A Wolf in the Fold

I hoped Gerty was watching, maybe from an upstairs window, her heart in her throat. If she had a heart, that was. More than likely she had a block of ice. Ice certainly flowed through her veins. She was, without a doubt, the most ruthless person I had ever met, male or female, and that was saying a lot.

I looked up, and drew rein. The cows had slowed and were breaking to the right and left. I glimpsed the stable and the corral. A puncher was on the top rail, whooping and waving his hat. Cows passed under his boots, so close he could touch them with his toe if he wanted. Suddenly there was a loud crack and the fence began to sway. The press of cattle proved to be more than the rails could bear. With a splintering crash, the corral fell apart and the cowpoke on the top rail was pitched into their midst.

His screams were horrible.

I looped wide to reach the main house. The cattle should keep the cowboys busy long enough for me to pay my respects to Gertrude. I had never wanted to kill anyone as much as I hankered to kill her. It was all I could think of: her cowering before me, me shooting her in the knee, then the elbow, then the shoulder. That was for starters. Before I was through she would suffer as few ever suffered since the days of Noah and his ark.

The cloud of dust that hid me from the cowboys also hid the cowboys and the buildings from me. I thought I spied the cookhouse. I did see a shed splinter and split apart. Then the dust ahead partially cleared, and the main house loomed before me.

The cattle were being funneled between the house and corral. The north side was clear. As I brought Brisco to a halt, a revolver cracked. My hand leaped up of its own accord, my Remington replied, and a cowhand slumped over the sill of a window, his smoking revolver falling from fingers gone limp.

Springing down, I ran to the window, shoved him to the floor, and hooked a leg over and in. My spurs were still on, but no one would hear them jangle over the clamor outside.

The inner door was ajar. A glance showed the hallway was empty. I was debating which way to go when a yell from upstairs decided for me. My back to the wall, I sidled to the stairs.

The whole house seemed to be shaking. Beams creaked overhead. A door slammed, but where, I couldn’t say. I went up two steps at a stride and stopped short of the landing. More shouts drew me to a front bedroom. It had two windows. They were open, and crouched next to each was a cowboy. Not just any cowboys but my acquaintances from the ride out, Jim and Ike.

The racket made by the cattle was fading. From over by the bunkhouse came a holler. “Any sign of him?”

Jim cupped a hand to his mouth. “No! Not yet!” He leaned out the window and looked to the right and left. “Where in hell can he be?”

“I wouldn’t do that, were I you,” Ike said. “You’re a mighty tempting target.”

Jim drew back in and swore. “Why doesn’t he show himself?”

Ike endeared himself to me by saying, “Stark’s not dumb. What did you expect? That he’d waltz right into our gun sights?”

By then I was only a few feet behind them. I cleared my throat and said, “Only a greenhorn would do that.”

They spun, or began to, turning to stone when they saw the Remington. Ike looked as if he were about to lay an egg. Jim had more savvy and was not flustered, which made him the more dangerous of the pair.

“Set your revolvers down and slide them toward me,” I directed. Ike obeyed, but Jim balked. I trained the Remington on him. “If you want to die I’ll oblige you.” He didn’t. He placed his Colt on the floor and pushed.

“When Bart Seton and you meet up, you’re dead.”

I paid his bluster no heed. “Pay attention. I’ll only ask this once. Where is Gertrude?”

“We don’t know,” Jim sneered.

I shot him. Not in the head or the chest but in the calf. Blood spurted, and he howled and clasped the wound and rolled about while gritting his teeth and puffing like a steam engine.

“I’ll ask once more. Where is your boss?”

“Go to hell!”

I thumbed back at the hammer and said, “The next one is through the ear. One last time. Where is she?”

Jim had grit, I’ll give him that. “I’ll never betray her, you murdering bastard!” he snarled.

“Suit yourself.”

Ike chose that moment to spring. I have only myself to blame for being caught off-guard. I did not keep one eye on him as I should have, and I did not see the knife until he lanced it at me. I skipped backward, but he nicked me, damn him, in the right wrist. Not deep and not painfully, but a warm sensation told me he had drawn blood. I twisted and squeezed the trigger, but he twisted, too, at the exact instant I fired. The slug seared his side but did not drop him. Suddenly he was on me, swinging wildly, and I found myself battling for my life.