Chapter 8

Most of Adolph Markwardt’s cattle were strung out along the Rio Grande, where there was still a little graze. Markwardt’s outfit was watching from the west side of the river, and since there was no moon, they were not immediately aware of the Levan sheep outfit’s arrival. Suddenly, the night blossomed with gunfire, and the spooked cattle lit out downriver, picking up others as they went.

“Let’s go get ’em!” Nat Horan shouted.

He and his four companions galloped across the river, drawing their guns when they judged they were within range. But the marauders made poor targets, leaning over the necks of their horses. Finally, when the galloping herd was thoroughly spooked, they split up. Knowing the futility of pursuing them individually in the dark, Markwardt’s outfit reined up to rest their heaving horses

“Damn,” spat Isaac Taylor, “old Adolph will have our heads on a plate.”

“Not mine,” Oscar McLean said.

“Nor mine,” echoed his brother Lon. “It’s pitch dark out here. A man can’t fight what he can’t see.”

“Well,” Joel Wells asked, “do we ride in and admit they got the jump on us?”

“Not me,” said Nat Horan. “I been cussed by Markwardt before, and I ain’t about to take it again. I say we wait for first light, round up them cows, and drive ’em up yonder where they was.”

“Without telling Markwardt?” Joel Wells asked.

“Not unless one of you wants to volunteer,” replied Nat Horan. “After all, they just run the hell out of the herd. None of ’em’s likely to die from that,”

“That’s an invite for them to come back tonight and stampede ’em again,” Joel Wells said. “Hell, we’ll be up all night listening to the cattle run, and all the next day rounding them up.”

“No we won’t,” said Nat Horan. “Tonight we’ll be over there among the cows, ridin’ around the herd. At first sign of any riders, we cut down on them.”

“With graze so damn skimpy, that bunch will be strung out for miles downriver,” Oscar said. “How do you aim to keep ’em together long enough for just five of us to keep watch on them all?”

“We get down here a couple of hours before dark and bunch the varmints,” Nat Horan said. “The only time we can legally shoot them damn sheepmen is when they’re over here on Markwardt’s holdings.”

“They ain’t exactly a wet-behind-the-ears bunch,” said Joel Wells. “Old Adolph ain’t done enough thinkin’ on this. Soon as we gun down one of them sheepmen, it’ll be hell from then on.”

“Not if we gun ’em down on Adolph’s spread, stampedin’ his cattle,” Nat Horan said. “The law can’t touch us.”

“It ain’t the law that bothers me,” said Joel Wells. “It’s a range war. A man has to live like a hermit, afraid to ride to town on Saturday night, ’cause he never knows when he’ll be shot in the back. There ain’t no damn rules. It’s shoot or be shot, every day, seven days a week.”

“You can always take your bedroll and drift,” Lon McLean said, “but you’ll have to winter somewhere. It ain’t often a man can draw a hundred and found.”

“You’re right about that,” said Joel Wells, “and I ain’t got enough money to even keep me alive until spring. I reckon I’ll stay and take the risk with the rest of you.”

The five of them set out at first light, driving the scattered cattle back upriver. It was two hours past sunrise when they finally gathered the last of them, and before they could merge the new arrivals with those already gathered, Adolph Markwardt rode out from behind some brush. He reined up and, for an uncomfortably long time, said nothing. Finally, he spoke.

“So they stampeded the herd right under your noses.”

“It was black as the inside of a stovepipe last night,” Nat Horan said. “A man can’t shoot what he can’t see, and they never fired back. They just scattered the herd.”

“So all of you decided to keep it from me by rounding them up on the quiet,” Adolph said.

“We done the best we could,” said Oscar McLean.

“Yeah,” his brother Lon said. “It’s easy to cuss somebody else because he fails to do something you couldn’t of done yourself.”

Adolph Markwardt’s hand trembled over the butt of his revolver, but he knew better. He had hired these men for their deadly speed and accuracy with a gun. He relaxed, and when he spoke, there was no anger in his voice.

“Maybe you’re right, McLean. Tonight and every night, until this thing is finished, I’ll be ridin’ watch with you. Now herd them cows together and git on to the house. The cook is holdin’ breakfast for you. After that, git what sleep you can. We got a night’s work ahead of us.”

With that, he wheeled his horse and rode away. Not until he was well beyond hearing did any of his riders speak.

“Hell’s bells on a tomcat,” said Joel Wells. “I looked for him to spout fire and brimstone.”

Oscar McLean laughed. “Maybe the old dragon’s fire went out.”

“I wouldn’t get too cocky too soon,” Nat Horan said. “He’ll keep us circlin’ them cows so long we won’t even have time to dismount and go to the bushes.’


Levan’s Sheep Camp. October 17, 1870.


“I don’t understand it,” said Sam Levan at breakfast. “After we scattered his herd halfway to Mexico, old Adolph should of raised hell. I reckon we’ll give him another dose tonight. There’s got to be a limit to how much of that he’ll take before comin’ after us.”

His riders said nothing. In a gunfight with Markwardt’s outfit, any or all of them could die. It was the price a man might have to pay for having sold his gun. Danielle had begun wearing her father’s Colt in addition to her own. Her own weapon was tied down on her right hip, while her father’s was tied down on her left hip, butt forward for a cross-hand draw. None of this had escaped the others.

“Kid,” said Gus Haddock, “you’re mighty young to be totin’ a matched pair of irons like that. Where’d you get ’em?”

“My pa made four of them,” Danielle said. “He was a gunsmith.”

“They’re fine-lookin’ weapons,” said Sal Wooler, “but they could get you killed. The last damn thing a man on the dodge needs is a brace of pistols with his initial carved into the grips.”

“I’m not on the dodge,” Danielle said.

“You likely will be, before this thing between Sam Levan and Adolph Markwardt’s over and done,” said Jasper Witheres.

Danielle had mixed emotions, not doubting what Wooler had said about the danger of going on the dodge with a pair of fancy pistols. But there was a reason for her toting what appeared to be a matched pair of Colts. With a silver initial inlaid in the grips, they weren’t the kind that a man was likely to forget, once having seen them. Wouldn’t the men who had murdered her father remember the fancy Colt with inlaid silver? It was a calculated risk, but the killers might recognize the weapon as having belonged to Daniel Strange and, suspecting her vow of vengeance, come after her. If she couldn’t find them, then let them begin looking for her.

“I’d bet my saddle old Markwardt give his riders hell for us stampedin’ his herd,” Dud Menges said. “I’m bettin’ they’re just waitin’ for our patience to wear thin, figurin’ we’ll be back, just like Sam Levan aims for us to do tonight.”

Levan’s outfit spent the day riding from one of Levan’s sheep camps to another, seeing nobody except the sheep herders.

Two hours after midnight, Sam Levan and his riders saddled their horses and crossed the Rio Grande. At the time of their last raid, cattle had been strung out for several miles along the river. Tonight they saw no cattle. Levan reined up, his outfit gathered around him.

“They’ve bunched the varmints upriver,” said Levan. “It may be a mite harder for us to get them running. We’ll circle around, comin’ in from the north. Keep your heads down and your pistols blazing.”

They rode a mile east of the river before riding north. Somewhere ahead, a cow bawled. The riders slowed their horses. They were getting close, and in the small hours of the morning, any sound—even the creak of saddle leather—could be heard from a great distance. Again there was no moon, and the meager starlight would be of little or no help to the Markwardt outfit. Sam Levan was the lead rider, and when he saw the dim shadows that made up the dozing cattle herd, he cut loose with a fearful shriek and began firing his revolver. The cattle scrambled to their feet and noticed the six riders closing in on them. They began to mill in confusion, and the muzzle flashes from the guns of Levan’s riders offered excellent targets for the defenders. It was a standoff, for Markwardt and his riders had headed the herd before they could run. Two of Levan’s riders were sagging in their saddles as though hard hit. Shouting a warning, Levan wheeled his horse and galloped upriver, the way he had come. His riders immediately followed. Danielle had not been hit, keeping her head low on the neck of the chestnut mare. They reached the Levan ranch house, and in the light from the window, Danielle could see that it was Gus Haddock and Dud Menges who had been hit. They slid from their saddles and would have fallen, had they not been supported by their comrades.

“Get them into the house,” Levan ordered. “Then a couple of you take their horses to the barn and rub them down.”

Once the wounded men were inside, Danielle, Warnell Prinz, Sal Wooler, and Jasper Witheres left to tend to the horses.

“My God,” said Eppie Levan as she beheld the bloody shirts of the wounded men. “We must get a doctor for them.”

“No,” Sam Levan said. “When there’s shooting involved, the doc will go straight to the law. Old Markwardt couldn’t ask for any better evidence than that. We’ll have to take care of them ourselves.”

With his knife, Levan cut away the shirts of the wounded men, and to his relief, the injuries didn’t look fatal. Both men had shoulder wounds, and the lead had evidently gone on through without striking bone. Eppie brought the medicine chest, and with disinfectant, Levan cleansed the wounds. He then bound them tight, using strips of an old sheet.

“We’ll keep them here in the house for a day or two,” Levan said. “They’re likely to have some fever, and will need whiskey to kill any infection.”

Eppie Levan seldom questioned anything the temperamental Levan did, but with her eyes on the wounded men, she spoke.

“It’s started, Sam. One day you’ll be brought in, tied across your saddle.”

“Maybe,” said Sam, “but I didn’t start it. Markwardt’s bunch rim-rocked a thousand head of our sheep. We only stampeded his cows. Tonight we couldn’t do even that. The varmints was ready for us.”

“And they’ll be ready the next time,” Eppie said. “Can’t we make do with the section of land we own, and let them have the free range?”

“Hell no,” said Levan defiantly. “Just because Markwardt raises cows, that don’t give him divine right to all the free grass. Soon as Haddock and Menges is well enough to ride, we’ll be goin’ after them again.”

Having unsaddled, rubbed down, and put away the horses, the rest of Levan’s riders returned to the house to see how their wounded comrades had fared.

“They’ll make it,” Levan said. “Some of you help me get them into a spare bedroom.”

Levan and Warnell Prinz carried Gus Haddock to the bed, while Sal Wooler and Jasper Witheres carried Dud Menges. Once the injured were in bed, Levan forced each man to take half a bottle of laudanum. They would sleep through much of the aftershock and pain. Prinz, Wooler, and Witheres returned to the parlor where Danielle waited. With two of the outfit wounded, they awaited orders from Sam Levan. They weren’t long in coming.

“I want the rest of you to keep as close a watch on the sheep camps as you can,” said Levan. “It’s high time Markwardt and his outfit was comin’ after us.”

“We’re considerably outgunned,” Sal Wooler said.

“Damn it, I know that,” Levan said. “I don’t want a man of you killed over a few sheep, but do your best to keep them cow nurses from rim-rocking another flock.”

After breakfast, Danielle, Prinz, Wooler, and Witheres rode out to begin their watch over the three sheep camps.


The Markwardt Ranch. October 18, 1870.


“Let’s go get some sleep,” Adolph Markwardt said, an hour after they had headed the intended stampede. “They won’t be back tonight.”

“We may have hit some of them,” said Nat Horan. “We were within range, and all their muzzle flashes made pretty good targets.”

“You boys done well,” Markwardt said. “We may have just put an end to these late-night stampedes.”

“I doubt it,” said Oscar McLean. “Levan needs that free grass more than we do.”

“All right by me,” Markwardt said, “long as he’s willing to risk his damn neck for it.”

“Are we goin’ after them now?” Isaac Taylor asked.

“Not yet,” said Markwardt. “Give ’em a few days to lick their wounds, and they’ll figure some other way of comin’ after us.”


Sam Levan rode into Santa Fe, to the mercantile.

“I need some dynamite,” Levan said.

“Ain’t got much,” the storekeeper said. “Miners buy it up as quick as it comes in. I reckon I got a dozen sticks.”

“That’ll be enough,” said Levan.

When Levan reached his ranch, he went to the bunkhouse, where he had the necessary privacy to cap and fuse the dynamite. Finished, he left it there. Had he taken it to the house, there would have been yet another tirade from Eppie. Just at sundown Danielle, Warnell Prinz, Sal Wooler, and Jasper Witheres rode in.

“Nothin’ happened at any of the sheep camps today,” said Jasper Witheres.

“I didn’t expect it to,” Sam Levan said. “We ain’t pushed it far enough, but I think we will tonight. I’ll meet you in the bunkhouse, after supper.”

“How’s Gus and Dud?” Danielle asked.

“Better,” said Levan. “Eppie’s been dosin’ ’em with whiskey, and they’re sweatin’ like mules.”

Supper was a silent affair, the four remaining riders wondering what old Sam Levan had in mind for them, with two of their companions out of the fight. Levan finished first, and by the time his riders left the supper table, Levan was waiting in the bunkhouse. His remaining four riders looked skeptical. Levan reached under one of the bunks, dragging out a gunnysack. From it, he took a stick of capped and fused dynamite.

“A dozen sticks,” said Levan, “each with a seven-second fuse. All we got to do is fling three or four of these into the air above the Markwardt herd, and they’ll run like hell wouldn’t have it. This time, they won’t have muzzle flashes to shoot at.”

“My God,” Warnell Prinz said, “The concussion from that could kill some cows. Maybe even a man.”

“Damn it,” said Levan, “ridin’ in shouting and shooting ain’t got us nothing but two of the outfit shot. We can get close enough to fling this dynamite before they got any idea that we’re there.”

“No doubt we can,” Jasper Witheres said, “but ain’t you forgettin’ we got two men out of the fight with wounds? This dynamite throwin’ could be the very thing that’ll blow old Adolph’s mind. Why don’t we wait until Haddock and Menges is healed? Then if them cow chasers comes after us, we won’t be shorthanded.”

“That makes sense to me,” said Sal Wooler.

“And to me,” Warnell Prinz agreed.

Danielle said nothing, and Sam Levan turned on her.

“Well, kid, ain’t you standin’ with the others?”

“I agree with their thinking,” said Danielle, “but I’ll ride with you. I don’t cross a man who’s paying me wages.”

“Well, God bless my soul,” Levan said. “The kid’s got more sand than any of you.”

“Aw, hell,” said Warnell Prinz. “I still think we’re bitin’ off more than we can chew, but I’ll ride with you.”

Sam Levan looked at Sal Wooler and Jasper Witheres, and they nodded.

“I don’t reckon they’ll be expecting us again tonight,” Levan said, “and we’ll have that in our favor. We ride at midnight.”

Danielle and her three companions retired to their bunks to get as much sleep as they could. For a long time Danielle lay thinking, pondering the wisdom of using dynamite. It seemed a cowardly thing to do, but nothing else had drawn the Markwardt outfit into an expected fight. When Danielle had ridden out of St. Joe, her mission seemed simple. All she had to do was track down the killers who had murdered her father, extracting revenge. Now she was about to take part in a raid that might cost innocent men their lives. Tonight she would ride with Sam Levan, but the more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that she should just ride on. If some of the Markwardt outfit died, it would be reason enough for the county sheriff to come looking for Sam Levan. The very last thing Danielle wanted was to become a fugitive from the law. So sobering were her thoughts, she was wide awake when Sam Levan came to the bunkhouse at midnight.

“Each of us will take one stick of dynamite,” Levan said. “We’ll light the fuses, throw the dynamite, and get away from there before they know what’s happening. Here’s a block of Lucifers.7 Each of you be sure and take some.”

Danielle took her stick of dynamite and broke off six of the Lucifers.

“Now let’s saddle up and ride,” said Levan. “Let’s be done with this.”

Danielle thought Levan seemed nervous, as though his iron-fisted resolve was not quite as strong as it had been. There was a very real possibility that so much exploding dynamite could kill Markwardt or some of his men. The county sheriff was well aware of the increasing bitterness between sheepmen and cattlemen. If one or more of the cattlemen died tonight, the lawman would most certainly come looking for Sam Levan, along with any of his outfit who had ridden with him. The five of them rode out, nobody speaking, Levan taking the lead.


Adolph Markwardt and his five riders had most of the cows bedded down along the river bank, and they rode from one end of the herd to the other, and back again.

“I still think we nailed a couple of ’em the last time they was here,” Nat Horan said, “and I don’t look for ’em to come back shorthanded.”

“Never underestimate a damn sheepman,” said Markwardt. “The varmints could give mules lessons in bein’ stubborn.”

The rest of the men laughed. In his own mind, each doubted there was a sheepman anywhere in the world who was more stubborn than Adolph Markwardt.

“It’s hell, spendin’ the night ridin’ from one herd to the other,” said Oscar McLean. “I think we ought to wait at one end.”

“Oh, hell, don’t give me that,” Markwardt growled. “That’s how they stampeded the herd the first time, with all of you gathered in a bunch at the wrong place. We don’t know from what direction they’re likely to ride in.”

“They come in from the north last time,” Joel Wells said. “I look for ’em to come in from the south if they try it again.”

“I don’t,” said Isaac Taylor. “That would stampede the herd back toward the ranch.”

“Isaac’s probably right,” Markwardt said. “I expect we’d better spend a little more time to the north of the herd.”

Markwardt and his outfit had begun circling the herd toward the north when the first explosion came. Flung high into the air, the short-fused dynamite exploded directly over the herd. Five times explosions rocked the night and the cattle went crazy. To the south they ran, Markwardt and his riders frantically trying to head them off. But there was no stopping the stampede, and it thundered on.

“Damn them,” said Markwardt. “The scurvy yellow coyotes.”

“My God,” Nat Horan said, “if we’d been any closer to the north end of the herd, we’d all be dead men.”

“Yeah,” said Oscar McLean, “and that bunch didn’t know we wasn’t right there where they was throwin’ the dynamite. How much longer before we ride over there and deliver a dose of lead?”

“Not much longer,” Markwardt said. “The rest of you ride in and get what sleep you can. I expect them blasts killed some cows, and I aim to be here at first light, to find out just how many. Then I’ll ride in for a talk with the sheriff. I’m bettin’ Sam Levan bought that explosive in Santa Fe. If we can tie him to that, it may be the proof we’ll need.”


As Sam Levan and his companions rode away, nobody spoke. There had been no shots fired in response to the blasts, so none of them knew whether or not Markwardt’s riders had been close enough to be hurt. While not lacking in courage, Danielle didn’t want to find herself on the wrong side of the law for having been part of Sam Levan’s outfit. Her quest—a vow of vengeance—was dangerous enough, without having to go on the dodge. As they drew near the Levan house, they could see lamplight streaming from several of the windows.

“Damn,” said Levan, “I hope nothing’s gone wrong here.”

“A little soon for that, I think,” Warnell Prinz said. “You want the rest of us to ride on to the house with you?”

“No,” said Levan. “Go on to the bunkhouse and get what sleep you can.”

When Levan entered the house, he heard voices in the kitchen, one of them Eppie’s.

“What’s goin’ on in there?” Levan demanded.

“Oh, Sam,” Eppie cried joyously, “Brice is here. He’s come back to us.”

When Sam Levan entered the kitchen, a lanky rider got up from the table. He was thin and hungry-looking, his clothing tattered and dirty, and his boots run over. Nothing was in order but the tied-down Colt on his right hip.

“Son, I’m glad to see you,” said Levan, taking the young man’s hand. “We got a fight in the making with old man Markwardt’s cow outfit. I need all the help I can get.”

“No,” Eppie cried. “You’re goin’ to get yourself killed, Sam, and I won’t let you take Brice with you.”

“Ma,” said Brice, “I can take care of myself. It’s hard times in Texas, with no work for a line rider, so I’m back, asking for a bunk and grub for a while. I’ll help Pa do whatever has to be done.”

Eppie Levan said no more, for her wayward son was too much like his stubborn sire. Sam Levan grinned at Brice, and the two shook hands again.

Gus Haddock and Dub Menges had healed to the extent that they were able to come to the breakfast table, and were there when Levan and the rest of the outfit joined them. As they were about to begin eating, Brice Levan entered the kitchen.

“Any of you that ain’t met him,” said Sam, “this is my oldest son, Brice. He’s . . . uh . . . been away.” With the exception of Danielle, all the riders nodded. Apparently they knew the new arrival. Looking directly at Danielle, Brice Levan spoke.

“Who’s the kid?”

“I’m almighty damn tired of being called the kid,” Danielle said, getting to her feet. “My name is Daniel Strange.”

“Uh . . . sorry,” said Brice Levan. “No offense intended.”

There was no doubt in Danielle’s mind that Brice had seen her pair of Colts with silver initials inlaid in the grips, for his face went a shade whiter. She waited for Levan to sit down before seating herself on the other side of the table. He ate very little and seemed uncomfortable, for several times, he found Danielle staring directly at him. He was first to leave the table, returning to his room. Sam Levan knew something was wrong, but wasn’t sure exactly what. He eyed Danielle with suspicion, and she ignored his curious stares.


Adolph Markwardt counted fifteen dead cows. He then mounted his horse and rode north toward Santa Fe. Arriving there, he rode directly to the office of Charlie Murdock, the county sheriff. Murdock listened patiently as Markwardt spoke, telling the lawman of his suspicions.

“Fifteen cows, huh?” said Murdock. “That still ain’t quite as bad as a thousand sheep. I don’t have a doubt in my mind that it was your outfit that rim-rocked them sheep, but I don’t have any proof. Likewise, I don’t have anything but your suspicions as to who it was that stampeded your cows. I can’t arrest a man on my suspicions. What the hell am I supposed to do with yours?”

“If it ain’t expecting too much,” Markwardt growled, “you could ask around town and see who’s been buying dynamite.”

“There’s no law against having dynamite,” Sheriff Murdock said. “Every miner in the territory’s got a few sticks of the stuff. You and Levan had better settle your differences before somebody’s hurt or killed. I reckon you’re a big man in the territory, but you let me find you’ve broken the law, I’ll throw you in the juzgado as quick as I would a line-ridin’ cowboy on Saturday night.”


At Sam Levan’s place, he and his outfit prepared to ride out to the various sheep camps. Gus Haddock and Dud Menges were still unable to ride, and remained at the house.

“What are we waitin’ for?” Warnell Prinz demanded. “After what we done last night, them sheep are likely to catch hell.”

“We’re waitin’ for Brice,” said Sam. “Brice, where the hell are you?” he shouted.

Levan and his three companions were mounted, while Danielle still stood beside the chestnut mare. Brice Levan left the house, but instead of going to the corral for a horse, he started toward the mounted riders, his hard eyes on Danielle. A dozen yards away, he halted. Then he spoke.

“I don’t like you, kid, and I won’t ride with any outfit as long as you’re in it.”

“Oh,” said Danielle calmly, “I reckon I remind you of somebody a bunch of cut-throat outlaws robbed and murdered in Indian Territory. He was my pa, and this left-hand Colt was his.”

His face a mask of fury, Brice Levan drew. Danielle waited until the muzzle of his revolver had cleared leather, but he didn’t get off a shot. With a cross-hand draw, Danielle drew her father’s gleaming Colt. She fired twice, both slugs striking Levan in the chest. He stumbled, his knees gave away, and he fell.

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