Death Rides a Chestnut Mare

Chapter 7

Denver, Colorado. September 30, 1870.

Danielle spent one more night in Denver, feeling the need to visit some more saloons. It was unlikely the men she was hunting would be well heeled enough to visit the Pretty Girl Saloon, and she silently rebuked herself for having spent two nights there. However, her stake was now $3,600. Wisely spent, it would last her many months. One of the first saloons she found was The Broken Spoke, and as she entered, one of the bouncers spoke.

“Poker tables are in the back, behind the curtain, kid.”

Since Danielle had sworn off any further bouts with whiskey, there was no excuse for hanging around the bar, so pushing aside the curtain, she went on to the poker area.

“Table stakes, dollar limit,” said one of the dealers.

“Too rich for my blood,” Danielle said. “I’d like to watch for a while. Maybe I’ll learn something.”

“I don’t want you lookin’ over my shoulder,” said one of the players. “It makes me nervous.”

One of the other men laughed. “Levan’s nervous because he ain’t won a pot tonight, and the way he’s playin’ his cards, he ain’t likely to.”

Levan! Could it be Brice Levan, from the death list? Danielle stayed there a few more minutes without learning anything more about Levan. Finally, she left the saloon, hiding in the darkness near where the horses were tied. Sooner or later, Levan would have to leave, and if he was playing poker badly, it shouldn’t be long. When he finally exited the saloon, he staggered a little. He had tied his horse’s reins securely to the hitching rail, and cursing, he fumbled with the knot. Danielle stepped out of the shadows with a Colt steady in her hand.

“I’m looking for a man named Levan,” Danielle said. “What’s your first name?”

“None of your damn business,” said Levan.

“I’m making it my business,” Danielle said. “Iden tify yourself and tell me where you’ve been during the past year. If you don’t, I’ll shoot you just on general principles.”

Danielle cocked the Colt for effect, and Levan spoke.

“My name’s Henry Levan, and I’m called Hank. Up to the first of September, I was in Alamosa, at Clay Allison’s horse ranch. I was there most of a year, and was let go when Allison sold most of his stock. Does that satisfy you?”⁵

“Not entirely,” said Danielle, “but I suppose it’ll have to do. Where do you come from, Levan?”

“Down south of Santa Fe, along the Rio,” Levan said. “Too damn many sheep down there to suit me.”

“Then mount up and ride,” said Danielle. “You’re not the man I’m looking for.”

Levan fumbled with his horse’s reins. Danielle held her Colt on him until he had freed the reins and mounted his horse. When he rode away, she followed at a safe distance. The shabby boardinghouse where Levan eventually reined up had an unattended stable, and he led his horse inside. When he came out, starting for the boardinghouse, he carried only his rifle. When he was gone, Danielle slipped into the stable, seeking Levan’s horse. When she found it, the saddle was on a nearby rail, with saddlebags intact. She fumbled around in the dark, avoiding a change of clothes and a box of shells. Finally, her hands touched paper that felt like an envelope. Removing that, she felt around, seeking something more, but there was nothing. Quickly slipping out of the stable, Danielle rode back to the Denver House. Leaving the chestnut mare in the nearby livery, she hurried up to her room and lighted a lamp. What she had retrieved from Levan’s saddlebag was actually a letter. It had been post-marked in Santa Fe and was addressed to Henry Levan, Alamosa, Colorado.

“Oh, damn,” said Danielle in disgust. “Damn the luck.”

Then, as though by divine inspiration, a thought came to her mind. There had to be other Levans somewhere near Santa Fe for Henry Levan to be receiving mail from there. Without feeling guilty, she withdrew the single sheet of paper and read the letter. It was dated May 1, 1870, and from its tone, had been written by Levan’s mother. She urged Henry Levan to come home. One sentence quickly caught Danielle’s eye: Your brother has been gone for two months, riding to Texas with a bunch of outlaws.

Danielle read the letter several more times without learning anything new. Everything pointed to Henry Levan’s brother as one of the men Danielle was after, but where was he? Had he returned home, or was he still with the band of outlaws?

“Damn it, I’ll ride to Santa Fe and find out,” Danielle said aloud.

Inquiring, she learned that Alamosa was a little more than two hundred miles due south of Denver. Since she was bound for Santa Fe, ever farther south, she decided to stop at the Allison ranch in Alamosa. Allison should be able to confirm or deny that Levan had been there for almost a year. Danielle made the rounds of half a dozen other saloons without learning anything helpful. At dawn, after riding to the mercantile to replenish her supplies, she rode south.

Alamosa, Colorado. October 3, 1870.

Alamosa wasn’t a large town, and it was near dark when Danielle rode in. She took a room in the only hotel and led the chestnut mare across the street to the livery. She had no desire to go looking for the Allison ranch in the dark. There were several cafes, and she chose the one nearest the hotel. There were few patrons, and they left well ahead of Danielle. After paying for her meal, she questioned the cook about the Allison place.

“Allison’s place is maybe ten miles east of here,” the cook said, “but if you’re looking for work, you won’t find it there. He’s done let most of his riders go. Old Crazy Clay may be gettin’ ready to move on. He’s about wore out his welcome around here.”

“What’s he done?” Danielle asked.

“It’d be easier to tell you what he ain’t done,” said the cook. “Two Saturdays in a row he’s hoorawed the town. He rode in wearin’ nothing but his hat and boots, screeching and shootin’ like a crazy man. Swore he’d shoot anybody lookin’ out the windows at him, but most of the ladies in town looked anyway. He didn’t shoot nobody, but he’s just so damn unpredictable as to what he’ll do next. Ain’t been long since he killed a man with a Bowie knife.”

“Why?” Danielle asked.

“Him and his neighbor had an argument over a land boundary. To settle it, they dug a grave and the both of ’em got down in it with knives. The winner had to bury the loser, and old Clay’s still walkin’.”

“Maybe you can tell me what I need to know,” said Danielle. “There used to be a gent name of Henry Levan working there. I need to know if he’s still there, or if he’s left, where he went.”

“He’s gone, far as I know,” the cook said. “Septem ber first, Allison let four riders go, and they stopped here for grub. Levan was one of ’em.”

“How long was Levan here?” Danielle asked.

“Not quite a year, as I recall. You ain’t the law, are you?”

Danielle laughed. “No. I’m pretty well acquainted with Levan, and I reckoned I’d talk to him if he was still around.”

“I expect he’s gone looking for a place to hole up for the winter,” said the cook.

The Clay Allison Ranch. October 4, 1870.

Allison stood on the porch, watching Danielle ride in. With his fancy garb, sandy hair, and smoothly shaven face, he was a handsome man. Danielle thought with amusement of him riding naked through town, women peeking at him. Danielle reined up.

“Step down,” Allison said.

Danielle dismounted, but stopped short of the porch, noting that he carried two tied-down revolvers. Allison said nothing, so she spoke.

“My name is Daniel Strange, and I’m looking for a gent named Levan. I was told that he worked here for a while.”

“Are you the law? I’m Clay Allison, and lawmen aren’t welcome on my property.”

“No,” Danielle said, “I’m not the law.”

“Levan worked for me not quite a year,” said Allison. “I let him and three others go on September first. I got no idea where they went, but I know Levan has kin somewhere south of Santa Fe. Now I’d suggest you mount up and ride on.”

In the West, it was considered rude not to invite a stranger in, if only for a drink of cold water, but being asked to leave for no reason was unthinkable. Danielle decided she didn’t like Clay Allison. Without a word, she mounted Sundown and rode south.

Santa Fe, New Mexico. October 5, 1870.

The ride from Alamosa to Santa Fe was a little more than a hundred miles. Taking the time to rest the horse, Danielle rode in just as the first stars began appearing in the purple heavens. Santa Fe was an old, old town, established by the Spanish, and their influence was still everywhere. To Danielle it looked as big as Denver. Eventually, she found a little hotel with a cafe directly across the street. She left the chestnut mare at a livery on the street that ran behind the hotel and, walking back to the lobby, took a room for the night. The wind from the west was cold, and there was a dirty smudge of clouds far to the west as the setting sun had slipped over the horizon. It looked like another storm might be on the way. If that was the case, it should be obvious by morning. Danielle had no desire to be caught in the wilds somewhere to the south if there was snow. She would wait out the storm in Santa Fe, where there was shelter and warm food.

By dawn, a flurry of snow was blowing out of the west, and by the time Danielle had breakfast, the flakes were much larger. The wind was cold, slipping its icy fingers beneath her sheep-skin-lined coat. Danielle returned to her room at the hotel and, from the wood stacked in the hall, built up the fire in the stove. She brought in more wood for the night and, after locking the door, slid the back of a chair under the knob. She then treated herself to the luxury of stripping off all her clothing and removing the hated binder, finally freeing her breasts of its constricting grasp. With the storm raging outside and the wind howling around the eaves, there was little to do except sleep, and Danielle did just that. Undisturbed, she slumbered the day through, arising in the late afternoon. One look out the window told her that not only had the storm continued to blow, it had become more intense. Starting with the binder, she dressed. She buckled on her Colt, pulled her hat down low, and then added her heavy coat and gloves. She had to get to the cafe for supper, and it was a fight, for the snow was already to her knees. There was nobody inside the cafe except the cook.

“You might as well close and go home,” Danielle said.

“I can’t,” said the cook. “This is home. I live in the back of the place.”

Two more men came in while Danielle was eating, and one of them wore a lawman’s star. The two ordered their meal and took seats at one of the tables, gratefully sipping hot coffee.

“Charlie,” said the cook to the lawman, “how’s it goin’ with them cattlemen and sheepmen down along the Rio?”

“Not worth a damn,” Charlie said. “Me and Vince rode down there for nothin’, havin’ to fight our way back through a blizzard. Old man Levan’s killin’ mad, and he’s ready to go after the cattlemen with guns, when he can’t prove anything. Somebody rim-rocked near a thousand head of his sheep.”⁶

“Maybe he’s right,” said Vince, the lawman’s companion. “Who else but the cattlemen would of done that?”

“Hell, I don’t know,” the lawman said. “All I know is this whole damn country is under my jurisdiction, and I can’t spend all my time with old man Levan’s sheep. I’ve done all I can do to avoid a range war between sheepmen and cattlemen. I reckon the winner will be whoever can afford the most hired guns.”

Danielle listened with interest, a plan taking shape in her mind. Suppose she asked for and got a gunman’s role with the sheepmen or cattlemen? Sooner or later, if he was alive, Brice Levan would be coming home. Even if he did not, some of the other killers hired by one side or the other might be men on her death list. Danielle returned to her hotel room, preparing for another dreary day of waiting out the storm.

To the south, on the eastern bank of the Rio Grande, Sam Levan’s hired guns kept a roaring fire going in the bunkhouse stove. There were Gus Haddock, Dud Menges, Warnell Prinz, Sal Wooler, and Jasper Witheres.

“Old man Sam’s mad enough to walk into hell and slap the devil’s face,” Dud Menges said. “By the time the sheriff and his deputy got here, the snow had covered the tracks of that bunch that rim-rocked the sheep. Wasn’t nothing could be done.”

“He’ll end up blamin’ us,” said Gus Haddock, “and there’s no way in hell so few of us can keep watch over three sheep camps at the same time. Markwardt’s cow nurses just hit one of the unguarded camps, and by the time we can get there, they’re gone. They’ll split up, and like the sheriff says, there ain’t a damn bit of evidence.”

“He’s got two Mex sheep herders at each of the three camps,” Dud Menges said. “If he wasn’t so damn cheap, he could arm them with Winchesters.”

“But we get fightin’ wages,” said Warnell Prinz. “The sheep herders don’t.”

“We need more men,” Sal Wooler said.

“There’s folks in hell wantin’ cold spring water,” Jasper Witheres said. “Their chance of gettin’ it is about the equal of old Sam hirin’ more guns. I think, once this storm has passed, he’ll send us to the Adolph Markwardt spread to raise hell, with or without any evidence. Who else but a bunch of cow nurses would want to run a flock of woolies off a bluff?”

At Adolph Markwardt’s bunkhouse, there was considerable jubilation. Markwardt himself had come to congratulate his men. With him, he had brought two bottles of whiskey.

“You won’t be able to ride for a couple of days,” Markwardt said. “Get all the rest you can, for you’ve earned it. The sheriff was by here in the midst of the storm, and was on his way back to Santa Fe. Naturally I told him all of you was in the bunkhouse, waiting out the storm. I told him he could see for himself, but he didn’t bother. It’s a comfort knowin’ we’re law abidin’ folks, ain’t it?”

“It is, for a fact,” said Nat Horan. “Wasn’t our fault them sheep didn’t have the sense to stop running when they got to that drop-off.”

“The damn four-legged locusts don’t belong in cattle country,” Lon McLean said.

“Yeah,” said his brother Oscar, “but what we’re fightin’ for is open range. Accordin’ to the law, sheep have as much right there as cattle, but we need that range. We got just too many cows for the 640 acres we have. We need two more sections.”

“The sheepmen have set up camp there,” Isaac Taylor said, “and they ain’t likely to be movin’ until there’s some shootin’ in their direction.”

“After we’ve gunned down a few of them,” said Joel Wells, “that’s when the sheriff will come lookin’ for us.”

“Not if it’s self-defense,” Markwardt said. “We raise enough hell with them sheep, and Sam Levan will send his riders after us. For anybody trespassin’ on my property, tryin’ to gun us down, we got the right to shoot in self-defense.”

Nat Horan laughed. “From ambush?”

“Whatever suits your fancy,” said Markwardt. “I think after we rim-rock another two or three flocks of sheep, Sam Levan and his bunch will come looking for us.”

During the second day of the storm, the snow ceased. With nothing to do but eat and sleep, Danielle was fed up with the inactivity. But the snow was deep, and travel would be all but impossible. Danielle went to the livery and requested a measure of grain every day for the chestnut mare. She would need it, because of the intense cold. The temperature was already well below zero. The day after the snow ceased, the sun came out, but had little effect, for the snow was at least two feet and frozen solid. Danielle waited another two days before deciding to resume her journey. She had not asked directions to either camp, for she had heard the sheriff say that the feud was taking place in his county. There was little doubt the bleating of sheep would lead her to Sam Levan’s spread. If he refused to hire her, she must then seek out the cattlemen. During the cold months, even wanted men looked for a place to hole up, and the chance to draw gun wages might be tempting to the men on her death list. Within less than an hour, she could see the fair-sized herd of sheep. Two shepherds and two sheep dogs were with the flock, which looked to number a thousand or more. Danielle reined up, and one of the shepherds raised his eyebrows in question.

“Where might I find Mr. Levan, the owner of these sheep?” Danielle asked.

“At the rancho, señor,” said the Mexican, pointing.

Well before Danielle reached the Levan house, a pack of dogs came yelping to greet her.

“Here, you dogs,” a bull voice bellowed. “Get the hell back to the house.”

The pack turned and trotted back the way they had come, allowing Danielle to ride to within a few feet of the porch. Sam Levan looked her over thoroughly before he spoke, and there was no friendliness in his voice.

“Who are you, and what do you want?”

“I’m Daniel Strange, and I’m looking for work.”

“You should know there’s a range war goin’ on here,” Levan said. “I pay gun wages of a hundred a month, plus ammunition.”

“I can live with that,” said Danielle.

“You don’t look like no gunman to me,” Levan said. “Hell, you ain’t even old enough to shave.”

“That has nothing to do with drawing and firing a gun,” said Danielle.

Sam Levan didn’t see her hand move, yet he found himself looking into the muzzle of a Colt. Danielle slipped the weapon back into its holster.

“Not bad,” Levan said, “but a fast draw don’t mean you can hit what you shoot at.”

“True enough,” said Danielle. “Choose me a target.”

Wordlessly, Levan took a silver dollar from his pocket and flung it into the air. As it started its descent, Danielle drew and fired once. When Sam Levan recovered the coin, there was a dent in the center of it. He eyed Danielle with grudging respect, and then he spoke.

“You’ll do, kid. The missus will feed you breakfast and supper in the kitchen. There’s five other men, and plenty of room in the bunkhouse.”

“Thanks,” Danielle said. “Am I allowed to keep my horse in your barn?”

“Yes,” said Levan. “There’s a couple of sacks of grain in the tack room.”

Danielle led the chestnut mare to the barn, found an empty stall, and took the time to rub the animal down. She was in no hurry to meet the five strangers in the bunkhouse. The five were seated around the stove in various stages of undress. One of the men took a look at her youthful face and laughed. Gus Haddock suddenly found himself face-to-face with a cocked, rock-steady Colt.

“What is it about me that you find so funny?” Danielle demanded.

“Not a thing, kid,” said Haddock, now serious. “Not a damn thing.”

“I’m Daniel Strange,” Danielle said, holstering the Colt. “Are any of you segundo?”

“No,” said Dud Menges. “Sam Levan gives all the orders.”

Starting with himself, Menges introduced the small outfit to Danielle.

“Why are all of you hanging around in the bunkhouse?” Danielle asked. “Enough of the snow’s melted for you to be riding.” “We ride when Levan says,” said Warnell Prinz, “and he ain’t said.”

Danielle said no more. In the snow on the ground, and in the mud which would follow, it would be impossible for riders not to leave abundant horse tracks. At suppertime the outfit trooped into the kitchen, lining up to use the washbasin and towel. A thin woman was carrying dishes of food from the big stove to a long, X-frame table. Along each side of the table was a backless bench.

“Eppie,” said Levan, “this is Daniel Strange, a new rider I just hired.”

Eppie barely nodded, saying nothing. She looked exactly like the harried woman who might have written the pathetic letter Danielle had taken from Henry Levan’s saddlebag. It was an uncomfortable meal for Danielle, for the dark eyes of Eppie Levan seemed to have been stricken with a thousand years of heart-break and despair. Danielle was much younger than the other riders and suspected Eppie Levan was seeing in her the faces of her own sons who seemed lost to her. Suppose Brice Levan gave up his outlaw ways and, in coming home, found himself face-to-face with Danielle? Could she kill him for his part in murdering her father? After supper, the outfit returned to the bunkhouse. There were enough bunks for a dozen men, and Danielle chose an empty one farthest from the stove. It would be reason enough to sleep fully dressed.

Levan’s Sheep Ranch. October 10, 1870.

When the snow had melted and most of the mud had dried up, Sam Levan came looking for his riders.

“I want all of you to spend the next few days riding from one sheep camp to another,” said Levan. “I know what Markwardt’s trying to do. He reckons if he costs me enough, I’ll come after him and his bunch. Then he’ll call in the law.”

“You reckon they aim to rim-rock more sheep, then,” Warnell Prinz said.

“I do,” said Levan. “They know I can’t go on taking losses like the last one, and that I can’t call in the law without proof. Our only chance, short of attacking the Markwardt outfit, is to catch them stampeding our sheep. Then I figure we’re justified in shooting the varmints without answering to the law.”

It was sound thinking, and Danielle admired the old sheepman for seeking a way out of what seemed an impossible situation without breaking the law. Danielle followed the rest of the outfit along the Rio to the first sheep camp, and seeing no danger there, they rode on to the second and third camps. Still, there was no sign of trouble.

“Instead of three separate camps,” said Danielle, “why not combine all the shepherds and all the sheep into one bunch? They’d be easier to protect, wouldn’t they?”

“Kid, you don’t know much about sheep, do you?” Gus Haddock said. “Get all them woolies into one pile, and they’d eat the grass down to the roots and beyond. Scatterin’ them into three camps, they still got to be moved every other day. That’s why we need the range the damn cattlemen don’t aim for us to have.”

“I can understand why they feel that way,” said Danielle. “Does it bother you, forcing sheep onto range where they’re not wanted, where you might be shot?”

“Kid, there ain’t nothin’ sacred about cows,” Haddock said, “and I don’t like or dislike sheep. I’m here because it pays a hundred a month an’ found. I been shot at for a hell of a lot less.”

Haddock’s companions laughed, and it gave Danielle something to think about. Suppose the rest of the men she had sworn to kill had sold their guns somewhere on the frontier? Already, she could understand a drifting rider’s need to hire on somewhere for the winter, but it made her task far more difficult. She had no way of knowing whether or not Brice Levan would ever come home. Riding with outlaws, perhaps he was already dead. There had to be a limit as to how long she could remain with Levan, before giving up and moving on.

Reaching the third sheep camp and finding all was well, there was nothing to do except return to the first camp.

“What about tonight?” Danielle asked. “After we’ve been in the saddle all day, are we expected to ride all night?”

“So far,” said Warnell Prinz, “the cattlemen have only stampeded the sheep during the daytime. We don’t know why.”

“I do,” Sal Wooler said. “Them Mex herders has got dogs. Without ’em, it’s hell tryin’ to keep all them sheep headed the same way. I wouldn’t want to try it at night.”

Three days and nights passed without the Markwardt outfit bothering any of the three sheep camps. The strain was beginning to tell on old Sam Levan, and he spoke to all his riders at suppertime.

“I’m a patient man, but if Markwardt’s bunch ain’t made some move by sundown tomorrow, then we’re goin’ to.”

“I reckon you aim to rim-rock some cows, then,” said Dud Menges.

“Only if we have to,” Levan said. “We’ll start with a stampede tomorrow night. I want his herd scattered from here to the Mexican border. If that don’t get his attention, then we’ll try somethin’ else.”

“Then he’ll be sendin’ the law after us,” said Gus Haddock.

“He can’t send the law after us for stampedin’ his cows any more than we could send the law after him for rim-rocking our sheep,” Levan said. “At least his damn cows will be alive, wherever they end up. That’s more than can be said for my sheep.”

“Unless it rains, they’ll have tracks to follow,” said Sal Wooler.

“Let them follow,” Levan said. “I want to put them in the position of having to break the law by coming after us.”

“You mean with guns,” said Jasper Witheres.

“That’s exactly what I mean,” Levan said. “When an hombre shoots at you, whatever his reason, then you got the right to shoot back. It’s just the way things is.”

Supper was a somber meal. Eppie Levan looked more harried than ever, and each of the men seemed lost in his own thoughts. Danielle had hired out her gun, and now there was a very real chance she would be using it for a purpose she had never intended.

The Adolph Markwardt Ranch. October 14, 1870.

“Startin’ tonight,” Markwardt told his riders, “we’re going to be watching our herds after dark.”

“Hell,” said Oscar McLean, “there ain’t but six of us. Who’s gonna be watching them in the daytime?”

“Nobody,” Markwardt said. “You don’t need daylight to scatter cows from here to yonder, and I reckon Sam Levan knows that. If him and his outfit shows up on my range with mischief on their minds, then we can gun the varmints down.”

“It’ll be the start of a range war,” said Nat Horan.

“Then so be it,” Markwardt said. “This is the frontier, and a man can’t claim nothin’ he ain’t strong enough to hold on to.”