Autumn of the Gun (59 page)

Nathan went first to the Vaudeville Variety Theatre, inquiring about Joe Foster, Billy Simms, and Jacob Coy.

“Mr. Simms and Mr. Coy are out of town,” he was told by a bartender. “Mr. Fisher is in the hospital.”

“What can you tell me about the shooting here yesterday?” Nathan asked.

“Nothing,” said the bartender. “I wasn't here.”

Nathan went next to the city marshal's office, where he spoke with the deputy on duty, Ira Dement.

“We have no suspects,” Dement said. “All we know is that both men were shot at very close range, from a box next to and slightly above theirs.”

“Then the three men in the box with Thompson and Fisher should have seen whoever did the shooting,” said Nathan.

“Not necessarily,” Dement replied. “The show hadn't started and the theater was still dark. None of the three with Thompson and Fisher saw anyone, so they testified. All we got from them was that suddenly there was a roar of gunfire. All they claim to have seen was muzzle flashes.”
⁴²

“I was told Foster's in the hospital,” said Nathan. “Am I allowed to talk to him?”

“No,” Dement said. “The bone in Foster's leg was shattered and the doctor had to amputate it. The shock was too great, and Foster died early this morning.”

Nathan considered going to the Ranger outpost, but after considering what Bodie West had told him, he changed his mind. Leaving his horse at a nearby livery, he rented a room for himself and Empty. He then spent the rest of the day and most of the night visiting various saloons and listening to talk. But he learned nothing of any value.

While Nathan was in no mood for breakfast, he ate anyway, lingering over coffee. He thought back to the time, now almost eight years ago, when Wild Bill Hickok had died in Deadwood, Dakota Territory. His death had been as senseless as those of Ben Thompson and King Fisher. Jesse James, while admittedly an outlaw and killer, had died with a slug in the back of his head. King Fisher had been just thirty years old, Ben Thompson forty-two, and Hickok thirty-nine.

“My God,” said Nathan aloud, “I'm thirty-seven years old. I've been a wanderer for eighteen years. How much longer do I have?”

Suddenly he felt old, alone, forsaken. Suppose he hung up his guns, called it quits, tried to settle down? He thought of El Paso, of Granny Boudleaux's boardinghouse, of Molly Horrell. She was still a young woman, beautiful by anybody's standards, and he suddenly wanted to see her, if she still waited. He left the cafe and mounted his horse. He was more aware than ever of his own mortality, and with an eerie sense that his time was short, he rode west, toward El Paso.

Since the hanging of the three Connors men, there had been a continued feeling of unease. Wes Tremayne made it a point not to be seen entering or leaving Granny's boardinghouse, and despite his haunting the border at night, he hadn't encountered the Sandlin gang. Renita became more distant, and even when Wes was there, they seldom spoke. To spare Wes the possible danger of riding in during daylight, Granny had begun feeding him breakfast before first light and supper well after dark. He had grown lean and hard, his eyes squinted from lack of sleep, and he carried his Winchester wherever he went, even to the table.

“Rub him down and feed him a double ration of grain,” Nathan said, turning his tired horse over to the hostler at the livery. “It's been a long trail. Store my saddle in your tackroom. I may not be riding for a while.”

Having been gone for so long, Nathan was a bit reluctant to just walk into Granny Boudleaux's place unannounced, but he needn't have worried. When he arrived, the old Cajun woman was sweeping the front steps.

“Nathan Stone,” she cried. “You come back!”

“Yes,” said Nathan, “I'm back. Maybe I can stay awhile this time.”

“You sneak in quiet,” Granny said. “Molly in kitchen.”

Molly was in the kitchen, but Renita Wooten was with her. The younger girl's face went white when she saw Nathan. Seeing her fear, Molly turned.

“Nathan!” Molly cried. “Nathan!”

Nathan hadn't been sure how she would receive him, and her response exceeded his wildest expectations. She threw her arms around him, laughing and weeping. Renita, who had no idea who he was, had retreated into the dining room. Granny came in, shoving Renita back into the kitchen.

“Nathan,” said Granny, “this Renita. She Wes Tremayne's woman.”

Nathan grinned at Renita, who was blushing furiously and glaring at Granny.

“A pleasure to meet you, Renita,” Nathan said. “I've been hearing about Wes. I'd like to meet him.”

“He don't come in daytime,” said Granny helpfully. “Sandlin outlaws watch for him, and in the dark he hunt for them.”

“What?” Nathan exclaimed. “He's after the Sandlin gang! Why?”

“Because he killed three of them,” said Renita, speaking for the first time. “He won't leave here. They're hunting him and he's hunting them.”

Nathan laughed. “He makes me feel like a coward. He must be some kind of man.”

“He not a man,” Granny said. “He just a boy.”

“He's as much a man as anybody in Texas, or anywhere else,” said Renita hotly.

“I won't argue with that,” Nathan said. “I left here a while ago, after killing one of the Sandlin gang. It was that or start an ongoing feud with them.”

“Wes is a strong man,” said Renita, “but he's not as smart as you. He has this feud going and he won't run out on it. They're going to kill him.”

“He sounds like he'll take a lot of killing,” Nathan said.

“You see him tonight,” said Granny.

“I'm looking forward to it,” Nathan replied.

 

Wes Tremayne rode along the river, resting at intervals, his eyes constantly on the trees and undergrowth that lined the south bank. For months he had seen nobody, and it seemed as though his vigil had become a fruitless one. Despite himself, there were times when he dozed, for he allowed himself only the hours between dusk and midnight for sleeping. He eyed the sun occasionally, as the golden disc slipped toward the western horizon. When he judged it was dark enough, he took a roundabout way to Granny's boardinghouse, riding behind it.

“You come in,” Granny said, from the darkness of the porch. “Someone wait to see you.”

Wes came in with the Winchester under his arm. In but a few weeks, he would be eighteen years old, but he looked older. When Nathan Stone stood up to greet him, he was as tall as Nathan. His eyes met Nathan's for only a moment, before dropping to the
buscadera
rig with its two matched Colts. When his eyes again met Nathan's, there was unmistakable respect in them.

“I'm Nathan Stone,” said Nathan, offering his hand.

“Wes Tremayne,” Wes replied, taking his hand. “I've heard of you.”

“And I've heard of you,” said Nathan. “You have friends in Dodge. Foster Hagerman and Harley Stafford spoke well of you.

“I'm obliged to them,” Wes said. “Bodie West, a friend of mine, told me a little about you.”

“Wes,” said Granny, “we already have supper. You eat.”

Wes was hungry and he wolfed his food, eager to continue the conversation with this newly discovered gunfighter. Nathan said nothing, waiting, and didn't speak again until Wes had finished eating.

“Now,” Nathan said, “I'd be interested in hearing about this running fight with the Sandlin gang.”

Wes played down his own role, eliminating most of the details, and it took prompting from Molly and Renita before Nathan began to get the entire story. He listened in amazement, for this young hellion had walked headlong into a situation Nathan Stone had avoided by just riding away. He half-hoped his ignominous retreat wouldn't be brought up, but it was.

“Wes,” said Granny, “you just go away like Nathan did, and the outlaws forget you.”

“I may wish I had done just that before it's over, Granny,” Wes said, “but it's time I was getting back outside.”

Nodding to Nathan, he took his Winchester and left.

Conversation lagged after that. It was Molly who made the first move. She got up, nodded to Nathan, and made her way down the hall. He soon followed, found the door to the room unlocked, and went inside. She was waiting for him, and for an hour not a word was spoken. When she finally did speak, it was the very last thing he expected.

“Nathan, the boy is the spitting image of you, and I get the feeling he's the same kind of hard-headed idealist you were twenty years ago.”

“Damn it,” Nathan said, kicking the covers off and sitting up, “what are you trying to say?”

“Ever since Wes Tremayne came here,” said Molly, “he's reminded me of someone I felt I ought to know. Granny's spoken of it too, so it's not just a fancy of my own. What can you do to fill in the missing years? Doesn't the name mean anything to you?”

Nathan sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands, thinking. When he finally spoke, his voice was so soft she barely heard him.

“St. Louis, February of 1866. Molly Tremayne ...”

“You're Wes Tremayne's father, aren't you?”

“My God,” said Nathan. “My God, it must be, but ... how was I to know ... ?”

“But he doesn't know about you,” Molly said. “Why doesn't he?”

“Because she didn't want him to know,” said Nathan. “She must have hated me ...”

“Tell me, Nathan,” Molly said. “You've been running from her all these years and now she's going to haunt you ... through him. You must talk.”

Nathan began to talk, slowly at first, but the words tumbled out, as his emotions took control. He talked for an hour, until at last he was silent, drained.

“Don't you think he should be told?” Molly asked.

“My God, no!” said Nathan. “She didn't want him knowing or she would have told him about me. I'll respect her wishes.”

“Is it that,” Molly asked softly, “or is it that you're afraid he'll hate you, if and when he knows who you are?”

“No,” said Nathan, “it would be his right to hate me, because he doesn't know all the story. I was as ignorant as a nineteen-year-old can be when I met Molly Tremayne. I'd joined the Confederacy when I was just fifteen, and I'd never been with a woman in all my life. Molly was older than me and she just took my breath away. I'd spent two nights with her before I got around to telling her why I couldn't stay ... what I had to do.”

“So she told you to go to hell, to get out and stay gone.”

“She told me that and more,” said Nathan. “But it was what she wanted, against the oath I'd taken on my father's grave.”

“So that's where Wes Tremayne gets his stubbornness,” Molly said. “That's why he's so determined to stop the Sandlin gang. He feels responsible for the three men the Sandlin gang hanged, and now he's living up to some oath he's taken unto himself.”

“I reckon he is,” said Nathan, “and now that he knows I ran away from the fight he's facing, he'll be all the more determined.”

“Maybe not if you tell him who you are,” Molly said.

“Damn it, no,” said Nathan. “If Molly Tremayne hated me that much, I reckon she's entitled to take her revenge any way she can. I don't know how you'll manage it, but you have spent more time with Granny than I have. Before she figures out who Wes is, shut her mouth, will you?”

“I'll try,” Molly said, “but it won't be easy.”

“Have you heard about King Fisher?” Nathan asked. “He's dead.”

“Far as I'm concerned,” she replied, “he was dead the day I walked out on him.”

Struck by the coldness in her voice, Nathan said no more, and it was Molly who broke the prolonged silence.

“Nathan?”

“What is it?”

“Molly Tremayne,” she said. “Was the first Molly anything ... like me?”

“Not really,” said Nathan. “She was beautiful, just as you're beautiful. At the risk of soundin' like a damn fool, I'd have to say the first Molly took advantage and had her way with me.”

Molly laughed. “That does sound strange, coming from you. The woman's supposed to say that.”

“Oh, hell,” said Nathan, “that didn't come out like I meant for it to. Have you ever wanted something so much, had your mind made up as to how it would be, that you hated the person who didn't live up to your dream?”

“Of course I have,” she said. “That's how I felt about you when you rode away to avoid the Sandlin gang. But it wasn't just the Sandlin gang, was it? You were a rolling stone, and you weren't quite ready for a clinging vine.”