Autumn of the Gun (49 page)

His winnings had been modest and his conduct acceptable, and he vowed to avoid saloon poker tables. At least for a while. It was late enough in the day to have supper, and he left the saloon with that in mind. Suddenly there was a shot, and slug ripped along his left side, just above the belt. A second slug slammed into the door frame as Wes dropped to his knees, his Colt spitting flame. The shots had come from between two store buildings across the street. Evening shadows had crept in, and while Wes couldn't see the person who was firing at him, the muzzle flashes were plain enough. There were no more shots, and men boiled out of the saloon. While the lead had only burned a painful furrow along his left side, Wes was bleeding like a stuck hog. Nobody had to ask what had happened, for his white shirt was drenched with blood.

“He's been hit,” a voice shouted needlessly. “Somebody git the doc.”

“Some of you have a look across the street, between those buildings,” said Wes. “I might have hit him.”

Half a dozen men hastened to obey. Excited shouts announced their discovery and when they returned, two of them bore the body of Shorty.

“The damn muleheaded little varmint,” somebody said. “He purely didn't know how to lose.”

The doctor arrived first and led Wes back into the saloon. There he removed his bloody shirt, and had his wound tended. Outside, the sheriff questioned the men who had witnessed the incident in the saloon and satisfied himself that the shooting of Shorty had been justified. Ranger Bodie West was there, and while he said little, he observed much. While Wes Tremayne had been firing at muzzle flashes, he had hit his adversary twice, and the two wounds could have been covered with a man's hand. He waited until the sheriff had talked to Wes, and when Wes finally left the saloon, West was waiting for him on the boardwalk.

“I haven't had supper,” said West. “Have you?”

“No,” Wes said. “That's where I was going when he cut down on me. Now I'm not sure I can eat.”

“Come on,” said West, “and give it a try. I can say tonight what I'd intended saying in the morning at breakfast.”

“I reckon I need to talk,” Wes said. “I just killed a man I didn't know, for a reason that didn't amount to a hill of beans.”

“When a man's shooting at you with killing on his mind,” said West, “you don't have time to study his reasoning. You do exactly what you did awhile ago. You kill him before he kills you. It doesn't get any simpler than that.”

When their steaks had been ordered and they were sipping coffee, Bodie West spoke his mind.

“Sheriff Lyle Tidwell was in town yesterday,” West said, “and I learned what you did for him in Lampasas.”

“He needed help,” said Wes, “and I had nothing better to do. Anyway, Rebecca and me had just ... come to an understanding and needed to settle down for a while. The town was mighty nice to us, and I won't forget them.”

Muzzle first, he extended the Colt the town had presented him, and West studied the weapon with appreciation. He returned it to Wes, and then he spoke.

“Wes, I'd like to see you become a Texas Ranger.”

“I'm flattered,” said Wes “but I don't feel like I'm worthy.”

“We've lost too many good men who felt that way,” West said. “I'm thinking of one in particular. He's godawful sudden with a pistol, the fastest I ever saw. In defense of his life, he's been forced to kill. Men are constantly calling him out to test his fast draw. He refuses to stand on the side of the law because he feels he'd be hiding his killings behind a badge.”

“I kind of understand that,” said Wes. “How would it look, a Ranger killing men for no reason other than defending his fast draw?”

“No worse than you doing the same thing as a civilian,” West replied. “Damn it, you can't become the protector of every idiot looking for a reputation as a fast draw. When you become a Ranger, you'll become known for your activities on the side of the law.”

“But that won't stop the fast-draws wanting to call me out, to gain a reputation at my expense,” said Wes.

“No,” West agreed, “but it could discourage some of them. As a civilian, without a lawman's badge, you're fair game. There's no law against killing you, as long as it's a fair fight. On the other hand, nothing short of a damn fool guns down a Ranger. Even if he beats you, he becomes a fugitive, and sooner or later we'll get him. Not many men want a reputation that puts them on the wrong side of the law. There'll always be a few, such as John Wesley Hardin, who'll buck the odds. But they can't win. Hardin's in Huntsville territorial prison, and he has a lot of years ahead of him.”

“You make a pretty convincing case,” said Wes, “but there are plenty of hombres with a fast gun. Why me?”

“It takes more than a fast gun,” West replied. “It takes nerve, a man who thinks on his feet, one who isn't afraid to stand alone. As a Ranger, you'll belong to an elite force of men who often ride alone. Not by choice, but of necessity, because there are never enough of us.”

“And you believe I'm man enough to wear a hat that big?”

“I do,” said West. “I saw you ride after a bunch of killers alone, and you came back alive. Sheriff Tidwell told me how you stood up to Ike Blocker and his outlaws, forcing Blocker to call you out and then gunning him down. You're already performing the duties of a Ranger; all you need is the oath and the badge.”

“I gambled and won,” Wes said. “Blocker might have come after me with his entire gang and they'd have shot me full of holes.”

“You used good judgement,” said West. “You correctly judged Blocker, and when you stood up to him the rest of the gang left the territory. That's why I'm interested in you.”

“I like your style, Bodie West,” said Wes. “I reckon I could do worse than become a Texas Ranger.”

“Bueno,
” West said.

The Ranger offered his hand and Wes took it, thankful he was being judged on his deeds without regard for his youth. John Wesley Tremayne was still two months shy of his fifteenth birthday.

Despite the darkness, Kendall and his pseudo soldiers rode out in pursuit of Nathan Stone. Kendall was in a foul mood, favoring his wounded shoulder, and there was virtually no conversation. André and Kit La Mie watched them disappear into the shadows.

“They'll never catch up to Stone,” and André.

“It won't matter to us one way or the other,” Kit replied. “I suspect Stone can take of the lot of them with one hand behind his back.”

“For the short time he was here,” said André bitterly, “you developed a damned high opinion of him.”

“I know a man when I see one,” Kit said. “If I had
him
siding me ...”

 

Nathan lay with his head on his saddle, his hat tipped over his eyes. The only sound was the occasional chirp of a sleepy bird and the unbroken rhythm of the grulla cropping grass. Empty got up, growling softly.

“Thanks, pard,” Nathan said to the dog. “They made better time than I expected.”

He listened until he could hear the sound of their coming. Removing his Winchester from the saddle boot, he bellied down behind a boulder facing downriver. Moonset was an hour away, and the river bank, but for stirrup-high undergrowth, was clear for at least three hundred yards. The men who hunted him must cross that clearing unless they were smart enough to ride clear of it. Nathan counted on their impatience to prevail over their better judgment, and he wasn't disappointed. They rode two abreast, and he waited until they were well within range. He then shot one of the lead riders out of the saddle. It was all the warning they were going to get.

For several days, Bodie West talked and Wes Tremayne listened.

“You'll be going to El Paso,” West said, “and there's plenty you need to know about the situation there. It's a border town and, as you'd expect, it's as much Mexican as it is Anglo. Ranger Jim Gillett is there now, working under cover, but he'll be leaving us sometime in December. You'll be replacing him, and you will also be working under cover.”

“Are you saying El Paso has no law except for the Rangers?” Wes asked.

“Oh, they have a city marshal, but he's part of the problem,” said West. “On April tenth, Dallas Stoudenmire became city marshal. Four days later there was an ugly affair in the streets—Anglos and Mexicans shouted at one another over the recent murder of a pair of Mexicans. Stoudenmire owns the Globe Restaurant there, and while he was eating there was a shooting. A couple of Mexican-hating drunks—George Campbell and John Hale—started cussing Gus Krempkau, a man they considered friendly to the Mexicans. After hard words, Hale shot Krempkau. Stoudenmire, carrying two revolvers, charged into the street and began firing at Hale. But his shots went wild and one of them struck a Mexican in the back. Stoudenmire's aim improved some and he shot John Hale through the head. George Campbell had threatened Stoudenmire on more than one occasion, but when he saw Hale die, Campbell tried to escape. But the mortally wounded Krempkau had drawn his revolver and emptied it at Campbell. One of Krempkau's slugs broke Campbell's wrist, while another ripped into his foot. Stoudenmire then shot Campbell in the stomach. Both he and the Mexican died the next day.”

“So Stoudenmire is on the bad side of the Mexicans,” said Wes.

“Worse than that,” West replied. “He's managed to get on the bad side of everybody. Three days after killing the Mexican, Stoudenmire shot and killed Bill Johnson. Enemies of Stoudenmire had managed to get Johnson drunk and had put him up to ambushing Dallas.”

“Stoudenmire was blamed for defending himself in an ambush?”

“To some extent,” said West. “Johnson was a former marshal, with many friends, and he was seen by many as a victim, a pawn used by Stoudenmire's enemies.”

“So Ranger Jim Gillette went to El Paso at Stoudenmire's request?”

“My God, no,” West replied. “Dallas Stoudenmire has too much pride. He'd rather be dead and in hell than ask for help, especially from us. He was once a member of Company B of the Texas Rangers.”

“So who asked for Ranger help?”

“I'm not at liberty to say,” said West. “All I can tell you is that Gillett's not there to protect Stoudenmire—the man has too many enemies. If that wasn't enough, he has a real problem with the bottle. He carries two revolvers and a snub-nosed hideout gun, and when he's roaring drunk he has a habit of firing his guns in the street, often in the middle of the night. We figure it's just a matter of time until Stoudenmire's enemies get the best of him. When that happens, Gillett's there to keep the peace. You'll join him—and eventually replace him—for the same purpose.”

“Nobody is to know I'm a Ranger, then,” said Wes.

“Only Jim Gillett,” West said. “Take a room at Granny Boudleaux's boardinghouse, and you'll find Gillett there.”

“How far am I to go toward saving Stoudenmire's hide?” Wes asked.

“Ask Gillett's advice on that,” said West. “Far as I'm concerned, don't take any slugs aimed at him. He'll get it eventually, and every Ranger in Texas can't save him.”

 

So Wes Tremayne took the oath, received his badge and Bible, and prepared to ride west to El Paso.

Nathan emptied two saddles. The remaining four riders wheeled their horses and rode frantically back the way they had come.

“I think they got the message, Empty,” Nathan said, returning his Winchester to the saddle boot. “We'll ride on to Santa Fe and report that wagonload of nitroglycerin.”

Nathan rode into Santa Fe two hours before sundown and went immediately to the telegraph office. He wrote a message, addressing it to twenty-one, Office of the Attorney General, Washington. It was brief.

 

 

He signed his name, paid for the telegram, and took a chair by the door.

“You ain't likely to git an answer before tomorrow,” the telegrapher said.

“Maybe not,” said Nathan, “but I'll wait awhile.”

He had waited less than fifteen minutes when the instrument began to chatter. When the telegrapher had taken the message, he stood up, a puzzled expression on his face.

“Well?” Nathan said.

“Wasn't to you,” the telegrapher said. “It's to me. Washington's orderin' me to turn the key over to you. Do you know the code?”

“Yes,” said Nathan.

“Take over, then,” the telegrapher said.

Nathan sat down at the desk and brought the instrument to life. He identified himself and asked permission to send; it was promptly granted. Quickly he telegraphed the details as he knew them. The response, when it came, was startling. It was addressed to Deputy United States James Blanchard, Santa Fe, New Mexico, and said:

It was signed Byron Silver, Office of the Attorney General, Washington. But there was more. The second message was intended for Nathan; it said: