The Killing Season (47 page)

“I'd like to buy some back issues,” Nathan said.

“How far back?” Samuels inquired.

“At least three years,” said Nathan.

“I don't have them for sale, back that far,” Samuels said. “I only have for sale copies for the past six months. Beyond that, I have only file copies. You're welcome to look at those, if you wish.”

“I'd be obliged,” said Nathan.

“Have a seat at the table, then, and I'll bring them to you. Since they're bound by the year, do you want to begin with this year, to date?”

“Yes,” Nathan said. “I might not have to go back as far as three years.” He sat down at the table, facing the window and the door.

“These are for 1875, through last Thursday,” said Samuels. “I'll bring you the bound set for 1874 when you're finished with these.”

The weekly consisted of four pages, the last two being mostly advertising. Nathan had gone through most of the bound set for 1874 before he found what he was seeking. Most of the front page had been devoted to Pinkerton findings that were related to the Hankins case. The Pinkertons, using military records, had learned the names of six men who had been known companions of Bart Hankins. At the time the newspaper had been printed, five of the men were known to be dead, all of them by shooting. The Pinkertons had declared there was a pattern, beginning with Hankins, and that the man who had killed Hankins had also killed five of his six companions. They had named Nathan Stone as the killer, based on the fact there was solid evidence he had killed at least two of Hankins's friends. All findings by the Pinkertons had been turned over to the Hankins family, and in the next issue of the paper there was a reward dodger. There was no photograph, no etching. In big, bold black print it said:
Nathan Stone. Wanted dead or alive, for the murder of Bart Hankins. Reward of ten thousand dollars will be paid by the Hankins family.

Nathan read no further. If the Hankins family could afford such a reward, then there would be no limit to the number of dodgers they could print or the newspaper advertising they could afford to buy. He thanked Samuels for allowing him the use of the back issues and left the newspaper office. But he didn't get far. Suspicious eyes watched him from the other side of the street, and the man who fell in behind him wore a badge. Empty waited with the grulla, and the dog's low growl alerted Nathan to the stranger who followed. It would have been easy for Nathan to turn and fire, but he did not. He waited, and the lawman halted half a dozen yards away. When he spoke, it was less a question and more a statement of fact.

“You're Nathan Stone.”

“Yes,” Nathan said.

“Sheriff Roscoe Peeler. Lead your hoss down to the office.”

Peeler made no move toward his weapon, and while Nathan had no idea what might lie ahead, he couldn't bring himself to gun down a lawman. While the Hankins family had only their suspicions, if he could escape only by killing a sheriff, he would unquestionably become a fugitive. The office was also the jail, and Peeler stepped back while Nathan looped the grulla's reins about the hitch rail.

“Stay, Empty,” Nathan said. He mounted the steps, Peeler behind him.

“I reckon you'd better shuck them guns until I know where you stand,” Peeler said.

Nathan unbuckled his gun belt and placed it on the desk. The door to the first cell stood open and a man lay on a bunk, snoring. Peeler grabbed a three-foot billy club and struck the bars.

“Damn it, Peck, get up and make yourself useful.”

Peck sat up, rubbing his eyes.

“Light a shuck down to the bank,” said Peeler, “and tell old Dan Hankins that Nathan Stone's here. If he aims to press charges, he's got to swear out a warrant. Today, damn it, not next week.”

Peck stood up and shambled out, not in the least intimidated.

“For the time being,” Peeler said, “I want you in that cell. If old Hankins has changed his mind about you, I'll turn you loose. If he ain't, then you'll be stayin' a spell.”

Having little choice, Nathan entered the cell and sat down on the hard bunk. Peeler kicked the barred door shut and locked it. Peck returned in a few minutes, bearing the news Nathan had expected.

“He's filin' charges,” said Peck. “He's goin' to the courthouse right now.”

“Sheriff,” Nathan said. “I'd appreciate you bringin' in my saddle, saddlebags, and my Winchester. If you'll take my horse to the livery and see that my dog's fed, I'll pay.”

“Peck,” the sheriff said, “unsaddle the hoss, bringin' in the saddle, saddlebags, and the rifle. Then take the grulla to the livery.”

Peck seemed about to refuse, but Sheriff Peeler's eyes were on him, and he thought better of it. He went out, shrugging his shoulders.

“Sheriff,” Nathan said, “if it's not asking too much, what am I charged with?”

“Unless Hankins has changed his mind,” said Peeler, “it'll be murder.”

“I reckon he's got proof?”

“He thinks he has,” Peeler said. “He hired half the Pinkertons in the country.”

Before sundown, Nathan Stone had been charged with the murder of Bart Hankins, and the curious had gathered outside the jail.

“Go on home,” Peeler shouted. “Damn it, this ain't no medicine show.”

 

Nathan slept but little on the hard bunk, seeking a solution to this predicament which would put him on trial for his life for a shooting that had taken place more than ten years ago. He didn't doubt that the Pinkertons had linked him to the killing of those men who had accompanied Hankins that long-ago day in Virginia, and although those killings had been justified, accuse him of murdering Hankins. Beyond a doubt, Nathan Stone had friends who would stand by him till hell froze over. There were the McQueens in New Orleans, Captain Ferguson at Fort Worth, Sheriff Harrington in Dodge City, Foster Hagerman with the Atichison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railroad, Joel Netherton of the Kansas-Pacific, as well as the Texas Rangers. But not one of them could help him when he stood before the court and faced the damning evidence Daniel Hankins had accumulated. He was waiting for the lawman when Sheriff Peeler brought his breakfast.

“Sheriff, when am I going to trial?”

“July twenty-sixth,” said Peeler. “Is there somebody you're needin' to telegraph or write to?”

“A telegram,” Nathan said. “I'll pay if you'll send it for me.”

“I'll bring you paper and a pencil,” said Peeler.

He did so, and ignoring the breakfast, Nathan began to write. Addressing it to the attorney general's office in Washington, he made the message brief:

He said no more, signing his name. He folded the paper and passed it to the sheriff, along with a gold eagle.

“Keep your money,” said Peeler. “You're entitled to this. You expectin' an answer?”

“Maybe,” Nathan said. “I'm not sure.”

There was an answer, almost immediately. It read:
Twenty-one coming.
There was no signature. Despite his predicament, Nathan laughed at Sheriff Peeler's expression.

“Relax, Sheriff. We're not planning a jail break.”

Silver rode in two hours before sundown, looking every bit the cowboy. His Levi's and denim shirt were faded almost white, his Texas boots were scuffed, and his Colt was thonged low on his right hip. Only his gray Stetson looked new. Sheriff Peeler got up from his desk, and Silver spoke.

“Silver's the name. I need some private conversation with Nathan Stone.”

“You his lawyer?”

“I reckon you can call me that,” Silver replied. “Lock me in the cell and take a walk.”

Peeler looked a little offended, but complied. Silver said nothing until the sheriff had left the office and closed the door.

“I want you to tell me what you had against Hankins and those six
amigos
of his, and don't hold any of it back. The Pinkertons may not be worth a damn at guarding payrolls and mine shipments, but they know how to gather evidence.”

Starting with his release from Libby Prison in Richmond, Nathan told his story, up to and including an eyewitness account of the murders committed by Hankins and his six companions.

“Old Malachi, the Negro, had lived with my family since before I was born,” said Nathan, “and he remembered their names. I swore on my father's grave that I'd gun them down to the last man.”
²¹

“You had all the cause a man ever needed,” Silver said, “but you also don't have any witnesses. I've checked the military records, and all these men were deserters from the Union army, but that won't help you. They're going to claim that you shot Bart Hankins in cold blood, that he was unarmed.”

“That's a damn lie,” said Nathan. “He had a sleeve gun, and I didn't make a move until he drew. His slug ripped into the top of his desk.”

“The Pinkertons talked to the man who was sheriff at the time Hankins was shot, and he said there was no sign of a gun. However, he and everybody else believed Hankins had been shot during an attempted holdup, and he admits they might have missed something. I aim to do some investigating on my own. Meanwhile, put your mind to remembering that day, and to anything else that might sway a jury.”

Time dragged, and Nathan saw Silver at least once a day, but Silver didn't always tell what he had learned, if anything. Instead, he urged Nathan to recall anything that might be helpful in his defense.

“How is Empty?” Nathan asked. “Is he being fed?”

“The sheriffs done a passable job of keeping him fed,” said Silver, “and I've fed him a few times, myself. He's made friends with me, but he won't leave the jail. I reckon we'll have to bury him with you, if you get a hanging sentence.”

“You really think that's possible, for a killing ten years old?”

“You're damned right it is,” Silver said, “unless you can prove self-defense. There is no statute of limitations on murder.”

“Bart Hankins and the two-legged skunks ridin' with him murdered my family,” said Nathan, “and had it not been for me, they'd have gotten away with it.”

“You were judge, jury, and executioner,” Silver said, “and now you don't have a shred of evidence to justify your action. If you're hanged, that won't help your family.”

“Damn it, Silver, those men were killers. How can I prove it?”

“I don't have the answer to that,” said Silver. “There is no conclusive proof that you killed Hankins, but there is abundant proof that you killed his companions. The prosecution will try to prove that Hankins was part of that same vendetta that led to the deaths of his friends.”

“Then what's going to be my defense?”

“There is no better defense than the truth,” Silver said. “You will admit to the court that you shot Hankins, tell them your reason, and then plead self-defense.”

“My God,” said Nathan, “do you expect them to take my word?”

“Are you sure there was a sleeve gun, that Hankins pulled on you?”

“Damn it, Silver. I've been shot at enough until I know a .41-caliber derringer when I see one.”

“Then someone took that gun,” Silver said. “Someone in that bank, sometime after you killed Hankins, but before the sheriff came. I'm going to talk to everybody who was in there, everybody who could have taken that gun.”

“Hell,” said Nathan, “old man Hankins could have taken it. Might be easier than tellin' how his son ended up on the short end of a shootout.”

“Maybe,” Silver said, “but I doubt it. If the old man had any idea Bart had done what you're accusing him of doing, I doubt he'd be digging into this. This is a small town, and the Hankins name means something. It won't help when you brand Bart Hankins a killer who got what he deserved.”

“Then tell old man Hankins that I'm going to name his son a cold-blooded killer,” said Nathan. “That might cool his ambition for having me hung.”

“And it might make him all the more determined,” Silver said. “I'm not telling Daniel Hankins a damn thing. You'll need some surprises to throw in the faces of the jurors, and that means you keep your mouth shut until the trial.”

“Hankins owns the only bank in town,” said Nathan, “and I doubt there'll be a man on the jury that doesn't owe him money. You expect them to take my side, against Hankins?”

“No,” Silver said. “We're going to ask for a change of venue, moving the trial to Kansas City.”

“You can do that?”

“I can,” said Silver, “for the very reason you just mentioned.”

“You think Hankins won't oppose that?”

“I'm sure he will,” Silver replied, “and I hope he does. That will be proof enough that he's expecting small-town bias in his own favor. Just keep quiet and let me see what I can uncover. I'll go to the court this morning and request a change of venue. Maybe I'll ask for a new court date, as well.”

“Why?”

“I have my reasons,” said Silver.