The Dawn of Fury (47 page)

“That finished him, Driggers. There's his saddle an' saddlebags. Let's have a look.”

“Like hell, Gadner,” said a young voice. “Daddy told me to take charge of those saddlebags. I'll get them.” He stepped forward.

“You're about to get more than you bargained for, kid,” said Gadner. He cocked his Colt and shot Hugh Rankin in the back.

Nathan's shot sounded like an echo of Gadner's, and the slug slammed the gunman backwards into the brush. Driggers got off one quick shot, sufficient to mark his position with a muzzle flash, and Nathan shot him. Nathan waited, lest one of the three be playing possum, but there was no sign of life. Nathan crossed the creek, gathered up his blankets, saddle, and saddlebags, and made his way to his grazing horses. Quickly he saddled the black, loaded his pack horse, and rode south.

Nathan found Ranger headquarters, and Captain Jennings was one of the two Rangers on duty. Quickly Nathan reported the killings by Longley and McKowen.

“I'll have word sent north to every outpost with the telegraph,” Jennings said, “but I doubt it'll do much good. They'll expect that. One of these days, unless somebody shoots him first, Longley will get his neck stretched.”

“Any more word on Virg Dillard?” Nathan asked. “No,” said Jennings, “but that bunch of renegades he's been running with is still raising hell in north Texas. You'll find them somewhere in Indian Territory or likely southern Kansas. Or worse, they'll find you. I hope this Virg Dillard is worth what it's likely to cost you, finding him. Ride careful, my friend.”

Nathan rode across the Red, and with sundown just minutes away, began looking for a spring or creek where he might spend the night. Cotton Blossom was somewhere ahead, exploring these new surroundings. Nathan rode eastward along the river until he found a stream that emptied into it. The stream was the runoff from a spring, and there were numerous remains of old fires. There were bits of paper, rusted tins, and a faded paper tag from a sack of Durham. White men. Beyond the spring, half buried in leaves, a white object caught Nathan's eye. It was a human skull, its sightless eye sockets fixed grimly on the darkening sky. Had it belonged to one of the renegades who had come to a predictably bad end, or to one of their hapless victims? Nathan gathered dry wood, and using a stump hole for a fire pit, cooked supper for himself and Cotton Blossom.

“Cotton Blossom,” Nathan said, “I'm counting on your ears. I'm turning in for the night.”

Nathan lay awake listening to the horses cropping grass. He wasn't sure how long he'd been asleep when he suddenly awakened, uncertain as to what had roused him. There wasn't a sound. And then it hit him. The horses no longer cropped grass! Nathan rolled to his left, coming up with his right-hand Colt cocked and ready. The night erupted with gunfire, lead slapping into the blankets where Nathan had slept only seconds before. Nathan's Colt roared once, twice, three times, as he fired at muzzle flashes. A horse nickered, Cotton Blossom snarled, and there was an agonized scream. Cotton Blossom had made his presence felt. Then it ended. Again there was the reassuring sound of the horses cropping grass. The attack, for whatever purpose, hadn't succeeded. Nathan began searching in the direction from which the shots had come. He hadn't expected his hurried return fire to have found a target, but in the dim starlight he could see a body lying face down. He dared not strike a light, for there had been two bushwhackers. Had it not been for Cotton Blossom's timely attack, Nathan might have been caught in a deadly cross fire. There was a slight sound and he turned, his Colt ready, but it was only Cotton Blossom returning.

“Thanks, pard,” Nathan said, fondling the dog's ears. “Without you, I'd be a dead man.”

The suddeness of the attempted ambush had shaken him, and Nathan slept poorly. With the first gray light of dawn he was on his feet. The dead man was maybe thirty years old and dressed like a cowboy. His pistol lay beside him, while his holster was tied down on his right hip for a cross-hand draw. A left-hand cross-hand draw! In the man's pocket there was a knife and two double eagles. Fifty yards distant, Nathan found where Cotton Blossom had surprised the second of the two bushwhackers. On a rock outcropping there were brown stains, evidence that Cotton Blossom had drawn blood. Almost a mile away, Nathan found where the horses had been tied. The survivor had ridden away, leading the dead man's horse, leaving a trail that Nathan could follow at a fast gallop. After a hurried breakfast, with Cotton Blossom trotting ahead, Nathan rode in pursuit. He reined up after crossing a small creek. Here his quarry had paused to cleanse his wound, leaving behind a bloodied bandanna. Nathan rode on, stopping occasionally to rest the horses. He had ridden not more than ten miles when Cotton Blossom came loping back to meet him. Now
this
was an unusual occurrence. Cotton Blossom rarely doubled back, unless summoned. He hadn't even returned when Nathan had stopped to rest the horses, for the pause had clearly been temporary. His return made it clear Nathan should not continue following the obvious trail. Nathan tied the packhorse's lead rope to a low-hanging pine branch. He then rode away at a right angle, east, for a few hundred yards. Then he resumed a northerly direction, Cotton Blossom bounding ahead of him. Far ahead, Nathan could see a rock- and tree-studded rise.

“If this varmint aims to hole up, Cotton Blossom, that's a likely place,” Nathan said.

He dismounted, tied his horse to a shrub, and continued on foot. He dared not ride any closer, lest his horse nicker and betray his presence. Cotton Blossom had gone on ahead. Now he looked back, assured himself that Nathan was following, and trotted on. He would know where the bushwhacker was hiding, and experience had taught him not to take the obvious approach. Nathan watched Cotton Blossom, taking his direction from the dog. It soon became obvious he was being led around the rocky, brush-shrouded ridge. Reaching the far side, still following Cotton Blossom, he cautiously made his way through concealing brush until he could see two picketed horses. That should put him somewhere behind the bushwhacker, he concluded, and he silently thanked the ever-observant Cotton Blossom. The bushwhacker's position was an elevated one, and he could have fired straight ahead or to either side with ease, had Nathan not ridden beyond his field of vision. Nathan crept on until he could see the black crown of a hat beyond some brush. He drew his left-hand Colt and shot off a branch just above the hat.

“Come out of there with your hands over your head,” he shouted, “or the next shot will be a mite lower.”

Slowly a head appeared above the brush, and finally, two hands.”

“Come on,” Nathan said impatiently, “move.”

The rider wasn't much over five feet, if that. Above the left knee, the leg of his Levi's was in tatters, revealing a once-white, now bloody, bandage.

“I'm tired of skunk-striped bushwhackers,” said Nathan angrily. “I ought to stomp hell out of you and then hang you upside down over a slow fire.”

“Then come on, damn you, if you're man enough.”

“I'm man enough,” Nathan said. He strode forward, seizing the front of the faded shirt. In the resulting struggle, his adversary's hat was flung aside, and Nathan froze. This renegade was not a man, but a hard-eyed, long-haired, hell-cat of a female!

While she lacked the strength of a man, she had the element of surprise, and she used it to her advantage. She threw a hard right that caught Nathan full on the nose. A bloody, blinding blow, that for a few seconds clouded his vision. Anticipating her next move, he grabbed the front of her shirt, hauling her up short just in time to save himself from a boot in the groin. But she was quick, using their proximity to one another to snatch his left-hand Colt from its holster. Nathan caught her right wrist in his left hand, forcing her to drop the revolver, and again she drove a boot toward his groin. He caught her right foot with his right hand, and with a firm grip on wrist and foot, he swept her off the ground, slamming her down flat on her back. Her head struck hard and she went limp. Nathan rolled her over, and using his bandanna, tied her hands behind her back. She now had a bloody gash on the back of her head where it had struck the edge of a stone. Retrieving his dropped Colt, Nathan spoke.

“Now, by God, what in tarnation am I goin' to do with you?”

“Turn me over,” came the muffled reply. “I can't breathe.”

“I'm tempted to leave you on your belly,” Nathan growled, wiping his still-bleeding nose on his shirtsleeve. “Anything to water down your snake-mean disposition.”

Finally, after much wriggling, he took pity on her, rolled her over and allowed her to lean against a stunted oak.

“Why don't you drag off my Levis' and tie my ankles?” she shouted. “You won't ever get a chance like this again.”

“You have the body of a woman,” said Nathan grimly, “but you got slickered out of everything that goes with it.”

Nathan endured a round of swearing that would have put a bullwhacker to shame. Behind her, avoiding her booted feet, he took hold of her shoulders and helped her to stand. For all her hostility, she would have fallen without his support.

“Your wounds need tending,” Nathan said, “but I'll need water. I'll help you to your horse and then I'll get my packhorse. I have medicine.”

“It was your damn dog near chewed my leg off,” she said accusingly.

“You're lucky he didn't chew on you some more, while you were kicking and clawing at me,” said Nathan. “He don't take kindly to me bein' gunned down by some low-down, no-account bushwhacker.”

“That wasn't my idea,” she said, refusing to look at him.

“Maybe not,” said Nathan, “but you were all set to help cut me down in a crossfire if Cotton Blossom hadn't changed your mind.”

She had nothing more to say. When they reached her two picketed horses, Nathan examined them critically. One was a roan, the other a bay.

“We don't need two horses,” Nathan said. “Which do you want?”

“The bay. He's mine.”

Nathan unsaddled the roan, and the animal looked questioningly at him. After helping the girl mount the bay, he led the horse toward the place he had left his black. There was a nicker, and when he looked back, the roan was following.

“Loose my hands,” the girl begged.

“I would,” Nathan replied, “but for some reason, I don't trust you. When we reach water and I've seen to your wounds, then I'll turn you loose.”

Nathan mounted his black, and leading the bay, rode back and reclaimed his packhorse. With Cotton Blossom ranging ahead, and Nathan with two horses on lead ropes, they rounded the hill and headed north. The water, when they reached it, was a spring concealed by willows. It was better than Nathan had expected, for the dense foliage would dissipate smoke, lessening the danger of a fire. After helping the girl to dismount, Nathan unsaddled all three horses, allowing them to roll.

“Now,” said Nathan to the still-bound girl, “if I turn you loose, can you resist clawing out my eyes while I see to your wounds?”

“I won't fight you,” she said. “My leg hurts like hell.”

“You could lose it,” said Nathan, “if it gets infected.” Nathan untied her hands and she meekly did as he told her, stretching out on her back, her head on her saddle. Nathan started a small fire and put some water on to boil. From his pack he took yard-long lengths of white muslin for bandages, a quart of whiskey, and bottles of laudanum and disinfectant. These he spread on a folded blanket, and when the water began to boil, he brought the pot.

“I'll have to cut away the leg of your Levi's,” he said.