The Killing Season (46 page)

“Jerked beef tonight and in the morning, Empty, but tomorrow, we should reach Fort Smith. Then we'll treat ourselves to hot grub.”

But that was before they encountered the tumbleweed wagon, with a pair of desperate killers bound for the gallows ...

Empty had taken to running well ahead of Nathan, dropping back only if he came upon something unusual. The sun was two hours high when the dog circled back and Nathan reined up, listening. From the west there came the unmistakable rattle of a wagon. Nathan rode to meet it, sensing an urgency, for the teams were coming hard. The man on the box had a star on his shirt, the reins in one hand and a Winchester in the other. He reined up the heaving, lathered mules. Three teams was a little unusual, but so was the wagon. The wagon box sat atop an iron cage, a jail cell on wheels. Two men were behind the bars. The man on the box had raised the Winchester, while Nathan kept his thumbs hooked in his gun belt. He spoke.

“I'm on my way to Fort Smith, and I'm not looking for trouble. I'm Nathan Stone.”

“Mel Holt,” said the man behind the badge. “Deputy U.S. Marshal from Fort Smith. The varmints in back is Blocker and Hines, a pair of killers on their way to a fair trial before the hanging judge.”

The men behind the bars laughed.

“I wore the badge out of Fort Smith for a while,” Nathan said. “Russ Lambert was a good friend. How is he?”

“He ain‘t,” said Holt. “He was bushwhacked by these bastards and the coyotes they run with. I just wish we had the rest of 'em to hang along with these two.”

“You were sent after them alone?”

“No,” Holt said. “Me and Doak Graves volunteered. Doak's behind me, on top of the wagon, wrapped in them blankets. They got him, and they're after me. It's just a cat-and-mouse thing, them figurin' I don't have a chance. There's four more of 'em.”

“Maybe we can even out the odds,” said Nathan. “Rest your teams and then go on. I reckon I'll keep an eye on your back trail and skin me some coyotes in memory of your pard, Doak Graves and my old amigo, Russ Lambert.”

“Bueno, ”
Holt said.

Nathan rode back the way the wagon had come. Empty, aware that they were on a trail, ran on ahead. Eventually Nathan found what he was seeking. Leaving the grulla in a concealing thicket, he took cover in a cluster of rocks. The weakness of his position was that unless he cut down the outlaws almost immediately, they could flank him, laying down a deadly crossfire. Empty was still somewhere ahead, and he waited for the dog's return, a sign that danger approached. Lest an enemy follow, Empty circled back, never returning by a straight path. With a low growl to announce his presence, he came up behind Nathan.

“Stay, Empty,” said Nathan, his arm around the dog.

Nathan cocked the Winchester, and when the outlaws appeared, they were riding in single file. Nathan waited as long as he dared, knowing that if he didn't gun down at least two men, he might become the hunted. He shot the lead rider out of the saddle, but just as he fired, the second man's horse reared. The slug from Nathan's Winchester struck the horse, and the outlaw kicked free of the saddle. A mounted comrade offered him a hand up, and the two escaped, riding double. The fourth outlaw was already well out of range. Nathan ran toward the thicket where he had left the grulla, knowing that his edge was gone. Shy a horse, the three could still pursue the wagon, creeping close under the cover of darkness. He judged they were still eighty miles south of Fort Smith, an impossible distance, with two prisoners, a wagon, and a trio of killers in pursuit. Catching up to the wagon, he rode alongside.

“I got one of them,” he shouted, “but a horse reared into my second shot. With two of them on one horse, that'll slow 'em down.”

“But not enough,” said Holt. “They'll be coming after us.”

“I'll be watching for them,” Nathan said. “I look for them to lag behind until dark.”

“That's what they done last night,” said Holt. “That's when they plugged Doak, and I reckon they was waitin' for tonight to get me. I had no sleep last night, and no grub, but for some jerked beef.”

“You can count on another night just like it,” Nathan said. “We'll have to make ourselves damn scarce and do some effective shooting.”

“Won't neither of you live to see daylight,” one of the prisoners shouted.

“Get going,” said Nathan, “but don't kill your teams. Rest them when you must, and water them when you can. I'll do my best to keep them at bay until we have to stop for the night. Then I reckon both of us will be almighty busy.”

When they finally were forced to stop for the night, Holt reined up the teams along a creek that flowed through a valley. There was a gentle rise from either bank, leading to a treeline that was well beyond rifle range. The only cover was underbrush along the creek itself.

“There'll be a moon tonight,” said Holt, “and they can't come at us down the slopes. They can come down the creek from either direction, but they'll have to be afoot. You take one end of the wagon, and I'll take the other.”

“Damn it, we ain't et nothin' since you locked us in here,” growled one of the men in the wagon.

“Shut up, Blocker,” Holt said.

“We'll have one thing in our favor,” said Nathan. “Empty, my dog, will warn us when they're getting close. I aim to stay out of that brush along the creek, and just belly-down with my Winchester. They can't make any moves toward the wagon until they've disposed of us.”

“Maybe we'd better just belly-down beneath the wagon,” Holt said. “There we'll be in shadow.”

“There we'll be trapped,” said Nathan. “Remember, there's one man without a horse, and I have a horse. If he can't get to the horse, he'll take a mule. I think, before they try to gun us down, they'll go after my horse or one of your mules. Then they'll stampede the others, leaving us afoot, with two prisoners in a useless wagon.”

“By God, that makes sense,” said Holt. “So we'll forget about the wagon for the time being, and wait for them to come after a horse or a mule.”

“Yes,” Nathan said. “What better way to flush us out than have one man stampede our animals? The other two, then, could gun us down. With that in mind, we may be able to get the varmint that comes after a horse or a mule, further reducing the odds. That could force the other two away for a spell, allowing us to position ourselves near the wagon.”

“Stone, I, like the way your mind works. Damned if I don't half believe we'll come out of this alive.”

“Never drop your hand until you've drawn that last card,” said Nathan. “Now let's go stake out my horse and your mules.”

Nathan and Holt waited, their muscles cramping from inactivity, their patience growing thin. Moonset was still an hour away.

“Damn them,” said Holt, “they're waiting for the moon to go down.”

“Let them,” Nathan replied. “If they come after a horse or mule, they'll still be out in the open, and the starlight will be enough.”

The moon had been down only a few minutes when Empty growled once, low.

“Here they come,” said Nathan. “I look for only one of them to try for a horse or a mule. I'll cut down on him, and unless I've figured everything wrong, the other two will fire at my muzzle flash. That'll be your target.”

“Bueno, ”
Holt said, “but you're taking all the risk.”

“Somebody has to open the ball,” said Nathan, “and until they're forced to fire, you'll have nothing to shoot at. Just make that first shot good.”

Nathan was positioned well away from his horse and the grazing mules, so that he was able to see anyone approaching the picketed animals. But the starlight was deceptive, and it was a while before he could actually be sure a questionable shadow was slowly but surely moving. The interloper was belly-down, with the patience of an Indian. When he had crept close enough, Nathan brushed Empty's head with his open hand and pointed to the creeping shadow. Empty sprang toward the outlaw, growling. The man scrambled to his feet and Nathan cut him down with a slug from the Winchester. Quickly, Nathan rolled away, as slugs ripped into the ground where he had been lying. The shots had come from somewhere near the creek, and Holt was already returning fire when Nathan got into the fight. It all ended as suddenly as it had started. There were no more shots from the creek. Nathan and Holt ceased firing and waited. Empty made his way to the place from which the shots had come, barking once.

“That was a slick piece of work,” said Holt. “What's he tryin' to say?”

“They're dead or they've cleared out,” Nathan said. “Let's have a look.”

Holt had accounted for one of the outlaws, while the other had apparently escaped. A mule had begun braying and several others joined in.

“They're gettin' spooked because of that dead hombre,” said Nathan. “I'd better drag him away from them.”

“Still one of them is on the loose,” Holt said. “You reckon he'll be fool enough to come after us again?”

“I doubt it,” Nathan replied, “but if he does, I'll be ready for him. Spread your roll and get what sleep you can. Empty and me will keep watch the rest of the night.”

 

Dawn broke with no sign of the escaped outlaw, and Nathan soon had a fire going.

“God, I'd give a month's pay for some hot coffee,” Holt said.

“We'll have some pronto,” said Nathan, “and some breakfast as well. If that varmint was spooked enough not to come after us in the dark, I doubt he'll have enough sand in his craw to make his play in daylight.”

“You saved my hide,” Holt said, when they reached Fort Smith. “If you'll come with me to the courthouse, I'll see that you get credit, and there may be some reward money.”

“I don't want the credit or the money,” said Nathan. “It's enough, just gettin' back at these varmints for cashing in Russ Lambert.”

Nathan took a room at Ma Dollar's boardinghouse, where he had lived while he wore the badge of a deputy U.S. marshal. Having had almost no sleep since encountering Mel Holt and the tumbleweed wagon, Nathan locked his door and slept the rest of the day and the night. Arising, he and Empty had breakfast in a nearby cafe. As they were leaving, Mel Holt came in.

“Except for the one who escaped,” said Holt, “we wiped out the gang. The court has enough evidence to hang Blocker and Hines, the pair we brought in. With Russ and Doak gone, we're shy two good men. There's a badge waitin' for you, if you want it.”

“I reckon not,” Nathan said. “I'm bound for the Black Hills, in Dakota Territory. Why don't you hang up that badge and ride along?”

“No, thanks,” said Holt. “I've heard about that gold strike. But that's Sioux country. Around here, all I got to bother me is bein' shot dead by renegades and outlaws who don't like the idea of bein' brought before the hanging judge and havin' their necks stretched.”

Nathan didn't linger in Fort Smith, but rode north, bound for Kansas City. No sooner had he crossed into Missouri than he met a sheriff and a posse of nine men. They drew their guns and rode forward, circling Nathan.

“Who are you,” the sheriff demanded, “and where are you bound?”

“I'm Nathan Stone. I just left Fort Smith, and I'm bound for Kansas City.”

“Sheriff,” said a member of the posse, “one of the bank robbers was ridin' a grulla, just like his.”

Nathan didn't like the turn the conversation was taking. He appealed to the sheriff.

“Sheriff, I spent last night in Fort Smith, and I can prove it. There are other grullas, and I resent being linked to a bank robbery because of the horse I'm riding. Besides, if I was on the run from you and your posse, wouldn't you consider it a little strange that I'm meeting you, instead of riding away?”

“He's got a point, boys,” the lawman said. “Stone, I'm Sheriff Drucker, from Joplin. Some varmints robbed the bank a while ago, and they lit out south. We lost their trail a ways back. One of the tellers thought he recognized Jesse James.”

“I've seen nobody,” Nathan said. “If they headed south, they're likely in Indian Territory by now.”

“That's what we'd think,” said Drucker, “except the James gang generally don't ride that far. Now I reckon we'll have to backtrack.”

Nathan rode with them, some members of the posse eyeing him with suspicion. Finally they approached a creek, and there were so many tracks, it was impossible to determine if any had been made by horses ridden by the bank robbers or if they had all been made by horses ridden by the posse.

“This is likely where you lost them,” said Nathan. “When you approached this creek, did you rein up and make sure the trail continued over and beyond the south bank?”

The men looked at one another in sheepish silence. Finally the sheriff spoke.

“I reckon we didn't. Suggs, you take four men and ride downstream. The rest of us will ride upstream. If you find where they left the creek, fire one shot.”

They seemed to have forgotten about Nathan, and he rode on, careful to bypass Joplin and the scene of the bank robbery. He approached the little town of Nevada, Missouri, with some misgivings. It was here that Nathan had shot Bart Hankins, the first of seven men who had murdered his parents and his young sister in Virginia. The shooting of Hankins had taken place while the James and Younger gangs had been involved in an unsuccessful robbery attempt, and for a while, Hankins's death had been blamed on the bank robbers. But the Hankins family had concluded that Hankins's death was in no way related to the failed bank robbery, and the Pinkertons had been engaged to seek evidence linking Hankins's shooting to the deaths of the men who had accompanied Hankins back to Missouri. While Nathan didn't wish to kick any sleeping dogs, he wondered where the investigation stood, or if perhaps it had been dropped altogether. While he dared not ask any questions, there was one way he might get some answers. He reined up before the small office of the town's weekly newspaper,
The Nevada Sentinel.
A little wooden sign read: J. SAMUELS, ED. AND
PROP.