Wyoming Slaughter by William W. Johnstone

and I hated it. But I had to do it. My instincts were howling. A white moon threw light into the barn, giving me what I needed. I worked through the restless animals sheltered there to Critter’s stall and let myself in. Critter didn’t like that and aimed a rear hoof in my direction. But I had anticipated that and dodged it. The hoof splintered wood.
    â€œCut it out,” I said. “I’ll turn you into dog food.”
    Critter leaned into me, pushing hard, driving me into the wall, squeezing air out of my lungs. I responded with a knee into Critter’s belly. The horse whoofed and quit, and stood quietly for the moment.
    â€œWe’re going out, whether you want to or not. So get used to it.”
    Critter bit me, then tried again, aiming at my kneecap.
    â€œYou’ve already told me that, but we’re going. I’m going to stuff a cold bit in your mouth,” I said.
    I warmed the bit in my hand a moment and then tried to slide it in, but Critter was having no part of it. He bobbed his head and dodged the bit and farted.
    â€œCut it out! We’re just going out for a few minutes.”
    Critter listened and quit fighting, and pretty quick I got the bridle on, and a saddle blanket, and then the saddle, which I cinched up tight, kneeing Critter to keep him from playing his usual games with the girth. Then I led Critter out of the stall, worked through the horseflesh sheltered in the barn, and stepped into a breathtaking, bitter white night.
    Critter humped and shivered when I climbed on, but soon I was pointing my saddle horse toward the creek. There was something I had to find out, and fast, and that was whether the six cases of DuPont Hercules dynamite were where they had been unloaded at the creek bank under my watchful eye by the two powdermen.
    The snow was so cold it squeaked under Critter’s hoof, but at least the wind had slowed, and I thought I could make the whole trip without anything more than some frostbit earlobes and fingers. My ma would have scolded me for not bundling up.
    There was nothing friendly in the moon that night. The white ground cover gave me plenty of light. Behind me, Doubtful hunkered darkly, asleep, barely a lamp lit. Smoke streamed from scores of stoves and bent to the wind. The night was as silent and secretive as any I had known in my life.
    I saw no tracks. The wind whipped hoofprints away in moments. When I reached the creek and the brush along it, I hunted down the place where the powder had been cached and couldn’t find it. I was sure I was at the right place. I had overseen the whole business earlier. But maybe the moonlight was tricking me. I rode up and down the bank, through brush, around naked cottonwoods, and found nothing. I stood at the very spot where the cases had been placed and saw not a thing. No imprint, no hoofprints. The dynamite was gone.
    Just to be sure, I patrolled the riverbank in each direction but found nothing.
    â€œAll right, Critter,” I said, and steered my horse back. Critter got the idea and settled into a sprightly jog, suddenly as barn sour as a horse could get.
    This was probably bad news, unless the powdermen had simply left town. There would be an easy way to find out. The cold air harried me back, and I dismounted when I reached Turk’s and let myself and the horse into the yard. I pulled open the barn door and led Critter to his stall, cleaned the tack off, and scratched Critter under the jaw. Critter bit me on the arm.
    â€œYowch!” I said, and got out just before a massive hoof crashed into the stall door.
    â€œYou’re welcome,” I added.
    Turk allowed a bull’s-eye lamp in the barn if it stayed on its wall hook, so I lit it, carefully extinguishing the lucifer. It cast a torpid light across the cavernous interior. There were maybe twenty animals there, their eyes on me, glowing like coals in the light. I was looking for the powdermen’s mules, and I gradually picked them