Ralph Compton Death Rides a Chestnut Mare Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  LAST STAND . . .

  “What are you doin’ here in the Territory all by your lonesome, mister?”

  “I’m not the law, if that’s what’s bothering you,” Dan said.

  “Haw, haw,” one of the men cackled. “Would you admit it if you was?”

  “I have nothing to hide,” said Dan. “I didn’t cotton to the war, and I laid out up in St. Joe, Missouri. But I got lonesome for Texas, and that’s where I’m headed.”

  To further his bluff, Dan holstered the Colt he still held in his hand.

  “I’m Bart Scovill,” the lead rider said, “and I’ve always had a hankerin’ for a chestnut mare just like that one of yours.”

  “Good luck finding one,” said Dan.

  While Scovill had been talking, two of the mounted men had drawn their horses to the side so that they had a clear shot, and it was these that Daniel Strange was watching. When they went for their guns, Dan drew with lightning swiftness and shot them both out of their saddles. But four of them were on him before he was able to make another move.

  “Jasper,” said Scovill, “tie me a good thirteen-knot noose. . . .”

  SIGNET

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  First published by Signet, an imprint of Dutton NAL,

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  First Printing, May, 1999

  Copyright © the Estate of Ralph Compton, 1999

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  eISBN : 978-1-101-17743-3

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  THE IMMORTAL COWBOY

  This is respectfully dedicated to the “American Cowboy.” His was the saga sparked by the turmoil that followed the Civil War, and the passing of more than a century has by no means diminished the flame.

  True, the old days and the old ways are but treasured memories, and the old trails have grown dim with the ravage of time, but the spirit of the cowboy lives on.

  In my travels—which include Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Nebraska, Colorado, Wyoming, New Mexico, and Arizona—there’s something within me that remembers. While I am walking these plains and mountains for the first time, there is this feeling that a part of me is eternal, that I have known these old trails before. I believe it is the undying spirit of the frontier calling, allowing me, through the mind’s eye, to step back into time. What is the appeal of the Old West of the American frontier?

  It has been epitomized by some as the dark and bloody period in American history. Its heroes—Crockett, Bowie, Hickock, Earp—have been reviled and criticized. Yet the Old West lives on, larger than life.

  It has become a symbol of freedom, when there was always another mountain to climb and another river to cross; when a dispute between two men was settled not with expensive lawyers, but with fists, knives, or guns. Barbaric? Maybe. But some things never change. When the cowboy rode into the pages of American history, he left behind a legacy that lives within the hearts of us all.

  —Ralph Compton

  Prologue

  St. Joseph, Missouri. April 1, 1870.

  “Margaret,” said Daniel Strange to his wife, “Texas cattle can be had for three dollars a head in Texas. Drive them north to the railroad, and they’ll bring thirty dollars and more. I can’t pass up a chance at that kind of money.”

  “But you’re the best gunsmith in Missouri,” Margaret said, “and you’ve taught all the children the trade. Your father was a gunsmith and his father before him. Why must you give it all up and travel hundreds of miles for a herd of Texas cows? Why, you’re one of the most respected men in town.”

  “And the most taken for granted,” said Daniel Strange. “I’m owed thousands of dollars, and nobody pays. I’ve already arranged to sell the shop for five thousand dollars, which is more than it’s worth. I can leave fifteen hundred dollars for you to manage on, until I can bring the cattle north.”

  “But there’s just you, Daniel. You’ll need men to help you drive the cattle.”

  “Texas is suffering through Reconstruction,” Daniel said. “From what I’ve heard, I can get riders aplenty, paying them at the end of the drive.”

  “I have a bad feeling about this, Daniel,” said Margaret. “Like if you go, I’ll never see you again.”

  But Daniel Strange’s mind was made up. On April 10, he rode out on a chestnut mare his daughter, Danielle, had named Sundown, bound for Texas. His wife, Margaret, wept, his twin sons, Jed and Tim, cussed the fate that kept them from going, and Danielle said not a word. While Jed and Tim had their father’s blue eyes, they were not as tall. Danielle, on the other hand, had her father’s height. With hat and boots, she was almost six feet. Her hair was dark as a raven’s wing, and she had her mother’s green eyes.

  “Damn it, Ma,” said fourteen-year-old Jed, “Tim and me should be goin’ with him.”

  “Don’t you swear at me, young man,” Margaret snapped. “You and your brother will remain here and go to school, just as your father ordered. You don’t see Danielle wanting to ride off on a cattle drive.”

  “She’s just a girl,” Tim scoffed. “What does she know about cattle, or anything else?”

  Danielle turned and walked away, saying nothing. She had shared her mother’s misgivings regarding Daniel Strange’s journey to Texas, but she knew her father too well to try and cross him. She sat down on the front steps, watching the evening sun sink below the mountains far to the west. Despite her mother’s objections, she had taken to wearing her gun belt with the Colt her father had taught her to use. She thought fondly of the days Daniel Strange had spent teaching her to draw and cock the weapon in a single motion. There had been countless days of constant practice, with advice on cleaning and oiling the weapon as well. There was practice shooting with her brothers, and Daniel Strange had been delighted when Danielle had outshot both of them. Not only had he been a master gunsmith, he had been a master of the weapon itself. Thus the offspring of Daniel Strange were proud of their ability to pull a Colt and fire in a split second. Instead of going back into the house where Jed and Tim still complained, Danielle leaned on the corral fence, her eyes looking away into the distance, where she had last seen her father.

  Daniel Strange regretted taking the chestnut mare, for it was the best horse they had, and he had given it to his daughter, Danielle. From St. Joe, he would ride almost due south, crossing Indian Territory into North Texas. The thirty-five-hundred dollars in his wallet would more than pay for the anticipated herd. There would be money enough for a chuck wagon and grub for the journey to Kansas. Dan Strange well knew the dangers of crossing Indian Territory, but trail herds were doing it on a regular basis. There was no other route that wouldn’t be hundreds of miles longer. He simply had to be careful. Taking care to rest the chestnut mare, he made swift progress. After entering Indian Territory at the extreme northeastern corner, a four-day ride had taken him well into the heart of the Territory. He had seen nobody since leaving southern Missouri. His cook fires were small, and he doused them before dark. He had just lighted a fire to make his breakfast coffee when the chestnut mare nickered. There was an answering nicker, and Dan Strange drew his Colt. He well knew the Territory was a haven for renegades and killers, and prepared to bluff his way out, if he could. His heart sank when a dozen riders reined up a few yards away. They had the look of men on the dodge. Some of them wore two guns, and every man had a rifle in his saddle boot. Dan looked longingly at his own saddle and the Winchester in the boot, but he dared not risk going for it. Finally, the lead rider spoke.

  “What are you doin’ here in the Territory all by your lonesome, mister?”

  “I’m not the law, if that’s what’s botherin’ you,” Dan said.

  “Haw, haw,” one of
the men cackled. “Would you admit it if you was?”

  “I have nothing to hide,” said Dan. “I didn’t cotton to the war, and I laid out up in St. Joe, Missouri. But I got lonesome for Texas, and that’s where I’m headed.”

  To further his bluff, Dan holstered the Colt he still held in his hand.

  “I’m Bart Scovill,” the lead rider said, “and I’ve always had a hankerin’ for a chestnut mare just like that one of yours.”

  “Good luck finding one,” said Dan.

  While Scovill had been talking, two of the mounted men had sidestepped their horses so that they had a clear shot, and it was these men Daniel Strange was watching. When they went for their guns, Dan drew with lightning swiftness and shot them both out of their saddles. But the other mounted men were firing now, and a slug ripped into Daniel Strange’s shoulder, slamming him to the ground. Four of them were on him before he was able to move.

  “Jasper,” said Scovill, “tie a good thirteen-knot noose. Rufe, bring me that chestnut mare that this pilgrim’s willing to die for.”

  “Take the horse,” Dan Strange said desperately. “Let me go.”

  “A mite late for that,” said Scovill. “You gunned down Reece Quay and Corbin Rucker, and the Good Book says an eye for an eye. They was my friends.”

  Ruse had saddled the chestnut mare, leading it to where Dan lay on the ground.

  “Byler,” Scovill said, “search him. He might have enough on him to buy all of us a drink or two.”

  Dan fought his way loose and was on his knees when Byler slugged him with the heavy muzzle of a Colt. The outlaws shouted in glee when Byler took the sheaf of bills from Dan’s old wallet.

  “Here,” said Scovill. “Gimme that for safekeeping. Get him in his saddle. We’ll string him up, take his horse, and ride.”

  Byler hoisted Dan Strange into his saddle, leading the chestnut mare to a giant oak. The noose was placed around Dan’s neck, and the loose end of the rope flung over a limb. Bart Scovill slapped the flank of the chestnut, and the mare broke into a gallop, leaving the unconscious Daniel Strange dangling at the end of a rope. The outlaws were watching in morbid fascination, and nobody remembered the mare until the animal had a good head start.

  “Damn it,” Scovill shouted, “some of you catch that mare.”

  But the chestnut mare didn’t like these men, and riderless, the animal lit out in a fast gallop toward home. The pursuing outlaws were quickly left behind. Finally, they gave up the search and returned to join their comrades. Dan Strange’s dead body turned slowly, one way and then the other, in the light breeze from the west. Byler still held the empty wallet, and he flung it to the ground beneath the dangling corpse. The remaining ten outlaws didn’t even bury Quay and Rucker, but mounted their horses and rode south.

  Indian Territory. April 15, 1870.

  Deputy U.S. Marshal Buck Jordan smelled the stench before he came upon the grisly mass of flesh hanging from an oak limb. His horse snorted, back-stepping, and Jordan led the skittish animal well away from the scene of death. He tied his bandana over his nose and mouth and started back toward the hanging tree. That’s when he saw what remained of the pair of outlaws Daniel Strange had shot.

  “My God,” said the lawman aloud, “the buzzards and coyotes have already got too much of you gents, they might as well have the rest.”

  Jordan cut the rope, easing Daniel Strange’s body to the ground, and that’s when he saw the empty wallet. He opened it and found a card that read Daniel Strange, Gunsmith, St. Joseph, Missouri.

  “Well, old son,” Jordan said to the lifeless man, “the bastards took everything but your shirt, britches, and boots. All I can do is bury you and try to get word to your next of kin.”

  Jordan carried a small folding spade behind his saddle for just such a need as this, and he buried Daniel Strange beneath the oak where he had died. Jordan then studied the sign left by the riders.

  “Twelve horses left here, but two saddles were empty,” Jordan said aloud. “That was good shootin’, Daniel Strange. A damn shame there had to be so many of them, but it’s the way of yellow coyotes to travel in packs.”

  Fort Smith, Arkansas. April 17, 1870.

  Buck Jordan turned in his report to his superior and, having no better address, sent the empty wallet to the Family of Daniel Strange, Gunsmith, St. Joe, Missouri. With it he enclosed a letter explaining the circumstances and signed his name.

  St. Joseph, Missouri. April 20, 1870.

  It was already dark outside when the chestnut mare reached her home corral. Gaunt and trail-weary, she nickered.

  “That’s Sundown!” Danielle cried

  “Oh, dear God,” said Margaret Strange, “some thing’s happened to Daniel.”

  “Maybe not,” Danielle said. “I’ll get a lantern.”

  Trailed by Margaret, Jed, Tim, and Danielle hurried to the corral. The mare nickered again, for she was among friends.

  “She’s stepped on the reins and broken them,” said Danielle. “She’s come a long way, riderless.”

  “Pa’s hurt somewhere,” Tim said. “We got to go find him.”

  “No,” said Margaret, biting her lip to hold back the tears. “Your father’s dead.”

  “I’ll ride into town tomorrow,” Danielle said, “and see if there’s anything the sheriff can do.”

  It was a long, miserable night during which none of them slept. Danielle was ready to ride at dawn.

  “Why is she ridin’ in to talk to the sheriff?” Tim cried. “It ought to be Jed or me. This is man’s work, and she’s just a . . . a girl.”

  “Stop botherin’ Ma,” shouted Danielle. “Can’t you see she’s sick?”

  Margaret Strange was ill with grief and worry. Upon reaching town, Danielle went first to Dr. Soble’s office and told him the circumstances.

  “I’ll prescribe a sedative and look in on her,” the physician promised.

  Danielle then went to the sheriff’s office, and he confirmed her fears.

  “This parcel came yesterday,” Sheriff Connally said. “It has no address except St. Joe, and the postmaster give it to me to deliver. He reckoned it might be important.”

  Danielle ripped away the brown paper, revealing her father’s old wallet. She collapsed in a ladder-back chair, weeping. Sheriff Connally gathered up the brown paper wrapping, which still contained the letter from Deputy U.S. Marshal Buck Jordan. Swiftly he read it, waiting for Danielle to compose herself. When she had, the old sheriff handed her the brief letter. As Danielle read the letter from Buck Jordan, her tears were replaced with fury.

  “The low-down, murdering bastards!” she shouted. “There must be something we can do to make them pay.”

  “Now, girl,” Sheriff Connally soothed, “it happened in Indian Territory. It’s plumb full of thieves and killers, and there’s no way of finding the varmints, even if we knowed who they are.”

  “There must be some way to find them, to make them pay,” cried Danielle.

  “Danielle,” the old sheriff said, “your daddy’s gone. There’s nothing you can do that’ll change that. Now don’t go off and do somethin’ foolish.”

  Danielle knew if the sheriff had any idea of the thirst for vengeance that possessed her, he would somehow foil the plan that was taking shape in her mind.

  “I won’t do anything foolish, Sheriff,” said Danielle. “Thank you for your concern.”

  She mounted the chestnut mare and rode away. Connally watched her go. Despite her suddenly mild demeanor, he suspected trouble. He sighed. The girl was ready to raise hell and kick a chunk under it, and there was nothing he could do.

  When Danielle returned home, Dr. Soble’s buckboard stood in the yard. Jed and Tim met Danielle at the corral.

  “You can’t go in,” said Tim. “Doc Soble ran us out. Did you learn anything in town?”

  Wordlessly, not trusting herself to speak, Danielle handed them their father’s beat-up old wallet. Tim took the ragged billfold, and both boys stared helplessly at it. Jed finally spoke.