The Killing Season (11 page)

“You were about to play right into Morco's hands,” said Nathan, just as angrily. “He wanted you to go after him. Then he could have jailed you for assaulting a lawman or shot you dead.”

Nathan thought it was over, but by the time he and Thompson reached Joe Brennan's saloon, Morco and Sterling burst in, Sterling shouting.

“Get your guns, you damn Texas sonsabitches, and fight.”

Ben Thompson was out the door on the run. Nathan remained where he was. He had no intention of being sucked into a gunfight with a lawman, even if the badgetoter was as biased and unfair as Morco appeared to be. On his way back, Ben was joined by Billy, his younger brother. Billy was staggering drunk and he had a shotgun. Billy stumbled, pulling one of the triggers, and a load of buckshot narrowly missed two bystanders.

“Damn it, Billy,” Ben shouted, “let me have the scattergun.”

Billy was too drunk to resist, and Ben took the weapon away from him, passing it to a bystander.

“Now, you damn sonsabitches,” Ben bawled, “if you want to fight us, here we are.”

At that very moment, Sheriff
C.B.
Whitney and a friend, John DeLong, tried to calm the Thompson brothers.

“Come on,” said Whitney, who was unarmed. “Let's go to Brennan's. I'm buying the drinks.”

“Look out, Ben!” somebody shouted.

Ben turned to see Sterling and Morco charging, guns drawn, Morco in the lead. Ben threw up his rifle and fired, but Morco had ducked into a doorway, and Ben's slug ripped into the door jamb. Before Ben could fire again, there was a deep-throated bellow behind him, and he whirled to see Sheriff Whitney stumble and fall.

“My God, Billy,” Ben cried, “you've killed our best friend.”

Everybody—including policeman Jack Morco—seemed stunned. Ben Thompson took advantage of the lull, hustling the now sober Billy toward a livery. There was a rattle of hooves and Billy Thompson was gone. Ben went to his hotel and barricaded himself in his room, daring anybody to come in after him. Mayor James Miller approached Thompson's room, ordering him to surrender. Thompson refused. Furious, Miller fired the entire police force. Finally, when Jack Morco was persuaded to surrender his arms, Ben Thompson gave up his gun and allowed himself to be taken into custody.

When all the shouting and shooting was done, sundown was not more than an hour distant, and Nathan decided to stay another night. From what he had heard, Ben Thompson would go before the court in the morning, and while the daring gambler had in no way been involved in the shooting of Sheriff Whitney, he had helped his brother Billy escape.

 

To Nathan's total surprise, Ben Thompson had only been charged with firing at Happy Jack Morco, and when Morco failed to show up, the charges were dropped. Ben Thompson caught Nathan's eye and winked. “Luck of the draw,” said the dapper gambler.

 

Weary of towns, Nathan planned to pass Dodge City a few miles to the east, and long before reaching the tracks of the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe, he could hear the faint bellow of a locomotive whistle. A train traveled westward, bound for Dodge. But the whistle sounded no more. The next sound rumbled like distant thunder, shaking the ground. Nathan shucked his Winchester from the boot and kicked the grulla into a fast gallop. Soon Nathan could see the dirty gray of smoke against the blue of the sky, and when he came within sight of the train, it stood idle. Smoke still billowed from the blown express car, while the engineer and fireman stood beside the locomotive, their hands in the air. A lone gunman held them captive, and while Nathan wasn't quite within range, he cut loose with his Winchester. It had the desired effect, drawing the attention of the outlaw, and the trainmen were on him in an instant. But the firing alerted the rest of the robbers, and some of them bellied down under the wrecked baggage car. Nathan reined up and left the saddle, using each bit of cover to advance. Near the far end of the train, he could see a rider coming, trailing nine horses on lead ropes. Taking careful aim, Nathan shot the rider out of the saddle, and he was now close enough for several additional shots to spook the horses. There were angry shouts from the baggage car, as the outlaws saw their means of escape galloping away. Nathan now had the advantage. While he was outnumbered, his adversaries had virtually no cover unless they retreated to the baggage car, and that soon lost its appeal, for the fireman and engineer had retrieved their weapons and were adding to the woes of the train robbers. Finally they ceased firing altogether, and scrambled under the baggage car, putting it between themselves and Nathan. Nathan reined up and used the baggage car for cover, cutting loose on the retreating outlaws. He brought down two more before they were out of range. Nathan noted with approval that the engineer and fireman were binding the captured outlaw hand and foot. Finished, they came to meet him, grins on their grimy faces.

“By God,” the engineer said, “one cowboy in the brush is better than two Pinkertons in the baggage car.”

“We'd better go have a look at them,” said Nathan.

There were three men in the baggage car, one of them in the garb of a railroad man, and he regarded his two companions with disgust. One of them had a bloody gash above his eyes, and it was he who spoke.

“We drove them away,” he shouted triumphantly.

“We, hell,” said the brakemen. “You didn't fire a shot till they was on the run, and it was you that said they wouldn't dynamite the express car. They was goin' to blow the safe, too, if this gent with the Winchester hadn't took a hand.”

“They got nothing, then,” Nathan said.

“Nothing,” the brakeman replied. “We're owin' you, mister ...”

“Stone. Nathan Stone.”

“Why, I know you!” the engineer said. “The Kansas-Pacific would have been a gone beaver if you hadn't wiped out that band of thieves.”

“My God,” said the fireman, “I just wish the AT and SF had the gumption to hire you, instead of these damned Pinkertons.”

“You have some track that needs fixing,” Nathan said, uncomfortable with the praise. “We can't be more than a few miles from Dodge. Your dispatcher there should be able to get a repair crew out here pronto. I can ride that way and take him word.”

“You tell him he'd better,” the engineer replied. “We ain't settin' out here after dark with a busted open express coach and a safe full of government payroll. I'll put this old iron horse in reverse and back her all the way to Wichita.”

Nathan rode west, following the tracks. Being so near Dodge, the bombers hadn't used dynamite to blow the rails. Instead, they had removed a single section of rail, enough to derail a train. Two men, Nathan judged, could repair the damage in a few minutes. He had considered suggesting that the trainmen make the repairs themselves, but that was akin to suggesting that a cowboy milk the cows. Reaching Dodge, Nathan rode to the railroad depot, where he told the dispatcher of the attempted robbery and the torn-up track.

“Them damn lazy Irish,” the dispatcher groused. “They could replace that rail easy, if they would.”

Nathan laughed. “The engineer said if they wasn't out of there before dark, he'd just reverse the train and take it back to Wichita.”

“He would, too, damn it, makin' it look like I ain't doin' my job.”

Nathan rode away. He had saved them a payroll, and it was up to them to repair their railroad. Someone called his name, and Nathan reined up.

“I'll buy your supper,” said Sheriff Harrington, “if you'll tell me how you finally got that Limbaugh filly off your back.”

Nathan didn't really want to talk about Amy Limbaugh, but Sheriff Harrington had been a friend to him. Anyway, his taking the time to ride through Dodge and make a report of the attempted robbery and destroyed track to the railroad had brought him very close to suppertime. Why not enjoy a comfortable bed and a hot meal, and then ride out in the morning?

“On one condition,” said Nathan. “You'll have to feed my dog, too.” “On one condition,” Harrington replied. “When was the last time he was fed?”

“Best I recollect,” said Nathan, “it was the fall of sixty-six, just before we came west.”

Nathan spent almost two hours with Harrington, and ended up telling the lawman not only of the Limbaugh trial in Kansas City, but of the train robbery he had thwarted.

“You're missing your calling,” Harrington said. “Thieves are giving the railroads hell. You could name your own price, just doing what you did today. Locking Pinkertons in the baggage car with the payroll will accomplish just one thing. The varmints will dynamite the coach, like they did today. You and your horse traveling in a boxcar near the end of the train could stop these train robberies cold.”

“It's something to consider,” said Nathan. “But for now, I have another trail to ride, down into New Mexico Territory. A debt I have to pay for a friend.”

“I understand,” Harrington said. “If you ever decide you'd like to ride shotgun for the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe, the division boss is right here in Dodge. I'll see that he's told you saved him a payroll today.”

Leaving Dodge, Nathan rode southwest. Before darkness caught up to him, he would be in northeastern New Mexico Territory. He was about to cross the Cimarron, into the Indian Territory's panhandle, when he discovered the wagon tracks. Three heavily loaded wagons, and on the flat Kansas plain he could see where they had crossed the Cimarron and veered south. There were tracks of at least nine horses, and the wagons were drawn by mules instead of oxen, which meant that somebody was in a hurry.

“Must be a valuable load, Cotton Blossom,” Nathan said, “with nine men ridin' shotgun. They could have used the railroad as far west as Dodge, unless they're involved in some scheme that can't stand the light of day. As it is, they've likely come all the way from Saint Louis or Kansas City, keepin' to the plains and avoiding towns. That's a hell of a lot of extra work for honest bull whackers.”

Crossing the Cimarron, Nathan found where the party had made camp the night before. There was a scattering of corn where they had grained the teams. While oxen ate grass, grain had to be hauled to feed the mules. From the tracks, Nathan decided the wagons weren't more than two hours ahead of him. While common sense told him to avoid the mysterious caravan, his curiosity was prodding him to follow, to discover who these people were and what they were hauling. He rode on, but cautiously. While he had come upon this trail by chance, the men ahead—likely heavily armed—wouldn't know that. His very presence could be taken as a threat. At best, he was subject to being greeted by drawn guns; at worst, by a hail of lead. When he sighted the wagons, two of them were on the farthest side of a dry arroyo, while the third was stalled midway. The left rear wheel was missing and four men were using a pole to hoist the rear of the wagon. Large flat stones had been gathered, and two men were stacking them beneath the axle to support the disabled wagon. Six of the men were unoccupied, and when one of them saw Nathan, he alerted the others. Two of them reached in through the canvas pucker of the wagon and came out with Winchesters, while the others waited, their hands near the butts of their Colts.

“I'm friendly,” Nathan shouted.

“Come on, then,” one of the strangers replied, “but keep your hands up an' empty.”

Nathan reined up a few yards from the crippled wagon. He had made no hostile moves and he kept his silence. If this bunch took offense and challenged his right to be here, then it would confirm his suspicions of them. They all wore range clothes and not one of them had the look of a bullwhacker. His eyes on them, Nathan found himself comparing them to EI Gato's renegades. Finally one of the men with a Winchester under his arm spoke.

“You been followin' us. Why?”

“You talk like a man with a guilty conscience,” Nathan said. “I rode out of Dodge City this morning, and I crossed the Cimarron where you did. Until I saw your tracks, I didn't know you existed.”

“You got a smart mouth, mister,” said another of the strangers. “I'll give any fool the benefit of the doubt once. Now you ride on and keep ridin'. Show your face again, and you'll be left for coyote and buzzard bait.”

The bunch looked rattlesnake-mean, and while Nathan had no doubt that whatever activity they were engaged in was illegal enough to hang them to the last man, his becoming involved would only succeed in getting him shot dead. Nathan rode carefully around the wagon, and might have escaped them, had they not left the six mules in harness. Cotton Blossom followed Nathan, but growling deep in his throat. One of the harnessed mules drew a wrong impression, and cow-kicking, narrowly missed Cotton Blossom. The hound reacted with a full-blown snarl that sounded like a half-starved wolf on the hunt, and the mules spooked. The wagon shot out of the arroyo, and when the wheel-less axle struck an upthrust of rock, the load shifted. The entire side of the wagon split, ripping canvas and snapping bows, as heavy wooden crates were flung to the ground. Each had been branded with the famous Winchester name, and while that was damning enough, some of the crates had split, each revealing a dozen brand new model seventy-threes, identical to the one that rode in Nathan's saddle boot. The implication of what he had seen struck Nathan with the impact of a club, and he kicked the grulla into a fast gallop. But nine of his adversaries had saddled horses, and he could hear them thundering after him, and it was just a matter of time until they rode him down. He quickly learned, however, that they had no intention of wasting time on him, for they were shooting, and lead sang dangerously close, like angry bees. He reined up, taking his chances. They still might gun him down, but at least he had a chance. To run would be to die. Turning his horse, he faced them, giving up any thought of resisting. There was six of them, and they all had him covered.