Autumn of the Gun (43 page)

“If Susie will feed me regular, like she did today,” Nathan said, “I'll track down that bunch of rustlers for nothing.”

“Wes,” said McQueen, “if you and Rebecca are ever in New Orleans, come visit us.”

“We will,” Wes replied.

“Sorry you didn't get better odds on Petalo, Sunday,” said Vivian. “He's run here before.”

The McQueens and Vivian rode east, toward New Orleans, while Wes and Rebecca took the trail west.

“The town was nice, for a while,” Rebecca said, “but I'm ready to get back to the Bell ranch. I grew up in the city, but I'm losing my feel for it.”

“You're becoming a frontier woman,” said Wes.

“There was hell to pay while you were gone,” Frank Bell said when Wes and Rebecca returned to the ranch. “Night riders hit the Beckham ranch. They took six horses and shot down one of Beckham's riders.”

“Did anybody trail them?” Wes asked.

“Beckham and his four riders started after them,” said Bell, “but two of the thieves stayed on the backtrail. They killed Beckham's
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and wounded two others, one of 'em Beckham. The thieves took the horses and headed for the border.”

“I reckon the nearest law is in San Antonio,” Wes said.

“Yes,” said Bell, “and a sheriffs posse couldn't of got on the trail until morning. The thieves could have been near the border by then. We can't count on the law. We'll have to stomp our own snakes, so I rode into San Antone and hired three more men.”

“I don't like the looks of them,” Martha Bell said. “I wonder if they aren't outlaws themselves.”

“Aw, Martha,” said Bell, “this is the frontier. It takes men with the bark on, just to stay alive. They're in the bunkhouse, if you'd like to meet them.”

“I reckon I'd better,” Wes said. “Have you told them about me?”

“Yes,” said Bell. “You'll continue to take orders from me.”

“The truth,” Martha Bell said, “is that Frank doesn't trust them too far, and neither do I.”

“Now, Martha,” said Bell, “they're hard men, but that's what it takes when the law's spread too thin. They're all ex-bounty hunters.”

“What are their names?” Wes asked.

“Font Gerdes, Wolf Strum, and Oz Withers,” said Bell.

“I'll let 'em know I'm here, and say howdy,” said Wes. “We need to lay some plans. That bunch of night riders may hit us next.”

The bunkhouse was large enough to house thirty riders, and Wes wondered why Bell hadn't hired more men, and why he hadn't done it sooner. Heads drooping, three horses stood at the hitch rail. They should have been unsaddled and in the barn or corral. When Wes entered the bunkhouse, the men sat on their bunks, smoking and passing around a bottle. Wes stood there, his thumbs hooked in his belt, saying nothing.

“You got somethin' to say,” one of the trio said, “then say it.”

“It's a sorry excuse for a man that leaves his horse saddled and tied up in the middle of the day,” said Wes.

“Wal,” said one of the three, “you must be the younker Bell was tellin' us about. We been waitin' fer you. Unsaddle them broncs, rub ‘em down, and fork 'em some hay.”

The three laughed uproariously. Wes waited until they were silent, and then he spoke.

“I'm Wes Tremayne, and I don't take orders from you. See to your own horses.”

“It don't pleasure me none, meetin' you,” said one of the men, getting to his feet. “I'm Wolf Strum, and I don't take orders from any hombre that can't enforce 'em.”

“I wouldn't expect you to,” Wes said.

He drove the toe of his right boot into Strum's crotch. With a grunt, Strum's head came down and Wes slammed a hard right to his chin. Strum tumbled back into one of the bunks, striking his head against the wall. Gerdes and Withers had their weapons halfway out of their holsters when they froze. Wes had them covered. Strum sat up, rubbing his chin.

“I don't aim to give any of you orders,” said Wes, “but if the time ever comes when I have to, then I want you to know I can damn well stand behind them.”

“There's somethin' we're wantin' you to know,” Strum said. “We'll do what we was hired to do, but if you ride with us, it's at your own risk. When lead starts to fly, there's a chance you might stop a bad one.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” said Wes. “Ridin' with the three of you, I can understand how that might happen.”

Wes was between the trio and the door and, keeping them covered, he backed out. He then turned to the house he shared with Rebecca.

“Well?” said Rebecca.

“We talked,” Wes said.

“I'm glad you won't be chasing those rustlers alone,” said Rebecca.

“Yeah,” Wes said. “I'll sleep better, knowin' they're on the job.”

Nathan took a room at Inez McMartin's rooming house on Third Street. Right across the street was the roofed stalls of the O.K. Corral, where Nathan stabled his horse. Just beyond those stalls, fronting Fourth Street, were the corral‘s open stalls. On the far side of Fourth was the New Orleans Saloon. It seemed one of the less gaudy establishments in town, and adjoining it on the left was the New Orleans Restaurant. It wasn't quite eleven o'clock in the morning, the best time to find a saloon owner on the premises, so Nathan stepped through the batwing doors and went directly to the bar.

“It's a mite early for a drink,” Nathan said. “I'm here to talk to the owner.”

“Talk,” said the man, leaning his elbows on the bar. “I'm Norris Lanham.”

“I'm Nathan Stone. I'm a fair-to-middlin' dealer looking for work.”

“There are gaudier places than mine,” Lanham said. “Why did you come here?”

“It looks like the kind of place where I'd be comfortable,” said Nathan. “I've dealt for the house at the fancy places, and they seem to draw all the troublemakers.”

Lanham laughed. “You know Doc Holliday's in town, then.”

“No,” Nathan said, “I didn't know. But I saw him shoot up a saloon in Dallas, Texas, and another in Las Vegas, New Mexico, and he's hell on wheels at the poker table.”

“He ain't been in here,” Lanham. “Earp owns a piece of the Oriental, and Holliday spends most of his time there. I can use another house dealer, as long as you're comfortable with my rules. No drinking, no slick dealing, and no gunplay without cause. Your cut is twenty percent.”

“Your rules are my rules,” Nathan said, “and the percentage is fair.”

“Good,” said Lanham. “We'll get along. The bartender will take over in a few minutes. Then we'll go next door for dinner. My wife, Elsie, runs the restaurant.”

“I'd like to talk to her about feeding my dog,” Nathan said. “He's a hound and his name is Empty. He doesn't like saloons.”

“He's smarter than most men,” said Lanham. “I'm sure he can eat in the kitchen.”

Lanham dressed like a gambling man, and Nathan liked his looks. He appeared to be in his fifties, with silvery hair and direct brown eyes. He sported a leather vest over a white boiled shirt, a black string tie, and striped trousers.

“Take your dog around to the back of the restaurant,” Lanham said when they left the saloon. “I'll bring Elsie out back to meet you and feed the dog. Then we'll eat.”

“My land,” said Elsie after she had met Nathan, “your poor dog looks half starved.”

“It's the nature of the beast, ma'am,” Nathan said. “He's a hound, and he looks like a rack of bones all the time. That's why his name is Empty.”

“You may have to change his name after a while,” said Elsie. “We serve three meals every day, and there's always leftovers. When you come to eat, just bring him around to the kitchen door.”

Nathan laughed. “I won't have to bring him. After you've fed him the first time, he'll be here on his own.”

Nathan and the saloon owner sat down to eat before the restaurant became crowded, and while Norris Lanham didn't speak quite as openly as Mel and Susie Holt, he supplied much of the background on Tombstone and the people who lived there.

“With Virgil the marshal and Wyatt a deputy sheriff, you're a mite deep in Earps,” said Nathan. “Who usually shows up if you need a lawman?”

“Usually Sheriff John Behan,” Lanham said. “Virgil's been here a time or two.”

“I knew Wyatt when he was a lawman in Dodge,” said Nathan. “I don't know any of his brothers.”

“Virgil and Morgan are all right,” Lanham said, “but I believe they're often influenced by Wyatt.”

While the saloon owner had said nothing negative about Wyatt Earp, he had implied much, none of it lost on Nathan Stone. Dinner finished, they talked for a few minutes more over coffee.

“I'd like one free night,” said Nathan. “Sunday, if possible.”

“Sunday it is,” Lanham said. “Most of my regulars are cowboys, sheepmen, and a few miners. Sunday's my slow night. When can you start?”

“Tonight,” said Nathan. “Six o'clock early enough?”

“Six o'clock Monday through Thursday,” Lanham said. “Friday and Saturday nights, come in at seven. Those nights we're open until three the next morning.”

Nathan's first night at the New Orleans Saloon was uneventful. After eleven o'clock, there was no demand for a house dealer. The few patrons seemed content to hunch over the tables, nursing their beers. A few minutes before midnight, Nathan was leaning on the bar, talking to the barkeep, when a stranger in a dark suit entered the saloon.

“Sheriff Behan,” said the barkeep under his breath.

Behan approached the bar, nodded to the barkeep, and eyed Nathan questioningly.

“I'm Nathan Stone,” said Nathan. “House dealer.”

“Sheriff John Behan,” the lawman said. “I always like to know who the dealers are.”

“I don't blame you,” Nathan said. “I was sheriff in Dodge for a while and, my friend, I don't envy you your job.”

Behan laughed. “Believe it or not, there are some who'd like to have it.”

He moved on, a quiet man dressed all in black, like a preacher or undertaker, with a black bow tie over a white boiled shirt.

 

Wednesday night, Nathan's second night at the New Orleans, began quietly. At six-thirty, a distant church bell chimed, summoning the faithful to prayer meeting. It offered a contrast in a town fraught with strife, and for a moment it reminded Nathan of his childhood. Long ago, in Virginia, there had been a church on the town square, and in its tower a great brass bell ...

“Damn,” said the barkeep when four men shouldered their way into the saloon, “it's the Clantons and the McLaurys.”

“Bottle an' four glasses,” said one of the four as they approached the bar.

He dropped his money on the bar and took the tray with bottle and glasses. The four made their way to a table.

“That's Ike and Billy Clanton with their backs to us,” the barkeep said, “and the two that's facin' us is Frank and Tom McLaury.”

The barkeep's voice trailed off, for Tom and Frank McLaury were watching. Not until the four eventually left the saloon did the barkeep speak again.

“There's been a cuss fight goin' on all summer, with the Clantons and McLaurys on one side and the Earps on the other. I hope there's none of 'em in here when they start pullin' guns.”

“You really think it's coming to that?” Nathan asked.

“Yeah,” said the barkeep, “and I ain't by myself. Most ever‘body knows it's comin'. We just ain't sure of the time and place.”

“I've heard some talk,” Nathan said. “What position is the town taking?”

“Most folks ain't takin' sides,” said the barkeep. “Some—the church-going' bunch—is down on Wyatt Earp. He run out on his wife and married another woman.”
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The following Sunday, Nathan rode out to Mel Holt's ranch for dinner. Empty had identified them as friend and took his place on the back porch.

“Well,” said Holt, “I reckon you've jumped in amongst 'em. How is it?”

Nathan laughed. “No trouble yet. A pair of Clantons and the McLaurys came in and shared a bottle.”

“There's rumors of more rustlers comin' to the territory,” Holt said, “and they're all bein' sheltered by the Clantons and the McLaurys.”

 

The first trouble involving Nathan Stone took place not in the saloon but in the New Orleans Restaurant next door. Nathan had gone there for supper, and to his surprise Doc Holliday took the table next to his. The waitress who brought Holliday his coffee appeared nervous, and her trembling hand lost its grip. The cup struck the table, splashing coffee all over the front of Holliday's boiled shirt, bringing him to his feet in an instant. Cursing, he seized the frightened waitress by the arm and she screamed.

“Let her go, Holliday,” Nathan said.

In a single motion Holliday turned and went for his gun, only to find himself looking into the muzzle of Nathan Stone's Colt.

“I think you owe the lady an apology for your ungentlemanly conduct,” said Nathan.

Furious, Holliday looked as though he might pull the gun, although Nathan already had him covered, but Elsie Lanham intervened.

“Is there a problem here,” Elsie inquired.