The Killing Season (37 page)

“Take the ax and find a tree of the proper size,” he ordered.

“But there are no trees,” said one of the men, observing the flat Kansas plain.

“Then ride until there is one,” Gonzolos roared.

It was already late afternoon, and the four rode west, along the Cimarron.

The sun was low on the western horizon when the four men returned to the wagon. Behind his horse, on a rope, one of the outlaws dragged a length of cedar. Gonzolos gave it a critical look. It would have to do. But there was another problem. There was no jack in either of the wagons.

“Gather large, flat stones,” Gonzolos ordered. “We will have to lift the wagon and lay them underneath it, while the axle is replaced.”

Several of the men were attempting to create a new axle from the cedar log, and doing a poor job of it, for all they had was the one ax. The others were gathering stones, many of which could not be used because they weren't flat enough. Finally Gonzolos judged they had enough stones.

“Come,” said the outlaw leader, “let us raise the wagon. Bring the log.”

But try as they might, using the would-be axle as a pry pole, they were unable to life the heavy wagon.

“It must be unloaded,” Gonzolos said, to the groans of his companions.

Wearily, they set about unloading the heavy canvas bags, passing them from one man to another. They dropped one of the bags and a seam broke.

“Madre de Dios,”
one of the outlaws shouted, “sand!”

Gonzolos grabbed the ax and slashed every bag within reach, furious beyond words as sand spilled from each of them. He stalked to the second wagon, slammed down the tailgate, and began slashing bags. There was more sand. The outlaws stared at it, cursing.

“We have no further need of the wagons,” Gonzolos said venomously. “Señor Shanklin will soon be coming for what is due him. I think we will wait here beside the river and see that he gets it.”

The two wagons reached the terminal without incident, and the shipment was loaded directly into the baggage car that would be coupled onto the next morning's eastbound. The dispatcher's office would remain open all night, Nathan was told, and guards would be near the car at all times. Nathan and his hired driver returned the rented wagons and the teams to the wagon yard, and Nathan returned to the terminal. He would remain there until it was time to board the eastbound the next morning.

To the north of the Gonzolos camp, there came the distant moan of a locomotive whistle, as the eastbound steamed across the Kansas plains on its way to Kansas City. On board was Nathan Stone and a treasure in silver. As the whistle faded away to silence, Clell Shanklin and Elsa had sighted the wagons on the bank of the Cimarron.

“Come on,” Shanklin shouted, kicking his horse into a gallop.

The outlaws watched in silence as Shanklin and Elsa forded the river. Shanklin swung down from his saddle and froze, for the ground was littered with mutilated canvas bags, all spilling out sand. Two of the outlaws seized Shanklin's arms. Gonzolos withdrew the deadly Bowie and approached the struggling, screaming Shanklin. One of the outlaws caught Elsa's horse, and she watched in horror as Gonzolos went to work on Shanklin.

“Do not harm the woman,” Gonzolos said. “We will have use for her tonight.”

Elsa put her hands over her ears, but she could still hear the terrified screams of Clell Shanklin....

In Foster Hagerman's office to discuss the next silver shipment from Pueblo, Nathan was surprised when the railroad man handed him a letter of commendation from the mine owners. He—along with the AT and SF Railroad—had been praised for securing shipments from train robbers, and assured of continued business.

“That was sheer genius,” Hagerman said, “sandbagging those outlaws with a shipment on the Kansas-Pacific, while taking the real shipment from Pueblo. The mines have learned a valuable lesson. They're buying their own wagons and hiring their own guards. The next shipment will leave Pueblo November ninth.”

“I hated doing that to the Kansas-Pacific,” said Nathan, “but there was no other way to prove to the mining people that Shanklin was selling them out.”

“No harm was done,” Hagerman said. “The Kansas-Pacific has been told what we did and our reason for it. They were in no way liable for a stolen shipment.”

Nathan hadn't spoken to Sheriff Harrington recently, so he stopped by the office and found Harrington needing to talk to him.

“I just returned from Fort Dodge,” said Harrington. “The commanding officer wanted me to talk to a Lieutenant McCoy, who just returned from a patrol to the south of here, along the Cimarron. McCoy and his men saw buzzards circling somewhere to the west of them and decided to investigate. They found what was left of a man and a woman and two abandoned wagons. The wagons had been loaded with bags filled with sand. Some of the bags had been cut open, and all of them bore the names of Colorado silver mines. Since you're working with the railroad, I reckoned this might mean something to you.”

“It does,” Nathan said, “and since it's no longer a secret, I'll tell you what happened.”

He then told Harrington the strange story, starting with his becoming suspicious of Clell Shanklin and ending with the two shipments on separate railroads.

“So you think Shanklin and Elsa—Melanie's mother—rode south to claim what they believed was a share of stolen silver?”

“I don't just think it,” Nathan said, “I know it. The finish of it fits the little we know of what became of Shanklin and Elsa after they left Pueblo. They evidently traveled east—probably to Hays—and from there, rode south. They got everything that was coming to them. In spades.”

Nathan saw no reason for keeping the grim news from Melanie, and when he told her, the tears flowed briefly.

“I just feel sorry for her,” said Melanie.

Chapa Gonzolos had gathered his men to divulge plans for their next robbery. Following his disastrous alliance with Clell Shanklin, the outlaw had devised another approach to stealing the silver.

“Saul and Kalpana,” said Gonzolos, “you will ride north and remain within sight of the mines. Then it matters not who hauls the silver. When the wagons leave, you will ride back and bring us the word. Somewhere north of the river, before they reach Pueblo and the safety of the railroad, we will attack. We will seize the wagons, drive them west of the town, and then south to Santa Fe.”

“The wagons are slow,” said one of the outlaws, “and so near the town, there will be a sheriff and posse quickly. I like the train better. There are not so many hombres to kill us.”

“Estupido,”
Gonzolos said. “It takes but two men to drive the wagons. The rest of us fall behind and set up the
emboscada.”
¹⁶

“Si,” said Kalpana, “but they do not always use the railroad from Pueblo. Last time they do not.”

“They do it to make fools of us,” Gonzolos snapped. “From this time on, the wagons come south.”

Saul and Kalpana mounted their horses and rode north to observe the mines and to wait for the wagons.

 

November seventh—the day before the silver from the mines was to leave Pueblo on the eastbound—Nathan met with Foster Hagerman just before boarding the train west.

“I understand the mines have hired a dozen armed men to escort the silver from the mines to Pueblo. The outlaws have always tried to rob the trains. Are you expecting them to try something different?”

“Wouldn't you?” Nathan asked. “We've outsmarted them twice, and once the silver reaches the terminal, they have no way of knowing which train it'll be on. From the little Melanie's been able to tell me, these outlaws are led by Chapa Gonzolos, and they hole up somewhere to the south, probably in New Mexico.”

“Whatever happens,” said Hagerman, “the silver's not our responsibility until it gets to the dispatcher's office and is locked safely away.”

The locomotive whistle blew and Nathan climbed aboard the caboose.

When Nathan reported to the dispatcher's office, he received grim news.

“There is no silver,” he was told. “Yesterday, just north of the Arkansas River, outlaws killed everybody except one of the guards, and took the wagons. The man who got away rode in, shot up bad. He died last night.”

“Has a posse gone after the outlaws?” Nathan asked.

“Sheriff Brodie and a dozen men rode out late yesterday. They ain't come back.”

“I suppose you've contacted Hagerman in Dodge,” Nathan said.

“I have,” said the dispatcher. “You're to telegraph him.”

Nathan sat down at the instrument and tapped out a brief message to Hagerman:

Almost immediately the instrument began to chatter a response, and Nathan wrote out the message.

Nathan went to Sheriff Red Brodie's office, joining an anxious deputy. The sun had just dipped below the horizon and scarlet spears streaked the western sky when the weary cavalcade wound its way in from the south. The sheriff and three men led horses bearing the bodies of the rest of the posse. Nine men were roped, belly-down, to their saddles. The four who had escaped had not done so unscathed, for bloody bandages were wrapped about their arms and legs. They dismounted, leaning wearily on their saddles. A crowd had gathered behind them, silent except for the women and children who wept for the dead. Sheriff Brodie stumbled toward the office, making it as far as the steps before his wounded leg gave out. He sat on the steps wiping his face with a bloody bandanna. Somebody went for the doctor, and he—a thin little man with a mustache—took charge.

“You men who are hurt, into the sheriff's office. That includes you, Sheriff.”

Sheriff Brodie got up and went inside, the others following. A man from the local newspaper was trying to talk to a weeping woman who only wept all the harder. Nathan took the man by the front of his shirt and lifted him up on his toes.

“These people are in no mood to talk,” Nathan said. “Take your pencil and get the hell away from here.”

Many people had gathered around the door to the sheriff's office, trying to see inside. Other men, without being told, were releasing the roped-down dead, lifting them off their weary horses. Nathan helped remove one of the dead men who had been shot five times. In the back. It had been a slaughter of the most brutal kind, and Nathan gritted his teeth in frustration and anger. The doctor came to the door and Nathan got his attention.

“I'm Nathan Stone, and I'd like to speak to Sheriff Brodie as soon as he's able. I aim to round up that bunch of back-shootin' coyotes, and I need his advice.”

“I'll talk to him,” the doctor said. He returned in a moment, and nodded.

Nathan entered the office. Brodie sat in his office chair, his trousers down around his ankles. His right thigh was heavily bandaged. He looked up as Nathan leaned over the desk.

“Tell me what you can,” said Nathan. “That bunch has to be stopped.”

“They ambushed us,” Brodie said. “The worst damn kind of ambush. There's at least a dozen of the varmints, and they split up. One bunch dropped back, and when we rode into them that was ahead of us, the others fell in behind, and they just shot hell out of us. I should have laid back and forced them to ride on, but it was near dark, and we thought we could take them. My God, there was a dozen of us. We got away in the dark, them of us that survived, but we was afoot. We hid out all night, and it took us most of today to catch up our horses and gather up our dead.”

“I'll be going after them,” said Nathan. “I represent the railroad, but there's more at stake here than stealing. I won't see nine good men die in vain.”

Without another word he left the office. The doctor who had been listening shook his head, and Sheriff Brodie said nothing. Nathan went to the nearest livery and rented a horse and saddle. At a mercantile, he bought a bedroll, saddlebags, and provisions for a week. He then returned to the terminal, to the dispatcher's office, and sent a telegram to Foster Hagerman, at Dodge. It was blunt and to the point:

He didn't wait for an answer because he knew what the answer would be. The railroad bore no responsibility for the stolen silver. But sight of the dead men—brutally shot in the back over riches not their own—had ignited a spark in Nathan. He recalled Captain Sage Jennings, shot in the back by a cowardly bushwhacker. But most of all, he could see in his mind's eye the evil El Gato, who had, with his band of killers, destroyed a part of Nathan Stone's life in the wilds of Indian Territory. Although it seemed so long ago, it all came back. He slipped his Winchester into the boot and swung into the saddle. Already it was dark, and while he couldn't take the trail until first light, he kicked the bay horse into a gallop, riding south. Reaching a creek, he dismounted. From his saddlebag he took some strips of jerked beef for his supper. His only edge, if he had one, was that the last thing the outlaws would expect would be pursuit by one man.

“Why did he go after them alone?” Melanie asked, as she again read Nathan's few words to Foster Hagerman.

“I don't really know,” said Hagerman. “I sent him a telegram asking him to give it up, but he expected that, for he had already gone. The silver was taken before it was ever in our hands, so we couldn't be responsible for that.”