A Wolf in the Fold

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 hands 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.

“It can’t be!” Brennan blurted. “You’re dead.”

“No, you are.” I let him have a barrel full in the face. His head exploded like a melon. The stump of a neck and the body swayed, then pitched backward, the shovel clattering noisily. I swung the scattergun at the other two. “Who’s next?”

Jack and Porter threw their picks down and their arms into the air. “Don’t shoot, Parson!” Jack bleated. “Please don’t shoot!”

I circled so I was in front of them and far enough back that they couldn’t jump me. “I’m no Bible-thumper. My name is Lucius Stark.”

Porter’s eyes about bugged out. “Who did you say?”

“Are you hard of hearing?”

“Lucius Stark the Regulator?” Porter was horror-struck. He took a step back. “What do you want with us?”

“I need answers. Which one of you wants to go on living?” I did not say how long.

“I do!” Jack cried.

I emptied the second barrel into Porter. At that range the buckshot did not spread much. The blast lifted him