A Wolf in the Fold

Then other hooves drummed. Tyler’s hands were after me. I tried to recollect the lay of the land, but I had only been over it once. There was a creek to the north sprinkled with stands of trees. It wasn’t much cover, but it was all that was to be had.

I reined Brisco north, and to add sugar to the pie, I let out with a whoop that the cowboys were bound to hear.

Excited yells greeted my outcry. They reckoned I was heading for the creek, exactly as I wanted. But I only went a short way before I cut to the west and slowed Brisco to a walk. After a hundred yards I drew rein and slid down. I did not have much time. Gripping the bridle, I tugged on Brisco’s mane. It had taken me the better part of a month to teach him this trick back when he was knee-high to the stallion that sired him, and on more than one occasion it had saved my hide.

Brisco sank onto his side and I shucked my rifle from the saddle scabbard and hunkered behind him, just in case. The thunder of pursuit grew louder and louder, and soon I saw them, eight or nine, riding hell bent for leather. They passed within fifty or sixty feet of me and did not spot me. As soon as the night swallowed them, I shoved the rifle back into the scabbard, brought Brisco up off the ground, and cantered south.

Ten days later I reached Denver. I took my usual room. Several letters were waiting for me. One was a job offer from Kansas. A sodbuster wanted some Indians killed. They had taken his milk cow, and he offered me a hundred dollars to wipe out the whole blamed tribe. I tore his letter up. My fee was a thousand dollars. Everyone knew that.

The next offer was from Utah. A Mormon gent was upset that another Mormon gent married all three of his sisters and promised me a thousand plus one of his sisters if I would fill the other Mormon gent with more holes than a sieve. I liked the idea of the sister and set the letter aside.

The third letter interested me more, though.

I decided to give myself two days to rest up and then head out. The plain truth is, a Regulator’s work is never done.

Chapter 1

When most folks think of Texas they imagine the lowland along the Gulf Coast or the heavy brush of longhorn country or even the vast inland prairies. Few think of mountains, yet in west Texas there are more mountains than you can shake a stick at. Fact is, Guadalupe Peak, the highest in the state at over eight thousand feet, is part of the chain of Rocky Mountains that runs clear down into Mexico.

I had been there before and loved the country. Something about it appealed to me. Particularly what they call the lost mountains. Peaks that are not part of the chain but exist like islands in an ocean of grass. Mix in the gorges that crisscross the region and you have as rugged and pretty a chunk of landscape as anywhere in this here United States of America. I should know. Since the end of the war I’ve been most everywhere and seen most everything.

Whiskey Flats had sprouted on a plain between two lost mountains. To the east rose the Fair Sister, a bald mountain with a rocky peak that gleamed in bright sunshine and lent the mountain its name. Miles west of Whiskey Flats reared the Dark Sister, a wooded mountain laced by ravines and canyons. The Dark Sister was a notorious haunt of badmen and beasts and was shunned by most decent folk.

I rode into Whiskey Flats on a Sunday morning. That was fitting, all things considered. My getup attracted a lot of attention as I rode down the main and only street to a hitch rail in front of the saloon. Out of habit I almost reined up, then thought better of it and gigged Brisco to the livery. As I dismounted an old geezer with a limp came hobbling to take the reins.

“How do, mister. Planning to put your horse up? It will cost you—” The old man stopped and his lower jaw dropped. He had seen the Bible and the collar. “Land sakes! Are you a parson?”

“No, I’m a Comanche,” I said with a poker face.

The old coot cackled and slapped his bad leg. “A parson with a sense of humor! Now I’ve done seen everything.” He offered his hand. “They call me Billy No-Knee on account I lost part of mine to a Yankee cannon.” He thumped the side of his leg about where his knee would be. “Hear that? It’s a wood brace I have to wear every minute of every day or I fall flat on my face. Damned stinking Yankees.” Catching himself, he said sheepishly, “Sorry about that, Parson. I know we’re supposed to turn the other cheek, but it’s hard to forgive folks who lob cannonballs at you.”

“We all have our burdens to bear.” I wiped dust from the Bible with my sleeve, pushed my hat back, and lied. “I had no idea there was a town in these parts, Brother Billy.”

“If you can call it that,” No-Knee responded. “As towns go, it’s a mite puny. Hell, if it was a flea, the dog wouldn’t hardly notice.” Again he caught himself. “Sorry about my language, but I ain’t used to gabbing with a Bible-thumper.”

“Indeed.” I like that word. It sounded as if I was smarter than I am.