Chapter 1
September 8, 1871
Danielle recounted the events of the past months in her mind, most of the memories bringing a bitter taste to her mouth. Before Daniel Strange's death at the hands of his killers, he had been known as the best gunsmith in or around St. Joseph, Missouri. He and his wife, Margaret, had raised all three of their children to be decent, God-fearing, law-abiding, and equally as important, to be respectful of others regardless of that person's station in life. Along with these indisputable values, the Stranges had taught their children to be independent to a fault, for life along the Western frontier was not a kind place for the meek, the helpless, or the reluctant of spirit. While the Strange children were honest and soft-spoken, they had a presence beyond their years and knew how to handle themselves in most any situation.
Along with all the other things a frontier child must learn, Daniel Strange had taught his daughter and sons at an early age the skill, safety, and responsibility of handling and carrying a firearm. By the time his children were able to read and write, they could handle a Colt as well as any grown man and, of the three, while Daniel didn't make it a habit of saying so to Tim and Jed, young Danielle was by far the best. And the fastest. At thirteen, Danielle Strange could strike sulfur matches at a distance of thirty feet with the customized Colt her father had designed to fit her hand.
Tim and Jed Strange had taken up their father's trade of gunsmithing and had mastered it at an early age-so had Danielle. When it came to repairing or even designing and building a firearm, the Strange children were equal in every regard. Yet, when it came to pulling the trigger, while the Strange twins were both excellent marksmen in their own right, it was daughter Danielle who had what her father always referred to as the gift. Whether she was firing from the hip or from horseback, Danielle Strange's talent was undeniably the best in the family.
Had it not been for the tragic death of Daniel Strange nearly two years earlier, Danielle might well have spent the rest of her life in St. Joseph, Missouri. She might have married and raised a family, or have taken courses at the women's college in St. Louis and spent her life teaching school. But these things were not to be, not for now anyway. Fate had dealt her a different hand, and all she could do was play the few cards left to her. She thought of this now in the dark hours of night as she sat cleaning and checking her brace of Colt pistols.
Her father, Daniel Strange, had left home on Sundown, the big chestnut mare, and had gone off on a cattle-buying trip, his trail snaking across Indian Territory. Days later, the chestnut mare had returned by herself, lathered and weary from the road. The following day, a note from U.S. Federal Marshal Buck Jordan had arrived along with Daniel Strange's wallet at the sheriff's office in St. Joseph. From that day to this, Danielle Strange had ridden the vengeance trail, seeking out her father's killers one at a time. What had begun as a list of ten names-the names she'd extracted from one of the killers before he died-was now down to one. Saul Delmano.
Danielle whispered the name to herself in the darkened room. The only light was the halo of the lantern by which she'd cleaned and checked her Colts. She looked around at Tim and Jed, the two of them having fallen asleep in her room, Tim leaning back in a wooden chair against the wall, Jed curled down on the floor, wrapped in a blanket he'd taken from the closet. Danielle smiled to herself, feeling closer to her brothers than she ever had.
It had been Tim and Jed who had come and found her in Indian Territory, where she'd taken up with some of her father's killers in order to draw all of them into a trap. Tim and Jed had broken the news to her about their mother's death, and she had suffered her loss alone, with no time for proper grief.
"Sorry, Mom," Danielle whispered now in the darkness, thinking about it.
Feeling herself give in to deep sadness, Danielle shook the melancholy off before it got the better of her. She stood up from the side of the bed and dressed herself quietly, winding the cloth binder methodically around her torso as she had done so many mornings before on this trail of blood. Then she clenched her teeth against the pain in her side, pitched the pistol belt around her waist, buckled it, and tied the rawhide strip around her leg, securing the oiled holster in place.
Finishing, she walked over to her sleeping brothers, looked at each of them in turn, and said, "Rise and shine. We've got a long day ahead."
In a moment the twins were up on their feet, picking up their hats and adjusting them down on their foreheads. Having slept no more than a hour or two, and in their clothes and gun belts at that, Tim and Jed rubbed their hands on their faces, forcing themselves awake, and soon the three of them left the room and descended the wooden stairs. On the front porch of the doctor's office, Danielle took an envelope from inside her shirt and slipped it under the door. She looked back at Tim and Jed, who stood watching her questioningly.
"I wouldn't think of leaving without paying the doctor his due," she said.
They turned and walked abreast to the livery barn at the far end of the street. Before dawn, Danielle, Tim, and Jed Strange were in the saddle and riding single file along the dirt street out of town. There was no more to say about whether or not Danielle was fit to ride. They had talked it out last night until both Tim and Jed saw there was no use in arguing any further on the subject. Danielle had made up her mind to go, and nothing was going to change it.
As the three of them rode past a darkened alley, they did not see the five men standing back in the far shadows, watching them ride by. One of the men, a gunman named Loot Harkens, started to raise his pistol from his holster, but beside him a deep, gruff voice whispered, "Don't be a fool, Loot. Want to end up like Clyde Branson? Let them go for now. Once they get out there in the wilds, there won't be nothing to keep us from killing them."
"Yeah, Loot," the voice of Hank Phipps whispered, "Tarksel's right. They're not going to get very far. I've got news for Mr. Danny Duggin, and his two look-alike brothers. . . . There ain't none of the three going to live to see their next birthday."
"I like your attitude, Phipps," said Al Tarksel. "See if you can get Loot here to settle down before I have to backhand him into the next county." Al Tarksel was a big man, weighing over two hundred fifty pounds, all of it hard muscle and bone. He spread a flat smile at the other men in the darkness. "Boys, I know that since Axel Eldridge got himself killed last month, there ain't been nobody to really take charge of this gang." He let his eyes cut from one to the other as he spoke. "But just to keep things well organized, I've decided that from here on, I'm taking over." His smile faded as he added, "Any objections?"
The four men looked at one another, then turned back to Al Tarksel as he said in his deep voice, "If there is, let's get it settled here and now." He called each of them by name, looking them square in the face. "Loot, any problem with me taking over?"
Loot Harkens shook his head, saying, "No. Far as I'm concerned, you're the boss."
"Hank?" Tarksel asked.
"Fine by me," Hank Phipps replied, sounding a bit nervous.
"Hector?" Al Tarksel stared coldly at Hector Sabio.
After a pause, Hector shrugged, looking sullen. "Sí, you are in charge. But I say to you the same thing I say to Axel back when I join." He thumbed himself on the chest. "I am a free man. I come and go as I choose. If I decide to quit and return to Méjico, I do so without asking anyone's permission."
"I can't run this bunch if everybody does as they damn well please, Hector," said Al Tarksel. "Are you sure that's your final say on it?"
"Sí, I say nothing more," said Hector in a firm tone.
"All right, then."
Al Tarksel reached out a big hand, clamped it around Hector's throat, and lifted him nearly off the ground. Hector's boot toes scrapped back and forth in the dirt as he was if running in place. His eyes bulged, both hands clamping around Tarksel's thick wrist. Al Tarksel only stood smiling, flat and cold. Hector reached down with his right hand and tried to snatch his pistol from his holster. But as he raised the gun, Al Tarksel slapped it away and kept squeezing.
"God Almighty!" said Jack Pearl. "Let him go, Al. You're killing him!"
But Al Tarksel didn't let go until Hector Sabio hung limp as a wet towel. Then he dropped Hector to the ground and looked at Jack Pearl. "What about you, Pearl? Any objections to me taking over as boss?"
"Hell, no. What do I care?" Jack Pearl looked down at the Mexican. "You didn't have to kill ole Hector, though. He was a damn good man. He was just running his jaw some. He wouldn't have quit us and gone back to Mexico. Hell, he's wanted in every province down there! They've been wanting to cleave his head off for years."
"Then I just saved everybody a lot of trouble," said Al Tarksel. "Now, are we all through here?" He stared at Jack Pearl as the others nodded in agreement.
"I told you, I've got no problem with who's in charge," said Jack Pearl. "I just want my part of that two thousand dollars when we kill this Danny Duggin."
"Don't worry, Jack," said Al Tarksel. "Anybody who rides with me, I'll see to it they get what's coming to them."
Jack Pearl only stared at Tarksel, realizing what Tarksel had just said could have been taken a couple of different ways. But Jack Pearl didn't need to have it spelled out for him. He knew that two thousand dollars was worth more to one man than it was to five. For the time being, Jack Pearl thought, the best thing for him to do was to keep a close watch on his back and keep his mouth shut.
"Are we ready to ride?" Tarksel asked, still staring at Jack Pearl.
"Yep." Jack Pearl smiled. "I'm just waiting on you to make the first move, boss."
"Then let's get going."
Al Tarksel stepped over Hector Sabio's body and walked toward the horses that were hitched back at the far end of the alley. In minutes the four men were mounted and riding along the dirt street as the first rays of sunlight seeped upward on the eastern horizon.
The young U.S. federal marshal’s name was Charles Fox McCord, but most of the other marshals called him C. F. for short. The outlaws along the Cherokee Strip had taken to calling him the Fox. It was a name they used with a great deal of respect, if not with much affection. During the brief 2.5 years that C. F. McCord had been riding for the federal district court out of Fort Smith, Arkansas, his reputation as a lawman had become almost legendary. When folks who had only heard of C. F. McCord met him for the first time, they had a hard time believing that this thin, clean-jawed young man could be the same marshal who had brought in some of the most hardened killers in Indian Territory.
But C. F. McCord had learned to take it all in stride. Whatever work he had done in his short life, he had always tried to do his best at it. Law work was no different, he thought, riding his lineback dun at a walk along the center of Newton's main street. Midmorning sunlight fell glaring and harsh on the passing wagons, buggies, and foot traffic.
At the hitch rail out front of the sheriff's office, McCord stepped down from his saddle, stretched his back, hitched his sweat-streaked dun, and stepped up onto the boardwalk. As he swung the creaking door open and stepped inside the small dusty sheriff's office, Sheriff Bart Lynch looked up from the stack of papers and wanted posters atop his desk. The sheriff's expression was stiff at first, but when he saw who'd just walked in, his expression changed. A slight smile even came to his lips as he spoke.
"Come in, Marshal McCord," Sheriff Lynch said. "To what do I owe this honor?" He rose from his chair and gestured a hand toward the empty chair in front of his desk.
"I'm here to see a man by the name of Danny Duggin," said McCord, "the young fellow who got shot out front of the saloon here a while back."
"Yep, I know him," said Lynch. "What can I tell you about him?"
"For starters," said McCord, "does he happen to ride a chestnut?"
"Yes, I believe his mount is a big chestnut mare, come to think of it. Why? Lots of people ride a similar mount, I reckon."
"Yeah, just curious," said McCord. "Word has it he's been laid up in the room atop the doctor's office."
"Yep, that's right," said Sheriff Lynch. "He has been. But he ain't now. I went by to see him earlier to talk some about a shooting he was involved in last night. But he's gone. Him and his brothers, too. The liveryman said they left before daylight, headed toward Dodge City."
"Gone?" McCord gave the sheriff a look of surprise. "After being involved in another shooting here?"
"That's right. He was innocent of any wrongdoing. A paid assassin by the name of Clyde Branson tried to ambush him through a window. Danny Duggin shot him from across the street . . . in the dark, mind you." Sheriff Lynch cocked a bushy eyebrow. "I mention that fact in case you and Duggin have anything to settle between yas. It appears this young Danny Duggin has nine lives, like a cat, and can see through the night just like one, too."
"Nope," said the young marshal, "there's nothing that needs settling between him and me." McCord shook his head, pulled the empty chair back, and slumped down in it, dropping his dusty hat on his lap. "The judge sent me out to clear up some things for the record."
Copyright © 2023 by Ralph Compton. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
