A Wolf in the Fold

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 goods: 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.

It was Jordy, armed with a rifle and a brace of pistols, perched in the crook of an oak.

I was amazed he had not spotted me. Then I saw that the heat of the afternoon was getting to him. He kept yawning. His chin would droop to his chest, and when it did, he would jerk his head up and shake himself to stay awake.

I could have picked him off. One shot, and he would drop like a sitting grouse. But he was not the only fish I was there to fry and the others must not be forewarned. So I lay still and waited.

The sun was well on its downward sweep when the crackle of brush and low whistling warned me someone was coming.

Kip Butcher strolled into view, carelessly holding his rifle by the barrel. He halted at the base of the oak and glanced up.

“You’re the ugliest squirrel I’ve ever seen.”

“Did you come to spew insults or do you have a purpose?” Jordy retorted.