Autumn of the Gun (47 page)

Wes rode on, resting and watering his horse, painfully aware that he seemed no closer to his adversary. In his haste and fury, he had brought no supplies. In his saddlebags was only a quantity of jerked beef. The sun slid slowly down the western horizon toward the rim, where it would soon disappear in a moonless night sky, and Wes had no choice but to make camp for the night. When he reached a spring, he unsaddled the horse, picketing it on the little graze there was. Leaving his saddle beside the spring, he spread his blankets above it in a concealing thicket. He was learning the ways of the frontier, the means of staying alive.

Nathan felt a little guilty as he rode north, again avoiding El Paso.

“Empty,” he said, “I'm just not ready to tie myself down to a woman. Not even one as pretty as Molly Horrell. I reckon we'll just follow the Rio north, and from Pueblo take the train to Dodge.”

Nathan reached the Rio Grande a hundred and seventy miles north of El Paso. There he made camp for the night and cooked supper for Empty and himself. He was about to douse the cookfire when he heard the rumble of a wagon somewhere to the south. Quickly he put out the fire and stood facing downriver until he could see the approaching wagon. A man in town clothes and a top hat controlled the reins of the four-mule team. Beside him sat a woman whose gown seemed totally unsuited to the frontier, but the Winchester rifle across her knees looked all business. But the six riders accompanying the wagon were all the more out of place, for they were soldiers in Union blue. The lead rider, with the silver bars of a captain riding the epaulets of his blue coat, raised his right hand. The rest of the soldiers reined up, and the wagon rumbled to a halt. The captain spoke.

“I must ask you to identify yourself, sir, and state your business.”

“I'm Nathan Stone,” said Nathan, “and I can't see that my business is any of yours.”

Something about the man didn't ring true, and Nathan didn't like him. The nearest military outpost would have to be at El Paso, and with Indians no longer a threat, how did a civilian-driven wagon command a six-man escort? It was the woman who spoke, further deepening the mystery.

“Captain, I don't believe he's a threat to us. Darkness is only minutes away. Perhaps we can spend the night here. Have you any objection, Mr. Stone?”

“None,” said Nathan, “as long as your soldiers back off. I don't like being regarded as a fugitive.”

She laughed. “I am Kathleen La Mie, and this is my husband, André. The soldiers—”

“Madam,” the captain snapped, “I am capable of introducing myself and my men.”

“Then do so,” the woman replied, and the officer fought to control himself before he finally spoke.

“I am Captain Kendall. This is Sergeant Gannon, Corporal Walton, and Privates Olson, Baird, and Ponder.”

“Where is your outpost?” Nathan inquired.

“I don't regard that as any of your business,” said Kendall.

“Maybe it's more of my business than you think,” Nathan said, his cold eyes meeting Kendall's. “I know most of the commanding officers at the Texas outposts, and some of the other personnel, but I don't recall ever seeing you.”

“I am newly assigned to the outpost at Houston,” said Kendall. “Are you satisfied?”

“No,” Nathan replied. “What are you doing in New Mexico?”

“We are a military escort,” said Kendall, barely controlling his temper. “Indians—”

“Indians haven't been a threat since 1874,” Nathan said. “Try again.”

“Captain,” said Kathleen La Mie, “I see no need for secrecy. Mr. Stone, we are bound for Colorado. The wagon's cargo is vintage French wine, in quart bottles, twelve of them to a case.”

“For that you need a military escort?” Nathan asked.

“We believed so,” she said. “It's worth a fortune.”

“Then why wagon it eight hundred miles across country?” Nathan asked. “Why didn't you take it from New Orleans to St. Louis by steamboat, and from there on to Colorado by train?”

“We had our reasons,” said André La Mie, speaking for the first time.

“Now,” Kathleen said, “if you're satisfied, we'll make camp, and after supper, you may sample our vintage wine.”

“I'm obliged,” said Nathan, “but I'm not much of a wine drinker.”

La Mie stepped down from the wagon box and began unharnessing the teams. Kendall and his men dismounted and unsaddled their horses. Kathleen La Mie started a fire and got supper under way. Kendall and his men settled down, waiting for the food to be prepared. It was uncharacteristic of the military, dawdling about a civilian camp, and with darkness falling, a potential enemy could see the fire from a great distance. Not liking or trusting these strangers, Empty had disappeared. Nathan sat with his back against a pine, and he was aware that the soldiers—if that's what they were—had their eyes on him. Nathan gave as good as he got. He kept his eyes on Captain Kendall, and the more he saw of the man the more suspicious he became. The sleeves of Kendall's officers coat were much too short, and instead of regulation boots he wore cowman's boots with pointed toes and high, undershot heels.

“Captain,” said Nathan, “you're setting a poor example for your men. Those boots you're wearing aren't regulation.”

“Mind your own damn business, Stone,” Kendall replied.

One of the privates laughed, and Kendall cast him a dirty look. Kathleen La Mie paused at the supper fire, her eyes on Kendall. She spoke.

“André, break out a bottle of wine, and starting with Mr. Stone, pour all of us some. Perhaps it will relax us for the meal.”

La Mie let down the wagon's tailgate and, standing on it, began fumbling around inside the wagon. He emerged with a fancy quart bottle of green glass with a green and gold label. He continued pawing around until he produced a box, from which he removed a dozen glass goblets. These he placed on the wagon's tailgate, carefully filling each glass with wine.

“You may go first, Mr. Stone,” said Kit. “You are our guest.”

Nathan went to the wagon, downed a glass of wine, and returned to his former position. The wine was no better or worse than what could be had in almost any saloon on the frontier, and his suspicion grew all the more. While he had no idea what these people were transporting, he was now virtually certain the wine was only a cover. The La Mies had been all too anxious for him to sample the wine. Eventually, this bunch had to sleep, and if they posted a guard, Nathan intended to discover the secret within that wagon. He did his best to conceal his suspicion and to appear amiable. While the others partook of the wine, Kathleen La Mie had her eyes on Nathan. Finally she spoke.

“Well, Mr. Stone, what is your opinion of our vintage wine?”

“I'm impressed,” Nathan lied, “but I can't believe you're taking it all the way to Colorado just to sell it to the saloons.”

She laughed. “Hardly, Mr. Stone. Because of the mines, Colorado has wealthy men to whom price is no object. We will sell to the highest bidder, by the bottle or by the case.”

“It's out of my reach, then,” said Nathan, “and I'm obliged for the sample. I reckon I'll turn in, so I can get an early start in the morning.”

Taking his saddle, Nathan led his horse upriver a hundred yards. There he settled down for the night. Later there would be a moon, offering enough light for him to learn the secret of the wagon—or to be shot should he be discovered. Empty crept out of the brush and lay down beside Nathan, and there they waited until an hour past moonrise. The camp downriver became quiet, the silence unbroken but for the horses and mules cropping grass. Slowly Nathan made his way along the river bank, keeping within the shadows until he could see the sleeping camp. Moonlight bled through the trees, isolating those who slept in pools of shadow. But only seven of them slept, and that meant one man was on watch. Nathan waited patiently, his eyes on the wagon, until the sentry took a draw from his quirly. Nathan grinned in the darkness. The man was within the shadow of the wagon, his back to a rear wheel, but each time he took a draw from his smoke, the small glow gave away his position. Nathan continued along the river bank until he was well beyond the camp. He then had to cross a clearing and make his way to the wagon, bringing him in behind the man on watch. Once he was able to buffalo the sentry, he would have only until the man regained his senses. In that short interval, he must investigate the contents of the wagon, return to his horse, and make his escape. While the six in uniform were just poor excuses for soldiers, they looked like the kind who could and would shoot to kill. Nathan reached the side of the wagon opposite the sentry, and on hands and knees, began making his way under the old Studebaker.
³⁶

“Damn,” the sentry muttered, getting to his feet. The fire had fallen from his smoke, and he brushed it from his clothing. Again he sat down, his back to the wheel; using his hat to shield the flame, he relighted his quirly.

It wasn't easy, slugging a man through the spokes of a wagon wheel, but Nathan did it. But his victim was only stunned, and Nathan was forced to hit him again. Some of the sleeping men, should they awaken, would easily be able to see Nathan at the tailgate of the wagon, but it was a chance he'd have to take. All of them were between him and his grazing horse, leaving him in a perilous position should he be discovered. The wagon's canvas pucker was drawn, affording him little room to do more than investigate with his hands. He quickly discovered there were wooden cases stacked high as the wagon bows allowed, and the only choice he had was to remove a bottle from the case André La Mie had already opened. Carefully he lifted out a bottle and froze, for the cold muzzle of a gun was just behind his left ear.

“Don't you even breathe, Stone,” said Kendall. “There's nothin' I'd like better than to just blow your brains out right now, but you got some talkin' to do first.”

Wes never seemed to gain on the lone horseman, and a few miles west of Uvalde the tracks merged with those of five other horses. The six riders continued on together, and it was obvious they were bound for the border. Even more curious were the tracks of yet another horse that had galloped in from the east. This rider seemed in pursuit of the first six, yet Wes doubted he was part of the gang. Who was he and what was the purpose of his pursuit? Wes had ridden only another mile or two when he saw a rider approaching from the south. He reined up, waiting, and soon recognized Texas Ranger Bodie West.

“Lost them at the border,” said West in disgust, slapping his dusty hat against his thigh. “They hit Bell's place, I reckon?”

“One of them did,” Wes said. “I didn't know about the others until all of them came together back yonder a ways.”

“They didn't rustle any stock,” said West. “Word I got was, they had shot up half a dozen ranches. Nothing but harassment.”

“A hell of a lot more than that at the Bell ranch,” Wes said.

“Somebody hurt?”

“Somebody dead,” said Wes. “Rebecca.”

“My God,” West said, removing his hat. “The little lady. Tell me about it.”

He listened, swearing under his breath as Wes told him the tragic story. When Wes had finished, the young Ranger spoke. His voice was brittle and savage, and his eyes like live coals.

“Remember, I told you not to chase them across the border?”

“Yes,” Wes said, “I remember.”

“That was Bodie West, Texas ranger, talking. Now you're about to hear from Bodie West, the man, the Texan. Ride the bastards down, if you have to run them all the way to Mexico City. Make them pay in blood.”

“I aim to,” said Wes. “I've just learned that a man can ride headlong into a thing that stands taller than the United States Congress and the president, all stacked up in a pile.”

“Amen,” West said. “Good luck.”

He rode forth, not looking back. Wes kicked his horse into a lope and continued on toward the border. When he reached the Rio Grande, it was no more than a trickle. He rode across and found a profusion of tracks where the men he pursued had reined up. He could almost see them as they looked back across the river, smirking. He rested his horse, allowed the animal to drink, and rode on into the wilds of Mexico. He doubted they would attempt to ambush him, for they wouldn't be expecting pursuit. Eventually they had to hole up. Wes had no idea which of the men had fired the shots that had resulted in Rebecca's death, but it didn't matter. He would gun them all down.

 

Half a dozen miles south of the border, in a secluded cabin, six men sat around a table, sharing a bottle. A fire blazed on the hearth, and a Mexican woman patiently turned a spit on which a beef haunch sizzled.

“Them ranchers won't be expectin' us again so soon,” one of the men said. “I say we run off some more hosses tomorrow night.”

“You ain't bossin' this outfit, Snake,” one of his companions said. “Bell ain't got more than two hosses on his place, and some of the others got none.”

“I know I ain't the boss,” Snake said, “but by God, I oughta be. Ellerbee's a damn fool, havin' us hide out with Winchesters, pourin' lead at them ranchers. All we're doin' is lettin' 'em know we're still around. Why should they buy more stock, knowin' we're just waitin' to rustle it?”

“Stompin' around and squallin' at us won't change anything, Snake,” said a companion. “Why don't you jump on Ellerbee and lay your advice on him?”