A Wolf in the Fold

had happened. I shot one man in the chest, another in the head, snatching the second man’s revolver as he fell. Screams and shouts added to the bedlam as I plowed through them, scattering those not quick enough to move aside.

Packed so close together as they were, no one dared fire for fear of hitting someone else.

Then I was in the street and sprinting for my life, zigzagging as I ran. I had always been fleet of foot. Now it would be put to the test.

“There he goes!”

“Shoot him!”

Several tried. Slugs sizzled the air uncomfortably near and there was a tug at my sleeve. I made it to the boardwalk, and the saloon. The door was shut and no doubt locked, so I used the big window. Throwing my arms over my face, I crashed into it shoulder first.

My luck held. I wasn’t cut. I raced for the rear, hoping there was a back way out. I had never been in the saloon before. It would not have been fitting when I was pretending to be a parson.

The howls of my pursuers spurred me into flying down a short hall. I came to a door. A flick of a bolt and the wrench of a latch and I was in the cool night air, just as the mob crashed in through the front.

I turned east and sped to the gap between the general store and the butcher’s. Some of my pursuers burst out of the saloon and spotted me as I darted into it, but I doubted they guessed my intent.

I sped to the main street and was elated to find it temporarily empty.

The townspeople had fallen for my ruse. I had led them away from Calista’s—and my horses. Most of them, anyway.

A figure filled the window of her bedroom, and a finger pointed. “There he is! He’s right there! Get him, somebody!”

I shot the town crier in the throat and he staggered out of view. Somewhere, a rifle blasted, kicking up dust inches from my boot. But I made it to the alley. It was nearly pitch-black. Which explains why I collided with someone coming the other way. We were both running flat out, and the impact slammed both of us to the ground. I landed on my back, the breath knocked out of me, the few stars visible overhead swirling and dancing.

“You damned idiot!” the townsman bellowed.

I forced myself to sit up. The man was doing the same.

“Fowler, is that you? Why in hell don’t you watch where you’re going? I about busted a rib.”

“I’m not Fowler,” I said, and shot him. Heaving erect, I jumped over the deceased.

Two men were standing guard over Brisco and the mare. They had heard the shot and were almost to the alley when I hurtled into the open. Both had rifles, but neither had his leveled.

Stupidity always costs us. In their case it was lead to the head, and then I was in the saddle and galloping south with the mare in tow.

Bedlam ruled Whiskey Flats. Lanterns and lamps were blazing all over the place, and despite the shots and screams, most of the women and a few kids had ventured outdoors and were milling about.

I was in for it now. I had shot the living hell out of that town. They would send for more Rangers. A lot more Rangers. Or they might even contact the governor and ask for the army to be sent. Either way, I was running short on time. I had to finish up and get out of there. Once I was across the state line I would be safe.

Or would I? The Rangers might not let a little thing like a boundary keep them from coming after me. Or someone in government might think to hire the Pinkertons and sic them on me. The last thing I wanted was those bloodhounds on my trail.

It could be that in shooting two Texas Rangers, I had shot myself in the foot. The state of Texas might go so far as to post a bounty on my head, and if the bounty was large enough, I’d have every peckerwood bounty seeker from here to Hades and back again after my hide.

Evidently the townsfolk had had their fill of me. No one gave chase. I rode for a while, then reined east toward the distant Fair Sister and the LT.

I tried not to think of Calista, but she crept into my thoughts anyway. I never meant to get her killed. Using her to snare the Rangers had seemed like a good idea. How was I to know it would flare up in my face? I consoled myself that her highfalutin airs were more to blame than I was. Her and her morals! I was good enough for her to associate with when she thought I was a parson. I never had understood an attitude like that. But then, I didn’t judge people.

Some would say that it was wrong for me not to share their scruples. In their eyes I must be evil. But who gave them the right to decide what a person could and couldn’t do? What made them good and me bad other than their belief I had to be wrong because I did not think like them?

Folks claimed I did not have a conscience, but that was not true. The guilt of killing my father always bore down on me like the weight of the world on that Atlas gent I heard about when I was small. It was one killing I truly regretted, along with that of my wife. The rest were just business. Some men farmed for a living, some were lawyers, some owned stores and saloons or whatnot. Me, I killed people. It was my profession, to get fancy about it.

I was good at killing and I liked doing it, and I would as soon go on doing it until I was too old and puny to shoot straight. But the rest of the world would have it otherwise. They would not let me be. To them I was a rabid dog that must be destroyed at any and all costs.

It was hardly fair.

I sighed in frustration. You would think that after twelve years I would be used to the finger-pointing and the name-calling, but it never did sit well with me that I was considered a lowly coyote because I sheared sheep.

A sound intruded on my thoughts, and I glanced over my shoulder. Whiskey Flats was a nest of fireflies in the distance. I discovered I had drifted toward the road to the LT and was paralleling it. The sound I’d heard had been hoofbeats.

A pair of cowboys were heading for the ranch.

A slap of my legs, and I moved to cut them off. I reached the road and drew rein in the middle. I did not palm my Remington or shuck my Winchester. Another minute and they came to a stop.

“You’re blocking the road, friend,” a young puncher said, pointing out the obvious. He had a moon face and looked to be all of eighteen.

“Do we know you?” asked his companion, the slab of muscle who had been at the restaurant with Chester. Jim, his name was.

In the dark they did not recognize me. I smiled and said, “Where’s the fire, boys?”

“Back in town,” the young one said excitedly. “Lucius Stark gunned down a couple of Texas Rangers and a woman.”

“And seven others, besides,” Jim said.

“Did you see it?” I asked.

“I wish,” the young one declared. “We were with Matty Blaylock, the dove from the saloon. She let us have pokes for five dollars.”

“We heard the ruckus,” Jim related, “but by the time we got our clothes on and down the steps, Stark had lit a shuck.”

“It sure was a sight to behold!” the young one marveled. “Bodies and puddles of blood everywhere. People crying and cursing.”

“We saw them carry the dead Rangers from the boardinghouse,” Jim said. “Can you imagine? Stark killed two at the same time. That’s hardly ever done.”

“I wouldn’t want to be in his boots when the rest of the Rangers find out,” the younger puncher commented.

“We’re on our way to tell our boss,” Jim said. “She’ll be mighty interested in the news.”

I shifted so my right hand was on my hip. “Would you give her a message for me?”

“For you?” the young one repeated.

“If it’s not too much of a bother,” I said. “You’re going that way anyway.”

They glanced at each other and Jim said, “What are you talking about, mister? Who the blazes are—” He stopped and flung an arm out. “Damn me for a fool! Ike! It’s him!”

“Him who?”

“Lucius Stark!”