Ralph Compton - Death Rides a Chestnut Mare

Danielle cocked the Colt for effect, and Levan spoke.

“My name’s Henry Levan, and I’m called Hank. Up to the first of September, I was in Alamosa, at Clay Allison’s horse ranch. I was there most of a year, and was let go when Allison sold most of his stock. Does that satisfy you?” 5

“Not entirely,” said Danielle, “but I suppose it’ll have to do. Where do you come from, Levan?”

“Down south of Santa Fe, along the Rio,” Levan said. “Too damn many sheep down there to suit me.”

“Then mount up and ride,” said Danielle. “You’re not the man I’m looking for.”

Levan fumbled with his horse’s reins. Danielle held her Colt on him until he had freed the reins and mounted his horse. When he rode away, she followed at a safe distance. The shabby boardinghouse where Levan eventually reined up had an unattended stable, and he led his horse inside. When he came out, starting for the boardinghouse, he carried only his rifle. When he was gone, Danielle slipped into the stable, seeking Levan’s horse. When she found it, the saddle was on a nearby rail, with saddlebags intact. She fumbled around in the dark, avoiding a change of clothes and a box of shells. Finally, her hands touched paper that felt like an envelope. Removing that, she felt around, seeking something more, but there was nothing. Quickly slipping out of the stable, Danielle rode back to the Denver House. Leaving the chestnut mare in the nearby livery, she hurried up to her room and lighted a lamp. What she had retrieved from Levan’s saddlebag was actually a letter. It had been post-marked in Santa Fe and was addressed to Henry Levan, Alamosa, Colorado.

“Oh, damn,” said Danielle in disgust. “Damn the luck.”

Then, as though by divine inspiration, a thought came to her mind. There had to be other Levans somewhere near Santa Fe for Henry Levan to be receiving mail from there. Without feeling guilty, she withdrew the single sheet of paper and read the letter. It was dated May 1, 1870, and from its tone, had been written by Levan’s mother. She urged Henry Levan to come home. One sentence quickly caught Danielle’s eye: Your brother has been gone for two months, riding to Texas with a bunch of outlaws.

Danielle read the letter several more times without learning anything new. Everything pointed to Henry Levan’s brother as one of the men Danielle was after, but where was he? Had he returned home, or was he still with the band of outlaws?

“Damn it, I’ll ride to Santa Fe and find out,” Danielle said aloud.

Inquiring, she learned that Alamosa was a little more than two hundred miles due south of Denver. Since she was bound for Santa Fe, ever farther south, she decided to stop at the Allison ranch in Alamosa. Allison should be able to confirm or deny that Levan had been there for almost a year. Danielle made the rounds of half a dozen other saloons without learning anything helpful. At dawn, after riding to the mercantile to replenish her supplies, she rode south.

Alamosa, Colorado. October 3, 1870.

Alamosa wasn’t a large town, and it was near dark when Danielle rode in. She took a room in the only hotel and led the chestnut mare across the street to the livery. She had no desire to go looking for the Allison ranch in the dark. There were several cafes, and she chose the one nearest the hotel. There were few patrons, and they left well ahead of Danielle. After paying for her meal, she questioned the cook about the Allison place.

“Allison’s place is maybe ten miles east of here,” the cook said, “but if you’re looking for work, you won’t find it there. He’s done let most of his riders go. Old Crazy Clay may be gettin’ ready to move on. He’s about wore out his welcome around here.”

“What’s he done?” Danielle asked.

“It’d be easier to tell you what he ain’t done,” said the cook. “Two Saturdays in a row he’s hoorawed the town. He rode in wearin’ nothing but his hat and boots, screeching and shootin’ like a crazy man. Swore he’d shoot anybody lookin’ out the windows at him, but most of the ladies in town looked anyway. He didn’t shoot nobody, but he’s just so damn unpredictable as to what he’ll do next. Ain’t been long since he killed a man with a Bowie knife.”

“Why?” Danielle asked.

“Him and his neighbor had an argument over a land boundary. To settle it, they dug a grave and the both of ’em got down in it with knives. The winner had to bury the loser, and old Clay’s still walkin’.”

“Maybe you can tell me what I need to know,” said Danielle. “There used to be a gent name of Henry Levan working there. I need to know if he’s still there, or if he’s left, where he went.”

“He’s gone, far as I know,” the cook said. “Septem ber first, Allison let four riders go, and they stopped here for grub. Levan was one of ’em.”

“How long was Levan here?” Danielle asked.

“Not quite a year, as I recall. You ain’t the law, are you?”

Danielle laughed. “No. I’m pretty well acquainted with Levan, and I reckoned I’d talk to him if he was still around.”

“I expect he’s gone looking for a place to hole up for the winter,” said the cook.

The Clay Allison Ranch. October 4, 1870.

Allison stood on the porch, watching Danielle ride in. With his fancy garb, sandy hair, and smoothly shaven face, he was a handsome man. Danielle thought with amusement of him riding naked through town, women peeking at him. Danielle reined up.

“Step down,” Allison said.

Danielle dismounted, but stopped short of the porch, noting that he carried two tied-down revolvers. Allison said nothing, so she spoke.

“My name is Daniel Strange, and I’m looking for a gent named Levan. I was told that he worked here for a while.”

“Are you the law? I’m Clay Allison, and lawmen aren’t welcome on my property.”

“No,” Danielle said, “I’m not the law.”

“Levan worked for me not quite a year,” said Allison. “I let him and three others go on September first. I got no idea where they went, but I know Levan has kin somewhere south of Santa Fe. Now I’d suggest you mount up and ride on.”

In the West, it was considered rude not to invite a stranger in, if only for a drink of cold water, but being asked to leave for no reason was unthinkable. Danielle decided she didn’t like Clay Allison. Without a word, she mounted Sundown and rode south.

Santa Fe, New Mexico. October 5, 1870.

The ride from Alamosa to Santa Fe was a little more than a hundred miles. Taking the time to rest the horse, Danielle rode in just as the first stars began appearing in the purple heavens. Santa Fe was an old, old town, established by the Spanish, and their influence was still everywhere. To Danielle it looked as big as Denver. Eventually, she found a little hotel with a cafe directly across the street. She left the chestnut mare at a livery on the street that ran behind the hotel and, walking back to the lobby, took a room for the night. The wind from the west was cold, and there was a dirty smudge of clouds far to the west as the setting sun had slipped over the horizon. It looked like another storm might be on the way. If that was the case, it should be obvious by morning. Danielle had no desire to be caught in the wilds somewhere to the south if there was snow. She would wait out the storm in Santa Fe, where there was shelter and warm food.

By dawn, a flurry of snow was blowing out of the west, and by the time Danielle had breakfast, the flakes were much larger. The wind was cold, slipping its icy fingers beneath her sheep-skin-lined coat. Danielle returned to her room at the hotel and, from the wood stacked in the hall, built up the fire in the stove. She brought in more wood for the night and, after locking the door, slid the back of a chair under the knob. She then treated herself to the luxury of stripping off all her clothing and removing the hated binder, finally freeing her breasts of its constricting grasp. With the storm raging outside and the wind howling around the eaves, there was little to do except sleep, and Danielle did just that. Undisturbed, she slumbered the day through, arising in the late afternoon. One look out the window told her that not only had the storm continued to blow, it had become more intense. Starting with the binder, she dressed. She buckled on her Colt, pulled her hat down low, and then added her heavy coat and gloves. She had to get to the cafe for supper, and it was a fight, for the snow was already to her knees. There was nobody inside the cafe except the cook.