A Wolf in the Fold

Chapter 25

Given a choice between her cows and herself, I was confident Gertrude Tanner would choose her own hide over her cattle. So I was not the least surprised to find another herd unattended by cowboys. She had called all her hands in to deal with me.

Given a choice between riding in alone or having help, I chose the help. So what if they had four legs and were some of the dumbest brutes in creation. That might seem harsh, but cows spend their days chomping grass into their bodies at one end and oozing it out the other end. It didn’t call for a lot of brains.

I approached the herd, circling so I was behind them, then let out with a whoop and a holler and waved my arms. My best guess was that there were about five hundred head, a lot of cows for one man to handle if I was on a cow trail headed for Dodge or Abilene. But all I needed to do was point them in the right direction and give them cause to panic, which cows were fond of doing anyway.

It helped that the cattle were accustomed to being herded. A few strayed off, but for the most part they stayed close together as I drifted them eastward. A pink flush blazed the sky with the promise of a new day. Another fifty or sixty head appeared and I reined over and gathered them up.

I would never make a good cowboy. Spending my days watching a bunch of cows graze and rest is not my notion of excitement. A cow chewing its cud is about as boring as any animal can get.

I didn’t like how cows smelled, either. They made it worse by constantly doing their business, one or the other, and the stink was enough to make you gag.

Come to think of it, cows were a lot like people, only they did not put on airs. More important, many had horns and weighed as much as horses and, when spooked, could be fearsome.

I had seen the aftermath of a stampede once. It was up in Montana. I came on an outfit out on the range the morning after a thunderstorm agitated their cattle to a feverish pitch of raw fear, and a bolt of lightning unleashed that fear in a flood of hooves, horns, and destruction. The cattle crashed right through the camp, smashing the chuck wagon to kindling, scattering the cavvy and trampling the cavvy man and five others into the ground. I saw the cavvy man, or what was left of him, a pulpy scarlet lump with shattered bones jutting like white spines. His head was so much goo with an eyeball in the middle. Only one. The other was missing.

Yes, sir. When it came to a stampede, the best a man could do was hunt cover and pray.

A mile from the ranch I had several hundred head. A tingle ran through me at what I was about to do. I could be as devious as Gertrude Tanner any day.

The sun was above the horizon when I drew the Remington. I aimed at the sky and triggered three shots while screeching like a berserk Comanche.

I once heard from an old buffalo hunter that buffalo can go from standing still to a dead run in the blink of an eye. Now I got to see cows do the same. The ones at the rear bolted, pushing against those in front of them, and they, in turn, pushed against the cows in front of them. It was like dominoes. Three shots, and my improvised army swept toward the buildings like Lee charging the north at Gettysburg.

It was a glorious feeling. I laughed and fired another shot. The pounding of thousands of hooves, the rumble of the ground, the lowing of the cattle, created a thunderous din. A cloud of thick dust rose in their wake, screening me as I reloaded.

Presently shouts broke out, and sporadic shots. Gertrude’s hands were trying to turn the herd. I imagined them stumbling from the bunkhouse, not quite awake and tugging into their clothes, to behold the horde bearing down on them.

I hoped Gerty was watching, maybe from an upstairs window, her heart in her throat. If she had a heart, that was. More than likely she had a block of ice. Ice certainly flowed through her veins. She was, without a doubt, the most ruthless person I had ever met, male or female, and that was saying a lot.

I looked up, and drew rein. The cows had slowed and were breaking to the right and left. I glimpsed the stable and the corral. A puncher was on the top rail, whooping and waving his hat. Cows passed under his boots, so close he could touch them with his toe if he wanted. Suddenly there was a loud crack and the fence began to sway. The press of cattle proved to be more than the rails could bear. With a splintering crash, the corral fell apart and the cowpoke on the top rail was pitched into their midst.

His screams were horrible.

I looped wide to reach the main house. The cattle should keep the cowboys busy long enough for me to pay my respects to Gertrude. I had never wanted to kill anyone as much as I hankered to kill her. It was all I could think of: her cowering before me, me shooting her in the knee, then the elbow, then the shoulder. That was for starters. Before I was through she would suffer as few ever suffered since the days of Noah and his ark.

The cloud of dust that hid me from the cowboys also hid the cowboys and the buildings from me. I thought I spied the cookhouse. I did see a shed splinter and split apart. Then the dust ahead partially cleared, and the main house loomed before me.

The cattle were being funneled between the house and corral. The north side was clear. As I brought Brisco to a halt, a revolver cracked. My hand leaped up of its own accord, my Remington replied, and a cowhand slumped over the sill of a window, his smoking revolver falling from fingers gone limp.

Springing down, I ran to the window, shoved him to the floor, and hooked a leg over and in. My spurs were still on, but no one would hear them jangle over the clamor outside.

The inner door was ajar. A glance showed the hallway was empty. I was debating which way to go when a yell from upstairs decided for me. My back to the wall, I sidled to the stairs.

The whole house seemed to be shaking. Beams creaked overhead. A door slammed, but where, I couldn’t say. I went up two steps at a stride and stopped short of the landing. More shouts drew me to a front bedroom. It had two windows. They were open, and crouched next to each was a cowboy. Not just any cowboys but my acquaintances from the ride out, Jim and Ike.

The racket made by the cattle was fading. From over by the bunkhouse came a holler. “Any sign of him?”

Jim cupped a hand to his mouth. “No! Not yet!” He leaned out the window and looked to the right and left. “Where in hell can he be?”

“I wouldn’t do that, were I you,” Ike said. “You’re a mighty tempting target.”

Jim drew back in and swore. “Why doesn’t he show himself?”

Ike endeared himself to me by saying, “Stark’s not dumb. What did you expect? That he’d waltz right into our gun sights?”

By then I was only a few feet behind them. I cleared my throat and said, “Only a greenhorn would do that.”

They spun, or began to, turning to stone when they saw the Remington. Ike looked as if he were about to lay an egg. Jim had more savvy and was not flustered, which made him the more dangerous of the pair.

“Set your revolvers down and slide them toward me,” I directed. Ike obeyed, but Jim balked. I trained the Remington on him. “If you want to die I’ll oblige you.” He didn’t. He placed his Colt on the floor and pushed.

“When Bart Seton and you meet up, you’re dead.”

I paid his bluster no heed. “Pay attention. I’ll only ask this once. Where is Gertrude?”

“We don’t know,” Jim sneered.

I shot him. Not in the head or the chest but in the calf. Blood spurted, and he howled and clasped the wound and rolled about while gritting his teeth and puffing like a steam engine.

“I’ll ask once more. Where is your boss?”

“Go to hell!”

I thumbed back at the hammer and said, “The next one is through the ear. One last time. Where is she?”

Jim had grit, I’ll give him that. “I’ll never betray her, you murdering bastard!” he snarled.

“Suit yourself.”

Ike chose that moment to spring. I have only myself to blame for being caught off-guard. I did not keep one eye on him as I should have, and I did not see the knife until he lanced it at me. I skipped backward, but he nicked me, damn him, in the right wrist. Not deep and not painfully, but a warm sensation told me he had drawn blood. I twisted and squeezed the trigger, but he twisted, too, at the exact instant I fired. The slug seared his side but did not drop him. Suddenly he was on me, swinging wildly, and I found myself battling for my life.

I backpedaled and pointed the Remington. Steel rang on steel as the knife blade deflected the barrel. My shot went into the ceiling instead of into him. Then he had my wrist in a grip of iron and I had his in the same. Locked together, we strained like two bucks with their antlers locked. I was bigger, but he was solid sinew and was desperate to hold on to me.

Out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed Jim gamely crawling toward his revolver and leaving a crimson smear on the floor.

Other cowboys might show up at any moment. I hooked a boot at Ike’s knee, but he sidestepped. I pivoted and tried to toss him over my hip, but he dug in his boot heels and would not be thrown. He was tougher than he looked. But he was a man, a young man, at that, and he lacked my experience. I feinted to the right and swung left, but I could not unbalance him. I feinted to the left and swung right, but again he defied me. Then I feinted right, and went right, jerking him completely off his feet. The next moment he was on his back and I was on top of him with my knee on his chest, slowly forcing the knife toward his throat.

Ike cried out and was able to stop the knife from descending.

Meanwhile, Jim had dragged himself almost to the Colt. He extended his arm but he was a hand’s width short. Levering an elbow, he inched forward. He smiled grimly as he wrapped his fingers around the grips and swung toward me. He had a clear shot and he did not hesitate.

I was counting on that. His finger tightened on the trigger, and I threw myself onto my side, hauling Ike up after me so that he was on top just as the Colt went off. They were astounded, the both of them. Jim, that he had shot Ike. Ike, that he had been shot. The slug caught him in the jaw and blew off a portion of his face.

Warm blood spattered my neck as I heaved and kicked with both legs. My boots slammed into Ike’s chest and catapulted him toward the window. Rolling, I aimed at Jim as he aimed at me. I fired first. This time I shot him smack between the eyes. I swiveled. Ike was rising, his shirt drenched wetly scarlet, fire in his eyes, as with a desperate leap he sought to bury his blade in my body. My slug smashed into him in midair. He was dead when he hit the ground.

Winded, I rose and replaced the spent cartridges. I was surprised no one had come to help them. The house should be crawling with cowboys.

I heard voices outside and sprang to the window, careful not to show myself. The stampede had made a shambles of the sheds and the outhouse.

I did not know how many were left. Out there somewhere was Bart Seton, and it was him I wanted the most. I had a hunch about him, and if it bore out, he deserved to suffer as much if not more than Gertrude.

Unexpectedly, a cowboy broke from the stable, running toward the house. He did not notice me. I doubt he heard the shot that spun him around and pitched him into eternity.

I waited but no more appeared.

Something wasn’t right. I had a vague sense of unease. It spurred me into heading for the stairs. Extreme caution was called for, and I made no more sound than a mouse. A quick glance at my wrist showed that Ike’s knife had barely broken the skin and the bleeding had stopped.

The house was ominously still. I was on the third step when I realized what was bothering me. Not once had I heard Gertrude, or Bart Seton, bark commands, or say anything else. They were conspicuous by their silence.

I had a hunch why. I bounded down the stairs and down the hall to the front door. Throwing it wide, I darted onto the porch. No shots greeted me. No shouts, either. I crouched behind a post and waited, but nothing happened.

“Damn her,” I said aloud.

I sprinted around the house to Brisco and the mare. Since I had not run into anyone coming from the ranch on my way there, I had three directions to choose from. I figured Gertrude and her companions went east, past the Fair Sister. A week’s ride or so would bring them to Clementsville. It had a town marshal, and she could ask for his protection. She could also send for the Texas Rangers or even a federal marshal. One mention of my name and they would come running.

I gigged Brisco to the rear of the house. Much to my delight I found fresh tracks. I could not tell exactly how many were with Gertrude, but it was plain she was not alone. No doubt Bart Seton was always at her side. Plus however many cowhands were left. The sign showed they had ridden out at a gallop. Which suited me fine. Their horses would soon tire. By switching from Brisco to the mare and back again, I was confident I could overtake them well before nightfall.

I couldn’t wait. Gertrude and Seton had a lot to answer for, and I was just the hombre to see that they did. No one had ever gotten the better of me, and I would be boiled in tar if they would be the first.

I reminded myself not to be cocky and was about to spur Brisco when I realized I was forgetting something. I dismounted and left the horses there and walked back to the front of the house.

A haze of dust hung in the morning air, the tiny motes sparkling like pinpoints of gold.

I could spare half an hour. For Daisy’s sake, as well as the rest of her family’s, I should do this right. Word would spread and be a powerful lesson to anyone who hired me in the future.

Never rile a Regulator.