Ralph Compton - Death Rides a Chestnut Mare

“Somebody tried to bushwhack me,” replied Danielle, “and I shot back. I reckon you’d better send for the sheriff.”

Sheriff Hollis arrived soon after with a lantern. Scarcely looking at Danielle, Hollis headed for the dark area between the hotel and the adjoining building. There he hunkered down, and in the pale light from the lantern, it became obvious he was examining the body of a man. Slowly the sheriff returned to the street where Danielle stood, blood dripping off the fingers of her left hand.

“Come on,” said Sheriff Hollis. “We’ll have Doc take care of your wound. Then you’ll go to my office and tell me what this is all about.”

“It’s about me being bushwhacked,” Danielle said. “I fired back.”

“Two hits in the dark,” said Sheriff Hollis. “I don’t often see shooting like that.”

Danielle said nothing. When they reached the doctor’s house, he quickly cleaned and bandaged Danielle’s wounded arm. Danielle then followed Sheriff Hollis back to his office.

“Now,” Sheriff Hollis said, “you have some talking to do. Start with your name.”

“Daniel Strange. I had just left the Pretty Girl Saloon and was on my way back to my hotel. I didn’t fire until somebody fired at me.”

“I believe you,” said Sheriff Hollis. “This is not the first time this has happened here, but it’s the first time anybody’s nailed a bushwhacker. His name is Belk Sanders. Have you heard of him?”

“Not until just now,” Danielle said. “I’d just won four hundred dollars playing blackjack at the Pretty Girl Saloon. Sanders must have been there, leaving ahead of me. But the cost of going upstairs is a hundred dollars’ worth of gambling chips. I doubt anyone would be able to afford that very often, and it makes me wonder if the saloon didn’t hire him to bushwhack the winners and take back the money.”

“I’ve thought of that, myself,” Sheriff Hollis said, “but there’s no proof. Tonight’s the fourth time a winner from the Pretty Girl has been bushwhacked. The first three weren’t as sudden with a pistol as you.”

“How long has this Belk Sanders been around here?” Danielle asked. “What does he do besides hang around in saloons?”

“Nothing, as far as I know,” said Sheriff Hollis, “but he always seemed to be flush. I think maybe you solved one of my problems tonight.”

“Will you need me for an inquest?” Danielle asked. “I’m claiming self-defense.”

“You’ll have no trouble with the court,” said Sheriff Hollis, “and I don’t think you’ll have to be here. Three men in the hotel, including the desk clerk, saw the muzzle flash from Sanders’s gun before you fired. I’ve never seen a more obvious case of self-defense.”

“I’ll be at the hotel tonight, and until sometime tomorrow, if you need me,” Danielle said. “I want to be sure this wound is going to heal before I ride on.”

“Good thinking,” said Sheriff Hollis. “Get yourself a quart of whiskey. It’ll take care of a fever and kill any infection.”

Danielle returned to the Pretty Girl Saloon, but only for some whiskey, which she was able to buy at the downstairs bar. From there, she returned to her hotel. By then, her wounded arm had begun to hurt, and she took a dose of the laudanum the doctor had given her. The quart of whiskey she placed on the table beside the bed. She awakened the next morning with a temperature, and forced herself to drink some of the liquor. It was a terrible experience, for Danielle had never tasted whiskey before. She choked the stuff down, wondering if it wouldn’t do more harm to her insides than the bullet had done to her arm. She counted her blessings, for Sanders had fired twice. Had his second shot hit her, it might have been necessary for the doctor to undress her in order to treat the wound. That would have given the lawman and the town something to talk about, and would explain why the Pretty Girl Saloon’s naked women hadn’t taken her mind off her game of twenty-one. Danielle was soon sick from the whiskey, and long before she was ready to get up, there was a knock on her door.

“It’s Herb and Jesse,” a voice said. “We’re invitin’ you to breakfast.”

“I can’t eat,” said Danielle. “I had some whiskey last night, and I’m sick. I reckon I’ll be here another night. If you’re still here at suppertime, I’ll join you.”

The day dragged on, and it was late afternoon before Danielle felt like getting up. But when there was a knock on her door, she was ready.

“Burris and Sellers,” said a voice through the door. “It’s suppertime.”

Danielle let them in, and although her shirt sleeve concealed her bandaged arm, the two of them looked at her with renewed interest.

“We heard what happened last night,” Jesse Burris said. “The desk clerk’s talking about it to anybody who’ll listen.”

“My God, that was some shootin’,” said Herb Sellers enthusiastically. “You nailed the varmint twice, with only a muzzle flash to shoot at. When you start teachin’ lessons for using a sixgun, I aim to sign up.”

Danielle laughed. “My pa was the best gunsmith in all of Missouri. He taught me to draw and shoot.”

“Maybe there’s a reward on this gent you shot last night,” Jesse Burris said.

“If there is, I don’t want it,” said Danielle. “I shot him because he shot at me. Now tell me about your night at the poker tables.”

“Nothin’ to brag about,” Herb Sellers said. “Be tween us, we lost a hundred dollars, and when we managed to win it back, we quit. Is that Pretty Girl Saloon all it’s cracked up to be?”

“I don’t know about the poker,” said Danielle, “but the faro game is honest. You have to play with a naked woman beside you.”

Chapter 7

Denver, Colorado. September 30, 1870.

Danielle spent one more night in Denver, feeling the need to visit some more saloons. It was unlikely the men she was hunting would be well heeled enough to visit the Pretty Girl Saloon, and she silently rebuked herself for having spent two nights there. However, her stake was now $3,600. Wisely spent, it would last her many months. One of the first saloons she found was The Broken Spoke, and as she entered, one of the bouncers spoke.

“Poker tables are in the back, behind the curtain, kid.”

Since Danielle had sworn off any further bouts with whiskey, there was no excuse for hanging around the bar, so pushing aside the curtain, she went on to the poker area.

“Table stakes, dollar limit,” said one of the dealers.

“Too rich for my blood,” Danielle said. “I’d like to watch for a while. Maybe I’ll learn something.”

“I don’t want you lookin’ over my shoulder,” said one of the players. “It makes me nervous.”

One of the other men laughed. “Levan’s nervous because he ain’t won a pot tonight, and the way he’s playin’ his cards, he ain’t likely to.”

Levan! Could it be Brice Levan, from the death list? Danielle stayed there a few more minutes without learning anything more about Levan. Finally, she left the saloon, hiding in the darkness near where the horses were tied. Sooner or later, Levan would have to leave, and if he was playing poker badly, it shouldn’t be long. When he finally exited the saloon, he staggered a little. He had tied his horse’s reins securely to the hitching rail, and cursing, he fumbled with the knot. Danielle stepped out of the shadows with a Colt steady in her hand.

“I’m looking for a man named Levan,” Danielle said. “What’s your first name?”

“None of your damn business,” said Levan.

“I’m making it my business,” Danielle said. “Iden tify yourself and tell me where you’ve been during the past year. If you don’t, I’ll shoot you just on general principles.”