Death Rides a Chestnut Mare

Chapter 1

Danielle spent her second night in Indian Territory unmolested. As she lay looking at the glittering stars, it occurred to her she might actually have to join a band of outlaws to find the men she sought. Somewhere, one of the killers carried her father’s Colt, and it was a unique piece that a man who lived by the gun would remember. Could she pass herself off as an outlaw among killers and thieves? It seemed the only way. She remembered Buck Jordan sitting on the edge of his bed, wearing only his undershirt. She realized she had led a sheltered life, and that men on the frontier were likely more crude than she even imagined. The kind of men she must associate with would soon become suspicious of her furious blushing. She drifted off to sleep. Tomorrow she would begin looking for a band of outlaws. The distressing thought crossed her mind that she might die the same senseless death as her father had, but that was the chance she had to take.

Indian Territory. July 8, 1870.

Three days into Indian Territory, Danielle encountered a group of men who could only be outlaws. It was late in the day when she smelled wood smoke. Dismounting, leading the mare, she called out a challenge.

“Hello, the camp!”

A rustling in the brush was proof enough that one or more of the outlaws were preparing to cover her.

“Come in closer, where we can see you,” a voice shouted. “Strangers ain’t welcome.”

“I’m Dan Strange,” Danielle shouted back, “and my grub’s running low. I was hoping for an invite to supper.”

“Come on in,” the voice invited, “but don’t get too busy with your hands. We got you covered.”

There were four men in camp, and two more who came out of the brush.

“Hell,” said one of the men, “it’s a shirttail kid that ain’t old enough to shave.”

“What are you doin’ in the Territory, kid?” a second outlaw asked. “You won’t find nobody here to change your diapers.”

“I shot two hombres near Fort Smith,” said Danielle, “and they had friends. It seemed like a good idea to move on.”

It was time for a test, and one of the outlaws reached for his Colt. He froze before he cleared leather, for Danielle already had him covered.

“You’re awful damn sudden with that iron, kid,” said the man who had been about to draw. “Put it away. I was just testin’ you. Part of our business is bein’ suspicious. Who was the two hombres you gunned down?”

“I have no idea,” Danielle said. “They came after me with guns drawn so I shot them.”

“You shot them while they had the drop on you?”

“I did,” said Danielle. “Wouldn’t you?”

“If I was fast enough,” the outlaw said.

The rest of the men laughed and relaxed. It was the kind of action they could relate to, and the outlaw who had just been outdrawn introduced the bunch.

“I’m Caney Font. To your left is Cude Nations, Slack Hitchfelt, and Peavey Oden. The two varmints that just come out of the brush is Hargis Cox and Cletus Kirby.”

“I’ve already told you my name,” said Danielle.

“That’s an unusual iron you’re carryin’,” Kirby said. “Mind if I have a look at it?”

“Nobody takes my Colt,” said Danielle.

“The kid’s smarter than he looks,” Cude Nations said.

“Hell,” said Kirby, “I never seen but one pistol like that, and I wanted a closer look. It looks like the same gun Bart Scovill had.”

“Well, it’s not.” Danielle said. “A gunsmith in St. Joe made only four of these.”

“I reckoned Scovill likely stole the one he had,” said Kirby. “He ain’t the kind to lay out money on a fancy iron. He claimed he had it made special, just for him, and it did have a letter ‘D’ inlaid in the butt plates.” Danielle’s ears pricked up at the mention of the gun.

“That don’t make sense,” Hargis Cox said. “Bart Scovill’s got no ‘D’ in his name.”

“You ain’t knowed him as long as I have,” said Caney Font. “His middle name is David, and there’s times he calls himself Bart Davis.”

“Where are you bound, kid?” Cude Nations asked.

“Away from Fort Smith,” said Danielle.

The outlaws laughed. Her answer had told them nothing, and it was the kind of humor they could appreciate.

“We don’t eat too high on the hog, kid,” Caney Font said, “but you’re welcome to stay to what there is.”

The food was bacon, beans, and sourdough biscuits, washed down with coffee. Danielle was ravenous, having had no breakfast.

“Kid,” Caney Font said, after they had eaten, “we might could use that fast gun of yours. That is, if you ain’t playin’ games.”

“Pick a target,” said Danielle.

“What about this tin the beans was in?” Slack Hitchfelt said.

Without warning, Hitchfelt threw the tin into the air. In a split second, Danielle fired twice, drilling the can with both shots before it touched the ground.

“My God, that’s some shootin’,” said Caney Font. “How’d you learn to shoot like that, kid?”

“Practice,” Danielle said, punching out the empty casings and reloading.

“How’d you like to ride with us to Wichita on a bank job?” asked Caney Font.

“I don’t think so,” Danielle said. “I have other business.”

Cletus Kirby laughed. “What business is more important than money?”

“Killing the bastards that murdered my father,” said Danielle.

“Then I reckon you ain’t interested in joinin’ us,” Slack Hitchfelt said.

“No,” said Danielle.

“Then I reckon it’s unfortunate for you, kid,” said Caney Font. “One word to the law in Wichita, and it’ll all be over for us.”

“I’m not going to Wichita,” Danielle said.

“You’re a sure enough killer, but you ain’t no outlaw,” said Peavey Oden.

Danielle saw it coming. She had refused to throw in with them, and having revealed their plans, they had to kill her. If they all drew simultaneously, she was doomed. But they had no prearranged signal. Peavy Oden drew first, with Hargis Cox and Cletus Kirby a second behind. Danielle fired three times in a drumroll of sound, while the men who had drawn against her hadn’t even gotten off a shot. The remaining three outlaws were careful not to move their hands.

“The rest of you—Font, Nations, and Hitchfelt—are welcome to saddle up and ride,” said Danielle.

“Make the mistake of following me, and now that I know your intentions, I’ll gun you down without warning.”

“We ain’t about to follow you, kid,” said Caney Font. “At least, I ain’t.”

“Me neither,” Nations and Hitchfelt said in a single voice.

“Then saddle up and ride,” said Danielle.

Careful to keep their hands free of their weapons, the trio saddled their horses and rode into the night. Danielle’s hands trembled as she reloaded her Colt. While she had a lead toward one of her father’s killers, she had already gunned down five men. When and where would it end? She saddled the chestnut mare and was about to mount when it occurred to her that she should search the dead outlaws. As distasteful as the task was, she found a total of a hundred and twenty dollars in the pockets of the dead men. Common sense soon overcame her guilt and she took the money.

Already tired of killing and outlaws, she rode south, toward the Red River and Texas. There was a chance the men she hunted had traveled as far from the scene of their crime as they could, and Texas was by far larger than Indian Territory. Danielle forded the Red at the familiar cattle crossing, near Doan’s Store. Taking some of the money she had, she bought supplies she had been doing without, such as a small coffeepot, coffee, a skillet, canned beans, and some cornmeal. On second thought, sparing her bacon, she bought half a ham, which was all the chestnut mare could comfortably carry.

The storekeeper eyed her curiously, for he had seen all kinds come and go. They were getting younger all the time, he decided, with a sigh. Danielle continued riding south. Eventually, she came to the village of Paris, Texas. There was a general store, a livery, a hotel, and a sheriff’s office. Adjoining the hotel was a cafe. Already tired of her own cooking, Danielle went to the cafe and ordered a meal. Once finished, she had a question for the owner.

“I’m looking for a gent name of Bart Scovill. His middle name is Dave, and sometimes he goes by that.”

“Can’t help you there,” said the cafe’s cook. “You might try Sheriff Monroe. He knows everybody within two hundred miles.”

Danielle took a room at the hotel and went looking for Sheriff Monroe, finding him in his office, cleaning his Winchester.

“Barton Scovill is sheriff over to Mineral Wells, in Palo Pinto County. His kid run off up north somewhere to stay out of the war. I ain’t seen him in near ten years. He’d be near thirty by now.”

“I’d hate to ride all the way over there and find out he’s the wrong hombre,” Danielle said. “Do you know if his middle name is Dave, or David?”

“I got no idea,” said Sheriff Monroe. “To tell the truth, my own son was killed in the war, and I got no respect for them that run off to avoid it.”

“I can’t say I blame you, Sheriff,” Danielle said. “Thanks for your help.”

Danielle took the chestnut mare to the livery, rubbed her down, and ordered a double portion of grain for her. She then took her saddlebags and Winchester to the small room she had rented. Clouds were building up in the west, and there would be rain before dark. She felt the need of a good night’s rest in a warm bed, with a stall and grain for the chestnut mare. The first thing she did was lock the door, draw the window shade, and strip off all her clothes. She was well endowed enough that the binder was extremely uncomfortable, and she took it off gratefully. She then sat on the bed naked and cross-legged, cleaning and oiling her Colt. Again, she fully loaded it with six shells. Outside, the wind was screaming around the eaves, and there was the first pattering of rain on the windowpane. Danielle delayed supper until the rain subsided, enjoying the comfort of the rickety bed. By the time she reached the cafe, the rain had started again. Dusk was falling as she left the cafe, and that and the rain were all that saved her. Two slugs slammed into the cafe’s wall, just inches from her head. Instantly, Danielle had her Colt out, but with the rain and darkness, there was no target. Reaching her room, she removed only her hat, boots, and gun belt. The Colt she placed under her pillow. But the night was peaceful, and Danielle lay awake wondering who had fired the shots at her the day before. Carefully, she made her way to the cafe for breakfast, and then to her room for her saddlebags and Winchester. She saddled the chestnut mare and rode east toward Dallas.

Dallas, Texas. July 11, 1870.

Dallas was the largest town Danielle had ever visited, and she was somewhat in awe of it. She dismounted before a livery, and the first person she saw was Slack Hitchfelt.

“Hold it, kid,” he said, his hands raised. “I don’t want no trouble.”

“You missed last night,” said Danielle. “Sure you don’t want to try again?”

“I ain’t drawin’ on you, kid, now or ever,” Hitchfelt said.

“Where’s your scruffy partners, Font and Nations?”

“I dunno,” said Hitchfelt. “We busted up. Said they was ridin’ north. To Dodge City, likely.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Danielle said. “You deserved one another.”

Danielle kept her eye on Hitchfelt until he rode away. She then left the chestnut mare at the livery, taking her saddlebags and her Winchester. The rain had continued most of the day, with every indication it would last the night. Danielle got herself a cheap room in an out-of-the-way hotel, returning to it after supper. She propped a ladder-back chair under the doorknob and slept with her Colt in her hand.

Mineral Wells, Texas. July 13, 1870.

It wasn’t difficult to find the sheriff’s office. Danielle had bought a second Colt, and she placed the gun her father had given her in her saddlebag, replacing it with the ordinary Colt in her holster. If Bart—or Dave—Scovill was around, the fancy weapon would immediately arouse his suspicion. She would use her mother’s maiden name if there was a chance her true family name might reveal her mission to the killers.

“Sheriff,” she said, “I’m Daniel Faulkner, and I’m looking for work of just any kind. Do you know of anybody that’s hiring?”

“Not a soul, kid,” said the sheriff. “The war chewed everybody up and spit ’em out. Nobody has anything but a few cows, and they’re all but worthless unless you can get ’em to the railroad, and it takes money to do that.”

While Danielle was in the sheriff’s office, a young man reined up outside and came in. Two things about him immediately caught Danielle’s attention. A lawman’s star was pinned on his vest, and in his holster was the silver-mounted Colt with a “D” on the grip. This man was one of her father’s killers!

“Excuse my poor manners,” said the sheriff. “I’m Barton Scovill, and this is my son, Dave, who’s also my deputy. Dave, this is Daniel Faulkner.”

The younger Scovill nodded. Not trusting herself to speak, Danielle stepped out the door, closing it behind her. She paused by the chestnut mare, seeking to calm herself and ease her shaking hands. The irony of it struck her, and it might have been amusing under different circumstances, but as things stood, the first of the men she must kill to avenge her father was a deputy sheriff. There was no mistaking the pistol that had belonged to her father, and no doubt she’d get the rope if she were captured for killing Scovill. She had to devise a plan, and so she went looking for a livery for the chestnut mare, and an obscure hotel for herself. Finding both, she took her saddlebags and Winchester to her room, where she stretched out on the bed to think.

“Damn it,” she said aloud, “I must get close enough to do the job, and still manage to escape without being seen.”

Just then she recalled seeing a notice posted on the hotel’s front window. Saturday night there was to be a Palo Pinto County dance. She got up and went downstairs.

“What about that Palo Pinto dance?” she asked the desk clerk. “Would it be worth my time, staying over for it?”

“If you like pretty girls,” said the desk clerk. “They’ll be here from all over.”

“Then I reckon I’ll stay,” Danielle said.

Dallas, Texas. July 16, 1870.

Danielle hated to part with the money, but she needed some fashionable female clothes, and she couldn’t afford to be seen buying them in Mineral Wells. In Dallas, her first item was a bonnet to conceal her short-cropped hair. It wasn’t uncommon for a cowboy to buy clothing for his intended, and nobody gave this “cowboy” a second look. Danielle bought a divided riding skirt in pale green to match her eyes, and a white blouse with fancy white ruffles. Finally, she bought a pair of fancy half-boots. She bought no underclothing, and the blouse was the actual size she wore. The “jiggle” that so amused her brothers suited her purpose, and other women would brand her a brazen hussy, but she must intrigue her intended victim enough to draw him away from the dance. Taking her purchases, she rode back to Mineral Wells. She entered the rear door to the hotel, making her way up the back stairs. In her room, she tried on the clothes, tying the bonnet so as to best conceal her short hair. Finally, she stood admiring herself in a cracked mirror on the dresser.

“Danielle Strange,” she said aloud, “you look like a whore, but to a man that’s a killer lowdown enough to have hanged my pa, a whore would be just his style.”

Now there was nothing to do except wait four days for the planned dance. Meanwhile, Danielle learned it was to be a street dance at the farthest end of town, near a second livery across from a general store. A visit to the livery revealed overhead beams that were suited to Danielle’s purpose.

Mineral Wells, Texas. July 20, 1870.

Danielle waited until the dance was in full swing before slipping out the hotel’s back door and down the stairs. Soon she was mingling with the crowd. A bandstand had been built in front of the livery, and besides the caller, there were four musicians. One played a guitar, the second a banjo, the third a fiddle, and the fourth a mouth harp. A sixth man was beating time with the straws on the fiddle.²

The moment the men spotted Danielle, there was almost a fist fight over who was to have the first dance. It was a while before Scovill got his chance.

“Tarnation,” said Scovill, “where have you been all my life?”

“Around,” Danielle said coolly. “Where have you been?”

“I was in the war,” said Scovill, lying.

“The war ended five years ago,” Danielle said. “Did you get home crawling on your belly?”

“By God, if you was a man, I wouldn’t take that.”

Danielle laughed tauntingly. “If I was a man, folks would be wondering if you stand or squat.”

“You brazen bitch,” he said, shoving her away from him.

But there were a dozen men waiting to take his place, and despite Danielle’s macabre reason for being there, she was beginning to enjoy the dance. As she had expected, Scovill couldn’t stay away.

“Do you drink whiskey?” he asked.

Danielle laughed. “What do you think?”

Danielle had never tasted whiskey in her life, but it might be her only chance to get Scovill away from the crowd.

“I got a bottle stashed in a rear stall in the livery barn,” Scovill said. “Give me a few minutes and come on back. Be careful you ain’t seen. Whiskey ain’t allowed.”

After Scovill had been gone for what she judged ten minutes, Danielle ducked into the shadow of the barn roof’s overhang. The two swinging front doors of the livery were closed. Only a full moon lighted the wide open doors in the rear.

“Here,” said Scovill. “Have a drink.”

“Not yet,” Danielle said.

She loosened the waist of her divided skirt, allowing it to drop to the ground. She wore nothing beneath it, and Scovill caught his breath.

Scovill laughed. “The drink can wait. There’s an empty stall over there with some hay.”

In the stall, he quickly shucked his gun belt and was bent over, tugging at his boots. Danielle took the opportunity to grab her father’s Colt from Scovill’s holster and struck him across the back of the head with it. He folded like an empty sack. Quickly, Danielle dressed herself and, taking a rope hanging outside the stall door, fashioned a noose. She had never tied one before, but the result would serve the purpose. Once she had the business end of it around Scovill’s neck, she threw the loose end over an overhead beam. It took all her strength to hoist Scovill off the ground. She then tied the loose end of the rope to one of the poles separating the stalls and, with a leather thong, tied Scovill’s hands behind his back. He began to groan as he came to his senses. His eyes began to bulge, and he kicked as the cruel rope bit into his throat.

“Now you know how my father felt when you hanged him in Indian Territory,” Danielle said.

Taking her father’s gun belt, holster, and the silver-mounted Colt, she slipped out the livery’s back door. Keeping to darkened areas, she hurried back to her hotel. Going up the back stairs to her room, she saw nobody. Everybody was still at the dance. Once in her room, she locked the door and stripped off her female finery. She placed it all in her saddlebags and donned her cowboy clothing. Carefully, she placed her father’s gun belt and Colt with her female clothes and her own initialed silver-mounted Colt. Again, the Colt she placed in her holster was the plain one. Being caught with either of the silver-mounted Colts would brand her as Scovill’s killer.

Danielle lay awake, unable to sleep, in her mind’s eye watching Dave Scovill strangle to death. Near midnight, the dance broke up. Suddenly, there were three distant shots. It was a signal for trouble, and it was from the livery where Scovill had been hanged. Obviously, he had been found when the livery closed. Come the dawn, Danielle went to the mercantile and bought a knee-length duster. Returning to her hotel room, she buckled the Colt her father had made for her on her right hip. She then buckled her father’s belt around her waist, so that the weapon was butt forward, for a cross-hand draw. Trying on the knee-length duster, she found it adequately concealed the two fancy weapons.

Wearing the duster, Danielle sought out a cafe for breakfast. She passed the sheriff’s office and was astounded to find the place packed and men milling around outside.

“What’s happened?” she innocently asked a bystander.

“Last night during the dance, some bastard hanged Sheriff Scovill’s kid in the livery barn, right while the dance was goin’ on.”

“Any idea who did it?”

“The sheriff figures it might have been some men back from the war. Dave Scovill run off up north until the war was over and didn’t come back until a few days ago. There’s a lot of folks that lost kin in the war, and they didn’t like Scovill. Trouble is, they all got alibis. Wasn’t robbery. He still had money in his pockets, but whoever done him in, took his fancy silver-mounted pistol.”

It was time for Danielle to saddle up and ride on. Looking back, she realized she had made one bad mistake. In her hurry to hang Scovill, she had neglected to force from him the names of his nine companions. From now on, her task would be doubly hard. Finished with breakfast, she saddled the chestnut mare and rode northwest toward Dodge. Scovill had returned to Texas because it was his home. With Reconstruction going on in Texas, might not the rest of the outlaws have ridden to Dodge, Abilene, or Wichita?

Dodge City, Kansas. July 24, 1870.

Danielle reached Dodge late in the afternoon and, taking a room at the Dodge House, went to Delmon ico’s for supper. Afterward, she found the sheriff’s office. Sheriff Harrington was a friendly man, well liked by the town.

“Sheriff,” said Danielle, “I’m Daniel Faulkner. I’m looking for men returned from the war. Some of them knew my father, and I owe them.”

“If they don’t have names,” Harrington said, “you won’t have much luck.”

“No, I don’t have any names,” said Danielle, “but I owe them.”

“Why not run some ads in the weekly newspaper?” Harrington suggested. It was a brilliant idea.

Danielle found the newspaper office, asked for pencil and paper, and carefully composed an ad that read:

To whom it may concern; am interested in finding men who rode with Bart Scovill in Indian Territory recently. Payment involved. Ask for Faulkner, at Dodge House.

There was a three-day wait until the paper came out on Saturday, with a few more days to see if anybody went after the bait. The stay in Dodge had eaten a hole in Danielle’s wallet. In another two weeks, she would be forced to find work, just to eat. Thursday came and went with no response to her advertising. Not until Friday was there a nibble.

“Who’s there?” Danielle asked in response to a knock on her door.

“I’m answerin’ your ad,” said a voice. “Do I come in, or not?”

Danielle unlocked and opened the door.

The man had the look of a down-and-out cowboy, with a Colt tied down on his right hip. He stood in the doorway, looking around, as though expecting a trap.

“There’s nobody here but me,” Danielle said. “Shut the door.”

He closed the door and stood leaning against it, saying nothing.

“I’m Daniel Faulkner,” said Danielle. “Who are you?”

“I’m Levi Jasper, and it’s me that’s entitled to ask the questions. Why are you looking for Scovill’s friends?”

“Scovill and me had a job planned. He claimed he could get a gang together that he used to ride with. Then the damn fool got himself killed by some bounty hunter looking for draft dodgers. Now there’s still a twenty-five-thousand-dollar military payroll that will soon be on its way to Fort Worth, and I can’t handle it alone. Can you find the rest of the outfit?”

“I dunno,” said Jasper, “and don’t know that they’ll be interested. They’re scattered all over the West. They could be in St. Louis, New Orleans, Kansas City, Denver, and God knows where else.”

“Are you interested?”

“Maybe, after I learn more about it. You ramrod-din’ the deal?”

“Not necessarily,” Danielle said. “I just want a piece of it.

“Good,” said Jasper. “I ain’t sure the boys would ride with a shirttail segundo, even if we can find ’em. You aim to advertise in more newspapers?”

“If I had some specific names, I would,” Danielle said. “Scovill never told me the names of the men he had in mind. I took a long chance, advertising for you. Tell me the names of the hombres I’m looking for, so I can ask for them by name.”

“I dunno. . . .”

“Oh, hell,” said Danielle, “just forget it. I’m just seventeen years old, and if you’re so afraid of me, I don’t want you on this job. I’ll find somebody else.”

“Damn it, nobody accuses Levi Jasper of bein’ afraid. I can give you the names of the Scovill gang, and we’ll pull this damn job of yours. One thing, though. I’m the segundo. When you find these varmints, tell ’em about Scovill, and that you’re part of the gang. Let ’em believe I planned the thing.”

“I will,” said Danielle. “Now write down those names and where you expect me to find them. We don’t have that much time.”