Autumn of the Gun (11 page)

“Let's stable the horses,” Nathan said, “and then we have a story to tell.”

It was near suppertime when Barnabas and Nathan returned to the house, and the meal was on the table. Bess and Vivian were already acquainted, and Nathan introduced the girl to Barnabas.

“I already know her,” said Barnabas. “I was layin' there with lead and fever in me, and I reckoned I'd died and gone to heaven.”

“You owe her plenty,” Nathan said, taking the bank draft from his shirt pocket. “After we recovered the horses, we stopped in Little Rock for a July fourth horse race. Vivian rode Diablo and took the purse.”

“Then some of the money belongs to her,” said Barnabas.

“No,” Nathan said. “We each bet five hundred on Diablo, at twenty-to-one odds. That money belongs to you and Bess.”

“My God,” said Barnabas, “I'd give it all to have seen that race.”

“Diablo ran it twice,” Vivian added.

It took a while to tell the story, and when Nathan was finished, the McQueens looked at Vivian, and it was Barnabas who spoke.

“Young lady, if you don't have other plans, I'd like for you to stay with us through the end of this year. There are five races comin' up, and Diablo can take 'em all. Will you ride him?”

“I'd love to,” said Vivian.

“What about me?” Nathan asked. “If I pay board, will I be allowed to stay?”

Barnabas laughed. “We'll consider it. Actually, in October I'd like you to ride to San Antonio for a pair of Indian-gentled horses. Are you familiar with the Lipan Apaches?”

“Yes,” said Nathan. “Eulie told me about them. They're settled along the Medina River, south of San Antonio. That's how Eulie gentled Diablo, with what she had learned from the Lipans.”

“I had a friend of mine in San Antonio arrange for the Lipans to train these horses for me,” Barnabas said. “Will you ride there and get them?”

“I reckon,” said Nathan. “Just promise me that when Diablo wins, Vivian won't be shot out of the saddle.”

“That sort of thing ended when you and Silver destroyed French Stumberg's gambling empire,” Barnabas said.
¹¹

 

There was a race in Beaumont, Texas in August, and another in Natchez, Mississippi in September, and Diablo easily won both. In mid-October, Nathan prepared to ride to San Antonio.

“I wish I were going with you,” Vivian said wistfully, “but I promised ...”

Nathan laughed. “I know you did. Barnabas has a winning horse and a winning rider. I'll likely have to steal you away from him in the middle of the night.”

With Empty trotting ahead, Nathan rode west.

Lonzo Prinz, Rufe Collins, and Tobe Schorp rode into town, dismounted, and left their horses behind a saloon, across the street from the bank they intended to rob. The Cattleman's Bank wouldn't open for another hour. Who would expect a robbery at eight o'clock on Monday morning?

“Remember,” said Lonzo Prinz, “no shooting. If nobody's hurt, they ain't likely to run us too far.”

But Prinz was dead wrong. When the outlaws escaped with ten thousand dollars, within minutes a sheriff's posse was on their trail. Collins and Schorp were wounded, and near sundown, the exhausted trio was forced to hole up and rest. Lonzo Prinz had taken his Winchester and gone to a rise to study their backtrail. Instead, he discovered a rider who was approaching from the east. He rode toward the willows that surrounded the spring, and there was no way he could miss the wounded Collins and Schorp. There was no time for Prinz to warn his comrades. He bellied down with his Winchester and waited.

Before Empty reached the willows, he doubled back, growling. It was all the warning Nathan Stone needed. Dismounting, he crept toward the willows. Near the spring, Nathan could see two men, their heads on their saddles. But there were three horses! Nathan hit the ground as a Winchester barked, the slug nipping the crown of his hat. He fired twice but had no target. One of the men at the spring was on his feet, his Colt roaring, and Nathan shot him. The Winchester roared again, and the slug tore into Nathan's back, just below his right shoulder blade. Not knowing where the man with the Winchester was, he dared not move. Eventually the bushwhacker would have to return to the spring for his horse. But Nathan didn't last that long. He blacked out. Lonzo Prinz returned to the spring.

“Schorp's dead,” said Collins.

“He might not of been,” Prinz said. “What'n hell was you doin' while he was killin' Schorp?”

“I got two slugs in me already,” said Collins sourly, “and one of 'em in my gun arm. You had a Winchester; why didn't you ventilate the varmint before he cut down on us?”

“He was no shorthorn,” Prinz said. “I had him dead center, and he hit the dirt. But I cut him down while he was gettin' Schorp. We'd better mount up and ride all night. I'll go get the stranger's horse, and you saddle Schorp's. That'll give both of us an extra mount, and that posse won't never catch up to us.”

“I been wounded,” said Collins, “an' the one in my hip's still bleedin'. I can feel the blood squishin' in my boot.”

“That ain't near as bad as feelin' a noose around your neck,” Prinz said. “Now get them horses saddled an' let's ride.”

Empty growled as Prinz approached Nathan's horse, and Prinz fired at the dog. Empty faded into the brush, for he well understood the deadliness of a gun.

When Nathan regained consciousness, darkness had draped its velvet mantle over the land, and the only sound was the chirp of crickets. The numbness had worn off, and there was only pain. Empty was near, anxiously awaiting some sign of life. Nathan got painfully to his knees, and using his Winchester for support, struggled to his feet. He was all but consumed with burning thirst; somehow he had to reach the spring. Weak from loss of blood, he fell to his knees, forced himself to stand, and fell again. When he reached the runoff from the spring, he fell belly down, burying his feverish face in the cold water. He drank deep, and then drank again. He moved just enough to get his face out of the water and again lost consciousness ...

 

Contrary to Sheriff Oscar Littlefield's wishes, the weary posse refused to continue the hunt for the three bank robbers without food and rest.

“Damn it,” said Littlefield, “all they got to do is ride all night, and we've lost them.”

“Hell,” said one of the men, “they're bound to be as wore out and hungry as we are, and we know we got lead in two of 'em.”

There was unanimous agreement from the rest of the posse, and Littlefield gave in. He would roust them out before first light and prod the hell out of them.

 

With first light, Empty nuzzled Nathan's feverish face but drew no response. There was a patch of dried blood on the back of Nathan's shirt, and the hound sniffed it. All he could do was remain near until mid-morning, when he heard riders coming. He loped up the rise and took refuge in a thicket overlooking the spring. He watched ten riders approach. Might these strangers not help the fallen Nathan Stone? He would watch and wait ...

“There's the two of the varmints we shot,” one of the riders shouted as the sheriff and his posse reined up on a rise overlooking the spring below.

“Don't go getting excited about them,” said Sheriff Littlefield in disgust. “They purely ain't goin' nowhere. The third one's took the money and high-tailed it, likely been ridin' all night. Couple of you see if either of them two's still alive. The rest of us will look for the trail of the one that's still somewhere ahead.”

Lonzo Prinz and Rufe Collins had made no effort to conceal their trail. Sheriff Littlefield dismounted, studied the tracks, and swore.

“What is it?” one of the men asked.

“Just as I expected,” Littlefield said, “the varmint with the money rode out some time last night. What I didn't expect was the tracks of four horses.”

“Sheriff,” the man shouted who had examined Nathan, “one of these coyotes is alive.”

Sheriff Littlefield had to make a decision. Either they continue following a trail that was growing colder by the minute, or they take the wounded man and return to Houston. The wind, out of the southwest, had freshened. Somewhere in the Gulf, a storm was brewing, and within a matter of hours there would be rain.

“Mount up,” said Littlefield. “There's rain on the way, and it'll wash out the trail. Simpkins, you and Jarvis double up so's we got a horse for that wounded hombre. Maybe we can get back to town ahead of the storm.”

While Sheriff Littlefield regretted not recovering the stolen money, he did have one of the thieves. The man who had escaped was well beyond Littlefield's jurisdiction, and he felt justified in leaving further pursuit to the Rangers.

“Sheriff,” one of the riders said, “I thought you said somethin' about the tracks of four hosses.”

“I was mistaken,” Littlefield said cautiously. “One of them was an old trail. That outlaw who escaped with the money took the two extra horses with him.”

The men rode away, taking the wounded Nathan Stone with them. Far behind, Empty followed. There was nothing more he could do.

When Nathan awoke, he could barely move, for a heavy bandage encircled his upper body. He had no doubt as to where he was, for before him were the iron bars and heavy barred door of a jail cell. The last thing he remembered was returning the fire of a man who was shooting at him, and in turn being shot from behind. Listening, he heard nothing, and he lay there for more than an hour before someone entered the cell block. With some effort he turned to face the cell door; he might as well learn why he was in jail.

“So you're awake, are you?”

“Yes,” said Nathan. “Are you the sheriff?”

“That I am. Sheriff Littlefield.”

“Then I have two questions for you, Sheriff. Where am I, and why am I in jail?”

“You're in Houston, Texas,” said Littlefield, “and you're in jail for bank robbery.”

“Sheriff,” Nathan said, “I've never been in Houston in my life, until now.”

“You're innocent of all charges, then,” said Littlefield.

“I am,” Nathan replied.

Littlefield laughed. “I been sheriff here goin' on fifteen years, and I never yet locked up a coyote that admitted to bein' guilty.”

“What evidence are you using against me?” Nathan asked.

“Three outlaws robbed the bank,” said Littlefield, “and we wounded two of them. We trailed the varmints and found two men. One of 'em was you, and the other was dead. We got all the evidence we need.”

“I shot the dead man you found,” Nathan said. “He was shooting at me, and I had to shoot him. Then somebody plugged me from behind.”

“But you can't prove that,” said Littlefield.

“No,” Nathan said, “but you could have. I rode in from the east, and you could have backtrailed me. I've been nowhere near Houston, and you could have proven it beyond the shadow of a doubt. Why didn't you?”

“Because I believe in circumstantial evidence,” said Littlefield, “and we found you in an outlaw camp, wounded. As for follerin' trails, there wasn't no way. There was rain, and we couldn't track your pardner. The varmint escaped with the bank's money, but they're all feelin' better, with one varmint dead and you behind bars.”

“I want a trial,” Nathan said, “and I want to send a telegram.”

“Oh, you'll get a trial,” said Littlefield, “but no telegrams.”

With that, he was gone, leaving Nathan to ponder his situation. Obviously, while he had been defending himself against one of the bank robbers, one of the others had gunned him down. The remaining outlaws had fled with the money, leaving Nathan a scapegoat. He believed Sheriff Littlefield was using him as a pawn, to compensate for having failed to recover the stolen money. McQueen wouldn't be expecting him to return with the horses for several weeks, and he had been denied the opportunity to seek help. He lay back on the bunk, closed his eyes, and tried to think.

 

“All rise,” said the bailiff as the judge entered the courtroom.

Judge McClendon was a stern old man who listened to Nathan's impassioned plea without a change of expression. The trial was a nightmare, and the crowning blow came when one of the bank tellers swore that Nathan had been one of the three men who had robbed the bank.

“That's a damn lie!” Nathan shouted desperately.

“You're out of order,” said the judge. “Bailiff, bring him forward for sentencing.”