Autumn of the Gun (25 page)

“But if you weren't with him, how can you be sure? I knew he drank and gambled, but in all the time I've known him, he didn't seem like a womanizer.”

“He told me,” she cried. “He kept telling me he was going to find him a woman that knew how to please a man, that didn't spend all her time whining about his habits.”

“So you can't go back,” said Nathan.

“It isn't so much I can't,” she replied. “I won't. I'll take a job in a whorehouse first. I already have the name, so why shouldn't I play the game?”

“Because you don't have to,” said Nathan. “I own half of Granny Boudleaux's boardinghouse, and I want you to stay there and look after my half. She can use the help, and it'll be a home for you. There'll be money, too, because she's done well.”

“Why would you do this for me?” she asked tearfully.

“Because you're a good woman and because I like you,” said Nathan. “That, and I'd say you saw King as a means of ridding yourself of the Horrells. I had hoped it might go deeper than that, between you and him.”

“So did I,” she admitted. “I'd been slapped around all my life, and King was the first man who was ever kind to me. I took that for something stronger, deeper, and if he had given just a little ...”

The tears came again, and Nathan began to see the hopelessness of it all. While King Fisher was his friend, he was being forced to see the man through the eyes of this sobbing girl. Fisher, like Ben Thompson, was flawed. When they chose, each had the ways of a gentleman, but there was a dark side to them that bothered Nathan. With his fast gun, Nathan Stone fell into the same grisly mold as King Fisher and Ben Thompson, but beyond that, he wasn't like them at all. If he helped this unfortunate girl, he had no doubt that, learning of it, King Fisher would give him hell. So be it. He spoke.

“Come on, Molly. It's not far. We can ride double.”

She came with him without argument, and he was a bit troubled by her ready smile. It wouldn't take a lot, he decided, for Molly to divert her affections from King Fisher to Nathan Stone. Reaching Granny Boudleaux's, Nathan didn't mention King Fisher. Instead, he introduced Molly as an unfortunate who had fled San Antonio to escape the hell-raising Horrells.

“So if it's all right with you, Granny,” said Nathan, “I'd like for Molly to remain here with you, helping where she can.”

“Is good,” Granny said. “Just lak—”

She caught herself just shy of mentioning Myra Haight's name.

“Just like home,” Nathan finished.

“Is home,” said Granny. “No debt to bank. We make much money. Suppertime.”

“We had a little somethin' in town, Granny,” Nathan said, “but it's hard turnin' down one of your meals. Maybe we can hold some more.”

It was more for Molly's sake than his own, and she didn't disappoint him. When the meal was finished, Granny led Molly to a room next to Nathan's, and he wondered if the old lady already knew something he did not. Later, far into the night, he was sure of it, for when he answered a knock on the door, Molly Horrell was there.

“I can't sleep,” she said softly. “The ghosts won't leave me alone.”

Nathan let her in and closed the door. Come the dawn, she was still there.

Harley and Wes took the eastbound to Kansas City. The following morning, at six, they would depart for Pueblo, Colorado. There would be a military payroll bound for Fort Dodge and, after a turnaround in Pueblo, a shipment of gold ore back to Kansas City.

“You're about to cut your teeth on a big one,” Harley said. “On the way west, we're subject to bein' shot between here and Dodge, and on the way back, between Pueblo and Kansas City.”

“The only thing I don't like,” said Wes, “is bein' locked in the baggage car. If we're hit, I can't be of much help to you. Can't we change that?”

“With good reason,” Harley said. “What do you have in mind?”

“If you're ridin' the caboose,” said Wes, “why not have a boxcar at the far end of the baggage car, behind the tender? I can ride the boxcar, where they won't be expecting me.”

“I think that can be arranged,” Harley said. “From Kansas City, I'll telegraph Hagerman in Dodge.”

 

The six a.m. westbound left on schedule, Harley riding the caboose and Wes concealed in a boxcar between the tender and the baggage car. The thieves stopped the train a few miles west of Wichita. Harley climbed atop the caboose with a Winchester as six of the outlaws reined up just out of range. One of them shouted an order.

“You on the caboose and anybody inside, leave your guns and step out with your hands up.”

“And if we don't?” Harley shouted.

“We'll shoot the engineer and fireman and dynamite the baggage car,” the outlaw shouted back.

But when the train had begun slowing, Wes Tremayne had climbed through a hatch to the roof of the boxcar. Belly down, he made his way toward the tender, and by the time the four outlaws demanded the fireman and engineer step down, Wes was within range. It all depended on him. Swallowing hard, he cut down on them with his Colt. Two of the outlaws dropped, all the break the trainmen needed. Seizing their weapons, the engineer and fireman gunned down the remaining two outlaws. Leaping from the engine cab, they ran toward the rear of the train, their Winchesters ready. Wes ran along the tops of the cars, reloading as he ran. Harley saw him coming and opened up with his Winchester. Realizing their comrades at the head of the train were down, the six outlaws ran for their horses. The brakeman stepped out of the caboose, firing after them with his Winchester, but they were out of range, mounting their horses.

“They're gone,” Harley shouted. “Let's get this train moving.”

“Then we'll have to reverse it and back it to Wichita,” said the engineer. “They ripped out a considerable piece of track.”

“Do that,” Harley said. “We can't set here on the prairie with a payroll aboard. Pile those dead owlhoots in the baggage car. Maybe the sheriff in Wichita can identify them.”

Reaching Wichita, the engineer backed the train onto a side track and Harley sent a telegram to Kansas City, requesting a section crew to repair the track. The trainmen were loud in their praise of Wes, crediting him with gunning down two of the outlaws.

“Wes,” said Harley, “you came through when it counted most.”

“The first time I ever shot a man,” Wes replied, “but there was no other way.”

“There never is when you're dealing with outlaws,” said Harley. “They'll kill you if they must and not give it a thought. I aim to talk to Hagerman and see if we can't rid ourselves of that baggage car. It's as good as telling outlaws there's a payroll aboard. How many times did Nathan tell them to secure the payroll in the caboose, in a bolted-down strongbox?”

“Who?”

“Nathan Stone,” Harley said. “He got me on with the railroad after he left. ”My God, he was good. He once trailed a band of outlaws into Indian Territory, and only two of them escaped. Singlehanded, he killed eleven men.“
²¹

“I'd like to meet him,” Wes said.

“Eventually you will,” said Harley, “and when you do, he's not the kind of man you'll soon forget.”

The section crew took awhile repairing the track, and the westbound went on its way four hours behind schedule. Foster Hagerman was waiting for them when the train rolled into Dodge. Harley stepped down from the caboose, grinning.

“You made a good choice,” Harley said. “Wes gunned down two of the outlaws, while the engineer and fireman got two more. I just sat in the caboose and watched the rest of them ride for their lives.”

“From now on, I think we'll do what Nathan was forever suggesting,” said Hagerman. “We'll bolt down that strongbox to the floor of the caboose and secure the payrolls there.”

“What about the boxcar behind the tender?” Wes asked.

“I think we'll keep that,” said Hagerman. “It made a difference when the outlaws tried to take the engineer and fireman hostage.”

“Wes needs a rifle,” Harley said. “Do you have a Winchester he can use until he can get one of his own?”

“Yes,” said Hagerman, “and I'll see that he gets a new one, compliments of the railroad. Losing that payroll would have hurt us.”

The train pulled out for Pueblo. Trainmen began talking about the quiet young man with the pale blue eyes and a fast gun.

Nathan's relationship with Molly Horrell blossomed quickly and became so obvious that Nathan felt compelled to speak to Granny Boudleaux. Finally, when he was alone with her, he did.

“Granny, I don't quite know how to say this, but Molly...”

“Molly need a man,” Granny cackled, “and you a man. Why that bother you? Molly younger and more pretty than Myra was.”

“It bothers me for the same reason my ... my arrangement with Myra bothered me,” said Nathan. “I'm a wanderer, needin' to ride on, and I don't know when I'll be returning to El Paso.”

“You feel guilty,” Granny said, “but why? She partners with me. She have home, food, and money. When you here, she have you.
Bueno!”

“I only hope she sees it that way,” said Nathan.

“I talk to her,” Granny said. “I need her, you want her, she wait.”

But Nathan had his misgivings. And when the time came, they would be justified.

As Wes Tremayne became more confident, he thonged down his Colt on his right hip and began wearing it regularly. True to his word, Foster Hagerman presented Wes with a new Winchester. With Harley's help, Wes bought a horse and saddle and learned to ride. Harley and Wes were usually in town on Friday night, and it became a custom for them to have supper at Delmonico's, where Vic Irwin usually joined them. Harley was amused, for it was difficult to tell whether Vic Irwin or Foster Hagerman was proudest of the progress Wes Tremayne had made in so short a time. Far into the night, Wes practiced drawing his Colt, until he could draw and fire with dazzling speed.

“My God,” Harley told Foster Hagerman, “the kid can already outdraw me. Before he's done, he'll equal or better Nathan Stone.”

“Something about him—maybe his eyes—makes me think of Nathan,” said Hagerman.

It being Friday, Hagerman joined Harley, Wes, and Vic at Delmonico's for supper, and they had just left the cafe when trouble started. It was almost dark, and from across the street came a challenge.

“You, saloon swamper, I told you we'd meet again. Nobody slaps Burt Savage around and goes on livin'. I'm invitin' you to draw, unless you got a yellow stripe down your back.”

The three men with Wes Tremayne were in no position to side Wes, as long as it was a fair fight. And though they had confidence in him, their misgivings were strong. While Wes had proven himself against train robbers, and could draw and fire with blinding speed, he had never faced another man in a shoot-out. It was a trial that had to come, and Wes Tremayne knew it. He stepped off the boardwalk and stood there waiting as his three companions got out of the line of fire.

“When you're ready, scrub bucket,” Savage taunted.

Wes said nothing. He seemed totally relaxed, and his confidence had an adverse effect on his opponent. Burt Savage drew and fired, but he was no match for Wes Tremayne. The roar of Savage's Colt sounded as an echo, and his slug slammed into the ground at his feet. Wes holstered his Colt and waited as Savage stumbled backward into a hitch rail. His knees buckled and he fell face down in the dusty street.

“Great shootin', Wes,” Harley shouted.

A sheriffs deputy arrived, and it took only a few minutes for him to declare that Wes had acted in self-defense. But men from within Delmonico's had witnessed the fast gun of Wes Tremayne, and it became a thing of which legends are made. For the next two days, Wes was embarrassed beyond words as men slapped him on the back and insisted on shaking his hand. It was with considerable relief that he boarded the eastbound for Kansas City on Monday.

“How long is this likely to go on?” he asked Harley.

“Kid,” said Harley, “it's just started. When word of it gets around, there'll be others, all wantin' to prove they can beat you.”

“But why?” Wes persisted. “I only defended myself.”

“That's how it always begins,” said Harley, “and it'll go on as long as men try to look taller than they are by pulling a gun.”

The longer Nathan remained in El Paso, the more difficult it became for him to leave. Molly's first night in his bed—to Granny Boudleaux's amusement—became an unabashed nightly ritual, and if Molly Horrell ever thought of King Fisher, she concealed it well. On Monday, Nathan always took Granny Boudleaux's money to the bank for deposit, and it was on such an occasion that he became involved in a holdup. He was about to present his deposit to the teller when the robbers made their presence known.

“Down on the floor, all of you,” a masked man shouted.

There were four of them, all with guns drawn. Nathan dropped to one knee and fired, dropping one of the robbers, and before the others could overcome their surprise, he cut down a second man. Encouraged, one of the tellers opened fire, and the remaining two outlaws broke for the door.

“My God,” exclaimed an elderly man who proved to be the bank's president, “that was a remarkable thing!”