Ralph Compton - Death Rides a Chestnut Mare

Fort Smith, Arkansas. July 5, 1870.

Danielle was directed to the courthouse in which the marshal’s office was located. A lawman sat behind a desk, barely noticing as she entered.

“What can I do for you, son?”

“Where can I find Deputy Marshal Buck Jordan?” Danielle inquired. Her voice was naturally low, like that of Daniel Strange himself, and she made it even lower to sound as much like a man as possible.

“The hotel, likely,” said the lawman. “It’s across the street, where he generally stays when he’s in town.”

“Jordan’s in room four,” the desk clerk told Danielle after she inquired about the deputy marshal.

Danielle knocked on the door several times before a voice answered from within.

“Who are you, and what do you want?”

“I’m Dan Strange,” Danielle answered, making her voice huskier again. “You buried my father, and I want to talk to you if I may.”

“I remember,” said Jordan. “Come on in.” Danielle entered, and was dismayed to find Jordan sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing only his undershirt. She fought back a blush, forcing her eyes to meet his. She quickly explained her reason for being there.

“The only thing I didn’t put in the letter,” Jordan said, “was that your pa killed a pair of the bunch before they got him. Ten others rode away, leading two horses with empty saddles.”

“Which way did they go?” Danielle asked.

“South,” said Jordan. “Deeper into Indian Territory.”

“You didn’t pursue them?”

“They had a one-, maybe two-day start,” Jordan said, “and there was ten of ’em. There was also rain that night, washing out their tracks.”

“So they murdered my pa, and they’re gettin’ away with it,” said Danielle.

“Look, kid,” Jordan said, “Indian Territory’s one hell of a big place. Outlaws come and go. You could spend years there without finding that particular bunch of killers, even if you could identify them. Besides, they may have ridden on to Texas, Kansas, or New Mexico.”

“I appreciate what you did,” said Danielle. “Now would you do me one more favor and draw me a map, so I can find my pa’s grave?”

“Yeah,” said Jordan. “Reach me my shirt off of that chair.”

Danielle handed him the shirt, and from the pocket he took a notebook and the stub of a pencil. Quickly, he drew the map and tore the page from the notebook.

“Look for a big oak tree,” Jordan said. “It’s been hit by lightning, and one side of it’s dead. Like I showed it on the map, it’s almost due west from here.”

“Thanks,” said Danielle. Without a backward look, she walked out.

He had done little enough, but Danielle realized the lawman had been honest with her. There was no way of knowing where the outlaws had gone. Her only clue was her father’s silver-mounted Colt, with an inlaid letter “D” in both grips.

“One of you took his Colt,” she muttered under her breath. “When I find you, you son of a bitch, you’ll tell me the names of the others before I kill you.”

As she calmed down, aware of the vow she had just made, it occurred to her that she had never fired a gun in anger, nor had she ever killed. It wasn’t going to be enough, just looking like a man. She would have to think like a man, like a killer. Finding a mercantile, she laid her Colt on the counter.

“I want two tins of shells for it,” she told the storekeeper, in her man’s voice.

“That’s a handsome piece,” said the storekeeper.

He brought the shells, and after buying enough supplies to last a week, Danielle rode out of Fort Smith, riding west along the Arkansas River. Darkness caught up with her before she found the landmark oak Jordan had mentioned. Rather than risk a fire, she ate a handful of jerked beef and drank from the river. Finding some decent graze, she picketed the chestnut mare, knowing that Sundown would warn her by nickering if anyone came near. She then lay down on one of her blankets, drawing the other one over her. She had removed only her hat and gun belt and held the fully loaded Colt in her hand. Sometime near dawn, the chestnut mare snorted a warning. Danielle rolled to the left just as two slugs ripped into the blanket on which she had been lying. She took in the situation in a heartbeat. There were two men, both with weapons drawn. They fired again, the slugs kicking dirt in her face. Belly-down, Danielle fired twice and the deadly duo were flung backwards into the brush by the force of the lead. Danielle was on her feet in an instant, fearing there might be more men, but all was quiet except for the restless Sundown, who smelled blood. With trembling hands, Danielle thumbed out the empty casings, replacing them with more shells. Bushwhacking was a cowardly act, and she had no doubt the pair were outlaws of some stripe, but why had they tried to kill her? She had acted swiftly, doing what she had to do, but as she looked at the two dead men, she became deathly ill, heaving. She forced herself to breathe deeply, and finally, after washing her face in the river, she mounted Sundown and again rode west.

It was late in the afternoon when Danielle reached the lightning-struck oak where Dan Strange had died. The mound—already grassed over—was where Jordan had told her it would be. She removed her hat, wiping tears from her eyes on the sleeve of her shirt.

“I’ll get them for you, Pa,” she said aloud. “If God’s merciful and lets me live, I swear I’ll gun them down to the last man.”

Chapter 1

Danielle spent her second night in Indian Territory unmolested. As she lay looking at the glittering stars, it occurred to her she might actually have to join a band of outlaws to find the men she sought. Somewhere, one of the killers carried her father’s Colt, and it was a unique piece that a man who lived by the gun would remember. Could she pass herself off as an outlaw among killers and thieves? It seemed the only way. She remembered Buck Jordan sitting on the edge of his bed, wearing only his undershirt. She realized she had led a sheltered life, and that men on the frontier were likely more crude than she even imagined. The kind of men she must associate with would soon become suspicious of her furious blushing. She drifted off to sleep. Tomorrow she would begin looking for a band of outlaws. The distressing thought crossed her mind that she might die the same senseless death as her father had, but that was the chance she had to take.

Indian Territory. July 8, 1870.

Three days into Indian Territory, Danielle encountered a group of men who could only be outlaws. It was late in the day when she smelled wood smoke. Dismounting, leading the mare, she called out a challenge.

“Hello, the camp!”

A rustling in the brush was proof enough that one or more of the outlaws were preparing to cover her.

“Come in closer, where we can see you,” a voice shouted. “Strangers ain’t welcome.”

“I’m Dan Strange,” Danielle shouted back, “and my grub’s running low. I was hoping for an invite to supper.”

“Come on in,” the voice invited, “but don’t get too busy with your hands. We got you covered.”

There were four men in camp, and two more who came out of the brush.

“Hell,” said one of the men, “it’s a shirttail kid that ain’t old enough to shave.”

“What are you doin’ in the Territory, kid?” a second outlaw asked. “You won’t find nobody here to change your diapers.”

“I shot two hombres near Fort Smith,” said Danielle, “and they had friends. It seemed like a good idea to move on.”

It was time for a test, and one of the outlaws reached for his Colt. He froze before he cleared leather, for Danielle already had him covered.