Ralph Compton Death Rides a Chestnut Mare (32 page)

“Sheriff,” Danielle said, “I have some business with you.”

Sheriff Rim Klady turned and looked her over, his eyes pausing when they reached the two tied-down Colts on Danielle's hips. Finally, he spoke.

“Have you been robbed or shot somebody?”

“No,” said Danielle. “I'm Daniel Strange, and it's about another matter.”

“Then see me at the office in the morning,” Sheriff Klady said.

The lawman had just won another pot. Dismissing Danielle, he raked in his winnings. Danielle left the saloon, furious. She took a room at the hotel. Tomorrow she might or might not be questioning the sheriff. It seemed that a talk with King Fisher might be far more beneficial, if she could get to him.

 

The next morning, Danielle was sitting on the steps to the sheriff's office and the jail when the lawman arrived. She got up, allowing him to mount the steps and unlock the door. She followed him into the office.

“All right,” said the sheriff, “I'm Rim Klady. Sit down and have your say.”

Klady sat down in his chair behind his desk while Danielle took a ladder-back chair facing him. She quickly told her story, and by the time she was finished, the sheriff was shaking his head.

“The name ‘Kalpana' don't mean nothing to me,” Sheriff Klady said. “There's hundreds of miles of border, and rustlers ain't likely to drive stock across the border where there's a town with a lawman.”

“I understand King Fisher has a ranch near here,” said Danielle, “and that he rounds up wild horses in Mexico, driving them back into Texas.”

Sheriff Klady's manner changed abruptly, and there was something in his eyes akin to fear. Finally, he spoke.

“I don't bother King Fisher, and he don't bother me. I don't see nothin' wrong with him capturing wild horses in Mexico.”

“Except that the United States government has a law against him going there,” Danielle said. “That doesn't concern you?”

“Hell, no,” said the lawman. “The federals passed that damn law. Let them enforce it. If Mexicans want to come into Texas or Texans want to go into Mexico, there ain't enough lawmen on both sides of the border to stop 'em.”

“You haven't been much help, Sheriff,” Danielle said, “and I'm going to ask just one more favor of you. How do I find King Fisher's place?”

“Just ride along the river toward Brownsville,” Sheriff Klady said. “The Rio borders his place to the south, and you'll see a sign pointin' toward the ranch. Just don't complain to me if he greets you with a Winchester and orders you to get the hell off his property.”

“I'd never think of bothering you over a small matter like that, Sheriff,” said Danielle. “I'm armed, and I'm not afraid to shoot back.
Adios.
”

The sheriff said nothing, and Danielle left, closing the door behind her. Mounting Sundown, she rode south, keeping the Rio in sight. As Sheriff Klady had said, there soon was a fork in the trail. A board with crude lettering had been nailed to a tree. It said:

Chapter 16

Ignoring the warning, Danielle took King Fisher's road. Of her welcome, she was very uncertain, for the only times she had seen King Fisher had been in San Antonio, when he and Ben Thompson had been very drunk. She finally rode out into a clearing and could see the ranch house in the distance. The place seemed deserted, but suddenly the stillness was shattered by a gunshot.

“Don't come any closer,” a voice shouted. “You're not welcome here.”

“I only want to talk to you,” Danielle said. “I'm not the law.”

“You're still not welcome here,” said the distant voice.

Gritting her teeth, Danielle rode on. Would the man shoot her out of the saddle? She eventually reined up forty yards from the front porch. King Fisher stepped past the door, a Winchester under his arm. His dress could only be described as gaudy. His trousers were black with pinstripes, and over a white ruffled shirt, he wore a bright red tie. Around his middle was a red sash that matched the tie. His boots were fancy, and a white Stetson hat was tipped low over his eyes. On each hip in a tied-down holster was a revolver.

“I could have shot you dead and been within my rights,” he snapped. “Haven't I seen you somewhere?”

“In San Antonio,” said Danielle. “You and Ben Thompson were drunk.”

“Since you're here,” Fisher said, “who are you, and what the hell do you want of me?”

“I want some information,” said Danielle, “and it in no way concerns you. I am Daniel Strange, and I'm hunting some men who robbed and hanged my pa in Indian Territory in the spring. One of those still alive—Snakehead Kalpana—has been rustling horses in old Mexico and driving them across the border into Texas. He killed a Mexican and a ranger near Laredo, but I doubt that he's given up rustling. I think he's just moved to another location along the border.”

“Well, if you think he's here, or that I'd have any dealings with the likes of him, then you're barking up the wrong damn tree,” Fisher said.

“I've been told that you trap wild horses in Mexico and drive them into Texas,” said Danielle. “I was hoping you might have seen or heard of Kalpana.”

“I want nothing to do with the kind that rustles another man's stock,” Fisher said. “I've shot some
hombres
that was needful of it, but I've never stole a horse or a cow.”
¹⁴

“If you know nothing about Kalpana,” said Danielle, “maybe you'll recognize some of these other varmints I'm looking for.”

Quickly, she told him the names of the other six men, and Fisher shook his head.

“I'm obliged anyway,” Danielle said.

“You got sand in your craw, kid,” said King Fisher. “How old are you?”

“Old enough,” Danielle said.

Fisher laughed. “A regular two-gun man, huh? Can you use them irons, or do you just carry 'em to scare hell out of folks?”

In a lightning cross-hand draw, Danielle drew the butt-forward Colt from her left hip. She fired once, the slug kicking up splinters from the porch. Then she spoke.

“I could have shot your ears off, but you've been decent to me.
Adios.
”

Holstering the Colt, she wheeled the chestnut mare and rode away. King Fisher stood there watching her until she was out of sight. Then he laughed to himself.

“You'll do, kid. You'll do.”

When Danielle reached the river, she rode southeast. She had no idea how far she was from Brownsville and decided not to attempt to reach it in what was left of the day. She was rapidly running out of trails and needed to think. There was always a chance, she concluded, that she had miscalculated. Suppose Kalpana
had
left Laredo, but instead of riding deeper into south Texas, he had ridden west, toward El Paso? He might even have gone to southern Arizona, for there he would be just across the river from Mexico. There were so many possibilities, Danielle had to rest to put them all out of her mind.

 

 

Clearly, nobody was enforcing federal law in Brownsville, for Mexicans were virtually everywhere. From the saloons there were drunken shouts in Spanish, and as Danielle rode along the main street, she saw many dark-eyed
señoritas
with their hair tied back, and some peons with colorful serapes about their shoulders. It appeared that most of the cafes and restaurants, if not Mexican owned, were at least Mexican operated. Before most of them, in colorful clothing and a high-crowned sombrero, a young boy praised his establishment's bill of fare in rapid Spanish. It looked like a wide-open town, Danielle thought, and might well be just the kind of place where Snakehead Kalpana would try to lose himself. Getting past the saloons, cafes, and street vendors, Danielle reached a quiet street down which she rode. She came upon a huge old house, and above the front door was a neatly painted sigm that read AMERICAN HOTEL. Reining up, she dismounted and knocked on the door. When it was eventually opened, there stood a gray haired old man.

“I just rode through town,” Danielle said, “and I like the look of your sign. I'll need a room for maybe two or three days.”

“Come in,” said her host. “My name is Ephiram Delaney. My wife, Ethel, is upstairs. I'll get her. Make yourself at home.”

He proceeded to summon Ethel by shouting for her at the top of his voice.

“Damn it,” Ethel shouted back, “do you have to wake the dead? I'm coming.”

She came down the stairs, taking her time, a wisp of a woman as gray as old Ephiram. She looked at Danielle, a question in her eyes. Danielle spoke.

“I'm Daniel Strange, and I'll need a room for maybe three nights.”

“Two dollars a night for the room,” said Ethel, “or three-fifty if you want some grub twice a day.”

“I'll take the room and the grub,” Danielle said, handing her a gold eagle.

“Good choice,” said Ephiram. “In these Mex cafes and cantinas, they load everything with chili peppers 'cept the coffee.”

“Now,” Danielle said, “is there a place close by where I can stable my horse?”

“Behind the house across the alley,” Ephiram said, “but we can't afford no hostler.”

“I won't need one,” said Danielle.

“I'll get you a room ready while you're gone,” Ethel said. “Just come on up. It'll be at the head of the stairs on the right.”

Danielle led Sundown around the house and into the stable. It appeared to be empty, and Danielle chose a stall for the mare. She unsaddled the horse and, seeing hay in the loft above, climbed up and forked some down.

“Chew on that awhile, Sundown,” said Danielle. “I'll be back before dark and bring you some grain.”

Danielle found Ephiram seated on the front porch. Nodding to him, she again entered the house and mounted the stairs.

“In here,” Ethel said.

The room could only be described as luxurious. There was a thick gray carpet on the floor, with rose-colored drapes at the window. The bed was brass with a multicolored coverlet. There were several extra chairs, upholstered in rose, and a wide dresser on which stood a porcelain water pitcher and matching basin. On the back of the door was a mirror, full length and uncracked.

“The chamberpot's under the bed,” said Ethel with a wink.

“I'm obliged,” Danielle said. “You have a fine place. I've never had better.”

“Thank you,” said Ethel, pleased. “We cater to Americans. Ephiram says one day we'll wake up and there won't be anybody but
Mejicanos
as far as the eye can see.”

“It already looks that way uptown,” Danielle said.

“It just about is,” said Ethel. “Don't let 'em sell you any of that Mex whiskey, either. It's about a hundred and forty proof. Then when you're layin' there stiff as a post and can't get up, them human turkey buzzards—
Anglos
or
Mejicanos
—will pick your pockets clean.”

“I'm obliged for the information,” Danielle said, “but I don't drink or smoke.”

“Praise be,” said Ethel. “Last time we had a drinking man in here he passed out and his cigarette set the bed afire. Supper's at five, breakfast at seven.”

As Danielle left the house, Ephiram sat nodding on the front porch. The Delaneys were in a residential section of quiet homes, and the area seemed a world apart from the center of town with its noisy
Mejicanos
and shifty-eyed
Anglos.
Danielle had already been warned not to expect too much of Brownsville Sheriff Sam Duro, but she went looking for the lawman anyway. She found his office and he was there, his booted feet on the desk and his hat tipped over his eyes. From somewhere came the sound of three rapid gunshots and a cry of anguish, but the sheriff remained where he was.

“Draw, you lazy varmint,” Danielle shouted, kicking the desk.

Duro's swivel chair went over backward, coming to rest on top of him. He cursed as he fought to draw his revolver, and Danielle laughed. Finally, he sat up, shoving the chair off him, and began beating his crushed Stetson back into shape. Danielle stood there chuckling, allowing the disgruntled lawman to get to his feet and right his swivel chair.

“Damn you,” Duro shouted, “that's a good way to get yourself shot dead. Who the hell are you, and what business do you have here?”

“Killing business when I find the right man,” said Danielle. “I'm after an outlaw and a killer. You being the law here, I reckoned I'd better talk to you first.”

“The law hereabouts don't work with bounty hunters,” Sheriff Duro said.

“I'm not a bounty hunter,” said Danielle. “I'm after the yellow coyotes who robbed and murdered my pa in Indian Territory. One of them in particular is Snakehead Kalpana, and I have reason to believe he's here. Do you know him, or know of him?”

“No,” Sheriff Duro said, “and I won't tolerate vigilantes any more than I'll tolerate the bounty hunters. The first damn sign of trouble that involves you, I'll lock you in the jail till hell freezes. You got that?”

“If I find the
hombre
I'm looking for, I aim to do what I came here to do,” Danielle said steadily, “and if you try to stop me, you'd better be pretty damn sudden with a pistol.
You got that?
”

Danielle turned and left the sheriff's office, not even bothering to ask Duro about the rest of the men on her death list. There were more gunshots from the area where most of the saloons were. She decided that Duro was even more useless than Sheriff Rucker in Waco. She had little choice except to make the rounds of the saloons, hoping to gather a bit of information that might suggest a new trail. The biggest and noisiest of the saloons seemed to be a place appropriately called the Border Saloon. There were poker and faro games in progress, but Danielle didn't like the looks of the men gathered around the tables. She watched a faro game for a while and learned her suspicions had been well founded. A bearded man suddenly leaped to his feet, drew a Bowie knife, and lunged across the table. But the Mexican he had gone after was just as resourceful with his own blade, and under their weight the table collapsed. They rolled around on the floor, each man seizing the wrist of the other's knife hand. Two bouncers arrived to break up the fight, and their method was simple. Each of them seized a chair, slamming it down on the head of one of the men on the floor. When the two knife-wielders were beaten bloody and unconscious, the bouncers carried them outside, one at a time, and flung them into the street. By then, another table had been set up, and the interrupted faro game was again in progress. Danielle was about to leave when a woman screamed. It was one of the saloon girls. She lay on her back on the floor while a man astraddle her was ripping her clothes off. Danielle looked for the bouncers, but they were nowhere in sight. Nobody tried to help the unfortunate girl, and some of the men had gathered around to watch, laughing. Danielle drew her Colt, crossed the room, and slammed the muzzle of the weapon against the back of the attacker's head. He tumbled over, allowing the terrified girl to get to her feet. Drawing the remnants of her torn dress together, she ran up the winding stairway that led to the second floor. The saloon had become deathly silent, and not a man among them could meet Danielle's eyes. She holstered her Colt, awaiting she knew not what. Slowly, the man she had buffaloed got to his hands and knees, shaking his head. He then got unsteadily to his feet.