The Killing Season (20 page)

“Get settled in,” Nathan told them. “I'll see to our horses.”

When Nathan returned from the livery, it was near suppertime, and he found all the inhabitants of Granny's place in the dining room, except for Myra and Ellie. They, Nathan learned, were in the kitchen, helping Granny bring food to the table. Nathan said nothing, and when the meal was over, Myra and Ellie returned to the kitchen. An hour later, when they returned to their rooms, Nathan was waiting for them.

“Damn it, we're paying for rooms and grub. You don't have to work in the kitchen.”

“She didn't ask us to work in the kitchen,” Myra said. “We offered to help. Nathan, that poor woman has no help. She's taking care of all this by herself.”

Myra Haight had a sympathetic ear, and she soon learned that Granny Boudleaux was facing a problem that seemed insurmountable.

“She owes the bank twelve hundred dollars,” said Myra, “and she can't pay. The bank is threatening to take this place away from her.”

“Maybe not,” Nathan said, an idea taking shape. “Suppose you put up the twelve hundred and buy a half interest?”

“I don't have twelve hundred.”

“I do,” said Nathan.

“Maybe you didn't hear. I said
I
don't have twelve hundred dollars.”

“I heard you,” Nathan said. “Damn it, I'm lending you the money.”

“Suppose I can't repay it?”

“Then I reckon I'll have to spend as many nights as I can in El Paso, taking it out in trade.”

“A dollar for the room and two dollars for me,” she said. “That'll be four hundred nights.”

“Damn it,” he said, irritated, “I didn't mean it that way.”

“I know you didn't,” she replied. “Business is business, and this is my idea. You don't owe me anything, Nathan Stone, and I won't take your money to ease your guilt.”

“Then by God,” he said, “if I can't lend you money without you becoming a whore to repay it, I'll withdraw the offer. If money does that to you, I like you better when you're broke. I'll learn to live with my guilt.”

She laughed, but when she placed her hands on his shoulders, there were tears in her eyes. “You're doing this because you're going to ride away. That's what hurts.”

“Not for a while,” he said, “and if I do, I'll be back. Take the money, damn it.”

“I must talk to Granny Boudleaux. She has until December thirty-first. Then the bank will foreclose.”

Two days after Christmas the papers were drawn up, and Myra Haight officially had half ownership of Hacienda Grande. It was a move Nathan never regretted, for on the first day of the new year, his troublesome past caught up with him, and he was again forced to resort to the deadly Colts....

Nathan had time on his hands, and not being a drinking man, he began visiting various saloons and gambling. El Paso drew men from both sides of the border, most of them of a caliber that suggested they could be hanged on either side of the river. One of these was a Mexican of some status, Manuelito Birdsong. He was armed with a temper of considerable proportions, a Bowie knife, and a .31-caliber Colt pocket pistol. The game, draw poker, had been in progress less than an hour in the Star Saloon, and Nathan watched as the Mexican was again about to deal the cards.

“This time,” Nathan said, “deal all mine off the top.”

Birdsong shifted a cigar to the other side of his mouth and regarded Nathan coldly before he spoke.

“You are implying that I cheat, señor?”

“I'm not implying,” said Nathan. “I'm accusing. You dealt my last card off the bottom of the deck. I allow a man one mistake, and you've made yours.”

Men scrambled to get away from the table, but there was no gunplay. Birdsong's hand froze on the butt of his Colt, for Nathan already had him covered.

“I think,” Nathan said, “for the sake of your continued good health, you'd better be on your way. The next time you draw on me, I'll kill you.”

Birdsong got up and left the saloon without a word, but the hate in his eyes warned Nathan that the fiery little gambler wouldn't forget.

“You'd better watch your back, friend,” said the barkeep. “That little sidewinder's poison mean.”

Nathan left the saloon, the incident having soured him, but a seed had been planted. A pair of men—Pike and Bodie—had once worked for the Kansas-Pacific Railroad.

“By God,” Pike said, after Nathan had gone, “that's Nathan Stone. He's deadly with a Colt, just forked lightning with either hand.”

“Yeah,” said Bodie, “and he's done some fancy shootin' since then. There was the gal from Missouri that wanted him dead for killin' her brother. She hired a pair of fast guns and they went after Stone with a three-way ambush. He shot his way out, killed one of the hired guns, and sent the other—along with the girl—to the Missouri state pen.”

Thus the legend of Nathan Stone grew, and so did the number of men who wished to gain a reputation by beating his fast draw....

Artemus Stewart had built himself a financial empire in El Paso, having founded the bank of which he was now president. He had fond expectations of Arlie, his only son, taking the reins when old age forced Artemus to step down. But Arlie, just twenty-two, had a passion for women, whiskey, and cards. He carried a tied-down Colt on his right hip and had gained a reputation of sorts, not for his skill with a gun, but because of the power his father wielded. It was an open secret that Artemus Stewart could make or break any man in El Paso County. There were benefits, being the son of the town's wealthiest citizen, and Arlie Stewart took full advantage of them. He soon forgot that men shied clear of him, not because they feared his gun, but because they feared his father. The sun was noon-high on the first day of the new year, when Arlie Stewart and three of his friends found Nathan Stone in the Arcade Saloon, playing poker. Arlie tipped back his hat, approached the table, and issued a challenge.

“Stone, I hear you're quick with a gun. Well, I think I'm faster, and I'm callin' you out. I'll be waitin'.”

“You'll have a long wait,” Nathan said quietly. “Killing isn't a game, boy. Go home.”

“By God,” Arlie bawled, “I'm not a boy, I'm a man, which is more than can be said for you.”

Lowell Stark, the county sheriff, had entered the saloon in time to hear Arlie Stewart make his brash statement, and he issued a warning.

“Arlie, I'm the sheriff, and I can lock you up.”

“You can,” said Arlie arrogantly, “but then you won't be sheriff no more. I'll have your badge, and you won't find work in this town forkin' horse apples.”

There was some nervous laughter that quickly faded. Sheriff Lowell Stark had proven himself, but Arlie Stewart's threat was real enough. Stark said no more, but he could see what Arlie apparently could not. This Nathan Stone wasn't a man to talk down to, not by a wet-behind-the-ears kid like Arlie Stewart. Stone got to his feet, his eyes cold, and when he spoke, his voice was brittle, deadly.

“Boy, you've got one more chance to turn around and walk out of here alive. I have no reason to kill you, unless you go for that gun.”

Men fought one another to get out of the line of fire. A chill wind swept through the saloon's batwing doors, but there were beads of sweat on Arlie Stewart's brow. He cut his eyes to right and left, but he was alone. There was a sinking feeling in his gut, for he must back up his brag or be forever branded a coward. He made his play, elated as his hand reached the butt of his Colt, for Stone hadn't moved. Arlie had cleared leather and was raising the weapon, when a single shot shattered the stillness. He was flung back into a chair, his Colt clattering on the floor. Wonderingly, he stared into the deadly muzzle of Nathan Stone's Colt, as smoke still curled from it. Finally, his eyes met Nathan's, and he saw compassion there. He died, then, with the realization he was a fool. Nathan Stone had not wanted to kill him....

There was chaos in the saloon. Nathan thumbed a shell into his Colt, holstered it, and approached the sheriff.

“You saw it, Sheriff. He left me no choice. Are there any charges?”

“Not as far as I'm concerned,” said Stark, “but in case you don't know, his daddy's the tall dog in the brass collar in EI Paso. The kid never got into anything his pa couldn't get him out of. Until now. God only knows what the old man's likely to do. Unless you've got business here, you'd do well to ride on.”

“Damn it,” Nathan said, “he drew first. Every man in here saw it.”

“And every man in here's afraid to cross old Artemus Stewart,” the sheriff replied.

“That includes you, I reckon,” said Nathan.

“It does not,” Stark said. “I'll side you, if it costs me this badge, but old Artemus is a tyrant. He'll ignore anything I say, and with his money, he could have hired enough men to have whipped the Mexican army.”

Sheriff Stark knew he wouldn't have to break the news of the shooting. Artemus Stewart would already know. Stark wanted to know what the old man planned in the way of retaliation, and hopefully, talk him out of it. With a sigh, he knocked on the door of Stewart's office, and was bid enter. It was even worse than he had expected.

“Damn you,” Stewart bawled, “a drifter kills my boy and you let him walk away. Why is he not in jail?”

“I can't jail a man for defending himself,” said Stark quietly. “Arlie forced the fight. He had a chance to back off, and he didn't. I tried to talk sense to him, and he wouldn't have it. He asked for what he got.”

“By God,” Stewart growled. “I'll see that you get yours.”

“If you're referring to this badge,” said Stark, dropping it on the desk, “I'm returning it, and you know where you can stick it. I'm through bein' froggie, jumpin' every time you stomp your foot.”

Stepping out, he closed the door, but he could still hear Artemus Stewart shouting as he left the bank and mounted his horse. Stark rode back to the Arcade Saloon, but there was no sign of Nathan Stone. Men looked at him curiously since he no longer wore the sheriffs badge, but nobody questioned him, for they knew.

Artemus Stewart wasted no time. The three men he had sent for stood before him and listened as he told them what he wanted done.

“I want you to raise a posse,” said Stewart. “I'm paying ten dollars a day, per man, plus shells and grub. I want Nathan Stone dead, and the man bringing me proof that he is, gets a thousand dollars. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” Jubal Wells said. “Me, Ike, Levi, and how many more?”

“A dozen, if you can find them,” said Stewart, “and by God, I want him. I don't care if you have to follow him to the ocean in either direction, or Canada to the north.”

“Well, now,” Ike said, after the trio had left Stewart's office, “that do make it some better, fifteen of us after Stone's hide. Bein' as how we're headin' the posse, we ought to have first grab at Stone's belongings, after he's been shot dead.”

“That's how I see it,” said Jubal Wells. “We'll let the others fight over the bounty on him, while we snag the gold in his pack.”

“Hell, we're gittin' paid by the day,” Levi said. “After we catch up to Stone and cash in his chips, let's find us a town with a saloon and a whorehouse and hole up for another two or three weeks. We can tell old Artemus we had to chase Stone all the way to Atlanta, and he won't never know the difference.”

The three of them laughed, savoring the humor, as they began making the rounds of the saloons, seeking men for their posse.

 

Nathan rode back to Granny Boudleaux's boardinghouse. It had become virtually impossible to talk to Myra without Granny listening, so Nathan spoke to them all, Jamie and Ellie included.

“The sheriff advised me to ride on,” Nathan said, “and the more I think about it, the more sensible it seems.”

“The one you shoot don't be near as bad as his daddy,” said Granny Boudleaux. “If you ride back to town and shoot that old hellion, your troubles be over.”

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Nathan laughed.

“You don't know what the mood is in town,” Myra said. “Let Jamie ride in and find out. You were justified in defending yourself. Maybe the sheriff can talk some sense into this Artemus Stewart.”

“Nobody talk sense to him,” Granny predicted. “Nobody.”

When Jamie returned, they all listened in glum silence.

“The sheriff quit,” said Jamie, “and old Mister Stewart's hiring a posse to kill Nathan. He's paying ten dollars a day, per man, with a thousand dollars to the man that does the killing. And just who do you reckon is hirin' and leadin' this bunch of killers?”

Nobody said anything, as they digested the brutal facts, and Jamie continued.

“Jubal Wells, Ike Puckett, and Levi Odell, that's who. I didn't see 'em, but everybody was talkin' about it.”

“That tells me what I needed to know,” Nathan said. “No law standing in Stewart's way, and he's got the money to pay a pack of killers to trail me from here to yonder. I'd better saddle up and ride, getting as much of a start as I can.”

“But where will you go?” Myra asked.

“San Antonio,” said Nathan, “but I don't aim to spend all my time running. I'll set up a few ambushes as I go, and even the odds some.”

“Oh, I hate this!” Myra cried. “You will come back, won't you?”