Ralph Compton - Death Rides a Chestnut Mare

Chancy Burke, Saul Delmano, Newt Grago, Snakehead Kalpana, Blade Hogue, and Brice Levan quickly agreed.

“I crave warm weather,” said Snakehead Kalpana. “I’m bound for south Texas.”

“Yeah,” Newt Grago said. “You aim to run them Mex horses across the border into Texas. Better men than you have been strung up for that.”

When the snow had finally melted enough to permit travel, the eight outlaws split up, each going his separate way.

Hays, Kansas. September 25, 1870.

Danielle judged the snow had melted enough for her to continue her journey to Denver. Before riding out, she paused at the sheriff’s office to tell Edelman she was leaving.

“Good luck, kid,” Sheriff Edelman said. “Don’t turn your back on strangers.”

The hotel clerk had told Danielle it was just a little under three hundred miles to Denver, so Danielle took her time. There were still snow drifts so deep, it was necessary to dismount and lead the chestnut mare. An hour before sundown, Danielle found a secluded canyon where there was water. The canyon rim was high enough to keep out the cold night wind. After a hurried supper, she put out her fire. The chestnut mare had been picketed near the stream, where there was still some graze. Confident that the horse would warn her of any danger, Danielle rolled in her blankets at the foot of the canyon rim, where the snow had melted and the ground was dry. She slept undisturbed, awakening as the first gray light of dawn crept into the eastern sky. After a quick breakfast, she again rode west. Much of the snow had melted, being replaced with mud as the sun thawed the ground and sucked up the moisture. About two hours before sundown she came upon two sets of horse tracks leading from the southeast. While catching up to them could possibly be dangerous, they might be two of the very outlaws she sought. Her first warning came when the chestnut mare nickered and a distant horse answered. Danielle reined up.

“Hello, the camp!” Danielle shouted. “I come in peace.”

“Come on,” said a cautious voice. “Just keep your hands where I can see ’em.”

Both men stood with their revolvers cocked and ready.

“My name is Dan Strange, and I’m from St. Joe, Missouri, on my way to Denver.”

The men were young, in their early twenties, Danielle judged, and they looked like out-of-work, line-riding cowboys. Danielle had made no threatening moves, and the pair slid their weapons back into their holsters.

“I’m Herb Sellers,” said the rider who had called out the challenge. “My amigo here is Jesse Burris. Our grub’s running low and we’re out of coffee, but you’re welcome to take part in what there is.”

“I just left a trail drive in Abilene,” Danielle said, “and I stocked up on supplies. Why don’t you let me supply the grub for supper? I have coffee, too.”

“That’s the best offer I’ve had lately,” said Sellers. “We holed up in Dodge, waiting out the storm, and town living just about busted us.”

“Yeah,” Burris said. “We done been starved out of Texas. Where in tarnation did you find a trail herd bound for Abilene? Ain’t no money in Texas. It’s been picked clean, and the buzzards is still there.”

“Five small ranchers risked everything they had, driving 2,600 head to Abilene,” said Danielle. “Come spring, they’ll have money enough to take a larger herd.”

“Straight across Indian Territory,” said Sellers. “Any trouble with rustlers?”

“Some,” Danielle admitted. “After we killed four of them, the others decided to ride on to other parts.”

The two men laughed, appreciating the droll humor.

“We aim to do some bounty hunting,” said Sellers. “Catching outlaws pays rewards, and I don’t know of nobody needin’ it worse than we do. We heard that Gib Hunter had been seen in Dodge and might be headed for Denver. That’s a thousand-dollar bounty.”

“No more,” Danielle said. “Hunter tried to bushwhack somebody during the storm, and was gunned down in Hays. I was waiting out the storm myself.”

“Damn the luck,” said Sellers. “We’re having trouble getting the names of outlaws with prices on their heads. Lawmen don’t like bounty hunters.”

“That’s one reason we’re bound for Denver,” Burris said. “I got an uncle there, and he’s working for the Pinkertons. We’re hoping he can supply us a list of outlaws and the bounties on their heads.”

While Danielle wasn’t concerned with the bounty, the possibility of a list of the names of outlaws on the dodge appealed to her. These two down-at-the-heels cowboys seemed to be exactly as they had described themselves. Danielle decided to take a chance and, after supper, told the pair of her search for the outlaws who had murdered her father.

“I’m not after these men for the bounty,” Danielle said. “I don’t know if there’s bounty on them, but of the ten of them still loose, I can tell you the names they were using in Indian Territory.”

“Then maybe we can work out a trade,” Burris said. “If my uncle in Denver can get us a list of wanted men with bounties on their heads, you can compare the names you have to the names on the list.”

“I’d be obliged,” said Danielle. “I’m hunting them down because I don’t want any of them to go free. If there’s money on their heads, then you’re welcome to it. I just want them dead.”

On a page from a small notebook, Danielle wrote down the names of the outlaws that she remembered.

“Nobody on here I’ve ever heard of,” Jesse Burris said, “but that don’t mean anything. Outlaws change their names like the rest of us change our socks. It’ll be something to compare to our list if we’re lucky enough to get one.”

Danielle had no cause to doubt the sincerity of the two young bounty hunters, but she slept with her Colt in her hand. Danielle supplied the food and coffee for breakfast, and the trio set out for Denver. Except for deep canyons where the sun didn’t often shine, the snow had melted, leaving a quagmire of mud.

Denver, Colorado. September 27, 1870.

There was nothing fancy about the Denver House, but its rooms weren’t expensive, and Danielle rented two of them.

“You shouldn’t of done that,” said Herb Sellers. “We can’t repay you until we collect some bounties.”

“Let me look at your list of known outlaws,” Danielle said, “and that will be payment enough.”

“I aim to call on the Pinkertons and talk to my uncle in the morning,” Burris said.

The more Danielle thought about it, the less likely it seemed the Pinkerton listing of known outlaws would be of any value. From what she had heard, the Pinkerton Agency was most often called upon to seek out bank and train robbers. The outlaws who had hanged Daniel Strange in Indian Territory began to seem more and more like a ragtag lot of renegades left over from those infamous days following the war. But Danielle had not a single lead, and a Pinkerton list would be better than nothing. Danielle bought supper for the three of them at a small cafe.

“Jesse and me aim to hit some of the saloons tonight,” Herb said. “Want to come with us?”

“I reckon not,” said Danielle. “I’m tired of sleeping on the ground, and I want to enjoy a warm bed.” If the two were out of grub and low on money, the last place they should be going was to a saloon, Danielle thought. But it was the way of the frontier not to offer advice or opinions unless asked.

After the recent snow, there had been a warming trend and it seemed a shame to retire to her room so early. After Herb Sellers and Jesse Burris had left, Danielle changed her mind. Without taking her chestnut from the livery stable, she would walk to the places of business nearest the hotel. One of them—the Pretty Girl Saloon 4—was across the street from her hotel. The Pretty Girl was a two-story affair, and the bottom floor was well lighted. There was a bar all along one side of the room, while the rest of it was occupied by a roulette wheel, several billiard tables, and more than a dozen tables topped with green felt for poker and black jack. A winding staircase led to the second floor. Waitresses dressed in flowing fancy gowns carried drinks to tables where the different games were in progress. Danielle stopped one of the waitresses.