A Wolf in the Fold

“It’s the Butchers we should be concerned about,” Calista responded. “Specifically, who killed them. It seems to me that the person who pointed the finger of blame is at the top of the list.”

“Is this a funeral or isn’t it?” a disgruntled listener complained.

“Sorry,” Calista said, but she did not sound sorry. She gazed skyward. “Lord, we commit the souls of these good people unto your care. Watch over them and preserve them. We ask this in your son’s name. Amen.”

A chorus of amen’s were added. They started to drift toward their horses and wagons.

Calista was last. She gazed at what was left of the cabin, then at the woods. I thought for a second she spotted me, but she showed no sign of it and walked to her horse.

I watched her ride off with mixed feelings. Part of me had wanted to reveal myself. The other part, the part that hired out his gun for money, held me in check. No one must know I was alive.

That night I slept fitfully. I tossed and turned, racked by a nightmare. In it, I was trapped in the burning cabin. I was pinned and helpless, the flames licking nearer and nearer. Just as I caught on fire, I woke up. I was caked with sweat, yet my mouth and throat were as dry as a desert. Weakly, I made it to my feet, and the stream. After slaking my thirst, I kindled a small fire. I had some rabbit left over from supper, and I was famished. Dawn was not far off, so it would suffice as breakfast, too. While the meat roasted on a spit, I examined my wound. I was worried about infection, but there was no sign of any.

The sunrise was spectacular. I sat munching on the juicy meat as pink, orange, and yellow splashed the eastern sky. It occurred to me that I had never really admired a sunrise before. I was always so caught up in myself and what I was doing.

The thought troubled me. I was becoming soft. What did I care about sunrises and sunsets and such?

Still, it was a sight to see, the sun seeming to float up out of the earth, a great blazing golden globe that shone like fiery burnished gold. It brought the birds to life and warmth to the new day.

I spent most of the morning in the thicket by the cabin. Noon came and went and still no sign of anyone. I was about to return to the hollow when hooves drummed, and shortly thereafter in they rode.

There were two of them. Both were middling sized. Both sported woolly mustaches. Both wore two revolvers. The badges pinned to their shirts gleamed as they reined to a stop. One dismounted while the other shucked a Winchester from his saddle scabbard and levered a round into the chamber.

You hear so much about the Texas Rangers that when you see them, you half expect them to be as big as giants. But these were as ordinary as pie, or almost. It’s hard to describe, but one look and you knew these two were two of the toughest hombres to ever draw breath. It wasn’t that they strutted around like roosters. Not at all. It was in how they held themselves and in how they moved.

The one who had climbed down was crisscrossing the clearing, reading the sign. He was good, too. He pointed at where Hannah had fallen and said, “This here was the mother.”

How he could tell was beyond me. A puddle of dry blood marked the spot, but it could be anyone’s blood. Then he hunkered and indicated footprints in the dirt near the cabin door.

“Heavyset woman. Small feet. Quite a jumble here. But I’d guess she came out last.”

“Do we dig up the graves, Dee?” the Ranger on the bay asked.

“A few we might have to. Given my druthers I wouldn’t, but some of the townsfolk swear it was Injuns.”

“And my ma is the Queen of England.”

Dee snickered. “If she were, Les, you wouldn’t be dodging lead for a living. You’d be off in some castle somewhere, diddling the maid.”

“Why, pard, I’m affronted. It would be the maid and the cook and their cousins, if they had any.”

I smiled along with them. So the Texas Rangers liked their women as much as the next man. It was a revelation.

Then more hooves pounded up the trail, and into the clearing trotted Calista Modine, Tom from the general store, and Webber, the butcher. Tom and Webber were what you could describe as two of Whiskey Flats’s leading citizens.

“Are we late?” Calista asked. “I thought you said to meet you here at one.”

“You’re not late, ma’am, we’re early,” Dee said.

“We came on ahead to scout the country,” Les elaborated, “and to read the sign.” He swung down. “It’s too bad the townspeople came up here yesterday. They made a mess of any tracks that might have helped us.”

Dee nodded. “The bodies should have been left as they were.”

“Now hold on,” Webber said. He was a big, beefy man with a gut that bulged over his belt. “It wouldn’t be Christian to let the scavengers gnaw on them.”

“And we weren’t entirely sure you would show up when that drummer claimed you would,” Tom said, defending the burials.