The Killing Season (41 page)

There was a festive air about the fort when Nathan arrived, for it seemed the Indian problem was about to be resolved. Quanah Parker and his Comanche followers were the last desperate holdouts, and more soldiers were being sent west to reinforce the undermanned frontier outposts. Christmas had lost its meaning to Nathan, his only recollection of it being from his childhood, which now seemed so long ago and so far away.

“We're always glad to have you with us,” said Captain Ferguson. “Occasionally we get word from Fort Dodge when something unusual takes place. You've been making some big tracks with the railroad in those parts.”

“If I'm goin' to be shot at, I might as well get paid for it,” Nathan said.

Nathan remained at Fort Worth for a week. He was still nearly five hundred miles from New Orleans, and he felt the need to be on his way.

Having friends at Fort Worth, having access to the telegraph there, Nathan had spent little time in Dallas, a growing town just a short ride to the east. This day, however, a new saloon had opened for business, and there were placards touting it as the biggest and most luxurious in Texas. The name of it was simply Austin's, named after the man who had bankrolled it. Nathan left his horses at a livery and took a room at a hotel. He noted with interest that the town had a daily newspaper,
The Dallas Daily Herald.
It was late afternoon, but still a while before suppertime, so he walked the two blocks to the saloon. It wouldn't cost him anything for a look at the fancy new watering hole. Already there was a five-handed poker game in progress and trouble in the making. One of the gamblers, a man with dark hair and a flowing mustache, was pounding on the table with the butt of a Colt.

“New deck, barkeep.”

“You ain't played but one hand,” the barkeep protested, “and it was a new deck when you started.”

“Damn it, I'm John Henry Holliday, and I want a new deck.”

Suddenly, except for Holliday, the table was empty, as men got out of the way. When the barkeep ducked down, he came up with a sawed-off shotgun, but before he could use it, Holliday's Colt was roaring. The shotgun was ripped out of the barkeep's hands and was flung against the wall. It came down hard on the stock and both barrels let go with a blast that seemed to shake the building.

“Leave it where it is,” Holliday said. “I don't think much of your fancy diggings.” He holstered his Colt and stalked out the door.

“He leads his temper on a short rope,” said Nathan.

“Damn little rooster,” the barkeep said contemptuously.

One of the former poker players laughed. “One of them salty Rebs that'd like to start the war all over, and win it all by hisself.”

“That was Doc Holliday,” another patron observed, “and he's chain lightning with a pistol. I seen him draw agin two hombres in Fort Smith, an' they had the drop.”

Nathan went to a cafe, had supper, and returned to his hotel. There he bought a newspaper and went to his room. The more he saw of saloons, the less they appealed to him.

 

Anxious to be on his way, Nathan was up at first light. After breakfast, he went to the livery for his horses. He loaded the packhorse, saddled the grulla, and rode out. Careful to avoid towns, he spent his nights beside a creek or spring, depending on his picketed horses to warn him of unwelcome company.

Nathan rode down familiar streets, passing the St. Charles Hotel, where he had first met Byron Silver. It was Sunday afternoon, and the moan of steamboat whistles brought back memories. He rode down the lane toward the McQueen place, oak leaves crunching beneath the hooves of his horses. In all their travels, Cotton Blossom had most loved to come here, and Nathan had a lump in his throat and tears in his eyes. As he neared the house, McQueen's hounds set up a clamor, and when they appeared, there was six of them. Three of them were younger versions of one of the females, and the lot of them seemed about to eat Nathan alive until McQueen called them off.

“I'll go to the barn with you and help you unsaddle,” said McQueen. “Where's Cotton Blossom?”

Briefly and painfully, Nathan told him.

“We'll miss him,” McQueen said. “Later, when you've rested and we've had supper, maybe I'll have a surprise for you.”

Bess McQueen had seen Nathan ride in, and by the time he and Barnabas reached the house, she had washed the flour off her hands and made herself presentable. Without hesitation, she threw her arms around him with a welcome he had come to appreciate and expect. Barnabas looked on and laughed.

“Go take your places at the table,” said Bess, “and I'll bring the coffee. Supper will be ready in just a few minutes.”

“I'm counting on that,” Nathan said. “I've been eating my own cooking ever since I left Dallas.”

“Bring Cotton Blossom in,” said Bess. “I'll feed him in the kitchen.”

“He won't be comin' in, Bess,” Barnabas said. He spared Nathan, repeating what he had been told of Cotton Blossom's fate.

“He was a fine one,” said Bess. “Barnabas, have you told him ...”

“After supper,” Barnabas said. “He's likely starved, and I know I am.”

Nathan told them of some of his months with the railroad, avoiding any mention of his brief relationship with Melanie Gavin. He concluded with his ill-fated pursuit of Chapa Gonzolos and his gang, of his recuperation at Loretto Academy in Santa Fe, and finally, of the destruction of Gonzolos and his empire.

“Nathan,” said Bess, “there must be something you can do where you aren't always getting shot.”

Nathan was spared answering that, when a horrendous dogfight began somewhere behind the house. Barnabas went out and broke it up, and when he returned, a hound trotted in ahead of him. Nathan dropped his coffee cup, for the dog was a younger version of the departed Cotton Blossom!

“I reckon you know who his pappy was,” Barnabas said.

“My God,” said Nathan, “another six months, and he'll be ...”

“Cotton Blossom,” Bess said.

Nathan got up, but when he approached the dog, it bared its teeth. Bess went to the kitchen, and without urging, Cotton Blossom's offspring followed. Behind the stove, Bess fed him.

“He's a strange one,” Barnabas said. “There was four in the litter, and you've seen the other three. Bess calls him Empty, because he never seems to get enough to eat. She's been feeding him inside, because the others gang up on him at every opportunity.”

“He's not afraid of them?”

“God, no,” said Barnabas. “Just the opposite. He'll leave his food to fight them. He goes off and hunts. Sometimes he'll be gone for three days. If you can make friends with him ...”

“There'll never be another Cotton Blossom,” Nathan said. “It wouldn't be fair to this one, because I'd always be comparing him.”

“He'll measure up,” said Barnabas. “Somehow, I think he's been waiting for you, even though he doesn't realize it.”

“I feel the same way,” Bess said. “He accepts us, but that's as far as he'll go. I think he's been waiting for something.”

 

Nathan began trying to make friends with Empty, and although the dog was no longer hostile, neither was he friendly. For the lack of anything better to do, Nathan began walking the fields and the bayous that surrounded the McQueen place. On one such walk, he heard something. Drawing his Colt, he turned to find Empty looking at him from the underbrush. The dog quickly was gone, and Nathan didn't see him again the rest of the day. Eventually Nathan could count on seeing Empty at some point during his daily walks, and he believed the dog was watching for him.

“You're getting to him,” Barnabas said. “Just don't push it. Let him think it's all his idea. He's a loner, like you. He senses that in you, and one day he'll come to you.”

Nathan had been at the McQueens' place for six weeks, and was becoming weary of the inactivity. While he still saw Empty on his daily outings, the dog hadn't attempted to come any closer. The dramatic change came one afternoon when Nathan heard a noise in the brush. Expecting it to be Empty, he remained where he was, only to be confronted by three wild hogs. Barnabas had warned him about the animals, and at the first hostile move, he would shoot them. But when they broke toward him, squealing, they came like greased lightning. He shot two of them and the third escaped, but he was unaware of the fourth. It charged him from behind, only to run headlong into Empty. The dog fought like a demon, and Nathan dared not shoot, lest he kill Empty. The fight ended when the wild hog gave up and vanished into the underbrush. Bleeding from a mass of cuts, Empty tried to rise but could not. Both his front legs were mangled and bleeding. Nathan took a step forward, and when the dog's eyes met his own, he knew Empty wasn't going to bite him. He began with a hand on the bloody head, ruffling the dog's ears. Then, as gently as he could, he lifted Empty and began the long walk back to the McQueen house. He was forced to stop and rest often, for the dog was heavier than he looked. The McQueens saw him coming and waited for him on the porch.

“We met some wild hogs,” Nathan said. “I shot two of them, and another was about to tear into me from behind. Empty fought him, and I'm not sure the hog didn't win.”

“I'll get some blankets, hot water, and medicine,” said Bess, “and you can doctor him here on the porch. Barnabas, you'd better find a box for him and put it behind the stove. With him crippled, he can't stay outside. These other varmints of his own kind will kill him while he can't defend himself.”

“I don't reckon they'd find it an easy task,” Nathan said, “but he does need to heal a mite before he jumps into another fracas.”

Using the medicines Bess provided, Nathan patched up the dog as best he could. The wild hog's fangs had gone deep into Empty's front legs, and after drenching them in alcohol, Nathan applied healing salve and bandaged them. Other wounds were treated in a similar manner, but without bandages. Barnabas came from the barn with a large wooden box, and Bess lined it with blankets.

“Now, old son,” Nathan said, “you're goin' to enjoy two weeks of rest, whether you like it or not.” He lifted Empty into the box, and with Barnabas helping, they carried the box into the kitchen and placed it behind the stove. One side of the wooden box was lower than the others, and it was there that Bess placed a pan of water and food. Empty gulped down the food and chased it with most of the water.

“Nothing bothers his appetite,” Barnabas observed.

“By the time he's up and about, Nathan, you'll have yourself a dog,” said Bess.

Every day for a week, Nathan changed the bandages on Empty's front legs, until the wounds had healed. By then, the dog was restless.

“I'll take him out for a while,” Nathan said. “I'm not sure he's ready to engage in any battles, though.”

“I think you'd better keep him inside for another day or two,” said Barnabas. “Damn if I know what the rest of them have against him, but I reckon they'd kill him, if they got the chance.”

“I'm about to see what kind of control I have over him,” Nathan said. “If I'm guessing wrong, be prepared to rescue him and me from one hell of a dog fight.”

The rest of the dogs watched in silence as Nathan and Empty left the porch, but that didn't last long. There was a chorus of growls, but to Nathan's delight, Empty ignored them. He followed Nathan, and the rest of the dogs dropped back. Empty still seemed a bit unsteady on his feet, and he didn't take any wild runs through the brush. He seemed to know what his limitations were, and when Nathan leaned against a windblown tree to rest, the dog lay down.

“Your daddy will be hard to replace,” Nathan said, “but old son, I have the feeling you're about to give him a run for his money.”

 

By the first of April, the grass had begun to green and there were signs of an early spring. Empty began looking more and more like the departed Cotton Blossom, and after the incident with the wild hogs, the dog took to Nathan in a manner that, as Bess had predicted, seemed almost preordained. Nathan began saddling the grulla, and with Empty trotting alongside, they roamed the fields and woods. The dog learned quickly to remain with the horse upon command, and there were silent commands. The pointing of a finger would send him on ahead, or the way they had come, scouting the back trail. With Colt and Winchester, Nathan fired from many positions, until Empty became comfortable with the weapons. The first week in April a letter came, addressed to Nathan Stone, in care of Barnabas McQueen. There was no return address, and when Nathan opened it, there was a single paragraph:

It was signed simply “Silver.” Nathan passed it to Barnabas, and Bess read it with him.

“Sounds serious,” Barnabas said. “You'll have to take a steamboat to reach Saint Louis by the fifteenth.”

“I reckon,” said Nathan. “Can I impose on you to board my horses while I'm gone?”

“You don't even have to ask,” Barnabas replied. “Is Empty going with you?”

“Yes,” said Nathan. “I don't know what I'll be getting into, but I can't afford to leave him now. Do you have any idea what the schedule is to Saint Louis?”

“Unless there's been changes, there's boats on Tuesdays and Thursdays,” Barnabas said. “The next one should be leaving the day after tomorrow, at seven in the morning.”