Autumn of the Gun (62 page)

“You're hurt!” Renita cried.

“Nothing serious,” said Wes. “I'll have the doc patch me up.”

Granny had reined up the team. She and Molly said nothing, and Wes spoke to them.

“There was only one, and I got him. Go ahead into town. I'll report to the new town marshal.”

Wes mounted his horse and rode on, Renita beside him.

“Oh, God,” Molly groaned, “the Sandlin thing is about to start all over again.”

“But they shoot Wes,” said Granny, “and he shoot them. What else he do?”

Wes reported the shooting to Reynolds, the new town marshal, and then stopped at the doctor's office. By the time he was finished there, and ready to join Renita at the store, the dead bushwhacker had been brought to the marshal's office in a wagon.

“Hell,” a bystander said, “this hombre's been hangin' around the Acme Saloon for as long as I can remember.”

“Yeah,” said another, “he was always here, and he always had money.”

It vindicated Nathan Stone's suspicions, Wes decided. The Sandlin gang did have men in town, and that meant Sandlin would soon know that Wes Tremayne had killed a fourth member of the gang. He prepared himself for trouble, and it wasn't long in coming. The next morning, an hour before dawn, there was a single shot. Lead slammed into the front door at Granny Boudleaux's. Somewhere outside, Empty barked.

“It's safe to go out,” said Nathan. “That was a warning, for some reason.”

Wes opened the door and looked out, but there was nobody in sight. Then he saw the dagger driven into the door. It secured a piece of paper upon which a grim message had been scrawled. It said:

There was no hiding the warning, for others had seen Wes remove it. Closing the door, he went back inside, dropping the warning on the dining table. Let them all read it and give him hell. He no longer cared.

“Wes,” Renita cried, “it's not too late. Can't we just ride away?”

“No,” said Wes shortly. “They've called me out, and I'm going.”

Taking a second Colt, he shoved it under his belt, and with his Winchester under his still-bandaged arm, he went to saddle his horse.

“Please,” Renita cried, “isn't there something we can do to stop it?”

“Only he can stop it,” said Nathan, “and he'll die before he'll run.”

Nathan started down the hall to a room he no longer shared with Molly, but this time she followed him. His Winchester leaned in a comer, and he made sure it was fully loaded. He then buckled on the
buscadera
rig with its two deadly Colts. From his saddle bag he took shells and began filling his pockets.

“It had to be him or me, didn't it?”

Molly Horrell stood in the doorway, tears streaking her cheeks.

“I never said that,” Nathan replied.

“You didn't have to,” said Molly. “You've stayed here because of him, knowing that it would come to this. What I wanted didn't matter.”

“It mattered,” Nathan said, “but I owed him eighteen years, and I don't have nearly enough time to make it up.”

Without another word, she stepped aside. Nathan went down the hall, his Winchester in his left hand. Molly followed, standing with Granny and Renita on the front porch as Nathan walked to the stable. He saddled the grulla, mounted, and rode toward town. Well before he got there, the shooting started. The main street appeared deserted, but at the western end of it stood Wes Tremayne. The bushwhackers were hidden at intervals along the street, and while their victim wasn't yet within range, they were firing, kicking up dirt a dozen feet ahead of him. If he chose to advance, he would be caught in a deadly cross fire, a gauntlet of lead. Empty had followed Nathan, and from the corner of his eye he could see the dog as he kept close to the buildings along the street. The eyes of the outlaws were on Wes Tremayne, and as they prepared to fire they moved to better positions. Well within range, Nathan opened fire with the Winchester. He cut down three of the outlaws before the others turned on him. A slug broke his left arm, and he dropped the Winchester. Drawing his right-hand Colt, he continued firing.

At the other end of the street, Wes Tremayne was cocking the Winchester, firing as he ran. He saw Nathan fall to his knees, saw dust puff from his shirt, as the slugs tore into him. Nathan dropped the empty Colt, and managing to reach the weapon on his left hip with his good right hand, he dropped another of the outlaws. He fired once more, the slug kicking up dust a few yards ahead of him. Finally the Colt sagged in his weary hand and dropped to the dusty street. Bleeding from a dozen wounds, dying, Nathan Stone fell across the weapons that had served him so well. There was a clatter of hooves as what remained of the Sandlin gang rode away.

Wes Tremayne walked slowly toward Nathan, but he paused, for Empty was already there. His teeth bared, he stood ready to defend this man with whom he had traveled the long trails, a master who could no longer defend himself. That was the scene that greeted Molly Horrell, Renita, and Granny when they arrived in a buckboard. Molly stepped down to the dusty street and ran to Nathan, weeping. With a strange moan, Empty backed off, allowing her to kneel beside Nathan. When there were no more tears, she looked up and her eyes met those of Wes Tremayne, those ice blue eyes that were Nathan Stone's.

“Why?” Wes asked. “Why did he do it? This wasn't his fight.”

“Oh, but it was,” said Molly, her voice trembling. “He tried to make up for eighteen years today. Your mother never wanted you to know, and he respected her wishes, but you deserve to know. Nathan Stone was your father.”

Wes still held the Winchester, and he dropped it in the dust at his feet. He dropped to his knees as tears rolled down his dusty cheeks. When he finally got to his feet, he stood, looking up toward the rising sun. When he spoke, his voice was cold.

“They're going to die,” he said. “I swear before God, they'll die. I'll hunt them down to the last man.”

 

Nathan's body was taken to Granny Boudleaux's, where he spent his last night in her parlor.

“We bury him behind the house,” said Granny. “He one of us, and he sleep forever there.”

Nobody slept that night, as Nathan lay dead in the parlor. Molly told Wes all she knew about Nathan Stone.

“He has friends he wanted telegraphed,” Molly said. “One is Barnabas McQueen in New Orleans. Another is Byron Silver, at the attorney general's office in Washington. And in Dodge City, there's Foster Hagerman and Harley Stafford.”

“You can contact the others,” said Wes, “but let me telegraph Foster Hagerman and Harley Stafford. They're my friends, and I especially want them to know who I really am.”

“Then address the telegram to Omega Three,” Molly said. “It's what Nathan wanted. I know he'd want you to have his Winchester and the Colts, because they were given to him by Captain Sage Jennings of the Texas Rangers. There's a Ranger shield that belonged to the captain, and a watch given him by Byron Silver. He has a considerable amount of money in the bank, and that's yours, too.”

“No,” said Wes. “I want the other things, but I want you to have the money.”

 

Empty had howled most of the night, and had to be shut up in the house until Nathan had been buried. Wes already had his horse saddled and waiting. In the boot was Nathan's Winchester, and Wes had the
buscadera
rig, with its twin Colts, belted around his lean middle.

“Turn Empty loose, Granny,” Wes said. “I'd like to see him again before I go.”

Empty came out and sat down at the head of Nathan's grave, and he didn't object when Wes ruffled his ears. He then turned to face Renita, who wept silent tears.

“I'll be back,” he said, “if you'll wait. I'm taking my father's weapons and his name, and I must pay a debt for him.”

“I'll wait,” the girl cried.

Wes mounted his horse and rode away, and that's when Empty began howling. While Wes wasn't aware of it, the mournful howls of the hound drifted back over the years to that long ago time in Virginia, when Cotton Blossom, Empty's sire, had howled over the remains of Malachi, an old black man who had long served Nathan Stone's family.

“He lost,” said Granny Boudleaux, her eyes on the grieving dog.

But Empty had a choice to make, and as Cotton Blossom had done, so long ago, he made it. He ceased howling and trotted a few steps along the way that Wes had ridden. He paused, looking back, and then turned away. He barked once, and in the distance Wes reined up, waiting for him.

“Wes,” said Molly aloud, “you're truly the son of Nathan Stone. You could never have been anything else. God help you as you cross that river into Cord Sandlin's border empire.”

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