A Wolf in the Fold Read online

  All in all, it hadn’t been a bad night. The job got done, I got paid, and the son of a bitch and his conniving wife who intended to cheat me got their due.

  Then other hooves drummed. Tyler’s hands were after me. I tried to recollect the lay of the land, but I had only been over it once. There was a creek to the north sprinkled with stands of trees. It wasn’t much cover, but it was all that was to be had.

  I reined Brisco north, and to add sugar to the pie, I let out with a whoop that the cowboys were bound to hear.

  Excited yells greeted my outcry. They reckoned I was heading for the creek, exactly as I wanted. But I only went a short way before I cut to the west and slowed Brisco to a walk. After a hundred yards I drew rein and slid down. I did not have much time. Gripping the bridle, I tugged on Brisco’s mane. It had taken me the better part of a month to teach him this trick back when he was knee-high to the stallion that sired him, and on more than one occasion it had saved my hide.

  Brisco sank onto his side and I shucked my rifle from the saddle scabbard and hunkered behind him, just in case. The thunder of pursuit grew louder and louder, and soon I saw them, eight or nine, riding hell bent for leather. They passed within fifty or sixty feet of me and did not spot me. As soon as the night swallowed them, I shoved the rifle back into the scabbard, brought Brisco up off the ground, and cantered south.

  Ten days later I reached Denver. I took my usual room. Several letters were waiting for me. One was a job offer from Kansas. A sodbuster wanted some Indians killed. They had taken his milk cow, and he offered me a hundred dollars to wipe out the whole blamed tribe. I tore his letter up. My fee was a thousand dollars. Everyone knew that.

  The next offer was from Utah. A Mormon gent was upset that another Mormon gent married all three of his sisters and promised me a thousand plus one of his sisters if I would fill the other Mormon gent with more holes than a sieve. I liked the idea of the sister and set the letter aside.

  The third letter interested me more, though.

  I decided to give myself two days to rest up and then head out. The plain truth is, a Regulator’s work is never done.

  Chapter 1

  When most folks think of Texas they imagine the lowland along the Gulf Coast or the heavy brush of longhorn country or even the vast inland prairies. Few think of mountains, yet in west Texas there are more mountains than you can shake a stick at. Fact is, Guadalupe Peak, the highest in the state at over eight thousand feet, is part of the chain of Rocky Mountains that runs clear down into Mexico.

  I had been there before and loved the country. Something about it appealed to me. Particularly what they call the lost mountains. Peaks that are not part of the chain but exist like islands in an ocean of grass. Mix in the gorges that crisscross the region and you have as rugged and pretty a chunk of landscape as anywhere in this here United States of America. I should know. Since the end of the war I’ve been most everywhere and seen most everything.

  Whiskey Flats had sprouted on a plain between two lost mountains. To the east rose the Fair Sister, a bald mountain with a rocky peak that gleamed in bright sunshine and lent the mountain its name. Miles west of Whiskey Flats reared the Dark Sister, a wooded mountain laced by ravines and canyons. The Dark Sister was a notorious haunt of badmen and beasts and was shunned by most decent folk.

  I rode into Whiskey Flats on a Sunday morning. That was fitting, all things considered. My getup attracted a lot of attention as I rode down the main and only street to a hitch rail in front of the saloon. Out of habit I almost reined up, then thought better of it and gigged Brisco to the livery. As I dismounted an old geezer with a limp came hobbling to take the reins.

  “How do, mister. Planning to put your horse up? It will cost you—” The old man stopped and his lower jaw dropped. He had seen the Bible and the collar. “Land sakes! Are you a parson?”

  “No, I’m a Comanche,” I said with a poker face.

  The old coot cackled and slapped his bad leg. “A parson with a sense of humor! Now I’ve done seen everything.” He offered his hand. “They call me Billy No-Knee on account I lost part of mine to a Yankee cannon.” He thumped the side of his leg about where his knee would be. “Hear that? It’s a wood brace I have to wear every minute of every day or I fall flat on my face. Damned stinking Yankees.” Catching himself, he said sheepishly, “Sorry about that, Parson. I know we’re supposed to turn the other cheek, but it’s hard to forgive folks who lob cannonballs at you.”

  “We all have our burdens to bear.” I wiped dust from the Bible with my sleeve, pushed my hat back, and lied. “I had no idea there was a town in these parts, Brother Billy.”

  “If you can call it that,” No-Knee responded. “As towns go, it’s a mite puny. Hell, if it was a flea, the dog wouldn’t hardly notice.” Again he caught himself. “Sorry about my language, but I ain’t used to gabbing with a Bible-thumper.”

  “Indeed.” I like that word. It sounded as if I was smarter than I am.

  Billy coughed and pointed at the only two-story building Whiskey Flats boasted. “That there is the hotel. It’s also the only place to get eats. The gal who runs it, Miss Modine, is as pretty a filly as you’ll find on either side of the Rio Grande.” He coughed again. “Not that parsons think about such things, I reckon.”

  “Ever read this?” I asked, tapping the Good Book.

  “No, sir, can’t say as I have. I never had me much schooling. Oh, I can wrestle with a menu if I have to, but reading and writing give me headaches.”

  The one and only thing I was grateful to my ma for was her teaching me to read. Since the only book we owned was the Bible, she made me read from it every night from the time I was six until I was twelve. I got to know it pretty well. Well enough that I can fake knowing it better than I do. “Then you have never read the Song of Solomon?” I opened the Bible and flipped the pages to the part I wanted. “ ‘Your lips are like a strand of scarlet, and your mouth is lovely.’ ” I picked another part. “ ‘Your two breasts are like two fawns, twins of a gazelle.’ ”

  His eyes about popped from their sockets. “It says that in there?”

  “And much more,” I assured him.

  “I’ll be switched. And here I thought it was all about begatting and blessing.” Billy shook his head in wonderment. “How is it I never heard a parson talk about breasts and lips and such at church?”

  “And be tarred and feathered and run out on a rail?”

  Billy snorted and grinned. “That’s what would happen, sure enough. The prim and proper don’t like to be reminded that under their clothes they’re the same as the rest of us.”

  I took a liking to him. “I’d be obliged if you would see to my horse.” Handing him the reins, I turned to go.

  “Fixing to stay long, if you don’t mind my askin’?”

  “I’m just passing through.”

  “Too bad. We don’t have a church. About a year ago a traveling preacher stayed a week and held meetings every night. He’d bellow at us about fire and brimstone, then pass around a plate. I didn’t mind being called a worthless sinner, but I wasn’t about to pay for the privilege.”

  I liked the old coot more by the minute. “Blessed are the meek,” I said. I knew snatches here and there, but I couldn’t recite an entire passage if my life depended on it.

  “Exactly,” Billy said. “And that preacher was anything but. Oh well.” He shrugged. “I can’t hardly cast stones. I have too many sins to my credit.”

  “The Almighty forgives all,” I intoned, and proceeded down the street. The half-dozen or so people out and about stopped to stare, and faces peered out of windows. I did some staring of my own at the sign above the restaurant. The Calamity House, it read. I went on in.

  After the glare and heat of the sun, the dimly lit room was a welcome relief. I waited to let my eyes adjust, then moved to an empty table. Only four customers were present. To my left was a pretty mother with a girl of ten or so, indulging in slices of pie. To my right were two scruf
fy men in need of a wash and a shave.

  I had hardly sat down when a door at the back burst open and in bustled as handsome a female as I ever set eyes on. Billy had called her pretty, but that didn’t hardly do her justice. She had lustrous brunette hair that cascaded in curls past her shoulders, full cheeks a chipmunk would envy, the reddest lips this side of cherries, and flashing green eyes that sliced into me like twin sabers. I was smitten at first sight, and mighty upset with myself for picking to play a parson instead of a patent medicine salesman.

  “Be right with you,” the vision said as she carried a tray to the two men and set plates heaped high with food in front of them. “Here you go, boys. But why you want to eat my cooking when your ma is the best cook in these parts is beyond me.”

  The pair were not much over twenty, if that. The youngest had cropped sandy hair and enough freckles to fill a whiskey jug. He showed his buck teeth in a wide smile and answered, “I’ll tell her you said that, Miss Calista. She’ll be flattered.”

  “Just call me Calista, Sam. How many times have I asked you?”

  The other one had black hair and a surly disposition. “Took you long enough,” he grumbled, picking up a fork and holding it like he was fixing to stab someone.

  “Patience is a virtue, Carson,” the woman said.

  “Don’t lecture me. I get enough of that from Ma.” Carson speared a potato and shoved it into his mouth. Chomping hungrily, he declared, “Not bad. I guess it was worth the wait.”

  The woman turned and gave me a smile that would melt wax. “And what may I do for you, sir?” Those green eyes narrowed, then widened. “Oh my. A parson? A warm welcome to you, sir. Whiskey Flats is in dire need of spiritual succor.”

  My, but she had a fancy vocabulary. I squared my shoulders and leaned back to impress her with my chest. “How would that be, my good woman?”

  “Calista. Calista Modine.” She glanced at the two scruffy specimens, then said softly, “Let’s just say there is a lot of ill will in our fair community.”

  “Do I call you Miss Calista or Miss Modine?”

  “Either is fine,” she answered. Then, as if unsure whether I had heard her, she stressed, “Yes, sir, a lot of ill will. If things keep up as they are, it won’t be long before men shoot each other right out in the street.”

  “Is that so?” The bare essentials were in the letter I had been sent, but here was a chance to learn more from someone not directly involved. “Care to explain, my dear?” Inwardly, I chuckled. Being a parson had its benefits, such as calling a pretty woman I barely knew “dear” and getting away with it.

  “It’s the usual,” Calista said. “A falling out over cattle. The LT Ranch has been losing cows and its owners blame a certain family who deny they have had anything to do with it.”

  Metal rang on china as Carson slammed his fork down. “I heard that! Why don’t you come right out and tell him? The Tanners blame us. The Butchers. They’ve made that plain enough.”

  The younger one, Sam, looked up. “We haven’t taken any of their mangy cows, Miss Calista. Honest we haven’t.”

  “I believe you, Sam.”

  Carson speared another potato and waved it in the air. “Then you’re about the only one who does. We’ve seen how people look at us. We’ve heard the whispers behind our backs.” He glared at the mother and her daughter. “Town folks. A bunch of biddy hens is what they are.”

  “Behave,” Calista cautioned. “I won’t have you mistreat my customers.” She smiled at the pretty mother. “Please forgive him, Mrs. Almont. He didn’t mean to insult you.”

  Carson grumbled something I couldn’t quite catch.

  “That’s quite enough out of you,” Calista warned him, then faced me. “Now then. What would you like?”

  “I hear tell you rent rooms.”

  She brightened and set down the tray. “That I do. I have eight boarders in five rooms at the moment, with two rooms empty.”

  “It is a bit off the beaten path,” I allowed. Removing my hat, I placed it on the table. I had shaved and greased my hair. It felt strange not to have a woolly caterpillar on my upper lip and not to have hair hanging down my brow. “I could do with a cup of coffee. Hot and black, if you please.”

  “Right away.” Calista took several steps, and paused. “I didn’t catch your name, Parson.”

  “Luke Storm, ma’am.” I always picked names with the same first letters as my own. It made them easier to recollect.

  “Reverend Storm,” she said. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. How long will you be staying?”

  “I’m not rightly sure,” I replied. It depended on how long it took to finish the job.

  “I hope you will conduct a few services while you are with us. I’ll even let you hold them here, if you want.”

  “That’s mighty gracious,” I praised her.

  “Be right back with that coffee.” Calista gave a little curtsy and whisked out of the room.

  I liked how her dress clung to her long legs, but since it wouldn’t do for a parson to ogle a pretty woman, I tore my gaze from her and acknowledged the presence of the Butcher boys with a nod. “Would you attend services if I held them?”

  Sam was sawing at a hunk of beef. “Most likely we wouldn’t have any choice, Parson. Our ma would drag us by the ears.”

  I grinned, and he misunderstood.

  “Don’t get me wrong. She’s the best ma anyone ever had, but she doesn’t abide sass. When she wants us to do something, we do it or else.”

  Carson glumly forked a carrot. “That’s all I need. I’ve got better things to do with my time than have religion crammed down my throat.”

  “I try not to cram if I can help it,” I remarked.

  “Even so. No offense, Parson, but all that ‘do unto others’ stuff is just a bunch of bunkum to me.”

  Sam glanced at the front door. “Be careful, brother! If ma should walk in and hear you, she’d take a board to your backside.”

  The image of a grown man being spanked brought another grin. “You’re a little old for that, aren’t you?”

  “Ma likes to say that we’re never too old to have some sense beat into us,” Sam said.

  “And she beats it into us every chance she gets,” Carson amended.

  “Is she religious, your ma?” I inquired. When pretending to be a preacher, it’s smart to find out who might know more about the subject.

  “Is she ever!” Sam exclaimed. “She reads from the Bible every evening right after supper. And she’s always going on about how the Good Book says this and the Good Book says that.”

  “A woman after my own heart.”

  Carson nearly choked on the carrot. “You wouldn’t say that if you had to live with her. Don’t get me wrong, mister. I love my ma. But she can be a powerful nuisance at times.”

  “Tarnation!” Sam chided. “You shouldn’t talk about her that way.”

  “Well, she is,” Carson sulked, and focused on me. “He’s the youngest, so he tends to overlook her faults. He’ll change when he’s older. We all do.”

  Calista returned bearing a tray with a cup and saucer and the coffeepot. As she bent over my table I felt a puff of warm air and heard spurs jangle.

  Two men had entered. Cowboys, wearing high-crowned hats and all the trimmings, including six-guns in holsters on their hips. If they saw me they gave no sign but walked straight over to the Butchers. The tallest, a rangy, bowlegged cuss who swaggered like he was God’s gift to creation, hooked his thumbs in his gun belt and asked in a gravelly tone, “What do we have here?”

  “We’re not hankering after trouble, Hank,” Sam said.

  “That’s too bad, boy, because Skeeter and me have a bone to pick with you and your brother. This morning four LT cows were found with their throats slit and their tongues cut out.”

  Predictably, Carson bristled. “Are you accusing us?”

  “That, and then some.” Hank rested his hand on his Colt. “Your cow-killing days are over.”


  Chapter 2

  Carson came out of his chair as if it were on fire. He did not wear a holster but had a revolver tucked under his belt. A Prescott, unless I was mistaken, an older model with well-worn grips.

  “Here now!” Calista Modine yelled. “There will be none of that! If you gentlemen insist on being foolish, do so outside.”

  The mother had risen and dashed around the table to her daughter. She held the girl close, and they hastily departed.

  Calista angrily stamped a foot. “Look at what you’ve done! Gone and scared off my customers!”

  I was content to sit there and let them have at it, but Calista looked at me in heartfelt appeal. Since it was a rare minister who would permit blood to be shed in his presence if he could help it, I stood up and stepped between Carson Butcher and Hank. “Have a care, brothers. The lady is right. This is hardly the right time or place.”

  Hank put a hand on my shoulder. “Who in hell are you to butt in, mister?” he growled.

  The other cowboy, Skeeter, grabbed Hank’s wrist. “Are you plumb blind, pard? That’s a preacher you’re shoving.” He was of middling size and build and had the bushiest eyebrows I ever came across.

  “What?” Hank stepped back and raked me up and down. “Damn. You’re right. Sorry, Parson. I was so mad, I didn’t notice.”

  “That’s quite all right,” I said civilly. “But I must ask you to calm yourself. If you have a complaint against these gentlemen, find the marshal and charge them.”

  “Whiskey Flats doesn’t have a lawdog,” Skeeter said.

  “We don’t need one,” Hank declared. “A man steps out of line, we treat him to a strangulation jig.” He cast meaningful glances at Carson and Sam.

  “But we didn’t kill your stupid cows!” the youngest Butcher objected.

  Hank was offended. “That’s my livelihood you’re insulting, boy. But I’ll let you walk out as a favor to the reverend.”

  “We’re not leaving until we’re done our meal,” Carson informed him. “And no flea-ridden cow nurses are scaring us off, neither.”