The Killing Season (40 page)

The land was becoming thick with cedar and fir, allowing Nathan to see without being seen. When he was at last able to see the ranch, he was astounded, for it sprawled for what seemed half a mile. There were two long wings stretching from north to south, with a connecting link in the middle, like a huge letter H. Around the house and outbuildings there was a stone wall of what might be unscalable proportions. The entrance was secured by an arched iron gate, and even from a distance, Nathan could see men moving about. He would have to wait for darkness, and even then would have to leave his horse a great distance away, in the cover of trees.

Rather than sit and wait, he rode northeast, with the intention of circling the place, for it might be more vulnerable from another direction. There was a back gate, and as best he could tell, identical to the one at the front, including two armed sentries. After riding all the way around, he found not a single weakness in the massive wall. The only means of access other than the gates would be over the wall, for jutting above it at irregular intervals were stone uprights, like spearheads. These he could rope from the ground and thus breach the wall.

While at Loretto Academy, he had lost track of the moon's cycles. The last thing he needed was a full moon, but if it appeared, he could only wait for it to set. He rode far enough into the hills north of Casa De El Aguila to cook himself a meal beside a spring. There, with his picketed horse grazing, he dozed until a cooling west wind awakened him. The sun was down, painting the western sky with plumes of crimson. Within minutes, the first stars winked from purple heavens, but Nathan resisted the temptation to begin his dangerous quest. Full moon or not, he decided to wait until after moonset, so he settled down, his head on his saddle.

 

The moon rose, half full, and Nathan waited until it had fully set. Once it had, even the stars didn't seem to penetrate the darkness. He rode until the cedars began to thin and he could see the massive stone walls ahead. Already he had capped the dynamite, attaching the estimated forty-five-second fuses. He divided the explosive, half of it in each end of the sack, so that he could drape it around his neck. He decided against taking his Winchester, for he had no sling, and would need both hands to hoist himself over the wall. Carefully he picketed his horse so that the animal could not be seen, and far enough away so that if it nickered, it wouldn't reveal his presence. Taking his lariat, he crept through the darkness toward the wall. It loomed black and forbidding, like something from a fairy tale, and he readied his loop. His first throw missed, but the second caught and held. The outer wall proved to be smooth, virtually impossible for him to gain any purchase with his feet, throwing all his weight on his arms and shoulders. There was intense pain in his side and in his upper back, where he had been wounded, but he continued to struggle up the rope. Finally, exhausted and drenched with sweat, he sat on the wall, fighting to regain his wind.

Believing that he might need the rope, he removed the loop from the stone upright and took one end of the rope in each hand. He then looped the middle of it over the stone upright and descended to the ground. He was then able to loose one end of the rope and free it from the wall. Coiling the lariat, he hung it over his left arm and made his way toward the house. Nearing it, he could hear shouts and laughter. He crept to a window and beheld a table laden with food and drink. Men drank directly from bottles, and there were women in varying stages of undress. Chapa Gonzolos was not among the revelers. Nathan crept on around the house. While he wished to account for the entire gang, it was his intention to get Gonzolos first. Oddly, except for the hall from which the merrymaking just seemed to get louder, there were no more lighted windows. Nathan moved on, pausing when he saw a flicker of light against a windowpane somewhere ahead of him. As he drew closer, it proved to be the dying flames of a fire. He had become aware of it only because of its faint reflection in the window glass, and try as he might, he could see nothing or nobody inside the darkened room. He was near the center hall that connected one side of the H to the other, and when he made his way past the window where the fire had been reflected, he could see a door, standing partially open. He had reached the point where he must enter the house, and the door moved on silent hinges. Nathan stepped inside, and a floorboard creaked. Suddenly, a voice spoke from the darkness.

“Ah, señor, the good doctor told me the academy had taken in a man with gunshot wounds.
Por
Dios,
it had to be you. I have the
pistola
ready, for I have been expecting you. This time you will die.”

Nathan dropped to the floor, firing at the muzzle flash, but Gonzolos was firing over the back of a couch, and Nathan's slugs went deep into the upholstery. He rolled up against the back of the couch, and to his surprise, the burly Gonzolos launched himself over the back of it, coming down hard. The blade of a knife ripped through the collar of Nathan's shirt, narrowly missing his throat. He seized both of Gonzolos's arms and tried to hump him off, but Gonzolos had a weight advantage. Beneath him, Nathan could feel the Colt he had dropped. With his left hand, he let go of Gonzolos and grabbed the Colt. Swinging it as hard as he could, he slammed it into Gonzolos's head. The big man went limp and Nathan humped him off. Seizing the knife, he was about to drive it into Gonzolos when there came a thump of boots. When the first man darkened the door, Nathan fired, driving him back into one of his comrades. Nathan used the few seconds he had gained to get the couch between him and the door, barely in time to avoid a rain of lead.

“Madre de Dios!”
Gonzolos bawled, “stop ...”

But his drunken followers did not stop, and Chapa Gonzolos died under their guns. Nathan's eyes had grown accustomed to the darkened room, and on hands and knees, he crept along the wall toward the shadowy outline of another door. Realizing it would lead him deeper into the house, he had little choice. There were shouts of rage as the renegades realized he had escaped, and when they discovered the dead Gonzolos, they broke into a maudlin frenzy. They fired through the door into the darkness into which Nathan had disappeared, their lead smashing into walls, shattering lamps and mirrors. Nathan made his way through the darkened house until he found a door. Stepping outside, he made his way back toward the front of the house. The outlaws had left their women when the shooting had started. Now Nathan stepped into the room, a Colt in each hand and Gonzolos's Bowie knife under his belt. Some of the women screamed, and Nathan responded by shooting out all three lamps. Burning oil set fire to the deep carpet and sweeping velvet drapes. There had been enough commotion, including screams of the women, to attract the attention of the renegades, and they came on the run. Nathan lighted a stick of dynamite and threw it among them. Before the echo of the first blast died, Nathan threw a second stick. Every man was down, and whether dead or wounded, Nathan didn't know. The fire had taken hold and promised to burn the place to the ground, and such a conflagration wouldn't go unnoticed. Nathan made his way to the gate, which was no longer secured. Reaching his horse, he mounted and rode north. Topping a rise, he turned and looked back. The entire house was afire, shooting sparks and orange flame heavenward. Certainly there would be an investigation, and Chapa Gonzolos would be mourned for the man he was believed to have been. Nathan had but one regret, which was that Gonzolos couldn't have been revealed for the thief and murderer he had been, and made to suffer the disgrace as the result of it. He rode all night, resting the bay, and by dawn, was seventy miles away.

Arriving in Pueblo, Nathan went first to the sheriffs office. There he told Sheriff Brodie what had happened.

“I reckon if word ever gets out, I'll have a price on my head in New Mexico, but you see that the kin of those who died in that ambush know that the killers have paid.”

“I'll do that,” Brodie said, “and if you ever get in trouble as a result of it, you send me word. We'll bring enough people and raise enough hell till everybody west of the Mississippi knows the truth about Gonzolos and his gang.”

“I'm obliged,” said Nathan.

“My God,” Foster Hagerman said, “we thought you was a goner. I eventually got a full report from the dispatcher in Pueblo about the posse being ambushed. Then, when we got the word you had gone after the outlaws ... alone ...”

“It took me a while,” said Nathan. He then told Hagerman the whole story, from the time he had first jumped the outlaws to the death of Chapa Gonzolos and the destruction of his empire.

“You should never have taken on a task like that, by yourself,” Hagerman said. “The mine owners will bless you, the AT and SF will bless you, but it's a miracle you're alive.”

“I reckon,” said Nathan, “but that's my last official act for the AT and SF. I want to go somewhere with Melanie where there's no trains, no outlaws, no payrolls ...”

“I wish I didn't have to tell you this,” Hagerman said, “but Melanie Gavin is gone. We last heard from you on November tenth, and December first, she left, believing you were dead. Said she was goin' to Columbus, Ohio, that she's got kin there.”

Nathan said nothing. Hagerman paid him through the end of December, and took the time to stop by Sheriff Harrington's office.

“I'm sorry to see you go,” Harrington said, “and sorry to see Melanie leave without giving it some time. I hope you'll go on to Columbus and track her down.”

“No,” said Nathan. “I reckon we'd just be prolonging her grieving. This time, I came out of it forked-end down. The next time I might not, and she'd be going through it all over again. I'm obliged to you for your kindness to her, and for standing by me. If you're ever needin' a friend, somebody to watch your back, get word to me.”

“I'll do that,” Harrington said, extending his hand, “and if you're ever needin' somebody to watch your back, remember you have a friend in Dodge.”

Nathan checked out of the Dodge house and went to the livery for his packhorse and the grulla. Both animals had grown fat from livery feed. Nathan loaded the packhorse, saddled the grulla, mounted, and rode south. He was tired, his latest wounds still bothered him, and he wanted solitude. He rode by the bank and found that Melanie had taken only a hundred dollars of the money he had left her, which was probably her fare back to Ohio. Nathan still had the four thousand he had won in Uvalde, plus his earnings from the railroad, so he wasn't hurting for money. It had been more than two years since he had been to New Orleans, and he longed to go there, to spend some time with his friends, Barnabas and Bess McQueen. Despite his travels, the many places he had been, he always felt he was going home when he rode down the oak-lined lane to the McQueen place. It was there that Eulie Prater was buried, and late at night, when the wind was from the west, he could hear the mournful wail of steamboat whistles. He rode south, intending to spend a few days at Fort Worth, with Captain Ferguson. He avoided towns, spending his nights in lonely camps beneath the stars. Reaching Fort Griffin, he stopped in the sutler's store to replenish some of his dwindling supplies. Three men—apparently buffalo hunters—came in, and one of them looked at Nathan and spoke to his companions. Nathan appeared not to see them, but he was very much aware of their interest in him. He continued rounding up the things he needed, and only when the three came up behind him did he turn to face them.

“If you gents have something to say to me, then say it. It's not healthy, comin' up behind a man's back.”

“We was just wonderin',” said one, “if it wasn't you that gunned down that kid in a saloon in El Paso a few months back. His daddy's done raised the ante on your head.”

“And I reckon you're of a mind to try and collect it,” Nathan said grimly.

“Like I said, we was just wonderin'. I ain't said we're doin' anything more.”

Nathan said no more. The three left ahead of him, and when he went out, there was no sign of them. Having loaded his purchases on the packhorse, he was about to mount the grulla when a familiar voice spoke.

“Didn't seem right, gittin' the store all bloodied up. Now you just turn around and do whatever you're of a mind to do.”

Nathan didn't know if he was facing one man or three. There didn't seem to be anyone else around, so there would be no witnesses. Nathan threw himself under the grulla's belly, coming up on one knee with a Colt in each hand. The man who had spoken to him in the store had his Colt out, and Nathan shot him once, just above the belt buckle. His two companions had their hands up as the third man crumpled to the ground.

“Unless you're buying in,” Nathan said, “vamoose.”

Quickly they moved away. A soldier arrived to investigate the shooting, and several men left the store, apparently to see what was going on.

“He drew first,” said Nathan.

“Any witnesses?” the lieutenant asked.

“His two friends,” said Nathan. “I invited them to leave.”

“I saw it through the window,” said one of the men from the store. “The dead man already had his gun out before this gent made a move.”

“I was about to ride out,” said Nathan.

“Then go ahead,” the lieutenant replied. “You have a witness. I'll file a report and have him sign it.”

Nathan rode away, all the old bitterness creeping back, as he recalled that unfortunate day in El Paso. The bounty having been raised, what chance did he ever have of returning there? Would he ever see Myra, Jamie, and Ellie again? He rode on toward Fort Worth, more determined than ever to return to New Orleans, seeking the peace that seemed to be forever just beyond his reach....