A Wolf in the Fold

by Ralph Compton

  “No. There can be no mistake. She changed about when Everett Butcher vanished. Although what those two could have in common is beyond me.”

  I silently exhaled in relief. But I was also puzzled. Was I the one not seeing a link? What did Gertrude have to do with Everett? “Didn’t he disappear before the rustling commenced?”

  “Long before,” Calista confirmed.

  If Gerty was involved, her motive was a mystery. It was of no importance to me, anyhow. All that mattered was the job. Always, the job.

  We made small talk and in due course I let her off in front of her place and took the buckboard to the livery. I checked on Brisco in his stall, then went to my room and sat on the edge of the bed to wait for the sun to set. Tonight was the night. At long last I could get to doing what I do best.

  Chapter 9

  I told the livery owner that Brisco had been cooped up too long. Not that I needed an excuse to ride my own horse, but it might seem a smidgen strange, me going for a ride at night. I allowed as how I would ride toward the Fair Sister and if I got back late, I’d tie Brisco to the hitch rail in front of Calista’s and bring him to the stable in the morning.

  The livery owner thought I was mighty considerate. “Most folks bring in their nags any hour of the night they feel like it,” he complained. “It never occurs to them I need my rest the same as everybody else.”

  Brisco champed at the bit. He really had been cooped up too long. I headed east at a walk, but once I was out of sight of Whiskey Flats I reined in a wide loop and soon was cantering west toward the Dark Sister.

  I admit I felt a few twinges. My conscience came out of hibernation. For the first time since I strangled my wife, I felt guilt.

  I liked the Butchers. They were a caring, close-knit family. Maybe they were rustlers, maybe they weren’t. A court of law was the proper place to decide that. Me, I was a court of death, and sentence had been passed. Once I was paid to do a job, I always saw it through. Always. Without exception. It was part of why people sought me out to do their killing. They knew they could count on me to get it done.

  In all the years I had been at this business, I never once considered whether those I was hired to remove deserved to be turned into maggot bait. It simply did not enter into the scheme of things. The same as when someone swats a fly or a spider. You never stop to ask yourself whether the fly or the spider deserves it.

  I always prided myself on keeping my emotions under control. There are some who say I don’t have any, but that’s not true. I have feelings the same as everyone else. I just lock them away and don’t let them out because I can’t afford to.

  But tonight I was in turmoil. By the time I reached the Dark Sister, I was a mess. I wanted to turn around and go back. I kept asking myself stupid questions, such as did I really want to kill these people? Which was stupid. “Want” had nothing to do with anything. It shows what can happen when you think too much. I’ve noticed that those who do the most thinking are the ones who are the most confused about what is important in life and what isn’t.

  I drew rein. There I was, a quarter of a mile from the Butcher homestead, and I was fighting a battle with myself inside my head instead of paying attention to my surroundings. Mad at my silliness, I gigged Brisco into the trees and dismounted.

  I slipped out of my jacket and laid it over my saddle. I opened one of my saddlebags, removed my gun belt with the long-barreled Remington snug in its holster, and strapped it on. From my other saddlebag I took a box of shotgun shells and crammed a handful into my pocket. The scattergun was hidden in my bedroll. I broke it open, inserted two loads of buckshot, and was ready to commence.

  Light glowed in the cabin window. It was likely some of them were still up, but that was all right. I would kick in the door and cut loose with both barrels, then finish off the rest with the Remingtons and my boot knife.

  I crept toward the clearing. I did not see their mongrel and reckoned it was indoors.

  Daisy’s face seemed to float before me in the air. I tried to tell myself that she meant nothing to me, and gave an angry toss of my head to be shed of her image. Not much movement on my part, but suddenly the night exploded with gunfire. I dived flat. The shooters missed but not by much. There were two of them, off to my left, vague shapes in the night, and they had rifles, which gave them greater range. I had to get close for the shotgun to be effective. But that would not be easy, them being backwoodsmen and all.

  I laid still a while, thinking they might work toward me, but I never heard so much as a leaf rustle. Along about then I saw that the light had gone out in the cabin, and that the cabin door was open. Someone was peering out, but I could not tell who. They did not make the mistake of calling out to the pair in the woods. Hannah’s doing, no doubt. She was a savvy one, that gal.

  I started to crawl to my right. But no sooner did I move an arm and a leg than the dark was shattered by more gun blasts. Only this time the two with the rifles were closer. I saw the muzzle flash of one in front of me, and the slug kicked up dirt in my face. I let the shooter have both barrels, then rolled behind a tree and rose onto my knees to reload.

  Figures were gliding across the clearing from the cabin. They were coming after me, all of them. This was not good. I was one against nine and that was too much of an advantage for them.

  I had to get out of there. I turned and ran. A rifle barked, then another. Fickle fate favored me and they missed. But I made enough noise that they had an inkling where I was. It sounded like they all fired at once. The trunks, branches, and leaves around me were peppered.

  I poured on speed, but they were hard after me and impossible to shake. I willed my legs to their utmost in order to reach Brisco ahead of them, and in that I succeeded. I was in the saddle and reining to the east when someone—I think it was Clell—hollered, “There he is!”

  Rifles and revolvers boomed like mad. For one of the few times in my life, I was scared. Not for me but for Brisco. He was a big target and I did not want to lose him. I slapped my legs, wishing I had spurs on. Bent low, I rode for my life.

  The trees saved me. There were so many of them, so close together, the Butchers could not get a clear shot. I made it to the trail and gave Brisco his head. Presently the shots and shouts faded.

  The Butchers might come after me, but I had the utmost confidence in Brisco. He was the fastest critter on four legs, or damn near the fastest. No other horse could hold a candle to him, or hadn’t yet. Besides, I had seen the horses in the Butcher corral, and they were not in his class.

  I had been riding a while when I became aware something was wrong with the saddle. It felt rough and lumpy. Reaching down, I discovered I was sitting on my jacket. I had forgotten all about it. Reining up, I twisted and slid the scattergun into my bedroll, then tugged the jacket out from under me and shrugged into it. Since there was no sign of pursuit, I unstrapped my gun belt, wrapped the belt around the holster, and crammed it in a saddlebag.

  I was in glum spirits when I reached Whiskey Flats. It was past midnight and the town, as usual, was still and quiet. I had told the liveryman that I would bring Brisco back in the morning, but now, after thinking it over, I rode to the end of the street. The double doors were shut and barred. I rode around to the corral, stripped off my saddle and saddle blanket and bridle, opened the gate, and shooed him in.

  The boardinghouse was dark. I entered by the back door and snuck up the stairs. A few creaked but not loud enough to wake anyone.

  I laid on the bed and thought about the fiasco. I had accomplished nothing. The only one I could blame was myself; I had been careless. For a professional Regulator, I would make a great dishwasher.

  I wondered if maybe I had been sloppy on purpose. That sounds ridiculous, but part of me had balked at rubbing the Butchers out, and that part might have wanted things to go wrong.

  Eventually I drifted into sleep. Usually I don’t remember my dreams, but when I opened my eyes and sat up the next morning, images lingered. Images of
a scarecrow figure in a brown hood that had chased me all over creation. In his bony hands had been a gleaming scythe that he kept trying to stick me with. “Damned silly,” I said out loud.

  I filled the basin with water from the pitcher and washed up. I shaved, too. Most parsons are tidy about their appearance.

  The restaurant was half full. I claimed my usual seat, and right away Calista brought a cup of steaming coffee and set it in front of me with a warm smile.

  “Good morning, Reverend Storm. Did you sleep well?”

  “Like a baby.” As lies went, it was tame compared to some I had told her.

  “I expected you earlier,” Calista said. “It’s pushing nine.”

  Normally I was up at seven. I ordered eggs with sausage and toast and asked her to keep the coffee coming. No sooner had I taken a sip than a ruckus broke out in the street. Some of the customers got up to see, and a man in a bowler exclaimed, “It’s the Butchers! They’ve brought a body in!”

  I made a special effort not to seem too eager. I sat and took another sip, then slowly rose and walked to the door.

  Calista was on the boardwalk, drying her hands with her apron. “I hope that’s not who I think it is.”

  Only five of the family had come. Hannah was on a buttermilk. Ty and Clell were on either side of her, the stocks of their rifles on their thighs. Carson and Sam were as nervous as cats in a room full of rocking chairs. The body had been wrapped in a blanket and tied over a swayback sorrel. One shoe poked out of the blanket, and at sight of it, I felt sick to my stomach.

  People were hurrying from every which way; the owner of the general store, the liveryman, the blacksmith, the butcher, women, children, everyone. Hannah waited until she had a crowd, then sat straighter and cleared her throat.

  “You all know me. You all know my family. You know about the trouble we’ve been having with the Tanners. They have accused us of rustling. But we’re not cow thieves and never have been. I was hoping to sit down with Gertrude Tanner and talk things out.” Hannah’s gaze lingered on me. “But now it doesn’t matter. The time for words is past.”

  No one said anything. Most were staring at the body.

  “A couple of nights ago four cowboys from the LT were found dead in a ravine at the bottom of the Dark Sister. The finger of blame was pointed at my family. I said it then; I will say it now. We had nothing to do with it.”

  “I believe you, Hannah,” Calista said.

  “It’s good some do. But there are those who don’t. Gertrude Tanner has told all who will listen that she places those deaths at my doorstep. She vowed not to rest until she’s had her revenge.” Now Hannah turned her sad eyes on the body. “I know Gertrude is a woman of her word, so we’ve been keeping watch in case her cowboys paid us a visit.”

  “Lord, no,” someone said.

  I spied a couple of LT hands at the back of the crowd. The people standing near them shied away.

  “Last night someone tried to sneak up to our cabin,” Hannah revealed. “Shots were swapped. Whoever it was got away, but not before the buzzard about blew one of my daughters in half with a shotgun.”

  Gasps and oaths greeted the news. Certain things were never, ever done, not even on the frontier. One was horse stealing. Another was cattle rustling. The third was the worst, a deed so vile, folks would not stand for it: harming a woman.

  The cowboys did some shying of their own at the glares they received. “Why are all of you looking at us?” the tallest hand angrily demanded.

  “Which girl is it?” Calista Modine asked. “Your oldest or your youngest?”

  I held my breath.

  “It’s Sistine,” Hannah said. “Poor, sweet Sissy.” Hannah turned the buttermilk so it was alongside the sorrel. “I didn’t bring her here to be buried. I have a spot near our cabin in mind for that.” Hannah’s lips quivered. “No, I brought her for all of you to see. Just hearing she was shot ain’t enough. It doesn’t make it as real as seeing with your own eyes.”

  Indeed, all eyes were on the form in the blanket. It’s safe to say I was the only one who felt relief.

  “Killing my daughter is the last straw,” Hannah had gone on. “I won’t take any more of this.”

  “Don’t do anything rash,” Calista advised. “I’ve sent for the Rangers. Let them handle it.”

  “The Rangers can’t bring the dead back to life,” Hannah said. “The Rangers can’t arrest anyone without proof, and we can’t prove the cowboys did it.” She gigged the buttermilk over to the pair of cowpokes, Ty, Clell, Carson, and Sam sticking to her like pinesap. “What do you have to say for yourselves?”

  “Not a damn thing, lady,” the tall one snapped. “We didn’t shoot your girl and we don’t know who did.”

  “That’s the gospel truth,” the second cowboy said. “We’re under orders not to go anywhere near your place.”

  “Whether you pulled the trigger or not,” Hannah said, “you work for the Tanners, and that’s enough blame for me.” She paused. “Shoot them down like dogs, boys.”

  The cowboys were caught flat-footed. Much too late, they clawed for their hardware. By then Ty, Clell, and Carson had leveled their Winchesters. Sam did not level his.

  The shots were a hairbreadth apart. At that range those backwoods boys could hardly miss.

  The tall cowboy spun and fell, scarlet gushing from his mouth. His companion took a few steps back, gaping in astonishment at the bullet hole in his sternum; then he melted like hot wax, quivered a few seconds, and was gone.

  The onlookers had been stunned into statues by the sudden violence. The whimper of a child broke the spell and the majority scattered, afraid more lead would fly.

  Fortunately for the Butchers, the pair had been the only LT hands in town. Hannah climbed down, went to each body, and nudged with her toe. “Dead,” she confirmed. “Sissy can rest a little easier.”

  “You shouldn’t have,” Calista said.

  I felt I had to add something. Pointing at the sky, I said, “You have angered your Maker this day, sister.”

  Hannah tilted her head toward me. “You’re a couple of days late and a couple of dollars short on common sense, Parson. This doesn’t concern the Almighty. It’s between me and mine and the Tanners.”

  “The Texas Rangers will come after you,” Calista warned.

  “By the time they show up I’ll have settled accounts.” Hannah climbed on her horse, reined around, and came over near me. “Sorry to talk to you like that, you being a man of the cloth and all, Reverend Storm. But I’ve lost my husband and one of my children, and I will gladly accept perdition before I will let those Tanners make wolf meat of any more of those I love.” She indicated the dead cowboys. “It’s war now. Out and out, guts and blood war, and the devil take the hindmost.”

  Chapter 10

  Everything was working out just fine. The Tanners blamed the Butchers for the deaths of LT hands I had killed. The Butchers blamed the LT for Sissy, yet another name I could scrawl on the chalkboard of victims that stretched back over the years to that fateful day in the alley when I stabbed my pa.

  No one suspected me. No one guessed who I was or the real reason I was there. I was free to go on killing, and the beauty of it was that if I killed with care, the blame would continue to fall on other shoulders than mine.

  Thanks to Calista and her meddling, I had to do it soon. Everyone was taking it for granted that it would be a week or more before the Texas Rangers arrived, but there was no predicting. The Rangers fought hard, they rode hard—they were hard. It could be they would show up tomorrow. I had to be done when they got there or risk tangling with law officers as feared and as efficient as those gents in the red coats up in Canada. Like the Mounties, the Rangers possessed a fierce devotion to duty and took pride in always getting their man. Since this time I was that man, I preferred to light a shuck before they began nosing around.

  I did not eat at midday. I strolled to the general store and bought coffee and jerky and a few canned good
s: beans, peaches, tomatoes. I mentioned to the store owner and a few others that I needed to get out of town for a spell and commune with my Maker. I asked about the country to the south, and when I left I rode south, but as soon as I was out of sight I reined toward the Dark Sister.

  I stayed well clear of the trail up to the Butcher place. Approaching from the southwest, I was soon in deep timber. I cautiously wound higher until I judged I was due south of their cabin. Then I reined north.

  I had a few landmarks to go by. A ridge, for instance, I had noticed from the clearing. It was half a mile from their place. When I spotted a lightning-scarred tree, I knew I was as close as I dared go on horseback.

  I did not like leaving Brisco unattended. Horse thieves were two bits a dozen in that part of the country. Stray Indians could not be discounted, either. But if I was to sneak close to their cabin undetected, I had to do it on foot.

  As a precaution I led Brisco into a thicket, trampled a circle wide enough for him to lie down if he was so inclined, then shucked my rifle and was ready to commence spilling blood. I left the scattergun in my bedroll. In the daylight the Winchester afforded greater range.

  I had been thinking about Sissy on the ride up. I had not known her well. She had been friendly, though, and treated me nice. And now she was worm food. It bothered me. Not that she was dead, but that I was thinking about her being dead. Normally, I never gave a thought after the fact to the wicks I snuff out. I refuse to let myself think about them. Yet here I was, thinking about her.

  I spied smoke curling into the sky. Casting Sissy from my mind, I concentrated on the job. I got down on my belly and snaked through the undergrowth like an Apache, stopping often to look and listen.

  I was about a hundred yards from the cabin when a cough froze me in place. As slowly as a turtle, I swiveled my head. It took fifteen to twenty seconds to spot him, he was so well hid.