The Killing Season (66 page)

Every man within hearing—one of whom was Sheriff Hondo—headed for the saloon. It gave Nathan something to think about, and the more he thought about it, the less he looked forward to his appearance before Judge Ponder. Peaceful though it seemed, the place had all the earmarks of an outlaw town, up to and including the sheriff and the judge. Nathan had no supper, and for breakfast, he was brought a pot of beans, bacon, and a tin cup of coffee. Judge Ponder's courtroom was in the rear of the building that housed the jail. Most of the men who had jumped Nathan in the saloon were in the courtroom.

“Ever'body stand,” said Sheriff Hondo.

Nathan remained seated, earning himself a sour look from Judge Ponder, as he took his place on the bench.

“Who is this man, and what is he charged with?” Judge Ponder demanded.

They hadn't even bothered asking his name, and Nathan said nothing, forcing Sheriff Hondo to pose the question.

“What's your name?” Sheriff Hondo growled.

“Nathan Stone.”

“His name's Nathan Stone, your honor,” said Sheriff Hondo. “He shot and killed Billings yesterday, in the saloon.”

“You have witnesses?”

“All them gents in front of you,” Sheriff Hondo said.

“Swear them in,” said Judge Ponder.

“All you varmints is sworn in,” Sheriff Hondo said. “Did all of you see Stone shoot Billings yesterday?”

“Yeah,” they answered. “We seen it.”

“Who was first to draw?” Sheriff Hondo asked.

“Stone,” they all shouted.

“Now get on over to the saloon an' have yourselves a shot,” said Hondo. “Put it on my tab.”

“Do you have anything to say in your own defense?” Judge Ponder asked.

“I'm not guilty,” said Nathan, “and I want a trial by jury. I'm a citizen of the United States of America.”

“You're not in the United States,” Judge Ponder said. “This is Arizona Territory, and we make our own laws. You have been proved guilty, and there ain't nothin' a jury can do to change that. I'm sentencin' you to five years at hard labor.”

“Come on, bucko,” said Sheriff Hondo. “You look like you got a strong back. You'll need it. We're buildin' a dam, and you get the honor of helpin' it along.”

Nathan was taken outside. Sheriff Hondo pointed to a buckboard, and Nathan climbed up to the box. The sheriff mounted the box and took the reins. Nathan was amazed at the many fields under cultivation. Long before they reached it, he could hear the roar of the river.
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“Trouble with this damn country,” said Hondo, “is there ain't enough water. We aim to divert water to irrigate the crops, opening an' closin' the gates, as needed.”

Nathan said nothing, marveling at the man's nerve, speaking as though they were old friends. Yet he was obviously a willing accomplice to a system that robbed men of their freedom, using their labor to further its own ends. The site they had chosen for the dam was at a bend in the river, where the natural elevation of the land would readily result in a runoff, when the dam was ready. But work on the dam had obviously just begun. Man labored, digging holes for pillars that would become the backbone of the dam. Piles of logs lay ready, and Nathan could hear the sound of axes and saws at work. There was the crash of a fallen tree. Sheriff Hondo reined up, waiting until one of the guards reached the buckboard.

“Quivado,” said Sheriff Hondo, “this is Mr. Stone. He's going to help us build the dam. Mr. Stone, the other guard is Sanchez, and you'll meet him in time. Now, if you'll step down, Quivado will take charge of you.”

Nathan climbed down, not liking the looks of Quivado. He was Mexican, some Indian, and the blacksnake whip coiled about his arm looked all business. He had long hair, a flowing mustache, and a grim mouth that looked as though it had never smiled. In one big hand was a set of leg irons. He knelt down to lock them in place, while Sheriff Hondo kept his eyes on Nathan.

“We trust you,” said Sheriff Hondo, “so we're leaving your hands free. Besides, you'll need them to swing an ax and pull a saw.”

The sheriff drove away, and Quivado looked at Nathan in anticipation. He nodded in the direction of the laboring men, and Nathan headed that way, the cumbersome chains jingling with every step. The three men peeling the pine logs paused, leaning on their axes and wiping their sweaty faces on their dirty sleeves.

“Damn it,” shouted Quivado, speaking for the first time, “git back to work. This ain't no church social. Stone, take an ax an' git to peelin' them logs.”

Nathan took an ax and joined the trio of sweating men. Quivado sought shade, taking a seat with his back to a half-grown pine, a Winchester across his knees. Sanchez, Nathan guessed, would be with the laboring men who were felling trees. Nathan said nothing to his companions, waiting for a better time. Their eyes, when they occasionally met his, were dull with hopelessness. When the sun was noon high, Quivado called a halt. There was no food. There was a bucket of water, a gourd dipper, and they were allowed a few minutes of rest. Quivado was always within hearing distance, and he never took his eyes off them. The labor continued until sundown, when two wagons arrived. Four men in chains were marched out of the woods. Behind them, with a Winchester, was the other guard, Sanchez. The leg irons were removed, allowing the men to climb into the wagons. Nathan and his three companions were in one, while the four who had been felling trees were in the other. Quivado and Sanchez were mounted, riding on either side of the second wagon.

Nathan expected a bunkhouse, but nothing like the one to which they were taken. It was long, low, without a single window, and it appeared there were accommodations for at least a hundred men. It also appeared that when they were locked in for the night, nobody would be allowed to leave until the next morning. Large earthen jars took the place of an outhouse, and the place stank to high heaven. There were buckets of water with dippers, and tin washbasins for washing face and hands. More wagons were coming in from the fields, and Nathan counted forty more laborers. He followed his companions into the stinking bunkhouse, and for the first time, one of them spoke to him.

“You got maybe fifteen minutes to wash up, if you're of a mind to. We got to eat an' git back here 'fore dark.”

The reason for that wasn't difficult to understand. There wasn't a lamp in the place, nor was there a fireplace or a stove. The bunks—in tiers of two—lined the walls. There was only a thin straw tick over a slab of wood. Supper was a lackluster affair, consisting of beans, bacon, corn bread, and coffee. The men were then marched back to the bunkhouse and the doors were locked. Nathan took a bunk near the three men with whom he had worked during the day.

“Tell me about this place,” he said in a low voice.

“Ain't that much to tell. I'm Withers. The other two gents is Strong and Rutledge. We been here maybe six months. It don't pay to talk too much. Some of this bunch is Judas to the bone. They'll sell you out for an extra spoonful of beans.”

“How long are you in for?” Nathan asked.

“Hell, ever'body gets five years,” said Withers, “an' don't go thinkin' you'll be let out when you've done your time. If you live that long, they'll trump up some charge and give you another five years. Ain't but two ways of gettin' out of here, an' one's as bad as the other. You can leave in a pine box, or they'll send you to the territorial prison, in Yuma.”

“Why the prison? Hell, this is all the prison I ever want to see.”

“Judge Ponder's workin' a deal with somebody at Yuma. For enough money—I hear it's ten thousand dollars—a man can buy his way out of the territorial prison. He's turned loose, like he escaped, and then the prison announces he's been captured. Only it ain't him that goes back to Yuma. Judge Ponder delivers them some poor damn fool like you or me, and
he
goes to Yuma, with added time for escaping.”

“While Ponder and some bastard at Yuma splits the money,” said Nathan.

“You got it,” Withers said, “an' that ain't all. This damn town is nothing more than an outlaw stronghold. I hear that Ponder collects from fifty to a hundred dollars a month, per man, for guaranteed safety from the law. This bein' a territory, there ain't a damn thing anybody can do about it.”

“What about the farming?”

“That's a front,” said Withers, “should some outsider get nosy, but even that brings in money. The fruit, vegetables, and melons is hauled to Tucson, as well as some of the mining camps.”

“Withers,” somebody growled, “shut the hell up. How's a man to sleep?”

Nathan sighed, shifting positions. It looked truly hopeless. Nobody knew where he was, and there was no means of getting word to anyone who could and would come to his aid. But he dared not give up. He would mind his business and bide his time, which was all he could do....

Harley Stafford was on his feet, restless, and worried.

“There's nothing we can do, Harley,” said Vivian. “We don't know where Nathan went, and even if you were able to ride, there's no trail. There's been five days of rain.”

“I'll give it one more week,” Harley said, “and then I'm goin' lookin' for him. He's in neck-deep and can't reach us, or he's dead. In either case, there's some gun work that needs doin'. I aim to see it done.”

“Then I'm going with you,” said Vivian. “It's bad enough if I've lost Nathan, without waiting for days, weeks, or months, not knowing what's happened to you.”

“I can't argue with that,” Harley said. “I know how you feel.”

“What about your position with the railroad?”

“Hagerman understands. Hell, he'd better. Nathan went after that bunch of outlaws when I was so shot up I couldn't move. That's railroad business.”

“You know better than that,” said Vivian. “He's doing this for you, because you're his friend. He may have given his life for you.”

“You think I don't realize that?” Harley cried. “I told him I'd be there, if he ever had need of me, and by God, I'm going, if I have to crawl on my hands and knees.”

The days wore on, and the men labored under the Arizona sun without their shirts. Nathan's hands went from blisters to calluses, while his upper body, arms, neck, and face turned a deep bronze. Occasionally, while they were in the woods, he caught a glimpse of Empty. He had no idea what had become of his saddlebags, with all the money he had. He hadn't been searched after they had taken his Colts. Long ago, he had prepared for just such a time as this, by having a small leather pocket sewn into the upper of his left boot. In that pocket he had placed the silver shield given him by Texas Ranger Captain Jennings, and the silver watch given him by Byron Silver. Somehow they would help him, if he had some means of reaching them. But they were far away, and the fires of his hopes burned dim, as one weary day dragged into another....

 

Empty lay in the shade of a fir, near enough to the laboring men to hear the sound of their axes and saws. Small game was plentiful enough, and he had managed to keep himself alive. At first, he hadn't understood why Nathan remained with these strange men, but he well understood the destructive ability of the Winchesters the guards possessed. Many times, Empty had trotted along the back trail, pausing to look back, but each time he had returned. Unwilling to leave Nathan, he waited....

 

Nathan kept his silence, avoiding trouble with his captors, but one morning everything changed. When it was time to go to breakfast, Withers still lay on his bunk, unable to get up. He was still there when the wagons came to take the prisoners to their day of labor.

“Withers is sick,” one of the men told Quivado.

“I got the cure for what ails him,” said Quivado, uncoiling his whip.

When he drew back the whip, Nathan caught his arm. His right fist came up, smashing Quivado in the face. The burly guard stumbled against the wall, but Nathan was unable to pursue his advantage. Sanchez, the other guard, slammed the butt of his Winchester into the back of Nathan's head, and he fell facedown.

“The rest of you get out of here,” said Quivado, wiping his bleeding nose, “and take Withers with you. I aim to teach this damn fool a lesson he ain't likely to forget.”

The rest of the men trooped out, two of his comrades carrying Withers. Quivado then set to work with the deadly blacksnake whip. He cut Nathan's shirt to ribbons, lashing him unmercifully, ceasing only when his arm grew tired. He then mounted his horse and rode after the wagons.