A Wolf in the Fold

by Ralph Compton

  I opened my eyes and looked through the crescent moon.

  Howard and another townsman were slinking along the rear wall. They came to the back door and Howard warily opened it. The other townsman watched the corner and the windows. They thought I had gone inside. Neither had bothered to glance toward the outhouse.

  Ordinarily, this would be like snatching a pie from a four-year-old, but my clipped wing was stiffening. In a little while it might be next to useless. Torment washed over me as I pressed my left hand to the door to brace it, and slid partway out from under.

  Howard entered the house. I centered the Remington on the other man’s back, between his shoulder blades. At my shot he stumbled, his arms flung out to keep from falling. He started to turn and I shot him again, in the back of the head.

  Howard reappeared. He stared at his friend, then gazed wildly about, swinging his revolver from side to side.

  I watched him through the crescent moon. He did not stay there long, but spun and ran inside. I slid out from under the door, made it to my feet, and jogged to the far corner. I was hurting bad when I got there. It was all I could do to focus.

  Howard must have heard me. He poked his head out the back door. I shot him through the ear. He tottered a step and collapsed, one leg against the door, keeping it from closing.

  Now it was Bill and me. I was in no condition to have our battle of wits drag out. But how to end it quickly without getting myself killed?

  Another bout of dizziness brought bitter bile to my throat. I swallowed it and started toward the front of the house, only to have the world spin like a child’s top. I sank down with my back to the wall and sat catching my breath. The nausea was awful. I considered crawling away and hiding, but I was too weak. I managed to draw my boot knife and switch it to my left hand, holding it so it was concealed under my wrist. Thinking of the wicked witch, I bowed my head.

  The ratchet of a hammer being thumbed back jarred me. I looked up into the muzzle of the Merwin & Bray. A boot pinned my Remington to the ground.

  “You should have surrendered to me,” Bill said. Bending, he snatched the Remington. I did not resist. “How bad is it?”

  “Bad,” I croaked.

  “Can you stand?”

  “Not on my own.”

  Bill hunkered. He trained the Merwin & Bray on my face while parting my shirt to examine the wound for himself.

  I had one chance and one chance only. I thrust my knife into the base of his throat and sheared the blade upward. The last sound I heard was the Merwin & Bray going off.

  Chapter 27

  I slowly came to. I was cold and stiff, but I was alive. Above me stars sparkled. I went to sit up and felt a weight on my legs. It was Bill, lifeless, his eyes wide and his mouth agape. My blade was still embedded in his throat. I rolled him off and painfully pushed to my knees.

  I had lost most of the day. By now Gertrude Tanner was miles away. Disgusted with myself, I slid my knife out of Bill’s throat, wiped the blade on Bill’s shirt, and replaced it in my boot. Reclaiming the Remington, I walked unsteadily to the front of the house. I half feared the townsmen had given Brisco and the mare slaps on their rumps and sent them galloping off, but thankfully, both horses were tied to the hitch rail.

  As much as I hankered to go after Gertrude, I had my shoulder to think of. I heated water on the stove, cut a sheet into strips, and did the best I could bandaging myself. The bleeding had stopped, and I could move my left arm a little without causing too much pain.

  I needed food and rest. I toyed with the notion of staying the night, but the company of Texas Rangers were due the next day. I put a pot of coffee on and helped myself to eight eggs and six strips of bacon from the pantry.

  The meal invigorated me. I had energy to spare as I busied myself filling a sack with food and tying the sack to my saddle, then splashing kerosene in every room of the house and setting the house on fire.

  By the grandfather clock in the parlor it was pushing ten o’clock when I strode outside and swung onto the mare. Leading Brisco, I at long last headed east. Once beyond the Dark Sister I threaded through darkling hills and on across a broad windswept plain.

  I was bound for Clementsville. Closer by three days was a small settlement called Three Legs, named after an old-timer who had lost a knee to a Comanche arrow and had to use a cane ever after. Three Legs amounted to no more than a gob of spit, but it had a saloon, and Gertrude was bound to stop there if she continued east as I believed she would. There was always the possibility she would turn to the southeast instead. Eventually, that would take her to places like San Antonio or Austin, or maybe even all the way to the Gulf, and Corpus Christi or Galveston. Due south about a hundred and sixty miles was the border with Mexico. But to reach it, she’d have to pass through some of the most inhospitable country anywhere, filled with hostiles and outlaws. Due north lay the border with New Mexico. It was a lot closer, but the mountains there were infested by Apaches, and only a fool baited Apaches in their lair.

  Gertrude, for all her faults, was no fool.

  So east it had to be, and east I traveled, switching horses every two hours. Now and again I would rise in the stirrups and hope to spot a distant campfire, but morning came and I had not caught up. I was tired, but I pressed on.

  Hate will do that. I had never really hated anyone before, not like I hated Gerty. My hate was a red-hot flame burning deep inside of me, and the only thing that could quench the flame was her lifeblood.

  At noon I happened on the charred embers of a fire made the night before. I found where five mounts had been picketed, and footprints. I had figured there were more left than that, but maybe some had had enough and lit a shuck.

  Evening came, and my eyelids were leaden. I turned in early to get an early start and slept the sleep of the exhausted. A couple of cups of coffee, a few pieces of jerky, and I was ready to resume the hunt.

  The plain was not completely flat. Here and there were grassy knolls. I had passed a score without incident when a bright gleam atop a knoll up ahead galvanized me into action. I was riding Brisco. With a jab of my spurs I broke into gallop. Simultaneously came the crack of a rifle. Forgetting about my shoulder, I swung onto the off side, hanging by one leg and the crook of my elbow. My wound shrieked with pain and I nearly lost my hold, but somehow I clung on and made for the shooter.

  A cowboy rose in plain sight, a Winchester wedged to his shoulder. He tried to fix a bead, but there was not enough of me showing. He shifted, and I would swear he was aiming at Brisco’s head. In the hope he would not shoot my horse if I was not on it, I let go and tumbled. My bad shoulder bore the brunt. Agony spiked through me. My temples pounding, I rolled onto my belly and drew the Remington.

  The cowboy had seen me drop and gone to ground. I began to crawl in a half circle toward the knoll. I figured he would stay put since he commanded the high ground, but in a short while I saw the grass sway off to my left. The blades parted, framing the pockmarked, weather-beaten face of my would-be killer. He was staring toward where I had dropped from Brisco, not where I was. I took aim but let him crawl a few yards closer before I squeezed the trigger.

  The cowboy was still alive but would not be for long. He glared up at me and groped for his rifle. I kicked it out of his reach.

  “Where are the others?”

  “Go to hell.” Blood dribbled over his lower lip and down his chin. His hand was pressed to the neck wound, but it would only buy him a few extra minutes of life.

  I had no sympathy for him. “You should have stuck to punching cows.”

  “Wanted the money,” he gurgled. “Extra thousand dollars.”

  Gertrude was getting desperate, I reflected. “I’m surprised she didn’t have Bart Seton wait for me instead of you. He’s her hired killer.”

  The cowboy snorted, and scarlet drops sprayed from his nose. “He’s more than that, mister. A lot more.”

  Gertrude and Seton? Why not? So what if her husband had been dead only a month or
so.

  He coughed and was racked by a spasm that ended with him as white as snow and dripping sweat. “Finish me,” he said. “As a courtesy.”

  “You don’t deserve it.”

  “She’ll beat you yet,” the cowboy predicted out of spite. “She’ll hire an army of leather slappers and put an end to you once and for all.”

  “Is that her plan?” Simple, but it could prove effective. Provided she lived long enough to carry it out.

  “Do me a favor. I have a brother and a sister back in Ohio. Get word to them, will you? If I give you their names and where they live?”

  If I had not done it for Calista, I certainly wasn’t going to do it for him. “No.”

  “You miserable bastard.” He clawed at my leg, but he was too weak to do me any harm. “Everything they say about you is true.”

  I was tired of his bluster, so I went after my horses. Brisco had not gone far. He was well trained. The mare took a while to collect. The cowboy’s horse was behind the knoll, but I had no interest in it. When I returned, the cowboy was gulping air like a fish. “Was the promise of a thousand dollars worth your life?”

  “I want . . . I want . . .” But he did not get to finish. The life was snuffed from his eyes by the cold wind of death.

  I did not bury him. There had been enough delays. I pushed on until well past nightfall in an effort to make up for lost time. A cold camp sufficed. I was asleep within minutes but tossed and turned, and when I awoke an hour before daybreak, I felt as if I had not slept at all.

  I wanted to overtake them before they reached Three Legs, but it was not meant to be. It was night when I got there. Only two horses were at the hitch rail in front of the saloon and neither had been ridden hard. I paused at the batwings to let my eyes adjust. In addition to a grubby barkeep, two men were playing cards. Farmers, judging by how they were dressed. The country north of Three Legs was overrun with nesters, or so I had been told. I set my rifle down and stood with my back to the bar so I could watch the door and the window. “Whiskey.”

  “Whiskey it is, friend.” The bartender slid a bottle and a glass over. He looked me up and down. “Is that blood on your clothes? You look like you’ve been through hell and back.”

  My first impulse was to tell him to mind his own business, but I needed information. “A woman and some cowboys came through Three Legs sometime today. Did you see them?”

  His eyes flicked toward the rear and then fixed on me. “Can’t say as I did, no. But then, I haven’t been out much.”

  “They might have come in here.” He should remember if they had.

  “Women generally stay shy of saloons unless they’re doves,” the bartender said. “Is the lady you’re after a dove?”

  The idea of Gertrude Tanner in a tight red dress cozying up to half-drunk men who hadn’t bathed in a month of Sundays made me grin. “Not by a long shot.” I nodded at the card players. “Are they locals?”

  “Frank and Cliff? Sure are. They’re in here nearly every night, but they don’t usually stay this late.”

  I ambled to the table. The two farmers did not look up, they were so engrossed in their game. They sat rather stiffly in their chairs. “Either of you see anything of a fancy woman and some cowboys?”

  “Can’t say as I have, no,” said the burliest. “But I’ve been out to my place all day. Usually I’m home by now.”

  “I’m home by now, too,” the other farmer said. “Or my wife pins my ears back with a fork.”

  “That must hurt.” My joke brought no response, so I shrugged and went to an empty table in the corner and sank into a chair. I put the bottle and glass in front of me. I was tired. I needed rest, the horses needed rest. Part of me was for pushing on, but the logical part was for resting until dawn and starting out fresh. I emptied the glass in one gulp and poured more red-eye. As I was raising the glass to my lips I noticed that the bartender and the two farmers were watching me out of the corners of their eyes. All three quickly looked away.

  What the hell? I saw how the farmers were still sitting much too stiffly. I saw the bartender take a tray of dirty glasses and start toward the back, then abruptly stop and place it on the bar and turn to the bottles on a shelf and begin moving them around in no certain order.

  My instincts kicked in. The hints were there. I should have caught on sooner. I slowly sipped the rotgut and felt the liquid burn its way down my throat and warm the pit of my stomach. Gazing over the glass, I noticed that a door at the back was open a few inches. A room or hall beyond was as black as the pit.

  My skin prickled. I lowered the glass and leaned back. I figured there was only one, but then hoofs thudded and a saddle creaked and in through the batwings came a lean cowboy caked in dust. He never so much as glanced my way but went to the bar and in a loud voice asked for some coffin varnish.

  I casually lowered my right hand to my lap and held the glass in my left. I was wondering how they would go about it when the cowboy made a show of gazing about the room. Plastering a smile on his thin face, he came toward my table.

  “Howdy, mister. Up for a card game?”

  Nodding at the farmers, I said, “There’s already one under way. You might ask to sit in with those gents.”

  The cowboy broke stride and pretended to see them for the first time. “Oh. I suppose I could. Or you and me could have our own game.” He stepped to a different table and beckoned. “What do you say? Have a seat.” He indicated a chair across from him.

  If I did as he wanted I would have my back to the door at the rear. Shaking my head, I pushed with my boot against the chair across from me at my own table. “Right here will do.”

  The cowboy would not last an hour as an assassin. His face gave him away. Reluctantly coming over, he put his glass down. “Fine by me,” he said.

  “Don’t we need cards?” I brought up.

  He slid his right hand under his brown vest. “As it so happens, I have a new deck.”

  My own hand was on the Remington, but he did not unlimber a hideout. He did indeed place a deck on the table.

  “Are you a cardsharp?” I asked mildly.

  His laugh was brittle. “Where did you get a notion like that? I’m a cowpoke, not a gambler.”

  “Do you always carry a deck of cards around with you?”

  “I got it from the barkeep.” The cowboy began to shuffle, unaware of the mistake he had made.

  I slid the Remington from my holster but did not raise it above the table. “When would that be?”

  He froze and his forehead furrowed. “When what?”

  “When did you get the cards from him? I saw you come in and all he gave you was whiskey.” I snapped the fingers of my left hand. “I know. He gave them to you earlier when you were in here with Gertrude and Bart Seton. Is that Bart in the back or a friend of yours?”

  Sweat seemed to ooze from all his pores at once. “Mister, I don’t know what in hell you’re talking about.”

  “How much is she paying you? The last one was offered a thousand dollars. Not that he lived to collect.”

  “You make no kind of sense,” the cowboy said.

  I rested the Remington on the table, but I did not point it at him yet. “I don’t suppose she’s still in Three Legs, is she?”

  “She who?” the cowboy said, glaring now.

  “You better give a holler to your friend in the back,” I suggested. “Who knows? Maybe he’ll put windows in my skull before I put them in yours.”

  Panic made him reckless. He flung the cards at me and heaved up out of his chair, bawling, “Now, Clancy, now!”

  I shot him in the head before he could clear leather. Shifting, I beheld another cowboy burst from the back. He had his Colt out, and fired. His shot went wide. Mine didn’t.

  The bartender and the farmers imitated statues until I rose, breaking the spell. Then one of the farmers exclaimed, “Thank God that’s over! Mister, I want you to know we have no part in this. They made us stay so you wouldn’t get suspiciou
s that things weren’t as they should be.”

  The other farmer nodded. “They told us they would pistol-whip us if we didn’t do as they wanted.”

  “Frank and Cliff are telling you the truth,” the bartender confirmed. “Those two cowboys were with that woman you were asking about. She and a gun shark she called Bart lit out of here not twenty minutes before you showed up.”

  I smiled at the news.

  The hour of reckoning was at hand.

  Chapter 28

  So much for resting.

  I rode Brisco and led the mare. The stars overhead, the yips of coyotes, the strong night wind, I barely noticed any of it. All I could think of was Gertrude Tanner and what I wanted to do to her.

  The bartender had overheard the fancy woman, as I had described her, talking to the gun shark. Something about her knowing powerful people in high places, and how they should head for Austin, the state capital. Not Clementsville, as I had thought. So I took the road to the southeast, flying like the wind.

  I was close to tasting my cup of revenge. I could feel it. They would stop soon, if they had not stopped already. Their mounts had to be more tired than mine. They only had one each while I had the two. Keeping the mare had paid off.

  Neither the bartender nor the farmers had any idea who I was. All they gathered from what little Gertrude told them was that I was after her and must be stopped, and they would cooperate, or else.

  An interesting tidbit: One of the farmers, Frank, heard the gun shark refer to the fancy woman as his “sugar.” Frank said the woman did not like it and snapped at the gun shark to keep quiet.

  Fury coursed through every fiber of my being. Fury so strong, so potent, I felt hot all over, inside and out, as if I were being cooked alive. Many a time in my life I had been angry or mad, but I had never experienced anything like this.

  I gloried in it. I reveled in the raw vitality that pulsed in my veins. I felt as powerful as a steam engine. My fatigue evaporated. I no longer craved sleep or food for my empty belly.