Autumn of the Gun (56 page)

“Maybe I should,” said Wes, meeting her eyes, “and I will, if my defense fails.”

“No,” Granny said firmly. “We no let
bastardo
outlaws drive our people away.”

When Nathan and Empty reached St. Louis, Silver was already there. As so often was the case, he was in Room 21 at the Pioneer Hotel. Nathan knocked twice, paused, and knocked a third time.

“Who is it?” a voice inquired.

“You damn well know who it is,” said Nathan. “Let me in.”

The door opened just enough for Nathan and Empty to enter. When they had, it was quickly closed.

Silver laughed. “Where have you been? I got here yesterday.”

“I stayed an extra day in St. Joseph,” said Nathan. “I was only ambushed twice, and I reckoned there might be a few more wantin' a shot at me.”

“Now, now,” Silver said, “let's not be bitter. You did the best you could. Even the government doesn't expect more than that.”

“Well, God forbid that I should disappoint them,” said Nathan. “Are you sure you've got no more phantom outlaws for me to track down?”

“Not at the moment,” Silver said cheerfully. “Maybe when I return to Washington. It's a shame you didn't get to Jesse in time, but Frank's surrendered. If there's any money left from the robberies, he may be willing to give it up for a more lenient sentence.”

“It's even more of a shame you didn't think of that before I wasted four months of my life looking for Jesse,” said Nathan.

“It is,” Silver agreed. “I'm good, but I'm not perfect.”

Conversation lagged. Nathan sat down on the bed and drew off his boots. Empty sat on the oval rug, regarding Silver in a quizzical manner.

Silver laughed. “Look at him. He's getting more like you every day, sittin' there just looking right through you, and you don't know what the hell he's thinking.”

“I know what he's thinking,” Nathan said. “He's thinking it's time he was fed. We've been on short rations since Christmas, because those damn people in Missouri wouldn't sell us grub.”

“Oh, is that all?” said Silver. “If I feed you, will your sweet disposition return?”

“Maybe,” Nathan said. “Why don't you try?”

“Come on,” said Silver. “Both of you. After we eat, we can buy passage on the boat to St. Louis.”

“I'm taking my horse,” Nathan said, “because I don't know how long I'll stay at the McQueens'. When I'm ready to go, I aim to go.”

Silver rented a horse and saddle, and with Nathan astride his grulla, they set out for the McQueen place. Recognizing familiar territory, Empty ran on ahead. Spring had come early to New Orleans, and the mighty oaks wore mantles of green, while wildflowers had sprung up in the fields and along the road. They rode past the horse barn, and under the spreading oak where Eulie Prater had been buried was the unmistakable mound of a second grave. Nathan's heart was in his throat, for he didn't want to know who slept there beside Eulie. McQueen had acquired some more dogs, and they came loping around the house—four of them—baying their heads off.

“You dogs,” McQueen bawled, “here!”

Reluctantly they reversed themselves and started back to the house. Nathan and Silver rode around to the back porch, as they always had. Empty was already at the back door, expecting Bess McQueen to greet him. But it was Vivian who greeted him, and when they stepped down to take the big hand of Barnabas McQueen, there was something different about him. To Nathan, it seemed almost as though Barnabas wished they hadn't come, and for some reason, Vivian's eyes refused to meet his. Something was wrong. Bad wrong.

“Barnabas,” Nathan said, “what's wrong? Where's Bess?”

“Over yonder ... by the horse barn,” said Barnabas, choking on the words.

“When ... how ... ?”

“She died ... two weeks ... after Harley left,” McQueen said. “Sudden. She took sick and three days ... later ... she was gone.”

“God,” said Nathan. “I'm sorry to hear that.”

“So am I,” Silver said. “She was a great lady.”

“You might as well come on in,” said Barnabas. “The place won't be as neat as it used to be. Vivian and me ... we've been away ...”

All of them sat down at the kitchen table, but Empty walked on through the house in search of Bess. Returning to the kitchen, he regarded them all with sad eyes. He then sat down at the kitchen door and howled mournfully.

“Oh, God, Empty,” said Nathan, “stop it.”

“Nathan,” Barnabas said, “there's ... there's been some changes. We should have gotten word to you ...”

“You didn't know where I was,” said Nathan. “Tell me.”

“I ... me ... Vivian and me ... are husband and wife,” Barnabas said, his eyes on his folded hands. “We were so ... lost without Bess, and we ...”

Nathan said nothing as memories came flooding back. Memories of Vivian from the day he had first seen her in Dodge, half-starved, seeking her brother.

“Congratulations,” said Nathan, having trouble with the word.

“Amen to that,” Silver added.

There was a painful silence. Nathan's eyes were on Vivian, and the harder she tried not look at him, the more surely it seemed that she must. Finally she got to her feet, leaned across the table toward him, and the dam broke.

“Damn it, Nathan, why did you have to come back, just ... just when I thought I ... I was free of you ...”

“You are free of me,” Nathan said. “I ... I have a woman in El Paso. I ... I thought you ought to know ... I'm ... on my way there ...”

They were the hardest words he had ever spoken, but they were for her, for Barnabas. He got to his feet, put on his hat, and took Barnabas McQueen's hand for the last time.

“So long, Barnabas.”

Vivian stood there in silence, tears streaming down her pale cheeks. Nathan stepped out the back door, with Silver and Empty behind him. Nathan and Silver mounted and rode away without looking back. Empty paused, looking back toward the McQueen house, and then back toward the distant riders. Reluctantly he turned away, trotting to catch up to the horses.

“My God,” said Silver, when they were well away from the house, “who would ever have thought ...”

“I'd give anything if we'd never come here,” Nathan said. “I may have spoiled whatever slim chance they might have had.”

“You did the right thing,” said Silver. “You left Barnabas believing you hadn't come to take Vivian away, and you left Vivian believing you'd thrown her over for another girl. Give them time, and that'll draw them together. I know what that cost you,
amigo.
You're one
bueno hombre.
The question is, where do we go from here?”

“I'm going to El Paso,” Nathan said. “You're welcome to ride along.”

“I'm obliged for the offer,” said Silver, “but I can't see it accomplishing anything. It's a good thousand miles from here, and I'd use up the rest of my leave just getting there. I reckon I'll leave this horse and saddle at the livery and take the next boat north. I hope when our trails cross again, it'll be under better circumstances.”

Nathan and Empty waited at the landing until Silver had boarded the steamboat. Without a backward look, Nathan Stone rode out of New Orleans for the last time. Riding west into the setting sun, he felt suddenly free. While he regretted losing Vivian, he now knew she had become a burden without his realizing it. He felt some obligation to her, but now she belonged to Barnabas McQueen.

“Empty,” said Nathan, “we're goin' near Houston, so I reckon we'll stop long enough to see Captain Dillard of the Texas Rangers.”

“It's near suppertime, Captain, and I'm buying,” Nathan said.

“I'll take you up on that,” said Captain Dillard.

The two old friends spent an hour in a cafe, and when they parted company, they had planned to meet for breakfast the following morning before Nathan again rode west.

“Is Bodie West still in south Texas?” Nathan asked, as they sat down to breakfast.

“Yes,” said Captain Dillard. “He's in Austin or San Antonio. Most likely San Antone.”

“Good,” Nathan said. “I'd like to see him again. He was a friend to Captain Jennings.”

“If there's any one thing I dislike about the Rangers,” said Captain Dillard, “it's all the old friends who have died in the line of duty. Among them, Sage Jennings.”

“He won't be forgotten,” Nathan agreed.

“Nathan,” said Ranger Bodie West, “it's good to see you again.”

“Good to see you,” Nathan replied, taking West's hand. “What's happened since I was last here?”

West laughed. “You won't believe it. In 1879, Ben Thompson ran for city marshal of Austin and was defeated. He ran again in 1881 and was elected.”

“Tarnation,” said Nathan. “I reckon I'll have to stay awhile and watch Ben work. I'd say if he can use his gun as well for the law as he has against it, he'll be one hell of a lawman.”

“He has potential,” West said, “if only he can control his temper. A gun is a lot like money. It can serve you well if it's properly used, or it can get you into all kinds of trouble if you don't know how to handle it.”

To Nathan's surprise, Ben Thompson appeared to be an excellent lawman. Rarely did he have to resort to his gun, for his reputation was enough. One Saturday evening in San Antonio, Nathan and Ben were having supper when King Fisher came in.

“Thunderation,” said Fisher, wringing Nathan's hand. “I been wonderin' what became of you. Remember when we cleaned up on that horse race? My God, my luck's never been that good again. Are you aimin' to be here July fourth?”

Nathan laughed. “I haven't planned that far ahead. Another horse race?”

“Damn right,” Fisher said. “When you get enough of Ben, ride down to the ranch for a while. I got me a horse to enter in that July fourth race. Just wait till you see him.”

“I'll stay a while,” said Nathan. “Where'd you get the horse?”

“He's a rustler,” Thompson said. “You didn't know that?”

“Shut up, Thompson,” said Fisher.

Fisher's horse was a black, reminding Nathan of Barnabas McQueen's Diablo. Fisher had hired an Indian rider, and the black won the race with good odds. But on July 11, Thompson and Jack Harris renewed an old feud. King Fisher explained it to Nathan.

“It started over a gambling incident in 1880,” Fisher said. “Harris, along with Joe Foster and Billy Simms, own and operate the Vaudeville Theatre and Gambling Saloon, the wildest and most popular place in San Antone. Let's get over there before Thompson does something foolish.”

When they reached the saloon, Thompson stood outside on the boardwalk in conversation with another man.

“That's Billy Simms,” Fisher said, “a longtime friend of Ben's.”

Simms went back into the saloon, and Thompson turned his attention to Nathan and King Fisher.

“Ben,” said Fisher, “you're city marshal of Austin. Don't forget that.”

“City marshal be damned,” Thompson said. “I'm here to settle with Harris, but I can't find him.”

But Jack Harris had entered the saloon by the back door, and was told by one of the saloon's employees that Thompson was outside and had been looking for him. Harris got a shotgun from behind the bar and positioned himself behind the door nearest Thompson. Several saloon patrons, not wishing to be caught up in a shoot-out, rushed outside.

“Jack has a gun,” one of them shouted to Thompson.

“Come on,” Harris taunted from inside. “I'm ready for you.”

But Thompson drew and fired through the blinds. The slug ricocheted and ripped into Harris's right lung. A second shot by Thompson missed, but Harris was finished.

“Damn it, Ben,” King Fisher said, “why did you do that?”

“I owed him,” said Thompson, “and I pay my debts.”

“What do you aim to do now?” Nathan asked.

“The only thing I can do,” said Thompson. “I'm turning myself in. Then I'll resign as marshal of Austin.”

Jack Harris, mortally wounded, died that night.

Two weeks passed before the night riders struck again. Patiently, from dusk to dawn, Wes had kept watch, armed with a shotgun. When the marauders began firing from the predawn darkness, Wes answered their muzzle flashes with a bellow from the shotgun. His responses drew their fire, but he was bellied down and a poor target. He fired twice, reloaded and fired twice more. There was no more return fire. Quietly, Wes made his way into the house, confident the outlaws had pulled out.

“You alive,” Granny said from the darkness. “Good.”

“More alive than some of them, I think,” said Wes. “Come daylight, I'll have a look.”

But within minutes, there was a clatter of hooves, followed by a knock on the door.

“Who are you?” Wes inquired.

“Jim Gillett. Sounded like a war in progress out here.”

Wes opened the door and Gillett stepped inside.

“Granny's in the kitchen making coffee,” said Wes. “Time we have some, it should be light enough to see. I had only muzzle flashes to shoot at, but I may have got one of them. They didn't stay long.”