Autumn of the Gun (51 page)

“By all means,” Blanchard said.

If some of the outlaws were playing possum, it could prove a deadly task, and Nathan thought they all looked relieved. It would be safe enough, with Empty going ahead of him, and he went on down the slope. Three of the men were dead and the fourth had been gut-shot. Nathan went on to the wagon, opened the canvas pucker, and looked inside. Nothing had been bothered, as best he could tell. He walked back up the slope. Pryor and Sowell had found the horses belonging to the outlaws, and had brought two of them for André and Kit La Mie.

“Three of the men are dead,” said Nathan, “and the fourth won't be around for long.”

“Wells, you and Lytle get those mules harnessed to that wagon,” Blanchard ordered.

“You don't have anything on us,” André La Mie said. “We were traveling with those men against our will.”

“That's not what you told me,” said Nathan. “You and the wampus kitty were bossing those fake soldiers around like you owned them, and I had to kill two of them just to get away from you. I reckon you don't know anything about that wagonload of explosives, either.”

“We've never seen you before in our lives,” Kit La Mie said haughtily, “and we have absolutely no idea what's in that wagon. It'll be your word against ours.”

“We'll be getting a telegraphed report and descriptions from federal authorities,” said Nathan. “Maybe we can refresh your memory.”

“Pryor,” Blanchard said, “you'll take first turn with the wagon. One of the others will spell you after a couple of hours. You got to take it slow, avoiding rocks and drop offs.”

Lytle waved his hat, indicating the mules were hitched and the wagon was ready to go. Blanchard nodded to Pryor and Sowell and they rode out, André and Kit La Mie ahead of them. Blanchard had held back to speak to Nathan.

“Stone, I don't doubt that pair's everything you say they are, but you heard what they said. They're slick as calf slobber, and if it's goin' to be your word against theirs, I want you around until I got this nailed down. There's slick-tongued lawyers that could get them off scot-free and leave me lookin' like a prime fool.”

“I understand your position,” Nathan said, “and I won't leave Santa Fe until you have the evidence you need. Since I telegraphed Washington and got all this started, I'll have to see it through. I'm sure the government wants that nitroglycerin, but if a soldier escort was murdered, somebody will have to account for that.”

“I'll feel a lot better when we get some official word as to what happened,” Blanchard said. “Have you considered how all of this is goin' to look if that wagon is loaded with nothing but French wine?”

“I've thought of the possibility,” said Nathan, “but nothing that's happened makes any sense if there's anything less than nitroglycerin in that wagon. I can't imagine them trying to kill me over a wagonload of wine, and you were right in the midst of a fight to the death today. I think we're going to find some dead men on their backtrail.”

“Well,” Blanchard said, “let's get on back to Santa Fe and see if anything's come in on the telegraph.”

The return to Santa Fe was slow and laborious because of the heavily loaded wagon and the need to avoid rough terrain. Nathan and Blanchard went immediately to the telegraph office.

“I never seen so much telegraph business,” the telegrapher said.

He brought out a sheaf of yellow paper on which he had scribbled messages. Every one had been dated, and he handed them to Blanchard.

“You have them dated and in order,” said Blanchard. “Good.”

“Spread ‘em out on that table over yonder,” the telegrapher said. “If you got trouble readin' my writin', maybe I can figger it out.”

“This is what I'm wantin' to see,” said Blanchard. “It covers the killin' of the soldier escort near Galveston Bay, and backs up what you said about this bunch stealin' a load of nitroglycerin.”

“What about descriptions?” Nathan asked.

“We're comin' to that, I think,” said Blanchard. “Here, read some of this.”

“Tarnation,” Nathan said, after reading some of the material, “this bunch has been in trouble with the law before. André and Kit La Mie have used a whole passel of names. All the hombres they had posin' as soldiers were killers. They're all wanted in Texas.”

“This is lookin' more solid all the time,” said Blanchard. “We got to supply our sworn testimony that these six men actually died. You got to account for the two you shot, and we can all testify to the killin' of the other four that tried to ambush us. The military will be sendin' for any that was took alive.”

“I think we ought to telegraph Washington that six of the bunch are dead, and that the La Mies—or whoever they are—have been locked up. I expect there'll be soldiers from Fort Elliott, Texas, or from Fort Dodge, Kansas, comin' to take this La Mie pair off your hands. I reckon you'll get some recognition from this.”

“I don't figure I'm due any,” said Blanchard. “It was you that started all this.”

“I don't want any credit,” Nathan replied. “I was able to get Washington involved only because these people had committed crimes against the United States, and because I have a friend in the attorney general's office. It's no more than he would expect of me, and when you get the final word as to how this will be resolved, I'll be riding on.”

 

When Blanchard telegraphed Washington that the nitroglycerin had been recovered and that André and Kit La Mie were in custody, the response was rapid and brief:

The telegram was signed with Byron Silver's name.

“Well,” said Nathan, “it's time I was riding on. You have my sworn testimony.”

“Go ahead,” Blanchard said. “I'm satisfied we've handled this properly.”

Nathan had one more telegram to send. Addressing it to twenty-one, Office of the Attorney General, Washington, he wrote:

He paid for the telegram, and with Empty following, rode north toward Pueblo.

Wes Tremayne didn't talk to Jim Gillett for almost a week. The second conversation came about after a raid by the Sandlin gang, when a Mexican wrangler was killed. Gillett nodded to Wes in the hall after supper, and they went on to Gillett's room.

“I reckon you've heard about the outlaw raid on the Collier ranch yesterday,” Gillett said.

“Yeah,” said Wes, “I heard. I reckon the killing of another Mexican won't help the situation around here.”

“It won't change anything, one way or the other,” Gillett said. “I figured this would be as good a time as any to tell you about the Sandlin gang. Cord Sandlin built himself an empire across the border, just beyond Ciudad Juarez, and El Paso's come to expect a certain amount of hell raising from him. I understand he's bought off the Mexican authorities and has an outlaw band of more than thirty men.”

“There's law on this side of the border,” said Wes. “Why hasn't nobody stood up to Sandlin and his bunch?”

“Somebody has,” Gillett said. “Five years ago—before I came here—they murdered Sheriff McCormick.”

“I reckon nobody's challenged them since then,” said Wes.

“No,” Gillett said, “and with good reason. Not a man in this town is willing to join a sheriff's posse to ride after the Sandlin gang. Sandlin got the word out that any man going after the gang would be marked for death, including the county sheriff or city marshal.”

“Maybe he's bluffing,” said Wes.

“Sheriff McCormick gambled on that,” Gillett said, “and all it got him was a six-foot hole in the bone orchard.”

“Sandlin has his way,” said Wes, “because everybody's afraid of him, including the Rangers.”

“Hell, kid,” Gillett said, “that Ranger star don't make a man bulletproof. In case you ain't been told, you're not allowed to cross the border after outlaws. Some kind of border deal between the United States and Mexico. If that ain't reason enough to stay the hell out of the land of chili peppers, Sandlin's come up with a stronger one. He's put a bounty of a hundred dollars on any lawman crossing the river. My God, many a Mex would backshoot his own brother for that kind of money.”

“You're not very inspiring, Gillett.”

“I don't aim to be,” said Gillett. “Don't ever let noble thoughts get the best of your common sense. Get yourself gunned down in a fight you can't win, and within six months, nobody on either side of the border will remember or care who you were.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” Wes said. “Anything else?”

“Only what I suggested last time,” said Gillett. “Spend some time in the Globe and get to know Dallas Stoudenmire.”

“So I inherit him when you leave,” Wes said.

“Not just him,” said Gillett. “The whole damn town. My resignation is effective the day after Christmas.”

But trouble didn't wait for Gillett's departure.

In the small hours of the morning, Wes was awakened by the distant crash of gunfire. In his sock feet, he crossed the hall and tapped on Gillett's door. Quickly Gillett opened the door and Wes slipped inside. Except for his boots, Gillett was dressed.

“I reckon you heard the shooting,” Wes said.

“I heard it,” said Gillett, “but you'll have to get used to that. It's the city marshal's job. Rangers don't enforce town law unless we're called in for that purpose, and that's not our reason for being here. There are exceptions, of course. If somebody's shot and killed Stoudenmire, then we'll have to restore and maintain the peace until a new town marshal is appointed. It's after three o'clock, and our presence in town would only reveal us without serving any good purpose. We'll skip Granny's breakfast and eat at the Globe. Whatever took place this morning will be the topic of conversation.”

When Wes and Gillett reached the Globe, the place was crowded, and they soon discovered the reason. Seated at a table with a dozen other men, Stoudenmire was recounting what had happened during the night.

“It happened outside my boardin' house, about three o'clock this morning,” Stoudenmire was saying. “Some varmint tried to ambush me. I'd of got him, but he was so close his muzzle flashes blinded me. I cut down on him, but he got away in the dark.”
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“Hell,” somebody said quietly, “Stoudenmire was likely owl-eyed drunk, an' done all the shootin' himself, throwin' lead at a man that wasn't there.”

“That's pretty much how it is,” said Gillett when he and Wes had left the restaurant. “Nobody's quite sure whether Stoudenmire fought his way out of an attempted ambush, or whether he was just drunk and shootin' at shadows.”

Nathan went to the railroad depot and arranged for a boxcar for his horse as far as Dodge on the next westbound, which would depart at six o'clock the next morning.

“Make yourself at home in the bunkhouse,” said the dispatcher, who well remembered Nathan from his days with the railroad.

“I will,” Nathan said, “and I'm obliged.”

Reaching the bunkhouse, the first man Nathan encountered was Harley Stafford.

“Well, by God,” said Nathan, “I thought you was through ridin' anything that didn't have four legs and a tail.”

“I thought so, too,” Harley replied, “but I'm as fiddle-footed as you are. I missed the locomotive whistles, riding the rails, shooting and being shot at.”

“Vivian didn't raise hell when you left?”

“No,” said Harley. “She said all men are no damned good, that you and me are birds of a feather.”

“Tarnation,” Nathan said, “I don't know whether to be flattered or insulted.”

“She never understood why you rode away,” said Harley, “but I did. A woman wants ties, but to a man they become chains. When I left New Orleans, I felt like I'd just broke jail.”

“I've never heard it said any better than that,” Nathan replied. “I'll be taking the eastbound with you as far as Dodge.”

“If you're after your old job,” said Harley, “you'll have to fight me for it.”

“Relax,” Nathan said. “I'm meeting a friend there.”

“I won't tell Vivian,” said Harley, closing his left eye in a slow wink.

“Send her a telegram,” Nathan said. “I don't care, and I'm sure she won't.”

“Aw, hell,” said Harley. “I was hopin' to see her a little jealous. Now we'll never find out if she cares a damn for anything or anybody but them fast horses.”

“You'll have to conduct your experiments without me,” Nathan said. “The last thing I want is a jealous female tied to my shirttail.”

“I'll drink to that,” said Harley. “We got the rest of today and tonight. Let's have us a big supper and then visit all the saloons.”

“My dog don't like saloons,” Nathan said.

“Leave him at the depot with the dispatcher,” said Harley.

“He don't like trains,” Nathan said, “and I doubt he's all that fond of the dispatcher.”

Harley laughed. “How's he goin' to get to Dodge? Lope alongside the train?”