Autumn of the Gun (23 page)

 

The next morning, when Nathan knocked on the door to Ben Thompson's room, there was no answer. The door was locked.

“Mr. Thompson left an hour ago,” the desk clerk informed Nathan.

Only in Cow Alley, the least desirable section of town, did the saloons open before noon. There, in a joint called Frog's Place, sat Ben Thompson, a bottle on the table before him.

“I thought you were going to have breakfast with me,” said Nathan.

“Hell,” Thompson said, “this is breakfast. Drag up a chair.”

“Ben,” said Nathan, taking a chair, “I'm riding to King Fisher's ranch. Why don't you come with me?”

“Just come from there,” Thompson said. “King's got himself a woman and by God, she's defanged and declawed him. He didn't have a drop of whiskey, and I near died of thirst before I could get away. I'm meetin' Billy in Dodge, and who knows where we'll go from there. Why don't you come along?”

“I just came from Dodge,” said Nathan. “I'm past due for a visit with King. I reckon I'll mosey on down there.”

“You'd better take your whiskey with you, then,” Thompson said.

They left the saloon together. At the corner, they encountered a pair of drunks, one of whom pointed to Ben and laughed.

“By God,” he shouted, “a genuine dude. One of them remittance men, I reckon.”
¹⁸

To Nathan's surprise, Thompson grinned at the pair, playing the part of a foppish and inexperienced easterner. He coughed, as one with lung fever who had been sent west for his health. Encouraged, one of the men took a swipe at Thompson's top hat, and it rolled into the gutter. Thompson's temper took flame like a prairie fire, and he drew his pistol.

“Damn you,” he roared. “You are a scoundrel and a coward. Is this how you would treat a stranger and a sick man? I am Ben Thompson, and equal to a dozen of the likes of you.”

The stranger drew his gun, leaped behind an awning post, and fired at Thompson. The little gambler returned fire, grazing the drunk's ear. As the frightened man ran away, lead from Thompson's pistol burned a furrow along his side.

“Ben,” Nathan said, “that's enough. You'll have the law on you.”

But the man with a bloodied ear and a crease in his side returned with a sheriff's deputy before Nathan could get Thompson off the street.

“Who started this?” the lawman demanded.

“He did,” Thompson snarled. “I defended myself.”

“That's true,” said Nathan. “The other man's gun has been fired.”

“Hand over the weapon,” the deputy demanded.

He examined the revolver, found it had been fired, and returned it. Then he spoke to the man who had complained.

“Looks like a Mexican standoff to me. You can file a complaint and take it before a judge, if you like, but there's no evidence you were assaulted. It'll be your word against his.”

Something in Thompson's cold stare got to the stranger. Followed by his companion, he turned and stomped away. The deputy shrugged his shoulders and went on about his business.

“I reckon I'll saddle up and ride north,” said Thompson. That was as close to goodbye as he ever got.

Nathan checked out of his hotel room, took his horse from the livery, and rode south.

“Get down and come in,” said King Fisher when Nathan rode up.

Empty was already on the porch, being greeted by Shaniqua, Fisher's Mexican housekeeper, for she had fed him well. Molly stood on the porch, smiling a welcome.

“Where's Vivian?” Fisher inquired. “Has she already sent you packing?”

“Not exactly,” said Nathan. “Let me unsaddle my horse, and I'll come in and tell you all about it.”

When Nathan returned to the house, Shaniqua had coffee ready, and Nathan spent the next hour telling them of Diablo's victories, with Vivian in the saddle.

“Thunderation,” Fisher exclaimed, “what are you doin' here? With your brand on a woman like her, ridin' a hoss that can't lose, you must of been grazin' on loco weed, just lettin' her out of your sight.”

“I reckon that kind of life is just too tame for me,” said Nathan. “I miss the shootin' and being shot at.”

“By God, I don't,” Fisher said.

“That's what I hear,” said Nathan. “I saw Ben Thompson in Austin, and he said you'd been defanged and declawed. Said you didn't have a drop of whiskey on the ranch, and if what he says means anything, you're a disgrace to Texas.”

“He's an evil little man,” Molly said, speaking for the first time. “I hope he's gone for good.”

“Ah, hell,” said Fisher, “Ben's a little strange, but he ain't no worse than your kin.”

“I can't deny that,” Molly said hotly, “but it's not something I'm proud of. Since I was born a Horrell, I can't change that, but at least I had the good sense to rid myself of them. If that little villain, Ben Thompson, shows up here again, I'm leaving.”

With that, she stomped away from the table. Fisher flung up his hands in frustration while Shaniqua, renewing her friendship with Empty, ignored them all.

“I've never been one to buy into a family feud,” said Nathan. “I reckon I'll ride on and come back another time.”

“Stay,” Fisher said. “She's had a burr under her tail ever since Ben left. Just try not to mention him again. She'll sulk her way out of it.”

“I don't fault a man for his friends,” said Nathan, “and I reckon—in his own way—Thompson's a friend of mine. Being honest, I'd have to tell you Vivian doesn't like Ben. He can be a gentleman when he chooses, but there's another side to him that just purely scares hell out of the ladies.”

“Well, I won't throw down a friend on a woman's whim,” Fisher said.

“Not even if that woman's your wife?” Nathan asked.

“Not even then,” said Fisher.

“King,” Nathan said, “I'm not one to talk down a man's friends, but Ben Thompson's headed for hell on greased skids. Molly fears he'll take you with him. While I like Ben, I'm seein' him in the same light.”
¹⁹

“Maybe you're right,” said Fisher grimly, “but a man who won't go to hell for a pard ain't much of a friend.”

Nathan slid back his chair, put on his hat, and stepped out on the porch. Uncertain as to what was taking place, Empty followed. Nathan went on to the barn, fully expecting his host to call to him, but Fisher did not. Nathan saddled the grulla and rode out, following the Rio Grande westward.

The westbound had just pulled out, and there was a knock on Foster Hagerman's office door.

“Come on in,” Hagerman said.

The door opened, and Harley Stafford stood there grinning. Hagerman got to his feet, extended his hand, and Harley took it.

“Pull up a chair,” said Hagerman. “If you're looking for work, or if you just came in to say howdy, I'm glad to see you.”

“Some of both,” Harley said. “I've given up racing.”

“I can't say I'm sorry,” said Hagerman. “Our chief of security was wounded last week during an attempted robbery. It's doubtful that he'll ever walk again. When can you start?”

“Today,” Harley said. “It wasn't meant for a man to set on his hunkers, working just two days a month.”

“Sounds pretty good to me,” said Hagerman. “Since you left, I've had maybe two days I could call my own. What about your sister?”

“She can easily take up the slack,” Harley said, “and it'll be better for both of us. For the lack of anything better to do, I'd taken to hanging around the saloons and gambling houses in New Orleans, and a man can't do that without drinking and gambling. Gamblers knew I was riding for Barnabas McQueen, and I was faced with bribes on every hand, all wanting me to lose an occasional race.”

“I can safely say you'll never be faced with that, working for the AT & SF,” said Hagerman. “The worst that can happen is that you may be shot dead, but you already know that. Nothing's changed. When you're in town, we'll pick up the tab for your room at the Dodge House and your meals at Delmonico's. Oh, there is one difference. I'll ask for a raise in pay, taking you up to two hundred a month.”

“I'm obliged,” Harley said, “but the job would be enough. I've won money on every McQueen race except one, so I'm not hurting.”

“Good,” said Hagerman, “but I'm paying you for the risk involved. The James gang has made a fine art of train robbery, and others have begun to follow their example.”

 

Hungry, Wes Tremayne had left the train in Kansas City. Big for his age, able to do the work of a man, he had survived on a poorly paid job at a livery, mucking out stalls. He had slept in the hayloft, often half-frozen, as the bitterly cold wind whipped through the cracks. Worse, there were drifters seeking shelter, and he often fought them for the little money he had, or for his clothing. One night he climbed into a partially loaded boxcar in the AT & SF railroad yards. A string of cars waited on a side track while an engine with tender backed toward them. When the tender bumped into the first of the cars, the brakeman completed the coupling and signaled the engineer with his lantern. The big locomotive lurched into motion, gathering speed, bound for Colorado. But the destination of several of the boxcars was Dodge City, Kansas, and in the small hours of the morning the cars were shuttled onto a side track and left there. Wes Tremayne slipped out. The sliding doors had not been locked, for the car was carrying heavy machinery. Dawn was several hours away, and the cold west wind had the feel of snow. While the railroad depot was closed, a small waiting room was unlocked, and it was there that Wes sought refuge. He had the price of a meal, and he suspected the prospects of work here would be as bad or worse than in Kansas City. With the first light of dawn, Wes left the depot seeking a cafe. He'd eaten nothing since the previous morning, and was sorely in need of food and hot coffee. It was early, and there were few on the streets, and when Wes found a cafe that was open, there was nobody but the cook.

“Mister,” said Wes, after paying for his meal, “I'm traveling west and I need work. I can do just about anything. Do you know of anybody needing a man?”

“Well,” the cook said, “you might try the Alhambra Saloon. Talk to Vic Irwin. He's forever needin' a swamper. It's the kind of work most men shy away from, because it pays just about enough to keep you in grub. But if Vic likes you, he'll fix you a bunk in the storeroom.”

“Thanks,” said Wes. “I'll talk to him.”

“You'll have to wait. The Alhambra don't open until ten o'clock.”

Wes walked the streets, pausing in an occasional doorway to escape the wind. Already there was sleet rattling off the boardwalk, an almost certain sign of snow to follow. Somewhere a clock—probably in a church or courthouse tower—struck nine. When it finally struck ten, the snow had already started, but Wes knew where the Alhambra Saloon was. He found a single bartender on duty.

“I need to talk to Mr. Irwin,” Wes said.

“Set down,” said the bartender. “I'll get him.”

Vic Irwin prided himself on knowing and understanding men. He had operated saloons all his adult years, and he had opened in Dodge while it was still a tent city. The moment he entered the saloon, the young man got to his feet, and not once did his ice-blue eyes leave those of Irwin.

“Mr. Irwin,” he said, extending his hand, “I'm Wes Tremayne, and I need work. I've been told you need a swamper, and I'm asking for the job.”

Impressed, Irwin took the extended hand. Finally he spoke.

“Yes, I am needing a swamper, and I'll be honest with you. It's a trying, thankless job. Whiskey generally brings out the worst in men.”

“I understand,” said Wes. “I can take care of myself, and I still want the job.”

“You have it,” Irwin said, “and you can begin today. You start at two o'clock in the afternoon, and you're here until two in the morning. Your wages are a dollar fifty a day, and there's a bunk for you in the storeroom. I haven't had breakfast. Will you join me?”

“Thanks,” said Wes, “but I've already had breakfast.”

“Come on,” Irwin said. “You can stand some more coffee, and I'm buying. You don't start work for another four hours.”

They left the saloon. As the bartender watched them go, he spoke aloud.

“Geez, I can't figger the old man. He's never paid a swamper more'n a dollar a day in all the years I've knowed him.”

Nathan rode west, bound for El Paso, his mind awash with conflicting emotions. Had it been more than six years since he had left El Paso, with a price on his head and a band of bloodthirsty bounty hunters on his trail? He allowed his mind to drift back to December 1874, when he had ridden to New Mexico to kill a man. The eventual showdown had left him wounded, out of his head, riding where his horse had taken him. Myra Haight, her son Jamie, and her daughter Ellie had found him near their barn. When he had been well enough to ride, he had taken the Haights with him to El Paso. There he had bought for Myra a half interest in Granny Boudleaux's struggling boardinghouse. This he had done for Myra, but he had been able to remain with her only a few days. Young Arlie Stewart, seeking a reputation as a fast gun, had forced Nathan into a gunfight. Seeking revenge for the death of his only son, wealthy Artemus Stewart had put a bounty on Nathan's head and had hired a pack of bounty hunters sworn to gun him down. Promising Myra Haight he would return, Nathan had left for San Antonio, riding for his life. But the bounty hunters had caught up to him, and wounded, he had played out his hand, when King Fisher had come to his rescue. The two had become friends.