,” he replied. “These are difficult times. People of honor have nowhere to turn.”
“I realize you don’t know anything about business,” she said, laying her head on his hairy chest, “but we’re in trouble because of that investment. I don’t think you realize the gravity of the situation, but we’ve got to get our cattle out of here before the creditors take them away.”
He patted her head with his hand, as though she were a cocker spaniel. “I’m sure you’ll take care of everything, my dear. You’re a bright girl. What do you propose?”
“I’ve already given orders to Truscott. We’re leaving for Abilene day after tomorrow.”
His hand froze in the air. “So soon?”
“We can’t wait. If the creditors get to the herd before we leave, there won’t be anything left, and they’ll take the land and buildings too. We’ll be penniless, homeless, at the mercy of the elements.”
“Is the herd formed?”
“Not yet.”
“When did you give Truscott the order?”
“Tonight.”
“He can’t possibly get the herd moving that quickly.”
“We’ll move whatever he’s got.”
His features sagged, and his eyes became calculating. If she moved the herd in two days, he wouldn’t be able to sell it to the count. He returned to the chair and put on his shirt.
“Where are you going?” She asked.
“Stay here,” he replied, and it was more a command than a request.
He put on his hat and left the bedroom, slamming the door behind him, his lips quivering with rage. How dare she give orders to Truscott without consulting with him first? The woman didn’t know her place in the marriage, but he’d show her, by God, after he finished in the bunkhouse.
He crossed the yard, swinging his arm back and forth, his lips pinched in determination. He’d lose Rosalie if the herd left before the count could buy it.
He threw open the door of the bunkhouse and marched inside. “Truscott!” he boomed.
There were grunts and moans underneath the blankets, but no one said anything. Drawing his Colt, he pointed it at the ceiling, drew back the hammer with his thumb, and pulled the trigger.
The shot echoed throughout the bunkhouse, and everybody went for his gun.
“This is Colonel Whiteside speaking! Somebody get Truscott! It’s an emergency!”
Whiteside holstered his gun as the bunkhouse came to life. He lit a match with his thumbnail and gave light to the lamp in the middle of the table, amid the deck of cards, dirty dishes, and assorted cruddy eating utensils. Thorpe ran out the door to get Truscott.
Whiteside turned and saw his cowboys gathered around him, carrying guns, quizzical expressions on their faces. Whiteside held himself erectly and stared them down. A few moments later Truscott entered the bunkhouse, his hair and mustache awry, a Colt in his hand.
Whiteside
placed his hand on his hip and stood with one foot in front of him, like a ghastly old thespian giving the performance of his life.
“Ramrod,” he said in his deepest baritone voice, “my wife gave you an order this evening that was a mistake. The herd is not going up the trail on the day after tomorrow, or any other day in the foreseeable future. Furthermore, hereafter you’ll take all your orders from me, and if my wife tells you anything, ignore her. There are some things she simply doesn’t understand. Do I make myself clear?”
Outside, standing at the window, Cassandra’s jaw was hanging open in shock. She’d followed him across the yard, heard every word he’d said, and couldn’t believe her ears. It was the worst nightmare of her life coming true, the man she loved not simply betraying her but also trying to ruin her.
She’d believed him, forgiven him, apologized for her accusations, and now the horror had returned with additional momentum. Her head spun with pain, and she wanted to fall down and cry, but something deep inside her said don’t give up without a fight.
All she knew was she had to stop him. She didn’t have a. Strategy prepared, a speech tucked into her pocket, or any concept whatever of what to do, but penultimate in her mind was the fear that if she didn’t stop him, she might end up as a prostitute in the Last Chance Saloon.
She reached for the doorknob as Truscott told Whiteside: “You’re the boss. The herd stays where it is.” He turned and faced the men. “We’re not goin’ up the trail, so forget about goin’ to town for supplies, and I’ll tell you yer jobs in the mornin’.”
The door was flung open, and Cassandra entered the bunk-house. She wore a white robe over her nightdress, and the belt was tied tightly, revealing the outline of her slim waist, while her bosom surged against the cotton and silk.
Whiteside spun around and stared at her. “I told you to stay in your room!”
She didn’t even look at him as she advanced in her slippers toward Truscott, and the eyes of every cowboy followed her across a floor strewn with cigarette butts, chicken bones, scraps of paper, and thick whorls of dust.