Autumn of the Gun (33 page)

“What about the horses on which you rode in?” Selman asked.

“The horse I rode is mine,” said Wes. “I reckon the horse Rebecca rode belonged to one of the outlaws.”

“Yes,” Rebecca said, “it did belong to one of the outlaws. Father bought mules to draw the wagon, and after they shot him, they took the mules.”

“It could mean trouble,” said Selman. “The owner could accuse you of stealing the horse. If there's a problem, feel free to telegraph me and I'll stand behind you.”

“We're obliged, Captain,” Wes said.

“Where are we going?” Rebecca asked, as they rode away from the fort.

“We're going to track down those three outlaws that got away with your gold and your mules,” said Wes. “We owe them, and I pay my debts.”

When the posse returned to the Hitchfelt ranch, Hitchfelt was waiting for them.

“Who's in charge of this ragtag outfit?” he snarled.

“I am,” said Driscoll.

“I got two dead men, three others shot all to hell, and I'm missin' a hoss herd. What do you aim to do about it?”

“I aim to ride back to town and report to Sheriff Wilder,” Driscoll said.

“We could of rode 'em down,” said Slack Tarno, “but this chicken-livered bunch was afraid to cross the border.”

“We had our orders, Tarno,” Driscoll snapped, “and I aim to see that Sheriff Wilder knows you was all for disobeying 'em.”

Driscoll led out, heading for town, and the rest of the posse fell in behind. Reaching town, they rode directly to the sheriff's office, and Wilder came out to meet them. Driscoll quickly told him what had happened, and before he could respond, Tarno cut in.

“We ain't never gonna catch that bunch until we ride into Mexico after 'em.”

“The acting governor has been specifically warned that we are not to cross the border into Mexico,” Sheriff Wilder said. “Mexican authorities are trying to stop the driving of stolen stock into and out of Mexico. To the Mexican border patrol, one gringo may look like another. They wouldn't know us from the horse thieves, and crossing the river could get us all shot dead.”

It made sense, and Tarno said nothing more. The riders stabled their horses and made their way back to the hotel. Mostly because of Tarno, Nathan had left Empty behind, and the dog was hungry.

“We'll get your breakfast,” said Nathan, “and then I'll get mine.”

Empty was fed in the kitchen, and when he had finished, Nathan took him back to the hotel room. By the time Nathan got his order in for breakfast, most of the other deputies had finished eating.

“I thought I smelt dog stink,” Tarno said.

“I don't know how you smell anything,” said Nathan, “seein' as how you're surrounded by skunk stink.”

“I been wonderin' about that myself,” Tobe Crump said.

There was a roar of laughter as Tarno had his nasty humor flung back in his face. In a fury, he turned on Nathan.

“Damn you, ever since you showed up, you been rubbin' me the wrong way, an' now you got ever'body laughin' at me.”

“Tarno,” said Nathan, “you're bein' laughed at because you're always making a damn fool of yourself. You're so good at it, you don't need any help, so don't give me any of the credit.”

“By God, that's the truth if I ever heard it,” Driscoll said. “Tarno, you've been as mean as a stomped-on rattler ever since you got here. That badge don't stand you a damn bit taller than anybody else. You go on spoilin' for a fight, and somebody's goin' to oblige you.”

“When that somebody gits ready,” said Tarno, “let the varmint speak up.”

“I generally don't dirty my hands with scum,” Nathan said, “but I've been known to make exceptions. One more nasty remark about me or my dog, and I'd be tempted to show you the error of your ways.”

“If you wasn't standin' on your hind legs,” said Tarno, “I wouldn't know which was you an' which was the dog. I'll bet fifty dollars I can stomp hell out of you and take me a switch to your hound.”

“Make that a hundred,” Nathan said, “and you've got a bet.”

“A hundred it is,” said Tarno.

“There's a open field over yonder behind the Masonic hall,” Rand Dismukes said. “All the room we'll need to bury Tarno when it's over.”

They were a rough bunch of men, and none of them liked Tarno. So by the time they reached the field, excitement ran high.

“Shuck your guns,” said Driscoll. “If this ends up in a shoot-out, Sheriff Wilder will fire the lot of us.”

Nathan and Tarno unbuckled their gunbelts, and with the August sun beating down, they removed their shirts as well. Tarno was heavily muscled, and the hair on his chest didn't stop there but covered the upper part of his body. With bearded face and wolf grin, he seemed more beast than human. He went after Nathan, the fingers on his big hands working like talons, but Nathan was quicker. He seized one arm and flung Tarno over his head. Tarno fell like a lightning-struck oak, sending up a cloud of dust.

“Yeeeehaaa,” Stub Byler shouted, “don't he look natural, layin' there like a hog?”

The taunt got to Tarno as nothing else could have, and he surged to his feet. Nathan was waiting; stepping aside, he tripped Tarno, who went face down in the dirt. There was more laughter. The commotion had attracted other people, one of them Sheriff Wilder.

“Break it up,” Wilder bawled.

Tarno was on his hands and knees. Staggering to his feet, he turned on Wilder.

“This is a private fight, Wilder, and it ain't none of your business.”

“As long as you wear the badge and I'm paying you, it damn well
is
my business,” Wilder roared.

Tarno grabbed his shirt, ripped off the badge, and flung it at Wilder's feet.

“Now get out of town,” said Wilder. “If I catch you here again, I'll jail you.”

Nathan was buttoning his shirt when Tarno turned on him with a snarl.

“I ain't done with you, dog man. I'll settle with you another time.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Nathan said. “I'll watch my back.”

Sheriff Wilder waited until Tarno was gone, and then he spoke to Nathan.

“What was that all about, Stone?”

“He kept pushing,” said Nathan, “until I'd had enough.”

“It's true, Sheriff,” Driscoll said. “Tarno's been spoilin' for a fight ever since he rode in. I nearly had to pull iron on him to keep him from crossin' the border against orders.”

“Good riddance, then,” said Wilder.

Without another word, he walked away. Nathan and the rest of the deputies returned to the hotel.

“I'm so glad we're out of Indian Territory,” Rebecca said. “I expected those outlaws to be laying in wait for us.”

“They didn't expect to be followed,” said Wes, “and they're drivin' your teams of mules. They're headed for Fort Worth or Dallas.”

“I don't understand why we're following them,” Rebecca said. “They're two days ahead of us. By the time we catch up to them, they'll have sold the mules, and it'll be my word against theirs they killed and robbed my father.”

“Your word against theirs? Are you expecting to have them arrested?”

“I suppose,” she said. “What else can we do?”

“I can shoot them,” said Wes.

“What good will that do if they've sold the mules and spent all the money?”

“My God,” Wes said, exasperated, “don't you understand anything?”

“Oh, I understand more than you think I do,” she said angrily. “I understand that I'm just a foolish female from Ohio who doesn't know anything, while you're an experienced man of the West who knows everything.”

“Oh, damn,” he cried, “are we goin' through that again?”

She said nothing, and they rode on in silence. Harley Stafford had told him a little about tracking, and he believed the trail he followed was not more than a day old. But he lacked experience, and the ambush caught him unprepared. The roar of a Winchester ripped the stillness, and the lead flung Wes over the rump of his horse. Rebecca's horse reared, and that was all that saved her. She was thrown and she lay quietly, lest the bushwacker fire again. But there were no more shots, and hurrying to Wes, she knelt beside him. While she knew little about gunshot wounds, she could tell he had been hard hit. Blood welled from a wound high up, and his breathing was shallow.

“Oh, God,” she cried, “what am I going to do?”

Wes had believed the outlaws had been headed toward Fort Worth. If he had been right, Rebecca had only to follow the tracks they had been following. But suppose the outlaws made camp shy of Fort Worth and she stumbled upon them? Having had no experience in such matters, she knew of nothing else to do. She caught up the spooked horse and led him back to where Wes lay. She examined his wound; the bleeding seemed to have stopped. Three times she tried getting Wes across his saddle, and three times she failed. The smell of blood had again spooked the horse and the animal backstepped as she approached him. She took turns pleading with him and cursing him, all to no avail. Then there came the distant, welcome rattle of a wagon, and she could have shouted her relief when she saw it approaching from the northwest. Two men rode ahead of it and two behind, all dressed in Union blue. She stood up, waving her hat, and the advance riders trotted their horses until they reached her. They dismounted, and a sergeant spoke.

“What happened, ma'am?”

“Outlaws,” said Rebecca. “I'm Rebecca. That's Wes that's been shot.” Quickly she told them how she and Wes had been trailing the rest of the gang and how Wes had suddenly been shot. “We followed them out of Indian Territory.”

“Always a dangerous proposition, ma'am, when you're in or near Indian Territory,” said the sergeant. “We're bound for Fort Worth. There'll be a doc there, and we're not more than thirty miles out. Privates Picket and Wilson, get the wounded man into the wagon. Hargis, ride on ahead and have a look at the trail they've been following.”

“Oh, thank you,” said Rebecca. “Wes believed they were going to Fort Worth.”

The wagon moved out and Hargis rode ahead. The sergeant, trotting his horse alongside Rebecca's, spoke.

“I'm Sergeant Mullinax. If these men are at the fort, and you can identify them, you can bring charges and have them placed under military arrest. First we'll get the wounded man to a doctor, and then I'll go with you to talk to Captain Ferguson, the post commander.”

Corporal Hargis returned, and his report verified what Rebecca had told them.

“Three of them, Sergeant,” Hargis said, “and they've got four mules on lead ropes. I found the place where one of 'em fired the shot.”

“What I don't understand,” said Rebecca, “is why they didn't shoot me.”

“They likely didn't consider you a threat, ma'am,” Corporal Hargis said. “Getting a wounded man on his horse and to the fort would have been difficult for you.”

“It's also possible,” said Sergeant Mullinax, “that they don't intend to remain at the fort any longer than it takes to dispose of those mules.”

“I'm not concerned with the mules or the outlaws,” Rebecca said. “I just want to get Wes to a doctor. Trailing them was his idea.”

“There's nothin' wrong with goin' after what belongs to you,” said Sergeant Mullinax. “You just have to be careful you don't ride into an ambush. Those three had their eyes on their backtrail.”

 

The surviving outlaws—Burris, Doak, and Sellers—reached Fort Worth and wasted no time calling on Sergeant Rainey, the post quartermaster.

“We got four mules to sell,” said Doak. “Are you buying?”

“Maybe,” Sergeant Rainey said cautiously. “You got bills of sale?”

“No,” said Doak, “we ain't. We found ‘em just north of here, driftin', and they ain't branded. We're claimin' 'em.”

“Sorry,” Sergeant Rainey said. “Buying stock without bills of sale is against government regulations.”

“Anybody else around here that might be interested?” Doak asked.

“Civilian freighters, maybe,” said Sergeant Rainey. “Bean's outfit is unloadin' at the sutler's now.”

Roy Bean and his three teamsters had just rolled in from Corpus Christi, well over three hundred miles away, and were in no hurry to unload their freight. Burris, Doak, and Sellers found them in the saloon, inside the sutler's store.

“You're Roy Bean?” Doak asked.

“Depends on who's wantin' to know, an' why,” said the teamster. He drank the rest of his whiskey and stood up. His bullwhacker boots were run over and his old hat clearly had battled the elements and lost, while his homespun trousers were held up with red suspenders and the sleeves of his old flannel shirt were rolled up to the elbows. Leaning against the table was a Winchester rifle.

“We got four mules we're needin' to sell,” Doak said, “and we was told you might take them off our hands.”

“Maybe,” said Bean. “How much?”

“Fifty dollars apiece,” Doak replied.

“See me tomorrow,” said Bean, “an' I'll consider 'em.”

“We need to sell 'em today,” Doak said.

“Why?” Bean inquired. “Is the owner lookin' fer 'em?”

“Damn it,” said Doak, exasperated, “we're ridin' out today, and we don't aim to take 'em with us.”