Death Rides a Chestnut Mare

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.

“How . . . where . . . did you get it?”

“From the sheriff,” Danielle said. “It came through the mail. Here’s the letter that came with it.”

She passed the letter to Jed, and Tim read it over his brother’s shoulder. Finished, they spoke not a word, for their teeth were clenched in anger and tears crept down their cheeks. Suddenly, the front door opened, and Dr. Soble emerged. Danielle, Tim, and Jed waited at the doctor’s buckboard.

“How is she?” Danielle asked anxiously.

“In shock,” said Dr. Soble. “She has a weak heart, and another such shock could kill her. She’s in bed. See that she stays there. I left some medication, and I’ll be back the day after tomorrow.”

Danielle, Jed, and Tim watched the doctor drive away. Not until his buckboard was lost to distance did anyone speak.

“We got to find the sons of bitches that done Pa in,” Tim said.

“Damn right,” said Jed. “I’m ready.”

“Neither of you will be fourteen until June fifth,” said Danielle, “and you’re not going anywhere. You heard what Doc said about another shock killing Ma.”

“But them bastards got to pay for what they done,” Jed said.

“They will,” said Danielle, “but we’re not going to discuss it anymore until Ma’s able to hear of it without it killing her. If either of you breaks the news to her, I can promise you there’ll be hell to pay. Not from Doc, but from me.”

They went on into the house, looking in on their sleeping mother. She seemed so thin and frail, Danielle wondered if she would ever be strong enough to learn the terrible truth of what had happened to Daniel Strange.

St. Joseph, Missouri. April 30, 1870.

It was ten days before Dr. Soble allowed Danielle to show Margaret Strange Dan’s wallet and the letter that came with it. She wept long and hard, ceasing only when Jed and Tim entered the room.

“Ma,” said Jed, “old man Summerfield’s hired Tim and me to do his gunsmithing.”

“Yeah,” Tim said. “Business is awful. I think he’s regrettin’ ever buying the place from Pa. Jed and me ain’t as good as Pa was, but we’re better gunsmiths than old Summerfield or anybody else in town.”

“The two of you are staying in school,” Margaret Strange said. “It’s what your father would want. Let Summerfield find someone else to do his gunsmithing.”

“Ma,” said Tim, “it takes money to live. Jed and me will each earn ten dollars a week, with a raise when business gets better.”

It suited Danielle’s plans for her brothers to take the gunsmithing work, for it would ease the shock when Danielle revealed her plans to her mother.

“Let them hire on as gunsmiths, Ma,” Danielle said. “They’re already near as good as Pa was, and they can read, write, and do sums. They’re the men of the house now, and we’ll need the money more than they need the schooling.”

It was the inescapable truth, and Margaret Strange reluctantly gave in.

Danielle waited a month more before revealing her plans to avenge her father’s death. Margaret, Danielle, Jed, and Tim had just finished supper, and were gathered around the table while Margaret read a chapter aloud from the family Bible.

“I have something to say,” Danielle told them. “I was seventeen years old the thirtieth day of April, and I’m a woman. I’m as good with a gun as Pa was. I aim to find and punish his killers if it takes me the rest of my life.”

“No,” said Margaret. “This is no task for a woman. I forbid it.”

“Woman, my eye,” Tim said. “You’re just a shirttail girl with big feet.”

“I won’t be going as a woman,” said Danielle. “I’ll cut my hair and dress like a man.”

Jed laughed. “Some man. When you walk, your chest jiggles like two cougars fightin’ in a sack.”

Margaret slapped him. Hard. Despite her tough talk, Danielle found herself blushing furiously. Tim grinned broadly, obviously wishing to comment, but didn’t speak lest he, too, incur his mother’s wrath. Danielle said no more about her vendetta until her brothers had ridden to St. Joseph, to attend to their gunsmithing duties. Her mother would be difficult enough to win over, without the embarrassing comments of her brothers.

“Ma,” said Danielle, “I haven’t changed my mind about finding Pa’s murderers.”

“I said no, and I haven’t changed my mind,” Margaret Strange said. “Whatever gave you the idea you can function in a man’s world? Why, every time you walk—”

“Oh, damn it, Ma, don’t start that again,” said Danielle. “I’ll make myself a binder for my chest and wear a shirt a size too big. Nobody will ever know.”¹

“If you get shot and somebody has to undress you, they’ll know,” Margaret insisted.

“I don’t aim to get shot,” said Danielle. “You know how fast Pa was with a gun, and you know that I’m faster than he was.”

Margaret Strange sighed. “I know you can take care of yourself under ordinary circumstances, and so could your father, but not against an outlaw gang. If I give my permission and anything happens to you, it would be the finish of me.”

“I tell you, nothing’s going to happen to me,” Danielle said. “I know it was a gang that killed Pa, but I aim to find out who they are and go after them one at a time. I’m more grown up than you think, and I’m not about to do something foolish that could get me killed.”

“But you have no money,” said Margaret, “and with your father gone, we’re going to need the little that we have.”

“I have a hundred dollars,” Danielle said. “Remem ber, Pa gave me fifty dollars for my birthday last year, and the year before. Besides, I’m good enough with a horse and rope to find work on a ranch if I have to.”

Slowly but surely, Danielle overcame all her mother’s objections. Margaret reluctantly cut the girl’s hair to a length that might suit a man. Using strong fabric, Danielle doubled the material and then sewed it securely. Under one of her father’s too-big shirts, there wouldn’t be any “jiggling” going on.

Danielle wisely said nothing to Jed and Tim of her plans, and cautioned her mother not to. It would be difficult enough for Margaret, when her sons realized Danielle was gone to perform a task that they fancied their responsibility.

St. Joseph, Missouri. June 30, 1870.

Much against her wishes, Margaret helped Danielle prepare for her journey.

“You’d better take these shears with you, to trim your hair,” Margaret said.

Danielle wore one of her father’s shirts and placed two more in her saddlebag, with her extra Levi’s. She buckled the gun belt around her lean waist, tying down the holster just above her right knee. A black, wide-brimmed Stetson completed her attire.

“Land sakes,” said Margaret, “you do look like a man. Just be careful when and where you take your clothes off.”

“Oh, Ma,” Danielle said, embarrassed.

When all else had been done, Danielle went to the barn and saddled the chestnut mare. The good-byes had been said, and Margaret stood on the porch, watching Danielle ride away. Before crossing a ridge, Danielle turned and waved. There were tears in her eyes, a lump in her throat, and a nagging premonition that she might never see her mother again. Danielle carefully avoided St. Joseph, for there was hardly a person in town who wouldn’t recognize the chestnut mare. She rode almost due south, bound for Fort Smith. Once there, she would talk to Deputy U.S. Marshal Buck Jordan.

Fort Smith, Arkansas. July 5, 1870.

Danielle was directed to the courthouse in which the marshal’s office was located. A lawman sat behind a desk, barely noticing as she entered.

“What can I do for you, son?”

“Where can I find Deputy Marshal Buck Jordan?” Danielle inquired. Her voice was naturally low, like that of Daniel Strange himself, and she made it even lower to sound as much like a man as possible.

“The hotel, likely,” said the lawman. “It’s across the street, where he generally stays when he’s in town.”

“Jordan’s in room four,” the desk clerk told Danielle after she inquired about the deputy marshal.

Danielle knocked on the door several times before a voice answered from within.

“Who are you, and what do you want?”

“I’m Dan Strange,” Danielle answered, making her voice huskier again. “You buried my father, and I want to talk to you if I may.”

“I remember,” said Jordan. “Come on in.” Danielle entered, and was dismayed to find Jordan sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing only his undershirt. She fought back a blush, forcing her eyes to meet his. She quickly explained her reason for being there.

“The only thing I didn’t put in the letter,” Jordan said, “was that your pa killed a pair of the bunch before they got him. Ten others rode away, leading two horses with empty saddles.”

“Which way did they go?” Danielle asked.

“South,” said Jordan. “Deeper into Indian Territory.”

“You didn’t pursue them?”

“They had a one-, maybe two-day start,” Jordan said, “and there was ten of ’em. There was also rain that night, washing out their tracks.”

“So they murdered my pa, and they’re gettin’ away with it,” said Danielle.

“Look, kid,” Jordan said, “Indian Territory’s one hell of a big place. Outlaws come and go. You could spend years there without finding that particular bunch of killers, even if you could identify them. Besides, they may have ridden on to Texas, Kansas, or New Mexico.”

“I appreciate what you did,” said Danielle. “Now would you do me one more favor and draw me a map, so I can find my pa’s grave?”

“Yeah,” said Jordan. “Reach me my shirt off of that chair.”

Danielle handed him the shirt, and from the pocket he took a notebook and the stub of a pencil. Quickly, he drew the map and tore the page from the notebook.

“Look for a big oak tree,” Jordan said. “It’s been hit by lightning, and one side of it’s dead. Like I showed it on the map, it’s almost due west from here.”

“Thanks,” said Danielle. Without a backward look, she walked out.

He had done little enough, but Danielle realized the lawman had been honest with her. There was no way of knowing where the outlaws had gone. Her only clue was her father’s silver-mounted Colt, with an inlaid letter “D” in both grips.

“One of you took his Colt,” she muttered under her breath. “When I find you, you son of a bitch, you’ll tell me the names of the others before I kill you.”

As she calmed down, aware of the vow she had just made, it occurred to her that she had never fired a gun in anger, nor had she ever killed. It wasn’t going to be enough, just looking like a man. She would have to think like a man, like a killer. Finding a mercantile, she laid her Colt on the counter.

“I want two tins of shells for it,” she told the storekeeper, in her man’s voice.

“That’s a handsome piece,” said the storekeeper.

He brought the shells, and after buying enough supplies to last a week, Danielle rode out of Fort Smith, riding west along the Arkansas River. Darkness caught up with her before she found the landmark oak Jordan had mentioned. Rather than risk a fire, she ate a handful of jerked beef and drank from the river. Finding some decent graze, she picketed the chestnut mare, knowing that Sundown would warn her by nickering if anyone came near. She then lay down on one of her blankets, drawing the other one over her. She had removed only her hat and gun belt and held the fully loaded Colt in her hand. Sometime near dawn, the chestnut mare snorted a warning. Danielle rolled to the left just as two slugs ripped into the blanket on which she had been lying. She took in the situation in a heartbeat. There were two men, both with weapons drawn. They fired again, the slugs kicking dirt in her face. Belly-down, Danielle fired twice and the deadly duo were flung backwards into the brush by the force of the lead. Danielle was on her feet in an instant, fearing there might be more men, but all was quiet except for the restless Sundown, who smelled blood. With trembling hands, Danielle thumbed out the empty casings, replacing them with more shells. Bushwhacking was a cowardly act, and she had no doubt the pair were outlaws of some stripe, but why had they tried to kill her? She had acted swiftly, doing what she had to do, but as she looked at the two dead men, she became deathly ill, heaving. She forced herself to breathe deeply, and finally, after washing her face in the river, she mounted Sundown and again rode west.

It was late in the afternoon when Danielle reached the lightning-struck oak where Dan Strange had died. The mound—already grassed over—was where Jordan had told her it would be. She removed her hat, wiping tears from her eyes on the sleeve of her shirt.

“I’ll get them for you, Pa,” she said aloud. “If God’s merciful and lets me live, I swear I’ll gun them down to the last man.”