by Len Levinson
Dawn broke over the Diamond D Ranch as Gideon Whiteside rode toward the count’s residence. He hadn’t slept much, had eaten no breakfast, and the only thing keeping him going was his hatred for Cassandra.
He’d washed in a stream and brushed the dust off his clothing, but was unshaven, his hair uncombed, and looked grubby as his horse stopped in front of the rail.
Whiteside climbed down, threw the reins over the rail, climbed onto the front porch, knocked on the door, and it was opened by a liveried butler.
“I’d like to see the count. Tell him it’s extremely important.”
“This way, sir.”
Whiteside sat on a chair, crossed his legs, and lit a thin cigar. He’d spent most of the night planning what he’d say to the count, because without the count’s money, Whiteside’s prospects were dim indeed.
He knew the count didn’t like him, and probably even held him in contempt, therefore he had to convince the count that it was in his best interest to buy the Triangle Spur for a mere fraction of its worth, but enough to remove Rosalie and himself to St. Louis in style.
And when he was established in St. Louis, he’d find another woman to pay his bills, while he maintained Rosalie in a discreet home someplace. He could visit her a few times a week, for communal bathing.
“The count will see you now, sir.”
Whiteside followed the butler up the stairs and down a corridor to a large plush room with a bed covered by a canopy. Count Von Falkenheim sat near the window, his head leaned back on a pillow, as another gentleman shaved him.
Whiteside walked toward him and bowed slightly. “I apologize for disturbing you at this ungodly hour, Your Excellency, but a matter of great importance has come up, which I thought would be of interest to you, and I—.”
“Out vith it,” said the count, his jowls covered with lather. “I do not haf much time.”
“Of course you don’t. I realize full well how busy you are. I am here for one purpose only. I want to sell you not only my herd, but the entire Triangle Spur Ranch, with buildings, horses, equipment, saddles, wagons, everything there, for the incredible bargain price of only ten thousand dollars, but you must act fast, because my wife plans to move the herd to Kansas on the day after tomorrow.”
“As I told you before, I do not understand American legalities. I vill haf to consult vith a lawyer.”
“A deal like this comes along once in a lifetime, and besides, I can tell you the law. In this country, a man can dispose of his property however he wants.”
“Even if the property belongs to his vife?”
“Correct.”
“That is the vay it is in my country too.”
“It’s the only way, but my wife is trying to defy me.”
The count gazed at him with naked scorn. “Somebody ought to defy you, because you are an utter svine.”
“You don’t have to like me,” Whiteside said. “Just remember that the Triangle Spur is worth far more than the price I quoted, and you know it. You could greatly increase your range and expand your operations. You’re here to turn a profit, aren’t you, or are you just passing time?”
The barber finished the shave and washed the lather away as the count reflected upon what Whiteside had said. It was true that he was there to turn a profit. His family’s money was invested in the ranch, and it was his duty to increase the value of the investment. It certainly was an attractive offer, if it was legal.
“Vhy are you doing this to your vife, Vhiteside? I always thought she vas rather sveet, although I must confess I never knew vhat she saw in you.”
“She’s a sneaky little traitor.”
The count accepted the towel from his servant, and dried his face. “You cannot control your vife?”
“The cowboys sided with her. They think she’s sweet, as you do.”
“You are a clever talker, Vhiteside. I vould think you could vin them over, if she is as dumb as you say.”
“I was doing all right, until John Stone stepped in.”
“Who?”
“One of the cowboys. He’s probably in love with her, like all the rest of the idiots.”
“I do not believe I know him. Is he one of your new hands?”
“A former officer who’s deteriorated since the war, but evidently he’s influential with the men, damn him. He looked like he’d been in a fight with a wildcat. His back was scratched to shreds.”
The count stiffened in his chair. “Vhat did you say?”
“His back was covered with scratches. It really looked quite bad. Never seen anything quite like it. Must’ve been one of local whores, and I wish I knew her name.”
The count arose from his chair, unbuttoned his shirt, and turned around. “Did it look like this?”
Whiteside stared in shock at the count’s back, because it looked just like John Stone’s. “Yes.”
The count put his shirt back on. “Where is this John Stone?”
The herd stretched like a vast living carpet on the measureless prairie as the cowboys approached on horseback. It was a sunny day with a few puffy clouds in the sky, and a flock of birds darted overhead, chasing a swarm of insects.
Stone rode between Blakemore and Duvall, toward the back of the crew.
“Wish we had a few more days,” Duvall said, “so’s I could git married.”
“What the hell you want to git married for?” Blakemore asked, his Yankee forage cap tilted rakishly on the side of his head. “It’s askin’ to be locked in jail.”
“I wouldn’t mind bein’ locked someplace with Eulalie,” Duvall said. “My idea of heaven.”
“That’s what you’re sayin’ now, but after you’re married awhile, and she gits to naggin’, you’ll be on yer way back to that cave.”
Stone puffed a cigarette and examined the cattle, which chomped grass and looked at him curiously as he passed, sitting tall in his saddle. He felt terrific, on the open range at last, learning the cattle business, and one day he’d have a herd of his own, a home with a wife and kids, dogs and cats, and chickens in the backyard. It wasn’t much to hope for. A lot of men did it. And he’d do it too, once he learned cattle.
Truscott raised his hand, and the cowboys pulled their horses to a stop behind him. The ramrod wheeled his horse so he could face them, and said, “You see all them cattle down there?” He pointed with his gloved hand. “Well, some of ’em’s ours and some ain’t. We got to cut ours out, bring ’em back here, and then take ’em to the main herd. We ain’t got much time, so’s we might as well git started. Make sure you don’t cut any that ain’t ours. Any questions?”
The cowboys drifted into the valley, and Stone was surprised by the lack of instructions he’d received. He didn’t know exactly what to do, and figured he’d just copy the others.
He rode among the scattered cattle, and saw a variety of brands, with many mavericks among them. If he had a branding iron, he could put it on all the mavericks he found, and they’d be his herd.
The cattle gazed dully at him as he passed. He spotted the brand of the Triangle Spur on the left side of a steer, and touched his spurs to Tomahawk’s flanks. “Let’s go, boy.”
Tomahawk didn’t need prodding. He’d been cutting cattle most of his life, and had seen the Triangle Spur brand first. He bounded toward it, and the steer tried to get out of his way. Tomahawk shifted direction, and the steer realized the only thing to do was run, so he turned and moved in the direction Tomahawk wanted him to go. The cowboys yipped and yelled, waving their hats in the air, and Stone joined the chorus of human and animal sounds, a real cowboy at last.
Ten gunfighters were seated on sofas and chairs in Von Falkenheim’s living room, as a butler served them tea and cakes.
The gunfighters were dressed like cowboys, but somehow didn’t look like cowboys. They were hard men with cruel eyes, and they earned their living not by herding cows, but by killing men.
They dreamed not of their own ranch, but of how to shave a split second off the
time it’d take to draw and fire. They didn’t want a wife and family, but a high price for their fast hands. They preferred to be paid for a skill they only used occasionally, but whenever they used it, Boot Hill was never far away.
They’d rather gamble with death than work for a living, and the most deadly among them was Dave Quarternight, who had slanted eyes, high cheekbones, and a long sallow face. He was six feet tall, and looked like a snake coiled on a chair.
They heard footsteps in the corridor, and moments later Von Falkenheim marched into the living room, wearing black polished Prussian riding boots. He looked at his gunfighters, placed his fists on his hips, and said, “The time has come for you to earn your pay. This morning I haf bought the Triangle Spur, undt ve’re going over now to move the herd closer to this range. There might be trupple, so stay close to me, and follow my orders carefully.”
Quarternight grinned. “I don’t think that bunch has much fight.”
“Neither do I, but ve must be prepared. Everybody on your horse, except Quarternight.” He looked meaningfully at Quarternight. “I vant to haf a few vords with you in private.”
Quarternight nodded, and the gunfighters filed out of the living room, shuffling their boots, hitching their gunbelts. The door closed after the last one, and Von Falkenheim moved toward Quarternight, sitting in a chair opposite him.
“There is someone I vant you to kill,” he said. “He is one of the Triangle Spur cowboys, undt his name is John Stone. Ever hear of him?”
Quarternight shook his head.
“I vill point him out to you. He is a big tall fellow, like you. Make him fight you. You know how to do it.”
Quarternight nodded.
“Time to get started.”
Von Falkenheim arose, put on his new pearl-gray cowboy hat, and made his way toward the door. He wore riding breeches, a black leather coat, and a gunbelt with a Colt in the holster. The butler opened the door, and Von Falkenheim stepped outside, followed by Quarternight.
Arrayed before him were twenty-six mounted cowboys and his crew of gunfighters, plus Gideon Whiteside. Von Falkenheim climbed onto his white Arabian stallion, and Quarternight swung himself over the saddle of his dun. Von Falkenheim galloped out of the yard, with Quarternight at his side, and the men fell in behind him, heading toward San Jacinto Valley.
Tomahawk worked a steer toward the gathering area, and the steer didn’t want to go, but Tomahawk charged him again and again, cutting off his avenues of escape, and finally the steer gave up and trotted sullenly toward the others being held by the segundo.
Stone sat in his saddle, taking deep draughts of prairie atmosphere. Now he could understand why men loved to be cowboys. It was a healthy life in the great outdoors, and was great fun if you loved riding horses.
Stone had been riding practically from the time he could walk, and that’s why he’d joined the cavalry. Now he could see his destiny before him more clearly than ever. He’d be a cowboy until he knew enough to form his own herd, and then the sky’d be the limit.
Tomahawk turned back toward the herd, and Stone realized he didn’t feel a need for a drink or dancing girls. He was perfectly happy working cattle, and could feel his appetite building. The great thing about being a cowboy was you’d never go hungry, with all those prime tenderloin steaks walking around.
He had the feeling he finally knew what to do with the rest of his life, as the steer plodded toward the holding area, and the bright sun blazed across the clear blue sky.
Cassandra and Agnes were carrying boxes down the stairs when Agnes perked up her ears. “Somebody’s comin’!” She said.
They placed the boxes on the floor, ran for the rifles, and took positions at the windows. They could be Indians, outlaws, or the first creditors arriving to take the herd away!
They gazed out over the prairie and saw a buckboard approaching through clouds of dust.
“It’s the cook!” Agnes shouted.
They relaxed their fingers on the triggers and leaned the rifles against the wall, returning to the boxes. Cassandra was only taking a few articles of clothing, some books, and kitchen utensils. She’d have to travel light and move quickly, not be a burden to the men.
She knew the men didn’t want her to go with them, because she’d make them feel inhibited, but she’d stay away and let them do anything that was all right with Truscott. She knew men didn’t like to take orders from women, and had no desire to rile them. The main thing was to get the herd moving before the creditors came.
They placed the last box near the door, and Agnes wiped her brow with the back of her hand. “That’s about it for what’s upstairs,” she said.
“All that’s left is the office,” Cassandra replied. “You prepare lunch, while I decide what to take.”
There was a knock on the door. Agnes opened it, and Thorpe stood there, covered with the dust of the trail.
“The cook’s goin’ on out to San Jacinto Valley,” he said, “and we decided I should stay here with you all, to look out fer you.”
Cassandra looked at him, and he was little more than a boy. “No, that’s all right,” she said. “We need everyone with the herd. Agnes and I can take care of ourselves.”
“Don’t think that’s a good idea, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so,” Thorpe said. “No tellin’ what might happen.”
“Nothing will happen. Please report to Mr. Truscott.”
Thorpe walked away, and Agnes closed the door. Cassandra made her way down the hallway to her office, wondering what was necessary for the trip.
The deed to the ranch was the most important document, and bank records were next. Then she found her marriage certificate, and held it up to the light, examining her signature and that of Gideon Whiteside along with the preacher who’d married them.
She’d thought Gideon was a great man—why? Because he’d looked like a great man, and sounded like one? How could a person know the truth about another person just by looking and listening? Somehow John Stone had done it. She’d have to ask him about it sometime.
She gathered important papers, folding them into a brown leather briefcase, and then Agnes brought her lunch: a fried steak with potatoes and gravy. There was a knock on the door as she was finishing her second cup of tea.
“Come in!”
The door opened, and Ephraim stood there, the top three buttons of his shirt undone, his hat in hand. “I was about to leave with the chuck wagon, ma’am, and I was wonderin’ if you needed any thin’.”
“We’re fine, Ephraim. I think you ought to go immediately. The more men with the herd, the better.”
“Sure Thorpe can’t stay wif you?”
“Agnes and I can take care of ourselves.”
Ephraim cocked his head to one side, then reached into his pocket and took out a small ivory-handled derringer on a gold chain. “Maybe you’d better put this around yer neck,” he said, “just in case.”
She held the derringer in the palm of her hand and looked at it. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “Where did you get it?”
“An old man give it to me a long time ago.”
“It looks expensive. I can’t take something valuable like this.”
“Give it back when we reach Abilene.”
She dropped the gold chain around her neck, letting the derringer fall out of sight between her breasts. “You can be sure I’ll take good care of it.”
“Yes, ma’am, and it’ll give you good luck too, because it was blessed by a priest who had powers, and could do miracles.”
“What kind of miracles?”
“One time I seen him bring a dead body back to life.”
Cassandra smiled, thinking Ephraim a well-intentioned but essentially ignorant and deluded child. “Tell Truscott that Agnes and I’ll join the herd first thing in the morning, and we’ll have breakfast with you. I’m looking forward to your cooking, Ephraim.”
“Mebbe you should fire a few practice shots with the derringer, to make sure you knows how to
use it,” Ephraim suggested.
He left the office, and Cassandra returned to her cup of tea. There was something interesting about Ephraim, and he had a body a sculptor would love, but no, it was impossible, Cassandra refused even to think about it.
She returned to the papers on her desk, culling through them, trying to figure what was important and what could be left behind for the Comanches, who’d undoubtedly loot and burn the house down while she was gone.
Count Wolfgang Von Falkenheim, atop his white Arabian stallion, led his men toward San Jacinto Valley. The day was sunny and warm, and a buzzard circled in the sky above them, wondering if there’d be dead meat at the end of their ride. There were nearly forty of them, armed to the teeth, and they knew dirty work was ahead, but dirty work was a man’s job, you couldn’t escape it.
The ten gunfighters rode in a single rank behind Count Von Falkenheim, and were confident they could handle anything that lay ahead. Cowboys tended to avoid fights when the odds were against them, and that’s what they expected in San Jacinto Valley.
Dave Quarternight rode near Von Falkenheim, a thin cheroot between his teeth, thinking about the man he’d kill. He didn’t know him, but it was best that way. Knowing could set him thinking, and a gunfighter wanted to draw with nothing in the way.
Quarternight wondered who the poor fool would be. Probably another bowlegged cowboy with cowshit under his fingernails, who wouldn’t have a chance. It gave Quarternight a charge whenever he killed somebody, so he looked forward to the encounter. Everybody treated him more respectfully, buying him drinks, patting his back, and sometimes a stray whore would screw him for the experience.
It amused him to know everybody was afraid of him, even Von Falkenheim, with all his money. Quarternight couldn’t read or write, and his family didn’t come from royalty, but he could shoot, and that was more important.