Devil's Brand

by Len Levinson

  Before him rode Von Falkenheim, sitting erectly on his Arabian stallion, thinking about Veronika, how she’d betrayed him and how she’d pay. He felt she’d dishonored him and his proud name, by sleeping with a common cowboy. Stone would be killed that very day, but Veronika’s fate would be far more cruel. He hadn’t figured out exactly what it would be, but maybe he’d have his cowboys kidnap and rape her to death on the prairie, while he watched, a bottle of cognac in his hand. The more he held that image in his mind, the better he liked it. Not a bad idea, he thought.

  At the rear of the cowboys, riding in the dust kicked up by their horses’ hooves, his white silk handkerchief tied over his nose, sat Gideon Whiteside astride his bay.

  He was thinking about Cassandra, how she’d embarrassed him, and it rankled. He was amazed at how quickly he’d sunk down in the world. Two days ago he was a respected rancher, and today he was eating the dust of the count’s cowboys. Whiteside felt like a toad, and it was all Cassandra’s fault.

  But she’d pay. The count would take her cattle, and she’d probably become a prostitute, although she had all the passion of a bowl of oatmeal. And one night, when she least expected it, he’d bop her on the head, tie her to a bedpost, and slit her throat slowly, so she’d feel every tug of the knife.

  Then she’d know she’d made the biggest mistake of her life, when she dared stand up to the hero of Sharpsburg. Whiteside thought of Cassandra’s blood staining the sheets of her bed as he followed the count’s men toward San Jacinto Valley.

  The cowboys cut two hundred head of Triangle Spur cattle out of the mixed herd, and at midday drove them toward the main herd in San Jacinto Valley.

  The small herd was stretched out in a long sinuous line, with Truscott in front on the point, and his more experienced cowboys riding on the sides as swing men or flankers.

  Stone, Blakemore, and Duvall rode the drag, which was the position at the rear of the herd where dust was thickest. Coughing and spitting, they chased stragglers and tried to keep the slower cattle moving along steadily.

  Stone saw that the more status a cowboy had, the farther forward he rode on the drive. That’s why Truscott was in front, like a colonel commanding a regiment, and Stone was in the back, a raw recruit. But it wasn’t unbearable, and no one shot at him. He had to work his way up from the bottom, and maybe someday he’d become a top hand, riding in front where the air was cleanest, steering the herd to Kansas.

  In the late afternoon they came to San Jacinto Valley, and merged their small herd with the large one already gathered. It was the first time Stone had seen the main herd, and it stretched nearly to the horizon. The cattle were outlandish creatures with wide horns, drooling from black mouths, flicking their tails in the air.

  Duvall was picked to be a guard, and Stone and Blakemore rode with the others toward the chuck wagon on the northern edge of the herd. The chuck wagon would ride on the point near Truscott, so the dust wouldn’t get into food and utensils.

  “What do you think of your first day as a cowboy?” Blakemore asked, his nose and mouth covered with his bandanna, and his Yankee forage cap caked with dust.

  “Not so bad,” Stone replied, “but I wouldn’t want to ride the drag for the rest of my life.”

  “You notice them mavericks back there? A man with a brandin’ iron could have a herd in no time at all. Maybe you and me, and Duvall, ought to think about doin’ somethin’ like that when we git back from Abilene.”

  “I was thinking the same thing. The three of us together would be hard to beat.”

  “It looks like them greasers,” Blakemore said, gazing toward the chuck wagon.

  Stone turned his eyes in that direction and was surprised to see Don Emilio Maldonado and his vaqueros sitting near the fire. The closer Stone came, the worse they looked. Some were bloody and bandaged, and all looked as if they’d been riding hard. They rose to their feet, and Don Emilio limped slightly as he led his men toward Truscott and the cowboys from the Triangle Spur. A bloody swathe of white cotton fabric was wrapped around Don Emilio’s forehead, causing his big sombrero to sit high on his head.

  Truscott pulled back the reins of his horse and looked down at Don Emilio. “What the hell do you want?”

  “Well, señor,” Don Emilio explained, “it is like this. I owned a herd of my own in the brush country, but yesterday the Rangers came and said it was not mine. Then somebody started shooting, and my men and I were forced to leave rapido with only the clothes on our backs. Somebody told us you were looking for cowboys, so here we are, ready to work. We are all experienced vaqueros, and we will get your cattle to Abilene, do not worry about it.”

  Truscott knew about vaqueros from the brush country, and they were the toughest cowboys in the world. This bunch looked a little shot-up, and some were limping, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  “We can always use a few more good men,” Truscott said, “but we can’t pay you till we reach Abilene. You’ll git yer chuck, though, and it’ll be damn good.”

  “Excellente,” Don Emilio said, and then he spotted Stone. “Look who is here!” He said. “The crazy gringo who knows how to use a knife!”

  He walked toward Stone and held out his hand, but something else had caught Stone’s eye. He was looking east, toward a huge cloud of dust approaching in the distance.

  Everybody turned in that direction, and saw the cloud come closer. Stone pulled his old army spyglass out of his saddlebags, raising it to his eye and focusing the brass tube.

  He saw Count Von Falkenheim riding at the head of his men, and they looked like a small army. “It’s the Diamond D!”

  “Wonder what they want?” Truscott asked.

  Blakemore said, “I think we’d better git ready for trouble.”

  “Let’s not panic,” Truscott said. “We ain’t done nothin’ wrong, and the count is known as a fair man. Let me do the talkin’.”

  Truscott rode to the front of his men and sat easily in his saddle, rolling a cigarette as Count Von Falkenheim and the men from the Diamond D came closer. Stone examined them through his spyglass, and they were mean-faced and grim, with the style of gunfighters.

  They slowed as they approached Truscott, and Von Falkenheim’s Arabian stallion danced and pranced sideways. The count urged him forward and came abreast of Truscott.

  “Howdy, Count,” said Truscott, taking off his hat and smiling in a friendly manner, because his best dream was someday the count would make him foreman of the massive sprawling Diamond D.

  Instead, the count pulled a handful of papers out of his saddlebag and held them in the air. “I haf bought the Triangle Spur, undt I am here with my men to take the herd. I do not haf need for more cowboys, so you and your men vill haf to find something else to do.”

  Truscott stared at the piece of paper, disbelieving his ears. They were all fired, just like that? Stunned, he turned and looked at his men, and they didn’t know what to do either. The count was one of the richest cattlemen in West Texas, with political connections all the way to Austin, and he’d bought the Triangle Spur?

  But Truscott didn’t want to give up the herd, because he’d put two years of sweat into it. “Who sold it to you?”

  “Gideon Vhiteside.”

  Truscott shrugged. “He don’t own it. His wife does.”

  “I am afraid you do not know vhat you are talking about,” the count said stiffly. “In this country the husband owns the property. Now if you do not mind, get your men out of my vay.”

  “Count,” Truscott said, “with all due respect, I think we’d better git Mrs. Whiteside, and see the judge in San Antone, and let him decide.”

  The count stared at him coldly. “I haf the necessary papers, and I haf paid Mr. Whiteside the price he asked. I am not going to tell you again, Truscott: get your men out of my vay.”

  “Sir,” Truscott said, “I’m the foreman of the Triangle Spur, and I cain’t give up my herd to a piece of paper.”

  The count’s lips quivered with ra
ge, then he turned toward his men. “Vhiteside!” He hollered.

  The Diamond D cowboys made way, and a familiar one-armed figure rode among them, covered with dust, his hat dented and smudged. The men from the Triangle Spur stared at him in amazement, because he appeared twenty years older, with deep lines on his cheeks and around his mouth, and his hair whiter.

  His former proud posture was gone, and he slouched in the saddle, his mouth turned down grimly as he brought his horse to a halt beside Von Falkenheim.

  “Tell him!” The count ordered.

  Whiteside could feel the hatred coming from Truscott and his men, but he stared into his former ramrod’s eyes and said, “I’ve sold the ranch to Count Von Falkenheim, and I had the legal right to do it! If you’re smart, you’ll do as he says!”

  Whiteside’s voice had a reasonable tone, for the old actor was at work again, but the men from the Triangle Spur weren’t moved. All they could see was the man who’d beat Cassandra before their eyes in the bunkhouse, and their hearts hardened.

  Count Von Falkenheim looked down his nose at Truscott. “You heard vhat he said?”

  “I ain’t givin’ up this herd unless the judge tells me to,” Truscott replied, and behind him his men murmured their agreement.

  Von Falkenheim turned to Dave Quarternight and gave a slight nod. Quarternight’s face was cold and deadly as he urged his horse forward, and Truscott recognized him, a notorious gunfighter.

  “We ain’t got no more time to waste on stove-up cowboys,” Quarternight said to Truscott. “Move yer asses out of the way.”

  Truscott knew he was in over his head, but a man couldn’t call himself ramrod and then back down in front of his men. “Mr. Quarternight,” he said, “this ain’t none of yer business, and it ain’t none of mine neither. I say we should let the judge make up his mind.”

  “I say you should move or go for yer iron,” Quarternight replied.

  Truscott saw the confident gleam in Quarternight’s eyes, and faltered. He couldn’t back down, but didn’t want to die either.

  “Vell?” Asked Von Falkenheim impatiently. “Vhat is it going to be?”

  Silence came over the crowd. The cowboys from the Triangle Spur saw they were outnumbered, and looked at each other with question marks in their eyes. Then a horse moved forward among them, and Von Falkenheim saw a tall, husky cowboy astride it. Triangle Spur cowboys cleared a path for him, and as he drew closer, Von Falkenheim was astonished to see the drunken cowboy who’d brought flowers to Veronika two mornings ago. He turned to Whiteside and asked softly, “Who is he?”

  “John Stone.”

  Von Falkenheim put everything together in his mind, and it burned like a branding iron. He looked at Quarternight. “That is the man you vill kill.”

  Quarternight gazed at Stone, and was surprised by what he saw. This was no broken-down cowboy, but appearances were deceptive, and he couldn’t be much if he was working for the Triangle Spur.

  Tomahawk walked between Truscott and Quarternight, and Stone pulled the horse to a halt.

  “Lookin’ for lead?” Quarternight asked, staring Stone in the eye.

  Stone looked back and didn’t flinch one iota. “Get off this range!”

  Quarternight thought Stone mustn’t know who he was. “What if I don’t?” He asked, unable to suppress a nervous giggle.

  “I’ll kill you.”

  “You’ll kill me?” Quarternight asked incredulously. “You must be crazy!”

  “There’s only one way to find out.”

  Quarternight had intended to challenge Stone, but instead Stone was challenging him. Behind him, Diamond D gun-fighters and cowboys moved their horses out of the line of fire, and then the cowboys from the Triangle Spur did the same behind Stone.

  Stone and Quarternight, atop their horses, faced each other, only six feet separating them.

  “Steady now,” Stone said to Tomahawk, and Tomahawk became a statue, unblinking eyes fixed on Stone’s opponent.

  Count Von Falkenheim looked at John Stone, wondering if this could be the same cowboy who’d knocked on Veronika’s door. That man had been a drunken slob, but this one sat on his saddle like an officer of the guards, and had an intensity that was almost palpable.

  Quarternight felt it, but he’d killed sixteen men in his life, and had an intensity of his own. He angled his horse to the left, so he’d have a clear right-hand shot at Stone.

  Both men stared at each other, and Stone remembered the Gypsy’s curse. It was silent, and Don Emilio watched from his position near the campfire. He knew Dave Quarternight, and felt certain his gringo friend was going to die. Slipchuck also knew Quarternight, and thought Stone was no match for the gunslinger. Whiteside smiled as he watched the two adversaries from atop his horse. John Stone was the cause of his problems, and now he was going to pay.

  Quarternight saw the confidence and determination on Stone’s face, and felt a moment of fear, but it subsided quickly as he realized Stone was just another cowboy, with no special gunfighting skills.

  “Said yer prayers?” Quarternight chided him.

  “Make your play,” Stone replied in a voice that was blood and steel.

  Quarternight poised his hand above his gun. His horse looked at Tomahawk, and both knew one of them would carry a lighter load in a few moments.

  Stone’s shoulders were loose, his old cavalry hat was slanted low over his eyes, and his right hand hovered above his Colt. There was stillness, then Quarternight went for his gun.

  Stone slapped his hand down, felt the gun butt against his fingers, and yanked the Colt out of its holster. He fired just as Quarternight was taking aim, and Quarternight appeared surprised when Stone’s bullet struck him squarely in the middle of the chest. Quarternight managed to pull his trigger the final fraction of an inch, his pistol fired, and the hot lead whirred past Stone’s left ear.

  Stone fired again, and Quarternight dropped his gun. Blood oozed out two holes in his chest, plus his nose and mouth. His face became pale, and he teetered in his saddle. Then his eyes became white and he fell to the ground.

  The gunshots reverberated against distant mountains, and a cloud of gunsmoke rose in the air. Everyone stared at Dave Quarternight, lying in a widening pool of blood. John Stone touched Tomahawk with his spurs, and steered him toward Von Falkenheim.

  Von Falkenheim saw him coming, and felt stark terror. He couldn’t outshoot Stone, or fight him hand to hand, but he, a Prussian nobleman, couldn’t back down to a common cowboy, and particularly one who’d seduced his mistress.

  John Stone came abreast of him and brought Tomahawk to a stop. “You have more men than we,” Stone said to Von Falkenheim, “but if there’s gunplay, many of your men will be killed, and you’ll be the first to go. My advice to you is settle your problems before the judge.”

  “I do not take advice from schwein,” Von Falkenheim said, and then he turned to his gunfighters, “Kill him!”

  Not one of them moved. They didn’t want to tangle with the man who’d shot Dave Quarternight. Von Falkenheim turned red, and his eyes bulged. “I said kill him!”

  No one reached for his gun. Stone put his spurs to Tomahawk and moved closer to Von Falkenheim, who sat stiffly in his saddle. He had no one to fight for him, and didn’t quite understand how that came about.

  Stone stopped Tomahawk in front of him and said, “Why don’t you shoot me?”

  Von Falkenheim had no idea of what to say. If he drew his pistol, Stone would kill him. Fist fighting was beneath the dignity of the Prussian nobility, and his swords were back at the ranch.

  “Get your men off this range!” Stone said.

  “It is my range!” Von Falkenheim insisted, holding the legal papers in the air. “I haf bought and paid for it!”

  “May I see those papers?”

  Von Falkenheim passed them to Stone, who browsed through the pages quickly, then tore them into small pieces, throwing them over his shoulder.

  Von Falkenheim was shocked. “
Vhat you are doing!” He said. “It is against the law! There are vitnesses, undt you can be sure I vill take this up vith my lawyer!”

  Stone looked at Von Falkenheim, and saw in him all the pretension, snobbery, and arrogance of his class. Stone’s frustration and anger at the world crackled through his veins and became focused on Von Falkenheim. He didn’t like the way Von Falkenheim had set up Truscott to be killed, or the slimy way in which Von Falkenheim tried to steal Cassandra’s ranch.

  Stone climbed down from his saddle, and Tomahawk stepped out of the way, because he knew something deadly would go down in a matter of seconds. Stone marched toward Von Falkenheim, and Von Falkenheim couldn’t believe his eyes. It was inconceivable that someone would threaten him in this manner, but he didn’t dare go for his gun.

  Stone reached up, grabbed Von Falkenheim’s black leather coat, and pulled him roughly to the ground. The hat fell off Von Falkenheim’s head, and his baldness gleamed in the light of the sun. He struggled to maintain his equanimity as Stone set him down and pushed him away contemptuously.

  Von Falkenheim tripped, nearly fell, but managed to retain his balance. Stone said, “You want this herd, you’ll have to fight for it!”

  Von Falkenheim looked at his men and realized they weren’t going to help him. Stone had broken their fighting spirit when he’d shot Quarternight. It was a real-life demonstration of one of the oldest axioms of textbook military science: mercenaries are the least reliable soldiers.

  But he was from the Prussian nobility, and courage had been bred into him. He couldn’t retreat before this man.

  “I see you’re wearing a gun,” Stone said, taunting him. “Why don’t you use it?”

  Von Falkenheim said sarcastically, “You are obviously an expert in this type of duel, so you haf an advantage that makes you brave, but vhat vould you do vithout your advantage, I vunder?”

  Stone gazed at him scornfully, then raised his hands, turned around, and said over his shoulder. “How about now?”

  Von Falkenheim looked at Stone’s broad back, and was tempted to take the chance. He wasn’t a gunfighter, but was certain he could shoot Stone before Stone could turn, draw, and fire.