Autumn of the Gun (22 page)

“So that's why we used our own names,” said Nathan. “By God, it was a trap. You
knew
it was a trap, and we were the bait!”

“Well, yes,” Silver admitted. “I had to get in a position to get my hands on these papers, and there was no other way. But I'll be honest with you. The ambush near the hotel took me by surprise. I believed McCutcheon would wait until we were out of town, and he did give us directions to his ranch. If you had known all the facts—all the risks involved—would you have come with me?”

“I reckon,” said Nathan. “There's no accounting for the fool things a man will do in the name of friendship.”

They rode on, resting the horses at hourly intervals, and when the first rays of the rising sun fanned out across the eastern horizon, they looked down from a rise upon the growing city of Denver.

“We never did get supper last night,” said Nathan. “I'm hungry enough to chomp down on a grizzly, hide, hair, and claws.”

“So am I,” Silver replied, “but first I'm going to get that message off to Washington and kill any warrants the law in Cheyenne may be preparing. There are ranchers all over the frontier who won't see anything wrong with McCutcheon's land-grab, and we have to discredit this story before it's allowed to take hold.”

“Let's go to the Kansas-Pacific railroad terminal,” said Nathan. “They'll remember me there, and you should get immediate use of the telegraph.”

Nathan was remembered and he spent an enjoyable hour with the dispatcher, as Silver went through McCutcheon's papers and telegraphed Washington. They were out of the railroad terminal, looking for a place to eat, before Silver spoke.

“I have all the necessary papers to expose McCutcheon's land-grab, and all the land he has illegally claimed will revert back to government ownership. Details are being wired to the law in Cheyenne, as well as to the newspaper there. We're cleared.”

“I'm glad to hear that,” said Nathan, “but what about Chad Buckalew and his grab?”

“He's being investigated,” Silver replied, “and if his scheme is like McCutcheon's in any way, then every acre he's falsely claiming will be disallowed. The newspaper there in Cheyenne will give him hell.”

“What do you aim to do now?” Nathan asked.

“I'm going back to Washington,” said Silver. “This Yankee senator McCutcheon's been buying off is about to be investigated by the Senate. I don't want to miss that.”

“What do you reckon will happen to him?”

“Oh, he'll be disgraced and kicked out,” Silver said. “He'll be forced to find honest work, if he's capable of it. Where are you going?”

“I reckon I'll ride to south Texas and visit my old friend, King Fisher. Last time I was there, he had stolen away Molly, one of the Horrell girls, and the Horrells were about to give him hell.”

“If you get in neck deep, don't send for me,” Silver said. “Even the United States government can't settle that Horrell-Higgins feud.”

A little more than three months past his fourteenth birthday, John Wesley Tremayne had made good his resolution and escaped the hated orphanage. Life there hadn't been all that bad, although he had been compelled to attend church every Sunday. He was quick with his hands and had been constantly punished for fighting. He had become an enigma, astounding and confounding his teachers, absorbing their most difficult assignments with ease. He spoke fluent Spanish, and at the end of his second year, stood at the head of all his classes. But there had been a method to his madness, and by the time he was ready to leave, it was the last thing they expected of him. On a Monday night, just after bed check, he had slipped away into the darkness with only the clothes on his back. Reaching the railroad yards, he had climbed aboard a boxcar, part of a string that made up a westbound freight.

Near midnight, the train chuffed into the Kansas City yards, pausing just long enough to take on fuel and water. As it departed, picking up speed, a shadowy figure climbed into the boxcar. Soon the new arrival was snoring, but John Wesley Tremayne dared not sleep. In the bitter cold, huddling into his heavy coat, he listened to the clicking of wheels on the coupling joints and awaited the dawn.

“Well, now,” said the stranger, when it was light enough to see, “I didn't know I had comp'ny. Ye should of spoke up. Ye got a name?”

“Wes Tremayne.”

The man was dressed in flannel shirt, dirty trousers, and runover boots. He stood up and stretched, and he stood only about six or seven inches above five feet. After several attempts at what obviously was false jovialty, he became surly.

“You ain't much of a talker, are you, kid?”

Wes said nothing but he fixed his cold blue eyes on those of the stranger, and the man saw no fear in them. Suddenly he seized the haft of a knife, removing it from his left boot. With a wolf grin, he faced Wes.

“I've always thought them that's got more ought to share with them that ain't got near enough. Shuck out of that coat, kid.”

“You can have it,” said Wes, “only if you're man enough to take it.” He got to his feet, waiting.

“Leander O'Malley don't take that kind of talk from nobody.”

“I don't want to hurt you, O'Malley,” Wes said. “Back off while you can.”

“You? Hurt me?”

O‘Malley lunged with the knife, but Wes wasn't there. Before O'Malley could recover from the thrust, Wes seized his arm and slammed him headlong into the side of the boxcar. He lay there catching his wind while Wes waited for him to get to his feet. But when he got to his hands and knees, he charged from that position. Wes caught his wrist, halting the course of the knife, and they fought for the weapon. While Wes had tremendous strength in hands, arms, and shoulders, his antagonist had a weight advantage, and they fell to the floor. Slowly, Wes turned the deadly blade away, and against the wall of the car he got enough leverage to roll O‘Malley off. Throwing all his weight on the hand that gripped the knife, he drove it down, into O'Malley's chest. As suddenly as it had begun, the fight was over. Wes lay there gasping for breath, his mind flooded with conflicting emotions. His elation over having beaten a bigger, stronger adversary was tempered with the sobering realization that he had killed a man. Weaponless, he had been forced to defend himself with his bare hands. He withdrew the knife, cleaning its blade on the leg of the dead man's dirty trousers. He slipped the blade of the knife under his belt, got to his feet, and slid open the boxcar's door. He dragged the lifeless O'Malley to the aperture, rolled him out, and closed the boxcar door.

Silver had taken a Kansas-Pacific train east, while Nathan had ridden a hundred and fifty miles south, to Pueblo. There he could take an AT & SF train as far as Dodge City, on his way to south Texas. Nathan spent the night in Dodge and had supper with Foster Hagerman of the AT & SF.

“I hated to lose Harley Stafford,” Hagerman said, “but I'm glad for him. Did you know your old friend Wyatt Earp has moved on?”

“No,” said Nathan. “Somebody else's loss is your gain, I reckon.”

“He left last year, ridin' south. Got in some trouble in Mobeetie, according to one of the stage drivers. Mobeetie's got a sheriff now.”
¹⁷

Nathan was amazed to find Mobeetie had doubled in size, though most of the growth, he noted wryly, consisted of three more saloons. He rode on to Fort Elliot, where the post commander, Captain Selman, welcomed him.

“Where's the missus?”

“In New Orleans,” Nathan said. He then told Selman of Vivian's numerous victories astride Diablo.

“I've heard of the horse,” said Selman, “but I didn't know she was riding him. These events, when published in the newspaper, read like the horse did it all. The rider is seldom mentioned.”

“I hear Mobeetie has a sheriff,” Nathan said.

“Yes, thank God,” said Selman with a sigh. “Him and me are on a first-name basis, with four saloons. Will you stay the night with us?”

“Yes,” said Nathan, “and I'm obliged for your hospitality. I think Empty's already at the mess hall.”

Having found a room for the night, Nathan visited the Texas Ranger outpost, where he found Bodie West on duty. Bodie had taken the place of Captain Sage Jennings, one of Nathan's long-time friends. The old Ranger had been gunned down in an ambush, and the killer had escaped to New Mexico, where Nathan had caught up to him.

“I heard about your trouble in Houston,” said West, “but I couldn't get away. Some of us had to keep the lid on around here. I was stuck in San Antonio when your trial was held here. Soon afterward, I ran into Captain Dillard here. He told me the entire story.”

“If one man ever owed another his life,” Nathan said, “I owe Captain Dillard. When I went before the judge here in Austin, I couldn't believe my eyes. In three rows of seats near the front of the court room, there were only Rangers. There were so many stars, my God, it was like lookin' at the Texas sky on a clear night.”

“You rode the long trail for one of us,” said West simply, “and we didn't forget. Nor will we ever.”

“I'm forever obliged,” Nathan said. “I've been away for a while. When I was last here, King Fisher had stolen away Molly Horrell, and the Horrells were hell bent on taking her back. Did they?”

West laughed. “They did not. Molly refused to return, and when the Horrells rode into Fisher's place after her, King just shot the hell out of them.”

“Any of them killed?”

“No,” said West, “but the whole damn bunch rode out with lead in 'em, and their tails between their legs. King and Molly were married in Uvalde, and you won't believe how it's changed him. Except for the Horrells, he hasn't shot anybody but himself. A year or so back, he shot himself in the leg.”

Nathan laughed. “I can't imagine that. Sounds like you're enjoying peace and quiet for a change.”

West sighed. “That may be coming to an end. Ben Thompson's here.”

“Billy too?”

“No, thank God,” said West. “One Thompson at a time is enough. He's been peaceful so far, since he's been winning at the poker table. But that can change any time. The man's got a devil inside, and nothing unleashes him any quicker than a night of hard drinking.”

“It's been a while since I've seen him,” Nathan said. “Maybe if I track him down, I can keep him at least partly sober.”

“Good luck,” said West.

Nathan found Ben Thompson at the Cattleman's Emporium, at a downstairs table with a bottle before him. Dragging back a chair, Nathan sat down. Thompson glared at him without any friendliness.

“Howdy, Ben.”

Ignoring the glass, Thompson seized the bottle, upended it, and emptied it. He set it down with a crash that shattered it.

“Bartender,” Thompson bawled, “'nother bottle.”

“Ben,” said Nathan, “you've had enough. Let's get something to eat.”

Thompson sprang to his feet, toppling his chair. The bartender hit the floor, and just a split second ahead of Thompson, Nathan drew his Colt. He laid the muzzle of the weapon just above Thompson's left ear, and he sprawled face down across the table.

“That was slick, mister,” the bartender said, “but there's goin' to be hell to pay when he wakes up.”

“Maybe not,” Nathan replied. “Make some hot, black coffee.”

The bartender did so, bringing two steaming cups to the table. He hurried away, for Thompson was stirring. Quickly, Nathan put Thompson's chair in place, and he slid off the table onto it. He looked at Nathan through slitted eyes and spoke in a slurred voice.

“My God ... my head ... hurts.”

“We were about to have some coffee,” Nathan said, “and you passed out. You need the coffee, Ben. Drink up.”

“Yeah ... need coffee,” Thompson mumbled. He seized the cup with both hands, gulping the coffee. Nathan took the empty cup from him, passing him the other full one. Thompson emptied the second cup and sat there shaking his head.

“Ben,” said Nathan, “you need food. How long since you've eaten?”

“I ... dunno,” Thompson said.

“It's time to eat,” said Nathan. “Let's get a steak.”

“No ...” said Thompson. “Sick ...”

“You'll feel better when you get to your feet, when you've eaten something,” Nathan said. “Come on. I'll help you.”

Nathan got Thompson to his feet, walked him to the door, and managed to get him outside. The sun was down, and a cool west wind had sprung up. It seemed to revive Ben Thompson, and he steadied himself. Nathan led him to the nearest cafe, and they took a table near the door. Empty had remained at the livery with Nathan's horse, and Nathan was thankful for that. He had no idea how long it might take for Thompson to become fully sober. But to Nathan's surprise, Thompson drank more coffee and began to eat.

“Ben,” said Nathan, “a good night's sleep will do wonders for you. Do you have a room?”

“Yeah,” Thompson said. “The Alamo Hotel.”

“Let's go there,” said Nathan, “and I'll meet you for breakfast in the morning.”

Having seen Thompson to his hotel room, Nathan waited a few minutes to be sure the little gambler didn't slip out and head for a saloon. Was he a fool, concerning himself with the well-being of Ben Thompson, who seemed not to care a damn for himself? Nathan returned to the livery for Empty, and the two of them returned to the out-of-the-way hotel where Nathan had taken a room. He had eaten little, focusing his attention on Ben Thompson. He and Empty would have a more leisurely supper later.