The Killing Season (67 page)

For a long time, Nathan lay there, trying to accept the agony that was his. He could feel the blood running down his back. Something must be done. He struggled to his hands and knees, and was finally able to sit on the edge of one of the bunks. He removed what was left of his shirt. When he was able to stand, he took a wooden bucket that was almost full of water, and stumbled outside. He found a place where the soil was loose, having been trampled by the hooves of horses and mules. He poured the water over as wide an area as he could, until there was a patch of mud. He then eased himself to the ground and lay down, his tortured back in the cooling mud. It was an old remedy, and he didn't know if it would save him from infection, but he had nothing else....

 

Sheriff Hondo took a chair and sat down. Judge Ponder wasted no time in getting to the point.

“The first week in April,” said Ponder, “there's going to be another escape at Yuma. You will capture the prisoner and return him to the territorial prison, as usual, for which authorities there will pay you a hundred dollars.”

“There an' back,” Sheriff Hondo said, “that's five hundred miles. Ain't it time I was gettin' more money for my part in this racket?”

“Keep referring to it as a ‘racket,' ” said Judge Ponder, “and you'll cease to be part of it. You're being paid as the sheriff, for which you do virtually nothing. Don't push your luck.”

“You're takin' an almighty lot for granted,” Sheriff Hondo said bitterly. “Suppose I ride away from here an' don't bother comin' back?”

“Then I'll be forced to put a price on your head, and telegraph every lawman on the frontier,” said Ponder. “That would be a real problem for you, I think. Nobody likes an outlaw sheriff.”

“You scruffy, double-dealing old coyote,” Hondo said bitterly.

When he had gone, slamming the door behind him, Judge Ponder laughed.

 

Nathan lay on his back, closing his eyes to the sun, and eventually the searing pain subsided. He got to his feet, careful not to break the poultice of dried mud, and made his way back into the bunkhouse. Quivado had left him to live or die on his own, and for that, Nathan was thankful. He stretched out, belly-down, on his bunk, wondering what had happened to Withers.

When the wagons had reached the dam site, Withers had been dragged out and forced to stand. Each time, he collapsed in a heap on the ground, unmoving, even when Quivado struck him with the murderous whip.

“Damn him,” said Quivado, “leave him be. I'll see that he does twice as much work tomorrow.”

But it was a promise Quivado would be unable to keep. Before the sun was noon high, Withers was dead....

At the end of the day, when the rest of the men returned to the bunkhouse, nobody bothered Nathan. Quivado came in, evidently to see if Nathan was alive, and then left. The rest of the prisoners said nothing, their eyes on Nathan's mud-plastered back.

“Where's Withers?” Nathan asked.

“In the ground,” somebody said. “You took a beating for nothing.”

“I reckon that's a matter of opinion,” said Nathan.

Despite his beating, Nathan went to supper. He looked Quivado in the eye, and the man looked away. Nathan slept belly-down, but he was in no condition to labor in the hot Arizona sun without a shirt. His guards had reached the same conclusion, for when the prisoners were taken to breakfast the next morning, Sanchez tossed Nathan a faded denim shirt. It was too large, allowing for his lacerated back. The wet mud had aided in the clotting of blood, and the torn skin had begun to scab over. The muscles were sore, aching from the beating, but Nathan vowed Quivado wouldn't have the satisfaction of knowing.

Several times, Nathan saw Empty, and the dog didn't look hungry. Obviously, he was puzzled by Nathan's circumstances, but his loyalty wouldn't allow him to leave. But where was he to go? He had no home, unless he remembered those days in New Orleans. Days passed, and Nathan's back healed. Quivado still looked at him in a way that Nathan didn't like, as though Quivado had plans for Nathan Stone. It was enough to prevent most of Nathan's companions from so much as speaking to him, for they feared any friendliness toward him might result in punishment from Quivado. Strong and Rutledge, who labored beside Nathan each day, spoke to him cautiously when Quivado wasn't around. While he dared not speak to the others about such, Nathan's mind was constantly in a turmoil, considering and rejecting all possible means of escape. He was in leg irons all day, constantly under guard, and at night the bunkhouse was locked, with guards outside. He needed a horse and his guns, and any chance of his getting to either began to seem more and more unlikely. Armed and mounted, he would have to shoot his way out, against virtually impossible odds. Every outlaw in town—even those paying for sanctuary—would kill him if they could, for his escape would jeopardize their safety. His only hope of rescue lay with Harley Stafford, and Harley was more than seven hundred miles away, without the slightest idea as to where Nathan might be. How long, he wondered, before a slug from a Winchester became more tolerable than imprisonment and endless days of slave labor?

 

Nathan had silently vowed not to antagonize Quivado again, for he suspected a second bout with the whip would be fatal. But he had no control over Quivado's brutal, sadistic nature, and he believed it was but a matter of time until Quivado came after him again. Nathan and three of his companions were preparing to drop a heavy ponderosa log into a hole, where it would become an upright for the dam. Nathan's foot slipped, and without his support, his three companions were unable to control the log. It fell, and went tumbling down the slope, toward the river.

“Damn you,” Quivado shouted. Dropping his Winchester, he came after Nathan with the deadly whip.

But Nathan caught the lash with his left hand, and with a mighty heave, tore it out of Quivado's grasp. Quivado went for the Colt at his hip, but he was slow. Even the leg irons didn't stop Nathan. He threw himself to the ground and rolled, going after the Winchester Quivado had dropped. Quivado fired twice, the slugs kicking up dust, but before he could fire a third time, Nathan had his hands on the Winchester. He fired once, twice, three times, sending Quivado sprawling in the dirt. But there was the roar of a second Winchester, and Nathan was struck in the back. He fell belly-down and lay still. Sanchez, the second guard, approached. He prodded Nathan with the toe of his boot, without response. Kneeling, he felt for a pulse. The man was still alive. This was a situation that needed a bit more authority than he possessed, and since he couldn't leave these laborers to seek the sheriff, they must all go together.

“Rutledge,” said Sanchez, “bring my horse.”

The horse was near enough not to be a temptation to Rutledge, and when he brought the animal, Sanchez pointed to another of the prisoners.

“You, Haynes, help Rutledge get Stone across the saddle.”

The two men lifted Nathan to the saddle, turning him belly-down.

“Now,” said Sanchez, “we're all going to take a walk to Judge Ponder's office. Stone is their responsibility, since he's unable to work. Rutledge, you lead the horse.”

While it was more than a mile to town, to Ponder's office, nobody complained. Every man secretly hoped Nathan Stone lived. Hadn't he rid them of the sadistic, evil Quivado? Somebody saw them coming, and by the time they reached the dusty main street, Sheriff Hondo was waiting.

“Sanchez, what'n hell ...”

“Stone shoot Quivado, I shoot Stone,” said Sanchez. “I cannot leave these hombres by themselves. What could I do but bring them with me?”

Sheriff Hondo had no logical argument, so he said nothing. Instead, he took Nathan's wrist, seeking a pulse. It was there, and he sighed with relief. Stone could still recover in time for the exchange Judge Ponder had in mind.

“Wait here, Sanchez,” Sheriff Hondo said. “I'll talk to Judge Ponder.”

Judge Ponder listened. Finally he spoke.

“Take Stone to the saloon. Tell Mallet I said patch him up, bed him down somewhere, and pour the whiskey down him. Then I want you to go with Sanchez, and get those men back to work. For the rest of the day, you'll replace Quivado.”

“By God, I'm the sheriff,” Hondo bawled.

“For the rest of today, and until I say otherwise, you're Quivado,” said Ponder.

 

Nathan awoke, uncertain as to where he was, recalling only that he had been shot. He could hear the clink of glasses and the distant hum of voices, evidence enough that he was in the back of a saloon. On a table beside his bunk sat a whiskey bottle and a pitcher of water. He raised himself on one elbow and drank thirstily from the pitcher. The whiskey accounted for his thundering headache, but it had evidently rid him of fever, for he was sweating. Suddenly a curtain was drawn aside, and Sheriff Hondo stood there looking at him.

“Well, you're alive,” said Hondo. “Soon as you're able to be up and about, the judge wants to see you.”

“I can understand that,” Nathan said. “He wants to look me in the eye while he adds another five years to my sentence.”

“Oh, I don't think he aims to do that,” said Hondo. “He's a compassionate man.”

Barely on his feet from the shooting, Harley Stafford had taken sick and was confined to bed for another two weeks. He was frantic.

“Harley,” said Vivian, “you heard what the doctor said. You got up too soon, and in your weakened condition, you had a setback. He's promised you can get up tomorrow.”

Harley said nothing. His mind was on Nathan Stone, and he silently cursed his rotten luck. He imagined he could hear a ticking clock, and with every stroke of the pendulum, time was running out for Nathan....

The twenty-fifth of March, Nathan was again taken before Judge Ponder. Sheriff Hondo was the only other person present.

“Mr. Stone,” said Ponder, “in light of your recent conduct, I have found it necessary to evaluate and amend your sentence. Your first day in our town, you shot a man. Since you had no record, I took that into consideration. Now, however, you stand accused of a second killing. On the sixteenth of April, you will be taken to the territorial prison in Yuma, where you will spend the rest of your natural life. Until then, you will be confined to a cell.”

Nathan said nothing. He was shocked but not surprised. He had three weeks to gain his freedom. He had no doubt that if the formidable gates of Yuma prison closed behind him, he would die there. The night came, and sitting in his cell, he could hear the distant wail of coyotes. Then, somewhere much nearer, there was an answering cry. It was the mournful howl of a dog, harkening him back to that dismal night in Virginia, when Cotton Blossom had howled over the grave of old Malachi. Somewhere on a distant hill, Empty waited, his cry sending chills up Nathan's spine. Empty howled again, and as the mournful sound faded away to silence, it seemed more and more like a harbinger of death....

 

Days passed, and Nathan knew only one thing for sure. Escape from the outlaw town was out of the question, for his leg irons were never removed, nor was he allowed out of his cell. While he had no idea how long would be the ride to Yuma, he believed it would be his only hope of escape. Various guards had visited the jail, and Nathan had overheard their conversations with Sheriff Hondo. Two men would be selected to escort Nathan Stone to Yuma territorial prison, each man to be paid a hundred dollars, and there apparently was some competition among the outlaws. Time dragged on, and the day before the fateful journey was to begin, Judge Ponder invited the chosen men to his office. Their names—probably not their own—were Hiram Doss and Rum Tasby.

“Sit down,” Judge Ponder ordered.

The two sat, not in the least intimidated. They were burly, bearded, and in addition to a thonged-down Colt, each had a second weapon slipped under his belt. Rawhide thongs about their necks attested to Bowie knives down their backs. Their clothing consisted of worn Levi's, sweaty flannel shirts, scuffed, runover boots, and sweat-stained hats.

“Both of you have done this before,” said Judge Ponder, “so I don't have to tell you what is expected of you. Moreover, I shouldn't have to remind you of the consequences, should you fail. Should there be an attempt to escape, you are to shoot to wound, not to kill. Have I made myself clear?”

“Yeah,” the pair said, in a single voice.

“I can't hear you,” Ponder snapped.

“Yes, sir,” they replied, irritated.

“No questions?”

“No, sir,” they said.

“Good,” said Ponder. “Now get out of here, and be ready to ride at first light.”