by Len Levinson
He holstered his gun and carried her back to the bedroom. Moving quickly, he picked up the rope and tied her to the bed roughly, because now she’d made him mad. It was the second time she’d challenged him, and the bitch had actually tried to kill him!
He walked to the dresser, picked up the pitcher, and spilled water onto her face. Deep in the black clouds, she felt liquid streaming down her face, and opened her eyes.
Gideon stood above her, the knife in his hand and his face livid with rage. “You pig!” he hollered. “You tried to kill me—Colonel Gideon Whiteside—I commanded a regiment at Sharpsburg—General Jackson himself pinned many a decoration on me—you filthy whorebitch—die!”
He raised the knife high in the air over her, and the room exploded with thunder. John Stone stood in the doorway, a Colt in each hand, triggering quickly, and the hail of bullets hurled Whiteside backward, his blood spraying through the air. He slammed against the wall and dropped to the floor, where he lay motionless, bleeding from six holes.
The bedroom was silent, and acrid gunsmoke filled the air. Stone, guns still at the ready, walked toward Whiteside and kicked him onto his back.
Whiteside was like a sack of flour, his eyes closed, he was dead. Stone holstered his guns and moved toward the bed, seeing that Cassandra had fainted.
He pulled the Apache knife out of his boot and cut the ropes that held her down. Then he picked her up and carried her out of the room to the guest bedroom down the hall, so she wouldn’t be shocked by the sight of Whiteside when she came to.
He entered the guest room and laid her on the bed. Then he lit the lamp and found a rag, soaked it with water, and sat beside her, gently wiping away the blood. She had cuts and welts, and her hair was mussed, but somehow in the light of the lantern she reminded him of Marie. He bent toward her, and she opened her eyes when he was only inches away.
“What happened?” She asked.
“Whiteside is dead, and I think we’d better get out of here.”
She arose unsteadily, and he held her arm as she staggered down the corridor. The image of Gideon was tattooed on her eyeballs, knife poised to strike. They descended the stairs to the living room. “Have a seat,” Stone said. “I’ll bring the buckboard around.”
He went outside, and she sat on the sofa. It made her nauseous to think she’d lived with that man for more than two years, and given him everything she had.
There’d been moments when she’d doubted him, but love had overcome suspicion. I loved him too much, she thought. I didn’t see what he was.
She wondered why she’d loved him so, because now she saw a preposterous old clown, false as a clay dollar, deadly as an asp. The only answer that made sense was somehow she’d transferred her love of the Confederacy to him, because he’d been able to convince her that he and the Confederacy were one and the same.
I’ll never let a man do that to me again. She had a fleeting memory of making love with Whiteside on the very sofa where she sat, his one arm wrapped around her waist, and his flaccid paunch against her smooth, flat stomach.
She arose from the sofa as if it carried a terrible disease, and looked at the portrait of Whiteside over the fireplace. Hesitating a moment, she rushed toward it, took it in her hands, and threw it to the floor. Then she jumped on his face and stamped her feet.
The door opened and Stone took one look at her, then picked up some boxes and carried them to the buckboard. The full moon shone overhead, outlining the barn and outbuildings in a yellow glow. She’d almost caught him kissing her upstairs, but for a moment he’d thought she was Marie. I’ve got to forget about Marie, he said to himself, but how can I forget her as long as Cassandra looks just like her?
He loaded the last box onto the buckboard, and then carried Agnes’s body outside, laying it behind the boxes, so she could have a decent burial on the prairie. Finally he tied Tomahawk’s reins to the back of the buckboard, and returned to the house. Cassandra stood in the middle of the living room next to a pile of broken furniture and the shattered painting of Gideon Whiteside.
“Do you have a match?” She asked.
“Going to burn the place down?” He replied incredulously. “But it’s a perfectly serviceable home!”
“It was the devil’s home,” she replied. “A match, please.”
He took one out and handed it to her, and she scratched it against the wall. The match burst into fire, and she dropped to one knee, touching it to the crumpled canvas of Gideon Whiteside.
The flame traveled along Gideon’s nose and attached itself to the leg of a chair. Cassandra lifted the lamp off the table and hurled it at the drapes. They became engulfed in flames that arose and clawed at the ceiling, scorching the white paint.
“I’m ready now,” Cassandra said.
She walked toward the door, and he followed her outside. Tomahawk watched them approach, and could see fire behind the windows of the house. Stone placed his hands on Cassandra’s slim waist and lifted her to the buckboard, then climbed beside her, grasped the reins, and flicked them.
The horses pulled the buckboard away, as swirling flames consumed the ranch buildings. Tomahawk plodded behind the wagon, looking at John Stone and Cassandra side by side, their bodies touching, and the big yellow moon shone in the starry heavens, as they headed back toward the herd.
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