The Dawn of Fury (84 page)

“He's a killer.” Amy shouted, “and I'll find him without the Pinkertons.”

“He could have shot you dead and claimed self-defense,” said Harrington. “Instead, he disarmed you. That's not the mark of a killer.”

Reaching Fort Dodge, Harrington sent the telegrams, and in less than a quarter of an hour the Pinkertons responded. Harrington read the message and passed it on to Nathan. The telegram was simple and to the point. Sheriff Harrington was to detain Amy Limbaugh until a Pinkerton operative could question her.

“I reckon it won't stop her from comin' after you,” said Harrington, “but she likely won't have the help of the Pinkertons. Won't be another train out of Kansas City until tonight. That'll give you a head start.”

“Thanks,” Nathan said.

They waited for almost an hour for the Missouri district attorney's office to respond, and when the telegram came, it satisfied Sheriff Harrington.

“You told it straight,” said Harrington. “The shooting was ruled self-defense and the state has no charges against you. When that Pinkerton varmint steps down from the train, I'll shove this in his face.”

When they reached the jail, Nathan dismounted. “Before I ride out.” Nathan said, “I have some advice for Miss Amy Limbaugh.”

Unlocking the door, Sheriff Harrington went in, Nathan following. Amy Limbaugh just stared angrily at them, gripping the bars.

“Well, Amy,” said Harrington, “Stone told me the truth, and the Pinkertons have asked me to keep you here until they can talk to you. If you know how, I reckon you'd better come up with some truth of your own.”

“Damn you,” she shouted, “you can't hold me without charges. What are the charges?”

“I don't know all the fine points of the law,” said Harrington, “but we can always use attempted murder. The Pinkertons may have some of their own. Without their knowledge, you used them with the intention of committing a crime. Legally, Stone can sue the socks off them, and they know it. For that matter, when the Pinkertons are finished with you, Stone can file charges of his own. I certainly wouldn't blame him.”

“No charges,” said Nathan. “When the Pinkertons have had their say, turn her loose.”

“Damn you,” she said. “I don't want any favors from your kind.”

“You've had your first and last favor from me,” said Nathan. “The next time you pull a gun on me, I'll kill you.”

Nodding to the sheriff, Nathan stepped out the door, closing it behind him. Mounting, he rode to the livery for his packhorse. While he expected Sheriff Harrington to truthfully present his case to the Pinkertons, he still intended to confront them personally. With that in mind, he rode eastward, toward Kansas City.

The Pinkerton Detective Agency was housed in a two-story brick building. As Nathan stepped into the lobby, Amy Limbaugh and a pair of hired guns observed him from their hiding place across the street.

“Find some cover and spread out,” said the girl. “When he leaves the building, wait until he's down the steps and away from it. Then cut him down.”

Nathan was shown into the office of Roscoe Edelman, a regional director of the Pinkerton Detective Agency. Edelman said nothing, waiting for Nathan to speak.

“There's a gun-totin' female name of Amy Limbaugh who aims to kill me,” Nathan said, “and through Sheriff Harrington in Dodge, I've learned the Pinkertons are responsible for her being on my trail. Now I'm here to tell you the straight of it, that the Limbaughs have no legal case against me, and I can prove it. If just one more sheriff comes after me as a result of your damn telegrams, I aim to purely raise hell and kick a chunk under it. Do you understand?”

“I am not accustomed to being threatened,” said Edelman coldly, “and I refuse to be intimidated by a mouthy gunman. We have acknowledged our mistake, and we will no longer concern ourselves with your whereabouts. That's all the consideration you're going to get from this office. Close the door on your way out.”

Fighting his temper, Nathan turned and walked out, leaving the door wide open. There was little to do except return to the livery where his horses and Cotton Blossom waited. Nathan had left the building and was at the foot of the steps when the first shot rang out. Lead slammed into his left side above his pistol belt, throwing him back against the steps. There was no way he could make it back to the safety of the building, and he rolled off the steps, drawing his right-hand Colt. Belly-down, he became a more difficult target, and for just a moment, his antagonist forgot his cover. Nathan shot him twice. A second man fired, his slug kicking dust in Nathan's face. He fired once and had the satisfaction of seeing the killer stumble and fall. But another slug tore into Nathan's left thigh, and he realized he was caught in a three-way cross fire. The third bushwhacker was to Nathan's left and much nearer. He fired once and Amy Limbaugh screamed when the lead struck her under the collar bone. All three bushwhackers were down and Nathan was struggling to his knees when the sheriff and his deputy arrived. They stood facing Nathan, their Colts drawn and ready.

“I'm Sheriff Wilhelm,” the lawman said. “Drop the gun. The party's over.”

“I didn't open the ball, sheriff,” Nathan said. “Three bushwhackers cut down on me and they've all been hit.”

“You're just hell on little red wheels with a pistol, ain't you?” the sheriff said. Then he spoke to his deputy. “Karl, see to them that's hurt.”

“You that's been hit,” Karl said, “hold your fire. I'm a sheriff's deputy.”

Nathan staggered to his feet and Sheriff Wilhelm allowed him to keep his guns. The sheriff still hadn't holstered his weapon, waiting for Karl's report.

“He's right, sheriff,” said Karl. “There's three of ‘em, and one's dead. The other two are wounded, but they'll live. One of 'em's a ... uh ... female.”

Before Sheriff Wilhelm could react to that, a crowd had gathered, drawn by the gunfire. One young man, a press card under his hat band, spoke directly to the sheriff.

“Sheriff, I'm Brandon Wilkes, with the
Liberty-Tribune.”

“I know who you are,” Wilhelm growled, “and I got no time to talk to you.”

“I'm not here to talk to you,” said Wilkes coolly. “I want a story from this gentleman who seems to have survived all the shooting. Mr ... ?”

“Stone,” said Nathan. “Nathan Stone.”

Karl, the deputy, arrived, with his Colt cocked. Ahead of him stumbled a bearded man with the left side of his shirt bloody and a bleeding, weeping Amy Limbaugh. Nathan suspected the girl was playing on the sheriff's sympathy, and to his disgust, Wilhelm seemed to be responding.

“Ma'am,” Sheriff Wilhelm said, “the doctor's office ain't far. Can you make it, or do you need help?”

“Sheriff,” said Nathan, “this is the second time this little hellion has tried to kill me. By God, if you don't take that Colt away from her. I'm going to.”

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