“Damn them,” said Markwardt. “The scurvy yellow coyotes.”
“My God,” Nat Horan said, “if we’d been any closer to the north end of the herd, we’d all be dead men.”
“Yeah,” said Oscar McLean, “and that bunch didn’t know we wasn’t right there where they was throwin’ the dynamite. How much longer before we ride over there and deliver a dose of lead?”
“Not much longer,” Markwardt said. “The rest of you ride in and get what sleep you can. I expect them blasts killed some cows, and I aim to be here at first light, to find out just how many. Then I’ll ride in for a talk with the sheriff. I’m bettin’ Sam Levan bought that explosive in Santa Fe. If we can tie him to that, it may be the proof we’ll need.”
As Sam Levan and his companions rode away, nobody spoke. There had been no shots fired in response to the blasts, so none of them knew whether or not Markwardt’s riders had been close enough to be hurt. While not lacking in courage, Danielle didn’t want to find herself on the wrong side of the law for having been part of Sam Levan’s outfit. Her quest—a vow of vengeance—was dangerous enough, without having to go on the dodge. As they drew near the Levan house, they could see lamplight streaming from several of the windows.
“Damn,” said Levan, “I hope nothing’s gone wrong here.”
“A little soon for that, I think,” Warnell Prinz said. “You want the rest of us to ride on to the house with you?”
“No,” said Levan. “Go on to the bunkhouse and get what sleep you can.”
When Levan entered the house, he heard voices in the kitchen, one of them Eppie’s.
“What’s goin’ on in there?” Levan demanded.
“Oh, Sam,” Eppie cried joyously, “Brice is here. He’s come back to us.”
When Sam Levan entered the kitchen, a lanky rider got up from the table. He was thin and hungry-looking, his clothing tattered and dirty, and his boots run over. Nothing was in order but the tied-down Colt on his right hip.
“Son, I’m glad to see you,” said Levan, taking the young man’s hand. “We got a fight in the making with old man Markwardt’s cow outfit. I need all the help I can get.”
“No,” Eppie cried. “You’re goin’ to get yourself killed, Sam, and I won’t let you take Brice with you.”
“Ma,” said Brice, “I can take care of myself. It’s hard times in Texas, with no work for a line rider, so I’m back, asking for a bunk and grub for a while. I’ll help Pa do whatever has to be done.”
Eppie Levan said no more, for her wayward son was too much like his stubborn sire. Sam Levan grinned at Brice, and the two shook hands again.
Gus Haddock and Dub Menges had healed to the extent that they were able to come to the breakfast table, and were there when Levan and the rest of the outfit joined them. As they were about to begin eating, Brice Levan entered the kitchen.
“Any of you that ain’t met him,” said Sam, “this is my oldest son, Brice. He’s . . . uh . . . been away.” With the exception of Danielle, all the riders nodded. Apparently they knew the new arrival. Looking directly at Danielle, Brice Levan spoke.
“Who’s the kid?”
“I’m almighty damn tired of being called the kid,” Danielle said, getting to her feet. “My name is Daniel Strange.”
“Uh . . . sorry,” said Brice Levan. “No offense intended.”
There was no doubt in Danielle’s mind that Brice had seen her pair of Colts with silver initials inlaid in the grips, for his face went a shade whiter. She waited for Levan to sit down before seating herself on the other side of the table. He ate very little and seemed uncomfortable, for several times, he found Danielle staring directly at him. He was first to leave the table, returning to his room. Sam Levan knew something was wrong, but wasn’t sure exactly what. He eyed Danielle with suspicion, and she ignored his curious stares.
Adolph Markwardt counted fifteen dead cows. He then mounted his horse and rode north toward Santa Fe. Arriving there, he rode directly to the office of Charlie Murdock, the county sheriff. Murdock listened patiently as Markwardt spoke, telling the lawman of his suspicions.
“Fifteen cows, huh?” said Murdock. “That still ain’t quite as bad as a thousand sheep. I don’t have a doubt in my mind that it was your outfit that rim-rocked them sheep, but I don’t have any proof. Likewise, I don’t have anything but your suspicions as to who it was that stampeded your cows. I can’t arrest a man on my suspicions. What the hell am I supposed to do with yours?”
“If it ain’t expecting too much,” Markwardt growled, “you could ask around town and see who’s been buying dynamite.”
“There’s no law against having dynamite,” Sheriff Murdock said. “Every miner in the territory’s got a few sticks of the stuff. You and Levan had better settle your differences before somebody’s hurt or killed. I reckon you’re a big man in the territory, but you let me find you’ve broken the law, I’ll throw you in the juzgado as quick as I would a line-ridin’ cowboy on Saturday night.”
At Sam Levan’s place, he and his outfit prepared to ride out to the various sheep camps. Gus Haddock and Dud Menges were still unable to ride, and remained at the house.
“What are we waitin’ for?” Warnell Prinz demanded. “After what we done last night, them sheep are likely to catch hell.”
“We’re waitin’ for Brice,” said Sam. “Brice, where the hell are you?” he shouted.
Levan and his three companions were mounted, while Danielle still stood beside the chestnut mare. Brice Levan left the house, but instead of going to the corral for a horse, he started toward the mounted riders, his hard eyes on Danielle. A dozen yards away, he halted. Then he spoke.
“I don’t like you, kid, and I won’t ride with any outfit as long as you’re in it.”
“Oh,” said Danielle calmly, “I reckon I remind you of somebody a bunch of cut-throat outlaws robbed and murdered in Indian Territory. He was my pa, and this left-hand Colt was his.”
His face a mask of fury, Brice Levan drew. Danielle waited until the muzzle of his revolver had cleared leather, but he didn’t get off a shot. With a cross-hand draw, Danielle drew her father’s gleaming Colt. She fired twice, both slugs striking Levan in the chest. He stumbled, his knees gave away, and he fell.
Chapter 9
There was a shocked silence. Warnell Prinz, Sal Wooler, and Jasper Witheres made no move toward their guns. Dying, Brice Levan was trying to speak, and Sam knelt over him.
“It was . . . like he said, Pa,” Brice said. “My bunch . . . robbed and hung . . . a man in Indian Territory . . .”
They were his final words. Sam Levan got to his feet and faced Danielle.
“Mount up and ride out,” said Levan.
“I’ll wait until the sheriff comes,” Danielle said. “I want it understood that he was the first to draw.”
“The sheriff won’t be comin’,” Levan said. “Four of us saw it, and it was a clear case of self-defense. That, and Brice confessed. I hate what you’ve done, but I can’t fault you for doin’ it. Now mount up and ride.”
Danielle got on the chestnut mare and, nodding to her former companions, rode away. Eppie Levan had just left the house, and in the distance, Danielle could hear her anguished screams. Before leaving St. Joe, it had all seemed so simple—find the outlaws who had hanged her father and make them pay. Now she had to face the disturbing possibility that these seven other men might have families, just as Brice Levan had. It was a somber thought. She had hired on with Levan to pursue his best interests. Now she felt as if she had betrayed his trust, even though Brice Levan had admitted his guilt. She silently vowed never to sell her gun again, for any reason. She rode south along the Rio Grande, having heard one of the men say they were two days’ ride from El Paso.