San Antonio, Texas. October 30, 1870.
Danielle took a room on the second floor of the Cattleman’s Hotel. It was the exception among frontier hotels, for there was a dining room on the first floor. Every room had a deep pile carpet on the floor, with matching drapes at the window. Danielle sat down on the bed, which was firm enough that it didn’t sag under her weight. It would be a welcome comfort, after four nights on the ground. There was a washbasin and a porcelain pitcher of water, and she took advantage of it, washing away the trail dust. One look in the mirror told her that her hair was getting entirely too long. She had to visit a barbershop, and soon. Since there was still daylight left, she decided to go for a hair-cut and be done with it. It was nearing the supper hour, and there were no other patrons in the shop.
“Cut it short,” Danielle said. “I’m having trouble getting my hat to fit.”
“Shave?” the barber asked.
“No,” Danielle said. “Just cut my hair.”
“There’s a bathhouse in back, with plenty of soap and hot water,” the barber said.
“Maybe later,” said Danielle. “It’s near suppertime, and I’m hungry.”
The door opened, and a lanky man entered. A Colt was tied low on each hip.
“Haircut,” said the stranger.
“You’re next,” the barber replied.
“King Fisher don’t like to wait,” said the new arrival. “I’ll get in that other chair, and you take care of me. Then you can get back to the shavetail you’re working on now.”
“I was here first,” Danielle said, “and he’s goin’ to finish with me. If you don’t like it, wait until I’m out of this chair and settle with me.”
Under her barber’s cloth, there was the ominous sound of a Colt being cocked. There was no fear in Danielle’s cold green eyes as they bored into King Fisher’s.
“I’ll come back another time,” said King Fisher. Turning, he walked out the door.
“My God,” the barber said, “do you know who that was?”
“I believe he said his name is King Fisher,” Danielle said. “It means nothing to me.”
“It should,” said the barber. “He don’t carry them two guns just for show, and at this particular time, Ben Thompson’s in town. Him and King Fisher are friends. Sober, they’re decent, but let ’em get drunk, and the devil couldn’t ask for no better disciples.”9
Danielle left the barbershop and returned to the hotel, where she took a table in the dining room. She had not even been served when King Fisher entered. With him was a smaller man, dressed all in black, with a frock coat and black silk top hat. The two took a table next to Danielle’s, and she couldn’t help hearing their talk.
“The kid at the next table pulled a gun and run me out of the barbershop,” said King Fisher, loud enough for Danielle to hear.
Fisher’s companion found that uproariously funny, pounding the table with his fist, but when he spoke, his voice was like cold steel.
“Nobody drives Ben Thompson away if he wants to go on living.”
Danielle tried her best to ignore the pair, taking her time with her meal. As she got up to leave, Thompson spoke.
“I never seen a man with a butt-forward pistol who had any speed with a cross-hand draw.”
In an instant, he found himself facing the barrel end of the butt-forward Colt from Danielle’s left hip.
“There are exceptions,” Danielle said coldly. She border-shifted the Colt back to her left hand, deftly slipping the weapon back into its holster, again butt forward.
It was King Fisher’s turn to laugh. “Who are you, kid?”
“My name is not ‘kid.’ I’m Daniel Strange.”
“I’m King Fisher, and the little hombre in the stovepipe hat is Ben Thompson. Let word of this get around, and Thompson may have to go back to England.”
“I’ve never seen a fancy pair of irons like that,” Thompson said. “May I see one?”
“Look all you like,” said Danielle, “but they stay where they are.”
Thompson’s ruddy face turned ugly, but King Fisher took the edge off his anger.
“Come on, Thompson, let’s go play some poker. This two-gun man’s too tough for a pair of old dogs like us.”
Danielle waited, allowing the pair to leave ahead of her. Referring to her youth, King Fisher had been just as insulting as Ben Thompson, and she didn’t like either of them. The evening was still young, and there was little to occupy one’s time except gambling tables in the various saloons. Danielle still had almost four thousand dollars, thanks to her success at the faro tables, and a town like San Antonio had many saloons. With a self-imposed limit of a hundred dollars, she set out to make the rounds. She had learned that the fancier the saloon, the higher the stakes. The first place she entered was called The Oro Palace and the faro dealer was asking for—and getting—ten-dollar bets. When a player left the table, Danielle sat down, dropping five double eagles on the felt-topped table before her. The other players paid her no attention until she won three pots in a row. She still had sixty dollars of her original hundred, plus her winnings. She lost two pots, and then won four in a row. The dealer had been watching her suspiciously but it was he, after all, who was dealing the cards. After winning back her initial hundred dollars and taking another two hundred from the house, Danielle dropped out. The house dealer seemed relieved.
Danielle found most saloons unpleasant, with brash, insensitive women determined to lead her upstairs. But the saloons were where men gathered, and as she sat at the faro table, she listened to talk around her, hoping for some word of the men who had killed her father. Quickly tiring, she returned to her hotel. In the lobby was a stack of newspapers.
“Take one,” the clerk invited. “They’re fresh in from Dallas.”
Danielle took one, finding it to be larger than the average frontier newspaper. With news items from all over, one in particular caught her eye. It was date-lined Wichita, and concerned the robbery of a Kansas-Pacific train. She read the article twice, grinding her teeth.
. . . two men—Rufe Gaddis and Julius Byler—were believed to be involved, but they had none of the gold, and refused to talk. They were released for lack of evidence.
Both the men were on Danielle’s death list, but after their brush with the law, they would be long gone from Wichita. The Kansas town was almost at the edge of Indian Territory, and the pair might have gone there to hide. On the other hand, they might have gone west, or perhaps back east, toward St. Louis. Danielle lay down to sleep, wondering if she was wasting her time in south Texas.
The next morning, after breakfast, Danielle found the Texas Ranger office. A ranger sat at a battered desk, reading a newspaper. He looked up as she entered.
“I’m Daniel Strange.”
“I’m Sage Jennings,” said the ranger.
“I’m looking for some men—outlaws—who robbed and murdered my pa in Indian Territory,” Danielle said. “There are seven of them still alive, and although I’ve managed to learn their names, I don’t know that they aren’t using other names by now. Do you have any wanted dodgers that I’d be allowed to see?”
“You’re welcome to look through what I have,” Jennings said, “but I doubt they’ll be of much help. These are only outlaws wanted by the state of Texas.”
“I’d like to look at them anyway,” said Danielle.
Jennings brought out the dodgers, many of them yellowed with age. Some of them had a rough sketch of the wanted man, but the majority had only a name, the nature of the crime, and the reward, if any. Almost immediately, Danielle found a pair of yellowed pages with the names of Rufe Gaddis and Julius Byler. There was a thousand dollars on the heads of each of them.