Ralph Compton Death Along the Cimarron (2 page)

They were toying with her like three big cats teasing a helpless mouse. Danielle knew that had she been a man the fight would have already commenced. They were counting her short because she was a woman. Well, that was all right with her. She'd been treated this way before. She knew how to use her being a woman to her advantage. These men standing before her didn't realize who they were about to face off with.

For the better part of three years, Danielle Strange had passed herself off as a man in order to hunt down the outlaws who had killed her father and left his body hanging from the bough of a tree. Going under the name Danny Duggin, Danielle had acquired a reputation as a cold-blooded gunman across Indian Territory, Texas, and the Mexican hill country. But that was then and this was now, she reminded herself. A gunslinger was only as good as his or her last fight. Danielle hadn't raised a gun toward a man for over a year now. She hoped he hadn't lost her edge.

She felt the tension in her trigger finger. There was no question she was as fast as ever. And she had no doubt that her aim was still as deadly as the strike of a rattlesnake. But she knew that a year was a long time for a gun handler to go untested. But there was nobody else in Haley Springs to keep the peace. She had to do it. She hoped this could be settled without serious bloodshed.

With their pistols back in their holsters, the three men just stared at her. Frisco Bonham hooked both thumbs into his belt and rested his weight on one side, standing with belligerent bearing. “Now what?” he said flatly.

Here it came, Danielle thought to herself. “Now all three of you get off the street,” she said.

“Huh-uh.” Frisco Bonham shook his head. “We ain't making no noise, we ain't disturbing no peace. We'll stand where we damn well please. You run along now, before we lose our tempers.”

“Yeah,” Billy Boy sneered. “What do you think of that?”

“I think you've all three had your chance,” said Danielle. She knew they believed they could draw their Colts whenever they felt like it. She knew they felt like they had all the time in the world. “I'm through talking,” Danielle added. The rifle barrel swung down from her cradling arm and exploded.

Billy Boy's pistol stopped on its upswing from his holster and flew from his hand as the impact of Danielle's rifle slug hammered his foot to the ground, then slung him backward onto the hard dirt.

For just a split second the other two gunmen stood stunned at the suddenness of her attack. She hadn't hesitated. She hadn't offered any further warning. She'd simply said she was through talking, and then she'd shot Billy Boy down without a blink of her eye.

“Damn you, woman! Kill her, Frisco!” shouted Ronald Muir, his hand streaking up with his pistol in it. But Frisco Bonham, staring at Billy Boy as the wounded man lay wallowing in the dirt holding his foot, didn't move as quickly as Ronald Muir.

Danielle swung her rifle toward Ronald Muir, cocking it on the way. But before she got the shot off, another pistol shot resounded, this one from the boardwalk behind her. She saw Ronald Muir fall backward as a ribbon of blood streamed from his chest. She had no idea who had fired the shot, but she was grateful for the help. It gave her time to swing the rifle toward Frisco Bonham just in time to see his pistol raise halfway from his holster. Seeing that the rifle had him cold, Frisco froze for a second, considering his chances.

Behind Danielle a gravelly voice said to the stunned gunman, “Be real careful what you decide. This ground is full of bad decisions.”

“You killed him,” said Frisco, glancing at Ronald Muir's body. Blood spewed from the large hole in the dead man's chest.

“Deader than hell,” said the gravelly voice. “And you'll be too, if you don't flip that gun over onto the ground real easylike.”

Danielle only stared at Frisco Bonham. She had no idea who was standing behind her, but she'd seen whose side he was on. For now, that was good enough.

Frisco's gloved hand rose slowly, then dropped the pistol on the ground at his feet. “You both just made one bad mistake,” he hissed. “That boy happens to be the brother of my boss—Cherokee Earl Muir!”

Billy Boy Harper had struggled to his feet, blood pouring from his left boot. “Earl's going to go wild-ape crazy when he hears about this!” Billy Boy said in a strained voice. “He won't abide his brother getting took down by a woman and an old bar swamper.”

“He'll have to work it out the best he can,” said Danielle. “Get his body across a saddle and get out of town.”

“Come on, Billy Boy, give me a hand,” Frisco demanded.

“Damn it, Frisco, I'm shot all to hell here,” Billy Boy whined, limping over toward the hitchrail where their horses stood.

“You'll be worse than shot when Earl hears you didn't help me bring back poor Ronald's body,” shouted Frisco.

Danielle stepped back and to the side as the pair struggled with the dead body and dragged it to the horses. “Hope you're all right, ma'am,” said the rough voice from the boardwalk behind her.

“I'm fine,” Danielle reassured her benefactor. She looked away from the two gunmen long enough to get a look at the man who had helped her. It took a moment for her to recognize him. When she did, she smiled to herself, knowing that he wasn't going to recognize her in return. “How about yourself?” she asked.

“I'll do,” said the old man. “I ain't no saloon swamper like that fool said, though.”

Danielle recognized the man as an old cattle drover known only as Stick, whom she hadn't seen in over two years. The last time she'd seen Stick he was working as cook and cowhand for Tuck Carlyle, the young man who had stolen her heart back when she was on the trail of her father's killers. Danielle was eager to ask about Tuck, but she knew she had to bide her time and first explain to Stick who she was and how the last time he'd seen her she was the feared gunman Danny Duggin.

“I knew better than that, Stick,” Danielle said. She turned to face the old man as, squinting warily in the direction of Frisco and Billy Boy while they rode out of town, he stepped down off the boardwalk. “I know you're a top hand and a better-than-most trail cook.”

“Huh? What's that?” Stick turned to face her, taken aback by the fact that she knew his name. “Where do you know me from, young lady?” As he spoke, he eyed her closely. Danielle only smiled, cradling the rifle in her arm once again, this time taking her hand down from the trigger guard.

Stick stepped closer, looking her up and down curiously, then studying her face. “You do look familiar ... but for the life of me, I swear I can't place you.”

“It'll come to you, Stick,” said Danielle. “Meanwhile, I'm much obliged to you for backing my play.”

“Backing your play?” Stick chuckled and spit a stream of tobacco juice. “You're talking like a gunman yourself, young lady.” He nodded toward the bloody footprint Billy Boy had left behind. “Looked to me like you would've done all right anyways.”

Danielle smiled again. “It never hurts to have an extra gun backing you up with three men like that. They struck me was as some real hardcases.”

“You're a good judge of character then,” said Stick. He stared off toward the disappearing figures on horseback. “I was listening to them talk in the saloon a while ago. There was eight of them here this morning. Then the other five rode out of here earlier. Lucky for us or we'd have been facing all of them. I heard one mention some cattle they sold to a rancher out near Buckston Crossing. Sounded to me like they might've rustled a herd and sold most of it to him. Of course, it ain't nothing I could swear to, just a powerfully strong hunch.”

“Well, it wouldn't surprise me one bit,” said Danielle.

Stick scratched his bristly beard stubble and eyed her closely again. “Now how come you to know my name?”

“I know you, Stick,” said Danielle. “And I know the man you used to work for.”

“Oh?” Stick looked even more curious. “Now how would you know that?”

“I just do,” said Danielle. “Tell me, how is Tuck Carlyle doing these days?”

“Well, he's not doing so—” Stick caught himself and stopped in surprise. “I'll be dunked straight up!” said Stick. “You sure nailed it on the head. I worked for Tuck Carlyle for the longest time.” He stepped back, staring even more closely at her, trying to place who she was, where he might know her from. “So I reckon I must know you from somewhere or other.”

“You sure do,” said Danielle. She looked around at the townsfolk starting to venture out now that the shooting was over. “But this isn't the best place to talk about it Have you et anything today, Stick?”

“No,” Stick replied, “but I've drunk extra whiskey to make up for it.”

As he spoke, Danielle noticed a broom sitting against the front of the saloon. It looked as though the old man had come out to sweep the boardwalk before seeing the trouble between her and the three men. “Then you wouldn't turn down some beans, steak, and biscuits, I don't suppose,” Danielle said.

“No, ma'am, not even with a gun to my head,” Stick said. Then he hesitated. “That is if it ain't no bother to you ... I never impose.”

“No bother, Stick. After you backing me up, it would be my pleasure to fix us up some grub.”

“Well then, all right, long was as you're sure I ain't putting you out any,” said Stick, being polite.

“Go get your horse and ride out with me.” Danielle nodded toward the west, out across the rise and fall of rocky ground to where the land reached upward into a stretch of low hills. “My place is nearby. We'll bend a couple of forks together. Then I'll tell you where I know you from.”

“I'd sure love to, ma'am,” said Stick. “But could you give me just a minute or two?” He jerked a thumb toward the broom on the boardwalk out front of the saloon. “I need to finish up a little job I started.”

“Take your time, Stick,” Danielle said. “I'm in no hurry.”

Stick grinned and touched the brim of his hat as she backed away. “Much obliged,” he said.

 

On their way out to Danielle's eighty acres of scrub grass and mesquite, Stick nodded toward a thin rise of dust far to their left and said, “That would be those two snakes we just run out of Haley Springs, if I ain't mistaken.”

“I'm hoping that's the last we see of them,” Danielle commented, riding in the buckboard beside Stick on his aging dun stallion.

“Oh, I sure wouldn't count on that,” said Stick. “We ain't heard the last about what happened today. I can feel it in my bones.” He gazed off toward the dust with a wary expression. “I don't know Cherokee Earl Muir, but I've heard plenty, and none of it's been good.”

Danielle studied Stick's weathered face and, seeing the look of concern, asked, “Are you having second thoughts about what we done?”

“What?” Stick gave her a bemused look. “Why, Lord, no! I've been picking right over wrong my whole life. So far it ain't never failed me. Cherokee Earl or any of his bunch comes looking for me, they'll see I'm easier to find than stink on a polecat.”

“That's how I thought you'd feel about it.” Danielle smiled, then juggled the reins up and down, quickening the wagon horse's pace. “Hup, Sam,” she said as the big horse seemed to snap out of a lull.

They rode quietly, sharing very little conversation for the next three miles until at length Danielle swung the wagon off the dirt trail onto a narrow wagon path leading over a rise of rocky grassland. At a wood and stone house built with its back against a bluff of protruding rock, Danielle stopped the wagon and stepped down at a sun-bleached hitchrail. “Well, here we are, such as it is,” she said, putting a hand on the small of her back and stretching.

“Looks mighty fine and inviting to me,” said Stick, taking a long look at the house and outstretched land surrounding it. “I always dreamed of someday having me a place of my own like this ... somewhere a man can throw down a blanket and not have to roll it back up come morning 'less he wants to.”

Danielle looked Stick up and down as he gazed out across the land. She could tell he'd been living hand-to-mouth for a while. His boots were cracked across the tops and down in the heels. His hat looked as if it its edge had been gnawed on by barn critters. She noted to herself how thin he'd gotten since last she'd seen him. It saddened her to see a good cowhand like Stick in such a condition.

“It's just me here running this place. I could use an extra hand if you're in no big hurry to be someplace else.” Danielle said, hoping Stick wouldn't look too closely and notice that there wasn't enough going on here to keep one person busy, let alone two.

“I've no place else to be, and all the time in the world to get there,” said Stick, his eyes gliding across a small corral, where six horses milled out of the heat on the shaded side of a small open-front barn. Danielle was certain he saw there was no extra hand needed here. But the fact that he didn't comment on it made her realize what dire straits the old drover was in. “I'd be pleased to stay here and help you run this place, ma'am,” said Stick, “long as you're sure you can use a hand.”

“Oh, yes, believe me, Stick,” said Danielle, directing him toward the house as she spoke. “I need help. I'm not running any cattle right now, but I might, as soon as I get things fixed up around here. Right now I'm mostly dealing in horses when I can.”

At the door to the house, Stick stopped and looked back again across the rough, hardscrabble land as if it were a glimpse of paradise. Off to their right, a lone buzzard swung up off its perch in a spindly cottonwood tree beside a dry creek bed. Stick smiled and took in a long, deep breath, his eyes growing a bit moist for just a second. “Ma'am, I'm glad I happened onto you.” The old drover's voice cracked as he spoke. “I swear, this has turned out to be my best day in a long time.”