Ralph Compton - Death Rides a Chestnut Mare

Señor Alonzo Elfego of Mexico will pay one thousand pesos for any hombre, dead or alive, who steals his horses.

Danielle felt a moment of guilt, for it had been only an act of providence that had kept her from stepping over the line and becoming a horse thief. She stopped at another saloon, the Rio, where a faro game was in progress. Danielle dragged out a chair and sat down.

“Five-dollar limit, kid,” said the dealer. “No credit.”

“I don’t recall asking for any credit,” Danielle said, dropping five double eagles on the green felt that lined the tabletop.

Several of the men at the table grinned, expecting this arrogant newcomer to soon get what he deserved. But their grins faded as Danielle won five of the next six pots. Every time she lost a pot, she more than recovered her losses by winning the next three or four.

“I’m gettin’ out of this,” one of the gamblers snarled, kicking back his chair. “I think the damn house is slick-dealing cards to the kid. I ain’t never seen anybody win so often.”

“Hank,” said the house dealer, getting to his feet,

“I never slick-deal to anybody. Some folks is just better at the game than others, and if you can’t afford to lose, then just stay the hell away from the tables. Now get out of here.”

“If there’s a problem,” Danielle said, “I’ll drop out.”

“The problem’s leavin’, kid,” said the dealer. “Win or lose, you’re welcome to stay as long as you can cover your bets.”

Danielle recovered her original hundred dollars, and won two hundred more. Leaving the saloon, she walked along the boardwalk. Suddenly a shadow moved from between two deserted buildings, and a voice spoke.

“Turn around, kid, and keep your hands where I can see ’em. I’m taking back all my money.”

Danielle turned around slowly. The disgruntled gambler held a revolver on her. Quickly, she dropped to the ground as the pistol roared, almost in her ear. Before he could fire again, Danielle threw herself at his legs, and off balance, he fell. His head slammed into the strong wood of the boardwalk, and he lay still. The shot had been heard, and the sheriff, Buford Powell, was the first to arrive. Almost immediately, some of the men from the Rio Saloon were there, arriving in time to hear Danielle’s explanation. The sheriff had a lantern, and set it down on the boardwalk.

“Let me see your guns, kid.”

Danielle handed him the weapons. They were fully loaded, and had not been fired. The sheriff then took the gun from Hank’s limp hand and found one load missing. There were many ways a man could fall from favor on the frontier, but there were three that stood head and shoulders above the rest: hitting a woman, mistreating a horse, or being a sore loser.

“The kid’s lucky to be alive, Sheriff,” said one of the men from the saloon. “I think Hank should be told when he wakes up that he’s to stay away from the poker and faro tables in this town. This time, it was the kid. Next time, it could be any one of us.”

“A couple of you tote him over to the jail,” Sheriff Powell said. “I’ll have some strong talk with him in the morning.”

The sheriff took the gambler’s revolver and followed the two men who lugged the still unconscious gambler. Some of the men from the saloon seemed inclined to further discuss the incident, but Danielle walked away. It seemed a good time to return to her room at the hotel.

“Well,” said the desk clerk, “I see you didn’t meet up with John Wesley Hardin. It’s generally peaceful enough, except when he’s in town.”

For a long time Danielle lay awake, considering what her next move should be. When she had joined the horse thieves, she had felt there was a chance that one or more of the men she had sworn to kill might be in old Mexico. But after the raid on Elfego’s horses had gone sour, she was forced to change her opinion. Not only was it illegal for persons from the United States to cross into Mexico, any American south of the border might be considered a horse thief, and shot on sight. She was convinced the men she sought were still scattered across the Southwest.

Returning from breakfast the next morning, Danielle stopped to question the young man at the lobby desk.

“How far is it to San Antonio?”

“Well over five hundred miles, and nothing much in between,” said the desk clerk. “If you’re ridin’, you’d best take plenty of grub. But there’s a stage once a week.”

“Thanks,” Danielle said.

Stage fares were expensive, so Danielle dismissed that possibility. It was a hot, dusty, and uncomfortable way to travel. She would ride, allowing the chestnut mare to take her time. Checking her saddlebags, Danielle found she was low on some items and rode by a mercantile to replenish them. To her dismay, as she was leaving the store, she met Hank, the sore loser from the saloon the night before. He had a bandage around his head, and his holster was empty. Apparently Sheriff Powell had kept his revolver.

“You young coyote,” the gambler snarled, “nobody treats Hank Marshall like you done. One day, we’ll meet up where you can’t hide behind the law. Then you’ll pay.”

“Then you’d better shoot me in the back,” said Danielle, “because you don’t have the guts to face me. Try it, and I’ll kill you.”

Without a word, Marshall went on into the mercantile. Danielle mounted the chestnut mare and rode eastward. She was soon out of El Paso, and the plains before her looked bleak. There was no sign of human habitation for as far as she could see. As barren as the land appeared, there was water, but little or no wood for a fire. Danielle had a cold supper without coffee. There was no graze for the chestnut mare, and Danielle fed the animal a ration of grain she had brought along for that purpose. Picketing the mare nearby, she rolled in her blankets, her head on her saddle.

When Danielle arose the next morning, the weather was still mild, but far to the west, there was a dirty smudge of gray on the horizon. She saddled and mounted the chestnut mare and rode on toward San Antonio.

Chapter 10

The Trail to San Antonio. October 24, 1870.

By early afternoon, Danielle judged she was fifty miles out of El Paso, and that sometime during the coming night, she would be in for a soaking. The dark clouds from the west had begun moving in, and the wind was getting stronger. Danielle began looking for a place that might offer a little shelter, but there was nothing. It was then that she heard what sounded like a distant gunshot. She reined up, listening. The single shot was followed by a dozen more in quick succession. Somebody was under siege, and the odds didn’t appear anywhere close to equal.

“Horse,” said Danielle, “we ought to mind our own business, but somebody’s in trouble down yonder toward the border.”

Danielle kicked the chestnut into a slow gallop, reining her down to a walk as they drew nearer the shooting. Reaching a rise, she could see a shack below, and from brush that surrounded the shack, there were puffs of white smoke. There appeared to be three defenders, while the attackers numbered twice that many, perhaps more. Adjoining the shack was a corral, and in it were six horses, nickering in fear. The three men nearest the shack were in poor positions, for the attackers were on the opposite side of a ridge, where there was broken land and huge stones to cover them. From powder smoke, Danielle counted eight riflemen firing toward the cabin. As one of the attackers shifted position, she saw the high crown of a Mexican sombrero. Danielle dismounted and, drawing her Henry rifle from the boot, set out to even up the odds. Her position was far better than that of the three defenders below, for the ridge on which she stood was higher than that on which the attackers were concealed. Her first shot ripped the Mexican’s sombrero from his head, while her second shot slammed into the top of the stone behind which he was hiding, filling his eyes with dust. Danielle’s intervention seemed to have given the three defenders renewed hope, for their firing grew more intense. Danielle held her fire, settling down on the rise, for if the attackers on the opposite ridge moved, she could see them. Suddenly, one of them did, seeking to get nearer the shack. Danielle fired, and the attacker fell, throwing up his hands. Another tried to improve his position, and Danielle’s shot struck him in the shoulder, turning him around. He leaped for the stone behind which he had been concealed. Danielle quickly accounted for a third man, while the three men below continued firing. One of them scored a direct hit, and the four that remained ceased firing. Their attempts to move in closer had proven disastrous. It was time to back off.