Autumn of the Gun (26 page)

To Nathan's dismay, the rest of the bank's personnel and the customers who had seen his reaction gathered around him, and that's how it was when Sheriff McCormick arrived. He examined the two dead men, whistled long and low, and then set about asking questions of the bank's patrons and personnel. When he reached Nathan, there was admiration in his eyes.

“That was a slick piece of work,” he said. “Do you know who those men are?”

“No,” said Nathan, “I've never seen them before.”

“They're part of the Sandlin gang,” McCormick said. “They're wanted on both sides of the border, and there's bound to be a reward.”

“I don't want it,” said Nathan. “I have my own reasons for disliking bank robbers.”

But the harder Nathan tried to escape the limelight, the more difficult it became. While he refused to talk to newspaper reporters, others who had witnessed the shooting seemed to glory in the repeating of it. As a result, he eventually was forced to accept a thousand-dollar reward, and that fired public interest to even greater heights. But one evening, near dark, as Nathan rode out of town, a hidden rifleman cut down on him. He barely escaped with his life, and attempts to trail the bushwhacker were futile.

“It's likely the Sandlin gang, bent on revenge,” Sheriff McCormick said.

“I'm obliged to the town for making them aware of me,” said Nathan. “Why did you think I didn't want your rewards and newspaper stories?”

“Well,” McCormick said, “it's the first time anybody ever interrupted a holdup and gunned down some of the gang. We had no idea—”

“Now you do,” said Nathan, “and what would you suggest that I do?”

“Was I you,” McCormick said, “I'd ride on. This bunch is dug in solid, wanted on both sides of the border. I hear there may be more than two dozen of them. They got a regular border empire, and if they want you, they'll get you.”

Nathan rode back to Granny Boudleaux's, considering what Sheriff McCormick had told him. It was reason enough for him to leave El Paso. He didn't consider it his responsibility, bringing the Sandlin gang to justice, but what choice did he have if he allowed himself to be sucked into a grudge fight? It was time to talk to Molly, and he planned to do so immediately after supper. But his enemies didn't wait. They allowed him to stable his horse and reach the house, and from the darkness, half a dozen Winchesters cut loose. Lead shattered windows with a tinkling crash, and soot rained down as a slug struck a stovepipe.

“On the floor!” Nathan shouted.

But the onslaught ended as suddenly as it had begun.

“My God,” Molly cried, “what was that all about?”

“The Sandlin gang's after me,” said Nathan. “They're out to get even for the owlhoots I gunned down in the bank last week. They tried to backshoot me in town a while ago.”

“You talk to sheriff,” Granny Boudleaux said.

“I have,” said Nathan. “He suggested I ride on.”

“No,” Molly cried.

“There's more than two dozen of the varmints, and they're holed up on both sides of the border,” said Nathan. “You want a daily dose of what you had tonight?”

“Cost hundred dollar, fix windows,” Granny Boudleaux said.

“If you go, I'm going with you,” said Molly.

“Molly,” Nathan said, “there are men all over the frontier who would like to see me dead, and they'll kill anybody standin' in the way. That includes you.”

“If you ride away,” said Molly, “I may never see you again.”

“If I stay here and ride into El Paso, you may never see me again,” Nathan said. “I'll ride back when this settles down, but I don't aim to stay here, where lead meant for me can kill you or Granny. Surely you can understand that.”

“I can understand your reasoning,” said Molly, “but I don't like it.”

“He smart hombre,” Granny said. “You listen.”

Assured by Nathan that he would return, Molly made the best of it, and Nathan rode north the next morning at dawn.

It was still early, but Nathan and Empty sought a cafe for supper. As they entered, it came as a surprise to Nathan when he found himself face to face with the notorious Doc Holliday. Nathan hadn't seen Holliday since the temperamental little gambler had shot up a saloon in Dallas. Ignoring Nathan, Holliday left the cafe.

“My God,” said the cook in awe, “that's Doc Holliday.”

“Yes,” Nathan said, “I've seen him before.”

“The word is, he's here to get Charlie White,” said the cook.

“Who's Charlie White?”

“Bartender over to the Tumbleweed Saloon,” the cook said. “A grudge on Holliday's part, I reckon.”
²²

“If you got no objection to my dog, he's a payin' customer,” said Nathan.

“He's welcome,” the cook said. “It's been a slow day.” After supper, Nathan found a livery and stabled his horse. He then went looking for a hotel and a room for the night. It was still early, and since Nathan had never been in Las Vegas before, he decided to see the town.

“Empty,” said Nathan, “I may visit a saloon or two, so I'm leavin' you here with my bedroll and saddlebags.”

Nathan locked the door, unconcerned with leaving Empty behind, for he didn't know which the hound hated more—steamboats, locomotives, or saloons. Las Vegas didn't seem much more than a village, and when Nathan reached the Tumbleweed Saloon, it appeared the most likely place to spend some time. It was still the supper hour, and there were only five men in the saloon. One of them was the bartender, and the remaining four were at a table, playing poker. Nathan ordered a beer and wandered over to the game in progress.

“Mind if I sit in?” he asked.

“Table stakes,” said one of the men. “Dollar a game.”

Nathan dragged out a chair and sat down. He promptly lost three hands and was about to fold when the bat wings swung open and Doc Holliday stood there.

“I ain't wantin' trouble, Doc,” the bartender said, his hands shoulder high.

“You're damn well about to get it,” Holliday shouted.

Charlie White ducked behind the bar and came up with a sawed-off shotgun, but he had no chance to use it. Holliday had drawn his pistol and fired twice. The scatter-gun clattered to the floor, and the hapless bartender fell across it. Holliday turned and walked out the door. Only then did one of the poker players venture behind the bar, and he shouted to the others.

“Charlie's alive! Somebody get the doc!”

By the time the doctor arrived, two of the tables had been shoved together, and the wounded Charlie White was stretched out on them.

“He was shot twice,” one of the poker players volunteered.

“I don't think so,” said the doctor. “His head's been creased, and that's the extent of his injury. He'll have a fierce headache for a while, but he'll live.”

The owner of the saloon was sent for, and Charlie White was sent home. The poker game broke up, amid speculation that Doc Holliday might return. Nathan left the saloon and returned to his hotel, wondering why no lawman had shown up to investigate the shooting. He was unimpressed with Doc Holliday. Twice he had encountered the man; both times he had been engaged in a saloon shooting.

Nathan had spent an unusually pleasant Saturday night in the Sunflower Saloon. There had been a six-hour poker game that had broken up at midnight. Suddenly a fight broke out near the bar, and it took half a dozen men to separate the combatants. One of the men—the drunker of the two—wore a brace of twin pistols.

“Who's the gent with the
buscadera
rig?” Nathan asked a bystander.

“George Flatt. Used to be a marshal, but his hard drinkin' and quick guns got him in trouble. The gent that just tangled with him is Frank Hunt, a new deputy marshal that's been appointed by Mayor Mike Meagher. Flatt gives Hunt hell ever' chance he gets.”

Apparently, some of Flatt's friends had persuaded him to leave the saloon, and Nathan left right behind them.

“George,” said one of the men accompanying Flatt, “let's go to Segerman's Restaurant for some grub.”

After some persuading, Flatt agreed to go, and the trio started across the street to the restaurant. Suddenly there was a shot, and Flatt lurched forward, shot through the back of his skull. Before he fell, three more slugs ripped into his body.

“Frank Hunt's killed him,” somebody shouted. “I seen him.”
²³

Ogallala proved to be a lively town stretched along the Union Pacific Railroad tracks. There was an abundance of saloons and boardinghouses catering to railroad men, and again Nathan left Empty behind while he visited the saloons. He had won more than three hundred dollars since leaving El Paso, and not once had he been forced to pull a gun. But the saloons in this Nebraska town interested him. One of them—the Cementario—had a crimson death's head painted above the door. It was the rowdiest of the lot, and Nathan was surprised to find the house dealer was none other than the unpredictable Billy Thompson. Nathan bought a beer, leaned against the bar, and searched the crowd, fully expecting to see Ben. But this time, it seemed Billy was on his own, for Ben was nowhere in sight. Nathan moved closer and it soon became obvious that Billy Thompson had continued his relationship with the bottle. He was just drunk enough to have unbounded confidence in himself, which proved to be his undoing. One of the men dropped his cards, slid back his chair, and stood up.

“Billy Thompson,” he shouted, “you're a cheatin', tin-horn bastard!”

“Damn you, Jim Tucker,” Billy snarled. “Draw.”

But Texan Jim Tucker had an edge, for he hadn't been drinking. Both reached for their guns as onlookers fought to get out of the line of fire. Billy Thompson didn't get off a shot. He stumbled back and sat down in his chair, bleeding from five wounds.

“Here comes Sheriff Naylor,” somebody shouted.

Sheriff Ollie Naylor looked from Jim Tucker to the bleeding Billy Thompson. Despite his wounds, Billy still gripped his Colt.

“Even break, Sheriff,” said Tucker. “He was cheating.”

“He sure as hell was,” another man agreed. “If he ain't dead, let's string him up.”

“Nobody's gettin' strung up,” said the sheriff. “Some of you tote him to the doc's place.”

Thompson was taken away, but there was angry talk as Jim Tucker spread out the cards from which Billy had been dealing. Nathan remained in the saloon after the sheriff had departed, and there was more talk about lynching Billy Thompson.

“Wait till the little varmint's healed some,” a man said. “Then we'll introduce him to the business end of a rope.”

Ben Thompson always seemed to be around when Billy got in over his head, but for once, it seemed Billy was on his own. Nathan found the doctor's office and went in. Since he considered himself a friend to Ben Thompson, he could at least telegraph Ben and tell him of Billy's predicament—if only he knew where Ben was. Nathan waited in the outer office until the doctor came out.

“I'm Dr. Summers. What can I do for you?”

“I'm Nathan Stone, a friend of Ben Thompson, brother to the man that was brought over from the saloon. I reckon I can telegraph Ben, if Billy knows where he is.”

“Billy Thompson is in no condition to talk to you,” said Dr. Summers. “As soon as I'm finished with him, the sheriff is having him moved to the hotel, under guard.”

There was little Nathan could do except leave, and he did. Many a man on the frontier had been shot dead for cheating at cards, and it seemed Billy Thompson had been in town long enough to accumulate some enemies. Nathan found Sheriff Ollie Naylor.

“Sheriff,” said Nathan, “I know Ben Thompson, Billy's brother. As a favor, I'm willing to telegraph the news to Ben, if you know or can learn where he is.”

“Friend,” Sheriff Naylor replied, “do
yourself
a favor and stay out of this. If Ben Thompson shows up in this town, he'll likely be strung up alongside his hell-raising little brother.”

“Bein' sheriff,” said Nathan, “you seem almighty certain Billy's goin' to be strung up.”

“I've never lost a prisoner to vigilantes yet,” Naylor said, “but there's always a first time. I'm just one man. After the doc's had him moved to the hotel, I'll post a guard at his door. Beyond that, I'm makin' no promises.”

While Nathan had no intention of taking on a lynch mob to save the troublesome Billy Thompson, he decided to remain in town another day or two. He still wasn't convinced that Ben wouldn't show up.

 

The next afternoon, Nathan returned to the saloon where Billy Thompson had been shot, and to his surprise, he encountered Bat Masterson.

“Been here long?” Bat inquired.

“Couple of days,” said Nathan. “I was here when Billy Thompson was shot.”

“I heard about that,” Masterson said. “Let's find us a table and talk.”

They took chairs at a corner table, and Masterson called for a bottle and glasses. He drew the cork with his teeth and filled their glasses. Masterson spoke.

“I am assuming Billy isn't dead. Where is he?”

“At the hotel,” said Nathan. “I would have telegraphed Ben, but I have no idea where he is. I've been warned to stay out of this by none other than Sheriff Naylor himself.”

Masterson laughed. “That's good advice. Ben's about as welcome here as a Comanche war party at a sodbuster barn raising. He's in Dodge. Somebody from the saloon where Billy was shot telegraphed Ben, and he talked me into comin' here and saving Billy's hide if I can. I came in on the Union Pacific westbound.”