Ralph Compton - Death Rides a Chestnut Mare

“I agree with that,” said Elmer Dumont. “I’d feel safer wide awake, with my old Henry rifle cocked and ready.”

“We have a dozen men,” Cyrus Baldwin said. “That’s a pretty strong defense.”

“Don’t forget the women,” said Teresa, his wife. “There’s not a woman among us who can’t shoot. I can’t speak for anyone else, but I’m staying awake with my rifle.”

All the women—even Katrina—added their voices to the clamor.

“Then it’s settled,” Wallace said. “Every one of us will be waiting, weapons ready for a possible attack.”

Danielle said nothing, hoping the outlaws would attack. It might be her last chance, for ahead of her might lie long, hopeless trails. Two hours into the night, the rain started. It came down in torrents, but still there was no sign of the outlaws.

Kazman and his remaining eight men were quarrel ing among themselves as to what their next move would be.

“Using the rain for cover, we can fire into their camp,” Kazman argued.

“Yeah,” said Rufe Gaddis. “Givin’ ’em a muzzle flash to shoot at. We already lost four men, without saltin’ down one of them. I don’t aim to become the fifth.”

“Me neither,” Julius Byler said. “I’m gettin’ out of here now, while I got this rain to cover my tracks. Trail herdin’ cattle is hard work, at best. They can have it.”

Quickly, the rest of the outlaws agreed to the proposal.

“Upton Wilks ain’t gonna like this,” Kazman warned. “For fifty and found, he expects a lot of a man.”

“Don’t make a damn to me what Wilks thinks,” said Chancy Burke, “ ’cause I won’t be goin’ back there. Fifty dollars a month, my aching hindquarters. I need ten times that just to live like I want to.”

There were shouts of approval from the other seven outlaws, and they began saddling their horses. They rode west, across Indian Territory, toward the little panhandle town of Mobeetie, Texas. Kazman stood there cursing them, dreading to face Upton Wilks. Finally, he mounted his horse and, riding wide of the cow camp, used the storm as cover to return to the Wilks place. Kazman reached Wilks’s bunkhouse well after midnight. The house was dark, and in the morning he would have to face the wrath of Upton Wilks. He unsaddled his horse in the barn and went to the bunkhouse to get what sleep he could.

“So the bastards walked out on me,” Wilks stormed, “and you let them go?”

“What the hell was I supposed to do?” Kazman demanded. “There was eight of them and one of me, and they’d just seen them shirttail ranchers gun down four of our outfit. I come back to tell you, which was all I could do. While I’m at it, I might as well tell you I ain’t ridin’ back to Indian Territory to round up more killers. This is a hell-for-leather outfit you sent us after. There’s nineteen of ’em, and even the women can shoot. And I got a little more to say to you. What you want calls for gun wages, and you’re just too damn cheap to pay.”

“Are you finished?” Wilks inquired in a dangerously low voice.

“I am, and in more ways than one,” said Kazman. “I’ve had more than enough of you and your dirty work. I’m drifting.”

Kazman started for the door, but some sixth sense warned him. When Kazman turned, Wilks already had his pistol in his hand. Kazman drew and fired twice, and not until he was sure Wilks was dead did he make a move. He then proceeded to rip apart the Wilks house, eventually finding three hundred dollars.

“Thanks, you cheap old bastard,” said Kazman. “This will see me through to somethin’ better.”

Kazman rode out, elated when the storm started again. When Wilks was discovered, the rain would have washed away the tracks of Kazman’s horse. The law might be suspicious of him, but suspicion wasn’t proof. Besides, it was a big land, this frontier, and the law would never find him in Arizona or California.

“I think they’ve given up on us,” said Wallace Flagg. “It’s rained all night without a shot bein’ fired, and they couldn’t ask for better cover than this rain.”

“There’s a muzzle flash, even in the rain,” Elmer Dumont said. “They’d have been some mighty good targets for return fire.”

“It looks like the rain’s set in for the rest of the day,” said Cyrus Baldwin, “and I’m not the kind to set here and wait on outlaws who may or may not still be around. I say we begin gathering the herd and get on with the drive.”

“By God, I’m with Cyrus,” Wallace Flagg said.

The women kept their silence, while the rest of the men agreed to continue the drive as soon as the herd could be rounded up. There was enough dry wood in the possum belly of one of the wagons, so they had breakfast with hot coffee.

“It’s unlikely any of the herd would have run far enough to cross the Red River,” Elmer Dumont said, “so we should find them between here and there. Barney, you stay here, and stay off that wounded leg.”

“Aw, hell,” said Barney, “I ain’t hurt that bad.” But he obeyed his father. The others saddled up, mounted, and rode south.

“Cows have a habit of drifting with a storm,” Wallace Flagg said. “I think we should be riding toward the east.”

Accepting Flagg’s suggestion, they rode southeast, and were soon rewarded by finding their first small bunch of cattle.

“We can pick these up on our way back,” said Enos Chadman. “We should find the rest of ’em a mite farther down, maybe grazing alongside the Red.”

Chadman’s optimism was justified, for the grass was good along the north bank of the Red, and the cattle hadn’t crossed the river. But the small herd had the wind and rain at their backs, and they resisted all efforts to turn them around.

“Damn it,” Wallace Flagg said, “as long as the wind’s blowing that rain out of the west, this bunch of critters ain’t of a mind to go with us.”

“But somehow we got to turn ’em around,” said Tuck Carlyle. “If we don’t, they’ll just drift with the storm, taking them farther and farther away.”

“There’s maybe three hundred in that bunch,” Enos Chadman said. “Let’s get ahead of them and start firing our rifles. We got to make them more afraid of us than they are of the storm.”

When the dozen men began firing their rifles, the cattle bawled in confusion. Finally, they turned and, facing the storm, galloped west.

“She’s clearin’ up back yonder to the west,” said Cyrus Baldwin. “Give it another hour or so, and the rain will be done.”

Baldwin’s prediction proved accurate, and before noon the wind had died to a whisper and the rain had ceased entirely.

“No way we’ll round up the rest of ’em today,” Tuck said.

“We couldn’t move out tomorrow, even if we had ’em all rounded up,” said Wallace Flagg. “After all this rain, our supply wagon would soon be hub-deep in mud. While we gather the herd, the sun may dry the ground enough for us to start the day after tomorrow.”

The riders continued their gather until almost sundown.

“Let’s run a tally,” Tuck Carlyle suggested. “I’d like to know how many more we got to find.”

“Go to it,” said Flagg. “Elmer, you and Cyrus run tallies too, and we’ll take whatever is the low count.”

Tuck had the low count of seven hundred head. “Not bad, considerin’ the storm,” Enos Chadman said. “That’s almost a third of ’em. I expect we’ll get the rest tomorrow.”

It was too late to ride after another bunch of cows, and supper would soon be ready. The riders unsaddled their horses, rubbed them down, and turned them loose to graze. The sun had been shining since noon, and much of the standing water had begun to dry up. As the riders settled down to supper, Katrina made it a point to sit next to Tuck Carlyle. For all the good it did her, she might as well not have existed.