Autumn of the Gun (35 page)

“I was elected on a promise to put a stop to the rustling and the killing,” said Garrett, “and that means bringing in the Kid. We're going to trample every thicket and fire every shack in Lincoln County, if that's what it takes.”

“I have word that the Kid and some of his outfit will be in Fort Sumner this weekend,” Garrett told the deputies. “We're going to be there waiting for them.”

Accompanied by Rudabaugh, Wilson, Bowdre, O'Folliard, and Pickett, the Kid rode warily into Fort Sumner on Sunday night. Suddenly the lawmen emerged from where they had been hiding.

“Halt,” Garrett shouted, “this is the law.”

But the fugitives rode for their lives, and the posse opened fire. O‘Folliard was shot out of the saddle. Rudabaugh lost his horse. Leaping from his dying mount, he was able to seize the reins of the dead O'Folliard's horse and escape with his companions.

“Rein up,” Garrett ordered. “We'd never catch them in the dark, and they could cut us down from ambush.”

More horses had been rustled the night before, and again the posse followed the outlaws as far as the border. Snow had begun falling around midnight, as they rode back to Lincoln. When they stopped to rest the horses, Nathan spoke to Garrett.

“How long do these hombres generally stay in Mexico?”

“Only long enough to dispose of the rustled stock,” Garrett said. “I won't be a bit surprised if they're back in Lincoln County tomorrow night.”

“I can't see ridin' all this way for nothing,” said Nathan. “Why don't we hole up and wait for them to ride back?”

“Too much territory to cover,” Garrett replied. “There's near two hundred miles of border west of El Paso, and that much and more to the east. They never cross at the same place twice.”

“But when they do,” said Nathan, “they always return to Lincoln County.”

“Yes,” Garrett replied.

“If I'm any judge,” Nathan said, “there'll be a foot of snow by morning. Suppose we ride back and hole up somewhere to the south of Lincoln County and wait? The snow will cover our tracks, and we can ride a line along the southern end of the county until we cross their trail. From there, we can follow their tracks and maybe take 'em by surprise.”

“By God,” said Bib Driscoll, “he's got somethin' there.”

“I think he has, myself,” Garrett said. “I know a place where we can get in out of the weather until the storm breaks. Sometime tomorrow afternoon we'll go looking for their trail.”

Bundled in their heavy coats and gloves, scarves shielding their ears, and their hats thonged down against the wind, they rode north. Within minutes, the deepening snow had covered their tracks. Garrett led them to a box canyon with a spring. The canyon rim shut out the merciless wind and blowing snow, while a roaring fire kept the cold at bay. There was hot coffee and hot food, and by feeding the fire in shifts, they were comfortable. The snow continued, and there was only a little difference between first light and the darkness of the receding night.

“If we wait too long to go lookin' for their trail,” said Tuck McFadden, “we'll end up chasin' 'em in the dark, and we've had nothin' but rotten luck doin' that.”

“I'm keeping that in mind,” Garrett said, “but we'll have to give them time to bypass us. We'll be leaving tracks in the snow, and if we ride out too soon, they'll cut our trail and know we're after them.”

The snow ceased before noon, but the big gray clouds seemed only tree-top high, and the wind still howled out of the northwest. The best light they'd had all day was no better than twilight, and when Garrett gave the order to saddle up, darkness seemed only minutes away.

“After all this,” Neil Sutton said, “I hope the varmints didn't decide to wait out the storm in Mexico.”

“It's a chance we had to take,” said Garrett. “If they're ridin' back today, we should cut their trail in less than two hours. If they've fooled us and laid up across the border, we'll still reach town by suppertime. There'll be hot grub and warm beds tonight.”

Garrett and his posse rode eastward, and in less than an hour they came upon the tracks of five horses headed north.

“It's got to be them,” Garrett said. “Let's ride.”

To their dismay, sleet began rattling off their hat brims and stinging their faces. Nobody doubted there would be more snow, and success or failure depending on their catching up to the outlaws before the trail was lost. The going was hard and slow, forcing them to rest the horses often. During such a stop, almost shouting to be heard above the wind, Garrett gave them last-minute orders.

“If it gets any worse, they may hole up for the night. In any case, shoot to kill. It's the only way we'll ever take the Kid.”

They soon reached an abandoned stone hut, and in an adjoining lean-to, there were three horses. Suddenly a shadowy figure emerged from the hut.

“Fire,” Garrett shouted, believing it was the Kid.

The hard-hit outlaw staggered back inside, but was shoved out. The four desperate men tried to pull their remaining three mounts into the building, but Garrett killed one of the animals, blocking the doorway.

“Pour lead through the door,” Garrett ordered. “They can't hide from ricochets.”

It was the truth. The rock hut had become a death trap, as lead splattered against the stone walls. The desperate outlaws had but one choice.

“Don't shoot no more,” came a shout from within the hut. “We're comin' out.”

The four came out with their hands up. Nathan recognized Billy the Kid from the many wanted dodgers he had seen. He looked pitifully young as he and his companions had their hands bound. They were then mounted on their horses, while Nathan and Warren Hinderman brought out the dead man.

“Charlie Bowdre,” said Garrett.

 

For a time, Billy the Kid was imprisoned at Las Vegas, New Mexico, and finally at Santa Fe. He would not be returned to Lincoln until time for his trial, lest his many friends and sympathizers attempt to break him out. Pat Garrett, by now the new sheriff, met with Lincoln County's deputies for the first time.

“Men,” said Garrett, “the governor commends you for your service, and to that I am adding my thanks. With the Kid in jail awaiting trial, we believe we have broken the back of this gang of rustlers and killers. As of today, this posse is being disbanded. However, I can still use a couple of you as deputies, but I must warn you, there'll be a considerable reduction in pay.”

“Not me,” Bib Driscoll said. “I done been spoilt.”

Most of the others laughed, for they seemed of a similar mind, leaving Garrett to seek deputies elsewhere. Nathan returned to his hotel room, where Empty waited.

“Well, pard, we're footloose again, but I reckon we'll stay here another day or two, until the weather breaks and we get our bearings.”

The new year—1881—had blown in with a blizzard on its heels and temperatures of near zero. Lincoln was a fair-sized town, and Nathan decided to see what it had to offer now that his official duties were over—the deputies had taken a pledge of sobriety and had been encouraged to avoid the saloons. The town had several, and one of them—the Silver Dollar—was nothing short of spectacular. The region boasted some men of wealth, most of it from mining, and Nathan learned that this prosperous saloon was owned by four miners who had struck it rich. Rare among such frontier establishments, it boasted a second floor, and there were quarters for the owners when they chose to remain in town for a few days. Leaving Empty at the hotel, Nathan walked through the snow to the end of the block. In deference to the harsh winters, the Silver Dollar had its own stable to the rear of the building, encouraging patrons to stay as long as they wished. In the early afternoon, with snow on the ground and more to come, Nathan was amazed at the number of men who lined the bar or sat at the many tables. Along one wall, the bar ran the entire length of the building, and at each end an enormous fireplace occupied two-thirds of a wall. Wind roared down the chimneys, causing the fires to spit and spew puffs of smoke that mingled with tobacco smoke fogging the many hanging lamps. Men lined the bar, while others were doing some serious drinking at the many tables. Directly beneath a hanging lamp, a poker game was in progress. A participant threw down his cards in disgust, kicked back his chair, and got up. Nathan took the chair and bought in.

“Five-dollar limit,” said the house dealer.

Nathan lost four pots, won a small one, and then lost three more. Four of the other men all seemed affluent, but the other—a grizzled old rancher—kicked back his chair and stood up. His eyes on the house dealer, he spoke.

“House man, I'm callin' fer a new deck. This damn deck you're dealin' from has got some cards missin'. I can't git nothin' but three of a kind. Where's them fourth draws?”

The house dealer placed the remainder of the deck face down on the table, and when he spoke his voice was dangerously low.

“Pilgrim, are you accusing me of cheating?”

“If he's not,” Nathan said, “I am.”

The house dealer was quick, but not quick enough. He froze, for Nathan Stone had him covered with a cocked Colt.

“Whatever's in your hand,” said Nathan, “place it on the table.”

Slowly the house dealer unclenched his right hand, revealing a deadly derringer.

“I think you owe us all some money.” Nathan said. “Then, if you value your health, I reckon you'd better get out of here.”

But the scene hadn't gone unnoticed. One of the three bartenders had a sawed-off shotgun, and a man wearing a frock coat and derby hat was rapidly approaching the table.

“I am Jess Delaney, one of the owners,” he said. “What's the problem here?”

“Your house man,” said Nathan. “Ever since I sat in, he's been slick dealing.”

“Hell, he's been doin' it long 'fore that,” said the old-timer who had first complained. “I dropped a bundle in here last night.”

“Prove it,” Delaney said, his eyes on Nathan.

“All of you show your hands,” said Nathan.

The four men dropped their cards on the table, face up, and each man held three of a kind. With the rest of the deck face down on the table, Nathan dealt every man, including himself, the needed fourth card.

“Quay,” Delaney said, his hard eyes on the house dealer, “you will return the money you have taken from these men, and then you'll get the hell out of here.”

Sullenly, Quay did as ordered, and when he had gone, Delaney spoke.

“The rest of you belly up to the bar. Drinks are on the house.”

When all the men had been served their drinks, Delaney spoke to Nathan.

“You know your cards, my friend. May I ask your name?”

“Nathan Stone.”

“You used to house deal for old Judge Prater in Waco, didn't you?”

“For a short time,” said Nathan, “but that's been more than ten years. I don't seem to remember you.”

“I recall you being an honest dealer,” Delaney said, “and I could use one. Would you be interested? I pay twenty percent.”

“Maybe,” said Nathan, “but no Sundays. What are the hours?”

“Six until closing,” Delaney said. “We close at two in the morning.”

“It's nowhere near six,” said Nathan. “Why was Quay here so early?”

“His idea,” Delaney said. “Normally, none of the owners are here before six. The four of us take turns staying until closing.”

“Who are the other owners?”

“Hiram Kilgore, Ward Guthrie, and Cash Seaborn. This is my night, and I just came in early. Tomorrow it'll be Kilgore, then Guthrie, followed by Seaborn.”

“Will I be the only house dealer?” Nathan asked.

“No,” said Delaney, “there's a young lady, Katrina McGuire. She'll take off Mondays and work Sundays, when you're off. I'll need you both on Fridays and Saturdays.”

“It's been a long time,” Nathan said, “and I may be rusty, but I'll try it for a while.”

“Good,” said Delaney. “Since today is Saturday, I'll need you tonight.”

“I'll be here,” Nathan said, “and I'll have my guns. Any objection to that?”

“None,” said Delaney, “as long as you don't use them without cause.”

“Where are we going from here?” Rebecca asked as she and Wes rode away from Fort Worth. “Please tell me you aren't going to try and find those three outlaws.”

“Oh, all right,” he said. “The trail's cold. They could be in Mexico by now.”

“And that's the only reason you're not going after them.”

She looked at him, concern in her gray eyes, and he laughed.

“You think I'm always lookin' for a fight?” he asked.

“I'm never sure. Just when I think you have a grip on that pride of yours—”

“I'm of a mind to ride all the way to the ocean,” he said. “I've never seen the ocean.”

“I believe it's called the Gulf of Mexico,” she said with a smile.

“Damn it, whatever.”

They reined up at a spring an hour before sundown, allowing the horses to rest prior to watering them.

“This is nice,” said Rebecca. “We can't go much farther before dark. Why don't we just make camp here?”

“We can,” he replied. “Are you tired?”