Ralph Compton - Death Rides a Chestnut Mare

“I’m buying in,” Danielle said.

“Welcome, kid, long as you got money,” said the dealer. “Five-dollar bets.”

Danielle dropped her five double eagles on the table and, in ten straight hands, lost half her stake.

“We know one thing for damn sure,” said one of the players, “the kid ain’t cheatin’.”

Danielle kept her silence and, within an hour, had won back her stake and more than two hundred dollars additional. She then withdrew from the game.

“I’ve never seen such a run of luck,” one of the gamblers said, his eyes on the house dealer. “It’s almost like you was slick-dealing to the kid.”

It was an open invitation to a fist-fight or a shooting, so Danielle hurriedly left the saloon and returned to her hotel room. She might well meet one of the disgruntled gamblers on the street and be forced into another senseless killing. Already, the Kansas City paper had referred to her as a “fast gun artist,” and “a killer riding a vengeance trail.”

Danielle arose early, had her breakfast, and rode out. She was only a few miles north of Indian Territory, but chose to ride west, toward the end-of-track. She would learn nothing from the railroad men, for they would surely be hostile toward her for indirectly being the cause of Alan Steele’s death. However, before reaching end-of-track, she would ride south toward Indian Territory. There would be no tracks, no trail, and little chance of her finding any of the men she sought. But they were all Westerners, and she fully expected them to be holed up in Indian Territory or in Texas. At this moment, the trio responsible for the train robbery might be at home, in Waco.

As Danielle entered Indian Territory, chills crept up her spine, for it was a massive tangle of vines, thickets, brush, and tall trees. It was gloomy even when the sun was shining, for only a little sunlight filtered through the dense foliage. She reined up to rest the chestnut mare and stood beside the horse, looking back the way she had come. She saw nothing and, mounting, rode on. But something was bothering her, a strange foreboding that dug its claws into her and wouldn’t let go. Again she reined up, dismounted, and walked a ways along her back-trail, without seeing anyone. She was about to mount and ride on, when the stillness was shattered by the roar of a rifle just ahead of her. The lead tore its way through her left thigh, and a second slug ripped into her right side, making a ragged exit wound. She fell on her back, remaining still, for she believed the bushwhacker would come close enough to be sure she was dead. She was losing blood, but dared not move. Finally she heard cautious footsteps approaching and, through half-closed eyes, could see the haggard, grinning face of Jubal Winters.

“You damn gun-slick,” he snarled. “Kill my boys, will you?”

Jacking a shell into the chamber of the Winchester, he was about to shoot Danielle a third time when Danielle drew her right-hand Colt and fired twice. The slugs struck Jubal in the chest, and he died with a look of total surprise on his face. Danielle struggled to her feet and, using a rawhide thong from her saddle, wrapped and tied it tightly above the bleeding wound in her left thigh. But there was little she could do about the wound in her right side. The chestnut mare, spooked by the smell of blood, back-stepped.

“Damn it, Sundown,” Danielle gasped, “hold still.” Three times she tried to mount the horse, and three times her left leg failed her. Using her right leg for support, she mounted from the off-side. She felt cold all over, and there was a growing weakness in her body. She turned the chestnut mare back the way she had come, hoping to reach Wichita before bleeding to death. She blacked out, holding to the saddle horn with both hands. Danielle had raised Sundown from a colt, and the horse knew something was terribly wrong. The animal stopped, perking up her ears. In the distance, a dog barked. The mare listened a moment and then, as though making up her mind, turned and trotted back into Indian Territory, toward the sound of the barking dog. The dog barked furiously as Sundown neared a run-down cabin.

“That awful man is coming back, Ma,” said nine-year-old Anita Willard.

“Perhaps not,” said her mother, Ann. “It doesn’t sound like his horse.”

The cabin’s windows had no glass, and she had to open a shutter to see outside. Even with the threat of the dog, the chestnut mare waited patiently at the front stoop, seeking help for her young rider. Even as Ann Willard watched, Danielle fell from the saddle and lay still.

“Come on,” said Ann. “He’s hurt, and we must get him inside.”

Once they had Danielle inside and stretched out on a bunk, Anita unsaddled the mare and led her to a corral where there were two other horses. Returning to the house, she found Ann Willard had stripped the injured rider and simply stood there staring.

“He . . . he’s a woman,” Anita said aghast.

“Yes,” said Ann, “and we must do what we can for her and get her out of here before Eph Snell returns. Stir up the fire and put some water on to boil.”

When the water was hot, Ann cleansed the wounds as best she could, disinfecting them with whiskey from a jug Eph Snell kept under his bunk. There was no other medicine, and Danielle moaned in her sleep. She didn’t awaken until near dawn of the next day, her face flushed and her eyes bright with fever.

“Water,” she begged.

Anita brought a tin cup of water, and Danielle drank it gratefully. Again she spoke.

“Where . . . am I, and who . . . are you?”

“I’m Ann Willard, and this is my daughter, Anita.”

“I . . . I’m Danielle Strange. Do you . . . live here alone?” Danielle asked.

“Only when Eph Snell’s gone,” said Ann.

“Eph Snell’s a damn horse thief, and when he’s here, he’s always drunk. I hate him,” Anita said.

“Anita,” said Ann, “that’s no way for a young lady to talk.”

“Then I ain’t a young lady,” Anita said. “I want to grow up and carry a gun so’s I can shoot the varmints I don’t like.”

Despite being racked with fever and pain, Danielle laughed.

“Anita,” said Ann, “go get the jug of whiskey.”

“I’ll get it,” Anita said, “but old Eph’s gonna raise hell when he finds we’ve been into his jug.”

“God help us,” said Ann with a sigh. “She’s picking up Snell’s bad habits.”

“Why are the two of you living with such a man?” Danielle asked.

“My husband never returned from the war, and Anita and me were starving back in New Orleans. I met Snell, and he promised me a better life. Am I permitted to know why you dress as a man?”

But Anita returned with the jug of whiskey just then, and Danielle was forced to drink a cupful. Then, as Ann and Anita listened, she told them her story and of becoming Daniel Strange.

“Dear God,” Ann said, “how old are you, Danielle?”

“Just past seventeen,” said Danielle.

“See, Ma?” Anita cried. “She’s only eight years older than me.”

“I’m trusting the two of you to keep my secret,” said Danielle. “As soon as I’m able to ride, I’ll move on. I don’t want to cause any trouble.”

“There’ll be trouble whether you’re here or not,” Anita said. “Last time, he beat Ma up something terrible.”

“Don’t you have somewhere else you can go?” Danielle asked.

“I have a sister in St. Louis who would take us in, but I don’t know how we’d ever get there,” said Ann.

“I’ll help you as soon as I’m able,” Danielle said. “Do you have horses?”

“Two, but only because Eph hasn’t sold them,” said Ann. “He’s gone after more.”

“He steals them in Texas,” Anita said helpfully.