Ralph Compton - Death Rides a Chestnut Mare

“No doubt we can,” Jasper Witheres said, “but ain’t you forgettin’ we got two men out of the fight with wounds? This dynamite throwin’ could be the very thing that’ll blow old Adolph’s mind. Why don’t we wait until Haddock and Menges is healed? Then if them cow chasers comes after us, we won’t be shorthanded.”

“That makes sense to me,” said Sal Wooler.

“And to me,” Warnell Prinz agreed.

Danielle said nothing, and Sam Levan turned on her.

“Well, kid, ain’t you standin’ with the others?”

“I agree with their thinking,” said Danielle, “but I’ll ride with you. I don’t cross a man who’s paying me wages.”

“Well, God bless my soul,” Levan said. “The kid’s got more sand than any of you.”

“Aw, hell,” said Warnell Prinz. “I still think we’re bitin’ off more than we can chew, but I’ll ride with you.”

Sam Levan looked at Sal Wooler and Jasper Witheres, and they nodded.

“I don’t reckon they’ll be expecting us again tonight,” Levan said, “and we’ll have that in our favor. We ride at midnight.”

Danielle and her three companions retired to their bunks to get as much sleep as they could. For a long time Danielle lay thinking, pondering the wisdom of using dynamite. It seemed a cowardly thing to do, but nothing else had drawn the Markwardt outfit into an expected fight. When Danielle had ridden out of St. Joe, her mission seemed simple. All she had to do was track down the killers who had murdered her father, extracting revenge. Now she was about to take part in a raid that might cost innocent men their lives. Tonight she would ride with Sam Levan, but the more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that she should just ride on. If some of the Markwardt outfit died, it would be reason enough for the county sheriff to come looking for Sam Levan. The very last thing Danielle wanted was to become a fugitive from the law. So sobering were her thoughts, she was wide awake when Sam Levan came to the bunkhouse at midnight.

“Each of us will take one stick of dynamite,” Levan said. “We’ll light the fuses, throw the dynamite, and get away from there before they know what’s happening. Here’s a block of Lucifers. 7Each of you be sure and take some.”

Danielle took her stick of dynamite and broke off six of the Lucifers.

“Now let’s saddle up and ride,” said Levan. “Let’s be done with this.”

Danielle thought Levan seemed nervous, as though his iron-fisted resolve was not quite as strong as it had been. There was a very real possibility that so much exploding dynamite could kill Markwardt or some of his men. The county sheriff was well aware of the increasing bitterness between sheepmen and cattlemen. If one or more of the cattlemen died tonight, the lawman would most certainly come looking for Sam Levan, along with any of his outfit who had ridden with him. The five of them rode out, nobody speaking, Levan taking the lead.

Adolph Markwardt and his five riders had most of the cows bedded down along the river bank, and they rode from one end of the herd to the other, and back again.

“I still think we nailed a couple of ’em the last time they was here,” Nat Horan said, “and I don’t look for ’em to come back shorthanded.”

“Never underestimate a damn sheepman,” said Markwardt. “The varmints could give mules lessons in bein’ stubborn.”

The rest of the men laughed. In his own mind, each doubted there was a sheepman anywhere in the world who was more stubborn than Adolph Markwardt.

“It’s hell, spendin’ the night ridin’ from one herd to the other,” said Oscar McLean. “I think we ought to wait at one end.”

“Oh, hell, don’t give me that,” Markwardt growled. “That’s how they stampeded the herd the first time, with all of you gathered in a bunch at the wrong place. We don’t know from what direction they’re likely to ride in.”

“They come in from the north last time,” Joel Wells said. “I look for ’em to come in from the south if they try it again.”

“I don’t,” said Isaac Taylor. “That would stampede the herd back toward the ranch.”

“Isaac’s probably right,” Markwardt said. “I expect we’d better spend a little more time to the north of the herd.”

Markwardt and his outfit had begun circling the herd toward the north when the first explosion came. Flung high into the air, the short-fused dynamite exploded directly over the herd. Five times explosions rocked the night and the cattle went crazy. To the south they ran, Markwardt and his riders frantically trying to head them off. But there was no stopping the stampede, and it thundered on.

“Damn them,” said Markwardt. “The scurvy yellow coyotes.”

“My God,” Nat Horan said, “if we’d been any closer to the north end of the herd, we’d all be dead men.”

“Yeah,” said Oscar McLean, “and that bunch didn’t know we wasn’t right there where they was throwin’ the dynamite. How much longer before we ride over there and deliver a dose of lead?”

“Not much longer,” Markwardt said. “The rest of you ride in and get what sleep you can. I expect them blasts killed some cows, and I aim to be here at first light, to find out just how many. Then I’ll ride in for a talk with the sheriff. I’m bettin’ Sam Levan bought that explosive in Santa Fe. If we can tie him to that, it may be the proof we’ll need.”

As Sam Levan and his companions rode away, nobody spoke. There had been no shots fired in response to the blasts, so none of them knew whether or not Markwardt’s riders had been close enough to be hurt. While not lacking in courage, Danielle didn’t want to find herself on the wrong side of the law for having been part of Sam Levan’s outfit. Her quest—a vow of vengeance—was dangerous enough, without having to go on the dodge. As they drew near the Levan house, they could see lamplight streaming from several of the windows.

“Damn,” said Levan, “I hope nothing’s gone wrong here.”

“A little soon for that, I think,” Warnell Prinz said. “You want the rest of us to ride on to the house with you?”

“No,” said Levan. “Go on to the bunkhouse and get what sleep you can.”

When Levan entered the house, he heard voices in the kitchen, one of them Eppie’s.

“What’s goin’ on in there?” Levan demanded.

“Oh, Sam,” Eppie cried joyously, “Brice is here. He’s come back to us.”

When Sam Levan entered the kitchen, a lanky rider got up from the table. He was thin and hungry-looking, his clothing tattered and dirty, and his boots run over. Nothing was in order but the tied-down Colt on his right hip.

“Son, I’m glad to see you,” said Levan, taking the young man’s hand. “We got a fight in the making with old man Markwardt’s cow outfit. I need all the help I can get.”

“No,” Eppie cried. “You’re goin’ to get yourself killed, Sam, and I won’t let you take Brice with you.”

“Ma,” said Brice, “I can take care of myself. It’s hard times in Texas, with no work for a line rider, so I’m back, asking for a bunk and grub for a while. I’ll help Pa do whatever has to be done.”

Eppie Levan said no more, for her wayward son was too much like his stubborn sire. Sam Levan grinned at Brice, and the two shook hands again.

Gus Haddock and Dub Menges had healed to the extent that they were able to come to the breakfast table, and were there when Levan and the rest of the outfit joined them. As they were about to begin eating, Brice Levan entered the kitchen.

“Any of you that ain’t met him,” said Sam, “this is my oldest son, Brice. He’s . . . uh . . . been away.” With the exception of Danielle, all the riders nodded. Apparently they knew the new arrival. Looking directly at Danielle, Brice Levan spoke.