The Dawn of Fury (66 page)

“Come here, you damn jughead,” somebody mumbled.

Saddles were out of the question, and they were having trouble mounting the skittish horses bareback. Nathan recognized Ringo Tull, for he wore the broad-brimmed hat of a cavalry officer. The other two men were hatless, and it was they who mounted first. They kicked their horses into a gallop, leaving Sim and Emily Hinkel lying in the corral dust. Tull had managed to mount, but before he could gallop away, Nathan put two slugs beneath the hooves of the already skittish horse. The animal reared, throwing Tull to the ground.

“Get up,” Nathan ordered, “and be careful what you do with your hands.”

Tull got to his feet and lifted his hands shoulder high.

“In the fall of 1865,” said Nathan, “seven no-account varmints murdered my family. You were one of them.”

“You got the wrong hombre,” Tull said. “I never been in Virginia in my life.”

“I didn't say you had,” said Nathan, “but you've just given me all the proof I need.” He holstered his Colt. “Now go for your gun.”

It was almost Nathan's undoing. Tull's Colt was on his left hip, butt forward, but his right hand didn't move. His left hand came down slowly and he had the sleeve gun palmed before Nathan drew. The derringer roared once, the slug plowing into the dust of the corral, for Nathan had shot Ringo Tull just above his belt buckle.

The sheriff and some of the posse were close enough to have witnessed the shooting.

“Damn,” said one of the sheriffs men, “you were close enough to plug Frank or Jesse, and you shot this varmint.”

“It was this varmint I wanted,” Nathan replied. “I'm leaving Frank and Jesse to you and your amigos.”

He left them standing there. Returning to where the horses were tied, he mounted the black. With Cotton Blossom following, he rode back to Gallatin, to Sheriff Kilmer's stable, and got his packhorse. From there he rode south to Kansas City, reclaiming his room at Eppie Bolivar's boardinghouse. When he had rubbed down his horses, then watered and grained them, he returned to the house seeking breakfast.

“You're late,” said Eppie. “Cotton Blossom's already finished.”

“Cotton Blossom's never finished,” Nathan said. “He just likes to catch some shuteye until it's time to eat again.”

Two days later, Nathan found a short paragraph in the Kansas City paper about Sheriff Kilmer and his posse flushing Frank and Jesse James from a farmhouse south of Gallatin, Missouri. While it stated that Ringo Tull, a member of the James gang, had been killed during the escape, Nathan's name was not mentioned.

Nathan decided to remain in Kansas City for a while, mostly because he enjoyed the nearness of the river and the quiet living at Eppie Bolivar's boardinghouse. Cotton Blossom always made friends with whoever did the cooking, and Eppie had fallen victim to his charm. It was convenient for Nathan when Cotton Blossom was satisfied to remain behind, for the dog was never at his best in saloons and gambling houses. Nathan continued riding into town three days a week, occasionally visiting the saloons, listening to the talk of bullwhackers, roustabouts, bartenders, and gamblers. There were newspapers from Omaha, St. Louis, Memphis, and New Orleans, as well as the local Kansas City Star. It was in the Kansas City paper that he read of the most recent episode in the lives of Frank and Jesse James. Despite their clash with the law, they had holed up at yet another farmhouse in Clay County, not far from Kansas City.
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Four members of a sheriff's posse had been about to close in on Frank and Jesse as they hid out in a barn on the Samuels farm. Warned by a Negro who was employed by Samuels, Frank and Jesse had spurred their horses out of the barn when the posse had begun to close in. There had been a wild exchange of gunfire that had killed Deputy Sheriff John Thomason's horse. The notorious James brothers had again escaped.

The first week in January 1870, there was a story in the Kansas City newspaper that intrigued Nathan. It concerned trouble along the right-of-way of the Kansas-Pacific Railroad between Kansas City and Hays, some three hundred miles west. It was a twofold problem, both of vital concern to the government, and it threatened the very existence of the railroad. Telegraph poles and lines were being pulled down by Indians—the Cheyennes—who hated and feared the “talking wire” and sought to destroy it. Fort Hays—a mile south of the town—had become a major government supply point for forts in all of western Kansas and part of Indian Territory. Disruption of telegraph service between Kansas City and Fort Hays had incensed the military. But that wasn't all. Military payrolls went by rail as far as end-of-track, tempting outlaws to rob the trains, stopping them by destroying part of the track.

The Kansas-Pacific was fighting back, offering pay of a hundred dollars a month to plainsmen—men who could and would shoot—to ride along the Kansas-Pacific track from Kansas City to Hays, and back again. Four such men were to be hired. Nathan went to the Kansas-Pacific office and asked for Joel Netherton, the man responsible for hiring. Netherton proved to be a slender young man with glasses who looked like a schoolteacher. He regarded Nathan with interest, his eyes lingering on the twin Colts.

“Do you own a repeating rifle?” he asked.

“I do,” said Nathan.

“Sit down,” Netherton said.

Nathan took the only available chair except for the swivel chair behind Netherton's desk in which he sat. The office was only a cubicle whose walls extended only a little above a man's head, allowing all the dirt, smoke, and noise of the railroad yard to descend like a fog. Somewhere a telegraph key chattered frantically, became silent, and then chattered again. The shrill blast of a locomotive whistle seemed to vibrate the very walls. Netherton shrugged his shoulders, waiting until the train had departed before he spoke again.

“Can you read and write?”

“I can,” Nathan replied.

“Do you by any chance know Morse code?”

“No,” said Nathan.

“We can teach you that,” Netherton said. “The railroad decided it would be easier to teach an Indian fighter the code than to teach a telegrapher to shoot Indians.”

“I'm not too sure about that,” said Nathan. “That set talks almighty fast.”

“You must know the code,” Netherton said. “You'll have a portable set with you. There will be times when you'll have to repair and test a line, and if there's damage to the track, you'll have to warn us so we can delay or stop the next train.”

“I like the sound of it,” said Nathan. “When do I start?”

“Eight o'clock in the morning,” Netherton replied. “I'll need you to complete and sign this form before you leave. Place it here on my desk.”

He went out, leaving Nathan with a single sheet of paper and a pencil. He grinned. All the Kansas-Pacific required of him was his signature. That absolved them of all responsibility in the event he was killed by Indians or outlaws, struck by lightning, run over by a locomotive, if his horse threw him or fell on him, if he shot himself ... and the list rambled on. He signed it, leaving it and the pencil on Netherton's desk. He believed he could learn Morse code and believed it was knowledge he could use to his advantage on the frontier. Besides, his duties would take him across three hundred miles of frontier every five days. When he reached Hays on Friday, he had the weekend there. The next Monday he would ride out for Kansas City, spending the next weekend there at Eppie's.

Nathan spent three days laboring over the code, attempting to memorize the combinations of dots and dashes that formed different letters of the alphabet. Finally, at the end of the third exhausting day, Netherton felt he was ready for the test. The morning of the fourth day, he was allowed to try his hand at “receiving” a message. It came slowly, and to his everlasting surprise, he found himself able to take it down on paper. As he mastered the code, the transmissions were speeded up. When he was allowed to “send,” he quickly became adept, for he knew the code.

“Congratulations,” said Netherton. “You leave for Hays next Monday.”

Nathan had made arrangements to leave his packhorse at Eppie's place, for he would pass through Abilene, as well as several other villages that had sprung up along the Kansas—Pacific tracks. If he were chased by Indians or outlaws, a packhorse might hinder him when he should be riding for his life. Worse, the horse and its pack might prove an added temptation to the Cheyennes. He could survive from his saddlebags, taking up the slack when there was town grub to be had. He had no idea what situation might confront him as he rode from Kansas City to Hays and back again, but the railroad led west, and it might bring him the one remaining killer who had yet to die ...

Abilene was only seventy-five miles west of Kansas City, a day's ride for a man on a good horse, and for that reason, most of the trouble with Indians and outlaws was taking place between Abilene and Hays, for the telegraph could relay messages quickly to Kansas City. A locomotive with tender and a freight car could be dispatched within the hour, bringing soldiers or a posse with horses, but only if the telegraph line was intact and there was somebody who knew the code to send the message. Every train crew included at least one qualified telegrapher, but Indians and outlaws had rendered them useless, for they had taken to pulling down or cutting telegraph lines ten to fifteen miles east of where they had torn up the track. That left a train crew with a dead telegraph line back to Kansas City and the soldiers at Fort Hays more than two hundred miles ahead. The outlaws, seeking military payrolls, were a hazard only to westbound trains. The Indians, however, intent on the destruction of the telegraph and the railroad, might strike anywhere along the line. So far they had concentrated on the lonely stretch of track between Abiline and Hays.

January 10, 1870, Nathan Stone rode west, following the Kansas—Pacific tracks. He knew the train schedule. For the time being, thanks to destruction of the track by Indians and outlaws, trains ran only during daylight hours. A train leaving Kansas City one morning remained at Hays overnight and returned to Kansas City the next day. Round-house facilities were always at end-of-track. From what Nathan had been told, a second line rider would leave Kansas City on Wednesday, scheduled to reach Hays on Sunday. Another pair of riders would follow a similar schedule, riding east to Kansas City, and, following a two-day layover, returning to Hays. Maybe a hundred and fifty miles west of Kansas City, Nathan should meet the eastbound line rider from Hays. By the time Nathan reached Hays on Friday, a second rider from there should be leaving for Kansas City. While these four outriders couldn't possibly cover the entire line, they would make it more difficult for those who wrought destruction on telegraph lines and Kansas—Pacific tracks.