Allison stood on the porch, watching Danielle ride in. With his fancy garb, sandy hair, and smoothly shaven face, he was a handsome man. Danielle thought with amusement of him riding naked through town, women peeking at him. Danielle reined up.
“Step down,” Allison said.
Danielle dismounted, but stopped short of the porch, noting that he carried two tied-down revolvers. Allison said nothing, so she spoke.
“My name is Daniel Strange, and I’m looking for a gent named Levan. I was told that he worked here for a while.”
“Are you the law? I’m Clay Allison, and lawmen aren’t welcome on my property.”
“No,” Danielle said, “I’m not the law.”
“Levan worked for me not quite a year,” said Allison. “I let him and three others go on September first. I got no idea where they went, but I know Levan has kin somewhere south of Santa Fe. Now I’d suggest you mount up and ride on.”
In the West, it was considered rude not to invite a stranger in, if only for a drink of cold water, but being asked to leave for no reason was unthinkable. Danielle decided she didn’t like Clay Allison. Without a word, she mounted Sundown and rode south.
Santa Fe, New Mexico. October 5, 1870.
The ride from Alamosa to Santa Fe was a little more than a hundred miles. Taking the time to rest the horse, Danielle rode in just as the first stars began appearing in the purple heavens. Santa Fe was an old, old town, established by the Spanish, and their influence was still everywhere. To Danielle it looked as big as Denver. Eventually, she found a little hotel with a cafe directly across the street. She left the chestnut mare at a livery on the street that ran behind the hotel and, walking back to the lobby, took a room for the night. The wind from the west was cold, and there was a dirty smudge of clouds far to the west as the setting sun had slipped over the horizon. It looked like another storm might be on the way. If that was the case, it should be obvious by morning. Danielle had no desire to be caught in the wilds somewhere to the south if there was snow. She would wait out the storm in Santa Fe, where there was shelter and warm food.
By dawn, a flurry of snow was blowing out of the west, and by the time Danielle had breakfast, the flakes were much larger. The wind was cold, slipping its icy fingers beneath her sheep-skin-lined coat. Danielle returned to her room at the hotel and, from the wood stacked in the hall, built up the fire in the stove. She brought in more wood for the night and, after locking the door, slid the back of a chair under the knob. She then treated herself to the luxury of stripping off all her clothing and removing the hated binder, finally freeing her breasts of its constricting grasp. With the storm raging outside and the wind howling around the eaves, there was little to do except sleep, and Danielle did just that. Undisturbed, she slumbered the day through, arising in the late afternoon. One look out the window told her that not only had the storm continued to blow, it had become more intense. Starting with the binder, she dressed. She buckled on her Colt, pulled her hat down low, and then added her heavy coat and gloves. She had to get to the cafe for supper, and it was a fight, for the snow was already to her knees. There was nobody inside the cafe except the cook.
“You might as well close and go home,” Danielle said.
“I can’t,” said the cook. “This is home. I live in the back of the place.”
Two more men came in while Danielle was eating, and one of them wore a lawman’s star. The two ordered their meal and took seats at one of the tables, gratefully sipping hot coffee.
“Charlie,” said the cook to the lawman, “how’s it goin’ with them cattlemen and sheepmen down along the Rio?”
“Not worth a damn,” Charlie said. “Me and Vince rode down there for nothin’, havin’ to fight our way back through a blizzard. Old man Levan’s killin’ mad, and he’s ready to go after the cattlemen with guns, when he can’t prove anything. Somebody rim-rocked near a thousand head of his sheep.”6
“Maybe he’s right,” said Vince, the lawman’s companion. “Who else but the cattlemen would of done that?”
“Hell, I don’t know,” the lawman said. “All I know is this whole damn country is under my jurisdiction, and I can’t spend all my time with old man Levan’s sheep. I’ve done all I can do to avoid a range war between sheepmen and cattlemen. I reckon the winner will be whoever can afford the most hired guns.”
Danielle listened with interest, a plan taking shape in her mind. Suppose she asked for and got a gunman’s role with the sheepmen or cattlemen? Sooner or later, if he was alive, Brice Levan would be coming home. Even if he did not, some of the other killers hired by one side or the other might be men on her death list. Danielle returned to her hotel room, preparing for another dreary day of waiting out the storm.
To the south, on the eastern bank of the Rio Grande, Sam Levan’s hired guns kept a roaring fire going in the bunkhouse stove. There were Gus Haddock, Dud Menges, Warnell Prinz, Sal Wooler, and Jasper Witheres.
“Old man Sam’s mad enough to walk into hell and slap the devil’s face,” Dud Menges said. “By the time the sheriff and his deputy got here, the snow had covered the tracks of that bunch that rim-rocked the sheep. Wasn’t nothing could be done.”
“He’ll end up blamin’ us,” said Gus Haddock, “and there’s no way in hell so few of us can keep watch over three sheep camps at the same time. Markwardt’s cow nurses just hit one of the unguarded camps, and by the time we can get there, they’re gone. They’ll split up, and like the sheriff says, there ain’t a damn bit of evidence.”
“He’s got two Mex sheep herders at each of the three camps,” Dud Menges said. “If he wasn’t so damn cheap, he could arm them with Winchesters.”
“But we get fightin’ wages,” said Warnell Prinz. “The sheep herders don’t.”
“We need more men,” Sal Wooler said.
“There’s folks in hell wantin’ cold spring water,” Jasper Witheres said. “Their chance of gettin’ it is about the equal of old Sam hirin’ more guns. I think, once this storm has passed, he’ll send us to the Adolph Markwardt spread to raise hell, with or without any evidence. Who else but a bunch of cow nurses would want to run a flock of woolies off a bluff?”
At Adolph Markwardt’s bunkhouse, there was considerable jubilation. Markwardt himself had come to congratulate his men. With him, he had brought two bottles of whiskey.
“You won’t be able to ride for a couple of days,” Markwardt said. “Get all the rest you can, for you’ve earned it. The sheriff was by here in the midst of the storm, and was on his way back to Santa Fe. Naturally I told him all of you was in the bunkhouse, waiting out the storm. I told him he could see for himself, but he didn’t bother. It’s a comfort knowin’ we’re law abidin’ folks, ain’t it?”
“It is, for a fact,” said Nat Horan. “Wasn’t our fault them sheep didn’t have the sense to stop running when they got to that drop-off.”
“The damn four-legged locusts don’t belong in cattle country,” Lon McLean said.
“Yeah,” said his brother Oscar, “but what we’re fightin’ for is open range. Accordin’ to the law, sheep have as much right there as cattle, but we need that range. We got just too many cows for the 640 acres we have. We need two more sections.”
“The sheepmen have set up camp there,” Isaac Taylor said, “and they ain’t likely to be movin’ until there’s some shootin’ in their direction.”
“After we’ve gunned down a few of them,” said Joel Wells, “that’s when the sheriff will come lookin’ for us.”
“Not if it’s self-defense,” Markwardt said. “We raise enough hell with them sheep, and Sam Levan will send his riders after us. For anybody trespassin’ on my property, tryin’ to gun us down, we got the right to shoot in self-defense.”