The Killing Season (22 page)

Reaching a rise from which he could see the drama, Nathan dismounted, resting his lathered horse. Even from a distance he could hear the terrified cries of the vigilantes. Making no attempt to fight, virtually falling over one another, they wheeled their horses and rode for their lives. Nathan rode ahead to his packhorse. From there, he continued north until he was well past the Comanche camp. He then rode east until he found a suitable camp for the night.

Far to the west, Jubal Wells and his vigilantes were trying to evade the Comanches. Wells, Puckett, Odell, Byler, Connolly, Warnell, and Kendrick had escaped, but only because of the darkness.

“My God,” said Ike Puckett, “there must of been fifty of the varmints. I wonder if the rest of the boys got away.”

“You know they didn't,” Kendrick replied. “Hell, they was ahead of us, and they're the reason we got away.”

“We ain't got away yet,” said Jubal. “If they're Comanches, they may be right here at first light, beatin' the bushes and lookin' for us.”

Come first light, Jubal Wells and six nervous companions looked warily around before leaving the brush in which they had concealed themselves.

“Trouble with Comanches,” Warnell said, “the varmints don't give up easy. Lose 'em, and they're likely to slope around for three days, huntin' you.”

“We got more to worry about than our hides,” said Wells. “Them three packhorses are loaded with all our supplies, and we're two weeks out of El Paso. Old man Stewart will have us drawn and quartered if we ride in with nothin' to show for all the money he's got tied up in this.”

“God, yes,” Levi Odell said. “We can't go back to El Paso empty-handed, and without grub and supplies, we can't go on. Either way, we're in a hell of a mess.”

“We can't set here in this thicket,” said Kendrick. “At least, we got our horses. Let's ride out and look for the packhorses.”

The first thing they found were the scalped and mutilated bodies of their companions. All eight had been stripped of everything, including their boots.

“Lord, God,” Warnell said, “I hope they wasn't alive when them varmints done this.”

They rode on, anxious to be away from the grisly scene. “We'll ride south,” said Jubal. “Them packhorses was bein' led by Mayberry, Gruhn, and Paschal, and when they was hit, it would of spooked the horses. We rode north, and I don't remember seein' 'em ahead of us.”

“I reckon it'll depend on whether them Comanches rode out last night,” Ike Puckett said. “They couldn't see them horses in the dark.”

To their surprise, they found two of the horses almost ten miles south of where they had been attacked by the Comanches.

“Damn,” said Levi, “they would find the one with the whiskey.”

“I'm glad they did,” Jubal said. “Maybe they'll stay drunk enough, long enough for us to leave 'em behind. A man can't live without grub, but he can do without whiskey.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Levi sourly.

 

Nathan arose at first light, and with the Comanches in mind, decided against a breakfast fire. He and Cotton Blossom shared some jerked beef and they took the trail. Nathan believed they had come more than five hundred miles. Unless he rode far south, to one of the border towns, San Antonio would be the closest. He was unsure as to how many of his pursuers the Comanches had accounted for, but he suspected he would still be outnumbered considerably. On the plains, they might eventually surround him, but in town, they would hardly attempt it. He could take them individually, or even two at a time, but not all of them at once.

 

“He's bound for somewhere,” Jubal said, at the start of the thirteenth day, “and it'll be harder for us to gun him down where there's law.”

“Yeah,” said Ike. “Remember when we was goin' through his pack? That telegram was about a ranger friend of his. Hell, if he's friends with the rangers, we could all get shot down or strung up.”

“I'm considerin' that,” Jubal said. “There's bound to be rangers in Austin, and maybe in San Antonio. We got to salt him down before he gets there. There's nothin' much but cactus and sagebrush. I say we flank him to the north and south and cut him down in a crossfire while he's out here in the open.”

“That makes sense,” said Byler. “We ain't gettin' nowhere trailin' along behind him. He always knows where we are. If we're closin' in on two sides, he can't stand us all off.”

“Byler,” Jubal said, “you, Kendrick, Warnell, and Connolly flank him to the north. Ike, Levi, and me will cover him from the south. Stay just out of rifle range, worryin' him for a while. When we find an open stretch, where he don't have a shred of cover, we'll all move in and close the door on the varmint.”

Nathan soon discovered what his pursuers had in mind. Surveying his back trail, he could see two rising clouds of dust, one to the north and another to the south. They had split their forces, planning to box him in on the open plains ahead. He had no way of knowing how far he was from the nearest town, where he had a chance to take a stand. As far as he could see, there wasn't enough cover to hide a prairie dog. His only advantage was that when they got within range with their Winchesters, they were within range of his, but he couldn't properly defend himself from two attacking forces, even if he had cover. He rode desperately on, only too well aware that his grulla and the packhorse couldn't maintain such a gait for more than a few miles. He had but one chance, and that was to swing due south. There were the border towns of Del Rio and Eagle Pass, but even they might be too distant. That left him only the brush and
barrancas
⁹
to the south of the Rio Grande. If he made it that far. One immediate advantage of his change in direction was that the riders attempting to flank him to the north lost their quarry. Eventually they might flank him to the east, but only by hard riding, which would exhaust their horses. He still had the riders who had been flanking him to the south, and all they had to do was keep coming because they had seen and understood his move. Slugs began kicking up dust to his right, but soon they would be within range. Another more serious problem arose when the grulla slammed a hind leg deep into a hole. The animal came to a dead stop, pitching Nathan from the saddle. There was no time to see to the grulla, to see if the horse had been lamed or its leg broken. Nathan got to his feet and snatched the Winchester from its saddle boot, leaving the spooked packhorse to shift for itself. Nathan wasn't sure where Cotton Blossom was, but the dog couldn't help him. Slugs sang over his head as he sought cover, and one found its mark, tearing into his back, above the left shoulder blade. Going to his knees, Nathan stumbled to his feet in time to take a second slug above his left knee. There was no cover, no protection, so he bellied-down and began returning the fire. He had the satisfaction of seeing two of his attackers tumble from their saddles, and that had a profound effect on the third rider, Jubal Wells. He dropped back out of range, but the riders who had been flanking Nathan to the north had circled and were now coming at him from the east. Nathan dared not focus his attention on them because Wells would have a clear shot at him. But the four riders had barely begun to fire, when a deadly rifle cut loose somewhere beyond them. Three of them were shot out of their saddles, driving the fourth man straight toward Nathan, who cut him down with a single shot. Suddenly there was silence, all the more profound without the thunder of Winchesters.

 

Jubal Wells watched helplessly as the distant rifleman killed Kendrick, Connolly, and Warnell, and ground his teeth as Byler rode headlong into Nathan Stone's fire.

“Damn you, Stone,” Wells said aloud. “Today you drawed all the high cards, but I owe you, and I pay my debts.”

 

Not believing his good fortune, Nathan waited, his Winchester ready. A single horseman approached from the east, his Winchester across his saddle. Still out of rifle range, he reined up and shouted a greeting.

“You out there! Are you alive?”

“Mostly,” Nathan replied, “thanks to you. I'm friendly most of the time.”

The rider laughed and kicked his bay into a trot. When he dismounted, Nathan could scarcely believe his eyes. The man was young, slender, and well over six feet. His hair was dark, as was his sweeping mustache. His trousers were dark brown, matching his frock coat, beneath which was a red vest with gold brocade. His fancy red tie accented the flowing red sash that circled his lean waist. He carried a pearl-handled Colt on each hip, and the weapons were thonged-down low. Before conversing any further with Nathan, he went to the grulla, and back-stepping the horse, extracted the hind leg from the hole.

“That leg will be a mite sore for a day or two,” said the stranger. “He's a smart one, comin' up short when his leg was caught. Many a jughead would have busted the leg. How bad are you hit?”

“Shoulder and thigh,” Nathan replied. “I've been hit there before, but it never gets any easier. I'm Nathan Stone.”

“I'm John Fisher. My friends—the few that claim me—call me King. I have a range, about ten miles from here, near Eagle Pass. I also have an old
Mejicano
housekeeper who's good with bullet wounds. You need some patching up, my friend.”

“I'd be obliged,” said Nathan.

Fisher brought Nathan's horse, and with some difficulty, he mounted. As they rode south, Fisher caught up Nathan's packhorse. For a while they rode in silence, and it was Fisher who eventually spoke.

“Seems I've heard of you. Maybe from Ben Thompson.”

“I know Ben,” said Nathan. “I met him across the border, and we barely made it back to Texas, Mexicans shooting at us every jump.”

Fisher laughed. “By God, you do know the little varmint. I see him maybe twice a year, usually after he's been cut or shot up and lookin' for a place to heal. We killed all of last night in a poker game in a Uvalde saloon. I tried to get Thompson to come to the ranch for a couple of days, but he wanted to ride to Austin. God only knows why. He has no friends there.”

“Last time I saw him,” said Nathan, “he was dealing monte in a saloon in Ellsworth, Kansas. There was gun trouble, thanks to his brother, Billy.”

“He's a damn little fool that can't hold his whiskey,” Fisher said. “He's not welcome at my place. Someday, when Ben's not around to save his worthless hide, somebody will fill the little sidewinder full of lead. I'd have done it myself, if he wasn't Ben's brother.”

Despite his hurts, Nathan laughed.

When they reached a crossroads, a sign caught Nathan's eye. It said THIS IS KING FISHER'S ROAD. TAKE THE OTHER ONE. When they reached Fisher's ranch, a long slab of pine hung above the gate, and burned into it was the name, PENDENCIA. Next to it was the distinctive outline of a crown. The ranch house was of adobe, long and low.

“We'll go in and get Shaniqua started patching you up,” said Fisher, “and I'll see to your horses. Can you manage?”

“Yes,” Nathan replied, “but I'll be slow.”

Fisher held the door open while Nathan limped inside. Shaniqua looked more Indian than Mexican, and without a word, she led them to a bedroom. Quickly she spread a thick blanket over the covers and pointed to the bed. Gratefully, Nathan sank down on it.

“See to his wounds, Shaniqua,” Fisher said. With that, he was gone.

Shaniqua said nothing, but began unbuttoning Nathan's trousers. He didn't resist, and helped by unbuttoning his shirt. Thankfully, the slugs had gone on through, and it took but a few minutes for Shaniqua to cleanse the wounds with hot water and apply a fiery disinfectant. She then soaked thick cloth pads with more of the disinfectant, binding a pad tight against the entry and exit wounds.

“Gracias, señora,”
Nathan said.

Shaniqua nodded and said nothing. She covered Nathan with another blanket and left the room. He was half asleep when King Fisher returned.

“After supper,” said Fisher, “Shaniqua will load you down with laudanum, so you can sleep. She'll look in on you during the night. You'll likely be running a fever before morning, and I keep a couple jugs of firewater for that purpose.”

“You purely know how to welcome a shot-up hombre,” Nathan said.

“You know how it is,” said Fisher. “Friends come and go, while enemies accumulate. I've ridden in here pretty well shot-up, myself.”

Shaniqua brought the laudanum after supper, and Nathan slept until noon the next day, with only vague recollections of having been given doses of whiskey during the night. Nathan was sweating, had a ravenous thirst, and his head thumped with the remnants of a hangover. Almost immediately, Shaniqua arrived with a breakfast tray that included a pot of scalding black coffee and a pitcher of cold water. King Fisher came in, himself with a cup of coffee, and straddled a ladder-back chair.

“I can't think of a single good quality in whiskey,” Nathan said, “except that it makes cold water and hot coffee taste almighty good.”

Fisher laughed. “Now dig into the eggs and ham, give it a few days, and you'll be up and around.”