A Wolf in the Fold

I backpedaled and pointed the Remington. Steel rang on steel as the knife blade deflected the barrel. My shot went into the ceiling instead of into him. Then he had my wrist in a grip of iron and I had his in the same. Locked together, we strained like two bucks with their antlers locked. I was bigger, but he was solid sinew and was desperate to hold on to me.

Out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed Jim gamely crawling toward his revolver and leaving a crimson smear on the floor.

Other cowboys might show up at any moment. I hooked a boot at Ike’s knee, but he sidestepped. I pivoted and tried to toss him over my hip, but he dug in his boot heels and would not be thrown. He was tougher than he looked. But he was a man, a young man, at that, and he lacked my experience. I feinted to the right and swung left, but I could not unbalance him. I feinted to the left and swung right, but again he defied me. Then I feinted right, and went right, jerking him completely off his feet. The next moment he was on his back and I was on top of him with my knee on his chest, slowly forcing the knife toward his throat.

Ike cried out and was able to stop the knife from descending.

Meanwhile, Jim had dragged himself almost to the Colt. He extended his arm but he was a hand’s width short. Levering an elbow, he inched forward. He smiled grimly as he wrapped his fingers around the grips and swung toward me. He had a clear shot and he did not hesitate.

I was counting on that. His finger tightened on the trigger, and I threw myself onto my side, hauling Ike up after me so that he was on top just as the Colt went off. They were astounded, the both of them. Jim, that he had shot Ike. Ike, that he had been shot. The slug caught him in the jaw and blew off a portion of his face.

Warm blood spattered my neck as I heaved and kicked with both legs. My boots slammed into Ike’s chest and catapulted him toward the window. Rolling, I aimed at Jim as he aimed at me. I fired first. This time I shot him smack between the eyes. I swiveled. Ike was rising, his shirt drenched wetly scarlet, fire in his eyes, as with a desperate leap he sought to bury his blade in my body. My slug smashed into him in midair. He was dead when he hit the ground.

Winded, I rose and replaced the spent cartridges. I was surprised no one had come to help them. The house should be crawling with cowboys.

I heard voices outside and sprang to the window, careful not to show myself. The stampede had made a shambles of the sheds and the outhouse.

I did not know how many were left. Out there somewhere was Bart Seton, and it was him I wanted the most. I had a hunch about him, and if it bore out, he deserved to suffer as much if not more than Gertrude.

Unexpectedly, a cowboy broke from the stable, running toward the house. He did not notice me. I doubt he heard the shot that spun him around and pitched him into eternity.

I waited but no more appeared.

Something wasn’t right. I had a vague sense of unease. It spurred me into heading for the stairs. Extreme caution was called for, and I made no more sound than a mouse. A quick glance at my wrist showed that Ike’s knife had barely broken the skin and the bleeding had stopped.

The house was ominously still. I was on the third step when I realized what was bothering me. Not once had I heard Gertrude, or Bart Seton, bark commands, or say anything else. They were conspicuous by their silence.

I had a hunch why. I bounded down the stairs and down the hall to the front door. Throwing it wide, I darted onto the porch. No shots greeted me. No shouts, either. I crouched behind a post and waited, but nothing happened.

“Damn her,” I said aloud.

I sprinted around the house to Brisco and the mare. Since I had not run into anyone coming from the ranch on my way there, I had three directions to choose from. I figured Gertrude and her companions went east, past the Fair Sister. A week’s ride or so would bring them to Clementsville. It had a town marshal, and she could ask for his protection. She could also send for the Texas Rangers or even a federal marshal. One mention of my name and they would come running.

I gigged Brisco to the rear of the house. Much to my delight I found fresh tracks. I could not tell exactly how many were with Gertrude, but it was plain she was not alone. No doubt Bart Seton was always at her side. Plus however many cowhands were left. The sign showed they had ridden out at a gallop. Which suited me fine. Their horses would soon tire. By switching from Brisco to the mare and back again, I was confident I could overtake them well before nightfall.

I couldn’t wait. Gertrude and Seton had a lot to answer for, and I was just the hombre to see that they did. No one had ever gotten the better of me, and I would be boiled in tar if they would be the first.

I reminded myself not to be cocky and was about to spur Brisco when I realized I was forgetting something. I dismounted and left the horses there and walked back to the front of the house.