Haddock’s companions laughed, and it gave Danielle something to think about. Suppose the rest of the men she had sworn to kill had sold their guns somewhere on the frontier? Already, she could understand a drifting rider’s need to hire on somewhere for the winter, but it made her task far more difficult. She had no way of knowing whether or not Brice Levan would ever come home. Riding with outlaws, perhaps he was already dead. There had to be a limit as to how long she could remain with Levan, before giving up and moving on.
Reaching the third sheep camp and finding all was well, there was nothing to do except return to the first camp.
“What about tonight?” Danielle asked. “After we’ve been in the saddle all day, are we expected to ride all night?”
“So far,” said Warnell Prinz, “the cattlemen have only stampeded the sheep during the daytime. We don’t know why.”
“I do,” Sal Wooler said. “Them Mex herders has got dogs. Without ’em, it’s hell tryin’ to keep all them sheep headed the same way. I wouldn’t want to try it at night.”
Three days and nights passed without the Markwardt outfit bothering any of the three sheep camps. The strain was beginning to tell on old Sam Levan, and he spoke to all his riders at suppertime.
“I’m a patient man, but if Markwardt’s bunch ain’t made some move by sundown tomorrow, then we’re goin’ to.”
“I reckon you aim to rim-rock some cows, then,” said Dud Menges.
“Only if we have to,” Levan said. “We’ll start with a stampede tomorrow night. I want his herd scattered from here to the Mexican border. If that don’t get his attention, then we’ll try somethin’ else.”
“Then he’ll be sendin’ the law after us,” said Gus Haddock.
“He can’t send the law after us for stampedin’ his cows any more than we could send the law after him for rim-rocking our sheep,” Levan said. “At least his damn cows will be alive, wherever they end up. That’s more than can be said for my sheep.”
“Unless it rains, they’ll have tracks to follow,” said Sal Wooler.
“Let them follow,” Levan said. “I want to put them in the position of having to break the law by coming after us.”
“You mean with guns,” said Jasper Witheres.
“That’s exactly what I mean,” Levan said. “When an hombre shoots at you, whatever his reason, then you got the right to shoot back. It’s just the way things is.”
Supper was a somber meal. Eppie Levan looked more harried than ever, and each of the men seemed lost in his own thoughts. Danielle had hired out her gun, and now there was a very real chance she would be using it for a purpose she had never intended.
The Adolph Markwardt Ranch. October 14, 1870.
“Startin’ tonight,” Markwardt told his riders, “we’re going to be watching our herds after dark.”
“Hell,” said Oscar McLean, “there ain’t but six of us. Who’s gonna be watching them in the daytime?”
“Nobody,” Markwardt said. “You don’t need daylight to scatter cows from here to yonder, and I reckon Sam Levan knows that. If him and his outfit shows up on my range with mischief on their minds, then we can gun the varmints down.”
“It’ll be the start of a range war,” said Nat Horan.
“Then so be it,” Markwardt said. “This is the frontier, and a man can’t claim nothin’ he ain’t strong enough to hold on to.”
Chapter 8
Most of Adolph Markwardt’s cattle were strung out along the Rio Grande, where there was still a little graze. Markwardt’s outfit was watching from the west side of the river, and since there was no moon, they were not immediately aware of the Levan sheep outfit’s arrival. Suddenly, the night blossomed with gunfire, and the spooked cattle lit out downriver, picking up others as they went.
“Let’s go get ’em!” Nat Horan shouted.
He and his four companions galloped across the river, drawing their guns when they judged they were within range. But the marauders made poor targets, leaning over the necks of their horses. Finally, when the galloping herd was thoroughly spooked, they split up. Knowing the futility of pursuing them individually in the dark, Markwardt’s outfit reined up to rest their heaving horses
“Damn,” spat Isaac Taylor, “old Adolph will have our heads on a plate.”
“Not mine,” Oscar McLean said.
“Nor mine,” echoed his brother Lon. “It’s pitch dark out here. A man can’t fight what he can’t see.”
“Well,” Joel Wells asked, “do we ride in and admit they got the jump on us?”
“Not me,” said Nat Horan. “I been cussed by Markwardt before, and I ain’t about to take it again. I say we wait for first light, round up them cows, and drive ’em up yonder where they was.”
“Without telling Markwardt?” Joel Wells asked.
“Not unless one of you wants to volunteer,” replied Nat Horan. “After all, they just run the hell out of the herd. None of ’em’s likely to die from that,”
“That’s an invite for them to come back tonight and stampede ’em again,” Joel Wells said. “Hell, we’ll be up all night listening to the cattle run, and all the next day rounding them up.”
“No we won’t,” said Nat Horan. “Tonight we’ll be over there among the cows, ridin’ around the herd. At first sign of any riders, we cut down on them.”
“With graze so damn skimpy, that bunch will be strung out for miles downriver,” Oscar said. “How do you aim to keep ’em together long enough for just five of us to keep watch on them all?”
“We get down here a couple of hours before dark and bunch the varmints,” Nat Horan said. “The only time we can legally shoot them damn sheepmen is when they’re over here on Markwardt’s holdings.”
“They ain’t exactly a wet-behind-the-ears bunch,” said Joel Wells. “Old Adolph ain’t done enough thinkin’ on this. Soon as we gun down one of them sheepmen, it’ll be hell from then on.”
“Not if we gun ’em down on Adolph’s spread, stampedin’ his cattle,” Nat Horan said. “The law can’t touch us.”
“It ain’t the law that bothers me,” said Joel Wells. “It’s a range war. A man has to live like a hermit, afraid to ride to town on Saturday night, ’cause he never knows when he’ll be shot in the back. There ain’t no damn rules. It’s shoot or be shot, every day, seven days a week.”
“You can always take your bedroll and drift,” Lon McLean said, “but you’ll have to winter somewhere. It ain’t often a man can draw a hundred and found.”
“You’re right about that,” said Joel Wells, “and I ain’t got enough money to even keep me alive until spring. I reckon I’ll stay and take the risk with the rest of you.”
The five of them set out at first light, driving the scattered cattle back upriver. It was two hours past sunrise when they finally gathered the last of them, and before they could merge the new arrivals with those already gathered, Adolph Markwardt rode out from behind some brush. He reined up and, for an uncomfortably long time, said nothing. Finally, he spoke.
“So they stampeded the herd right under your noses.”
“It was black as the inside of a stovepipe last night,” Nat Horan said. “A man can’t shoot what he can’t see, and they never fired back. They just scattered the herd.”
“So all of you decided to keep it from me by rounding them up on the quiet,” Adolph said.
“We done the best we could,” said Oscar McLean.
“Yeah,” his brother Lon said. “It’s easy to cuss somebody else because he fails to do something you couldn’t of done yourself.”
Adolph Markwardt’s hand trembled over the butt of his revolver, but he knew better. He had hired these men for their deadly speed and accuracy with a gun. He relaxed, and when he spoke, there was no anger in his voice.