The Killing Season (33 page)

“Not until sometime in September,” said Hagerman. “They ship once a month.”

“I believe I should spend a few days in Pueblo,” Nathan said, “and either confirm or drop these suspicions regarding Shanklin.”

“I agree,” said Hagerman. “Come up with some conclusive proof against Shanklin, and we can appeal to the mine owners to get rid of him, contract or no contract. Layover in Kansas City tonight, and take the six o‘clock westbound back to Dodge in the morning. By the way, Malone canceled the two o'clock westbound for today, so when this oncoming train takes the siding, you'll have a clear track all the way to Kansas City.”

By the time Nathan returned to the caboose, he could hear the distant wail of locomotive whistle. With a clanging of its bell, the westbound slowed to a crawl, allowing the brakeman to swing down and open the switch. While Nathan had talked with Hagerman, three thirty-eight had taken on wood and water and was ready to resume the journey. The train picked up speed, freeing the mainline for the westbound to leave on schedule.

“That's what I call smooth,” Enos said, as they rolled into the Kansas City railroad yards. “The railroad ought to slip these mine shipments in at odd times, so that nobody knows which train they'll be on.”

“You're gettin' ahead of me,” said Nathan. “That's one change I aim to suggest, so I'd appreciate you keeping that possibility under your hat.”

Adjacent to the bunkhouse, the Kansas City terminal included bathing facilities, and Nathan enjoyed a hot bath. By the time Nathan had changed clothes, the dispatcher was looking for him.

“So you're the gent that sent me to wake up the president of the railroad at one o'clock this morning. God, I thought heads would roll, startin' with mine. You, my friend, must lead a charmed life. Mr. Malone sent word for you to join him for supper tonight. I've written down the address.”

“Thanks,” Nathan said, taking the written message. The train had reached the terminal a few minutes before six o'clock, and it was now almost seven. Nathan hired a hack, and giving the driver the address, sat back to enjoy the ride. Pierce Malone's home was everything Nathan had expected, and more. A two-story white house with green shutters, it sat on a hill a few miles south of town. Telling the butler his name, he was shown in to the parlor. He remained standing, for the furniture looked fragile and expensive. When Malone entered the room, Nathan turned to face him.

“I'm Pierce Malone,” he said, extending his hand.

Nathan took it. “I'm Nathan Stone.”

“Come on in to the dining room,” said Malone. “Supper will be served shortly. The coffee's ready now.”

Malone asked only enough questions to get Nathan started, and then he listened. He was told essentially what Nathan had already told Foster Hagerman. When Nathan had said about all he intended to, Malone drank the rest of his coffee and spoke.

“I think I must commend Mr. Hagerman on his judgment. There's not another man in the employ of this railroad who would have taken it upon himself to make the moves you made last night and this morning. I only recently learned of the episode involving the dynamite and the saving of a military payroll that might otherwise have been lost to train robbers.”

Uneasy with all the praise, Nathan was saved by the arrival of the food.

“Enough talk,” said Malone. “I suppose you're hungry.”

“I am,” Nathan said. “I had breakfast at four this morning, and nothing since.”

It was a sumptuous meal, and Nathan enjoyed it. He used the time to observe Pierce Malone, just as Malone was observing him. The railroad man looked to be in his fifties, and his hair was graying. His eyes were a piercing blue, and Nathan liked the way those eyes maintained contact with his own while Malone was speaking. Unlike most men, never once did Malone's eyes stray to the brace of Colts on Nathan's hips. When they had finished eating and were enjoying final cups of coffee, Malone spoke.

“There are times, Stone, when I feel those of us who are forever driving the rails westward are miscalculating our influence. We believe the coming of the rails parallels the advance of civilization, when that rarely is the case. I am referring to the lawlessness that prevails on the western frontier. The railroads, rather than having a civilizing influence, are creating a series of boom towns allowing criminals to rise to greater heights than ever.”

“Like the James and Younger gangs,” Nathan said. “Instead of robbing a bank and getting only a few hundred dollars, they can hold up a train and escape with thousands.”

“Precisely,” said Malone. “I suppose law and order will come, but not in my lifetime or yours.”

“We have law on the frontier, now,” Nathan said, “but it's law in its rawest form. It's the law of the gun. Men like Wild Bill Hickok have stood for the law, only to have the good people turn on them and drive them away, to face their enemies they've accumulated. Hickok will likely die in some frontier town, shot in the back, with nobody to avenge his death.”

“And you, Nathan Stone?”

“Likely the same fate as Hickok,” said Nathan. “I'm riding for the brand, Mr. Malone, and in looking out for the interests of the AT and SF, I'm on the legal side of the fence. On the frontier, a man's enemies have no respect for the law, in whatever form it appears. I could be wearing the shield of a Texas Ranger, but I refuse to hide behind a badge. There are men who would gun me down just to prove they're faster with a gun, and the time may come when you'll curse me. The time may come when I'll have to shoot some fool kid to save my own life, when I have a price on my head, when the good people and the big newspapers are drumming up a legal lynch mob. Then—if not sooner—I'll be leaving you, Mr. Malone, for your railroad won't need the bad name.”

“By God,” Malone said, aghast at the grim picture Nathan had painted, “a man does what he must. As long as you're loyal to the AT and SF, I'll side you till hell freezes.”

Nathan laughed. “I believe you, Mr. Malone, and I'm obliged.”

“I mean every word,” said Malone. “Thank you for this visit. I'll have someone take you back to the terminal in the buckboard.”

The butler who had greeted Nathan at the door drove him back to the railroad terminal, and they exchanged not a word until Nathan thanked him. For a long time, Nathan lay awake pondering the railroad man's words. Might there be a future for him with the railroad, despite his deadly reputation with a gun? The uncertainty crept away, only to sink its teeth into him anew three days later, when Pierce Malone died in his sleep....

Nathan stepped down from the train on Tuesday, a few minutes past noon. He went immediately to Foster Hagerman's office.

“You'll still want to spend some time in Pueblo,” Hagerman said, “but I think there's been some changes in the situation there. A visitor arrived on the train a while ago, and won't talk to anybody but you. I sent her on to the Dodge House.”

When Nathan walked into the hotel, Melanie Gavin came to meet him. He almost didn't recognize her, for she wore a hat with a heavy veil.

“Come on to my room,” he said, “unless you fear for your reputation.”

“There's nothing you can do that could worsen my reputation,” she said bitterly. “If I wasn't such a coward, I'd kill myself.”

Nathan unlocked the door to his room, allowing Melanie to enter first. He then locked the door behind them. Nathan sat on the bed, leaving her the chair, but she didn't sit.

“Now,” said Nathan, “you talk and I'll listen.”

“First I have something to show you,” she said. She removed the hat and veil, revealing a massive bruise that spread from her mouth and chin to her right cheek.

“My God,” Nathan said.

“That's just the beginning,” she said. “There's more.” Unbuttoning her dress, she let it fall to the floor. She wore nothing beneath it. There were black-and-blue bruises from her knees to her shoulders.

“I should have killed the bastard when I had the chance,” said Nathan. “I suppose he had a reason for that?”

“Yes,” she said. “He believed it was something I told you that caused you to change the schedule on that shipment from the mines. He threatened to kill me.”

“Why didn't you go to the law?”

“Then he
would
have killed me. I had no proof that he'd done anything, although I knew he was planning to.”

“Have you been to a doctor?”

“No,” she said. “I was ashamed to go. I only wanted to get away from him.”

“So you came to me. What am I supposed to do with you?”

“Nothing,” she said, refusing to look at him. “I ... I was hoping I might ... stay with you until ...”

“But you have no proof, nothing that can be used against Shanklin,” Nathan said.

“No,” she said, “but I can tell you what he's said he's going to do, the names of the men he's been talking to....”

“I'll want to hear all of that,” said Nathan. “While we don't have any real evidence, I want to know what he's planning to do. Now why don't you get dressed and we'll go to Delmonico's for some food.”

“I'm ashamed to be seen, with my face looking like ... this,” she said. “Maybe later ... tomorrow ...”

The more Nathan looked at her, the more she reminded him of Molly Tremayne. She sat on the bed beside him, and the next thing he knew, she had her arms around him, weeping as though her heart would break. Finally the tears subsided, and when her eyes looked into his, Nathan felt chills creeping up his spine.

“Please,” she said. “I'm not hungry. Perhaps after dark, when nobody can see me so well. All I want is someone to care, someone who won't hurt me. I'm so tired ... I haven't slept in days. Could I ... stay here for just ... a while?”

The way she tilted her head, the way her dark eyes met his, she reminded Nathan all the more of Molly Tremayne. He grew weak in the knees and his heart felt like it had risen to his throat. He had to swallow hard before he could speak.

“You stay here and sleep,” he said. “I have some railroad business to attend to. When I return, we'll go to supper.”

He helped her to her feet and turned back the covers for her. Gratefully she kicked off her shoes, got into the bed, and he smoothed the covers over her. He then stepped out the door, locked it behind him, and stood in the hall, breathing hard. He knew he must get his priorities in order, but how could he, when she reminded him so much of Molly? With his mind in a turmoil, he left the Dodge House, only to have a slug furrow the flesh along his left side. A second one narrowly missed his head. Drawing his Colt, he started across the street on the run, but there were no more shots. He could still smell powder smoke when he reached the alley, but there was no sign of the gunman. There were saloons and innumerable other places of business whose back doors opened into the alley, and a search would be fruitless. Nathan turned back toward the Dodge House and found several men had been drawn by the shooting. One of them was Sheriff Harrington, and he saw the blood on Nathan's shirt.

“Ambush, I reckon,” said Harrington.

“Good try,” Nathan replied. “I lost him in the alley.”

“See the doc, and then come back by the office,” said Harrington.

Nathan paid the doctor two dollars to swab out the wound with alcohol and apply a wide cloth bandage. He then went to Harrington's office. Harrington nodded to a chair and Nathan sat down. From his desk drawer, the sheriff took a sheet of paper. This he passed to Nathan. It was a telegram, addressed to “Sheriff, Dodge City,” and it read:

It was signed “Elsa Gavin, of Pueblo, Colorado.”

“Should I answer this?”

“No,” said Nathan. “I can't tell you anything at this point, except that the girl fears for her life, and I believe she has reason to. She's been involved with a man who has a contract with the mines for the hauling of silver to the railroad. I have reason to believe this varmint is a thief himself, or is selling information to outlaws. I'm telling you this in confidence, only because the girl, Melanie Gavin, is here, asking for help.”

“I'll sit on it, then,” Harrington said, “but there's something about this that doesn't ring true. If Elsa Gavin is so concerned about her daughter—if they're that close—why did the girl turn to you, instead of her mother? Is there no law in that town?”

“The law there's just like the law anywhere else,” said Nathan. “They don't care a damn about your suspicions. They want proof. I don't know to what extent Elsa Gavin is involved, or if she's involved at all. I do know there's been considerable conflict between mother and daughter over a no-account varmint name of Clell Shanklin.”

“Shanklin bein' the questionable hombre who has the hauling contract with the mines, I reckon,” Harrington said.

“Yes,” said Nathan. “I've told you enough; you know as much as I do. Until I'm sure where Elsa Gavin stands, I'm telling her nothing. Shanklin could be behind this telegram you received.”

“My God, you believe the girl's mother would betray her to a man who's trying to kill her?”

“I don't know,” Nathan said, “but I'm not going to risk it. This Shanklin is slick as a greased pig, and I wouldn't put it past him, playing both ends against the middle. Suppose he's been using both the mother
and
the daughter? He might then turn one against the other, if it suited his purpose.”