Ralph Compton Death Along the Cimarron by RALPH COMPTON Page A

grave as the others looked on, her hands folded in her lap.
    As they worked together, Danielle and Stick had filled in Smith and Sutterhill on what had happened. With each rise and fall of the pick into the hard ground, Stick had told them about Cherokee Earl and his band of rustlers, and about the shooting in town. But it was only as they finished up the last grave that Hap Smith scratched his scruffy white beard and commented on the matter. “Who in the world would have ever dreamed a band of cattle rustlers would come back and do something like this?”
    â€œIt’s simple. They came back to town looking for someone to point them toward my house,” Danielle said in a bitter tone. “Annabelle told me no one in this town would tell them where I live ... so Earl and his men took turns shooting everybody.”
    â€œLord God,” Hap Smith murmured. “I reckon that only leaves you one way to go, young lady. You’ll have to go find a marshal and put him onto these murders.”
    â€œThat’s one way,” said Danielle. “But I have another idea.” She turned, rolling down her shirt sleeves, and walked away.
    Hap and Sutterhill both looked at Stick. “Did I say the wrong thing?” Hap asked.
    â€œNope,” Stick replied. “But I believe she’s already decided to go after them herself.”
    Hap Smith almost scoffed, but then he caught himself, seeing the serious look on Stick’s face. “Herself? What chance would a woman have against a bunch that would do something like this?”
    â€œI don’t know,” said Stick, “but I sure plan on being there to find out.”
    Ellen Waddell had noticed how tense and worried her husband had been the night before. He’d barely touched his food. After supper he’d spent the remainder of the evening pacing back and forth on the front porch. She noticed that he had laced his coffee with whiskey, slipping the thin flask from inside his vest and pouring it when he thought she wasn’t looking. Something was wrong, but she had no idea what it could be. Late in the evening, when gunfire resounded on the distant horizon, she had craned her neck slightly and looked off in that direction.
    â€œPistol shots,” Ellen said attentively.
    â€œYes, so what?” Dave Waddell snapped, only increasing the intensity of his monotonous pacing.
    â€œWell, nothing, I suppose,” Ellen replied. But then, when the shots came again, this time in greater number, she said, “Doesn’t that sound like it’s coming from town?”
    â€œYes, damn it, it does!” Dave Waddell barked at her.
    Ellen was taken aback that her simple comment had prompted such a harsh response. “Watch your language, if you please.... And you needn’t raise your voice.” She nodded toward his coffee cup sitting on the sun-bleached porch railing. “Perhaps if the coffee is too strong, I’ll need to—”
    â€œNo!” Dave cut her off. “There’s nothing wrong with the coffee. Can’t you see I’m trying to think here? There’s time when a man has more on his mind than figuring out whether or not gunfire is coming from town.” He took a quick swallow of the laced coffee and muttered, “Good Lord, woman!” Then he fluttered a nervous hand in the direction of Haley Springs. “Probably just some hunter shooting at jack-rabbits,” he said. “Why does everything have to be such a big event to you?”
    â€œA big event?” Ellen sat stunned for a second. “I was only making conversation.”
    â€œThen make it to yourself,” Dave snapped. Then he had turned, snatched up his cup of coffee, and stomped off the porch and toward the barn.
    â€œMy goodness,” Ellen had whispered to herself.
    That wasn’t the first time she’d seen her husband upset about something. But the next morning, when she awakened just before dawn, she