“I got me a gut feeling Jubal Winters ain’t finished with you,” said Sheriff Barnes. “All the time I was with Jubal, helpin’ him bury his boys, he didn’t say a word. Something’s on his mind, and I think it involves you.”
“The last thing I want is to have to shoot Jubal Winters, Sheriff,” said Danielle. “I aim to ride out in the morning, storm or not.”
“You’ve been a decent hombre, and I hate to rush you, but I think it’s for the best.”
“So do I, Sheriff,” Danielle said.
Jesse Burris was able to join Herb and Danielle at breakfast. There was little talk, for these young men had grown fond of Danielle, and she of them.
“Before you go,” said Jesse, “write out the names of those seven men you’re hunting. If we learn anything about them, we’ll telegraph the Texas Ranger outpost in San Antonio.”
“Bueno,” Danielle said. “Send it to Captain Sage Jennings. He knows me and what I have to do. I aim to cross Indian Territory and spend some tine in south Texas. Chancy Burke, Rufe Gaddis, and Julius Byler have kin there, and sooner or later, they’ll be going back.”
The sky was overcast with the threat of more rain as Danielle saddled the chestnut mare. Having already bid farewell to Herb and Jesse, she mounted and rode toward Wichita by simply following the Kansas-Pacific tracks.
But vengeful eyes had watched Danielle ride out of the livery. When she finally rode out of sight, Jubal Winters mounted his horse and followed. In his saddle boot was a fully loaded Winchester.
Wichita, Kansas. November 15, 1870.
Danielle estimated the distance to Wichita at close to a hundred and fifty miles. Taking her time and sparing the chestnut mare, she rode what she felt was halfway, and there made camp for the night. She picketed the horse so that the mare might warn her of any approaching danger. After a day of cold, miserable drizzle, the rain had finally ceased, and stars in the purple sky overhead were a welcome sight. Having no dry wood for a fire, Danielle ate jerked beef for breakfast, washing it down with water from a spring. She quickly fed the mare a measure of grain, and when the horse had eaten, she saddled up and rode on toward Wichita. She arrived in the late afternoon of the second day and decided to spend the night there, for she was not more than twenty miles from Indian Territory. She hadn’t bothered talking to the sheriff of Wichita before riding on to Kansas City. She thought the sheriff might supply some additional details about the train robbery and the thieves, so she went looking for him.
“I didn’t know a thing about the robbery,” said Sheriff Bart Devlin. “By the time the engineer backed the train from end-of-track to here, the thieves were long gone. A posse and me followed ’em as far as Indian Territory, and it was comin’ on dark.”
“What about the woman you captured?” Danielle asked.
“Her horse went lame, and they left her behind,” said Sheriff Devlin. “She was furious at them for leaving her, and she told me their names. She didn’t seem to know anything else, so I let her go. What’s your interest in this? Are you with the railroad?”
“No,” Danielle said. “This is personal.”
She then told the lawman of tracking the men who had murdered her father.
“I read about you in the Kansas City paper,” said Devlin, “but they didn’t say exactly why you were hunting the outlaws. They did say you was responsible for rooting out one of the varmints that worked for the railroad, passing along information on gold shipments.”
“His name is Chancy Burke,” Danielle said, “and like Gaddis and Byler, he’s from near Waco.”
“That would be a good place to go looking for them,” said Sheriff Devlin.
“I’ve already been there,” Danielle said. “If they’re riding together, it seemed like a good idea to see if Chancy Burke might be working for the railroad. If the railroad hadn’t called Burke’s hand, he might have been captured or killed.”
“The sheriff in Waco was of no help to you?”
“None,” said Danielle. “He went out of his way to warn the kin of Gaddis, Byler, and Burke that I was there, and I was practically run out of town.”
“Damn such a lawman,” Sheriff Devlin muttered. “It’s enough to give us all a bad name.”
“The woman you captured told you nothing except the names of the thieves? Where did she team up with Gaddis and Byler?”
“In St. Louis,” said Sheriff Devlin, “and she was goin’ back there.”
“She didn’t tell you where Gaddis and Byler were holed up before the robbery?”
“She didn’t seem to know,” Sheriff Devlin said. “She wasn’t familiar with the country, and from her description, it sounded like Indian Territory. She said they rode less than an hour before reaching the Kansas-Pacific tracks.”
“I’m obliged, Sheriff,” said Danielle.
“Good luck,” Sheriff Devlin said. “I hope you find them. The railroad’s on my back because I can’t catch the thieves, but I’m just a county sheriff. I can’t watch their damn railroad all the way from Kansas City to end-of-track.”
“They may get as far from here as they can,” said Danielle. “After killing that Kansas-Pacific man, Burke’s got a price on his head, just like Gaddis and Byler.”
Danielle stabled Sundown and took a room in one of the hastily built hotels that faced the Kansas-Pacific tracks. She entered a cafe, had supper, and it was already dark when she left. The Railroad Saloon was ablaze with light. Lighted lanterns had been hung along the eaves of the building, and across the top of its false front. There was a distant jangling of a piano that was sorely in need of tuning. From within the saloon, shouts mingled with the clinks of glasses and bottles. Danielle went in, finding the place packed, a large number of the men appearing to have come in from end-of-track. Three poker games were in progress, but only one faro game. Danielle waited until one of the men kicked back his chair and left the table.
“I’m buying in,” Danielle said.
“Welcome, kid, long as you got money,” said the dealer. “Five-dollar bets.”
Danielle dropped her five double eagles on the table and, in ten straight hands, lost half her stake.
“We know one thing for damn sure,” said one of the players, “the kid ain’t cheatin’.”
Danielle kept her silence and, within an hour, had won back her stake and more than two hundred dollars additional. She then withdrew from the game.
“I’ve never seen such a run of luck,” one of the gamblers said, his eyes on the house dealer. “It’s almost like you was slick-dealing to the kid.”
It was an open invitation to a fist-fight or a shooting, so Danielle hurriedly left the saloon and returned to her hotel room. She might well meet one of the disgruntled gamblers on the street and be forced into another senseless killing. Already, the Kansas City paper had referred to her as a “fast gun artist,” and “a killer riding a vengeance trail.”
Danielle arose early, had her breakfast, and rode out. She was only a few miles north of Indian Territory, but chose to ride west, toward the end-of-track. She would learn nothing from the railroad men, for they would surely be hostile toward her for indirectly being the cause of Alan Steele’s death. However, before reaching end-of-track, she would ride south toward Indian Territory. There would be no tracks, no trail, and little chance of her finding any of the men she sought. But they were all Westerners, and she fully expected them to be holed up in Indian Territory or in Texas. At this moment, the trio responsible for the train robbery might be at home, in Waco.
As Danielle entered Indian Territory, chills crept up her spine, for it was a massive tangle of vines, thickets, brush, and tall trees. It was gloomy even when the sun was shining, for only a little sunlight filtered through the dense foliage. She reined up to rest the chestnut mare and stood beside the horse, looking back the way she had come. She saw nothing and, mounting, rode on. But something was bothering her, a strange foreboding that dug its claws into her and wouldn’t let go. Again she reined up, dismounted, and walked a ways along her back-trail, without seeing anyone. She was about to mount and ride on, when the stillness was shattered by the roar of a rifle just ahead of her. The lead tore its way through her left thigh, and a second slug ripped into her right side, making a ragged exit wound. She fell on her back, remaining still, for she believed the bushwhacker would come close enough to be sure she was dead. She was losing blood, but dared not move. Finally she heard cautious footsteps approaching and, through half-closed eyes, could see the haggard, grinning face of Jubal Winters.