A Wolf in the Fold

I pistol-whipped him across the temples, not once but twice, and he slumped over, unconscious. Twirling the Remington into my holster, I took the rope from the saddle he had thrown over the stall. I fashioned a noose and threw it over a beam, then slipped the noose around his neck. Leading Brisco into the aisle, I looped the other end of the rope around the saddle horn, and waited.

Chester was not out long. Groaning, he blinked and slowly sat up, feeling groggily about his throat. “What the—?” he croaked.

“Don’t try to take it off,” I warned.

Fear restored his senses. He swallowed and looked at me. “This ain’t right. Turn me over to the law and have me put on trial.”

“It’s no less right than slaughtering the Butchers,” I remarked. “As for a trial, I’m your judge, jury, and executioner. The least you can do is take your medicine like a man.” I smacked Brisco. For a few moments Brisco strained into the rope. Suddenly the cowboy was yanked off the ground and clean into the air.

Kicking wildly, Chester pried at the noose, then at the knot. But only for a few seconds. His left hand dropped to a belt knife I had overlooked. Unsheathing it, he slashed at the rope but missed.

I was growing careless. I ran to a nearby mound of straw and seized the long handle sticking up out of it.

Chester cut the rope. He was not that high, but he sprawled to his hands and knees. He had not noticed me. Rising on his knees, he frantically tugged at the noose. He never loosened it. I saw to that by spearing him in the chest with the pitchfork. He arched his back, grabbed the handle, and tried to wrench the tines out.

“That’s for Daisy,” I said.

Chester locked eyes with me, eyes wide with shock. I saw the spark of life fade, just as you see the light of a lamp fade as you turn it down. He only convulsed once, and that was that.

I left him there. I brought the mare from the stall, and as I passed the body, I noticed his hat. Black, with a wide brim and a low crown creased on the sides. I preferred a round crown, but I tried it on anyway. It was tight, but it fit. “Thanks,” I said, and kicked its former owner in the teeth.

I walked the horses up to the main house rather than ride. No one was peering out. I went up the steps to the porch as quietly as a church mouse, and peeked in. The parlor was well lit, but I saw no one.

With my back to the door, I reached behind me and knocked. I had to do it three times before footfalls sounded in the hall.

“Who is it?”

I was in luck. It wasn’t one of the servants. Slumping to disguise my height, I answered, “It’s Chester, Mr. Tanner. I have a message for you from your mother.”

Phil opened the door, grumbling, “It’s about damn time. I can’t stand sitting here twiddling my thumbs. What is the news?”

I drew the Remington as I faced him. “It’s not good, I’m afraid. But you and your bitch of a mother have only yourselves to blame for double-crossing me.”

“Stark!”

“One and the same. Are you going to stand there catching moths in your mouth or invite me in?”

Slowly backing up, Phil raised both hands. “I’m unarmed. You wouldn’t shoot a defenseless man, would you?”

The stupid questions I get asked. I followed and closed the front door behind me. “Where are the servants?”

“Gone. They usually leave an hour before sunset.”

“So it’s just you and me?” I can’t say how happy that made me. It must have shown.

“Now hold on. I don’t like that look. It wasn’t me who double-crossed you, it was Mom. Hell, man, I didn’t know she had hired you.”

Could it be? I wondered. I wagged the Remington. “Into the parlor.” He obeyed, moving to the settee to sit. I leaned against the jamb. “Do you honestly expect me to believe your mother kept it a secret?”

“You’ve seen how she is. She’s the one who runs things, not me. She even bossed Pa around.”

He was good. This would take a little doing. “Why did she want the Butchers out of the way?”

“The silver, why else?”

“All she had to do was file a claim and it was hers. The Butchers didn’t own the Dark Sister.” All they had a legal right to was their homestead. Which made their slaughter that much more meaningless.

“There was a hitch,” Phil said. “My mother didn’t discover the vein. Someone else did.”

“Who? One of your hands? Did some of your cows stray up into the canyon and a puncher spotted the silver?”

“No, it was Everett Butcher.”

A hole in the quilt had been filled. I confess I was somewhat taken aback. “Did he file?”

“He was going to. He came into Whiskey Flats, into the saloon, smiling and treating everyone to drinks. He had a good deal to drink himself. Then he headed east and ran into my mother on her way into town.” Phil paused. “Mother and him never did get along. He always thought we looked down our noses at his family, but that’s not entirely true.”

“Save your lies for someone who will be taken in by them.”

“All right. Maybe Mother despised them. But I never had anything against the Butchers and neither did my father until the rustling started.”