A Wolf in the Fold

I needed food and rest. I toyed with the notion of staying the night, but the company of Texas Rangers were due the next day. I put a pot of coffee on and helped myself to eight eggs and six strips of bacon from the pantry.

The meal invigorated me. I had energy to spare as I busied myself filling a sack with food and tying the sack to my saddle, then splashing kerosene in every room of the house and setting the house on fire.

By the grandfather clock in the parlor it was pushing ten o’clock when I strode outside and swung onto the mare. Leading Brisco, I at long last headed east. Once beyond the Dark Sister I threaded through darkling hills and on across a broad windswept plain.

I was bound for Clementsville. Closer by three days was a small settlement called Three Legs, named after an old-timer who had lost a knee to a Comanche arrow and had to use a cane ever after. Three Legs amounted to no more than a gob of spit, but it had a saloon, and Gertrude was bound to stop there if she continued east as I believed she would. There was always the possibility she would turn to the southeast instead. Eventually, that would take her to places like San Antonio or Austin, or maybe even all the way to the Gulf, and Corpus Christi or Galveston. Due south about a hundred and sixty miles was the border with Mexico. But to reach it, she’d have to pass through some of the most inhospitable country anywhere, filled with hostiles and outlaws. Due north lay the border with New Mexico. It was a lot closer, but the mountains there were infested by Apaches, and only a fool baited Apaches in their lair.

Gertrude, for all her faults, was no fool.

So east it had to be, and east I traveled, switching horses every two hours. Now and again I would rise in the stirrups and hope to spot a distant campfire, but morning came and I had not caught up. I was tired, but I pressed on.

Hate will do that. I had never really hated anyone before, not like I hated Gerty. My hate was a red-hot flame burning deep inside of me, and the only thing that could quench the flame was her lifeblood.

At noon I happened on the charred embers of a fire made the night before. I found where five mounts had been picketed, and footprints. I had figured there were more left than that, but maybe some had had enough and lit a shuck.

Evening came, and my eyelids were leaden. I turned in early to get an early start and slept the sleep of the exhausted. A couple of cups of coffee, a few pieces of jerky, and I was ready to resume the hunt.

The plain was not completely flat. Here and there were grassy knolls. I had passed a score without incident when a bright gleam atop a knoll up ahead galvanized me into action. I was riding Brisco. With a jab of my spurs I broke into gallop. Simultaneously came the crack of a rifle. Forgetting about my shoulder, I swung onto the off side, hanging by one leg and the crook of my elbow. My wound shrieked with pain and I nearly lost my hold, but somehow I clung on and made for the shooter.

A cowboy rose in plain sight, a Winchester wedged to his shoulder. He tried to fix a bead, but there was not enough of me showing. He shifted, and I would swear he was aiming at Brisco’s head. In the hope he would not shoot my horse if I was not on it, I let go and tumbled. My bad shoulder bore the brunt. Agony spiked through me. My temples pounding, I rolled onto my belly and drew the Remington.

The cowboy had seen me drop and gone to ground. I began to crawl in a half circle toward the knoll. I figured he would stay put since he commanded the high ground, but in a short while I saw the grass sway off to my left. The blades parted, framing the pockmarked, weather-beaten face of my would-be killer. He was staring toward where I had dropped from Brisco, not where I was. I took aim but let him crawl a few yards closer before I squeezed the trigger.

The cowboy was still alive but would not be for long. He glared up at me and groped for his rifle. I kicked it out of his reach.

“Where are the others?”

“Go to hell.” Blood dribbled over his lower lip and down his chin. His hand was pressed to the neck wound, but it would only buy him a few extra minutes of life.

I had no sympathy for him. “You should have stuck to punching cows.”

“Wanted the money,” he gurgled. “Extra thousand dollars.”

Gertrude was getting desperate, I reflected. “I’m surprised she didn’t have Bart Seton wait for me instead of you. He’s her hired killer.”

The cowboy snorted, and scarlet drops sprayed from his nose. “He’s more than that, mister. A lot more.”

Gertrude and Seton? Why not? So what if her husband had been dead only a month or so.

He coughed and was racked by a spasm that ended with him as white as snow and dripping sweat. “Finish me,” he said. “As a courtesy.”

“You don’t deserve it.”

“She’ll beat you yet,” the cowboy predicted out of spite. “She’ll hire an army of leather slappers and put an end to you once and for all.”