The Killing Season Read online

  Nathan rode into Waco in the early afternoon. He was a good eighty miles south of Fort Worth, and it only made good sense to stay the night. Waco had grown some, sprawling out along the south bank of the Brazos. The enormous old house that had once belonged to Judge Prater was still there, and so was the saloon where Nathan had dealt faro, but its name had been changed to the Bullwhip. Nathan reined up, dismounted, and stepped through the batwing doors. He might as well find out if old Prater was still alive. Two men sat at one of the tables, a bottle, glasses, and a deck of cards before them. Nathan ordered a beer and the barkeep sloshed the overflowing mug down the bar. Nathan sipped the brew, awaiting his change from two bits. While he had the barkeep’s attention, he spoke.

  “Last time I was here, Judge Prater owned this place. What became of him?”

  “He’s been dead near five years,” the barkeep replied. “His oldest girl run off with a gamblin’ man and the two youngest took to whoring with the Yankee soldiers that occupied the town. When their daddy cashed in, the gals sold ever‘thing and nobody’s seen ’em since.”

  Nathan sighed. That took care of any possible clash with Judge Prater. But that was small consolation, since he would likely have enough men gunning for him, as it was. He left the saloon and rode on to the livery. There he left his horses, with instructions to rub them down and grain them. Across the street was the Brazos Hotel, built during the years he had been gone. There were two stories and he took a room on the bottom floor. It was still early, but having little else to do, he and Cotton Blossom headed for the cafe. Next to it, however, was a newspaper office, and Nathan was intrigued by its hanging wooden sign. Either as a joke or as a reflection on the town’s intellect, someone had painted a single word, in large letters: NEWSPAPER. Nathan opened the door, confronting a young man about his own age. Printer’s ink streaking his face and a question in his eyes, he looked up from his typesetting.

  “I’ll take a copy of your latest,” Nathan said, dropping two bits on the counter.

  “My God,” said the editor in mock surprise, “what’s that?”

  Nathan laughed. “I take it you don’t see a lot of cash money.”

  “You take it right. It’s mostly turnips, potatoes, onions, corn, and chicken on the hoof. I’m Andy Partain. You’re .... ?”

  “Just passing through,” said Nathan. “I was attracted by your sign.”

  “I decided The Chronicle was a bit highfalutin for these parts. Nobody seemed to know what a ‘Chronicle’ was.”

  Nathan took the four-page paper and departed before Partain was able to come up with bothersome questions. He and Cotton Blossom entered the cafe. It being early, there would be fewer people to wonder who he was, and it was easier getting the cook to feed Cotton Blossom if the place wasn’t too crowded. Taking a back table, Nathan read the newspaper while he waited for his food. There was a fair account of the fight in Lampasas where the trio of lawmen had been gunned down by Clint Barkley and the Horrells. Nathan found little else to interest him in the skimpy newspaper. There was a brief article on a small-time gambler and hell-raiser in Dodge City, William L. Brooks. Nathan had heard of him, and read the article with some amusement. Brooks had gotten on the bad side of a buffalo hunter, and the man had gone after Brooks with a .50-caliber Sharps. Somehow the dispute had been resolved without injury to either party. By the time Nathan’s steak was ready, a number of other men had filed into the cafe. One of them was Andy Partain, and he immediately headed for Nathan’s table.

  “Nathan Stone,” he said, loud enough for everybody to hear. “I knew I’d heard of you. It was you who gunned down that band of outlaws in Indian Territory last year. You brought El Gato and his renegades to justice.”

  It was a bad moment, and Nathan could have cheerfully strangled the young editor. Men at other tables had forgotten their food and were openly staring. Two men looked at each other, their eyes hard and cold. They well remembered the night El Gato had died, when only they had escaped a vengeful Nathan Stone.

  “Partain,” Nathan said grimly, “I did what needed doing, and there’s been more than enough said about it. Leave it alone.”

  “Sorry,” said Partain. “It was in all the papers, but none of it in your own words. I thought you might want to add something ...”

  “You thought wrong,” Nathan said.

  There was an uncomfortable silence as Nathan finished his meal, and when he left the cafe, the eyes of every man were upon him. They watched him enter the hotel across the street, two of the observers paying particular attention. He would be staying the night, and his fast gun wouldn’t matter, for darkness was an equalizer....

  Locking the door of his hotel room behind him, Nathan shucked his hat, his gun belt, and his boots. He stretched out on the bed, staring at the fly-specked ceiling. Cotton Blossom sat on the rug beside the bed, his eyes on Nathan. Finally Nathan sat up, thumping his sock feet on the floor.

  “Damn it, Cotton Blossom, it’s too early to hole up for the night.”

  The last rays of the setting sun crept through the window, dappling the floor with a patchwork of gold. Nathan dragged on his boots, strapped on his Colts, and reached for his hat. If there were men determined to challenge his fast draw, then so be it. He was damned if he’d hide behind closed doors, imprisoning himself behind walls of intimidation erected by his reluctance to use his guns. He was fed up with damn fools seeking to gain a reputation at his expense. His skill with a Colt—his reputation as a fast draw—he would gladly relinquish, but not at the cost of his life. Much of his trouble, Nathan conceded, was a direct result of his love for poker. Inevitably, that kept him in the saloons, among the hell-raisers who frequented them. But what else was a man to do, with time on his hands? He stepped out into the gathering darkness, bound for the Bullwhip Saloon.

  While the Bullwhip wasn’t the only saloon in town, it was the most prominent, and even at so early an hour, business was good. Leaning on the bar, Nathan ordered a beer. He needed a few minutes for his eyes to become accustomed to the light. All the hanging lamps were lighted, and already a smoky haze had begun to halo them. Most of the men were serious drinkers, gathered two or three to a table, bottle and glasses before them. A man who gambled, however, was more cautious, drinking little or not at all. While any man could call for a game, Nathan chose not to. Being a stranger in town, he would only draw attention to himself, and that was the last thing he wanted. Setting himself a limit of three beers, he waited. Halfway through the third, a trio came in and when they reached the bar, one of them spoke.

  “A bottle, three glasses, and a deck, barkeep.”

  “Any objection if I sit in?” Nathan asked.

  “Five card stud, table stakes, no IOUs,” said the man who had called for the cards.

  “My kind of game,” Nathan replied.

  Nathan followed them to a table beneath one of the hanging lamps, allowing them to be seated first. Nathan then pulled out a chair and sat down. Cotton Blossom crouched behind him, not trusting any of these strangers. Nathan observed his companions as they served themselves from the bottle. They were armed, dressed in range clothes, and might have been riders for the same outfit. The game opened with a dollar bet, and Nathan lost two hands before winning one. His companions had emptied the bottle and were working on a second one. Losing a fourth hand, Nathan withdrew from the game. Drinking men soon became careless, and losing, often questioned the honesty of their companions. Nathan had learned what any professional gambler must know: There is a time when—winning or losing—a man must fold. Once Cotton Blossom was sure they were leaving the saloon, he wasted no time heading for the door. Nathan tilted the brim of his hat over his eyes and stepped out into the night. Lessening the time he would be outlined in the light from the saloon, he stepped quickly aside, but not quickly enough. A slug ripped through Nathan’s left arm, above the elbow, and he was thrown against the wall of the saloon. The shot had come from across the street, and so swiftly did Nathan draw his right-hand Colt
, his return fire blended with that of the bushwhacker. Nathan fired three times. Once at the muzzle flash, a second time to the left and a third time to the right. Men boiled out of the saloon to find Nathan thumbing fresh cartridges into his Colt.

  “What’n hell’s goin’ on out here?” somebody shouted.

  “A bushwhacker cut down on me,” said Nathan, “and I shot back.”

  The bloody sleeve of Nathan’s shirt was evidence enough. Suddenly there came the sound of a running horse, and when it was reined up, the man who dismounted wore a badge. The lawman ignored everyone else, his eyes on Nathan.

  “I’m Sheriff Lomax,” he said. “I can see you’ve been hit. Do you have any idea who did it, or why?”

  “No, on both counts,” said Nathan. “I stepped out the door and he fired from across the street. I fired at the muzzle flash.”

  “Elmont,” said the sheriff, “guide this gent to Doc Melton’s place. Barkeep, fetch me a lamp or lantern. The rest of you, go back to whatever you were doing.”

  Nathan followed Elmont to a log house two blocks east of the saloon. Knocking on the door, Elmont waited until it was opened.

  “Doc,” Elmont said, “this feller was winged in an ambush. Sheriff Lomax sent him to you fer patchin’ up.”

  Elmont stepped aside and Nathan entered the doctor’s house. Without being asked, he removed his shirt. Dr. Melton said nothing. He turned to the stove, stoked the fire, and set a kettle of water over the open eye. He then went into another room, returning with his satchel. Waiting for the water to boil, he examined Nathan’s wound. Only then did he speak.

  “You’re lucky. It missed the bone.”

  When the water was hot, the doctor cleansed the wound, sloshed alcohol into it for disinfectant, and was applying a bandage when Sheriff Lomax arrived. Nodding to Dr. Melton, he spoke the Nathan.

  “You nailed the hombre that done the shootin’. Hit him twice. He’s bein’ laid out over at Potter’s cabinet shop. I’d be obliged if you’d go by and have a look at him.”

  “I will,” Nathan said. He paid Dr. Melton five dollars and followed Lomax out.

  The sheriff was afoot, for it was only a short distance to Potter’s. Nathan recognized some of the men from the saloon, leaving as he and Lomax arrived. The dead man was laid out on an old door supported by a pair of saw horses. Potter removed a dirty sheet from the corpse. Looking from Sheriff Lomax to Nathan, he spoke.

  “Mighty fine shootin’ in the dark. You the gent that got him?”

  “Yes,” Nathan said shortly.

  “Nobody what’s looked at him knows him, Sheriff,” said Potter.

  “I don’t know him, either, Sheriff,” Nathan said. “Maybe without the beard ...”

  “He wasn’t alone,” said Lomax. “The second man lit out, and it’s safe to say he’s here in town somewhere. What do you aim to do for the rest of the night?”

  “Return to the hotel and stay there,” Nathan replied, “and unless there’s a need for me to stay, I’ll be ridin’ out in the morning.”

  “No reason I can think of,” said Lomax, “but ride with an eye to your back trail.”

  “Thanks,” Nathan replied. “I aim to.”

  Nathan found Cotton Blossom waiting outside, and the two of them reached the hotel without difficulty. Locking the door, Nathan then positioned a heavy oak chair with its back under the knob. Tossing his hat on the dresser, he hung his gun belt on the head of the bed and removed his bloody shirt. Finally he tugged off his boots and stretched out on the bed. Only then did Cotton Blossom lie down on the rug. For a long time Nathan lay awake. While his wound pained him, sleep was driven away by a realization that tonight’s shooting had forced him to consider. For the better part of seven years, he had been the hunter, seeking men he had sentenced to die. For almost a year now, he had concerned himself with the glory seekers who wanted only to test his fast gun. Now it seemed they might be the least of his problems, as he—Nathan Stone—became the hunted. How many of the men he had slain had family or friends who would consider it justice done if Nathan Stone was shot dead?

  Nathan arose at first light, his left arm and shoulder stiff and sore. He had a difficult time pulling on his boots, and he didn’t need a doctor to tell him he had a fever. He must have some whiskey, and that meant remaining in town until the saloons opened.

  “Come on, Cotton Blossom,” he said. “We might as well have breakfast.”

  Stepping out into the dawn, he looked carefully around. Seeing nobody, he went back to the cafe where he’d had supper. It was still early and the place was deserted, for which Nathan was thankful. The cook was the same man who had served him supper, and while he looked at Nathan curiously, he said nothing. He took Nathan’s order, fed Cotton Blossom, and went about his business. Several men came into the cafe before Nathan finished his breakfast, but they said nothing. Nathan and Cotton Blossom returned to the hotel. Removing only his hat and gun belt, Nathan stretched out on the bed. Hopefully he could go to a saloon, get the whiskey, and reach the livery without any bothersome questions. He had an eighty-mile ride to Fort Worth, and it might take the whiskey that long to sweat the fever out of him. He now knew that the man he had shot last night had a companion who had escaped, and in his feverish condition, Nathan didn’t relish the possibility of yet another ambush. He must keep an eye on his back trail, while depending heavily on Cotton Blossom to warn him of what lay ahead. After two hours, Nathan’s impatience got the best of him. He turned in his key and went to the livery.

  “Pardner,” he said to the liveryman, “it’s a bad day when a man can’t saddle his own horse, but I’ve got a hurt arm. I have a packhorse and a packsaddle, too.”

  “I’ll take care of ’em,” said the hostler. “Glad you got the sidewinder that give you that hurt arm.”

  He said no more, and Nathan rode out, the lead rope of the packhorse dallied around his saddle horn. To his relief, he found the Bullwhip Saloon open and the barkeep alone. Nathan bought a quart of whiskey, mounted the grulla, and rode north. Waiting until he was out of town, he drew the cork with his teeth and took a long pull from the bottle. He seldom drank whiskey, and the stuff threw him into such a coughing fit, the grulla snaked his head around and looked at him.

  “God-awful stuff, horse,” he said. “Nobody but a damn fool would drink it for anything but medicine.”

  Having ridden only a few miles, Nathan became dizzy, and the back of his hand to his forehead told him his fever had worsened. He reined up and took another long pull from the whiskey bottle. The sun was almost noon-high, and in his feverish state, he had no idea how far he had ridden. He had killed half the bottle of whiskey, and he dared not down any more, lest he become too drunk to stay in the saddle. He rode on, the westering sun seeming oppressively hot. Finally, clouds drifted over the sun and there was a light breeze from the northwest, touching Nathan’s brow with cooling fingers. Relieved, he put the back of his hand to his forehead, feeling beads of sweat. His fever had broken. Kicking the grulla into a slow gallop, he rode on toward Fort Worth.

  Fort Worth, Texas. March 24, 1873

  “It’s good to see you again,” Captain Ferguson said. “It’s been downright peaceful in Indian Territory lately. At least in the western half.”

  “I hope so,” said Nathan. “I don’t aim to ride there again, if I can avoid it.” Deciding honesty was the best policy, he told Ferguson of the attempted ambush in Waco.

  “You’ve made enemies,” Ferguson said. “Why not have the post doctor take a look at your wound, and lay over a week until it heals?”

  “I’ll take you up on that. I can’t saddle and unsaddle my horse, can’t load and unload my packhorse, and it’s a hell of a job gettin’ my boots on and off.”

  With time on his hands, Nathan hung around the post telegrapher. Having learned the code while with the Kansas-Pacific, he read all incoming messages without difficulty. Clint Barkley was still loose in Texas, the James gang was still robbing banks in Missouri, while B
en Thompson and his troublesome brother Billy were involved with a saloon in Ellsworth, Kansas.

  Nathan grew weary of Fort Worth, and thanking Captain Ferguson for his courtesy, rode out the second day of April. Avoiding most of Indian Territory, he crossed the panhandle, forded the Cimarron, and rode to Dodge City, Kansas. The rails had reached Dodge in the fall of 1872, and when Nathan arrived there less than a year later, the town seemed overrun with gamblers, whores, confidence men, buffalo hunters, hidemen, and camp followers. Where once there had been a tent with cots, there now was a three-story hotel. Across the street from the hotel was a livery, and Nathan went there first. Unsaddling his horse and unloading the packhorse, he left instructions for the animals to be rubbed down and grained. Leaving there, he paused, amazed at how Dodge had grown. Cattle pens were strung out along the railroad track, and the bawling of cattle was a never-ending chorus. Just counting those alongside the track, Nathan could see no less than seven saloons. It being early afternoon, Nathan crossed to the hotel, Cotton Blossom following. Taking a room on the first floor, he paused in the lobby. Thanks to the railroad there were newspapers from Kansas City and St. Louis, as well as Dodge City’s own weekly. Nathan bought copies of all three, continuing a reading habit he had acquired while tracking the killers who had murdered his family in Virginia.4

  Gray thunderheads had rolled in from the west and a cooling breeze swept across the plains from distant mountains. Nathan’s room was comfortable, and he decided to remain there until suppertime, reading the newspapers. Removing his hat, gun belt, and boots, he stretched out on the bed. He read the local paper first. It alternated between crowing about the town’s progress while deploring the end-of-track and cattle town violence that had made it all possible. The paper reported that in the first six months of its existence there had been nine murders in Dodge. Nathan found more accounts of the James gang’s thievery in the St. Louis Globe-Democrat, but little else to interest him. But when he turned to page two of the Kansas City Liberty-Tribune, what he saw brought him to his feet in a rage. Looking back at him was his own image. It was the etching prepared by the Kansas-Pacific, commending Nathan for his efforts on behalf of the railroad. But this advertisement was a reward notice, offering five thousand dollars for Nathan Stone, dead or alive! It was offered by the Limbaugh family and went on to accuse Nathan of murder, in the killing of Rusty Limbaugh, the year before. Nathan ripped the paper to shreds and sat down on the bed, his hands trembling. Cotton Blossom watched him, knowing something was wrong.