Ralph Compton - Death Rides a Chestnut Mare

Dallas, Texas. July 11, 1870.

Dallas was the largest town Danielle had ever visited, and she was somewhat in awe of it. She dismounted before a livery, and the first person she saw was Slack Hitchfelt.

“Hold it, kid,” he said, his hands raised. “I don’t want no trouble.”

“You missed last night,” said Danielle. “Sure you don’t want to try again?”

“I ain’t drawin’ on you, kid, now or ever,” Hitchfelt said.

“Where’s your scruffy partners, Font and Nations?”

“I dunno,” said Hitchfelt. “We busted up. Said they was ridin’ north. To Dodge City, likely.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Danielle said. “You deserved one another.”

Danielle kept her eye on Hitchfelt until he rode away. She then left the chestnut mare at the livery, taking her saddlebags and her Winchester. The rain had continued most of the day, with every indication it would last the night. Danielle got herself a cheap room in an out-of-the-way hotel, returning to it after supper. She propped a ladder-back chair under the doorknob and slept with her Colt in her hand.

Mineral Wells, Texas. July 13, 1870.

It wasn’t difficult to find the sheriff’s office. Danielle had bought a second Colt, and she placed the gun her father had given her in her saddlebag, replacing it with the ordinary Colt in her holster. If Bart—or Dave—Scovill was around, the fancy weapon would immediately arouse his suspicion. She would use her mother’s maiden name if there was a chance her true family name might reveal her mission to the killers.

“Sheriff,” she said, “I’m Daniel Faulkner, and I’m looking for work of just any kind. Do you know of anybody that’s hiring?”

“Not a soul, kid,” said the sheriff. “The war chewed everybody up and spit ’em out. Nobody has anything but a few cows, and they’re all but worthless unless you can get ’em to the railroad, and it takes money to do that.”

While Danielle was in the sheriff’s office, a young man reined up outside and came in. Two things about him immediately caught Danielle’s attention. A lawman’s star was pinned on his vest, and in his holster was the silver-mounted Colt with a “D” on the grip. This man was one of her father’s killers!

“Excuse my poor manners,” said the sheriff. “I’m Barton Scovill, and this is my son, Dave, who’s also my deputy. Dave, this is Daniel Faulkner.”

The younger Scovill nodded. Not trusting herself to speak, Danielle stepped out the door, closing it behind her. She paused by the chestnut mare, seeking to calm herself and ease her shaking hands. The irony of it struck her, and it might have been amusing under different circumstances, but as things stood, the first of the men she must kill to avenge her father was a deputy sheriff. There was no mistaking the pistol that had belonged to her father, and no doubt she’d get the rope if she were captured for killing Scovill. She had to devise a plan, and so she went looking for a livery for the chestnut mare, and an obscure hotel for herself. Finding both, she took her saddlebags and Winchester to her room, where she stretched out on the bed to think.

“Damn it,” she said aloud, “I must get close enough to do the job, and still manage to escape without being seen.”

Just then she recalled seeing a notice posted on the hotel’s front window. Saturday night there was to be a Palo Pinto County dance. She got up and went downstairs.

“What about that Palo Pinto dance?” she asked the desk clerk. “Would it be worth my time, staying over for it?”

“If you like pretty girls,” said the desk clerk. “They’ll be here from all over.”

“Then I reckon I’ll stay,” Danielle said.

Dallas, Texas. July 16, 1870.

Danielle hated to part with the money, but she needed some fashionable female clothes, and she couldn’t afford to be seen buying them in Mineral Wells. In Dallas, her first item was a bonnet to conceal her short-cropped hair. It wasn’t uncommon for a cowboy to buy clothing for his intended, and nobody gave this “cowboy” a second look. Danielle bought a divided riding skirt in pale green to match her eyes, and a white blouse with fancy white ruffles. Finally, she bought a pair of fancy half-boots. She bought no underclothing, and the blouse was the actual size she wore. The “jiggle” that so amused her brothers suited her purpose, and other women would brand her a brazen hussy, but she must intrigue her intended victim enough to draw him away from the dance. Taking her purchases, she rode back to Mineral Wells. She entered the rear door to the hotel, making her way up the back stairs. In her room, she tried on the clothes, tying the bonnet so as to best conceal her short hair. Finally, she stood admiring herself in a cracked mirror on the dresser.

“Danielle Strange,” she said aloud, “you look like a whore, but to a man that’s a killer lowdown enough to have hanged my pa, a whore would be just his style.”

Now there was nothing to do except wait four days for the planned dance. Meanwhile, Danielle learned it was to be a street dance at the farthest end of town, near a second livery across from a general store. A visit to the livery revealed overhead beams that were suited to Danielle’s purpose.

Mineral Wells, Texas. July 20, 1870.

Danielle waited until the dance was in full swing before slipping out the hotel’s back door and down the stairs. Soon she was mingling with the crowd. A bandstand had been built in front of the livery, and besides the caller, there were four musicians. One played a guitar, the second a banjo, the third a fiddle, and the fourth a mouth harp. A sixth man was beating time with the straws on the fiddle. 2

The moment the men spotted Danielle, there was almost a fist fight over who was to have the first dance. It was a while before Scovill got his chance.

“Tarnation,” said Scovill, “where have you been all my life?”

“Around,” Danielle said coolly. “Where have you been?”

“I was in the war,” said Scovill, lying.

“The war ended five years ago,” Danielle said. “Did you get home crawling on your belly?”

“By God, if you was a man, I wouldn’t take that.”

Danielle laughed tauntingly. “If I was a man, folks would be wondering if you stand or squat.”

“You brazen bitch,” he said, shoving her away from him.

But there were a dozen men waiting to take his place, and despite Danielle’s macabre reason for being there, she was beginning to enjoy the dance. As she had expected, Scovill couldn’t stay away.

“Do you drink whiskey?” he asked.

Danielle laughed. “What do you think?”

Danielle had never tasted whiskey in her life, but it might be her only chance to get Scovill away from the crowd.

“I got a bottle stashed in a rear stall in the livery barn,” Scovill said. “Give me a few minutes and come on back. Be careful you ain’t seen. Whiskey ain’t allowed.”

After Scovill had been gone for what she judged ten minutes, Danielle ducked into the shadow of the barn roof’s overhang. The two swinging front doors of the livery were closed. Only a full moon lighted the wide open doors in the rear.

“Here,” said Scovill. “Have a drink.”

“Not yet,” Danielle said.

She loosened the waist of her divided skirt, allowing it to drop to the ground. She wore nothing beneath it, and Scovill caught his breath.

Scovill laughed. “The drink can wait. There’s an empty stall over there with some hay.”

In the stall, he quickly shucked his gun belt and was bent over, tugging at his boots. Danielle took the opportunity to grab her father’s Colt from Scovill’s holster and struck him across the back of the head with it. He folded like an empty sack. Quickly, Danielle dressed herself and, taking a rope hanging outside the stall door, fashioned a noose. She had never tied one before, but the result would serve the purpose. Once she had the business end of it around Scovill’s neck, she threw the loose end over an overhead beam. It took all her strength to hoist Scovill off the ground. She then tied the loose end of the rope to one of the poles separating the stalls and, with a leather thong, tied Scovill’s hands behind his back. He began to groan as he came to his senses. His eyes began to bulge, and he kicked as the cruel rope bit into his throat.