Ralph Compton - Death Rides a Chestnut Mare

“Since you won’t be needin’ it, Jasper, I’ll just see how much money you have in your pockets.”

There was a considerable roll of bills, and Danielle took it without remorse. Saddling the chestnut mare, she continued east toward Kansas City. She must lose her trail among many others before Levi Jasper’s body was discovered. Two hours later, she reached a little river town whose name she didn’t know. But it had a hotel of sorts, a livery, a cafe, and some other buildings, including a general store. One sleepy old hostler was dozing in a chair before the livery. He sat up and looked around when he heard the chestnut mare coming.

“Stay where you are, old-timer,” said Danielle. “I’ll unsaddle, put her in a stall, and fork down some hay.”

“I’m obliged,” the hostler said.

With the mare safely in the livery, Danielle took a room at the one-story hotel. By the light of a lamp, feeling a little guilty, Danielle separated the roll of bills on the bed and was astounded to find there was more than six hundred dollars! Undoubtedly it was stolen, but from who, when, and where? Her conscience bothered her some, but there was no way to return the money, and besides, Danielle needed it desperately.

“The Lord works in mysterious ways” her mother was fond of saying, and Danielle said a silent prayer of thanks. Slowly, she began changing her mind about riding to Kansas City. She would be very close to St. Joe and home, and getting under way again would be hell without Jed and Tim finding her and following. With that in mind, she changed directions, riding to the southeast. Since she had no idea where to go next, why not New Orleans?

Springfield, Missouri. July 28, 1870.

Reaching Springfield, she left the chestnut mare at a livery and rented herself a modest hotel room. She had lived in Missouri all her life, but had never been south. A huge lump rose in her throat when she recalled what her father had once said.

“Someday, Danielle, when we’ve got money, we’ll all board one of the big steamers and ride all the way to New Orleans.”

But Daniel Strange’s good intentions died with him, and there would be no steamboat ride to New Orleans. Instead, Danielle was riding obscure trails, seeking his cold-blooded killers. Eight of them remained at large, and she had no idea how long her quest would take. Jed and Tim might be grown and her mother dead by the time vengeance was hers, which was a chilling thought.

After supper, there seemed little to do except go to bed or make the rounds of the various saloons. Danielle chose the saloons, and since she didn’t drink, she invested a few dollars in games of chance. A one-dollar bet on a roulette wheel won her ten dollars, more than she had lost all night. There were poker games in progress, and never having played before, Danielle left them alone. She could watch, however, listening to the conversation of the players. One of them mentioned a name that immediately caught her attention.

“Too bad about that killing in Indian Territory a while back. But they got just one of the men. Pete Rizner rode like hell and escaped. The law ain’t done nothin’, and Pete’s mad as hell. He’s swearin’ one of the bunch of renegades was Rufe Gaddis, from right here in Missouri.”

“Pardner,” said Danielle, “my pa was killed by outlaws in Indian Territory not too long ago, and I’m wondering if the outfit you’re talking abut might not be the same lot. I’d like to talk to Pete Rizner. Where can I find him?”

“Likely at the Busted Flush saloon,” one of the men said. “His brother owns it. Good luck, kid.”

The Busted Flush wasn’t doing a thriving business, and all the occupants watched as Danielle entered. She went immediately to the barkeep.

“Where can I find Pete Rizner?” she asked.

“Who wants to know, and why?” asked the barkeep.

“I’m Daniel Strange, and I’m after the bastards that killed my pa in Indian Territory a few months ago. I’d like to know if they’re still there, or if they’ve scattered.”

A man slid his chair back and stood up, and when Danielle looked at him, he spoke.

“I’m Rizner, kid. Take a seat, and I’ll tell you all I know.”

Danielle drew back a chair and sat down at the table.

“Drink?” Rizner asked.

“No, thanks,” said Danielle.

“It was gettin’ on toward dark,” Rizner said. “We seen these riders coming, and they all had their Winchesters out. There was eight of ’em, and I yelled for my pard to mount up and ride. I jumped on my horse and lit out, but my partner grabbed his Winchester and tried to stand ’em off. They rode him down, and he didn’t get a one of ’em. I’d swear on a Bible the lead rider was Rufe Gaddis. You know him?”

“No,” Danielle said, “I’m after the bunch that robbed and murdered my Pa. It looks as though it could be the same outfit. Where were you attacked?”

“Maybe a hundred miles north of Dallas, not too far north of the Red,” said Rizner. “Ride careful, kid, and good luck.”

Danielle didn’t bother with any more saloons. From the information she had received, it seemed almost a certainty that the outlaws she was seeking had never left Indian Territory, or had soon returned. Danielle prepared to ride out at first light. Unless there had been rain in the Territory recently, there still might be tracks.

Indian Territory. August 1, 1870. 3

Weary after more than three hundred miles, Danielle was looking for a stream by which she might spend the night when she came upon a grisly scene that made her blood run cold. There was a scattering of human bones, and a skull that still had its hair. There were the ripped, shredded remains of a man’s clothing. The leg bones from the knees down were still shrouded in run-over, knee-length boots. There were tracks in abundance, and they all led south. Sundown, the chestnut mare, snorted, not liking this place of death. It was too late to follow the trail with darkness, but a few minutes away and far to the west, golden fingers of lightning galloped across the horizon. Danielle mounted and rode south, following the trail as long as she could see. There would be rain before dawn, and the trail would be washed out. Danielle made her camp on the north bank of Red River, wondering why the outlaws had suddenly returned to Texas after the killing.

She covered herself with her slicker for some protection against the expected rain, which started about midnight. There was no dry wood for a fire, which was just as well, for the smoke would have announced her presence. Breakfast was a handful of jerked beef, and through a drizzling rain, she crossed the Red River into Texas. She had ridden three or four miles when a voice suddenly spoke from a nearby thicket.

“You’re covered. Rein up and identify yourself.”

Danielle reined up, carefully keeping her hands on her saddle horn.

A young man stepped out with a Winchester, and he looked no older than Danielle.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I’m Daniel Strange,” said Danielle, “and I’m no outlaw or killer. Last April my pa was robbed and killed in Indian Territory, and I’m after the bastards who did it. I found what I thought was their trail late yesterday, but the rain last night washed it out. They all rode south, and having no trail to follow, I was just taking my chances.”

“I’m Tuck Carlyle,” the young man said, leaning the Winchester against a shrub. “This is our spread, for what it’s worth. I live here with my sister, Carrie, and Audrey, my ma. Pa went off to war and never come back. The damn outlaws from Indian Territory have been rustlin’ us blind. They hit us again night before last and already had the jump on me before I found out what they’d done.”