The Killing Season Read online

  “They could,” Jennings said, “unless they use some common sense. These Horrells know Clint Barkley has a price on his head. Any jaybird ridin’ in with intentions of arresting him had best come prepared to sling some lead.”

  As the day wore on, it became unseasonably warm. The wind died almost entirely and the sun began to suck up the water from the muddy street. Even with the windows open, the hotel rooms became stuffy and uncomfortable.

  “God,” said Nathan, “in Texas, you’re always soaked to the hide. Either from a three-day rain or from your own sweat. Makes me lonesome for the high country, where you can enjoy blizzards right on through April.”

  “There’s a saloon down the street aways,” said Jennings. “Let’s mosey over there and have us a beer.”

  “Suits me,” Nathan said. “We’re two hours away from sundown. Maybe your visiting badge-toters aim to arrive after dark, so as not to attract too much attention.”

  There was little to distinguish the Matador Saloon from thousands of its kind on the western frontier, and the barkeep had every right to be as bored as he looked. The place was as deserted as a cow camp on payday, and only one of the hanging lamps had been lighted to dispel the gloom. There were plenty of tables, but Nathan and Jennings leaned on the bar.

  “Beer for each of us,” said Jennings.

  When the barkeep brought the beer, Jennings paid. Cotton Blossom crouched at Nathan’s feet, his eyes on the door, for he didn’t like saloons or the men who frequented them. Nathan and Jennings had been in the saloon only a few minutes when seven riders reined up outside.

  “Oh, God,” the barkeep groaned, “it’s the Horrells.”

  “Who are they?” Nathan asked innocently.

  “Trouble,” the saloon man answered. “There’s Tom, Mart, and Sam. I ain’t sure who the others are.”

  “They’ll likely be bellyin’ up,” said Jennings. “We might as well get us a table.”

  Jennings led the way, Nathan and Cotton Blossom following. The ranger purposely took a table off to the side, as near the swinging doors as possible. The seven men trooped into the saloon, and they were a hard-bitten lot. Every one was armed with a Colt, and as they entered, each man allowed his eyes to linger long and hard on Nathan and Jennings. Cotton Blossom’s hackles rose, and he growled deep in his throat.

  “Bring us a bottle,” one of the men demanded of the barkeep.

  “Hell,” said another, “make that two bottles. Clint’s buyin’.”

  They all laughed. Nathan and Jennings studied the man who paid for the whiskey. Cotton Blossom growled again, louder this time.

  “What’s that damn dog growlin’ at?” one of the men at the bar shouted.

  “What does it matter?” Nathan asked mildly. “He’s not bothering you.”

  The exchange ended as sudden as it had begun, when four riders reined up outside. As the men dismounted, Captain Jennings groaned, for the evening sun glinted off the badges they wore.

  “It’s the law, by God,” said one of the men at the bar.

  As the seven drew and cocked their Colts, the barkeep disappeared behind the bar. Despite the ranger’s vow not to involve himself without invitation, Nathan could tell by the look in Jennings’s eyes that he wasn’t going to allow the foolish state policemen to walk into a trap without warning. At the thump of the lawmen’s boots on the porch, Jennings made his move.

  “It’s a trap!” Jennings shouted. “Cuidado.”

  As he shouted the warning, Jennings upended the table. But it wasn’t much of a shield for two men, and Nathan seized the leg of a second table, dropping it on its side between himself and the gunmen at the bar. But the surprised lawmen hadn’t acted swiftly enough. The Horrell clan had cut loose a veritable hail of lead that tore through the batwing doors. Running for the door, they fired at Nathan and Jennings, their slugs slamming into the wooden tabletops. But Nathan and Jennings returned the fire, wounding two of the men before they were free of the saloon. The seven had mounted their horses and were galloping away before the frightened barkeep crawled out from behind the bar.

  “God Almighty,” he asked in a trembling voice, “what brought that on?”

  “From what I hear,” Jennings said, “your friends the Horrells are siding a man wanted by the law. I expect there are dead men outside.”

  Nathan and Jennings, followed by the fearful barkeep, stepped through the shattered batwings. Three of the lawmen lay dead, while the fourth sat on the edge of the porch, his head in his hands.

  “My God,” said the barkeep, “they was gunned down like dogs.”

  “A shame,” Jennings said, “but maybe some good will come of it. You don’t send sheep after a pack of curly wolves.”

  “Who are you, mister?” the barkeep asked.

  “Nobody who matters,” Jennings replied. He crossed to the other side of the street, bound for the hotel. Nathan and Cotton Blossom followed. Reaching the hotel, Jennings paused until Nathan caught up. Then the ranger spoke.

  “It’s near suppertime. Join me if you like. I aim to get an early start in the morning.”

  Nathan nodded, and they entered the cafe, Cotton Blossom following. He sloped into the kitchen and the friendly cook fed him his supper. Nathan and Jennings ordered their meal, seated themselves, and were drinking first cups of coffee before either spoke.

  “I reckon you’re ridin’ back to Austin,” said Nathan.

  “I am,” Jennings replied. “Why don’t you ride with me?”

  “I will,” said Nathan. “I’ll stay a few days, and then I aim to ride to Fort Worth and see if my old friend Captain Ferguson is still there.”

  Austin, Texas. March 21, 1873

  Nathan visited some of the saloons in Austin, carefully avoiding the one where young Viola Hayden had gone to the bad. The second day following their arrival in the capital city, Captain Jennings invited Nathan to his office.

  “I have something to show you,” the ranger said.

  Reaching the office, Nathan followed Jennings into a back room where the arms and ammunition was stored. From an open wooden crate, the ranger took a pair of new Colts, tossing them to Nathan butt-first. Nathan caught one of the weapons in each hand.

  “Army-issue .44-40 rimfires,” Jennings said.

  “I’ve heard of them,” said Nathan. “Metallic cartridges.”

  “Yes,” Jennings said. “Now put them aside for a minute and take a look at this.” He handed Nathan a new Winchester, still coated with grease from the factory.

  “The new 1873 Winchester,” said Nathan, “and it takes the same shells as the Colts.”

  “Exactly,” Jennings replied. “We got ours when the army got theirs. The Colts and the Winchester are yours. I can spare you four hundred rounds. Any trading post or sutler’s store should have ammunition by the time you’re needing it.”

  “I’m obliged, Cap,” said Nathan, touched by the ranger’s generosity. “I’d hoped that eventually ...”

  “Eventually might be too late,” Jennings replied. “You need them now, if for no other reason than to save your hide. The Indians have pulled out all the stops, and for the next few years, it’ll be hell with the lid off. Quanah Parker’s got near seven hundred braves. Lacking firepower, get that bunch on your trail, and you’re on a one-way ride to the campo santo.”2

  Nathan spent the next few days in his hotel room familiarizing himself with the new Colts. Eventually he would have to find a secluded area and practice firing the weapons; he needed to know if they pulled to the right or the left. After almost two weeks in Austin, he felt it was time to ride on, north to Fort Worth. He again thanked Captain Jennings for the new weapons, loaded his packhorse, and rode north. Half a day out of Austin, his packhorse slid a right front hoof off a ledge of rock and came up lame. He was not more than three or four miles south of Georgetown, and there was but one thing he could do. Removing the heavy pack saddle and the lead rope, he set the animal free.

  “I hate to leave you, amigo,”
Nathan said, “but it’ll take you a while to heal, if you ever do. But at least you’ll have a chance.”

  Nathan then loaded the packsaddle atop his own saddle, securing it with rope. Leading the grulla, he set out for Georgetown. The packhorse nickered, and Nathan tried to shut out the sound. If the animal healed, it would find a home, being near Georgetown. If it didn’t heal, it would become food for coyotes and vultures. He tried not to think of that grim possibility. It would be near dark by the time he reached town. He was forced to consider the possibility he might have trouble buying another horse, for this wasn’t much more than a village. In many a small Texas town, few men owned more than one horse or one mule, while those with two animals needed them to pull a wagon. By the time Nathan reached Georgetown, his feet were killing him. The liveryman was a thin old fellow with a piece of straw hung loosely between his teeth, and he eyed Nathan’s overloaded grulla curiously. Finally he spoke.

  “I ain’t never seen that a-fore.”

  “You have now,” Nathan said shortly. “Do you have some place I can leave this packsaddle for a while?”

  “Tack room, I reckon. They’s rats as big as possums, though.”

  “I’ll risk it for tonight,” Nathan said grimly. “Will you unsaddle and rub down my horse? He’ll need some grain, too.”

  “Costs extry fer rubbin’ down an’ fer grain. Don’t cost you nothin’ fer unsaddlin’, though.”

  “Well, thank God,” said Nathan. “Tomorrow I’m going to need a packhorse. Do you have a horse or mule for sale?”

  “Yeeeee doggies,” he cackled, “that’s by-God funny. I ain’t had a hoss er mule fer sale since I disremember when.”

  “Do you know of anybody with a horse or mule for sale?” Nathan asked.

  “Nary a hoss, nary a mule,” he said, seeming to relish his negative reply.

  “Then unsaddle, rub down, and grain this horse,” Nathan said.

  “Can’t git to the saddle, with all them fixings you got roped to it.”

  Striving mightily to control his temper, Nathan untied the ropes so that he could lift the loaded packsaddle from the horse.

  “Yeeeee doggies,” said the exasperating old coot, “you figgered that out right snappy. Now I can git to that saddle. You wanta tote that load of truck to the tack room, I’ll hold the door fer you.”

  “I’d appreciate it,” Nathan said through gritted teeth, “as long as you don’t strain yourself.”

  He lugged the heavy packsaddle into the tackroom, noting that the slatted door was secured only with a drop latch. Anybody with the brains God gave a paisano3 could get in. The old hostler looked at Nathan, his eyes crinkling at the corners, but Nathan didn’t allow him to say more. Leaving the livery, his saddlebags over his arm, he set out for the hotel. Cotton Blossom trotted at his heels. The hotel was a single-story affair, and Nathan paid two dollars for a room for the night.

  “Where’s a good place to eat?” he asked the desk clerk.

  “Down next to the jail. Around here, it’s the only place to eat. But you’d best get your grub and get away from there. Mart Horrell and one of the Horrell hands, Jerry Scott, is in jail. We’re expecting the whole hell-raisin’ bunch of Horrells just any time.”

  “I’ve heard of them,” Nathan said. “Why hasn’t your sheriff just raised a posse and gone after them?”

  “A week ago,” said the clerk, “our sheriff turned in his badge and rode out. He said there was just too damn many Horrells. They gunned down three lawmen over to Lampasas. Our lawyer, A.S. Fisher, is wearin’ the badge until we elect another sheriff. If we can find one.”

  Nathan and Cotton Blossom found the cafe. Cotton Blossom had been fed and Nathan was drinking a last cup of coffee when all hell broke loose outside. Nathan got up and started for the door.

  “You’d best stay off the street,” the cook warned. “It’s them no-account Horrells, likely here to bust their kin out of jail.”

  There were seven riders. They all dismounted, and the man carrying a sledgehammer advanced toward the jail. He was the man Nathan had decided was Clint Barkley. The cook stood beside Nathan, looking out the window.

  “Which ones are the Horrells?” Nathan asked.

  “Them two holdin’ back is just Horrell cowboys,” the cook replied. “The gent with the hammer is a friend of the Horrells, an’ I hear he’s hidin’ out from the law.”

  Barkley attacked the door of the jail with the sledge, while his comrades shouted encouragement. After he had broken through, Nathan could hear the clang of the hammer as he attacked the cell door lock. When he emerged, the freed men with him, the Horrells cheered. But their merriment was short-lived as a rifle spoke from across the street. One of the Horrell cowboys cried out in pain and the Horrells began returning the fire. Then came a shouted challenge.

  “Put down your guns. I’m Fisher, acting sheriff.”

  “You want our guns,” one of the Horrells shouted, “come and get ’em.”

  Fisher had guts. Clutching his rifle, he came in a zigzag run, trying to reach the protection of a giant oak. It would have brought him much closer to his adversaries, but Horrell fire cut his legs from under him and he fell, far short of his goal. Dust spurted from the ground around him, as the Horrells renewed their attack on the fallen man. Then there was a woman running toward him, crying as she came.

  “No! No! Don’t shoot!”

  “My God,” said the cook in Nathan’s ear. “That’s Fisher’s wife and she’s expecting.”

  Guns ready, the Horrells were advancing, ignoring the pleas of the woman. It was the kind of one-sided fight Nathan Stone hated. When he left the cafe, he was behind the Horrells. Drawing his right-hand Colt, he fired once and Clint Barkley’s hat left his head.

  “The next one will be a mite lower,” Nathan said. “Mount up and ride.”

  “Gun him down,” Barkley shouted. “It was him shot Mart and Tom in Lampasas.”

  But Nathan had an advantage. Wounded though he was, Fisher began firing again, catching the Horrells in a crossfire. There was shouting as townsmen came to Fisher’s aid, some of them firing at the Horrells. Nathan had the satisfaction of knocking Barkley down with a slug through his thigh. As the wounded outlaw crawled toward his horse, Nathan fired twice. The lead kicked up dust, spooking the horse, and it lit out. Barkley was given a hand up behind one of the Horrells and they thundered out of town, bleeding but alive. Nathan walked down the dusty street until he reached the wounded Fisher. Other men were helping him to his feet, while his concerned wife wrung her hands and wept.

  “Damn it,” said Fisher, glaring at Nathan, “we had them boxed. Why did you invite them to ride out?”

  “Because it was just you and me against seven of them,” Nathan said, “and you were wounded, belly-down, with no cover. You’ve got gravel in your gizzard, pardner, and I reckon your intentions are good. It’s your judgment that’s not worth a damn.”

  “Mister,” said one of the newly arrived townsmen, “we’re needin’ us a sheriff. The job could be yours if you’re wantin’ it.”

  “Thanks,” Nathan replied, “but I don’t want it. I don’t usually buy into somebody else’s fight, but I won’t allow a pack of yellow coyotes to jump a man when he’s down.” He turned away, returning to the cafe where Cotton Blossom waited.

  “By God,” said the cafe cook admiringly, “it was good seein’ that bunch of Horrells tuck their tails and run. Come on in. The coffee’s on me.”

  “Thanks,” said Nathan, “but I’ve had enough. I’ll see you at breakfast.”

  CHAPTER 2

  It was almost dark when Nathan and Cotton Blossom reached the hotel, and Nathan paused as he listened to a horse cropping grass. He walked around the building, and where grass had begun to green, found Clint Barkley’s saddled horse. It was a black, reminding Nathan of the valiant animal that had been shot from under him by outlaws in Kansas. The horse lifted its head, watching him, and he spoke to it in a soothing tone. It stood fast and he ruffled
its ears. Surprisingly enough, there was no brand. Removing the saddle, Nathan took the reins and headed for the livery.

  “Black horse,” he said, “as of now, you belong to Nathan Stone.”

  When he led the black into the livery, the cantankerous old hostler just stared, silent, unbelieving.

  “Rub him down and grain him,” said Nathan. “I’ll settle with you in the morning.” He was in no mood for questions and was gone before the nosy old liveryman could gather his wits enough to speak.

  Nathan arose well before first light, anxious to put Georgetown behind him. He wanted nothing more to do with the troublesome Horrells and their outlaw kin. When the cafe opened for breakfast, Nathan and Cotton Blossom were waiting. At the livery, the old hostler greeted them looking as though he had slept in the hayloft.

  “Yer horses is been grained an’ they’re ready,” he said. “That’ll be four dollars.”

  Nathan paid. He was being overcharged and they both knew it, but he only wanted to be on his way. Quickly he saddled the grulla, but it took some doing to get the newly acquired black to accept the bulky packsaddle. Nathan placed an extra blanket under the rig, and even after he had it in place, the black snaked his head around, wondering what this thing was he was expected to carry. He shuddered a time or two, and Nathan had to laugh at the curious expression in the animal’s eyes.

  “Packsaddle won’t hurt you, black horse,” he said. “We’ll take it easy till you get used to it.”

  Nathan rode out of town, the black on a lead rope, Cotton Blossom trotting on ahead. Unless he chose to avoid Waco, he would ride right through it. He had once dealt faro there, in old Judge Prater’s saloon. When the deal had gone down, he had sloped out in the middle of the night, escaping Prater’s three grown daughters. But the oldest—Eulie—had followed him, becoming his companion until her tragic death in New Orleans. After a lifetime of abuse, the girl had gotten her revenge by taking her father’s favorite horse and the gold from his cash box. Nathan grinned to himself, wondering if he dared ride back through Prater’s domain. He decided to risk it. After all, it had been seven years. How long could a man hold a grudge?