Autumn of the Gun (31 page)

“You didn't try to catch them?” Rebecca asked.

“Ma'am,” said McIntire, “besides me, there's eight men in Mobeetie, and not one of them would follow me into Indian Territory.”

“No help from the army, I reckon,” Wes said.

“None,” said McIntire. “Half a dozen men with Winchesters could hole up down there in the territory and gun down a whole company of soldiers.”

“Sheriff,” Wes said, “freeing these ladies from Pierce and his outlaws might have been the easy part. Mr. Tuttle is dead, they have no place to go, and Miss Emily is clean out of her head.”

“I fully agree with you,” said McIntire, “and it's more than I can handle. I suggest you ride to Fort Elliott and talk to the post commander, Captain Selman.”

Wes could understand McIntire's reluctance to become involved in the situation. It wouldn't be any easier for the post commander, but he wouldn't have much choice. They rode on to Fort Elliott, and Wes asked for a meeting with Captain Selman.

“Captain Selman will see you now,” said Sergeant Willard.

The three of them were shown into Selman's office, and the captain listened as Wes told him what had happened. He concluded with an explanation of Emily Tuttle's condition.

“We have no facilities for treatment here,” Captain Selman said. “I can have the post doctor examine her.”

“How is that goin' to help,” Wes asked.

“I don't know that it will,” said Captain Selman. “I'm at as much a loss as you are, and I'm suggesting this because I don't know what else to do. There's a comfortable sofa in the next room. I'll send for the doctor.”

Rebecca led Mrs. Tuttle into the adjoining room and had her lie down on the sofa. A table and chairs completed the furnishings. Hanging from a peg on the wall was a gunbelt and holster, and within the holster was a revolver. Closing the door behind her, Rebecca returned to Captain Selman's office. Within a few minutes, Sergeant Dillard returned with the post doctor.

“This is our post doctor, Lieutenant Carlton,” Captain Selman said. “Miss Tuttle, if you'll tell him—”

But Selman was interrupted by a shot from the next room, and when he flung the door open, Rebecca screamed. Emily Tuttle still lay on the sofa, but her face was gone. In a pool of blood on the floor lay the revolver.

Sheriff Oden Wilder eyed Nathan with suspicion. Finally he spoke.

“You're not from around here, and you're not partial to the Tunstall, McSween, or Murphy factions.”

“No,” Nathan replied.

“Then what's your interest?”

“A hundred dollars a month,” said Nathan. “That, and the fact that I have some time on my hands.”

“Not wanted by the law?”

“No,” Nathan replied. “I've had some experience working for the law. I rode for the court out of Fort Smith, Arkansas for a few months, and you're welcome to telegraph the Texas Ranger outposts at San Antonio, Austin, or Houston. They know me well. And if that's not enough, telegraph Captain Ferguson, the post commander at Fort Worth.”

“I reckon that won't be necessary,” said Wilder. “Part of the problem here is that we have had men riding under the authority of the law who were sympathetic to the Tunstall, McSween, or Murphy bunch. The acting governor has demanded that the killing stop, and that means enforcing the law against any of the three hell-raising elements involved.”

“All three factions are still active?” Nathan asked.

“Yes and no,” said Sheriff Wilder. “The Murphy bunch is pretty well intact, but with Tunstall and McSween dead, their followers seem to have banded together under the leadership of William Bonney, also known as Billy the Kid.”

“Those who are still alive are fugitives, then,” Nathan said.

“Not necessarily,” said Sheriff Wilder. “We intend to prosecute those who robbed the Tunstall-McSween store, provided there's sufficient evidence. This bunch, we believe, are part of the Murphy outfit. The remnants of the Tunstall and McSween factions are pretty well united behind Billy, and they're supporting themselves by stealing horses and cattle. They're all subject to arrest by whatever means may be necessary.”

“I hope you haven't issued John Doe execution warrants,” said Nathan. “I won't ride under the kind of law that permits killing a man for the sake of a reward, without proper identification.”

“Neither will I,” Sheriff Wilder said, “and I'm pleased you feel that strongly. There's been entirely too much killing in the name of the law. I'll swear you in.”

Wilder administered the brief oath, and from a desk drawer took a silver star.

“I'll need a hotel or boardinghouse where my dog's welcome,” said Nathan.

“We have an arrangement with the Santa Fe House,” Sheriff Wilder said. “You'll get room and board for a single price. Here's a letter identifying you as a legal representative of this office. Use it to secure your room at the hotel, and to requisition your shells at Elmo's Mercantile.”

The Santa Fe House, a two-story structure, proved to be a better-than-average hotel, with its own restaurant. Across the street was a livery and an all-night cafe. Nathan was assigned a room on the first floor, and as he and Empty were about to enter the room, a door opened across the hall. A man stepped out, and Empty growled, his hackles rising.

“I don't like dogs,” the stranger said, his hand near the butt of his revolver.

“I reckon it balances out, then,” said Nathan mildly. “My dog doesn't like you.”

“I'm Slack Tarno, deputy sheriff, part of Sheriff Wilder's posse, and I'm sayin' that damn scruffy hound don't belong in this hotel.”

“I'm Nathan Stone, deputy sheriff, part of Sheriffs Wilder's posse, and the dog goes where I go. My temper's on a short rein. Any hostility toward my dog, and I'll be takin' it personal.”

Tarno stomped on down the hall toward the lobby, and Nathan noted he carried twin Colts in a
buscadera
rig, both holsters thonged down.

Half an hour before suppertime, in an arrangement with the hotel, Nathan took Empty to the kitchen, where the cooks fed him.

“Sorry, pardner,” said Nathan to the dog, “but we won't be takin' our meals together for a while.”

The men Sheriff Wilder had deputized were on call twenty-four hours a day, requiring them to remain in a single location so they could be mounted and on the trail in a matter of minutes. So for the sake of unity, Nathan would take his meals in the hotel's restaurant, something he seldom did. He returned Empty to their room, washed up, and made his way to the hotel's dining room.

“You deputies have been assigned those two big round tables, over yonder next to the wall,” one of the cooks told Nathan. “Your order will be taken immediately.”

There were eight chairs at each of the round tables. Five men were already seated at one, while three were seated at the other. Nathan took a chair at the table with the trio, for Slack Tarno was seated at the other. Nathan's companions seemed amiable enough, and they introduced themselves.

“I'm Tuck McFadden,” said one.

“I'm Bib Driscoll,” said the second.

“I'm Warren Hinderman,” said the third.

“I'm Nathan Stone,” Nathan said, shaking their hands.

Within minutes, three more men took chairs at the table. They were Tobe Crump, Beal Pryor, and Stub Byler. Nathan introduced himself and shook their hands. A sixth man had taken a chair at the second table.

“My God,” said Tuck McFadden, “there's thirteen of us. An unlucky number.”

“Sorry,” Nathan said. “Does anybody know how many deputies will be hired?”

“Nobody's told us,” said Bib Driscoll. “There was a dozen of us ahead of you, and we heard rumors that Wilder's been given permission to hire as many as twenty men.”

“That's one hell of a big posse,” Nathan said.

“This is one hell of a big county,” said Driscoll, “and it's in one hell of a big mess. I won't be surprised if we have to split into two or three groups.”

Conversation ceased while the waiters took orders. That done, men from the second table, with the exception of Slack Tarno, got up and introduced themselves to Nathan. There was Bode Watts, Peavy Burris, Neil Sutton, Rand Dismukes, and Simpson Dumont. They all seemed friendly enough, and Nathan didn't foresee any trouble, but Slack Tarno wasn't one to leave well enough alone. When he spoke, it was loud enough for everybody in the restaurant to hear.

“Stone's got this ugly hound dog that lives with him. I'm surprised he ain't got the varmint in a chair, hiked up to the table.”

“I considered it,” said Nathan, “but I reckoned you'd be here. He's almighty picky about who he sets down to eat with.”

“That's sound thinkin',” McFadden said. “Set him down next to Tarno, and he's likely to get fleas.”

“Yeah,” said Driscoll, “an' God only knows what else he might catch.”

Except for Tarno, everybody within hearing roared with laughter, and there was more fun at Tarno's expense. Tarno tried to ignore them, his smoldering eyes concentrating all their hatred on Nathan. The rest of the men, seeing and understanding Tarno's reaction, said no more, and conversation lagged. When the waiters brought the food, the meal was eaten in silence. Tarno was the first to finish and the first to leave the dining room.

“I reckon we shouldn't of baited him,” said McFadden. “He purely don't like you, Stone, and if looks could kill, this would be your buryin' day.”

“He'd already decided he didn't like me,” Nathan said, “and none of you had anything to do with that. We had words in the hall after my dog growled at him.”

“Hell, you can't blame the dog,” said Tobe Crump. “Nobody else likes him, either. If what he says means anything, he used to be a bounty hunter, and I never knowed one that had any feelin' for anything or anybody.”

“He seems like the wrong kind of man for a sheriff's posse,” Nathan said. “From the little I know about the situation here, most of the violence started after some known outlaws in a sheriff's posse shot and killed John McSween.”

“You got the straight of it,” said Bib Driscoll, “and I won't be surprised if this Slack Tarno is of the same stripe. There's already been word that the governor's goin' to raise the price on the heads of Billy and them ridin' with him.”

“Somebody should talk to Sheriff Wilder about Tarno,” Nathan said. “He didn't strike me as the kind of man who'd hire bounty hunters.”

“I reckon he personally don't favor it,” said Driscoll, “but Tarno ain't from around here, and Sheriff Wilder ain't had that many men to choose from. As I understand it, the governor warned him against hirin' anybody from these parts, lest we end up with some grudge killers like them four that gunned down John Tunstall.”

“There's an election in November,” Warren Hinderman said. “After that, Wilder will be out, and somebody else will be in.”

“Who's favored to win?” Nathan asked.

“Unless things change,” said Tobe Crump, “a gent name of Pat Garrett will take it by default. Lincoln County's in such a godawful mess, I reckon nobody else wants it.”
²⁷

“Yeah,” Tuck McFadden said, “and from what I hear, Garrett and Billy the Kid used to be friendly toward one another. Garrett could disband the posse, sendin' us all on our way.”

“So a sheriff friendly to Billy could be elected,” said Nathan.

“It's possible,” Tuck McFadden said. “Tunstall and McSween had a lot of friends here in Lincoln County. Probably enough of them to elect a sheriff, and likely all or most of them sympathetic to the Kid.”

The post doctor entered the room and closed the door. Rebecca Tuttle threw her arms around Wes and wept with great soul-wrenching sobs. Captain Selman took a seat in his big leather chair, rested his elbows on his desk, and waited. Slowly Rebecca's sobs trailed off into sniffles and she stepped back, knuckling tears from her eyes.

“I-I'm sorry,” she said. “It-was-such a shock.”

“It was,” Selman agreed. “What happened out there ... that could have led her to do ... this? Did those men ... abuse her?”

“No,” said Rebecca. “They ripped the front of her dress, but it ... wasn't that. All her life, she's been close to my father. She saw him shot to death before her eyes and she ... just seemed to ... lose her mind.”

At that point, the post doctor stepped back into the room, closing the door behind him. When he spoke, it was to Captain Selman.

“Sir, in her obviously distraught condition, it was a mistake, leaving her alone in that room with a loaded weapon.”

“Lieutenant,” Captain Selman snapped, “I am now fully aware of that. I am sorry that I failed to understand the extent of the damage to her mind. That's why I sent for you.”

“Please,” said Rebecca. “If this is anybody's fault, it's mine. I should have stayed in there with her, but I never thought ... I had no way of knowing ... she would do ... this.”

There came a knock at the door and when Captain Selman granted permission to enter, Sergeant Willard stepped in.

“Sir,” Willard said, “there was a shot—”

“Yes, Sergeant,” said Captain Selman. “Mrs. Tuttle is dead by her own hand. We must file a report on this. Doctor, will you return with him to the orderly room and help him to prepare the necessary papers?”