Autumn of the Gun (27 page)

“Tarnation,” said Nathan, “he was hit five times. He won't be able to move for maybe a week, and then he'll likely be moved to the jail. You aim to take him out on the train?”

“Yes,” Masterson said. “He'll be in no condition to ride.”

“I'm not fond of Billy Thompson,” said Nathan, “but I consider Ben a friend. I'll help you if I can.”

“You'd best keep your nose clean,” Masterson said. “I have a plan, and if it fails, I see no reason for you being hanged from the same limb as Billy and me.”

Taking Bat's advice, Nathan didn't involve himself in the rescue. Instead, he went to the Union Pacific terminal and learned that there was an eastbound every night at eleven. It almost had to be the train Masterson had in mind. Every night, half an hour before the train arrived, Nathan was in the shadows across the street from the hotel. Four days after Masterson had reached town, the escape took place. At ten-thirty, a surrey with curtains drawn rolled up before the hotel. Ten minutes before eleven, a fusillade of gunfire ripped the night. Not surprisingly, the furor took place at the farthest point from the railroad terminal. Billy Thompson was lowered out a second-floor hotel window with a rope, and Masterson was waiting for him. As the two of them entered the waiting surrey, there was the whistle of the approaching eastbound.
²⁴

“My hat's off to you, Bat Masterson,” Nathan said aloud as the surrey vanished into the night. He slipped away, returning to his room, where Empty waited.

While Wes Tremayne had won the respect of all who knew him, there was a dark side that began to trouble him. He was pointed out in Kansas City and Pueblo as a fast gun who had accounted for two train robbers on his first run, and papers in other towns had picked up the account of his fight with Burt Savage in Dodge. Newspapers in Kansas City, having gotten his schedule, had begun sending reporters to meet the train.

“Harley,” said Wes, “I'm tired of newspaper people following me around. What can I do about them?”

“Not much, kid,” Harley said. “Sometimes I think the railroad encourages them. It's a way of letting train robbers know they're likely to catch hell.”

But the stalking turned deadly. Wes had just stepped down from the baggage coach in Dodge when he was challenged.

“Tremayne, I'm callin' you out. Draw.”

“I don't know you,” Wes replied, “and I have no fight with you.”

“The hell you don't! I'm Ivan Curry. I'm faster than you, and you ain't gonna deny me the chance to prove it.”

The engineer and fireman had left the cab, and Harley had stepped down from the caboose. They were out of range, waiting. Wes sighed. It was his fight, and he waited for Curry to draw. His first shot was wide, and only then did Wes draw. He fired once, and Curry stumbled back into the wall of the depot. He dropped the Colt, his knees buckled, and he fell facedown in the ballast along the track. Wes ejected the spent shell, thumbed in a live one, and holstered the Colt. Drawn by the shots, a crowd was gathering.

“Damn it, Wes,” Harley scolded, “never hold back when you know you have to fight. He could have killed you.”

“But he didn't,” said Wes. “I didn't want to fight him.”

The arrival of the train in Dodge was still an exciting event, for there were current newspapers from Kansas City and St. Louis, as well as mail and goods not readily available in Dodge. All those who waited, whatever their reason, were drawn to the shooting. One of them was the editor of the local newspaper.

“I was forced to draw,” said Wes, “and I don't want to talk about it. Please leave me alone.”

But his plea fell on deaf ears and he was forced to take refuge in Foster Hagerman's office. He found Hagerman unsympathetic.

“Hell, Wes, you did what you had to do. Besides, it will add to your reputation.”

“A reputation I don't want,” said Wes. “Why can't I just do my job and be left alone?”

But the curious, including the newspaper editor, found willing witnesses who told of Wes Tremayne allowing Ivan Curry to shoot first, and then killing him with a single shot. Wes Tremayne was forced to accept the terrible truth. As much as he appreciated his position with the railroad, the very nature of it was creating for him a deadly reputation as a killer. Supper at Delmonico's became a gala event, with Harley, Foster Hagerman, and Vic Irwin praising him. But when darkness crept over the land and distant stars became pools of silver in a purple meadow, Wes Tremayne reached a decision. Four months shy of his fifteenth birthday, taking his few belongings, he saddled his horse and rode away.

 

Nathan considered riding to Cheyenne but thought better of it. While he didn't doubt Byron Silver's ability to undo the turbulent events that had resulted from their recent visit, he didn't believe in kicking sleeping dogs. He considered riding back to Dodge, but came up with two good reasons for avoiding it. Trouble stalked Ben and Billy Thompson like their shadows, and he had little doubt the unpredictable pair would be in Dodge. So he rode south, toward Denver.

Nathan reined up. They were nearing the South Platte River when Empty came trotting back, his hackles up. Dismounting, leading his grulla, Nathan continued on foot. There was something or somebody ahead of them. Suddenly a horse nickered and Nathan's grulla answered. Nathan threw himself belly down, and slugs ripped the air where he had been standing. One of them creased the grulla, and the animal galloped away. His Winchester in the crook of his arms, Nathan moved ahead, and the very instant he spotted his antagonist, the man saw him. Nathan cut loose with the Winchester, and the lead slammed into the other man, taking him down the bank and into the river. Only then did Nathan see the girl who crouched in the underbrush.

“Come on out,” Nathan said, “and if you have a gun, leave it there.”

“I don't have a gun,” she cried. “He robbed a bank and took me captive.”

She crept out, and Nathan doubted she was more than nineteen. He also doubted she had been taken captive, for she was dressed for riding. Her boots, Levi's, and red-checked shirt looked new.

“He took you from the bank, I reckon,” said Nathan.

“Yes,” she replied. “I-I'm hurt. He kicked me in the belly—”

She had unbuttoned her shirt near the belt line, and almost caught Nathan off guard. He still held the Winchester, and he flung it as hard as he could. The muzzle of it struck her wrist, and she dropped the deadly little derringer.

“Damn you,” she shouted, “you've broken my arm.”

“I'm ready to forget you're a woman, and break your neck,” said Nathan grimly. “Now you're goin' to talk, and talk straight, or you'll be sorry you ever laid eyes on me.”

“You can't make me talk,” she snarled.

“Maybe not,” said Nathan, “but I can make you wish you had.”

Seeking to get as far from the railroad as possible, Wes Tremayne rode south. While in Dodge, he had learned something about the territory to the south. Within a day's ride, there was Mobeetie, Texas, and nearby Fort Elliott. Beyond that, Fort Griffin, Fort Worth and all of south Texas. He was drifting, with no destination in mind, not knowing what he wanted to do. He thought of Vic Irwin, Harley Stafford, and Foster Hagerman, the men in Dodge who had befriended him, and suffered pangs of guilt. He had taken the coward's way out, riding away without a word to any of them. With the railroad providing his room and board in Dodge, he had saved almost all his money, so he wasn't broke. He rode into Mobeetie well before midnight, checked his horse into the livery, and took a room at the newly constructed hotel. With so much on his mind, he wasn't sure he could sleep, so he left the hotel and visited one of the saloons. He had never had more than an occasional beer, so he avoided the bar. While poker interested him, he had avoided it, not wanting to risk his money. Now he had cut loose from the railroad, was in a strange town, and he felt a little reckless. A poker game was in progress. One of the men folded, leaving a house dealer and three soldiers who seemed more drunk than sober. Wes dragged out a chair and sat down.

“Table stakes,” the house man said. “Dollar a game.”

Wes remained in the game long enough to win ten dollars. By the time he kicked back his chair and stood up, one of the saloon women had taken his arm.

“There's more action upstairs,” she said.

“Thanks,” said Wes, “but I reckon not.”

She laughed. “Come back, kid, when you have some hair on your chest.”

Wes left the saloon and returned to the hotel.

 

“What's your name?” Nathan asked the sullen girl.

“Kate McDowell.”

“Who was the man I shot?” Nathan asked.

“Will Blackburn.”

“There was nobody else involved in the robbery?” Nathan asked.

She laughed. “There are four others. Will double-crossed them and took all the gold. They would have killed him. Now they will kill you.”

“They can try,” said Nathan. “Now why don't you tell me where you fit into this?”

“I told you I was taken captive. Will wanted me to go with him, and when I refused he took me anyway.”

“You're lying,” Nathan said, “and you're not very good at it. I freed you from Blackburn, and you thanked me by tryin' to gut-shoot me with a sleeve gun.”

“At least I knew Will,” she snapped. “I don't know you. For all I know, you're just another outlaw after the gold.”

“For a town woman taken against. your will,” said Nathan, “it was mighty convenient, you bein' all decked out in a man's shirt, Levi's, and boots. Explain that.”

“Will brought the clothes and made me change. Now are you satisfied?” she said.

“No,” said Nathan. “I aim to have a look in Blackburn's saddlebags, but I reckon I'd better pull your fangs first. Get belly down; I'm goin' to tie your hands behind you.”

“Is that necessary? You took my gun.”

“All right,” Nathan said, against his better judgement. “Don't try anything foolish.”

But no sooner had he turned toward Blackburn's horse than she sprang into the saddle of her own mount, kicking it into a gallop. Nathan's grulla grazed a hundred yards away, and he had but one option. Mounting Blackburn's horse, with intentions of riding after her, he made an alarming discovery. The horse was lame, reason enough for Blackburn attempting to gun him down. Having lost Kate McDowell—if that had been her real name—he turned his attention back to the saddlebags the lame horse carried. But to his dismay, there was nothing but personal items, leading him to wonder if the elusive girl had told him the truth about the bank robbery. But why had he been forced to kill a man who might not have been what the girl claimed he was? Empty growled, alerting Nathan to a new danger. Seven horsemen approached, and the lead rider wore a lawman's star on the left lapel of his vest. Some of the men held Winchesters at the ready, and the others were prepared to draw their Colts. Nathan waited as they approached. They reined up, and it was the badge-toter who spoke.

“Lift them irons slow an' easy, usin' your thumb an' finger, and them let 'em drop.”

“Sheriff,” said Nathan, “don't I get a chance to tell you who I am and to explain why I'm not who you think I am?”

“That bay hoss pretty well explains who you are,” the sheriff replied. “Now where's the woman and the money?”

“I don't have the answers you're lookin' for,” Nathan said, “because I'm not the man you're lookin' for. Now, damn it, you're going to listen to me.”

“Then you keep your hands shoulder high,” said the sheriff, “and do some talking.”

“For starters,” Nathan said, “this is not my horse. You'll find my grulla grazing down the river a ways. My name is Nathan Stone.”

Quickly he explained what had happened and what the girl had told him, and of her eventual escape.

“I've heard that name somewhere,” said one of the men in the posse.

“So have I,” the sheriff said. “Mister, do you have any proof you're who you claim to be?”

“Yes,” Nathan said. From the pocket of his shirt, he removed the pocket watch given him almost ten years before by Byron Silver. He snapped open the case before passing it to the sheriff, revealing the great seal of the United States and the address of the attorney general in Washington.
²⁵

“Why, hell, I know you,” the sheriff exclaimed. “You was one of the hombres that busted up that land grab in Wyoming Territory. It was in the Denver papers. I'm Sheriff Handy Green from Denver.”

He offered his hand and Nathan took it.

“Sheriff,” one of his riders said, “if Blackburn went into the river, maybe we can fish him out downstream.”

“Good thinking,” said the sheriff. “Wash, you and Tull see if you can find him.”

The two men rode away, and Nathan again turned to the sheriff.

“Sheriff, all I know about this is what the girl told me, so I don't know if it's true or not. She told me her name was Kate McDowell, and that she had been taken captive by the man I shot. She said his name was Will Blackburn and that he had robbed a Denver bank.”

“He robbed a bank, all right,” said Sheriff Green, “but he wasn't alone. How was this woman dressed?”

“Like a man,” Nathan said. “Her hair was short, and her hat was down over her ears, like it was a mite big for her.”

“The second man might have been a woman,” the sheriff said. “Which way did she ride out?”