Ralph Compton - Death Rides a Chestnut Mare

When Danielle reached the river, she rode southeast. She had no idea how far she was from Brownsville and decided not to attempt to reach it in what was left of the day. She was rapidly running out of trails and needed to think. There was always a chance, she concluded, that she had miscalculated. Suppose Kalpana had left Laredo, but instead of riding deeper into south Texas, he had ridden west, toward El Paso? He might even have gone to southern Arizona, for there he would be just across the river from Mexico. There were so many possibilities, Danielle had to rest to put them all out of her mind.

Brownsville, Texas. December 16, 1870.

Clearly, nobody was enforcing federal law in Brownsville, for Mexicans were virtually everywhere. From the saloons there were drunken shouts in Spanish, and as Danielle rode along the main street, she saw many dark-eyed señoritas with their hair tied back, and some peons with colorful serapes about their shoulders. It appeared that most of the cafes and restaurants, if not Mexican owned, were at least Mexican operated. Before most of them, in colorful clothing and a high-crowned sombrero, a young boy praised his establishment’s bill of fare in rapid Spanish. It looked like a wide-open town, Danielle thought, and might well be just the kind of place where Snakehead Kalpana would try to lose himself. Getting past the saloons, cafes, and street vendors, Danielle reached a quiet street down which she rode. She came upon a huge old house, and above the front door was a neatly painted sigm that read AMERICAN HOTEL. Reining up, she dismounted and knocked on the door. When it was eventually opened, there stood a gray haired old man.

“I just rode through town,” Danielle said, “and I like the look of your sign. I’ll need a room for maybe two or three days.”

“Come in,” said her host. “My name is Ephiram Delaney. My wife, Ethel, is upstairs. I’ll get her. Make yourself at home.”

He proceeded to summon Ethel by shouting for her at the top of his voice.

“Damn it,” Ethel shouted back, “do you have to wake the dead? I’m coming.”

She came down the stairs, taking her time, a wisp of a woman as gray as old Ephiram. She looked at Danielle, a question in her eyes. Danielle spoke.

“I’m Daniel Strange, and I’ll need a room for maybe three nights.”

“Two dollars a night for the room,” said Ethel, “or three-fifty if you want some grub twice a day.”

“I’ll take the room and the grub,” Danielle said, handing her a gold eagle.

“Good choice,” said Ephiram. “In these Mex cafes and cantinas, they load everything with chili peppers ’cept the coffee.”

“Now,” Danielle said, “is there a place close by where I can stable my horse?”

“Behind the house across the alley,” Ephiram said, “but we can’t afford no hostler.”

“I won’t need one,” said Danielle.

“I’ll get you a room ready while you’re gone,” Ethel said. “Just come on up. It’ll be at the head of the stairs on the right.”

Danielle led Sundown around the house and into the stable. It appeared to be empty, and Danielle chose a stall for the mare. She unsaddled the horse and, seeing hay in the loft above, climbed up and forked some down.

“Chew on that awhile, Sundown,” said Danielle. “I’ll be back before dark and bring you some grain.”

Danielle found Ephiram seated on the front porch. Nodding to him, she again entered the house and mounted the stairs.

“In here,” Ethel said.

The room could only be described as luxurious. There was a thick gray carpet on the floor, with rose-colored drapes at the window. The bed was brass with a multicolored coverlet. There were several extra chairs, upholstered in rose, and a wide dresser on which stood a porcelain water pitcher and matching basin. On the back of the door was a mirror, full length and uncracked.

“The chamberpot’s under the bed,” said Ethel with a wink.

“I’m obliged,” Danielle said. “You have a fine place. I’ve never had better.”

“Thank you,” said Ethel, pleased. “We cater to Americans. Ephiram says one day we’ll wake up and there won’t be anybody but Mejicanos as far as the eye can see.”

“It already looks that way uptown,” Danielle said.

“It just about is,” said Ethel. “Don’t let ’em sell you any of that Mex whiskey, either. It’s about a hundred and forty proof. Then when you’re layin’ there stiff as a post and can’t get up, them human turkey buzzards— Anglos or Mejicanos —will pick your pockets clean.”

“I’m obliged for the information,” Danielle said, “but I don’t drink or smoke.”

“Praise be,” said Ethel. “Last time we had a drinking man in here he passed out and his cigarette set the bed afire. Supper’s at five, breakfast at seven.”

As Danielle left the house, Ephiram sat nodding on the front porch. The Delaneys were in a residential section of quiet homes, and the area seemed a world apart from the center of town with its noisy Mejicanos and shifty-eyed Anglos. Danielle had already been warned not to expect too much of Brownsville Sheriff Sam Duro, but she went looking for the lawman anyway. She found his office and he was there, his booted feet on the desk and his hat tipped over his eyes. From somewhere came the sound of three rapid gunshots and a cry of anguish, but the sheriff remained where he was.

“Draw, you lazy varmint,” Danielle shouted, kicking the desk.

Duro’s swivel chair went over backward, coming to rest on top of him. He cursed as he fought to draw his revolver, and Danielle laughed. Finally, he sat up, shoving the chair off him, and began beating his crushed Stetson back into shape. Danielle stood there chuckling, allowing the disgruntled lawman to get to his feet and right his swivel chair.

“Damn you,” Duro shouted, “that’s a good way to get yourself shot dead. Who the hell are you, and what business do you have here?”

“Killing business when I find the right man,” said Danielle. “I’m after an outlaw and a killer. You being the law here, I reckoned I’d better talk to you first.”

“The law hereabouts don’t work with bounty hunters,” Sheriff Duro said.

“I’m not a bounty hunter,” said Danielle. “I’m after the yellow coyotes who robbed and murdered my pa in Indian Territory. One of them in particular is Snakehead Kalpana, and I have reason to believe he’s here. Do you know him, or know of him?”

“No,” Sheriff Duro said, “and I won’t tolerate vigilantes any more than I’ll tolerate the bounty hunters. The first damn sign of trouble that involves you, I’ll lock you in the jail till hell freezes. You got that?”

“If I find the hombre I’m looking for, I aim to do what I came here to do,” Danielle said steadily, “and if you try to stop me, you’d better be pretty damn sudden with a pistol. You got that? ”

Danielle turned and left the sheriff’s office, not even bothering to ask Duro about the rest of the men on her death list. There were more gunshots from the area where most of the saloons were. She decided that Duro was even more useless than Sheriff Rucker in Waco. She had little choice except to make the rounds of the saloons, hoping to gather a bit of information that might suggest a new trail. The biggest and noisiest of the saloons seemed to be a place appropriately called the Border Saloon. There were poker and faro games in progress, but Danielle didn’t like the looks of the men gathered around the tables. She watched a faro game for a while and learned her suspicions had been well founded. A bearded man suddenly leaped to his feet, drew a Bowie knife, and lunged across the table. But the Mexican he had gone after was just as resourceful with his own blade, and under their weight the table collapsed. They rolled around on the floor, each man seizing the wrist of the other’s knife hand. Two bouncers arrived to break up the fight, and their method was simple. Each of them seized a chair, slamming it down on the head of one of the men on the floor. When the two knife-wielders were beaten bloody and unconscious, the bouncers carried them outside, one at a time, and flung them into the street. By then, another table had been set up, and the interrupted faro game was again in progress. Danielle was about to leave when a woman screamed. It was one of the saloon girls. She lay on her back on the floor while a man astraddle her was ripping her clothes off. Danielle looked for the bouncers, but they were nowhere in sight. Nobody tried to help the unfortunate girl, and some of the men had gathered around to watch, laughing. Danielle drew her Colt, crossed the room, and slammed the muzzle of the weapon against the back of the attacker’s head. He tumbled over, allowing the terrified girl to get to her feet. Drawing the remnants of her torn dress together, she ran up the winding stairway that led to the second floor. The saloon had become deathly silent, and not a man among them could meet Danielle’s eyes. She holstered her Colt, awaiting she knew not what. Slowly, the man she had buffaloed got to his hands and knees, shaking his head. He then got unsteadily to his feet.