Ralph Compton - Death Rides a Chestnut Mare

“Who’s the kid?”

“I’m almighty damn tired of being called the kid,” Danielle said, getting to her feet. “My name is Daniel Strange.”

“Uh . . . sorry,” said Brice Levan. “No offense intended.”

There was no doubt in Danielle’s mind that Brice had seen her pair of Colts with silver initials inlaid in the grips, for his face went a shade whiter. She waited for Levan to sit down before seating herself on the other side of the table. He ate very little and seemed uncomfortable, for several times, he found Danielle staring directly at him. He was first to leave the table, returning to his room. Sam Levan knew something was wrong, but wasn’t sure exactly what. He eyed Danielle with suspicion, and she ignored his curious stares.

Adolph Markwardt counted fifteen dead cows. He then mounted his horse and rode north toward Santa Fe. Arriving there, he rode directly to the office of Charlie Murdock, the county sheriff. Murdock listened patiently as Markwardt spoke, telling the lawman of his suspicions.

“Fifteen cows, huh?” said Murdock. “That still ain’t quite as bad as a thousand sheep. I don’t have a doubt in my mind that it was your outfit that rim-rocked them sheep, but I don’t have any proof. Likewise, I don’t have anything but your suspicions as to who it was that stampeded your cows. I can’t arrest a man on my suspicions. What the hell am I supposed to do with yours?”

“If it ain’t expecting too much,” Markwardt growled, “you could ask around town and see who’s been buying dynamite.”

“There’s no law against having dynamite,” Sheriff Murdock said. “Every miner in the territory’s got a few sticks of the stuff. You and Levan had better settle your differences before somebody’s hurt or killed. I reckon you’re a big man in the territory, but you let me find you’ve broken the law, I’ll throw you in the juzgado as quick as I would a line-ridin’ cowboy on Saturday night.”

At Sam Levan’s place, he and his outfit prepared to ride out to the various sheep camps. Gus Haddock and Dud Menges were still unable to ride, and remained at the house.

“What are we waitin’ for?” Warnell Prinz demanded. “After what we done last night, them sheep are likely to catch hell.”

“We’re waitin’ for Brice,” said Sam. “Brice, where the hell are you?” he shouted.

Levan and his three companions were mounted, while Danielle still stood beside the chestnut mare. Brice Levan left the house, but instead of going to the corral for a horse, he started toward the mounted riders, his hard eyes on Danielle. A dozen yards away, he halted. Then he spoke.

“I don’t like you, kid, and I won’t ride with any outfit as long as you’re in it.”

“Oh,” said Danielle calmly, “I reckon I remind you of somebody a bunch of cut-throat outlaws robbed and murdered in Indian Territory. He was my pa, and this left-hand Colt was his.”

His face a mask of fury, Brice Levan drew. Danielle waited until the muzzle of his revolver had cleared leather, but he didn’t get off a shot. With a cross-hand draw, Danielle drew her father’s gleaming Colt. She fired twice, both slugs striking Levan in the chest. He stumbled, his knees gave away, and he fell.

Chapter 9

There was a shocked silence. Warnell Prinz, Sal Wooler, and Jasper Witheres made no move toward their guns. Dying, Brice Levan was trying to speak, and Sam knelt over him.

“It was . . . like he said, Pa,” Brice said. “My bunch . . . robbed and hung . . . a man in Indian Territory . . .”

They were his final words. Sam Levan got to his feet and faced Danielle.

“Mount up and ride out,” said Levan.

“I’ll wait until the sheriff comes,” Danielle said. “I want it understood that he was the first to draw.”

“The sheriff won’t be comin’,” Levan said. “Four of us saw it, and it was a clear case of self-defense. That, and Brice confessed. I hate what you’ve done, but I can’t fault you for doin’ it. Now mount up and ride.”

Danielle got on the chestnut mare and, nodding to her former companions, rode away. Eppie Levan had just left the house, and in the distance, Danielle could hear her anguished screams. Before leaving St. Joe, it had all seemed so simple—find the outlaws who had hanged her father and make them pay. Now she had to face the disturbing possibility that these seven other men might have families, just as Brice Levan had. It was a somber thought. She had hired on with Levan to pursue his best interests. Now she felt as if she had betrayed his trust, even though Brice Levan had admitted his guilt. She silently vowed never to sell her gun again, for any reason. She rode south along the Rio Grande, having heard one of the men say they were two days’ ride from El Paso.

El Paso, Texas. October 22, 1870.

Weary, Danielle stabled the chestnut mare, skipped supper and, finding a hotel, slept the night through. As she started through the hotel lobby, the clerk spoke to her.

“Be careful. John Wesley Hardin’s been seen in town.” 8

“Thanks,” Danielle said. “I’ll try to stay out of his way.”

Danielle had heard of the gunman, for his reputation had been such that newspapers in St. Louis and Kansas City had carried stories about him. He carried two guns, and Danielle recalled a story that made her blood run cold. Inside a gunsmith’s shop, testing a new pair of Colts, Hardin had chosen for a target an innocent man on the boardwalk outside. That was just one of many cruel acts attributed to the legendary gunman. After breakfast, Danielle went back to her hotel room, for few if any of the saloons would be open until noon. At eleven o’clock, she left the hotel and sought out the sheriff’s office.

“I’m Daniel Strange.”

“I’m Buford Powell,” said the lawman. “What can I do for you?”

Danielle decided to tell the truth. She gave the law man the names of the seven men on her death list, and told him of her vow to hunt them down.

“None of those names sounds familiar,” Sheriff Powell said, “but with outlaws, you can’t be sure they aren’t using other names. I know that between here and Laredo, Mex horses are being run across the border and sold in Texas, while Texas horses are being rustled and sold in Mexico. We have no names, and they wait for the dark of the moon. Not even the Texas Rangers have been able to stop them.”

“It might be possible to join them and gather evidence,” said Danielle.

“One of the rangers tried that,” Sheriff Powell said. “He was never seen or heard from again. Was I you, I wouldn’t go gettin’ no similar ideas.”

“Thanks for the information, Sheriff,” said Danielle.

She quickly left the sheriff’s office before the lawman got around to questioning her about her intentions. By then, the saloons were open. The Texas was one of the largest, and she went there first. She walked in, and then as though looking for someone she couldn’t find, she left. There were no poker or faro games in progress, for it was still early, and being a nondrinker, Danielle couldn’t justify her presence. She had to wait until evening. After supper, she found the saloons had come alive. In The Texas, two poker tables and a faro table were busy. The men seemed talkative enough, and hoping to learn something useful, Danielle sat in at the faro table.

“Two-dollar limit,” said the dealer. “Table stakes.”

Danielle quickly lost twenty dollars. Then she began winning, recovering her losses plus thirty dollars more. The rest of the men were looking at her with a mix of respect and anger, for all of them had lost money to her. At least one of the men was broke, and he appealed to the dealer.

“I got a pair of hosses—matched blacks—that I picked up in Mexico. They’re worth a hundred dollars apiece. Will you take them for security?” Danielle’s eyes shot to the man at the mention of the horses’ origins.