“Damn it, I know that,” Levan said. “I don’t want a man of you killed over a few sheep, but do your best to keep them cow nurses from rim-rocking another flock.”
After breakfast, Danielle, Prinz, Wooler, and Witheres rode out to begin their watch over the three sheep camps.
The Markwardt Ranch. October 18, 1870.
“Let’s go get some sleep,” Adolph Markwardt said, an hour after they had headed the intended stampede. “They won’t be back tonight.”
“We may have hit some of them,” said Nat Horan. “We were within range, and all their muzzle flashes made pretty good targets.”
“You boys done well,” Markwardt said. “We may have just put an end to these late-night stampedes.”
“I doubt it,” said Oscar McLean. “Levan needs that free grass more than we do.”
“All right by me,” Markwardt said, “long as he’s willing to risk his damn neck for it.”
“Are we goin’ after them now?” Isaac Taylor asked.
“Not yet,” said Markwardt. “Give ’em a few days to lick their wounds, and they’ll figure some other way of comin’ after us.”
Sam Levan rode into Santa Fe, to the mercantile.
“I need some dynamite,” Levan said.
“Ain’t got much,” the storekeeper said. “Miners buy it up as quick as it comes in. I reckon I got a dozen sticks.”
“That’ll be enough,” said Levan.
When Levan reached his ranch, he went to the bunkhouse, where he had the necessary privacy to cap and fuse the dynamite. Finished, he left it there. Had he taken it to the house, there would have been yet another tirade from Eppie. Just at sundown Danielle, Warnell Prinz, Sal Wooler, and Jasper Witheres rode in.
“Nothin’ happened at any of the sheep camps today,” said Jasper Witheres.
“I didn’t expect it to,” Sam Levan said. “We ain’t pushed it far enough, but I think we will tonight. I’ll meet you in the bunkhouse, after supper.”
“How’s Gus and Dud?” Danielle asked.
“Better,” said Levan. “Eppie’s been dosin’ ’em with whiskey, and they’re sweatin’ like mules.”
Supper was a silent affair, the four remaining riders wondering what old Sam Levan had in mind for them, with two of their companions out of the fight. Levan finished first, and by the time his riders left the supper table, Levan was waiting in the bunkhouse. His remaining four riders looked skeptical. Levan reached under one of the bunks, dragging out a gunnysack. From it, he took a stick of capped and fused dynamite.
“A dozen sticks,” said Levan, “each with a seven-second fuse. All we got to do is fling three or four of these into the air above the Markwardt herd, and they’ll run like hell wouldn’t have it. This time, they won’t have muzzle flashes to shoot at.”
“My God,” Warnell Prinz said, “The concussion from that could kill some cows. Maybe even a man.”
“Damn it,” said Levan, “ridin’ in shouting and shooting ain’t got us nothing but two of the outfit shot. We can get close enough to fling this dynamite before they got any idea that we’re there.”
“No doubt we can,” Jasper Witheres said, “but ain’t you forgettin’ we got two men out of the fight with wounds? This dynamite throwin’ could be the very thing that’ll blow old Adolph’s mind. Why don’t we wait until Haddock and Menges is healed? Then if them cow chasers comes after us, we won’t be shorthanded.”
“That makes sense to me,” said Sal Wooler.
“And to me,” Warnell Prinz agreed.
Danielle said nothing, and Sam Levan turned on her.
“Well, kid, ain’t you standin’ with the others?”
“I agree with their thinking,” said Danielle, “but I’ll ride with you. I don’t cross a man who’s paying me wages.”
“Well, God bless my soul,” Levan said. “The kid’s got more sand than any of you.”
“Aw, hell,” said Warnell Prinz. “I still think we’re bitin’ off more than we can chew, but I’ll ride with you.”
Sam Levan looked at Sal Wooler and Jasper Witheres, and they nodded.
“I don’t reckon they’ll be expecting us again tonight,” Levan said, “and we’ll have that in our favor. We ride at midnight.”
Danielle and her three companions retired to their bunks to get as much sleep as they could. For a long time Danielle lay thinking, pondering the wisdom of using dynamite. It seemed a cowardly thing to do, but nothing else had drawn the Markwardt outfit into an expected fight. When Danielle had ridden out of St. Joe, her mission seemed simple. All she had to do was track down the killers who had murdered her father, extracting revenge. Now she was about to take part in a raid that might cost innocent men their lives. Tonight she would ride with Sam Levan, but the more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that she should just ride on. If some of the Markwardt outfit died, it would be reason enough for the county sheriff to come looking for Sam Levan. The very last thing Danielle wanted was to become a fugitive from the law. So sobering were her thoughts, she was wide awake when Sam Levan came to the bunkhouse at midnight.
“Each of us will take one stick of dynamite,” Levan said. “We’ll light the fuses, throw the dynamite, and get away from there before they know what’s happening. Here’s a block of Lucifers.7 Each of you be sure and take some.”
Danielle took her stick of dynamite and broke off six of the Lucifers.
“Now let’s saddle up and ride,” said Levan. “Let’s be done with this.”
Danielle thought Levan seemed nervous, as though his iron-fisted resolve was not quite as strong as it had been. There was a very real possibility that so much exploding dynamite could kill Markwardt or some of his men. The county sheriff was well aware of the increasing bitterness between sheepmen and cattlemen. If one or more of the cattlemen died tonight, the lawman would most certainly come looking for Sam Levan, along with any of his outfit who had ridden with him. The five of them rode out, nobody speaking, Levan taking the lead.
Adolph Markwardt and his five riders had most of the cows bedded down along the river bank, and they rode from one end of the herd to the other, and back again.
“I still think we nailed a couple of ’em the last time they was here,” Nat Horan said, “and I don’t look for ’em to come back shorthanded.”
“Never underestimate a damn sheepman,” said Markwardt. “The varmints could give mules lessons in bein’ stubborn.”
The rest of the men laughed. In his own mind, each doubted there was a sheepman anywhere in the world who was more stubborn than Adolph Markwardt.
“It’s hell, spendin’ the night ridin’ from one herd to the other,” said Oscar McLean. “I think we ought to wait at one end.”
“Oh, hell, don’t give me that,” Markwardt growled. “That’s how they stampeded the herd the first time, with all of you gathered in a bunch at the wrong place. We don’t know from what direction they’re likely to ride in.”
“They come in from the north last time,” Joel Wells said. “I look for ’em to come in from the south if they try it again.”
“I don’t,” said Isaac Taylor. “That would stampede the herd back toward the ranch.”
“Isaac’s probably right,” Markwardt said. “I expect we’d better spend a little more time to the north of the herd.”
Markwardt and his outfit had begun circling the herd toward the north when the first explosion came. Flung high into the air, the short-fused dynamite exploded directly over the herd. Five times explosions rocked the night and the cattle went crazy. To the south they ran, Markwardt and his riders frantically trying to head them off. But there was no stopping the stampede, and it thundered on.