Autumn of the Gun (55 page)

“Not necessarily,” Eppie said. “Both those towns are small towns. A man living under an alias should be in a town large enough that he doesn't attract attention to himself. Why don't you try St. Joseph?”

“Eppie,” said Nathan, “you're a caution. I've been too close to this thing. I'm going to St. Joseph, and if I draw a blank there, I'm going to give it up for a lost cause.”

It was Sunday, so the courthouse, the post office, and the newspaper office all were closed.

“We've waited this long, Empty,” said Nathan, “so I reckon we can wait another day. Maybe tomorrow something will happen.”

In the weeks following Jim Gillett's departure from the Rangers, Wes Tremayne spent most of his days in the various saloons, sharpening his skills as a gambler. It began to have its inevitable effect on Renita.

“Why must you spend so much time in the saloons?” she complained. “I hate them.”

“Because I must have something to do,” said Wes. “El Paso is home to rustlers and outlaws from both sides of the border, and unless I obviously have some other way of making a living, I'll be suspected of being one of them.”

“Then let's go somewhere else,” she suggested.

There it was. Wes sighed and told her the truth—that as a Ranger, he had been sent to this tumultuous border town.

“There's some kind of change in the wind,” said Wes. “I aim to ride it out.”

But Wes had begun making enemies, most of them among the men who lived on both sides of the border. In Mexico, they abided by no rules, and wanted none. Armijo Barboncio's hand was quick with cards or gun, and his quick temper made for an unholy trilogy. Few Saturdays passed that didn't find him in El Paso's Acme Saloon, involved in a poker game. Wes had observed Barboncio's adeptness with the cards before, and was virtually certain the man was cheating, but he wanted to take part in a game to be sure. The Saturday afternoon he sat in Dallas Stoudenmire was there, and appeared to be the big loser. After yet another losing hand, Stoudenmire turned hard eyes on Barboncio and said exactly the wrong thing.

“Mex—if that's what you are—them cards is dancin' to your tune a mite too often.”

“You are implying that I cheat,
señor?”

“Implying, hell,” said Stoudenmire brashly. “I'm accusin' you.”

Stoudenmire had slid back his chair far enough to get to his gun, but never completed his draw. He found himself staring into the deadly muzzle of Barboncio's cocked Colt.

“You will apologize—take water—or I kill you,” Barboncio said grimly.

“I ... I reckon I was wrong,” Stoudenmire stammered. “My apologies.”

Barboncio laughed, holstered his revolver, and tipped back his sombrero. Stoudenmire slid back his chair, got up, and quickly left the saloon. Observers backed away, all of them feeling less like men in the face of Stoudenmire's cowardice. It was Barboncio's turn to deal, and with a smirk he did so. When it came time to show their hands, Barboncio had a straight diamond flush.

“By God,” said one of the losers, “it's the first time I ever seen a man draw two damn straight flushes in one day.”

“It's not difficult,” Wes said quietly, “when you're bottom dealing.”

What followed happened in less than a heartbeat. Armijo Barboncio was swift as a striking rattler, but died with his gun in his hand. Wes Tremayne had fired only once, and Barboncio had drawn first.

“My God,” somebody cried, “what happened?”

“Somebody get the marshal,” a bartender shouted.

But nobody bothered with Stoudenmire. Two bartenders removed Barboncio's body to a storage room near the back door. The game was over and Wes was about to leave the saloon when he saw Jim Gillett near the back door. Gillett nodded and Wes followed him out the back door.

“You've put your foot in it, kid,” said Gillett. “The little sidewinder you shot was part of the Sandlin gang. You won't be safe anywhere in this town. They'll get you.”

“Maybe,” Wes said. “but it had to be done. Stoudenmire made me sick to my gut.”

“Stoudenmire's finished as a lawman,” said Gillett.

“Who do you reckon will replace him?”

“Me, maybe,” Gillett said. “My name's in the pot.”

Wes laughed. “You've been telling me how hell's goin' to bust loose here at any time, and now you're wantin' to take Stoudenmire's job. Why?”

“Call it vanity, I reckon,” said Gillett. “Bein' a Ranger, my hands were tied. I've had to play second fiddle to Stoudenmire. I'll side you when I can, but watch your back.”

To nobody's surprise, a little more than a year after becoming city marshal, Stoudenmire resigned. Taking his place was former Texas Ranger Jim Gillett.

On a quiet street in St. Joseph, Jesse James lived under the alias Thomas Howard. A robbery was being planned, and the Fords—Bob and Charlie—were staying at the James residence. Charlie, having ridden with the James gang before, had no trouble getting Bob into the gang. For some time, Robert Ford had considered murdering Jesse James, and had once met with the governor of Missouri to discuss it. Governor Crittendon had promised a large reward and a full pardon. It was right after breakfast on a Monday morning.

“Jesse,” said Bob, “Charlie and me are goin' to the barn to tend the horses.”

“Go on,” Jesse replied, “but come on back as soon as you can. We have planning to be done for that bank job tomorrow.”

The Ford brothers went on to the barn, returning to the house at half-past eight.

“That picture's hanging crooked,” said Jesse.

He removed his coat, unbuckled his gunbelt, and climbed onto a chair to straighten the picture. Charlie Ford nodded at Bob and they drew and cocked their pistols. The ominous sound warned Jesse, and he started to turn. But Bob Ford shot him in the back of the head, and Jesse James was dead when he hit the floor. Jesse's wife ran screaming into the room. That and the sound of the shot alerted the neighbors. Charlie and Bob Ford ran from the house, bound for the telegraph office. Nathan Stone was on his way to the local newspaper when the commotion drew his attention.

“I shot Jesse James!” Robert Ford shouted, standing before the telegraph office. “He's dead! Jesse James is dead, and I killed him!”

Robert Ford went on into the telegraph office, where he sent a telegram to Governor Crittendon, claiming the reward. He then went outside where his brother Charlie waited, and they led the curious back to the house where Jesse James lay dead. Nathan followed, not believing what he was hearing. The sheriff soon arrived, and in deference to Jesse's grief-stricken wife, forced the curious to leave.

“Sheriff,” Nathan said, “I don't want to intrude at such a time, but I do need to know whether or not this dead man is Jesse James. Where will the body be taken?”

“To the undertaker's,” said the lawman, “over yonder next to the jail. Stick around, and when he's laid out, I'll get you in to see him.”

Nathan waited more than two hours for the body to be laid out at the undertaker's. The curious were allowed to file past the wooden coffin, and when Nathan reached it, he saw a young man with a black, bushy beard. He had seen Jesse James only once, more than ten years ago, and he just wasn't sure this man was the notorious outlaw. Leaving the undertaker's, Nathan found a crowd had gathered. Charlie and Robert Ford had their backs against the wall of the jail and were bombarded with angry shouts and curses.
⁴⁰

“Break it up,” the sheriff shouted. “You two,” he said, turning to the Fords, “get out of town.”

“I'm waiting for a telegram from the governor,” Bob Ford protested.

“Damn you and the governor,” said the sheriff angrily. “Get out of here before I jail the both of you.”

Jesse's grieving wife soon convinced everybody, including Nathan Stone, that Jesse James had been shot and killed. Nathan went to the telegraph office and sent a message to Byron Silver in Washington.

Nathan signed his name, paid for the telegram, and awaited an answer. He received it an hour later.

 

 

There was no signature, but Nathan needed none. He and Silver had stayed at the old Pioneer Hotel before. Nathan rode back through Kansas City and said goodbye to Eppie. He and Empty then headed east, toward St. Louis.

There was more trouble involving Dallas Stoudenmire in the Acme Saloon. Will Page, who had at one time been Stoudenmire's deputy, got into a fight with Billy Bell. Stoudenmire broke up the fight and persuaded Page to go with him to Doyle's Concert Hall. There the two spent the evening drinking, returning to the Acme Saloon near midnight. Almost immediately they started arguing, and Stoudenmire drew a gun. Page struck the weapon just as it went off, and it blasted lead in the ceiling. Stoudenmire then drew a second revolver, but before he could fire he was confronted by city marshal Jim Gillett, who had a shotgun. Gillett then marched the troublesome pair to jail, where he locked them up for the night.

“I wish I'd seen that,” Wes Tremayne said later.

“Better that you didn't” Jim Gillett replied. “After gunning down one of the Sandlin gang, you have no business in town after dark.”

“That's been awhile,” said Wes. “I think I've lived that down.”

“I don't think so,” Gillett said. “They're waiting for the right time and place.”

Renita had grown weary of spending all her time at Granny's boardinghouse, so Wes had agreed to take her into town on Saturday afternoons. The first two trips behind them, Wes began to relax, but not for long. They were riding past a livery barn, when suddenly there was the roar of a Winchester from the loft. The first slug struck Wes in the left shoulder, driving him from the saddle. The second shot narrowly missed Renita, but only because she all but fell out of the saddle trying to reach Wes.

“Get away from me!” he shouted.

A third slug kicked dirt in his face, and although he had no specific target, his Colt spat fire. Then the firing ceased, and Renita came running to him.

“You're hurt,” she cried.

“But I'm alive,” said Wes. “Damn it, you could have been killed getting to me.”

Jim Gillett came galloping toward them, his Winchester at the ready.

“Where was he holed up?” Gillett asked.

“In the livery loft,” said Wes. “The varmint wasn't just after me. He was shooting at Renita, too.”

“You'd better ride on in and let the doc patch you up. I'll nose around and see if I can find any tracks.”

Renita mounted her horse and, with some difficulty, Wes mounted his. They rode on into town, reining up at the doctor's office. Doctor Winslow asked no questions, for it was a time and place where a day seldom passed without at least one gunshot wound. When his wound had been bandaged, Wes paid the doctor two dollars. Just as he and Renita stepped out the door, Jim Gillett rode up.

“The sidewinder was afoot,” Gillett said. “Plenty of tracks around the barn, but no way of knowing which were his.”

“About what I expected,” said Wes. “Next time, I'll just have to be ready and go get him before he can escape.

“Next time,” Gillett said, “he may get you dead center with the first shot.”

“Oh, I wish we didn't have to stay here,” said Renita when Gillett had gone.

“We don't have to,” Wes said. “I'm just not the kind to back off from a fight.”

“Even when they're firing from cover and you don't know when they'll strike next?”

“Even then,” said Wes.

“I know you have your pride, but pride's no good to a dead man, and a dead man's of no use to me.”

“I've been dry-gulched before,” Wes said, “by hombres who did a hell of a lot better job of it, and I'm still alive. I'm more afraid of them shooting you than hitting me.”

“I'm afraid for you,” she said, “and you're afraid for me. I'm glad you're afraid for me. Since mama died, you're the only one who's cared.”

Having finished their shopping, Wes took a different way back to Granny Boudleaux's.

“Next time,” said Renita, “let's ride as far from all the buildings as we can.”

“We will, going and coming,” Wes said, “but we'll be afoot and in plain sight on the boardwalks.”

“Then after this, I won't go to town as often,” said Renita. “I'll be more satisfied at Granny's.”

But there was no safety, even at Granny Boudleaux's, for that very night riders came in close, shattering windows with gunfire.

“This is going to be difficult,” Jim Gillett said, when he came to investigate. “We'll be hard pressed for defense because we'll never know when they're coming.”

“It's me they're after,” said Wes, “and I'll take care of the defense. Every night after dark I'll be outside with a shotgun. Let them try that again, and I'll empty some saddles.”

“All my windows gone,” Granny lamented.

“I'll pay to have them replaced,” said Wes.

“That's no more than you should do,” Molly Horrell said. “Perhaps you should consider moving somewhere else.”