The Killing Season (55 page)

“No,” said Nathan. “I depend on a man's common sense as far as he'll let me. If you pull that iron, you'd better have a damn good reason, or I'll take it away from you.”

“I'm Kurt Graves, and I'm not wanted by the law. Nobody's ever took my gun, and nobody ever will. You'd best keep that in mind.”

Graves turned away and Nathan watched him out of sight. He looked maybe twenty-one or -two, and being well under six feet, he didn't seem the brawling kind. More likely he relied on his gun, and Nathan wondered how long it would take the little rooster to get himself involved in a shootout. Nathan generally made the rounds of all the saloons before ten o'clock every night, and again shortly before two in the morning, when most of them closed. Reaching the Oasis, he wasn't surprised to find Kurt Graves involved in a poker game. There was some grumbling when Graves won two pots. Nathan wasn't sure that Graves wasn't slick-dealing, but if he was, the little varmint was good at it. Unless somebody called him, it was none of Nathan's business. He had stepped out the door, bound for the Long Branch, when there was a shot from within the Oasis. Nathan was through the saloon door in an instant. A man was slumped over the poker table, a gun in his hand. Graves stood with his back to the wall, his thumb hooked in his gun belt, above the butt of his Colt. Nathan kept his eyes on Graves as he spoke.

“Who drew first?”

“Tidwell did,” one of the gamblers said, “and God, he didn't have a chance. He had his gun out, but he was shot dead.”

“Graves,” Nathan said, “I warned you about pulling that gun. You'd better have a damn good reason.”

“Oh, I do, sir,” said Graves, with exaggerated politeness. “He called me a cheat, and I never touched my gun until he drew his.”

“Is he telling the truth?” Nathan asked.

“Yeah,” said one of the gamblers.

“Do any of the rest of you accuse him of cheating?” Nathan persisted.

Nobody said anything. Several men cut their eyes at Kurt Graves, but nobody spoke to Nathan. There was nothing he could do except declare it a case of self-defense. Before he reached the door, he heard Kurt Graves laughing. After making the rounds of the rest of the saloons, Nathan returned to the Dodge House. There he and Empty would rest until time for the rounds at two o'clock in the morning.

 

When Nathan arrived at Delmonico's for breakfast, he found Foster Hagerman already there. It had become a ritual, Nathan and Sheriff Harrington meeting there. But now that Harrington was gone, Hagerman seemed to have taken his place, a change of which Nathan didn't totally approve. While he liked Hagerman, he had become the spokesman for a less-than-adequate town council. Now Nathan was never sure whether he was meeting Hagerman as a friend or as a go-between for the whining town council.

“Heard about the shooting last night,” said Hagerman. “That sort of thing, if it should happen too often, will play hell with the town's image.”

“Is that how you feel, or is it the opinion of your silent town council?”

“Mostly that of the council,” Hagerman said. “This is the frontier, and you can't fault a man for defending himself. But there are men who enjoy killing, and they justify it by provoking others into a shootout. Kurt Graves may be that kind.”

“He may be,” said Nathan, “but I can't arrest him as long as it's an even break and there are witnesses. You don't enforce the law by violating it. What does the council think should be done?”

“Hell, they don't know,” Hagerman said in exasperation. “They're leaving it all up to you.”

“Tell them I'm obliged,” said Nathan grimly.

They finished breakfast in silence, but Hagerman had unknowingly touched on the very thing Nathan had been considering. Suppose Kurt Graves continued to antagonize men and gun them down in the name of self-defense? Where would it end? While he was tempted to just order Graves out of town, he had no legal right to do so. Besides, if the gunman refused to leave, it would result in a Mexican standoff, branding Nathan Stone the biggest damn fool between the Trinity and the Yellowstone. There was always a chance that Graves wouldn't repeat his performance of the night before, and with that slight hope, Nathan made his way to the sheriffs office. But that very afternoon, at the Varities Saloon, Kurt Graves gunned down another man. Again there were witnesses and again the claim was self-defense.

“The man's a killer,” said Hagerman. “He's legally murdered two men. What are we going to do?”

“You're going to shut up,” Nathan said, “before you get the town in an uproar. I aim to make my move tonight. If it fails, plant me alongside Sheriff Harrington and feed my dog.”

Kurt Graves seemed to be making the rounds of all the saloons. His third night in Dodge, he drifted into the Long Branch. A four-handed poker game was in progress, and at the sight of Graves, two men folded and moved hurriedly away from the table. The pair remaining were drummers.

“I'm settin' in,” said Graves, hauling out a chair.

“Hell,” one of the drummers said, “I don't like three-handed poker.”

“Keep your seat,” said Nathan, taking the chair across from Graves. “I'm buying in.”

“I don't play poker with lawdogs,” Graves said contemptuously. “Pin a badge on some
pelado,
and he thinks he's got an edge.”

“Don't let the badge bother you, Graves,” Nathan said. Removing the star, he dropped it into his shirt pocket. “Now, you either play poker or tuck your tail between your legs and get the hell out of here.”

Sensing a showdown, men lined the walls, careful to stay out of the potential line of fire. It was a ticklish situation for Kurt Graves, and there were beads of sweat on his forehead. Finally he did exactly what Nathan had expected him to do. Keeping his right hand well away from his Colt, he shoved his left hand into his pocket and brought out a handful of double eagles. These he slapped on the table as an act of defiance.

“Five dollar bet,” said one of the drummers. “Table stakes.”

Nathan dropped a double eagle on the table and each of the drummers matched it. The first three hands, Nathan drew impossible cards. He took his losses, and when it came his turn to shuffle the deck, he slick-dealt Graves an unbeatable hand: four aces and a king. It took a moment for Graves to understand what had happened, and his face paled, but his money was already in the pot. There were gasps from the onlookers when they saw the cards. It was the perfect setup for Nathan to accuse Graves of cheating, but Nathan spoke not a word. Graves had begun sweating, but all he could do was rake in the pot. He slid back his chair and started to get up, only to have one of the drummers speak.

“It's customary to allow the losers a chance to recoup their losses.”

There were hostile faces all around Graves, and across the table. Nathan Stone's cold blue eyes never wavered. Graves hunched his chair back up to the table and play resumed. It seemed Kurt Graves couldn't lose, even without Nathan's help, and he took the next two pots. After he won a third pot, he had trouble controlling the trembling of his hands. But Nathan decided it had gone far enough, and slid back his chair. He spoke softly, but it had the effect of an explosion.

“Graves, you've been cheating but your luck just ran out. Draw.”

“No,” Graves shouted. “You been settin' me up.”

“You're a liar, a cheat, and a coward,” said Nathan. “Draw, damn you.”

“No,” Graves shouted defiantly.

“When the train pulls out of here tomorrow,” said Nathan, “you'd better be on it.” He stood up, kicking his chair back under the table.

Somebody laughed, and then everybody did, but it died away in a gasp. Nathan turned and drew, barely in time. Graves had drawn, but his slug ripped into the tabletop as lead from Nathan's Colt slammed into his chest. Graves fell into his chair, and it topped over backward. Nathan reloaded his Colt and returned his badge to its position on his shirt. Only then did he speak.

“I'm claiming self-defense. Does anybody dispute that?”

“My God, no,” a barkeep exclaimed. “The little sidewinder come within a whisker of drillin' you in the back.”

“A couple of you haul him out of here to the undertaker,” Nathan said.

Nathan didn't wait to see if they did or didn't. It was time to make the rounds of the other saloons. The shooting had drawn men who hadn't seen the showdown, and the event was recounted by those who had witnessed it.

“God,” said a man who had seen Nathan draw, “he's quick as greased lightning, but he's as much a killer as the little varmint he gunned down.”

 

“Most of the town believes you did what had to be done,” Foster Hagerman said, when he met Nathan at Delmonico's.

“And what does the rest of it believe?” Nathan asked. “That I'm just a killer with a badge?”

“Nobody's saying that,” said Hagerman.

“They're thinking it,” Nathan replied. “This is the kind of thing that will be picked up by the newspapers, and there'll be a whole new crop of fast guns looking for me.”

“I must admit I haven't considered that side of it,” said Hagerman. “I'll speak to the town council and get you out of the public eye as fast as I can.”

 

The days dragged on, and there was no more gun trouble in Dodge. The first week in January 1876, the Dodge town council hired Ellison Cox, an ex-buffalo hunter, to replace Nathan as sheriff. Two days later, Foster Hagerman invited Nathan to his office.

“I suppose you're still planning to ride to Dakota Territory,” Hagerman said.

“I am,” said Nathan, “and the sooner the better.”

“You're still a ways from spring,” Hagerman said. “Will you ride south again before you leave for Dakota?”

“I reckon,” said Nathan. “How far, and for what purpose?”

“To Fort Elliott. You're to bring back the wagon and the teams that belonged to the Dismukes. The government wants them.”

“The government already has them,” Nathan said. “Fort Elliott is the government.”

“Fifth Army Headquarters wants them brought here, to Dodge,” said Hagerman, “and as for their reasons, don't ask me. I wasn't told, and I'm not about to ask.”

“In the military, the wheels turn slowly,” Captain Selman said. “The sorry episode with the Dismukes took place, I think, last September. I filed a report with Washington and inquired about the disposition of the confiscated wagon and teams. I had heard nothing until three days ago, when I received word the property was being returned to Dodge.”

“You haven't searched the wagon, then,” said Nathan.

“No,” Selman replied, “not beyond discovering they were traveling with a full case of dynamite. We would never search seized civilian wagons unless we were more than a little sure their loads were contraband.”

“I don't aim to waste any time getting the teams and wagon back to Dodge,” said Nathan.

Nathan and Empty again took supper with the enlisted men, and afterward, for the lack of anything better to do, Nathan rode into Mobeetie, to the saloon. It was crowded, for a Monday night, most of the patrons being soldiers. The one exception was a well-dressed man in a derby hat. While he was dressed like an Easterner, a thonged-down Colt on his right hip belied that appearance. It was still early, and no games of chance were in progress. The women Nathan had brought from Dodge—Mamie, Cora, Winnie, and Eula—recognized Nathan and shouted a greeting. There were other women, one of whom was with the stranger in the derby hat. The barkeep nodded, recognizing Nathan.

“We don't get many civilians in here,” the barkeep said, when he brought Nathan's mug of beer. “That's Bat Masterson in the Yankee hat.”

“I've heard of him,” Nathan said. “Buffalo hunter. But the buffalo are gone.”

“That they are,” said the barkeep, “and that's not why he's here. That girl with him is Molly Brennan, and he's here to see her. I was hopin' he'd move on before the soldiers at Fort Elliott got off duty.”

“I reckon you've had your share of trouble,” Nathan said. “Civilians and soldiers just don't mix well, do they?”

“Not in these parts, anyhow. One of the soldiers—Ser—geant King—has been more of a nuisance than all the others combined. He spends all his time—when he's not on duty or in the guard house—with Molly Brennan. If he shows up tonight, while Masterson's with her, God only knows what he'll do.”

Nathan didn't know Sergeant King, but knew of him from Captain Selman. It was early, and since Nathan had nothing better to do, he remained at the bar, talking to the friendly barkeep. The troublesome Sergeant King arrived before Nathan had finished a second beer.

“Oh, God,” the barkeep groaned, “he's here.”

“You in the sissy hat,” King bawled, “get up. You're with my woman.”

“Soldier,” the barkeep said, “this is a saloon, not a matrimony bureau.”

But King had a pistol in his hand, and when he fired, the slug struck Masterson in the left arm. The ex-buffalo hunter rolled out of his chair, drawing his Colt, just as King fired a second time. King's slug caught Molly Brennan in the back, and she slumped across the table. From the floor, Masterson fired once, and King stumbled. Dropping the pistol, he caught the back of a chair, but he was dying. Taking the chair with him, he went down and didn't move.
²⁴

“My God,” said the barkeep, “he's killed Molly.”