Autumn of the Gun (24 page)

Now Nathan was struck by the irony of it all. He had left in El Paso Myra Haight, a woman who had been more than just a friend and who had promised to wait for him. Reaching south Texas, he had encountered King Fisher, who had not only saved his life but had become his friend. Six years later, as he was leaving south Texas, his friendship with Fisher was questionable, and he knew not what awaited him in El Paso. He knew Artemus Stewart had increased the price on his head, but what of Myra? She had been an attractive woman but older than Nathan, and he couldn't believe she had waited six years for a rambling, gambling man she might never see again. Empty ranging ahead, Nathan rode on, his troubled mind immersed in unanswered questions.
²⁰

Vic Irwin had been so impressed with Wes Tremayne that he had advanced the boy a week's pay, so that he might have money for food. And Wes hadn't disappointed him. Not only did he work his twelve-hour shift without complaining, he often stayed later without being asked. When he was ribbed and hoorawed by the Alhambra's drunken patrons, he gave as good as he got, and soon they became his friends. Except for Burt Savage. A womanizer, riding shotgun for the stage from Dodge to Fort Griffin, Burt never missed an opportunity to put Wes down. It all came to a head one Tuesday night when Wes was mopping up spilled beer from the hardwood floor. Burt Savage deliberately kicked over the scrub bucket, with its soapy, dirty water.

“Sorry, scrub woman,” he said.

More than a dozen men, including Vic Irwin, witnessed the sorry spectacle, and for a moment there was stunned silence. Irwin almost intervened, but thought better of it. Wes Tremayne, if he were to survive in the West, would have to fend for himself. Swiftly he did so. He swung the wet mop, slopping the business end of it into Burt Savage's face. Before Savage could respond to that indignity, Wes dropped the mop and slammed a hard-driven right into Savage's jaw. Savage was flung over a table and into a wall. He slid to the floor and sat there looking foolish as men began to laugh. But the laughter dribbled off as Savage went for his gun.

“Pull that gun, and I'll kill you,” said Harley Stafford. His own Colt was in his hand, cocked and steady.

Savage got unsteadily to his feet, his eyes sparking with hate, and he spoke to Wes in a cold, deadly voice.

“Next time we meet, kid, you'd better have a gun, because I aim to kill you.”

Without another word, he elbowed through the swinging doors and was gone.

“You done right, Wes,” a man shouted, “but you watch your back. He's a killer.”

Wes Tremayne said nothing. Just for a moment, his eyes met those of Harley Stafford and, retrieving the mop, he continued mopping the floor. The hour was late, and men began drifting out of the saloon. Soon only Vic Irwin, Harley Stafford, and Wes Tremayne were left.

“Vic, I could use some coffee,” said Harley.

“So could I,” Irwin said. “I'll make some.”

They sat at a table drinking coffee while Wes continued his swamping.

“For my sake, I hate to admit it,” said Irwin, “but that young man is destined for something better than swamping saloons. That is, if he can stay alive.”

“I've never seen a man that good with his hands who couldn't handle a gun,” Harley said. “He'll need time and practice, though.”

“If you can figure a way, get him a gun and teach him to use it,” said Irwin. “He has more than his share of pride. When I hired him, he was dead broke, and I had the devil's own time, advancing him a week's wages so's he could eat.”

“Go on about your business,” Harley said. “When he's done cleanin' up, I'll invite him to have some coffee. He needs a friend. Besides you, I mean.”

Harley had no trouble getting Wes to join him for coffee once he had finished his nightly chore of swamping the saloon.

“You're mighty handy with your fists,” said Harley. “Have you considered becoming a professional fighter?”

“No,” Wes said. “I fight when I have to, like tonight.”

“You handled yourself well,” said Harley, “but you heard what he said. You must get yourself a gun and learn to use it.”

“Will he shoot me if I have no gun?”

“He would have tonight,” Harley said, “and by the time your trails cross again, he'll have had some time to feed on his hate.”

“I appreciate what you did tonight,” said Wes, “but why did you do it?”

“I like your style,” Harley said. “Something about you reminds me of a friend who took an interest in me when I needed it most.”

“And you're taking an interest in me?”

“Not unless you want it,” said Harley. “I have an extra Colt you can use, and when I'm in town, I can maybe tell you a little about the use of it. But mostly, it's all up to you. A Colt has to become part of you, and firing it as natural as pointin' your finger.”

“Do you believe I could ever handle a gun as well as you?” Wes asked.

“I do,” said Harley. “But you'll never know unless you try.”

“I'd like to try,” Wes said.

Harley returned to the Dodge House, got the extra Colt, and returned to the Alhambra Saloon. And thus began Wes Tremayne's education in the use of a revolver.

Granny Boudleaux had been up in years and Nathan wasn't sure the old lady would still be alive, but he headed immediately for her boardinghouse. To his surprise, the place had been beautifully maintained, and when he knocked on the door, Granny answered. She looked not much older than the day he had last seen her, and she planted a kiss that all but took his breath away.

“Thank God,” said the old Cajun, “I not know if you be alive or dead.”

“I'd have returned sooner,” Nathan said, “but I heard Artemus Stewart had raised the price on my head.”

“That he do,” said Granny, “but then he die. Two year now.”

“Where's Myra, Jamie, and Ellie?” Nathan asked.

“California,” said Granny. “I save money for you, like she say.”

“Keep the money, Granny,” Nathan said. “I'll keep my half interest in your place. I'll likely be needin' somewhere to hole up in my old age. Why did Myra leave?”

“I not like to tell you,” said Granny. “She marry man with rancho along the Colorado River. She be gone four year.”

“I can't blame her,” Nathan replied. His sense of loss was mingled with relief, and in an odd sort of way he was pleased. When he had thought of Myra, he had been plagued with guilt for having left her alone, for having been gone for so long. Now that he knew she had made a life for herself—even with another man—he felt better.

“What you do now?” Granny Boudleaux asked, invading his thoughts.

“I reckon I'll stay here a few days,” said Nathan, “now that old Artemus Stewart's not around to hire bounty hunters.”

“You half owner,” Granny said. “Your room always ready.”

“I'm obliged,” said Nathan. “It's been a long ride, and a while since I've slept in a bed. I believe I can sleep the rest of today and tonight. Is my dog still welcome?”

“He always welcome,” Granny said. “I wake you for supper.”

The room was clean as ever, but there was newer furniture and a new, plush carpet on the floor. Granny had apparently done well, and Nathan was impressed.

Harley Stafford sat in Foster Hagerman's office, while Hagerman pondered what had just been suggested to him. Finally Hagerman spoke.

“If you really believe this Wes Tremayne is the kind of man we need, then I'm willing to consider him. It's a long step from saloon swamper to a position with the AT & SF.”

“I realize that,” Harley said, “and so does he, but he was hungry, and took the only work he could find. Hell, that shouldn't doom a man to being a swamper for life.”

Hagerman laughed. “I'd have to agree. Does Vic Irwin know you're about to lure his swamper away?”

“He does,” said Harley. “This is as much his idea as mine. We believe Wes Tremayne is destined for something better than saloon swamping. He thinks on his feet, is quick with his hands, and he can use a gun. Give him a few more weeks, and he'll be outdrawing me.”

“Those are strong qualifications,” Hagerman said. “All that's left is learning the Morse code.”

It was Harley's turn to laugh. “He already knows the code. I taught it to him there in the Alhambra, tapping a spoon against a beer mug.”

“I'll talk to him in the morning,” said Hagerman. “If he impresses me as much as he has you and Vic, then I'll make a place for him.”

 

Harley didn't break the news to Wes until they were having breakfast the following morning. Wes carefully set down his coffee cup before he spoke.

“I'm obliged, but you haven't known me even two months. Besides, I feel like I'd be letting Mr. Irwin down.”

“Wes,” said Harley, “this was Vic's idea. You'll be letting him down if you don't give it a try.”

“You had nothing to do with it?”

Harley laughed. “Maybe a little. But Foster Hagerman wants to talk to you, and the last word will be his.”

Wes Tremayne knocked on the door to Hagerman's office, and was bid enter. He did so, closing the door behind him.

“Mr. Hagerman, I'm Wes Tremayne.”

He offered his hand and Hagerman took it, nodding to a chair before his desk. Wes took the chair, never once losing eye contact with Hagerman. For a moment, the railroad man only looked at Wes, tapping his fingers on the desktop, and it was Wes who spoke.

“Yes, sir, I know the code. Harley taught me.”

Hagerman laughed. “You know it very well. It isn't easy, sending Morse on a desktop. I can start you as a baggageman at fifty dollars a month. You'll work out of Dodge, with room and board provided when you're in town. You'll be riding to both ends of the line, wherever you're needed. On some of the western runs, you'll be in charge of military payrolls, and may be called upon to fight. That means using a gun. Any questions?”

“Just one,” said Wes. “When do I start?”

“The day after tomorrow,” Hagerman said. “March fifth.”

“I won't let you down, sir,” said Wes, getting to his feet. His ice blue eyes softened just a little. He then stepped through the door and was gone.

“By God,” Foster Hagerman said aloud, “he's going to be a man to ride the river with, but if he's a day past fifteen, I'll eat my hat.”

 

After six weeks in El Paso, his only diversion an occasional poker game in one of the saloons, Nathan was seriously considering moving on. True, Granny Boudleaux had fussed over him and had fed him and Empty at any hour of the day or night they chose to eat, but the routine was getting to him. The stage from San Antonio came in twice a week, and Nathan was usually there for the newspapers from South Texas. He was half hoping there might be some word on King Fisher. But there was nothing, and when he eventually got some information, it was from a direct source. One of the passengers who stepped down from the stage was Molly.

“Molly,” said Nathan, hurrying to her, “what are you doing here?”

“I'm getting as far from King Fisher and my damned, ornery kin as I possibly can,” she said hotly.

“It's near suppertime,” said Nathan. “Let's go somewhere and eat. Then we'll talk.”

“I doubt you'll want to hear anything I have to say,” Molly replied.

“Yes, I do,” said Nathan. “I like you, and I thought you were the best thing that ever happened to King Fisher.”

“I once thought so too,” Molly replied, “but I've learned better.”

“We'll talk after we eat,” said Nathan. “Aren't you hungry?”

“Half starved,” she admitted. “I had just enough money for stage fare.”

“That won't do,” said Nathan. “Where are you going from here?”

“I don't know,” Molly said bitterly. “To hell, maybe. Isn't that where all the Horrells belong?”

“But I heard in Austin that you and King—”

“Were married?” she laughed. “That's a lie King spread around, hoping to prevent my hell-raising kin from coming after me. I shared his bed but not his life.”

“Save the rest of it until we've had some grub,” said Nathan.

“Where's your dog?”

“He's at Granny Boudleaux's boardinghouse,” Nathan said. “She feeds him about six times a day and he's taken to staying there when I come into town.”

They found a cafe, and Nathan ordered steak for them both. Molly ate all of hers and half of Nathan's.

“I'm ashamed of myself,” she apologized, “but I've never been so hungry in my life.”

“Nothing to be ashamed of,” said Nathan. “You won't starve as long as I'm around.”

Molly had seemed hard as nails, but she had found a sympathetic ear, and the barriers began to fall. She soaked Nathan's shirt with her tears,. and it was a while before she was able to talk.

“Ben Thompson was the cause of it,” Molly finally said.

“He's only temporary,” said Nathan. “He shows up maybe once a year, and you're rid of him for a while.”

“Oh, it wasn't just him,” she cried. “It's all been festering like a sore, ever since King took me home with him. Thompson just brought it to a head. Nothing I wanted ever mattered. King still went to Uvalde or San Antonio on Friday, and I wouldn't see him until sometime Monday. He went right on drinking, gambling, and sleeping with other women as though I didn't exist.”