Autumn of the Gun (48 page)

They all laughed uproariously.

“Maybe I will,” Snake growled.

“Humo,”
the Mexican woman shouted.
“Humo.”

The room was filling with smoke as it wafted down in great clouds.

“Damn it,” somebody shouted, “this place is afire.”

“Ah, hell,” said Snake, “the chimney ain't drawin' right. Open the shutters, some of you, while I git on the roof an' run a pole down the chimney.”

Having covered the chimney with his coat, Wes Tremayne was awaiting just such a move by the outlaws. When Snake left the cabin, Wes got a stranglehold on him with a brawny left arm. Once, twice, three times the knife in his right hand was driven into the struggling outlaw's chest. Quickly, Wes dragged the body around to the side of the cabin. The others wouldn't discover it until they were outside, and then it would be too late.

“Damn it, Snake,” one of the outlaws shouted, “what are you doin' up there? Smoke's gittin' worse.”

Wes had concealed himself within rifle range, prepared for the inevitable finale. What he hadn't counted on was the presence of the woman, and she was first out the door. Wes held his fire. With his first shot, the element of surprise would be gone. Fortunately, the woman backed away from the cabin, attempting to see what was obstructing the chimney. Coughing and wheezing, the outlaws came out, rubbing their eyes. Wes fired as rapidly as he could jack shells into the firing chamber of the Winchester. The five outlaws died on their feet, without getting off a single shot. The Mexican woman ran screeching into the brush, and Wes lit out on the run toward his waiting horse. For sure, if there were more of the outlaws, the terrified woman would get word to them. Worse, the cabin wasn't that far from the border, and the shots might have been heard by the Mexican border patrol. From the rise where he had first spotted the cabin, Wes reined up and looked back. There were the bodies of the dead outlaws and no sign of the woman. He felt no remorse, for his mind was full of Rebecca when she had lay dying. His words were for her, as he spoke aloud, and his voice broke.

“Vaya con Dios, Querido.
I can do no more.”

Once more he looked back toward the distant cabin as three horsemen entered the clearing. From their sombreros, he judged they were Mexican. He kept his horse at a slow gallop until he crossed the Rio Grande and was again in Texas.

Nathan had no choice. He returned the wine bottle to the case from which he'd taken it and backed away from the wagon. By then the rest of the camp was fully awake, and it was the woman—Kit La Mie—who took charge.

“It is regrettable, Mr. Stone, that you obviously do not believe what you were told.”

“I had trouble sleeping,” Nathan said. “I just wanted another shot of that wine.”

“I might have accepted that if you had asked, but your actions suggest something entirely different. Who sent you after us?”

Nathan laughed. “And
your
actions suggest a guilty conscience, Mrs. La Mie.”

“He ain't the kind to talk,” said Kendall. “Let me pistol whip the bastard.”

“That's a mite heavyhanded for military discipline, Captain Kendall,” Nathan said.

“Hell,” said one of the privates, “Captain Kendall ain't had time to learn. He ain't been in that uniform but two weeks.”

“Damn you, Baird,” Kendall said, “shut your mouth.”

“All of you hold your tongues,” Kit La Mie snapped, “or I'll dismiss the lot of you.”

“Mrs. La Mie,” said Nathan, “you can drop the play-acting for my benefit. I've forgotten more soldiering than these saloon rats will ever know.”

“I daresay you have,” Kit La Mie said, “and that's created a problem for you, Stone. I had hoped we wouldn't have to kill you.”

“You murdered the soldiers who once wore those uniforms,” said Nathan. “What's one more dead man?”

“Damn it, Kit,” André shouted, “he knows about the nitro.”

“He does now, you fool,” said Kit.

Nathan now knew enough to buy time, to bargain for his life, and he laughed in their faces before he spoke.

“You didn't stand a chance of getting away with it. Only the government's allowed to have nitroglycerin. You'll never be able to dispose of it.”

“It won't make any difference to you, federal man,” said André. “You'll be dead.”

“Wrong,” Nathan said. “If I don't telegraph Washington from Pueblo, it's all of you who'll be dead.”

“Hell,” said Kendall, “he's bluffing.”

Nathan laughed. “Can you afford to risk it, Captain?”

His words dripped with sarcasm, and Kendall would have shot Nathan point blank if André La Mie hadn't seized his arm. The slug blasted into the ground at Nathan's feet.

“Damn you, Kendall,” said La Mie, “he's right. We can't afford to risk it. He was able to trail us this far, and he knows about the soldiers. We'll have to take him with us. He may be useful as a hostage, if the federals are waiting for us in Pueblo.”

“How in hell are the federals goin' to know we're bound for Pueblo?” Gannon wanted to know.

“They know you and your bunch bushwhacked those soldiers,” said André, “and they were able to get Stone here well ahead of us. Why shouldn't they know the rest?”

“He's right,” Kit said. “Kendall, you keep Stone covered. André, get behind him and take his weapons. He goes with us.”

But none of them were aware of Empty, and using the shadows for cover, the dog had crept under the wagon. He waited until André was between Nathan and the wagon and then darted out, sinking his teeth into La Mie's leg. La Mie howled in pain, and Nathan used the distraction to good advantage. He turned, his left arm seizing La Mie, while a cocked Colt appeared like magic in his right hand. When he spoke, his voice was cold, deadly.

“Now, Mrs. La Mie, you tell your play soldiers to lift their weapons and throw them over yonder in the brush. One bad move and André's backbone—assuming he has one—won't be his any longer.”

“You heard him,” said Kit La Mie. “Dispose of your weapons.”

“No, by God,” Kendall shouted.

He pulled the trigger, and again his slug tore into the ground, for Nathan had shot him in the right shoulder. His pistol thudded to the ground.

“Anybody else?” Nathan asked.

The others carefully drew their weapons and tossed them away.

“André is going to walk me to my horse,” said Nathan. “Whether or not he's able to walk back will depend on the rest of you varmints. Let's go, André.”

Using La Mie as a shield, Nathan backed away from them until he was lost in shadows beneath sheltering trees. Reaching his horse, he hit La Mie upside the head with the muzzle of his Colt and eased the unconscious man to the ground. Quickly he saddled his horse and rode north, Empty a fleeting shadow ahead of him.

“He's gone,” La Mie shouted, regaining his senses. “Get him.”

“Get him yourself,” Kendall bawled. “I'm shot.”

Nathan reined up, listening to them curse one another.

“We can't be more than a hundred and fifty miles south of Santa Fe, Empty. There'll be soldiers and the telegraph. That much nitroglycerin calls for a telegram to Byron Silver in Washington.”

Confusion reined at the wagon, as André La Mie staggered back into the clearing. Not one of the pseudo soldiers had made a move to go after Nathan, and Kit La Mie was in a fury. She turned on the still-shaken André.

“Since he's escaped,” she said, “we'll have to abandon the wagon, take a pair of the mules, and ride.”

“Like hell,” said the phony Sergeant Gannon. “You promised us a cut when this wagonload of stuff was sold, and we bushwhacked that soldier escort to git it. Now we just ain't about to give it up. You, missy, git over yonder and patch up Kendall's wound. Come mornin', we're takin' this wagon north, like we planned, and we ain't gonna be takin' it slow.”

“You damn fools,” André said, “all that wagon needs is one good jolt, and there'll be bits of you scattered all over the territory.”

“Maybe,” said Gannon, “but you promised us money. Big money. And we ain't of a mind to be done out of it by you not havin' the sand to see it through.”

Even the wounded Kendall joined the others in a chorus of angry approval.

“We're not risking federal prison for the likes of you,” Kit La Mie said, “and we're not risking being scattered all over New Mexico by the careless handling of that wagonload of nitroglycerin. Now you find Stone and silence him and we'll go on from there.”

“Hell,” said Private Ponder, “we can't trail him in the dark.”

“You'd better give it a shot,” André La Mie said. “A man on a good horse can be in Santa Fe by late tomorrow.”

“He's right,” said Kit. “Allow Stone to reach a town where there's a lawman, and the lot of you will be backed up against a wall, facing real soldiers with loaded rifles.”

 

Half a dozen miles north, Nathan reined up, listening. The La Mies and their cut throat bunch had two choices. They could follow him with the intention of silencing him, or they could abandon the wagonload of deadly explosive and escape.

“They'll be followin' us, Empty,” said Nathan. “That woman's a regular wampus kitty with three-inch claws, and I expect that bunch of make-believe soldiers has been promised part of the spoils. I reckon we could stay ahead of the varmints, but it purely rubs me the wrong way to tuck my tail and run. We're a good seven hours from first light. We'll just settle down and wait for them.”

Wes had no trouble finding the Texas Ranger outpost, and Bodie West didn't seem in the least surprised to see him.

“I'd like to leave a message for Frank Bell,” Wes said.

“Write it out,” said Bodie. “I'll see that he gets it.”

Taking the pencil and paper that Bodie offered, Wes wrote:

“It's not private,” Wes said, passing the message to the Ranger. “Read it.”

West read it quickly and extended his hand. Wes took it.

“You won't be riding back to Bell's, I reckon,” said West.

“No,” Wes said. “I left Rebecca there, and it'll be hard enough, forgetting, without it all bein' so ... close to me.”

“I understand,” said West. “I'll get your message to Bell, and I promise nobody else will ever see it.”

“I'm obliged,” Wes said. “I'll see you again before I ride out.”

“Do that,” said West. “Meet me here in the morning, and I'll buy your breakfast.”

While Wes didn't hold much with saloons, they occasionally served as a means of occupying one's mind, crowding out unpleasant or painful memories. Wes had developed a liking for poker and always won more than he lost, so he made the rounds of the better saloons. He was invited upstairs at the Cattleman's Emporium, but the near-naked girls on the floor distracted him and he soon left. He sat in on a poker game at the Star and took three pots in a row. One of the other men got up and leaned across the table, his hard eyes on Wes. Finally he spoke.

“Pilgrim, I been settin' here for two hours. I ain't won a pot, and I'm within a
peso
of bein' broke.”

“You couldn't have had much to start with,” said Wes, “if I've cleaned you out with three hands. How much did you lose? I'll give it back.”

That struck the onlookers as hilariously funny, and they laughed and shouted.

“Hell, Shorty,” said one of the men, “I didn't know you was needful of charity. I'll put some pesos in the hat fer you.”

That started a whole new round of bully-ragging, and Wes regretted ever having said anything. He slid back his chair and stood up.

“Where the hell you think you're goin?” Shorty demanded. “You owe me a chance to recoup my losses.”

“I owe you nothing,” said Wes. “If you're broke, it's time you folded.”

“Don't git throwed and stomped, Shorty,” somebody shouted. “I'll stake you.”

“So will I,” said a second voice.

“And I,” a third voice cut in.

Double eagles rang against the tabletop until Shorty had a hundred dollars.

“Deal me in,” said Shorty triumphantly.

While Wes didn't win, Shorty quickly lost half his stake to three other men. When Wes won a fourth and fifth pot, Shorty got to his feet, his eyes shooting sparks of rage.

“Damn you,” he snarled, “there ain't no honest way a man can win like you're doin'”

He went for his gun but was painfully slow. Wes already had him covered with his Colt, cocked and steady.

“I could have killed you,” said Wes, “but I've no reason to. Get out of here.”

“Shorty,” somebody said, “go on home. This ain't your day.”

There was nervous laughter that quickly died away. Without a word, Shorty left the saloon, and Wes spoke to the men who remained.

“Those of you who want to recoup your losses, sit down,” said Wes.

“That's white of you,” said one of the men. “Shorty's had a mite too much to drink. It don't do nothin' for a man's judgment when he's handlin' the cards.”

Wes played five more hands, losing four of them.

“My luck's run out,” Wes said. “I'm folding.”