A Wolf in the Fold

by Ralph Compton

  “Tell me.”

  “You do not want to know.” I examined him more closely and confirmed the testimony of my eyes. I sat back, tired from the exertion.

  Jordy’s eyes fluttered. He was having difficulty breathing. “Damn him!” he spat. “Damn him to hell for what he did to her!”

  “Don’t you mean ‘them’?” I said.

  “No.” Jordy licked his lips. “The others were laughing, but it was just the one. I heard him after he was done.”

  “What did he say?”

  “How she fought like a wildcat.”

  From somewhere deep inside me boiled a surge of red-hot lava.

  “How she was the best he ever had.”

  The night spun but not from my wound.

  “How she was better than a whore he had down in Texas.” Jordy uttered a low moan. “Oh, God. Not to her. She was the sweetest gal ever.”

  I had to force my vocal cords to work. “His name? Did you happen to catch his name?”

  “No. I wish I did.”

  “Anything that would help me. Anything at all.” The LT hands did not know it yet, but they were all on my list. Gertrude and Phil were near the top, one rung below whoever was to blame for Daisy.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Jordy was quiet so long, I figured he had died. But then he spoke again.

  “One thing might help you. He called her ‘little sugar.’ ”

  “Little what?”

  “His exact words. The ‘little sugar’ fought like a wildcat. The ‘little sugar’ was better than a whore he had once. He kept a keepsake from the ‘little sugar.’ He never called Daisy by name. Maybe he didn’t know it.”

  “Or didn’t care.” But before I was through, he would. Something else Jordy said caught my interest. “What was that about a keepsake?”

  “I don’t know. It’s what I heard him say.”

  Again he was still for a considerable spell. When he broke his silence, I could barely hear him.

  “Will you really see that they pay, Parson?”

  “Of course.” He had no idea.

  “You won’t turn the other cheek? You being a man of the cloth, and all, you won’t forgive and forget, will you?”

  I looked at him. He was dead anyway, so what difference did it make? “Ever heard of Lucius Stark?”

  “Stark?” Jordy repeated, puzzled. “Where have I heard that name before?”

  I did not give him any clues. He had to earn it.

  “Wait. Now I remember. Isn’t he an assassin? Goes around the country killing folks for money?”

  “I’m Lucius Stark.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “You heard me.”

  “But—” Jordy said, and did not say anything more for a good long while. Finally he exhaled and croaked, “I’ll be damned. Was it us you were after?”

  “Yes.”

  “You son of a bitch. Who hired you?”

  “Gertrude Tanner.”

  “But she’s the one who shot you!” Jordy chuckled, then snorted, then burst into merry laughter broken by gasps and groans. He laughed and laughed and went on laughing even as blood trickled from the corners of his mouth. I guess he couldn’t stop. He was the only man I ever saw who laughed himself to death.

  I rose and would have kicked him except my legs were not steady enough. So I settled for saying, “It wasn’t that funny.”

  Until that moment I never felt true hatred. The kind that causes the pulse to quicken and the head to hammer and every nerve to tingle with the throbbing urge to take life.

  I fought down my rage and cast about for something to dig with. A broken tree limb was handy. It nearly killed me, and the grave was much too shallow, but I gave her a decent burial.

  The coyotes and buzzards could have the rest of the Butchers.

  I had work to do.

  Chapter 16

  Three weeks. That’s how long it took for me to mend. Three weeks, with me chafing at every minute that went by.

  All I thought about was Gertrude and the LT. I lived, breathed, and ate revenge. I considered various ways to go about it. The quickest was to rig kegs of black powder under the ranch house and the cookhouse and blow the Tanners and their hired hands to hell and back when they sat down to supper. But that would be too quick. Too merciful. I did not want them to die in an instant’s time, feeling little pain. I wanted them to die slowly. I wanted them to suffer. I wanted them to know why they were dying, and feel the fear the Butchers had felt, trapped in the cabin with no way out.

  That was fitting for the cowboys. For Gertrude and her son and the son of a bitch who murdered Daisy, I had something special in mind.

  So for three weeks I hid on the Dark Sister and plotted. I did not have a horse. Brisco had disappeared the night of the attack. Either he ran off or they stole him. I did not have provisions, but I got by. Game was everywhere, and I camped in the hollow close to the stream, so I never lacked for water.

  I had plenty of guns. I took every weapon the Butchers had, and their gun belts, besides. I ended up with six rifles and seven revolvers. Four of the rifles were Winchesters, the rest were older single-shot models. I chose the newest of the Winchesters and a bandolier Jordy had been wearing. Most of the revolvers were Colts. I’m partial to Remingtons, but I settled on a pair of Samuel Colt’s brain-children. They were near identical army .45s with seven-and-a-half-inch barrels. Basic wood grips, not fancy pearl or ivory. The front sights had not been filed off, as I had done with my Remingtons, and the ejector rods were still attached.

  Every day I practiced handling them. Drawing, cocking, twirling, spinning until they became as much a part of me as my hands. It was important. Don’t ever let anyone tell you all pistols are the same. They are not. Each kind has its own special feel. The trick is to become so slick with whichever model you choose that you can draw and shoot straight without thinking about it. Just up and squeeze and bang!

  There was another reason I took the guns and the gun belts. It was the same reason I made it a point to find and take the arrow Gertrude left.

  When I wasn’t practicing or hunting, I spent a lot of time in a thicket close to the east wall of the cabin. No one showed up until the evening of the second day after the slaughter, and then it was Calista. I heard her galloping up the trail long before I saw her. I almost rose out of hiding to greet her. Almost. She reined to a stop and sprang from the saddle, horror etched in her face. She went from body to body, saying, “Oh, my God!” over and over. She cried over Hannah. Fifteen minutes she was there; then she swung on her sorrel and raced for Whiskey Flats.

  I figured it would be morning before more came, and I was right. Half the town turned out. They came on horseback. They came in wagons. Some brought the kids. They gawked at the bodies, they remarked on the wounds, they allowed as how it was an outright massacre. A few commented on the absence of firearms. Several others speculated that Indians were to blame since two of the Butchers had been scalped.

  Calista had already seen it all, so she stood to one side. I overheard when the owner of the general store came over to her.

  “You were right. There’s no sign of the parson anywhere. Are you sure he came out to visit them?”

  “I’m positive, Tom,” Calista said. “He told me he was going to pay his respects, and I saw him ride out of town.”

  “Strange. Unless the Indians took him.”

  “If it was Indians,” Calista said.

  “Jordy and Carson were scalped.”

  “Anyone can lift hair.”

  “They’ve been stripped clean of weapons and ammo. Indians do that, too,” Tom mentioned.

  “Anyone can steal weapons, too.”

  “Why do you refuse to believe it was Indians?”

  “Because we haven’t had Indian trouble in years. The Comanches no longer roam at will, and the Kiowas know better.”

  “If not them, then who?” Tom asked.

  “You know the answer to that as well as I do,” Calista
said. “She vowed to wipe them out and they’ve been wiped out.”

  “That’s a strong accusation to make without proof.”

  “You agree. You just don’t want to say so.”

  “What I think isn’t important. Without evidence, it counts for nothing.” Tom regarded the charred debris. “Gertrude is the wealthiest woman in west Texas. She has a shark for a lawyer and cowboys who would die for her.”

  “Are you saying you’re scared of her, Tom?”

  “You’re damn right I am, pardon my language. She would make a formidable enemy. I, for one, do not intend to antagonize her unless I have good cause.”

  Calista gestured. “You wouldn’t call this good cause?”

  “Don’t take that tone with me. I liked the Butchers, Hannah especially. I liked them as much as you did. But now they’re dead and I’m alive and I aim to stay that way.” Tom studied her. “What do you plan to do?”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not about to ride out to the LT and accuse Gerty to her face, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Then what?”

  “I’ll have a private talk with the Rangers when they get there. Which I hope to God is soon.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “What?”

  “A drummer told me. He ran into Texas Rangers a few days ago. They said they had to wrap something up, then they were headed for Whiskey Flats. Expected to arrive on Wednesday. That would be tomorrow.”

  “You should have told me sooner.”

  “What difference does it make? We’ll let them hash it out. If they go after Gerty, so be it. But I wouldn’t count on it.”

  “We can’t let her get away with this. Not this, we can’t.”

  The store owner shrugged. “What will be, will be. I’m not a lawman. I’m not related to the Butchers. I have no stake.”

  “Other than common human decency.”

  “That’s not fair, Calista. No one is more fair than I am. I don’t charge outrageous prices like some do.”

  “I’m talking about human lives and you’re talking about canned goods.”

  Tom sighed and shook his head. “There is no talking to you when you get like this. Look yonder. They’re about ready. I’ll go lend a hand. But you be careful, hear? Don’t go tangling with Gertrude Tanner unless you have more to back you up than suspicions.”

  “I’ll do what I have to.”

  Some of the men had brought shovels. They formed a burial detail, and the Butchers were planted in a row to the north of the cabin.

  No one found Daisy’s grave. I had seen to that by covering it with leaves and pine needles and brush.

  Everyone gathered to pay their respects. They formed a half circle and bowed their heads, and there was a lot of coughing and fidgeting.

  Calista began. “I guess it’s up to me. I knew them as well as anyone and probably better than most. They were decent folk. They never imposed. They were always friendly. Hannah Butcher was as kindhearted a woman as ever lived.”

  “She sure was,” someone agreed.

  Calista acknowledged the comment with a smile. “For some time now the family has been under a cloud of suspicion. They were accused of being rustlers. We all know by whom. But Hannah denied it, and I believed her. I visited them many times and never saw any cows or fresh beef or hides.”

  Muttering broke out, and a portly man said, “It’s a good thing Gertrude Tanner isn’t here to hear you say that. She doesn’t take kindly to being called a liar.”

  “It’s the Butchers we should be concerned about,” Calista responded. “Specifically, who killed them. It seems to me that the person who pointed the finger of blame is at the top of the list.”

  “Is this a funeral or isn’t it?” a disgruntled listener complained.

  “Sorry,” Calista said, but she did not sound sorry. She gazed skyward. “Lord, we commit the souls of these good people unto your care. Watch over them and preserve them. We ask this in your son’s name. Amen.”

  A chorus of amen’s were added. They started to drift toward their horses and wagons.

  Calista was last. She gazed at what was left of the cabin, then at the woods. I thought for a second she spotted me, but she showed no sign of it and walked to her horse.

  I watched her ride off with mixed feelings. Part of me had wanted to reveal myself. The other part, the part that hired out his gun for money, held me in check. No one must know I was alive.

  That night I slept fitfully. I tossed and turned, racked by a nightmare. In it, I was trapped in the burning cabin. I was pinned and helpless, the flames licking nearer and nearer. Just as I caught on fire, I woke up. I was caked with sweat, yet my mouth and throat were as dry as a desert. Weakly, I made it to my feet, and the stream. After slaking my thirst, I kindled a small fire. I had some rabbit left over from supper, and I was famished. Dawn was not far off, so it would suffice as breakfast, too. While the meat roasted on a spit, I examined my wound. I was worried about infection, but there was no sign of any.

  The sunrise was spectacular. I sat munching on the juicy meat as pink, orange, and yellow splashed the eastern sky. It occurred to me that I had never really admired a sunrise before. I was always so caught up in myself and what I was doing.

  The thought troubled me. I was becoming soft. What did I care about sunrises and sunsets and such?

  Still, it was a sight to see, the sun seeming to float up out of the earth, a great blazing golden globe that shone like fiery burnished gold. It brought the birds to life and warmth to the new day.

  I spent most of the morning in the thicket by the cabin. Noon came and went and still no sign of anyone. I was about to return to the hollow when hooves drummed, and shortly thereafter in they rode.

  There were two of them. Both were middling sized. Both sported woolly mustaches. Both wore two revolvers. The badges pinned to their shirts gleamed as they reined to a stop. One dismounted while the other shucked a Winchester from his saddle scabbard and levered a round into the chamber.

  You hear so much about the Texas Rangers that when you see them, you half expect them to be as big as giants. But these were as ordinary as pie, or almost. It’s hard to describe, but one look and you knew these two were two of the toughest hombres to ever draw breath. It wasn’t that they strutted around like roosters. Not at all. It was in how they held themselves and in how they moved.

  The one who had climbed down was crisscrossing the clearing, reading the sign. He was good, too. He pointed at where Hannah had fallen and said, “This here was the mother.”

  How he could tell was beyond me. A puddle of dry blood marked the spot, but it could be anyone’s blood. Then he hunkered and indicated footprints in the dirt near the cabin door.

  “Heavyset woman. Small feet. Quite a jumble here. But I’d guess she came out last.”

  “Do we dig up the graves, Dee?” the Ranger on the bay asked.

  “A few we might have to. Given my druthers I wouldn’t, but some of the townsfolk swear it was Injuns.”

  “And my ma is the Queen of England.”

  Dee snickered. “If she were, Les, you wouldn’t be dodging lead for a living. You’d be off in some castle somewhere, diddling the maid.”

  “Why, pard, I’m affronted. It would be the maid and the cook and their cousins, if they had any.”

  I smiled along with them. So the Texas Rangers liked their women as much as the next man. It was a revelation.

  Then more hooves pounded up the trail, and into the clearing trotted Calista Modine, Tom from the general store, and Webber, the butcher. Tom and Webber were what you could describe as two of Whiskey Flats’s leading citizens.

  “Are we late?” Calista asked. “I thought you said to meet you here at one.”

  “You’re not late, ma’am, we’re early,” Dee said.

  “We came on ahead to scout the country,” Les elaborated, “and to read the sign.” He swung down. “It’s too bad the townspeople came up here yesterday. They made a mess of any tracks th
at might have helped us.”

  Dee nodded. “The bodies should have been left as they were.”

  “Now hold on,” Webber said. He was a big, beefy man with a gut that bulged over his belt. “It wouldn’t be Christian to let the scavengers gnaw on them.”

  “And we weren’t entirely sure you would show up when that drummer claimed you would,” Tom said, defending the burials.

  Dee and Les ambled toward the mounds, Dee saying to Calista, “Show us which was which, if you would be so kind, ma’am.” After she went down the row, attaching a name to each mound, he stepped to the third one and tapped it with his boot. “So this here is Jordy Butcher’s? And you say he was one of those who was scalped?”

  “Yes.” Calista was wringing her hands as if she were nervous.

  Les handed his Winchester to Tom and dropped to his knees. “I reckon our hands will have to do.”

  “You’re not doing what I think you’re doing?” Webber asked, aghast.

  “Unless you would rather do it,” Les said.

  The Rangers went at it like badgers and had Jordy unearthed in no time. Each body had been wrapped in a blanket and the ends tied. Dee took one end and Les the other.

  “This is most unseemly,” Webber groused as the blanket parted.

  “We do what we have to,” Dee said.

  The proceedings were interrupted by yet more hoofbeats, heralding the unexpected arrival of none other than Gertrude Tanner.

  I wedged the Winchester to my shoulder.

  Chapter 17

  Gertrude was not alone. Four cowboys were along. Or maybe it was only three. The fourth wore a black Stetson, a Carlsbad hat, and a black leather vest. On his right hip, butt forward, was an ivory-handled Smith & Wesson. It was rare for a cowboy to indulge in a revolver that cost more than most punchers earned in three or four months. He had curly blond hair and a wispy blond mustache, and from the way he sat the saddle, it gave the impression he was fond of his reflection.

  Gertrude rode straight to the graves and wasted no time in pleasantries. “What in heaven’s name do you two think you are doing?”

  “We’re on a maggot hunt,” Les said.