Ralph Compton Death Rides a Chestnut Mare (3 page)

Slowly but surely, Danielle overcame all her mother's objections. Margaret reluctantly cut the girl's hair to a length that might suit a man. Using strong fabric, Danielle doubled the material and then sewed it securely. Under one of her father's too-big shirts, there wouldn't be any “jiggling” going on.

Danielle wisely said nothing to Jed and Tim of her plans, and cautioned her mother not to. It would be difficult enough for Margaret, when her sons realized Danielle was gone to perform a task that they fancied their responsibility.

 

 

Much against her wishes, Margaret helped Danielle prepare for her journey.

“You'd better take these shears with you, to trim your hair,” Margaret said.

Danielle wore one of her father's shirts and placed two more in her saddlebag, with her extra Levi's. She buckled the gun belt around her lean waist, tying down the holster just above her right knee. A black, wide-brimmed Stetson completed her attire.

“Land sakes,” said Margaret, “you
do
look like a man. Just be careful when and where you take your clothes off.”

“Oh, Ma,” Danielle said, embarrassed.

When all else had been done, Danielle went to the barn and saddled the chestnut mare. The good-byes had been said, and Margaret stood on the porch, watching Danielle ride away. Before crossing a ridge, Danielle turned and waved. There were tears in her eyes, a lump in her throat, and a nagging premonition that she might never see her mother again. Danielle carefully avoided St. Joseph, for there was hardly a person in town who wouldn't recognize the chestnut mare. She rode almost due south, bound for Fort Smith. Once there, she would talk to Deputy U.S. Marshal Buck Jordan.

 

 

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.

 

 

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.

“You're awful damn sudden with that iron, kid,” said the man who had been about to draw. “Put it away. I was just testin' you. Part of our business is bein' suspicious. Who was the two
hombres
you gunned down?”

“I have no idea,” Danielle said. “They came after me with guns drawn so I shot them.”

“
You
shot
them
while they had the drop on you?”

“I did,” said Danielle. “Wouldn't you?”

“If I was fast enough,” the outlaw said.

The rest of the men laughed and relaxed. It was the kind of action they could relate to, and the outlaw who had just been outdrawn introduced the bunch.

“I'm Caney Font. To your left is Cude Nations, Slack Hitchfelt, and Peavey Oden. The two varmints that just come out of the brush is Hargis Cox and Cletus Kirby.”

“I've already told you my name,” said Danielle.

“That's an unusual iron you're carryin',” Kirby said. “Mind if I have a look at it?”

“Nobody takes my Colt,” said Danielle.

“The kid's smarter than he looks,” Cude Nations said.

“Hell,” said Kirby, “I never seen but one pistol like that, and I wanted a closer look. It looks like the same gun Bart Scovill had.”

“Well, it's not.” Danielle said. “A gunsmith in St. Joe made only four of these.”

“I reckoned Scovill likely stole the one he had,” said Kirby. “He ain't the kind to lay out money on a fancy iron. He claimed he had it made special, just for him, and it
did
have a letter ‘D' inlaid in the butt plates.” Danielle's ears pricked up at the mention of the gun.

“That don't make sense,” Hargis Cox said. “Bart Scovill's got no ‘D' in his name.”

“You ain't knowed him as long as I have,” said Caney Font. “His middle name is David, and there's times he calls himself Bart Davis.”

“Where are you bound, kid?” Cude Nations asked.

“Away from Fort Smith,” said Danielle.

The outlaws laughed. Her answer had told them nothing, and it was the kind of humor they could appreciate.

“We don't eat too high on the hog, kid,” Caney Font said, “but you're welcome to stay to what there is.”

The food was bacon, beans, and sourdough biscuits, washed down with coffee. Danielle was ravenous, having had no breakfast.

“Kid,” Caney Font said, after they had eaten, “we might could use that fast gun of yours. That is, if you ain't playin' games.”

“Pick a target,” said Danielle.

“What about this tin the beans was in?” Slack Hitchfelt said.

Without warning, Hitchfelt threw the tin into the air. In a split second, Danielle fired twice, drilling the can with both shots before it touched the ground.

“My God, that's some shootin',” said Caney Font. “How'd you learn to shoot like that, kid?”

“Practice,” Danielle said, punching out the empty casings and reloading.

“How'd you like to ride with us to Wichita on a bank job?” asked Caney Font.

“I don't think so,” Danielle said. “I have other business.”

Cletus Kirby laughed. “What business is more important than money?”

“Killing the bastards that murdered my father,” said Danielle.

“Then I reckon you ain't interested in joinin' us,” Slack Hitchfelt said.

“No,” said Danielle.

“Then I reckon it's unfortunate for you, kid,” said Caney Font. “One word to the law in Wichita, and it'll all be over for us.”

“I'm not going to Wichita,” Danielle said.

“You're a sure enough killer, but you ain't no outlaw,” said Peavey Oden.

Danielle saw it coming. She had refused to throw in with them, and having revealed their plans, they had to kill her. If they all drew simultaneously, she was doomed. But they had no prearranged signal. Peavy Oden drew first, with Hargis Cox and Cletus Kirby a second behind. Danielle fired three times in a drumroll of sound, while the men who had drawn against her hadn't even gotten off a shot. The remaining three outlaws were careful not to move their hands.