A Wolf in the Fold

I had seen all I needed to. I had the lay of their homestead worked out, and a fair notion of how best to go about the chore that would earn me the thousand dollars. But I could not bring myself to leave. I sat there admiring the sunset and liking them, and hating myself for it. Twilight shrouded the Dark Sister when I stirred and commented, “I better be on my way. I have a long ride in that buckboard ahead of me.”

“You’re welcome to stay the night,” Hannah kindly offered.

Lord, I was tempted. But I was being foolish. “Thank you, no. I have an early appointment in Whiskey Flats I must keep.” Rising, I stretched.

Ty hefted his rifle. “Keep your eyes skinned for cowboys on the way down the mountain. We’ve seen them skulking about a lot of late.”

“They’re probably searching for their missing cattle,” I guessed.

“If they are, they’re going about it mighty peculiar,” Ty said. “Clell and me caught sight of a bunch of them the other day riding out of a canyon on the south side of the mountain.”

“What is so peculiar about that?”

“The canyon doesn’t have a lick of water or graze,” Ty said. “It’s nothing but rocks and boulders. No one would hide cows in there unless they wanted the cows to die of thirst or hunger.”

“Maybe the cowhands didn’t know that,” I suggested.

“Except that it was the second time we saw them there in the past couple of weeks,” Ty enlightened me.

“I’ll ask the Tanners about it.” Yet another lie. The antics of their cowboys were of no interest to me. I thanked Hannah for a fine time, shook her hand, and shook Daisy’s hand, then climbed on the buckboard and lifted the reins.

“Remember,” Hannah said, “we’re counting on you. Any help you need from me, you have only to ask.”

“It will all work out. You’ll see.” I clucked to the team and did not look back. My mood was as black as the night. It didn’t help that there was no moon and twice I nearly blundered off the track.

Dark Sister was half a mile behind me when hooves drummed to my rear. I twisted in the seat, half expecting to find some of the Butchers. But the four riders who came up alongside the buckboard, a pair on either side, were cowboys. Two I recognized from the restaurant: Hank and Skeeter. The former had his hand on his Colt and started to snarl something when he recoiled as if I had smacked him.

“It’s the parson!”

The others appeared mad more than anything. Skeeter had his revolver partway out but shoved it back into his holster. “What in tarnation are you doing this far out from town?”

I wondered how much Gertrude had told them. She was not supposed to say a word to anyone about who I was or why I was there.

“Making the rounds,” I said.

Skeeter scratched his chin, then declared as if it were the world’s greatest hunch, “He’s been to visit the Butchers, that’s where he’s been!”

“You shouldn’t ought to do that, Preacher,” Hank declared. “Who knows what you might have seen?”

I remembered what Ty had said, and fished for information. “Like you and these others coming out of a canyon on the south side of the Dark Sister?”

Suddenly one of the other cowboys reined in close, grabbed hold of the traces, and brought the buckboard to a stop. I opened my mouth to protest just as he palmed his six-shooter. The click of the hammer seemed unnaturally loud.

“This varmint knows too much,” he growled. “The only way to be safe is to buck him out in gore.”

Bewildered, I got out. “Can’t we talk about this, gentlemen?”

“No, we can’t.” The cowboy took deliberate aim.

Chapter 7

I don’t know what made me do it. Instinct, I reckon. Self-preservation, folks call it. I never have liked having guns pointed at me, and when that cowboy pointed his with the intent of shooting me, I did what I always do when that happens. Instead of sitting there calmly and trying to talk the cowboy out of blowing my brains out, as a real preacher would, I dived off the buckboard, drawing my Colt from my shoulder rig as I did. Fortunately I had unbuttoned my jacket after leaving the Butchers, and could get at it quick-like.

Maybe the sight of a parson whipping out a revolver startled him. He was a shade slow in squeezing the trigger. I fired first. My slug caught him high in the forehead and did to his skull what he had been about to do to mine.

I rolled up into a crouch. The other three were too stunned to do anything. Evidently it did not occur to them that I could not leave witnesses.

Skeeter was reaching for his revolver when I shot him square in the face. Pivoting, I sent a slug into Hank. It cored his chest and he flopped backward off his saddle as if kicked by a mule. That left number four, who had his Colt almost clear of leather when I shot him. A hole appeared where his left eye had been and the rear of his cranium exploded.

Two of their mounts bolted. The buckboard’s team shied and would have run off, but I got hold of them.