Ralph Compton - Death Rides a Chestnut Mare

“You might as well close and go home,” Danielle said.

“I can’t,” said the cook. “This is home. I live in the back of the place.”

Two more men came in while Danielle was eating, and one of them wore a lawman’s star. The two ordered their meal and took seats at one of the tables, gratefully sipping hot coffee.

“Charlie,” said the cook to the lawman, “how’s it goin’ with them cattlemen and sheepmen down along the Rio?”

“Not worth a damn,” Charlie said. “Me and Vince rode down there for nothin’, havin’ to fight our way back through a blizzard. Old man Levan’s killin’ mad, and he’s ready to go after the cattlemen with guns, when he can’t prove anything. Somebody rim-rocked near a thousand head of his sheep.” 6

“Maybe he’s right,” said Vince, the lawman’s companion. “Who else but the cattlemen would of done that?”

“Hell, I don’t know,” the lawman said. “All I know is this whole damn country is under my jurisdiction, and I can’t spend all my time with old man Levan’s sheep. I’ve done all I can do to avoid a range war between sheepmen and cattlemen. I reckon the winner will be whoever can afford the most hired guns.”

Danielle listened with interest, a plan taking shape in her mind. Suppose she asked for and got a gunman’s role with the sheepmen or cattlemen? Sooner or later, if he was alive, Brice Levan would be coming home. Even if he did not, some of the other killers hired by one side or the other might be men on her death list. Danielle returned to her hotel room, preparing for another dreary day of waiting out the storm.

To the south, on the eastern bank of the Rio Grande, Sam Levan’s hired guns kept a roaring fire going in the bunkhouse stove. There were Gus Haddock, Dud Menges, Warnell Prinz, Sal Wooler, and Jasper Witheres.

“Old man Sam’s mad enough to walk into hell and slap the devil’s face,” Dud Menges said. “By the time the sheriff and his deputy got here, the snow had covered the tracks of that bunch that rim-rocked the sheep. Wasn’t nothing could be done.”

“He’ll end up blamin’ us,” said Gus Haddock, “and there’s no way in hell so few of us can keep watch over three sheep camps at the same time. Markwardt’s cow nurses just hit one of the unguarded camps, and by the time we can get there, they’re gone. They’ll split up, and like the sheriff says, there ain’t a damn bit of evidence.”

“He’s got two Mex sheep herders at each of the three camps,” Dud Menges said. “If he wasn’t so damn cheap, he could arm them with Winchesters.”

“But we get fightin’ wages,” said Warnell Prinz. “The sheep herders don’t.”

“We need more men,” Sal Wooler said.

“There’s folks in hell wantin’ cold spring water,” Jasper Witheres said. “Their chance of gettin’ it is about the equal of old Sam hirin’ more guns. I think, once this storm has passed, he’ll send us to the Adolph Markwardt spread to raise hell, with or without any evidence. Who else but a bunch of cow nurses would want to run a flock of woolies off a bluff?”

At Adolph Markwardt’s bunkhouse, there was considerable jubilation. Markwardt himself had come to congratulate his men. With him, he had brought two bottles of whiskey.

“You won’t be able to ride for a couple of days,” Markwardt said. “Get all the rest you can, for you’ve earned it. The sheriff was by here in the midst of the storm, and was on his way back to Santa Fe. Naturally I told him all of you was in the bunkhouse, waiting out the storm. I told him he could see for himself, but he didn’t bother. It’s a comfort knowin’ we’re law abidin’ folks, ain’t it?”

“It is, for a fact,” said Nat Horan. “Wasn’t our fault them sheep didn’t have the sense to stop running when they got to that drop-off.”

“The damn four-legged locusts don’t belong in cattle country,” Lon McLean said.

“Yeah,” said his brother Oscar, “but what we’re fightin’ for is open range. Accordin’ to the law, sheep have as much right there as cattle, but we need that range. We got just too many cows for the 640 acres we have. We need two more sections.”

“The sheepmen have set up camp there,” Isaac Taylor said, “and they ain’t likely to be movin’ until there’s some shootin’ in their direction.”

“After we’ve gunned down a few of them,” said Joel Wells, “that’s when the sheriff will come lookin’ for us.”

“Not if it’s self-defense,” Markwardt said. “We raise enough hell with them sheep, and Sam Levan will send his riders after us. For anybody trespassin’ on my property, tryin’ to gun us down, we got the right to shoot in self-defense.”

Nat Horan laughed. “From ambush?”

“Whatever suits your fancy,” said Markwardt. “I think after we rim-rock another two or three flocks of sheep, Sam Levan and his bunch will come looking for us.”

During the second day of the storm, the snow ceased. With nothing to do but eat and sleep, Danielle was fed up with the inactivity. But the snow was deep, and travel would be all but impossible. Danielle went to the livery and requested a measure of grain every day for the chestnut mare. She would need it, because of the intense cold. The temperature was already well below zero. The day after the snow ceased, the sun came out, but had little effect, for the snow was at least two feet and frozen solid. Danielle waited another two days before deciding to resume her journey. She had not asked directions to either camp, for she had heard the sheriff say that the feud was taking place in his county. There was little doubt the bleating of sheep would lead her to Sam Levan’s spread. If he refused to hire her, she must then seek out the cattlemen. During the cold months, even wanted men looked for a place to hole up, and the chance to draw gun wages might be tempting to the men on her death list. Within less than an hour, she could see the fair-sized herd of sheep. Two shepherds and two sheep dogs were with the flock, which looked to number a thousand or more. Danielle reined up, and one of the shepherds raised his eyebrows in question.

“Where might I find Mr. Levan, the owner of these sheep?” Danielle asked.

“At the rancho, señor, ” said the Mexican, pointing.

Well before Danielle reached the Levan house, a pack of dogs came yelping to greet her.

“Here, you dogs,” a bull voice bellowed. “Get the hell back to the house.”

The pack turned and trotted back the way they had come, allowing Danielle to ride to within a few feet of the porch. Sam Levan looked her over thoroughly before he spoke, and there was no friendliness in his voice.

“Who are you, and what do you want?”

“I’m Daniel Strange, and I’m looking for work.”

“You should know there’s a range war goin’ on here,” Levan said. “I pay gun wages of a hundred a month, plus ammunition.”

“I can live with that,” said Danielle.

“You don’t look like no gunman to me,” Levan said. “Hell, you ain’t even old enough to shave.”

“That has nothing to do with drawing and firing a gun,” said Danielle.

Sam Levan didn’t see her hand move, yet he found himself looking into the muzzle of a Colt. Danielle slipped the weapon back into its holster.

“Not bad,” Levan said, “but a fast draw don’t mean you can hit what you shoot at.”

“True enough,” said Danielle. “Choose me a target.”

Wordlessly, Levan took a silver dollar from his pocket and flung it into the air. As it started its descent, Danielle drew and fired once. When Sam Levan recovered the coin, there was a dent in the center of it. He eyed Danielle with grudging respect, and then he spoke.