Autumn of the Gun (14 page)

“I'll stay here until you're free, Nathan,” Vivian said, “however long it takes.”

“I appreciate that,” said Nathan, “but it would serve no good purpose. Barnabas, I want you and Bess to go home, taking Vivian and Empty with you. Since I never made it to San Antonio, you can go there and get the horses I was supposed to bring you.”

“No,” Vivian said, “I'm staying with you.”

“I don't want you out here alone,” said Nathan. “There'll be horse races all over Arkansas, Louisiana, and Mississippi, and Barnabas had plans to enter Diablo in all of them. Didn't you, Barnabas?”

“Well ...” Barnabas said.

“Vivian, Barnabas, Bess,” said Silver, “you can arrange for Captain Dillard to wire you information, just as he has promised to do for me. Nathan has the Texas Rangers on his side, and if anything should happen to him, the Rangers will raise hell and kick a chunk under it. None of you can do more than that.”

“He's talking sense,” Nathan said. “It's bad enough, me being stuck here without the rest of you having to hunker around, waitin' for something to happen. If we have to go for a new trial, that'll be soon enough for you to return here.”

It was a telling argument, and after handshakes with Silver and Barnabas, and tearful goodbyes from Vivian and Bess, the four departed. Nathan returned to his duties in the laundry, feeling dejected and more lonely than he'd ever felt in his life.

 

Staggs and Hez avoided Nathan in the mess hall, but when they looked at him, the hate in their eyes was obvious. While Nathan wasn't unfriendly, he didn't go out of his way to make friends. It came as a surprise one Sunday morning in the mess hall, when a slender man with dark hair, a horse face, and a lopsided grin sat down on the bench across the table.

“You look like a gent that keeps his mouth shut and minds his business,” the stranger said.

“I try,” Nathan replied.

“So do I. My name's Hardin. John Wesley Hardin. You must have heard of me, but nothin' good, I reckon.”

Nathan grinned, in spite of himself. “Not a single word. I'm Nathan Stone.”

“I've heard of you,” said Hardin.
“Muy bueno
with the
pistola.”

Nathan said nothing and Hardin continued.

“How long you in for, if I ain't bein' nosey?”

“You are,” Nathan said. “I got five years for bank robbery.”

“I'll likely be here the rest of my life,” said Hardin. “My daddy named me after John Wesley, the preacher. He had hopes of me bein' a sky pilot, but I ended up workin' for the other side.”
¹³

Nathan didn't like the turn the conversation was taking, and changed the subject.

“After the day's work is done, what does a man do with himself in a place like this?”

“Speakin' for myself,” said Hardin, “I generally head for my bunk after supper. I'm in the field from sunup to sundown, part of a maximum security detail, every man of us in leg irons. Every guard's equipped with a shotgun and orders that if shooting becomes necessary, shoot to kill.”

He looked at Nathan, a lopsided grin on his haggard face, no trace of humor in his eyes. He was difficult to talk to, and when Nathan said nothing, Hardin continued, this time on a lighter note.

“Sundays, now, I generally go to the library after dinner.”

“What kind of books do you read?” Nathan asked.

“Law.”

Nathan found that amusing and hardly knew how to respond. Hardin laughed.

“I been raisin' hell since I was ten, on the outs with the law since I was eleven, and now I'm twenty-four. I aim to learn something about the law. Hell, if I ever get out of here, maybe I'll open me a law office.”
¹⁴

Nathan had heard much about John Wesley Hardin. The man had a reputation as a cold-blooded killer. In 1874, the State of Texas had posted a four-thousand-dollar bounty on his head, dead or alive. Having met the man, it wasn't easy matching him to a killer who, at twenty-four, had become a legend. To satisfy his curiosity, Nathan went to the prison library that Sunday afternoon. Hardin was there, engrossed in a heavy, leatherbound book.

“You just might end up with that law office, after all,” said Nathan.

Hardin looked up, flashed his lopsided grin, and went back to his reading.

Vivian and the McQueens were preparing to return to New Orleans.

“I'll stay on top of the situation here,” said Captain Dillard, “and as soon as there is any change, I'll telegraph you.”

“I'll be here a while, yet,” Silver said. “After you shake the tree, it's interesting to step back and see what falls. I aim to see that Nathan's appeal makes it through the proper channels without delay.”

“I'm so glad,” said Vivian. “I don't feel so bad about us leaving, with you and Captain Dillard in charge.”

“If I'm needed,” Silver said, “all of you know how to reach me. Should I be away from Washington, any messages will be forwarded, and I'll get back to you.”

“Twice a month,” said Captain Dillard, “I'll either visit Nathan or send someone else. I will see that he knows we're working toward his release.”

The only time the prison inmates came together, except for work details, was in the mess hall. By the time Borg had been released from solitary, Staggs and Hez had begun a campaign to ostracize Nathan. When he sat down at a table to eat, others who were seated there got up and moved. Nathan countered their rejection by seating himself at an empty table. At the start of his third day of eating alone, John Wesley Hardin placed his tin tray on the table across from Nathan and sat down to breakfast.

“I don't know what you got,” said Hardin, “but it must be contagious as hell.”

“It is,” Nathan said. “Borg, Staggs, and Hez tried to drag me into a jail break, and I didn't go along.”

Hardin laughed. “I heard about that. They're callin' you a Judas to your own kind.”

“My kind, hell,” said Nathan, in disgust. “If I wasn't trapped in here, I wouldn't squat and eat within a hundred miles of any of this bunch.”

Hardin laughed again, his hard blue eyes twinkling. “My feelings exactly,
amigo,
and if I'm any judge of yellow coyotes, this bunch is workin' their way into a killin' mood. I'd not be surprised if they all jump you sometime soon.”

“You're not making any friends,” said Nathan.

“Considerin' what I got to choose from,” Hardin said, “then maybe I don't want any. Present company excepted, of course.”

It was Nathan's turn to laugh, and his laugh was bitter. “My luck's taken such a rotten turn, they'll stomp hell out of me, and it'll be
me
that goes to solitary.”

Nathan had heard of prison riots where men like him had been singled out for retribution. The mess hall was the obvious place, for nowhere else did all the inmates come together at the same time. Should the brawl become serious enough, one of his adversaries—Borg, Hez, or Staggs—could kill Nathan without being caught in the act. It was a cowardly method of destroying an enemy—the killers hiding among a surging mass of struggling men and preventing prison officials from fixing individual responsibility for any deaths. It all came together at suppertime, the day before Christmas. Hardin, who had continued taking his meals with Nathan, spoke.

“This is it,
amigo.
Borg, Hez, and Staggs ain't got the sand to take their seats at our table, but every day they've been workin' their way closer. They're at the table next to us, and they'll try to take you in the thick of the fight. They're likely armed with makeshift knives.”

“Hardin, this is not your fight,” said Nathan. “There are other tables.”

Hardin laughed. “But none as interesting as this one. Somebody in the back of the hall will start the dance, but don't look for Borg, Hez, and Staggs to jump in immediately. We don't make our move until the whole bunch rushes us. Then we flip this table on its side and force them three bastards to come after us.”

Nathan said nothing, for it seemed the convicted killer at the table with him wanted this anticipated conflict. Hardin's cold blue eyes seemed to sparkle, and on his lean, horsey face was that lopsided, don't-give-a-damn grin. Suddenly, near the front of the mess hall, there was a shouted curse. Men surged to their feet, shouting and began throwing tin trays and cups.

“It's time,
amigo,”
Hardin shouted.

Nathan leaped to his feet and the two of them overturned the table, its top toward the sea of men who surged forward. Then the unexpected happened. The two guards from the front of the mess hall dropped behind the overturned table, one at each end. Facing the ugly snouts of two shotguns, the surging men dropped back. Even Borg hesitated, but Hez and Staggs leaped the table. Each man had in his hand a piece of kitchen cutlery he had hidden and honed for the occasion.

Stepping aside, Nathan avoided Hez, seized his upraised arm, and slammed him to the hard floor, face down. Nathan was on him in an instant, twisting his arm, forcing him to drop the knife. But Hardin hadn't been so fortunate, for Staggs had a weight advantage and the two were locked in a death struggle. The prison guards had the rest of the inmates under control and the eyes of every man were on Hardin and Staggs. Suddenly it was all over and Hardin got shakily to his knees. Staggs lay on his back, his own knife driven into his chest. One of the guards had Hez on his feet, his hands manacled behind him, as one of the other guards went after Borg.

“I didn't do nothin',” Borg shouted.

Like Hez, his hands were manacled behind him, and the two were led away by prison guards.

True to his word, Captain Dillard had kept in touch with Nathan Stone, taking him newspapers and occasional word from Byron Silver and the McQueens. This day, however, the Ranger didn't relish the task that lay ahead. As soon as the prison guard led Nathan into the little room with its barred window, he sensed something was wrong. The Ranger always greeted him with a smile, but this time it seemed forced.

“Bad news, Captain?” Nathan asked.

“I'm afraid so,” said the Ranger. “Your appeal has been denied. I have petitioned the court for a new trial, and Silver's demanding a change of venue. He's going to act as your counsel before the court, and if he has his way, the trial will take place in Austin.”

“I have all the confidence in the world in Byron Silver,” Nathan said, “but do you really believe a change of venue will make any difference?”

“I most certainly do,” said Captain Dillard. “Remember that bank teller who swore you were one of the bank robbers? At Silver's insistence, I backtrailed that young man. He is the son of a woman Sheriff Oscar Littlefield was more than a little fond of a few years back, and it was our friend Sheriff Littlefield who got the boy a job at the bank.”

“So the bank teller might have helped Sheriff Littlefield look good at my expense.”

“Silver thinks so and I agree,” said Captain Dillard. “It's one of those things we can't prove beyond the shadow of a doubt, but we don't have to. It's enough to blow Sheriff Littlefield's credibility to hell and gone. We're demanding a trial by jury, too. So that's the good news. You will definitely be granted a new trial. The bad news is, of course, that we don't know how long you'll have to wait. It may take longer if we're granted a change of venue, but I believe it'll be worth the wait.”

“So do I,” Nathan said.

 

“Damn it,” Barnabas McQueen said, after receiving a telegram from Captain Dillard, “I don't see how they can do this to a man and get away with it.”

“They haven't gotten away with it,” said Bess. “Captain Dillard said we would soon be hearing from Byron Silver with more information.”

“I have confidence in Mr. Silver,” Vivian said. “I know a new trial will take longer, but I want Nathan free of all charges and I believe it's the best way.”

A week later, Captain Powers—in charge of the federal outpost in New Orleans—rode out to the McQueen place with a lengthy letter from Byron Silver. It explained much of what Captain Dillard had told Nathan, and ended by assuring them that Silver would be Nathan's counsel when he again went to trial.

It was a dreary Sunday afternoon and the rain came down in gray sheets, slashing at the windows of the little church Anna Tremayne had attended all her life. Now she lay in a coffin before the altar, soon to be lowered into a grave in the little churchyard, beside her husband, John. As the minister droned on, young John Wesley Tremayne—not quite twelve years old—gritted his teeth and gripped the back of a pew with his hands. While he mourned the loss of Grandma Anna, his grief had been all but swallowed up by his anger. While his life without mother or father hadn't been ideal, it was about to become infinitely worse. He had been temporarily taken in by the minister and his wife, but only until arrangements could be made to send him to an orphanage.

Finally the service was over, and he was led into the drizzling rain, among mourners who followed the coffin to the old graveyard behind the church. He watched them lower the coffin into the grave with no outward emotion, and as though from far away, he could hear the shocked whispers of some of the female mourners.

“... alone in this world, and not a tear.”