El Paso, Texas. October 22, 1870.
Weary, Danielle stabled the chestnut mare, skipped supper and, finding a hotel, slept the night through. As she started through the hotel lobby, the clerk spoke to her.
“Be careful. John Wesley Hardin’s been seen in town.”8
“Thanks,” Danielle said. “I’ll try to stay out of his way.”
Danielle had heard of the gunman, for his reputation had been such that newspapers in St. Louis and Kansas City had carried stories about him. He carried two guns, and Danielle recalled a story that made her blood run cold. Inside a gunsmith’s shop, testing a new pair of Colts, Hardin had chosen for a target an innocent man on the boardwalk outside. That was just one of many cruel acts attributed to the legendary gunman. After breakfast, Danielle went back to her hotel room, for few if any of the saloons would be open until noon. At eleven o’clock, she left the hotel and sought out the sheriff’s office.
“I’m Daniel Strange.”
“I’m Buford Powell,” said the lawman. “What can I do for you?”
Danielle decided to tell the truth. She gave the law man the names of the seven men on her death list, and told him of her vow to hunt them down.
“None of those names sounds familiar,” Sheriff Powell said, “but with outlaws, you can’t be sure they aren’t using other names. I know that between here and Laredo, Mex horses are being run across the border and sold in Texas, while Texas horses are being rustled and sold in Mexico. We have no names, and they wait for the dark of the moon. Not even the Texas Rangers have been able to stop them.”
“It might be possible to join them and gather evidence,” said Danielle.
“One of the rangers tried that,” Sheriff Powell said. “He was never seen or heard from again. Was I you, I wouldn’t go gettin’ no similar ideas.”
“Thanks for the information, Sheriff,” said Danielle.
She quickly left the sheriff’s office before the lawman got around to questioning her about her intentions. By then, the saloons were open. The Texas was one of the largest, and she went there first. She walked in, and then as though looking for someone she couldn’t find, she left. There were no poker or faro games in progress, for it was still early, and being a nondrinker, Danielle couldn’t justify her presence. She had to wait until evening. After supper, she found the saloons had come alive. In The Texas, two poker tables and a faro table were busy. The men seemed talkative enough, and hoping to learn something useful, Danielle sat in at the faro table.
“Two-dollar limit,” said the dealer. “Table stakes.”
Danielle quickly lost twenty dollars. Then she began winning, recovering her losses plus thirty dollars more. The rest of the men were looking at her with a mix of respect and anger, for all of them had lost money to her. At least one of the men was broke, and he appealed to the dealer.
“I got a pair of hosses—matched blacks—that I picked up in Mexico. They’re worth a hundred dollars apiece. Will you take them for security?” Danielle’s eyes shot to the man at the mention of the horses’ origins.
“We don’t usually do this, Black Jack,” said the dealer. “I’ll grant you a hundred in credit for both of them.”
“Done,” Black Jack said. He sighed with relief as he suddenly began winning. When his winnings exceeded his losses, he dropped out and went to the bar. Danielle was ahead by fifty dollars, and when Black Jack left the saloon, she also withdrew from the game. Following Black Jack wasn’t difficult. He had left his horse and the pair of blacks at a livery, and to Danielle’s practiced eye, they indeed were worth a hundred dollars each, if not more. With the pair on lead ropes, Black Jack rode southeast, toward the border. Danielle followed at a safe distance, and not until she had crossed the border did she see Black Jack again. From behind a clump of brush, Black Jack suddenly stepped out, a Winchester leveled at her.
“Why are you followin’ me, kid? Make it good, or I’ll cut you in half.”
“I like the looks of the pair of blacks you picked up in Mexico,” Danielle said, “and I’d like to pick up a few for myself.”
Without warning, with blinding speed, Danielle drew her right-hand Colt and fired. The lead slammed into the muzzle of the Winchester, tearing it out of Black Jack’s hands. Her Colt holstered, Danielle eyed him calmly.
“Damn you,” Black Jack bawled, “if you’ve ruint my Winchester . . .”
Danielle laughed. “You’ll have to get yourself another one.”
Ignoring Danielle, Black Jack retrieved the weapon, examining it critically. Satisfied it wasn’t seriously damaged, he again faced Danielle.
“Tarnation,” said Black Jack, “I never seen such shootin’. Maybe there is as place for you, but it can’t be just on my say-so. You’ll have to prove yourself to my amigos.”
“Lead on,” Danielle said.
The outlaw camp was only a few miles south of the border. As they approached, there was a nicker from a distant horse, and Black Jack’s horse responded. They rode on until they were challenged.
“Identify yourself,” a voice shouted.
“Black Jack,” the outlaw replied, “and I got company.”
“Dismount and leave your horses there,” the voice commanded.
Black Jack and Danielle dismounted. Ahead, in a small clearing beside a stream, stood four men. A coffeepot simmered over a small fire.
“Now,” one of the men said, “who are you, and why are you here?”
“During a faro game, I heard Black Jack talking about picking up that pair of blacks in Mexico,” said Danielle, “and I figured I’d like a hand in the game.”
One of the outlaws laughed. “A kid that ain’t even shaved, packin’ two guns. Boy, one of them Mejicanos will have you for breakfast.”
“I don’t think so,” said Black Jack. “I had the drop, had a Winchester coverin’ him, and without me seein’ him move, he shot the Winchester out of my hands.”
Danielle said nothing, waiting for the outlaws to digest this new revelation. Quickly, they reached a decision, and they nodded at Black Jack.
“Who are you, kid, and where you from?” Black Jack asked.
“I don’t answer to ‘kid,’ ” said Danielle. “I’m Daniel Strange, and I’m from Missouri.”
“I’m Black Jack Landis,” said the outlaw. “The others is Joel Votaw, Revis Bronson, Hez Deshea, and Wes Pryor. Joel’s our segundo.”
“Black Jack,” Votaw said, “I’ve warned you about leading horses through El Paso. With so many Mejicanos there, sooner or later, one of them’s bound to recognize a horse, and then there’ll be hell to pay. From now on, when you got the urge to ride to town, ride from here.”
“Hell, there ain’t nobody wise to me,” said Black Jack.
“Oh?” Votaw said. “Then how come this two-gun man followed you back to camp? If he heard you shootin’ off your mouth, then others heard. Next time, the hombre trailing you could be a ranger.”
“After the war with Mexico, I’ve heard Americans can’t legally cross the border into Mexico, and that Mexicans can’t cross the border into the United States,” said Danielle.
“That’s the law,” Revis Bronson said, “but it applies only if you get caught. There was at least one ranger that stepped over the line, and he ain’t been seen since.”
“You don’t get shot at very often, then,” said Danielle.
Black Jack Landis laughed. “Almost never. We take the horses at night. By first light, when the Mejicanos find our tracks, we are already across the river, in Texas. Mejicanos raise some very fine horses, but they’re not fools. They don’t consider ’em worth a dose of lead poisoning.”