The Killing Season (7 page)

Reading the current
Kansas City Liberty- Tribune,
Nathan discovered something that intrigued him. Edward Beard, a saloon owner from California, had been attracted to Kansas by the cattle boom, and had established a saloon and dance hall in Delano, just outside Wichita. Beard advertised around-the-clock high stakes poker and was seeking house dealers. While with the Kansas-Pacific Railroad, Nathan had spent many months in various Kansas towns. Having allowed his beard to grow, it was time to learn whether or not his changed appearance had made any difference in towns where he was most likely to be recognized. He rode to Delano and offered his services as a house dealer, and his first impression of Edward Beard was unfavorable. He had a quick tongue, cold green eyes, flaming red hair and beard, and little patience.

“Twenty percent of the take,” said Beard shortly. “It's your game. I ain't responsible for slick dealing, card shaving, knife or gun work.”

Nathan laughed. “So that's why you're in Delano instead of Wichita. No law out here.”

“It's no business of yours why I'm here,” Beard said. “If you can't ride the bronc, then stay out of the saddle.”

“I can ride your bronc,” said Nathan evenly. “Just don't get in my way.”

Beard had a whorehouse upstairs, and he was anything but gentle with the women. For some reason Nathan never understood, Beard's place was enormously popular with the military, and soldiers were there from as far away as Fort Dodge, Fort Leavenworth, and Fort Hays. While riding the vengeance trail, Nathan had often visited the forts, and during his first week at the tables, he was greatly encouraged when none of the soldiers seemed to recognize him. Nathan and two other dealers—Benton and Kinzer—worked the tables from three in the afternoon until eleven at night, and Nathan got the impression they were more hired guns than house dealers. The night of June third, Nathan had his suspicions confirmed. Two soldiers got into a violent argument with Emma Stanley, one of Beard's prostitutes.

“Damn you,” one of the soldiers shouted, “you owe me change.”

“I gave it to you,” Emma shouted back.

One of the soldiers drew his pistol, probably as a threat, but Emma seized his arm and the weapon roared. Wounded in the leg, Emma screamed. The soldier dropped the pistol and raised his hands. Benton, the house dealer, drew his Colt and would have shot the soldier in the back, but for Nathan. He drew his Colt and shot Benton. That should have ended it, but Edward Beard cut loose with a Colt. The soldiers who had argued with Emma escaped, but Beard, firing wildly, gunned down two innocent soldiers. Private Doley took a slug in the throat, at the base of his tongue, while his companion, Private Boyle had his right ankle shattered. Every other soldier in the saloon went to the aid of their wounded comrades, taking them away. The Colt still in his hand, Beard stalked across the floor and confronted Nathan.

“Damn it,” he shouted, “if you had to shoot somebody, why didn't you shoot the fool who shot Emma?”

“Because Benton was about to shoot an unarmed soldier in the back,” said Nathan coldly. “You've just shot two men who had done nothing. I'd say you're in deep enough, already.”

“I'll be the judge of that,” Beard shouted. “Now you and Kinzer tote Benton out back. This is bad for business.”

Nathan and Kinzer carried Benton out the back door and put him down. Kinzer wiped his brow and spoke.

“He's bought himself a mess of trouble. Hurt a soldier, and the rest of them will come down on you like a pack of lobo wolves.”

Nathan said nothing, but Kinzer spoke the truth. Wound or kill a soldier—whatever the reason—and his comrades were likely to show up with fire in their eyes and guns in their hands. It was but a matter of time, and for Edward Beard that time arrived quickly.

 

Nathan had taken a hotel room in Wichita, stabling his horses in a nearby livery. Each time he rode to Beard's saloon, he had taken to leaving Cotton Blossom at the livery, with the packhorse. The dog hated saloons, was ever on his guard, and was capable of biting some clumsy drunk. The night after Beard had shot the two soldiers, it was ominously quiet, with nobody at the poker tables. Two or three men were upstairs, but none of the soldiers had returned.

“They'll be back,” Kinzer predicted, “and there'll be hell to pay.”

“Just shut up!” Beard shouted, but he obviously was worried, for in addition to his Colt, he carried a Winchester under his arm.

“They'll come back and kill us all,” Emma whined.

Nathan said nothing. He had no intention of being caught on the short end of a gun fight with the Union army. It started with the sound of a shot, the tinkle of glass, and a slug through a saloon window.

“Ever'body out,” a voice shouted, “and nobody gets hurt. We're burnin' this place to the ground.”

“Like hell,” Beard replied. He cut loose with the Winchester, firing wildly through the windows into the darkness. “Shoot, damn it,” he bawled at Nathan and Kinzer.

“There's nobody to shoot at, you damn fool,” said Nathan in disgust. “You've played out your string. Don't make it any worse.”

But Beard seemed not to hear. He continued firing into the night, and while he had no targets, the soldiers did. The dozen hanging lamps began exploding, scattering flaming coal oil everywhere. One of the lamps showered Beard with burning oil. He dropped the Winchester and threw himself on the floor, rolling, trying to extinguish the flames. There were screams from upstairs, as the attackers took aim at lamps through upstairs windows. Girls practically fell down the stairs in various stages of dress and undress, while men fought their way down, boots in their hands. But the vengeful soldiers were not depending on the shattered lamps and scattered coal oil. They had brought coal oil of their own, and soon flames were racing up outside walls and licking in through shattered windows. Smoke swept down the stairs as the second floor caught.

“You men outside,” Nathan shouted, “hold your fire. We're coming out.”

“Come on,” came the shouted response. “We won't shoot.”

“By God,” Beard snarled, “when we go out, we'll go shootin'.”

“I reckon not,” said Kinzer, slamming the muzzle of his Colt against the back of the saloon owner's head. “Take the crazy varmint's feet,” he told Nathan, “and we'll tote him out.”

A hundred yards from the burning saloon, they left Beard under an oak. In a shower of sparks, the saloon's roof caved in, and there was a clatter of hooves as the vengeful soldiers rode out.

“I don't aim to be here when he comes to,” said Kinzer. “Adios.”

“Neither do I,” Nathan replied.

The two of them went to their picketed horses, saddled the animals, and rode toward the lights of Wichita. Behind them came the frustrated cries of women.

 

Nathan had no idea what kind of stink Edward Beard might stir up in Wichita, and he had no desire to become embroiled in it. At first light he rode west, leading his packhorse with Cotton Blossom trotting ahead. He had a little more than a hundred dollars and a dead man to show for his two weeks at Edward Beard's saloon. Dodge City was a two-day ride, and he had left there hurriedly, thanks to the reward notice he had discovered in the
Kansas City Liberty- Tribune.
He had no particular reason for going there, except that he wanted the Beard episode behind him. Besides, being friends with the post commander at Fort Dodge, he could learn anything of importance that had come over the telegraph.

Feeling more secure behind his newly grown beard, Nathan again took a room at the three-story hotel. It was convenient, for the livery and two cafes were within walking distance. He again bought the latest editions of the Kansas City and St. Louis newspapers, but found nothing of interest concerning himself or anybody he knew. The next morning, he rode to Fort Dodge, renewed his friendship with the post commander and was given permission to speak to the post telegrapher.

“Do you read code?” Corporal Henegar asked.

“Yes,” said Nathan.

“I keep copies of all incoming messages for thirty days, but they're just like I took 'em off the wire. No military secrets, nothing classified.”

“That wouldn't concern me,” Nathan replied. “I have friends on the frontier, and all I want is to see if they're alive and stayin' out of trouble.”

“Nothing there but routine stuff,” said Henegar. “If you have contacts at other posts, I could inquire.”

“I know Captain Ferguson, at Fort Worth,” Nathan said. “Since you're not busy, tell him Nathan Stone wants to know what's happening in Texas, aside from the Comanches raising hell.”

Corporal Henegar sent the message and waited for a reply. When it came, Nathan read it as Henegar took it down. When the instrument became silent, Nathan was gripping the back of a chair, his face deathly white.

“Bad news?” Henegar asked.

“Yes,” said Nathan. “Captain Sage Jennings is one of the best friends I have in this world. Nothing could be worse than knowing he's been back-shot, lying there in Fort Worth and may never walk again.”

“Well,” Corporal Henegar said, “I'm sorry to have brought you this kind of news.”

“Don't be,” said Nathan. “I'm obliged to you. Otherwise, I might have been months, getting back to Texas. Now I can ride out today.”

Nathan returned to Dodge City, turned in his hotel key, and paid his bill at the livery. He saddled the grulla, loaded his packhorse, and rode south. All he had was the barest of details, knowing only that Jennings had been ambushed and his condition. Captain Ferguson might not have known anything more than what he had telegraphed, but that was enough to send Nathan to Fort Worth. Assuredly, Jennings would be in no condition to go after his bushwhackers, but that wouldn't stop Nathan Stone. Riding steady, resting his horses hourly, he could reach Fort Worth—three hundred and eighty miles distant—within six days. He only hoped, if the ranger's condition was critical, that he would live until Nathan could talk to him, hopefully to learn who had done the shooting.

“He's been here two weeks,” Captain Ferguson said. “He was brought here because we have a post surgeon. He was hit four times and two of the slugs were lodged near the spine. Our medic, Lieutenant Carter, successfully removed the lead.”

“But he still can't move,” said Nathan.

“No,” Ferguson replied.

“I'm obliged for what you've done, Captain,” said Nathan. “I'd like to talk to him, if I may.”

“You'll find him at the post hospital,” Captain Ferguson said. “Speak to Lieutenant Carter first.”

Fort Worth was one of the few frontier outposts with a full-fledged hospital, and it was obvious why Captain Jennings had been brought here. Lieutenant Carter proved to be a very blunt young man.

“His condition is still serious,” said Carter. “He lost a lot of blood and he's still very weak. He's eating poorly, if at all. He just doesn't seem to care. Don't stay too long.”

When Nathan stepped into the room, he could scarcely believe his eyes. Jennings lay silent, his eyes closed. His body seemed to have shrunk, graying his hair, transforming him into an old man.

“Cap?” Nathan said softly. “Captain Jennings.”

“Nathan,” said Jennings. “Nathan Stone. I'd take your hand if I could. But that's just one of ... many things I can no longer do.”

The lump in Nathan's throat felt half the size of Texas as he moved a chair near the old ranger's bed. Swallowing hard, he sat down. When he finally trusted himself to speak, he did.

“Who did it, Cap?”

“I can't truthfully say,” Jennings replied, “but I was trailing the Horrells and Clint Barkley. I rode into that ambush like a damn tenderfoot.”

“You have every reason to believe it was the Horrells, then.”

“Yes,” said Jennings, “but I have no proof. It happened near Georgetown. A rancher heard the shots, found me, and hauled me to town in his wagon. The doc patched me up and had me brought here. The doc here—Lieutenant Carter-dug out the lead, but I'm hurt in two places near the spine. He says my chances are fifty-fifty. I may heal in time, and then I may be crippled for life. Just like them skunk-striped Horrells, leavin' just enough life in me so's I ain't worth a damn to nobody.”

“You haven't had time to heal, Cap,” Nathan said. “Did anybody trail the varmints?”

“No,” said Jennings. “They still got no sheriff at Georgetown, and by the time the sheriff from Lampasas rode over there, the trail had been rained out. Later, when I finally could talk a little, Captain Ferguson telegraphed the ranger outpost in Austin. I asked for a man to be sent to the Horrell ranches, and they're deserted. They've quit the territory, taking Clint Barkley with them, I reckon.”

“They gunned down three lawmen at Lampasas,” said Nathan, “and now you. What does it take for the state of Texas to put a bounty on their heads?”

“I'm through wondering what the state of Texas will or won't do,” Jennings replied. “I have been officially reprimanded by the governor for trailing the Horrells without authorization from the state, and after a review, my commission with the rangers may be revoked. I might as well just die, damn it, and get out of everybody's way.”

“Listen, you old catamount,” said Nathan, “you're not about to die. At least, not for a few more years. You're goin' to get up out of that bed, and when you do, you'll still be wearin' the star of the Texas Rangers. Now I have things to do, and I'll see you again tomorrow.”