The Dawn of Fury (68 page)

Sheriff Lanihan came, accompanied by a doctor, and the two badly wounded soldiers were taken away. Nathan's had his badly cut scalp tended to by the doctor. With Cotton Blossom following, Nathan left the saloon, returning to his room at the boardinghouse and to bed. He rose early with a sore head and after breakfast went to the Kansas—Pacific dispatcher's office to tell Donaldson he was leaving.

“Some hell of a brawl at Drum's last night,” Donaldson said.

“So I heard,” Nathan replied. “Anybody bad hurt?”

“You could say that,” said Donaldson. “Private Kile's dead. Lanigan may not make it. Hickok's done it this time.”

The last week in November 1870, Nathan Stone surprised everybody who knew him. He resigned from the Kansas—Pacific. He had friends in Kansas City, Abilene, and Hays, none of whom wanted him to leave. He had found a home, if he had wanted it, but he had not wanted it. He told himself the unfulfilled promise to his dead father lay heavy on his mind, but he didn't really believe that. In the old South, vengeance had seemed a noble calling. Now it seemed more and more like he was using his vendetta as a crutch, leaning on it, without a life of his own and wanting none. Somehow, somewhere, he must find and kill Dade Withers, the last man on his death list. In a few days it would be four years since he had taken an oath on his father's grave, and he had not a single clue as to the direction he should take in satisfying that oath. He had found Clinton Foster in the wilds of Indian Territory, and from what he had heard and read, it was still a haven for renegades, deserters, and comancheros. Leading his packhorse, with Cotton Blossom following, he headed there, via Wichita.

The last of the Texas herd had come up the trail until the next spring, and there was little activity in Wichita. Nathan knew it wasn't wise to enter Indian Territory without a packhorse. He could carry only a little food in his saddlebags, and certainly none of the utensils necessary for cooking. His wages from the railroad and the twelve hundred he had brought with him from Colorado left him with more than two thousand dollars. It was more than enough to cost him his life anywhere on the frontier, living among outlaws. But the man he sought was an outlaw who might remain on the outer reaches of civilization indefinitely. To find that man, the time had come when Nathan Stone must become—or appear to become—an outlaw himself. He bought enough supplies to last six months. While he wasn't a drinking man and didn't use tobacco, he took along four quarts of whiskey, a supply of plug, and a dozen sacks of Durham. If he survived the outlaws and renegades, he still might have to contend with the Indians.

Nathan followed Chisholm's wagon road
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for two days before riding west, deeper into Indian Territory. The first evidence of human habitation came with the distant crack of a rifle. The lead tore into a pine close enough to spook the black, and the horse reared. Nathan calmed the animal and reined up. It was a warning shot, and he waited for a challenge. It wasn't long in coming.

“Who are you, and what do you want?”

“My name is Stone,” Nathan shouted, “and I'm lookin' for a quiet place where I ain't likely to be bothered, if you know what I mean.”

“I reckon I know what you mean,” the voice said, and there was a some sly laughter. “Ride on the way you're headed. Just don't do anything funny with your hands.”

Nathan rode on. He came to a spring, and beyond it, through the pines, he could see the shake roof of a shack. As he neared the shack, he was aware that the rifleman who had challenged him was now behind him. The man spoke.

“That's far enough.”

Nathan reined up, waiting. A man emerged from the shack, and he was armed as though he had just fought a war or was about to start one. There was a pistol in a tied-down holster on each hip, a third such weapon shoved under the waistband of his dark trousers, and a Winchester in the crook of his right arm. A bandolier of Winchester shells was slung over his left shoulder. His dress was that of a Mexican, including a high-crowned sombrero. A black vest embroidered in red partially hid a sweat-stained ruffled shirt that had once been white.

“I am El Gato, segundo of Cocodrilo Rancho,” he said.
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“I am Silver,” Nathan replied. “What do you expect of me?”

“I will ask the questions, señor, and you will answer them. How do you know of this place?”

“Your pet coon took a shot at me and brought me here with a Winchester at my back,” said Nathan grimly. “Now what do you expect of me?”

“One hundred American dollars for each month you remain here, in advance. For this you have a place to sleep and you are under my protection. You will supply your own food.”

“That's almighty high for a place to sleep,” Nathan said, “and I don't care a damn for your protection.”

“Oh, but you should, señor,” said El Gato, jacking a shell into the Winchester's chamber. “Without it, you are dead.”

It was as slick a shakedown as Nathan had ever seen. He would be forced to remain until they picked him clean. Then he might or might not escape with his life, but he couldn't count on that. For the time being, he must play along. He dug into his pocket, taking a handful of double eagles, counting out five. He took a step forward.

“Stay where you are,” El Gato commanded. “Breed?”

The unshaven man who had challenged Nathan stepped up from behind and took the gold. Only then did El Gato's manner change slightly. From a vest pocket he took a thin cigar, stuck it between his teeth, and spoke around it.

“You are welcome here, Señor Silver, until you betray my trust. Then I kill you. Breed, you will guide him to the bunk house.”

Behind El Gato, the door of the cabin opened. A dark-haired girl stood there, barefooted and in rags. She was American, and didn't look more than sixteen, if that. Breed's greedy eyes were on her, and she hurriedly closed the door. Breed turned his attention back to Nathan, pointing northwest with the muzzle of the Winchester. Nathan set out in that direction, leading his horses. Cotton Blossom slunk out of the brush where he had taken refuge, for he had developed an immediate dislike for Breed and El Gato. The bunkhouse was almost half a mile beyond El Gato's cabin. Long and low, it was built of logs, with a shake roof. At each end was a chimney and a heavy oak door. At intervals, below the eaves, were cutouts for rifle barrels, a last line of defense against Indian attacks. Smoke curled from one of the chimneys. To the left of the bunkhouse was a corral, and Nathan counted fifteen horses.

“Unsaddle your hoss an' unload the pack hoss,” said Breed.

Nathan unsaddled the black and unloaded the packhorse. Breed led the animals to the corral and turned them loose with the rest of the stock. For the lack of anything better to do, Nathan shouldered his saddle and started toward the bunkhouse. He was puzzled. El Gato was treating him as though he were a prisoner, yet he had been allowed to keep his weapons. Nathan could only play along until he learned what they had in store for him.

He stepped into the bunkhouse unannounced, and within a split second every man had his hand on the butt of his Colt. There was no light except that from the open door and the fire that blazed in the fireplace. Nathan counted eleven men when he was finally able to see into the gloom. While there were many bunks, everybody had congregated in one end of the bunkhouse, probably so they only had to feed one fire. Most of the men simply reclined on their bunks, some of them smoking quirlys. One, however, sat on a three-legged stool running chords and fingering soft notes from a guitar. The bunks were two-tiered along both walls. Each consisted of a heavy cedar frame with latticed—crisscrossed—strips of cowhide as wide as a man's hand. Nathan chose a lower bunk, leaving his saddle on it, while he went out for the packsaddle. He found Breed lifting the edge of the canvas that covered his pack. Nathan paused, saying nothing, his thumbs hooked in his pistol belt. Breed stood up, his eyes lighted with anticipation. But Nathan didn't follow through, and Breed backed away. Near the corral, Nathan saw Cotton Blossom. As long as he remained at Cocodrilo Rancho, he would have to feed the dog outside. Cotton Blossom, Nathan thought wryly, used better judgement in choosing his companions than did Nathan himself. When Nathan entered the bunkhouse with the packsaddle, he found the bunk he had chosen had been claimed by another, and his saddle lay on the rough floor.

“Gents,” he said mildly, lowering the packsaddle to the floor, “I aim to have one of these bunks. If any man of you wants a different one, he'd best claim it now. The next one I choose, I aim to keep.”

Nobody said anything, and he chose yet another lower bunk. A big man got up off the lower bunk whose head was near the foot of the one Nathan had taken. He was two or three inches taller than Nathan, outweighed him by thirty pounds, and his doubled fists looked as big as hams. If a bullfrog could have spoken, its voice would have matched his.

“My name's Yokum,” he said, “an' when I turn in, I pile my boots an' hat on that bunk. I reckon you'll find it a mite crowded.”

“I don't think so,” Nathan replied. “Your hat and boots won't be there.”

Nathan backed away from Yokum's first punch and threw one of his own. His right connected with Yokum's chin, and it was like slugging an oak. The big man staggered but didn't go down. He tried to trap Nathan in a bear hug and Nathan backed away. The man with the guitar retreated to the far end of the bunkhouse, while others sought the security of upper bunks. Nathan was more agile than his opponent, but when Nathan stumbled over his saddle, he fell back against the frame of an upper bunk and Yokum took advantage. He wrapped his big arms around Nathan and began to squeeze. While it was dirty fighting and left him wide open for retaliation, Nathan drove his right knee into Yokum's groin. Yokum groaned, involuntarily loosing his grip, and Nathan was free. He needed to catch his breath, but there wasn't time. Again he threw a right, connecting with Yokum's chin, and had the satisfaction of seeing Yokum stagger, but the big man didn't go down.

Yokum's next move took Nathan completely by surprise. The big man just threw himself at Nathan like a pouncing cougar, and they went down. Nathan's head struck the heavy cedar frame of a lower bunk, and it was a struggle to remain conscious. He tried to kick free, but Yokum had caught his legs and was working his way up Nathan's struggling body. Nathan swung blindly, and more by luck than anything else, smashed Yokum's nose. The pain was such that he loosed his grip on Nathan, and using his elbows on the floor, Nathan was able to grasshopper himself backward. He then drove his right foot as hard as he could, and the boot heel slammed into Yokum's chin. Yokum lay there belly down, breathing hard. Nathan got to his feet, sucking air into his starved lungs. Finally he sat down on the lower bunk he had chosen. Yokum sat up, wiping his still-bleeding nose on his shirtsleeve. He spoke in his bullfrog voice.