The Dawn of Fury (12 page)

Judge Sam Prater was the first to discover the two soldiers bound and gagged, and wasted no time in venting his wrath on the unfortunate Sergeant Dixon. But for once, Judge Sam Prater had met his match.

“Sir,” said the sergeant, “you are not my commanding officer and I am not obliged to take orders from you. Yesterday you took advantage of me and my men, engaging us in a questionable activity of which my superiors would not have approved. As I see it, you detained, against his will, a man who had done no wrong. The military isn't here to assist you in your personal activities, and lest there be some further misunderstanding, I am immediately removing myself and my men from your residence.”

Unaccustomed to what he considered insubordination, Sam Porter was reduced to a blubbering fury. By the time he could speak, Sergeant Dixon and his men were gone. Eulie Prater chose that moment to descend the stairs, and her outraged father turned his wrath on her.

“You brazen wench,” he bawled, “throwing yourself shamelessly at some no-account gambler, stripping for him ...”

“Don't forget the soldiers,” said Eulie calmly.

“Damn the soldiers,” Prater shouted. “They allowed that four-flushing coyote to escape. You've disgraced us, damn you, and we've nothing to show for it.”

“I'm not ashamed,” said Eulie defiantly. “He's a man, and I wanted him. I still do. I just went about getting him the wrong way.”

“Maybe it's time I taught you some shame,” Prater snarled, removing his wide belt. He caught Eulie halfway up the stairs, and seizing the collar of her gown, ripped it from her body. He took her wrist, flinging her face-down on the stairs, beating her with the belt until his arm grew tired. Without a backward look he left her there, descending the stairs and leaving the house. Three nights later, with only the belongings she could carry behind her saddle, Eulie Prater left, never to return. She rode south, taking with her the two thousand dollars in gold from Judge Sam Prater's cash box.

There were more soldiers in San Antonio than there had been in Austin, and the government-appointed sheriff eyed Nathan with suspicion. He had made camp south of town, leaving the packhorse and Cotton Blossom there. In postwar Texas, a man appearing too prosperous—leading a packhorse—might be shot in the back for his possessions. To justify his presence, Nathan spent several days playing five-card stud in the Alamo Saloon. He kept all his bets small, attracting no attention. He visited other saloons for brief periods without learning anything about the six men he sought. After four days, he rode south, toward Laredo.

He would follow the border south to Brownsville. If the killers he sought had ridden into Mexico, he believed the logical place for them to have crossed the border would have been the lonely stretch between Laredo and Brownsville. If, after reaching Brownsville the trail was still cold, he could ride north to Corpus Christi, to Houston, or eastward to New Orleans. So far he had nothing to show for his time in Texas except the killing of a pair of varmints intent on killing him. Nearing Laredo, Nathan didn't bother riding in. He needed time to think, to plan. He stopped north of town, unsaddled his horse, unloaded the packhorse, and made camp near a creek.

“By God, Cotton Blossom,” he said to the hound, “I'm sick of towns, sick of saloons, tired of shooting and being shot at. I'll spread my blankets and stretch out here by the creek. What could possibly go wrong out here?”

But something could and did. An hour before dark, Cotton Blossom growled and then barked, welcoming someone he recognized. And that was when Eulie Prater rode in.

“You showed me the goods and I wasn't interested,” Nathan shouted. “Now why in hell are you following me?”

“Who says I'm following you?”

“I say you are,” Nathan snapped. “Aren't you?”

“Of course I am,” she said calmly. “My dear old daddy sent me.”

“I'll just bet he did,” Nathan said bitterly. “Did he remember to send your dowry too?”

“Before I left, he gave me something to remember him by,” she said, dismounting. She removed her shirt, dropped her Levi's to her ankles, and turned her back to him. From her shoulders to her knees, her body was a mass of ugly scars, and on top of them was the blue-black bruises of a recent beating.

“Great God Almighty,” Nathan said. “You should have shot the heartless old varmint. Nobody would have faulted you.”

“I did better than that,” she replied. “I cleaned out his cash box and took his favorite horse.”

“And just what the hell am I supposed to do with you?” he asked. “You know I'm not lookin' for a woman. You'll only be in the way.”

“Do with me what you please,” she said, “as long as you allow me to go with you. I can't blame you if you hate me. What I did was wrong, and I'm sorry. Take me on your terms, but take me. I can't go back. Ever.”

“I wouldn't want you to,” he said, “but I'm a gambler, and I live in a hard world where it's shoot or be shot. I have nothing to offer you.”

“Oh, but you do,” she said. “You're a man. You're every inch a man, and to a woman, that's the most important of all.”

Nathan unsaddled her horse and Eulie cooked their supper. Eventually she must know of the vengeance trail that he rode, and he vowed to tell her just as soon as the time seemed right. She spread her bedroll next to his, beside the creek. Sometime during the night he found her against him, her arm flung across his chest. He didn't push her away ...

In the light of dawn, Nathan had a better look at his new companion. She saw him appraising her and spoke.

“I cut my hair short and dressed like a man. I thought that would make it easier on us both.”

“Smart thinking,” said Nathan, “especially if your heart-broken old daddy sends somebody looking for you.”

“If he sends anybody looking for me,” she said bitterly, “it'll be to take back his gold and hang me for a horse thief.”

“I don't know how this is going to work out,” Nathan said. “I reckon this is goin' to play hell with my nerves, you dressing and acting alike a man. I spend a lot of time in saloons, because that's where the gambling is. There may be drunks with their drawers down. There'll be swearing and all manner of dirty talk. It's no place for a woman.”

“I can't say it won't be a strain on me, remembering to think, act, and talk like a man,” she replied, “but it's the only way. Besides, this is the frontier, and I can rope, ride, and shoot. There's a .31-caliber Colt in my saddlebag. Damn it, I'm not some prissy female with lace on her drawers.”

“I believe you,” he said with a grin. “If you wore any drawers, I'd not expect to find any lace on 'em.”

They spent a few days and nights in Laredo, and not once was there any trouble. Eulie played her part well, and Nathan began breathing a bit easier. It was a strange relationship that began to appeal to him, for after all they had gone through at the Prater house, there were few secrets between them. The time Nathan spent in the saloons was again wasted, for he learned nothing of the killers he was seeking. Leaving Laredo, they took their time riding along the border. When they reached Brownsville, Nathan wanted to cross the river into Old Mexico. Matamoros was just across the border.

Matamoros proved to be a squalid little hamlet where chickens wandered aimlessly along the dirt streets. A goat eyed them over a backyard fence. Suddenly gunfire erupted in a rundown shack a hundred yards up the street. A man in dark trousers, frock coat, and top hat backed out the door. His left arm, bloody, hung useless, while in his right hand a Colt roared. He backed into the street only to have a crackle of gunfire begin behind him from a shack on the other side of the street. The border was less than a hundred yards distant, but from the lone gunman's position, it might as well have been a hundred miles.

“Eulie,” Nathan shouted, “take the pack horse and ride for the border. I'm going to try and snatch him away from those lobos.”

Eulie rode for the border, watching fearfully over her shoulder. It was a fool thing to do, but Nathan galloped his horse down the narrow street, and the little man in the top hat saw him coming. Holstering his Colt, he used his good hand to grasp the one Nathan offered. The rescue was as unexpected as it was impossible, and it took the attackers totally by surprise. Nathan wheeled his horse, and even carrying double, the animal was soon out of range of the hostile guns. Eulie sat her mount on the Texas side of the river, Cotton Blossom beside her. Nathan reined up, allowing the man he had rescued to slide off the rump of the horse. The stranger wore a white silk shirt and a black string tie that matched his dark trousers and frock coat. He removed his top hat, running fingers through several bullet holes. Then he laughed, revealing white, even teeth beneath a flowing moustache.

“Friend,” said the little man, “Ben Thompson owes you. Anything I own or ever hope to own, just ask, and it's yours.”

“You seemed a mite outgunned,” Nathan said. “I reckon your horse is still over there.”

“He is,” said Thompson, “and some no-account Mex will get a good mount at my expense. What kind of damn fool would pause for a poker hand in such a miserable place as that? They couldn't raise ten pesos if they sold every goat and chicken in the place.”

Nathan laughed but Eulie did not. She didn't like this man. He had been shot, he was bleeding, and but for Nathan's heroic rescue, would have been dead. But he laughed, and in his eyes there was excitement, joy, madness.

Nathan Stone didn't know it at the time, but this would become a turning point in his life. He had just become the friend of the notorious Ben Thompson, one of the deadliest killers to ride through the pages of Western history.