A Wolf in the Fold

by Ralph Compton

  Dee paused in the act of unwrapping the body. “Pay him no mind, ma’am. I take it you are Mrs. Tanner? We’ve heard about you.”

  “Then you know I do not suffer fools gladly,” Gertrude declared. “Even those who pride themselves on being lawmen.” She placed both hands on her saddle horn. “I will ask you one more time. What in heaven’s name are you doing?”

  “Making sure these folks were buried right-side up,” Les replied. “It’s against the law to bury someone facedown. They could smother.”

  “Is he insane?” Gertrude snapped at Dee.

  “Only every other Sunday,” Dee said. “The rest of the time he’s only half loco.”

  The cowboy in the black Carlsbad gigged his roan closer. “Enough silliness. Those tin stars don’t give you the right to treat a lady with disrespect.”

  “You’re right as rain, puncher,” Dee said.

  “I’m not no damn cowpoke,” the man in the black hat said.

  Les was studying him. “Not that what we do is any of your damn business. But if it will smooth your hackles, I’ll apologize to your boss if she’ll tell us what in heaven’s name she’s doing here.”

  “Someone should shoot him,” Gertrude said.

  Dee smiled a crooked smile. “That would be murder, ma’am, and it appears there has been enough of that already.”

  “What are you implying?”

  Flipping the blanket, Dee uncovered Jordy Butcher from the shoulders up and pointed at Jordy’s head. “This man has been scalped.”

  “Yes. So? Indians scalp whites all the time.”

  Les made a clucking sound. “Not true, ma’am. Some Injuns do, yes, but only some of the time. Fact is, more whites have scalped Injuns than Injuns have scalped whites, if you count the giants the Injuns say lived here before the Injuns came, since the giants were white.”

  “Give me a pistol and I will shoot him myself,” Gertrude said.

  Dee ran a finger across Jordy’s head. “Do you see how deep the cut is, ma’am? And how much hair was lifted?”

  “So?”

  “So Injuns don’t cut down to the bone. They stick the tip of their knife under the hair and peel it like an apple.”

  “Maybe this one had never done it before,” Gertrude suggested.

  “That could be, ma’am.” Dee continued to be as polite as a politician on the stump. “But Injuns generally don’t raise all the hair. They always leave some. Which proves to me that this here fella was scalped by a white man. And if he was scalped by a white, then it was whites that did the killing, and if whites did the killing, then my partner and me aim to find out who and put them behind bars or plant them, their choice.”

  Gertrude was boiling mad and trying not to show it. “I see. And you would be willing to swear in a court of law that whites were to blame?”

  “Any day of the week.”

  “And twice on Sunday,” Les chimed in. “Although the courts are usually closed on Sundays on account of it being the Lord’s day and all.”

  A peculiar thing happened. Gertrude smiled. “You two are not the simpletons you present yourselves as. That was neatly done, gentlemen.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Dee said.

  “My ma raised me to always be neat,” Lee added.

  Gertrude lifted her reins. “Well, I only came to meet you and I’ve done that, so I’ll be on my way.”

  “Be looking for us to visit the LT, ma’am,” Dee informed her. “We have a few questions to ask.”

  “Maybe more than a few,” Les said.

  The rider in the black hat was squirming in his saddle like a sidewinder on a hot rock. “These lawdogs rile me, Mrs. Tanner. They surely do.”

  “Now, now, Mr. Seton. The Rangers deserve our highest respect. When they come out to the ranch, they must not find our hospitality wanting.”

  I stirred in my hiding place. There was that name again, and again it stirred a faint recollection. Then I remembered. Saloon gossip had it that a gent named Seton had made a name for himself down along the border. Not as much of a name as Hardin or Thompson or Fisher but enough that most hard cases fought shy of him.

  I was not the only one who had recognized the handle. Dee and Les swapped glances, and Dee said, “Did we hear right? You wouldn’t happen to be Bart Seton, would you? The same Bart Seton who took part in the Duxton-Rodriguez scrap?”

  “I might be.”

  “Why, son, you’re plumb famous,” Les said. “They say four Mexicans drew on you in a cantina and when the smoke cleared you were the last man standing.”

  “There were five Mexicans,” Seton amended. “But killing greasers doesn’t hardly count for much. They never amount to spit with a six-gun.”

  “You’re welcome to your opinion,” Dee said, “but I’ve met a few who could put a hole in the center of a playing card at twenty-five paces.”

  “You’ve strayed a far piece from the Rio Grande,” Les commented.

  Gertrude spoke before Seton could. “That’s my doing, gentlemen. We’ve had a problem with LT cattle being rustled. I sent for him when it first started.”

  “You weren’t fixing to take the law into your own hands, were you, ma’am?” Dee brought up.

  “Perish forbid, Ranger. I always abide by the law. Ask anyone. I only wanted to protect what is mine.” Gertrude reined around and gave a little wave. “It was instructive making your acquaintance. Until we meet again.” She smiled and lashed her reins.

  The dust had not yet settled when Calista declared, “She was lying. I never set eyes on Seton before today and I’ve been out to the LT more times than I can count.”

  “I never saw him, either,” Tom said, “and most everyone hereabouts stops at my store at least once a month.”

  Dee shrugged. “It’s not important. He’s not wanted, as near I can recollect.”

  It was important to me. I needed to learn exactly when Gertrude had sent for him. Was it before she sent for me? Or after? If before, then why had she bothered to send for me when she had him on her payroll? If after, was Seton supposed to finish the job if I couldn’t? Or was there more involved? Either way, I didn’t like it. I didn’t like it one little bit.

  The Texas Rangers were giving Jordy Butcher a second burial. My ears pricked when Dee said, “Tell us more about the preacher who disappeared. We’ll want to question Mrs. Tanner about him, too.”

  Calista described me in remarkable detail, down to the small scar on my chin. I never imagined she noticed so much. She ended with, “He was just about the sweetest man I’ve ever known.”

  Les had glanced up sharply at the mention of the scar, and Dee and him swapped looks again.

  That was a bad sign. I was wanted in Texas. My regulating had taken me to Dallas, El Paso, and San Antonio. Combined, that tallied to eleven less people in the world. After each job I skipped Texas a jump ahead of the Rangers. To say they hankered after my neck in a noose was putting it mildly.

  Dee was speaking. “Well, Leslie, I reckon we’re about done here for now. Let’s go nose around elsewhere.”

  “I’m always ready for a good nose, Deeter,” Les said.

  Webber the butcher was surprised. “What about the rest of the bodies? Aren’t you going to dig them up, too?”

  The two Rangers were lowering Jordy into his grave. “You can if you want,” Les answered. “But one a day is my limit.”

  “We’ve proven it wasn’t Injuns,” Dee said, “and that was the whole point.”

  “But the others were shot to pieces,” Webber said. “If you dig out the bullets, can’t you tell what kind of guns were used?”

  Les laughed. “Dig lead out of days-old corpses? That woman was right. Someone here is loco, but it’s not me.”

  Dee was also amused, but for a different reason. “The slugs wouldn’t tell us all that much, anyhow. Who ever heard of such a thing?”

  “I just thought—” Webber said, but did not finish.

  “You will be careful, won’t you?” Calista said
to Texas’s finest. “Gerty won’t let you put her behind bars.”

  “I doubt she’ll try to bushwhack us, ma’am,” Dee responded. “It would only bring more Rangers down on her head.”

  “She’s clever, this one,” Les said. “She’ll try smoke and smiles to keep us off her scent.”

  “Then you believe she is behind it?”

  Dee and Les began pushing dirt back over the body, and Dee answered, “Let’s just say she’s at the top of our list at the moment. But suspecting someone and proving they are guilty can be a mighty wide river to ford.”

  “I hate to admit it,” Les said, “but we don’t always get our man. Or our woman. I hear tell there’s an outfit up in Canada that says it does, but Canadians just like to hear themselves brag.”

  “So don’t get your hopes up,” Dee cautioned.

  Still, Calista was encouraged. I was not. I did not want the Rangers poking about in what I considered a personal matter. If they arrested Gertrude before I was ready to deal with her, I didn’t know what I would do.

  Who was I kidding? Of course I knew. I would not rest until everyone involved suffered the same fate, or worse, as Daisy and her family. I owed it to myself. I had been shot and nearly burned to death. If that didn’t give me the right to bring the LT to its knees, nothing did.

  The Texas Rangers and the townsfolk were walking to their mounts. Calista invited the lawdogs to stop by her place later for a meal. “It’s on me. My way of saying thanks for helping us.”

  “We’re just doing our jobs, ma’am,” Dee said.

  “But I’m never one to pass up free grub,” Lee assured her.

  My own meal that evening was roast venison. I shot a doe. I couldn’t carry or drag it to the hollow, so I cut off a haunch and dragged that. Meat, lots of meat, would restore me to my old self, and over the next several weeks I did more to reduce the Dark Sister’s wildlife population than all the predators in Texas.

  Three weeks, it took. Three weeks, wishing every second that I was restored to my usual vigor and vim.

  Then one morning I woke up, stood, and stretched, and didn’t feel an ache or pain anywhere. To test myself, I decided to climb up the Dark Sister higher than I had ever gone before. I was at it for hours, until I came, quite unexpectedly and much to my amazement, out of the forest into a green meadow.

  It was not the meadow that amazed me. It was the ornery four-legged cuss and the Butcher mare he had taken up with. The whole time I was down by the cabin suffering and barely able to move, my not-so-trusty steed was dallying with a filly in their own little high country paradise.

  “So this is where you’ve been?” I said as Brisco came up to me. The mare hung back because she did not know me, which was just as well for her. The tart.

  I patted Brisco and scratched around his ears and marveled that my saddle was still on. The cinch was loose and the saddle was smeared with dust and dirt and grass, but it was in one piece and none of my effects were missing. “Looks like my luck has turned,” I remarked.

  The mare did not want to leave. The hussy shied when I rigged a hackamore, but I threw a loop around her neck and brought her along anyway. It pleased Brisco, but I was thinking that the Apaches claimed horseflesh was downright tasty.

  God had been good to me. I was fit again. I had my own revolvers and my rifle and plenty of ammo. I had two horses and my saddlebags with the tools of my profession. Some might take it as a sign the Almighty was on their side, but I was more practical. If there was one thing I had learned from reading Scripture, it was that the Lord was powerful fond of blood. He loved spilling it and loved watching it spilled, and I was about to treat him to a spilling the Angel of Death would envy.

  My last day on the mountain started early. I was up at first light. Breakfast waited while I went upstream to a pool. Stripping, I jumped in and swam about for all of a minute. The water was too cold. Teeth chattering, I climbed out and hopped up and down until I felt halfway alive again. I quickly dressed. Once back at the hollow, I rekindled the fire. I was not in the mood for squirrel meat, but it was all I had.

  In my saddlebags I kept a small mirror. The man who stared back was not me. It was a ragged hermit with an unkempt beard and a tangled mop. I shaved and trimmed my hair.

  After removing my parson’s garb—gladly, I might add—I donned my spare shirt and pants, and polished my boots. When I was done I looked like a whole new man, and felt like one, too.

  I placed my shoulder holster and the hideout in my saddlebags and strapped on my long-barreled Remington. I had lost my hat on that night I would never forget. My coat had been so badly singed and so caked with soot, dirt, and grime that I had discarded it long ago.

  I was as ready as I would be.

  I walked over to Brisco, unwrapped the mare’s lead rope, and forked leather. I headed east. As I passed the charred timbers that had been the Butcher cabin, I touched a finger to the middle of my chest and felt the new scar under my shirt.

  Those responsible were going to answer for it.

  I couldn’t wait to start.

  Chapter 18

  I did not use the trail. I could not risk being spotted. Then there were the two Texas Rangers to keep in mind. They complicated things. They could be anywhere, at any time. Rangers were notorious for popping up when you least expected and least wanted them to.

  I swung to the south and was winding down a canyon toward the foothills when a strange sound reached my ears. I drew rein and listened. It sounded like two rocks were being smacked together, and it went on and on until I gigged Brisco and warily led the mare lower.

  The canyon widened. Boulders and brush choked the bottom, but there were few trees since there was no water. I veered to where the shadow from the canyon wall was deepest.

  The sound grew louder. Much louder than the chink of Brisco’s and the mare’s hooves. Soon I heard voices, although I could not tell what they were saying. I came to a bend and stopped. After swinging down, I looped Brisco’s reins around a bush. He was well trained and would not go anywhere. I was not sure of the mare, so I secured the lead rope to a boulder.

  Sliding the scattergun from my bedroll, I loaded both barrels and stuck extra shells in my pocket. On cat’s feet I glided along the wall. At the bend I peeked past the edge.

  Three horses stood in a row, their reins dangling. A fourth, a pack animal, was nearby.

  Two of the three riders were attacking the base of the canyon wall with picks. The third watched, a shovel in his left hand, the long handle across his shoulder.

  I could scarcely credit my good fortune. The three weren’t prospectors. They weren’t townsmen. They were cowboys. Specifically, LT cowboys. I remembered them from when I was out to the ranch. Whether they took part in the slaughter of the Butchers was unimportant. They rode for my enemy, and anyone who worked for my enemy became an enemy whether they wanted to be an enemy or not.

  One of the punchers stopped swinging his pick, stepped back, and wiped a sleeve across his sweaty face. “I hate this. I just hate this.”

  “Don’t start, Jack,” said the cowboy with the shovel.

  “Hell, Brennan, you hate it as much as I do,” Jack snapped. “We’re punchers, not desert rats. We signed on with the LT to herd cattle, not play at being pocket hunters. I’d rather swing a rope than this damn heavy pick.”

  The third cowboy lowered his pick. “Complain, complain. That’s all you ever do, Jack.”

  “Tell me you like doing this, Porter,” Jack challenged. “Tell me it as if you really mean it.”

  “We get paid extra,” Porter said. A red bandanna rode high on his neck. His clothes were caked with dust.

  Jack would not relent. “I don’t care how much extra she pays us. She should hire someone else to do her damn collecting.”

  Brennan snorted like a bull. He had the shoulders of one, too. “Will you listen to yourself? Name me one other outfit where the punchers make as much as we do? Ninety dollars a month. That’s twice what most han
ds earn.”

  “Admit it,” Porter said to Jack. “You like the extra money as much as we do. So quit your belly-aching and get back to work.”

  “What if those two Texas Rangers find us?”

  “They’re in town, Jack,” Porter said. “We saw them in front of the livery, remember?”

  “They could have followed us,” Jack sulked.

  Brennan leaned on the shovel. “But they didn’t. We kept a sharp watch. No one knows we’re here except Mrs. Tanner and her son.”

  “And Seton,” Porter said. “Don’t forget Bart Seton.”

  “Why she hired him on, I’ll never know,” Jack groused. “He hardly does a lick of work. Spends most of his time up at the house. And don’t tell me she’s giving him quilting lessons, neither.”

  Porter glanced down the canyon. “One of these days that mouth of yours is going to get you shot. If Seton heard you say that, he would bed you down, permanent.”

  “Bart Seton doesn’t scare me,” Jack declared.

  “Then you are a natural-born fool,” Porter said. “Bart Seton would scare anyone with a lick of common sense.”

  “Enough jawing,” Brennan said. “The sooner we fill those packs, the sooner we can head back to the ranch.”

  Filled the packs with what? was the question on my mind. They had chipped quite a pile from the rock wall. Ore of some kind. Glittering streaks gave me a clue. Not yellow streaks, but grayish streaks.

  Jack and Porter stepped to the wall and resumed chipping away. They were intent on what they were doing. Brennan had his back to me.

  Straightening, I went around the bend. I made no attempt to hide. I strolled toward them as casually as you please. When I was an arm’s length from Brennan, I halted, leveled the scattergun, thumbed back both hammers, and smiled. “Howdy, boys.”

  Brennan whirled so fast he almost dropped the shovel. Porter and Jack stopped swinging their picks and their jaws dropped down to their belts.

  “Don’t let me interrupt,” I said. That close, the vein gleamed brightly. Not solid silver, but a rich vein nonetheless. It ran along the bottom of the wall from where Porter and Jack were standing for another twenty yards. Seven sizable pockets had previously been dug out.