A Wolf in the Fold

Chapter 19

I had more to do before I rode off.

I dragged the three bodies about thirty yards closer to the mouth of the canyon and propped them against boulders. Anyone who came to investigate why they failed to return to the LT would spot them right off. I was in need of a hat, so I helped myself to Jack’s. It was brown instead of my favorite color, black, and it had a narrow brim instead of a wide brim, as I liked, and a high crown instead of a low crown, which I preferred, but it fit. I also shrugged into his vest and tied his bandanna around my neck so that from a distance I might pass for a cowpoke.

Snagging the lead rope, I climbed on Brisco and rode out of the canyon. I did not head east toward the Tanner spread. Instead, I reined left, seeking a way to get above the canyon. A game trail pockmarked with deer tracks was a likely prospect.

It took forever. The trail had more twists and switchbacks than I cared to count. Eventually, though, I stood on the lip of the canyon wall directly above the silver vein. Behind me, a boulder-strewn slope rose to thick timber.

“They’ll do nicely,” I said to Brisco. Swinging back on, I climbed higher, avoiding a patch of talus. Above it, clustered like eggs in a hen’s nest, were a score of boulders of various sizes. I went past them and drew rein.

It might work. I put my shoulder to one of the smaller boulders, dug in my heels, and pushed. The boulder gave a little, but only a little. I braced my shoulders and tried again. Again it moved a few inches. This would not do.

I climbed back on Brisco. Leaving the other horses for the moment, I unwound my rope, tossed the loop over the boulder, and dallied the other end around the saddle horn. I gigged Brisco to one side, and down, and when the rope became taut, jabbed my spurs. For a few moments Brisco strained. Then the boulder began to slide, gaining speed as it went. I unwound my rope from the saddle horn. The boulder careened off another, smaller boulder, dislodging it, and this second boulder tumbled after the first. A third boulder bounced down the slope. And a fourth.

The boulders struck the talus. Loose dirt and rocks cascaded down, the rope whipping like an angry snake behind the first boulder. More and more talus was dislodged as the avalanche I had created hurtled toward the rim.

The roar it made reverberated the length of the canyon. Tons of earth and rocks poured down, raising a thick column of dust that billowed into a spreading cloud. It gave the illusion that the whole mountain was breaking apart.

Eventually the clamor ended. Dismounting, I carefully walked to the lip and peered over. The entire vein was buried by a mound that rose halfway up the wall. It would take weeks to dig through.

Gertrude would throw a fit. Chuckling, I reclaimed the mare and the other horses and made my way down the mountain to the grassland. To avoid running into any townsfolk I looped wide to the south.

I was in no hurry. It would take half the night to reach the LT, which suited my purpose just fine. Outnumbered as I was, I had to rely on my wits to whittle the odds. Darkness was an ally that I aimed to use to full advantage.

About two hours had gone by when I spied a couple of riders to the north. They were heading west but reined toward me to cut me off. I didn’t like that. I liked it even less when the sun flashed off metal on their shirts.

This was the last thing I needed. I quickly bunched the bandanna around my chin so it would appear I had just pulled it down—and to hide my scar. When they were fifty yards out I drew rein and raised a hand in friendly greeting.

“You must ride for the LT,” Dee said as he came to a stop.

“Yes, sir.” When dealing with the law it always paid to be polite. “Are you those Rangers I’ve heard about?” It also paid to pretend to be as dumb as a tree stump.

Les smothered a chuckle and nodded. “That we are, mister. I reckon our badges gave us away. What might your handle be?”

“Jack, sir.”

“Jack what?”

“Jack Walker, sir.”

“You don’t say? One of the most famous Rangers of all time was named Walker. Maybe you’ve heard of him. Captain Sam Walker came up with the idea for one of the very first Colts.”

Now, everyone west of the Mississippi knew about the Walker Colt and the part it played in Texas history. But I said, “You don’t say?” When I played a stump, I played a stump.

“You wouldn’t happen to be related, would you?”

“Not unless my ma was keeping secrets from me.”

Les laughed and smacked his thigh. “That was a good one. But tell me. You haven’t seen hide or hair of the missing parson, have you?”

I admired how he slipped that in as slick as you please. “No, sir, I sure haven’t.”

Dee was regarding my string with an interest that troubled me. “We were out to see the Tanners this morning. Nice people, Gertrude and her son.”

The world was going to end. A Texas Ranger had told a lie. For me, it was another in an endless pack. “The nicest.”

“How long have you worked for them?” Dee asked.

“Oh, about four years, I reckon.” I needed to be shed of them, but I could not think of a good enough excuse to ride on.

“What did you think of the Butchers?”

“Sir?”

“Did they strike you as the kind to rustle cattle? We’ve been told they were as honest as the year is long, and that the mother, Hannah, kept a tight rein on her whole litter.”

“What are you saying, sir? That you don’t think they stole our cattle? Mrs. Tanner says they did and I believe her.”

“Of course you do,” Dee said. “You’re loyal to the brand.” He was as clever as his partner. “But did you or anyone you know ever actually see the Butchers steal cows?”

“I never did, no.” I lifted my reins as a hint I was ready to move on. I might as well not have bothered.

“Nor did any other puncher we asked,” Dee revealed. “Yet you would think someone had.”

“Not if the Butchers did the stealing at night.”

Les lost his smile. “I didn’t just fall off the turnip wagon, Mr. Walker. Your outfit has hands ride night herd.”

He had me there. I recovered with, “But we can’t be everywhere at once. It’s mighty easy to slip in and help yourself to some cows and slip out again.”

“How many head were taken, altogether?”

“I can’t rightly recollect.”

“Where did the tracks lead?”

“You would have to ask Mrs. Tanner.”

“Is there anything you do know?” Dee asked.

“Only that I need to get these strays back to the ranch and I’d be obliged if I could be on my way.”

“Strays?” Les repeated. “Even the claybank with the saddle?”

“Yes, sir. That there is one rambunctious critter. Threw its rider and lit out to see the world.”

“It doesn’t look very rambunctious to me,” Les said.

Dee inadvertently saved me by waving me on. “We’ve detained you long enough, Mr. Walker. Give our regards to your employer and her son.”

“Will do.” I touched my hat brim and smiled and rode at a walk in order not to arouse suspicion. But I couldn’t shake the feeling I already had. I was tempted to look back but didn’t until I had gone half a mile. They were riding west.

Lesson learned. I swung farther south to lessen the chance of running into someone else. The change of clothes would not fool someone who had seen me up close. Or had seen me on Brisco.

The day waned and a few stars blossomed. My stomach growled, but it could growl all it wanted.

Along about midnight I encountered a herd of LT cattle. They had bedded down over a wide area, and from a distance reminded me of nothing so much as squat tombstones. I immediately drew rein and listened.

On trail drives cowboys riding night herd often sang to the cows to keep them calm. These cows were on their home range, and there should not be any such need. But there still might be a night guard.

And there was.

I heard him humming, not singing. He was north of the herd and coming around it in my general direction. Quickly dismounting, I opened a saddlebag and took out the item I needed. Silence was called for. Holding it in my right hand and Brisco’s reins and the lead rope in my left, I walked toward the rider.

I saw the night herder before he saw me. He had stopped humming. I waited until he was quite close and saw that his chin had drooped to his chest. I greeted him with “Are you awake or asleep?”

The cowboy gave a start and reined up. His hand swooped to a revolver, but he did not draw it. “Who’s there?” he blurted.

“Jack,” I said, doing my best to imitate Jack’s voice. I started toward him, wishing the hat’s brim was wider.

“Jack Walker?” the cowpoke said, taking his hand off his hardware. “Where in hell have you been? Mrs. Tanner came out to the cookhouse at supper and she was mighty upset that you boys weren’t back yet. She sent Bart Seton and some others to the canyon to find you.”

“Long story,” I said.

“She was worried you might have met up with those Texas Rangers. I never met a nosier pair of gents in all my born days.”

“It’s their job to be nosy.” I was not quite near enough. Another five or six steps should do it.

“Do you have a cold? You don’t sound quite right.”

“Same as always.” I let go of the reins.

“Barker is riding herd with me. I can have him rustle up some coffee.”

“No need,” I said. By then I was next to his horse. I grabbed his leg, yanked it free of the stirrup, and heaved. He squawked as he went over, scrabbled madly for the saddle horn, and missed. He landed on his back and promptly rolled up onto the balls of his feet and clawed for his revolver, but by then I was around the horse and behind him, and had a short wooden handle in each hand. His hat had fallen off and I slipped the wire over his head and around his neck in one quick flick. He reached for the wire. They always reach for the wire instead of reaching for me, giving me the second I needed to plant both feet and pull on the handles with all my might.

The cowboy tried to stand up, but I kneed him in the spine. Gurgling and spitting, he continued to claw at the wire, which had dug a quarter inch into his flesh and was digging deeper. He would do better to grab for my wrists, which he presently did, but I was braced, my wrists and elbows locked, and all he could do was pluck frantically at my sleeves. It had no effect. Bit by bit I garroted the life from his body. When he was finally still, I slowly straightened. I was caked with sweat and breathing hard.

There was no sign of the other night herder. Usually they circled on opposite sides of the herd. I had a few minutes before he came around to this side.

Squatting, I went through the cowpoke’s pockets. He had close to two hundred dollars on him. No wonder the LT hands were so devoted to Gertrude Tanner. She was paying them better than any other outfit in Texas.

I tried on his hat, which had a nice, wide brim, but it was too small. Throwing it aside, I lifted the body and draped it over his saddle. I used his own rope to tie him on, and gave the horse a swat on the rump. Off it went, bearing its grisly burden.

I put the garrote back in my saddle and palmed my boot knife. I climbed on Brisco and circled the herd, holding the knife next to my leg.

The other cowboy, Barker, was singing “Rock of Ages,” of all things. He was more alert and jerked his pistol the moment he saw me.

“Who’s that?”

I resorted to the same trick. “Jack.”

He lowered the revolver but not all the way. “Where in hell have you been? Mrs. Tanner was fit to have kittens.”

“So I’ve heard.” I did not look at him but at the ground. Since there was no moon, the ruse should have worked. But suddenly he pointed his revolver at me again and I heard the click of the hammer.

“Hold it! You’re not Jack!”

I smiled, and did not stop. “No, I’m the parson. Couldn’t you tell? Peace be unto you, brother. Didn’t I see you at Lloyd Tanner’s funeral?”

Confusion rooted him for the few moments it took me to bring Brisco alongside his horse.

“Reverend Storm? I don’t understand. Why did you just call yourself Jack and why are you wearing his hat and vest?”

“So I could do this,” I said. Lunging, I thrust the knife into his belly, burying the blade to the hilt, while at the same instant I seized hold of his wrist and pushed the muzzle of his revolver into his belly. I didn’t expect him to squeeze the trigger. It must have been a reflex. The revolver went off, the shot muffled some but not enough.

Barker stiffened. He stared at me in puzzlement, then slumped from the saddle, dead as dead could be. The knife slid free and warm blood splashed my hand.

Some of the cows had stood up but none ran off. They were fat and lazy, these LT cattle.

I gazed in the direction of the ranch buildings. They were miles away yet. I deemed it doubtful the sound would carry that far, but taking things for granted in my profession was an invite to an early grave.

I dismounted, wiped the knife clean on his pants, and slid it back into my boot. I tried on his hat. It fit, but it, too, had a short brim. I kept the one I had.

Sixty more dollars went into my saddlebags. I tied Barker onto his horse, swung the horse toward the ranch, and gave it a slap.

Two more accounted for, and a lot more to go.