Autumn of the Gun

by Compton, Ralph

  “We have a room at a boardinghouse,” said Nathan.

  “I’ll try and get one there myself,” Holt replied.

  Holt had no trouble getting a room for the night, and after stabling their horses, the three of them went to a nearby cafe to eat.

  “If the dog’s a problem,” said Nathan, “he’s a paying customer.”

  “He’s welcome, long as he minds his manners,” the cook replied. “What’s he havin’?”

  “He’s a hound, and not picky,” Nathan said, “just as long as there’s plenty of it.”

  They were down to final cups of coffee when Holt had a suggestion.

  “You have to get those horses back to New Orleans; why don’t you just drive them to Memphis and buy passage on a steamboat?”

  “Tarnation,” said Nathan, “it’s as far from here to Memphis as it is from here to New Orleans. That wouldn’t make any sense.”

  “It would if you enter Diablo in that quarter-mile race on July fourth. I can help you with these horses as far as Little Rock, and from there, it’s not more than a hundred miles to Memphis. I don’t know how often the packets travel the Arkansas, but you might get a steamboat from Little Rock to New Orleans.”

  Nathan laughed. “You’re just trying to parlay this law business into a horse race.”

  “You’ve rode behind this badge,” said Holt. “Do you blame me? It’s all shoot-or-be-shot, and no time for anything else.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Nathan said, “but who would ride Diablo? Certainly not you or me.”

  “Why not Vivian?” Holt asked.

  “Vivian?” said Nathan. “She doesn’t—”

  “Ride that well,” Vivian finished.

  “I was about to say that you don’t know the horse, and he doesn’t know you,” said Nathan.

  “It’s a good two hundred miles from here to Little Rock,” Holt said. “When we ride out, swap her horse to a lead rope and let her ride Diablo. If she can ride him that far without him biting off a hand or foot, he’ll be safe enough.”

  It was Vivian’s turn to laugh. “You’re generous with my hands and feet.”

  “I don’t think so,” Nathan said. “It hasn’t been that long since she had saddle sores all over her—”

  “Nathan,” Vivian interrupted, “I’d like to try it. Let me at least attempt to become friends with Diablo. If it turns out that he hates me, I promise not to go through with it.”

  “We’ll try it,” said Nathan. “It’s the least we can do, to bring a little pleasure to the dismal life of Deputy U.S. Marshal Mel Holt.”

  Sheriff Haddock arranged the inquest, Nathan and Vivian testified, and the case was officially closed. News of the killings had spread, drawing a crowd to the courthouse. The sheriff was nervous, and it seemed he wanted to speak in his own defense, but he kept his silence. When the procedure was done, Holt elbowed his way through the crowd without answering any questions from the curious. Nathan and Vivian followed his example, and with the McQueen horses on lead ropes, the trio rode north.

  “Haddock was uneasy as a coyote among lobo wolves,” said Nathan. “Do you reckon he can keep the lid on all this?”

  Holt laughed. “Not a chance. Rutledge Jackman was a big man in town, and while he was alive, who would have questioned a friendship between him and Sheriff Haddock? But now, all the little people who didn’t exactly revere Jackman won’t be thinking kindly of Sheriff Haddock. I doubt he’ll run for reelection.”

  “The telegrapher knows what was in that telegram he delivered to Sheriff Haddock,” said Vivian. “He should be able to add that to what was taken down at the inquest and come up with some answers.”

  “Yes,” Holt said. “If he has the brains God gave a goose he ought to be ropin’ free drinks for at least a year.”

  “Now that we’re away from town,” said Vivian, “I want to make friends with Diablo, if I can.”

  They reined up and Vivian dismounted.

  “We’ll see how well he receives you before we swap your saddle,” Nathan said.

  “If he accepts me,” said Vivian, “I’ll ride him bareback. I’ve never ridden in a race before, but I’ve seen it done. The last thing we’ll want is the added weight of a saddle.”

  “She’s got savvy,” Holt said admiringly.

  As Vivian approached, Diablo snorted and flattened his ears, but the girl didn’t hesitate. She spoke softly and hummed a tune, and Diablo’s ears perked. The horse stood his ground, and when Vivian began stroking him, he nickered.

  “He hasn’t forgotten Eulie,” said Nathan. “You remind him of her.”

  “To win over an animal like this,” Vivian said, “she must have been a special person.”

  “She was,” said Nathan. “She trained him and was the first to ride him.”

  “What became of her?” Holt asked.

  “She was shot by a bushwhacker who didn’t want Diablo to win the race,” Nathan said, “but she died a winner. Diablo beat them all.”9

  “It’ll be a tribute to her memory if he can do it again,” said Holt.

  “He can,” Nathan said. “Look at her.”

  Vivian had her arms around the sleek neck of the big black, and when she vaulted on to his broad back, he only snaked his head around and looked at her. Leaning forward, she spoke to him, and the horse lit out in a fast gallop.

  “My God,” said Nathan, “she doesn’t even have a bridle.”

  “I have an idea she not goin’ to need one,” Holt said. “If she knows what she’s doing, she can turn him with knee pressure.”

  Suddenly, from a fast gallop, Diablo wheeled and came pounding back.

  “By God,” Holt shouted, “she took that turn like she was part of the horse, and I never seen a horse run and wheel like that.”

  Nathan said nothing, for there was a lump in his throat. His mind drifted back over ten years, and again he was seeing Eulie astride the big black as Diablo thundered toward the finish line. Again he heard the deadly bark of Winchesters, and Eulie was gone ...

  “Vivian,” Holt shouted, “they’ll all eat your dust.”

  But Vivian said nothing. Diablo drew up without a command, and Vivian threw her arms around his neck. She wept, and the two men stood there uneasily, not knowing what to say. Finally she righted herself and slid to the ground, as Diablo snaked his head around, watching her.

  “I have never, in all my life, experienced anything like that,” Vivian said. “Let’s get on to Little Rock.”

  They rode on, Vivian astride Diablo, her saddled horse on a lead rope. Nathan watched the girl in silent admiration, and there were times when Deputy U.S. Marshal Mel Holt laughed for no reason at all.

  Little Rock, Arkansas July 2, 1877

  “Let’s stable these horses, find us a place to stay, and get us a mess of town grub,” Nathan said. “Then we’d better see about gettin’ Diablo into that race.”

  They had no trouble learning about the race, for it seemed to have totally captured the imagination of the town. Posters had been printed in black and red, and it seemed that no wall, tree, or store window in town had escaped. Every poster shouted in brilliant red that “the track is on the north bank of the Arkansas.”

  “She’s gonna be some race,” the friendly cook told them while they were eating.

  “We have a horse to enter,” said Nathan. “Who do we see?”

  “Sam Adderly, at Adderly’s Mercantile,” the cook said. “You can place your bets at any saloon. Already fourteen hosses entered, some of ’em at good odds. There’s a practice track, if you hanker to show off your hoss.”

  “I think we ought to keep Diablo out of sight until time for the race,” said Vivian when they had left the cafe.

  “We’re going to,” Nathan said. “I’ve seen what big-time gamblers will do to win. We want Diablo to come as a surprise.”

  “You’ll have at least one lawman on your side,” said Holt.

  Reaching Adderly’s Mercantile, they found a huge chart post
ed on the wall beside the counter. Listed on it were all the entries, some from as far away as Kansas City and St. Louis. At the far right was the owner’s name, and Rutledge Jackman’s didn’t appear there.

  “Entry fee’s a hundred dollars,” Adderly told them. “We aim to keep out folks that ain’t serious. You can place your bets here, too.”

  “Later,” said Nathan.

  “How much are we going to bet on Diablo?” Vivian asked, when they had left the store.

  “A thousand,” said Nathan. “Maybe more, depending on the odds.”

  “I can manage fifty,” said Holt. “That’s a month’s pay.”

  “Tarnation,” Nathan said, “make it five hundred. You’ll never again get a chance like this. I’ll loan you the difference, and you can repay me from your winnings.”

  “But suppose something goes wrong and we lose?” said Holt. “My God, I’d owe you a year’s pay.”

  “We aren’t going to lose,” Vivian said.

  “No,” said Nathan. “Besides, we owe you for helping us recover McQueen’s horses. If we hadn’t found Diablo, we wouldn’t be entering him in this race, so you deserve a chance at some of the winnings.”

  “You’re a muy bueno amigo,” Holt said. “My God, I’ve never seen more than a hundred dollars all at once, in my life.”

  Nathan laughed. “What would you do if you suddenly had five thousand dollars in your hands?”

  “God,” said Holt, “I’d drop this badge like it was hot and ride like hell for southwest Texas. I’d buy me a spread, a bull, some seed cows ...”

  The morning of July fourth, Nathan, Holt, and Vivian returned to the mercantile. Now it was time to place their bets.

  “Thunderation,” said Holt, looking at the chart on the wall, “they got Diablo down at twenty-to-one odds.”

  “That’s because he’s unknown in these parts, and nobody’s seen him run,” Nathan said, “and precisely why we didn’t put him through any trial runs.”

  “Westwind is the horse we have to beat,” said Vivian, studying the chart.

  There was considerable excitement when Nathan, Holt, and Vivian placed their bets, for Nathan had advanced both Holt and Vivian five hundred.

  “You folks must know somethin’ the rest of us don’t,” Adderly said as he wrote out their receipts.

  “We just like long odds,” said Nathan. “Will you have enough pesos to pay us if we win?”

  “Ten times over,” Adderly said. “You wouldn’t believe the money that’s been laid on old Westwind.”

  “That good, is he?” Holt asked.

  “He’s never lost a race,” said Adderly.

  It was a sobering thought as the three of them left the mercantile. They went directly to the livery, for they must have Diablo at the starting line an hour and a half before the start of the race.

  “Sixteen horses in the lineup,” Nathan said. “With that many horses, there’ll be some pushing and shoving. Viv, try to get Diablo off to a fast start and into an early lead.”

  “I intend to,” said Vivian.

  It was all the advice they could give her, for Diablo’s fifteen opponents proved to be a formidable bunch. Westwind pranced about, draped in a fancy blanket embroidered with his name. The rest of the horses were no less impressive. Diablo was assigned the ninth position, clearly a disadvantage unless he took an early lead. Nathan’s eyes met Holt’s; they said nothing lest Vivian become more nervous than she already appeared to be.

  “Diablo’s the only horse without some kind of saddle,” Vivian observed.

  “You have a definite edge,” said Nathan. “Except for Indians, not many can ride without a saddle.”

  It came time for horses and riders to take their positions, and no sooner had they done so than to Vivian’s immediate left, a roan nipped at Diablo. Diablo did some nipping of his own, and the roan reared, unseating his rider.

  “Ma’am,” said one of the judges, “if your horse doesn’t behave, he’ll be disqualified.”

  Furious as Vivian was, she bit her tongue and said nothing. Diablo would show up the troublesome roan, along with all the others. Westwind was in third position, and his rider was having trouble holding him. He seemed to know he was favored because the many who had put their money on him shouted his name. Westwind pranced to the side just as the starting gun sounded, and the favorite started the race a stride behind. Before the echo of the starting gun had died, Diablo had taken the lead, and he never lost it. He thundered across the finish line three lengths ahead of Westwind. There was total chaos, as shouting, cursing men surrounded the judges.

  “The black jumped the starting gun!” Westwind’s owner bawled. “Disqualify him!”

  Nathan and Holt fought their way to Vivian and Diablo. Suddenly there was the roar of a Colt, and the shouting and cursing ceased.

  “This is Sheriff McCarty,” a voice bawled. “The decision is up to the judges.”

  There was an uneasy silence as the three judges conferred; after a few minutes, one of the trio announced their decision.

  “We saw nothing amiss. We are declaring the black the winner.”

  Again the crowd broke loose, and when the sheriff finally quieted them Nathan Stone spoke.

  “Sheriff, the lady riding Diablo is unwilling that there be any doubt her horse won and demands that the race be run again.”

  Men cheered and shouted, and when silence finally reigned, one of the judges spoke.

  “This is highly irregular, and although we’ve never seen it done before, we do not believe it’s illegal. The young lady riding Diablo is to be commended for her sense of fairness. Riders, take your positions and prepare to run the race again.”

  There were no distractions, and when the starting gun sounded all horses got off to an equal start. Westwind and Diablo surged ahead of the rest; Westwind’s rider applied the quirt while Vivian depended on her voice. Calling on a reserve that seemed lacking in Westwind, Diablo gained a length. They thundered on, with Diablo gaining, and crossed the finish line three lengths ahead. It was a glorious thing, the testimony of a rider’s consummate faith in her horse, and even those who had lost their money cheered.

  “My God,” said Holt. “My God.” He seized Vivian, kissing her long and hard.

  Men gathered around with questions about Diablo, and there was no escape. Nathan, Holt, Vivian, and Diablo were there for more than two hours. When they finally reached Adderly’s Mercantile to collect their winnings, there were more well-wishers.

  “Except for winners of a few dollars, we’re paying by bank draft,” Adderly told them. “We had word the James gang might ride down here and rob us.”

  “Diablo’s purse goes to Barnabas McQueen,” said Nathan

  The ten-thousand-dollar draft was written to McQueen, while Nathan, Holt, and Vivian were paid individually.

  “I’ve heard of things like this,” Holt said, “but I never dreamed it could happen to me. Let’s get to the bank before it closes so I can repay your five hundred.”

  “Yes,” said Vivian, “I owe you, too. I never dreamed there was this much money in the whole world.”

  “I think we should take some of it in cash, and a bank draft for the balance,” Nathan said. “You’d need a pack-horse to carry it in gold, and a company of cavalry to keep the outlaws away.”

  “Lord, yes,” Holt agreed. “I still don’t trust Texas banks. I may leave mine in a bank in St. Louis.”

  “Is that spread in Texas still on your mind?” Nathan asked.

  “Yeah,” said Holt, “but now that I actually have the money, I’m wonderin’ if maybe I won’t come out better in Wyoming or Montana Territories. There’s so much more land to be had, and I hear the grass is stirrup-high.”

  “I don’t know about Montana,” Nathan said, “but I hear the big ranchers are gobblin’ up most of the land in Wyoming’s Powder River Basin.”

  “Well, I got time to think,” said Holt. “I might just take it easy for a while after I ride back to Fort Sm
ith and turn in my badge. When will you and Vivian be leaving for New Orleans?”

  “Tomorrow,” Nathan said. “Barnabas will be wondering what became of us. I reckon we’ll have to ride on to Memphis. We’ve been here three days, and I haven’t heard the first steamboat whistle.”

  “Occasionally there’s one in Fort Smith,” said Holt, “but I think they’re government packets. It used to be the jumping-off place, but no more. The railroads—the AT & SF and the Union Pacific—ended that.”

  When it was time for Nathan and Vivian to part company with the genial Mel Holt, it proved more awkward than any of them had expected.

  “Too bad you aren’t going on to New Orleans with us,” Nathan said. “I’ve gotten used to you.”

  “So have I,” said Vivian.

  Holt laughed. “I feel like the real loser. I’ll likely end up talking to myself. I hope our trails cross again. Vaya con Dios.”

  They watched Holt ride away. Then, with four horses on lead ropes and Vivian riding Diablo, they crossed the Arkansas and set out eastward, toward Memphis. Empty ranged on ahead, and they made the journey in two days.

  Memphis, Tennessee July 7, 1877

  “Tomorrow’s Sunday,” Nathan said. “If my memory serves me right, there should be a southbound steamboat through here sometime tomorrow.”

  Stopping at the dock, they learned there would be a steamboat at three o’clock Sunday afternoon. Nathan bought passage for Vivian and himself, and made arrangements for their horses and the four animals belonging to McQueen to travel on the lower deck.

  “Now,” said Nathan, “we have the rest of the day, tonight, and all tomorrow morning to see St. Louis.”

  “What is there to see and do?”

  “Frankly,” Nathan said, “I’m not sure. All the times I’ve been here, except for the last time, I was in some kind of trouble and left in a hurry.”