Ralph Compton - Death Rides a Chestnut Mare

“It’ll be the start of a range war,” said Nat Horan.

“Then so be it,” Markwardt said. “This is the frontier, and a man can’t claim nothin’ he ain’t strong enough to hold on to.”

Chapter 8

Most of Adolph Markwardt’s cattle were strung out along the Rio Grande, where there was still a little graze. Markwardt’s outfit was watching from the west side of the river, and since there was no moon, they were not immediately aware of the Levan sheep outfit’s arrival. Suddenly, the night blossomed with gunfire, and the spooked cattle lit out downriver, picking up others as they went.

“Let’s go get ’em!” Nat Horan shouted.

He and his four companions galloped across the river, drawing their guns when they judged they were within range. But the marauders made poor targets, leaning over the necks of their horses. Finally, when the galloping herd was thoroughly spooked, they split up. Knowing the futility of pursuing them individually in the dark, Markwardt’s outfit reined up to rest their heaving horses

“Damn,” spat Isaac Taylor, “old Adolph will have our heads on a plate.”

“Not mine,” Oscar McLean said.

“Nor mine,” echoed his brother Lon. “It’s pitch dark out here. A man can’t fight what he can’t see.”

“Well,” Joel Wells asked, “do we ride in and admit they got the jump on us?”

“Not me,” said Nat Horan. “I been cussed by Markwardt before, and I ain’t about to take it again. I say we wait for first light, round up them cows, and drive ’em up yonder where they was.”

“Without telling Markwardt?” Joel Wells asked.

“Not unless one of you wants to volunteer,” replied Nat Horan. “After all, they just run the hell out of the herd. None of ’em’s likely to die from that,”

“That’s an invite for them to come back tonight and stampede ’em again,” Joel Wells said. “Hell, we’ll be up all night listening to the cattle run, and all the next day rounding them up.”

“No we won’t,” said Nat Horan. “Tonight we’ll be over there among the cows, ridin’ around the herd. At first sign of any riders, we cut down on them.”

“With graze so damn skimpy, that bunch will be strung out for miles downriver,” Oscar said. “How do you aim to keep ’em together long enough for just five of us to keep watch on them all?”

“We get down here a couple of hours before dark and bunch the varmints,” Nat Horan said. “The only time we can legally shoot them damn sheepmen is when they’re over here on Markwardt’s holdings.”

“They ain’t exactly a wet-behind-the-ears bunch,” said Joel Wells. “Old Adolph ain’t done enough thinkin’ on this. Soon as we gun down one of them sheepmen, it’ll be hell from then on.”

“Not if we gun ’em down on Adolph’s spread, stampedin’ his cattle,” Nat Horan said. “The law can’t touch us.”

“It ain’t the law that bothers me,” said Joel Wells. “It’s a range war. A man has to live like a hermit, afraid to ride to town on Saturday night, ’cause he never knows when he’ll be shot in the back. There ain’t no damn rules. It’s shoot or be shot, every day, seven days a week.”

“You can always take your bedroll and drift,” Lon McLean said, “but you’ll have to winter somewhere. It ain’t often a man can draw a hundred and found.”

“You’re right about that,” said Joel Wells, “and I ain’t got enough money to even keep me alive until spring. I reckon I’ll stay and take the risk with the rest of you.”

The five of them set out at first light, driving the scattered cattle back upriver. It was two hours past sunrise when they finally gathered the last of them, and before they could merge the new arrivals with those already gathered, Adolph Markwardt rode out from behind some brush. He reined up and, for an uncomfortably long time, said nothing. Finally, he spoke.

“So they stampeded the herd right under your noses.”

“It was black as the inside of a stovepipe last night,” Nat Horan said. “A man can’t shoot what he can’t see, and they never fired back. They just scattered the herd.”

“So all of you decided to keep it from me by rounding them up on the quiet,” Adolph said.

“We done the best we could,” said Oscar McLean.

“Yeah,” his brother Lon said. “It’s easy to cuss somebody else because he fails to do something you couldn’t of done yourself.”

Adolph Markwardt’s hand trembled over the butt of his revolver, but he knew better. He had hired these men for their deadly speed and accuracy with a gun. He relaxed, and when he spoke, there was no anger in his voice.

“Maybe you’re right, McLean. Tonight and every night, until this thing is finished, I’ll be ridin’ watch with you. Now herd them cows together and git on to the house. The cook is holdin’ breakfast for you. After that, git what sleep you can. We got a night’s work ahead of us.”

With that, he wheeled his horse and rode away. Not until he was well beyond hearing did any of his riders speak.

“Hell’s bells on a tomcat,” said Joel Wells. “I looked for him to spout fire and brimstone.”

Oscar McLean laughed. “Maybe the old dragon’s fire went out.”

“I wouldn’t get too cocky too soon,” Nat Horan said. “He’ll keep us circlin’ them cows so long we won’t even have time to dismount and go to the bushes.’

Levan’s Sheep Camp. October 17, 1870.

“I don’t understand it,” said Sam Levan at breakfast. “After we scattered his herd halfway to Mexico, old Adolph should of raised hell. I reckon we’ll give him another dose tonight. There’s got to be a limit to how much of that he’ll take before comin’ after us.”

His riders said nothing. In a gunfight with Markwardt’s outfit, any or all of them could die. It was the price a man might have to pay for having sold his gun. Danielle had begun wearing her father’s Colt in addition to her own. Her own weapon was tied down on her right hip, while her father’s was tied down on her left hip, butt forward for a cross-hand draw. None of this had escaped the others.

“Kid,” said Gus Haddock, “you’re mighty young to be totin’ a matched pair of irons like that. Where’d you get ’em?”

“My pa made four of them,” Danielle said. “He was a gunsmith.”

“They’re fine-lookin’ weapons,” said Sal Wooler, “but they could get you killed. The last damn thing a man on the dodge needs is a brace of pistols with his initial carved into the grips.”

“I’m not on the dodge,” Danielle said.

“You likely will be, before this thing between Sam Levan and Adolph Markwardt’s over and done,” said Jasper Witheres.

Danielle had mixed emotions, not doubting what Wooler had said about the danger of going on the dodge with a pair of fancy pistols. But there was a reason for her toting what appeared to be a matched pair of Colts. With a silver initial inlaid in the grips, they weren’t the kind that a man was likely to forget, once having seen them. Wouldn’t the men who had murdered her father remember the fancy Colt with inlaid silver? It was a calculated risk, but the killers might recognize the weapon as having belonged to Daniel Strange and, suspecting her vow of vengeance, come after her . If she couldn’t find them, then let them begin looking for her.

“I’d bet my saddle old Markwardt give his riders hell for us stampedin’ his herd,” Dud Menges said. “I’m bettin’ they’re just waitin’ for our patience to wear thin, figurin’ we’ll be back, just like Sam Levan aims for us to do tonight.”

Levan’s outfit spent the day riding from one of Levan’s sheep camps to another, seeing nobody except the sheep herders.