Ralph Compton - Death Rides a Chestnut Mare

Two hours after midnight, Sam Levan and his riders saddled their horses and crossed the Rio Grande. At the time of their last raid, cattle had been strung out for several miles along the river. Tonight they saw no cattle. Levan reined up, his outfit gathered around him.

“They’ve bunched the varmints upriver,” said Levan. “It may be a mite harder for us to get them running. We’ll circle around, comin’ in from the north. Keep your heads down and your pistols blazing.”

They rode a mile east of the river before riding north. Somewhere ahead, a cow bawled. The riders slowed their horses. They were getting close, and in the small hours of the morning, any sound—even the creak of saddle leather—could be heard from a great distance. Again there was no moon, and the meager starlight would be of little or no help to the Markwardt outfit. Sam Levan was the lead rider, and when he saw the dim shadows that made up the dozing cattle herd, he cut loose with a fearful shriek and began firing his revolver. The cattle scrambled to their feet and noticed the six riders closing in on them. They began to mill in confusion, and the muzzle flashes from the guns of Levan’s riders offered excellent targets for the defenders. It was a standoff, for Markwardt and his riders had headed the herd before they could run. Two of Levan’s riders were sagging in their saddles as though hard hit. Shouting a warning, Levan wheeled his horse and galloped upriver, the way he had come. His riders immediately followed. Danielle had not been hit, keeping her head low on the neck of the chestnut mare. They reached the Levan ranch house, and in the light from the window, Danielle could see that it was Gus Haddock and Dud Menges who had been hit. They slid from their saddles and would have fallen, had they not been supported by their comrades.

“Get them into the house,” Levan ordered. “Then a couple of you take their horses to the barn and rub them down.”

Once the wounded men were inside, Danielle, Warnell Prinz, Sal Wooler, and Jasper Witheres left to tend to the horses.

“My God,” said Eppie Levan as she beheld the bloody shirts of the wounded men. “We must get a doctor for them.”

“No,” Sam Levan said. “When there’s shooting involved, the doc will go straight to the law. Old Markwardt couldn’t ask for any better evidence than that. We’ll have to take care of them ourselves.”

With his knife, Levan cut away the shirts of the wounded men, and to his relief, the injuries didn’t look fatal. Both men had shoulder wounds, and the lead had evidently gone on through without striking bone. Eppie brought the medicine chest, and with disinfectant, Levan cleansed the wounds. He then bound them tight, using strips of an old sheet.

“We’ll keep them here in the house for a day or two,” Levan said. “They’re likely to have some fever, and will need whiskey to kill any infection.”

Eppie Levan seldom questioned anything the temperamental Levan did, but with her eyes on the wounded men, she spoke.

“It’s started, Sam. One day you’ll be brought in, tied across your saddle.”

“Maybe,” said Sam, “but I didn’t start it. Markwardt’s bunch rim-rocked a thousand head of our sheep. We only stampeded his cows. Tonight we couldn’t do even that. The varmints was ready for us.”

“And they’ll be ready the next time,” Eppie said. “Can’t we make do with the section of land we own, and let them have the free range?”

“Hell no,” said Levan defiantly. “Just because Markwardt raises cows, that don’t give him divine right to all the free grass. Soon as Haddock and Menges is well enough to ride, we’ll be goin’ after them again.”

Having unsaddled, rubbed down, and put away the horses, the rest of Levan’s riders returned to the house to see how their wounded comrades had fared.

“They’ll make it,” Levan said. “Some of you help me get them into a spare bedroom.”

Levan and Warnell Prinz carried Gus Haddock to the bed, while Sal Wooler and Jasper Witheres carried Dud Menges. Once the injured were in bed, Levan forced each man to take half a bottle of laudanum. They would sleep through much of the aftershock and pain. Prinz, Wooler, and Witheres returned to the parlor where Danielle waited. With two of the outfit wounded, they awaited orders from Sam Levan. They weren’t long in coming.

“I want the rest of you to keep as close a watch on the sheep camps as you can,” said Levan. “It’s high time Markwardt and his outfit was comin’ after us.”

“We’re considerably outgunned,” Sal Wooler said.

“Damn it, I know that,” Levan said. “I don’t want a man of you killed over a few sheep, but do your best to keep them cow nurses from rim-rocking another flock.”

After breakfast, Danielle, Prinz, Wooler, and Witheres rode out to begin their watch over the three sheep camps.

The Markwardt Ranch. October 18, 1870.

“Let’s go get some sleep,” Adolph Markwardt said, an hour after they had headed the intended stampede. “They won’t be back tonight.”

“We may have hit some of them,” said Nat Horan. “We were within range, and all their muzzle flashes made pretty good targets.”

“You boys done well,” Markwardt said. “We may have just put an end to these late-night stampedes.”

“I doubt it,” said Oscar McLean. “Levan needs that free grass more than we do.”

“All right by me,” Markwardt said, “long as he’s willing to risk his damn neck for it.”

“Are we goin’ after them now?” Isaac Taylor asked.

“Not yet,” said Markwardt. “Give ’em a few days to lick their wounds, and they’ll figure some other way of comin’ after us.”

Sam Levan rode into Santa Fe, to the mercantile.

“I need some dynamite,” Levan said.

“Ain’t got much,” the storekeeper said. “Miners buy it up as quick as it comes in. I reckon I got a dozen sticks.”

“That’ll be enough,” said Levan.

When Levan reached his ranch, he went to the bunkhouse, where he had the necessary privacy to cap and fuse the dynamite. Finished, he left it there. Had he taken it to the house, there would have been yet another tirade from Eppie. Just at sundown Danielle, Warnell Prinz, Sal Wooler, and Jasper Witheres rode in.

“Nothin’ happened at any of the sheep camps today,” said Jasper Witheres.

“I didn’t expect it to,” Sam Levan said. “We ain’t pushed it far enough, but I think we will tonight. I’ll meet you in the bunkhouse, after supper.”

“How’s Gus and Dud?” Danielle asked.

“Better,” said Levan. “Eppie’s been dosin’ ’em with whiskey, and they’re sweatin’ like mules.”

Supper was a silent affair, the four remaining riders wondering what old Sam Levan had in mind for them, with two of their companions out of the fight. Levan finished first, and by the time his riders left the supper table, Levan was waiting in the bunkhouse. His remaining four riders looked skeptical. Levan reached under one of the bunks, dragging out a gunnysack. From it, he took a stick of capped and fused dynamite.

“A dozen sticks,” said Levan, “each with a seven-second fuse. All we got to do is fling three or four of these into the air above the Markwardt herd, and they’ll run like hell wouldn’t have it. This time, they won’t have muzzle flashes to shoot at.”

“My God,” Warnell Prinz said, “The concussion from that could kill some cows. Maybe even a man.”

“Damn it,” said Levan, “ridin’ in shouting and shooting ain’t got us nothing but two of the outfit shot. We can get close enough to fling this dynamite before they got any idea that we’re there.”