Autumn of the Gun

by Compton, Ralph

  “Where’s the missus?”

  “In New Orleans,” Nathan said. He then told Selman of Vivian’s numerous victories astride Diablo.

  “I’ve heard of the horse,” said Selman, “but I didn’t know she was riding him. These events, when published in the newspaper, read like the horse did it all. The rider is seldom mentioned.”

  “I hear Mobeetie has a sheriff,” Nathan said.

  “Yes, thank God,” said Selman with a sigh. “Him and me are on a first-name basis, with four saloons. Will you stay the night with us?”

  “Yes,” said Nathan, “and I’m obliged for your hospitality. I think Empty’s already at the mess hall.”

  Austin, Texas January 21, 1880

  Having found a room for the night, Nathan visited the Texas Ranger outpost, where he found Bodie West on duty. Bodie had taken the place of Captain Sage Jennings, one of Nathan’s long-time friends. The old Ranger had been gunned down in an ambush, and the killer had escaped to New Mexico, where Nathan had caught up to him.

  “I heard about your trouble in Houston,” said West, “but I couldn’t get away. Some of us had to keep the lid on around here. I was stuck in San Antonio when your trial was held here. Soon afterward, I ran into Captain Dillard here. He told me the entire story.”

  “If one man ever owed another his life,” Nathan said, “I owe Captain Dillard. When I went before the judge here in Austin, I couldn’t believe my eyes. In three rows of seats near the front of the court room, there were only Rangers. There were so many stars, my God, it was like lookin’ at the Texas sky on a clear night.”

  “You rode the long trail for one of us,” said West simply, “and we didn’t forget. Nor will we ever.”

  “I’m forever obliged,” Nathan said. “I’ve been away for a while. When I was last here, King Fisher had stolen away Molly Horrell, and the Horrells were hell bent on taking her back. Did they?”

  West laughed. “They did not. Molly refused to return, and when the Horrells rode into Fisher’s place after her, King just shot the hell out of them.”

  “Any of them killed?”

  “No,” said West, “but the whole damn bunch rode out with lead in ’em, and their tails between their legs. King and Molly were married in Uvalde, and you won’t believe how it’s changed him. Except for the Horrells, he hasn’t shot anybody but himself. A year or so back, he shot himself in the leg.”

  Nathan laughed. “I can’t imagine that. Sounds like you’re enjoying peace and quiet for a change.”

  West sighed. “That may be coming to an end. Ben Thompson’s here.”

  “Billy too?”

  “No, thank God,” said West. “One Thompson at a time is enough. He’s been peaceful so far, since he’s been winning at the poker table. But that can change any time. The man’s got a devil inside, and nothing unleashes him any quicker than a night of hard drinking.”

  “It’s been a while since I’ve seen him,” Nathan said. “Maybe if I track him down, I can keep him at least partly sober.”

  “Good luck,” said West.

  Nathan found Ben Thompson at the Cattleman’s Emporium, at a downstairs table with a bottle before him. Dragging back a chair, Nathan sat down. Thompson glared at him without any friendliness.

  “Howdy, Ben.”

  Ignoring the glass, Thompson seized the bottle, upended it, and emptied it. He set it down with a crash that shattered it.

  “Bartender,” Thompson bawled, “’nother bottle.”

  “Ben,” said Nathan, “you’ve had enough. Let’s get something to eat.”

  Thompson sprang to his feet, toppling his chair. The bartender hit the floor, and just a split second ahead of Thompson, Nathan drew his Colt. He laid the muzzle of the weapon just above Thompson’s left ear, and he sprawled face down across the table.

  “That was slick, mister,” the bartender said, “but there’s goin’ to be hell to pay when he wakes up.”

  “Maybe not,” Nathan replied. “Make some hot, black coffee.”

  The bartender did so, bringing two steaming cups to the table. He hurried away, for Thompson was stirring. Quickly, Nathan put Thompson’s chair in place, and he slid off the table onto it. He looked at Nathan through slitted eyes and spoke in a slurred voice.

  “My God ... my head ... hurts.”

  “We were about to have some coffee,” Nathan said, “and you passed out. You need the coffee, Ben. Drink up.”

  “Yeah ... need coffee,” Thompson mumbled. He seized the cup with both hands, gulping the coffee. Nathan took the empty cup from him, passing him the other full one. Thompson emptied the second cup and sat there shaking his head.

  “Ben,” said Nathan, “you need food. How long since you’ve eaten?”

  “I ... dunno,” Thompson said.

  “It’s time to eat,” said Nathan. “Let’s get a steak.”

  “No ...” said Thompson. “Sick ...”

  “You’ll feel better when you get to your feet, when you’ve eaten something,” Nathan said. “Come on. I’ll help you.”

  Nathan got Thompson to his feet, walked him to the door, and managed to get him outside. The sun was down, and a cool west wind had sprung up. It seemed to revive Ben Thompson, and he steadied himself. Nathan led him to the nearest cafe, and they took a table near the door. Empty had remained at the livery with Nathan’s horse, and Nathan was thankful for that. He had no idea how long it might take for Thompson to become fully sober. But to Nathan’s surprise, Thompson drank more coffee and began to eat.

  “Ben,” said Nathan, “a good night’s sleep will do wonders for you. Do you have a room?”

  “Yeah,” Thompson said. “The Alamo Hotel.”

  “Let’s go there,” said Nathan, “and I’ll meet you for breakfast in the morning.”

  Having seen Thompson to his hotel room, Nathan waited a few minutes to be sure the little gambler didn’t slip out and head for a saloon. Was he a fool, concerning himself with the well-being of Ben Thompson, who seemed not to care a damn for himself? Nathan returned to the livery for Empty, and the two of them returned to the out-of-the-way hotel where Nathan had taken a room. He had eaten little, focusing his attention on Ben Thompson. He and Empty would have a more leisurely supper later.

  The next morning, when Nathan knocked on the door to Ben Thompson’s room, there was no answer. The door was locked.

  “Mr. Thompson left an hour ago,” the desk clerk informed Nathan.

  Only in Cow Alley, the least desirable section of town, did the saloons open before noon. There, in a joint called Frog’s Place, sat Ben Thompson, a bottle on the table before him.

  “I thought you were going to have breakfast with me,” said Nathan.

  “Hell,” Thompson said, “this is breakfast. Drag up a chair.”

  “Ben,” said Nathan, taking a chair, “I’m riding to King Fisher’s ranch. Why don’t you come with me?”

  “Just come from there,” Thompson said. “King’s got himself a woman and by God, she’s defanged and declawed him. He didn’t have a drop of whiskey, and I near died of thirst before I could get away. I’m meetin’ Billy in Dodge, and who knows where we’ll go from there. Why don’t you come along?”

  “I just came from Dodge,” said Nathan. “I’m past due for a visit with King. I reckon I’ll mosey on down there.”

  “You’d better take your whiskey with you, then,” Thompson said.

  They left the saloon together. At the corner, they encountered a pair of drunks, one of whom pointed to Ben and laughed.

  “By God,” he shouted, “a genuine dude. One of them remittance men, I reckon.”18

  To Nathan’s surprise, Thompson grinned at the pair, playing the part of a foppish and inexperienced easterner. He coughed, as one with lung fever who had been sent west for his health. Encouraged, one of the men took a swipe at Thompson’s top hat, and it rolled into the gutter. Thompson’s temper took flame like a prairie fire, and he drew his pistol.

  “Damn you,” he roare
d. “You are a scoundrel and a coward. Is this how you would treat a stranger and a sick man? I am Ben Thompson, and equal to a dozen of the likes of you.”

  The stranger drew his gun, leaped behind an awning post, and fired at Thompson. The little gambler returned fire, grazing the drunk’s ear. As the frightened man ran away, lead from Thompson’s pistol burned a furrow along his side.

  “Ben,” Nathan said, “that’s enough. You’ll have the law on you.”

  But the man with a bloodied ear and a crease in his side returned with a sheriff’s deputy before Nathan could get Thompson off the street.

  “Who started this?” the lawman demanded.

  “He did,” Thompson snarled. “I defended myself.”

  “That’s true,” said Nathan. “The other man’s gun has been fired.”

  “Hand over the weapon,” the deputy demanded.

  He examined the revolver, found it had been fired, and returned it. Then he spoke to the man who had complained.

  “Looks like a Mexican standoff to me. You can file a complaint and take it before a judge, if you like, but there’s no evidence you were assaulted. It’ll be your word against his.”

  Something in Thompson’s cold stare got to the stranger. Followed by his companion, he turned and stomped away. The deputy shrugged his shoulders and went on about his business.

  “I reckon I’ll saddle up and ride north,” said Thompson. That was as close to goodbye as he ever got.

  Nathan checked out of his hotel room, took his horse from the livery, and rode south.

  South Texas, near the Rio Grande January 24, 1880

  “Get down and come in,” said King Fisher when Nathan rode up.

  Empty was already on the porch, being greeted by Shaniqua, Fisher’s Mexican housekeeper, for she had fed him well. Molly stood on the porch, smiling a welcome.

  “Where’s Vivian?” Fisher inquired. “Has she already sent you packing?”

  “Not exactly,” said Nathan. “Let me unsaddle my horse, and I’ll come in and tell you all about it.”

  When Nathan returned to the house, Shaniqua had coffee ready, and Nathan spent the next hour telling them of Diablo’s victories, with Vivian in the saddle.

  “Thunderation,” Fisher exclaimed, “what are you doin’ here? With your brand on a woman like her, ridin’ a hoss that can’t lose, you must of been grazin’ on loco weed, just lettin’ her out of your sight.”

  “I reckon that kind of life is just too tame for me,” said Nathan. “I miss the shootin’ and being shot at.”

  “By God, I don’t,” Fisher said.

  “That’s what I hear,” said Nathan. “I saw Ben Thompson in Austin, and he said you’d been defanged and declawed. Said you didn’t have a drop of whiskey on the ranch, and if what he says means anything, you’re a disgrace to Texas.”

  “He’s an evil little man,” Molly said, speaking for the first time. “I hope he’s gone for good.”

  “Ah, hell,” said Fisher, “Ben’s a little strange, but he ain’t no worse than your kin.”

  “I can’t deny that,” Molly said hotly, “but it’s not something I’m proud of. Since I was born a Horrell, I can’t change that, but at least I had the good sense to rid myself of them. If that little villain, Ben Thompson, shows up here again, I’m leaving.”

  With that, she stomped away from the table. Fisher flung up his hands in frustration while Shaniqua, renewing her friendship with Empty, ignored them all.

  “I’ve never been one to buy into a family feud,” said Nathan. “I reckon I’ll ride on and come back another time.”

  “Stay,” Fisher said. “She’s had a burr under her tail ever since Ben left. Just try not to mention him again. She’ll sulk her way out of it.”

  “I don’t fault a man for his friends,” said Nathan, “and I reckon—in his own way—Thompson’s a friend of mine. Being honest, I’d have to tell you Vivian doesn’t like Ben. He can be a gentleman when he chooses, but there’s another side to him that just purely scares hell out of the ladies.”

  “Well, I won’t throw down a friend on a woman’s whim,” Fisher said.

  “Not even if that woman’s your wife?” Nathan asked.

  “Not even then,” said Fisher.

  “King,” Nathan said, “I’m not one to talk down a man’s friends, but Ben Thompson’s headed for hell on greased skids. Molly fears he’ll take you with him. While I like Ben, I’m seein’ him in the same light.”19

  “Maybe you’re right,” said Fisher grimly, “but a man who won’t go to hell for a pard ain’t much of a friend.”

  Nathan slid back his chair, put on his hat, and stepped out on the porch. Uncertain as to what was taking place, Empty followed. Nathan went on to the barn, fully expecting his host to call to him, but Fisher did not. Nathan saddled the grulla and rode out, following the Rio Grande westward.

  Dodge City, Kansas February 2, 1880

  The westbound had just pulled out, and there was a knock on Foster Hagerman’s office door.

  “Come on in,” Hagerman said.

  The door opened, and Harley Stafford stood there grinning. Hagerman got to his feet, extended his hand, and Harley took it.

  “Pull up a chair,” said Hagerman. “If you’re looking for work, or if you just came in to say howdy, I’m glad to see you.”

  “Some of both,” Harley said. “I’ve given up racing.”

  “I can’t say I’m sorry,” said Hagerman. “Our chief of security was wounded last week during an attempted robbery. It’s doubtful that he’ll ever walk again. When can you start?”

  “Today,” Harley said. “It wasn’t meant for a man to set on his hunkers, working just two days a month.”

  “Sounds pretty good to me,” said Hagerman. “Since you left, I’ve had maybe two days I could call my own. What about your sister?”

  “She can easily take up the slack,” Harley said, “and it’ll be better for both of us. For the lack of anything better to do, I’d taken to hanging around the saloons and gambling houses in New Orleans, and a man can’t do that without drinking and gambling. Gamblers knew I was riding for Barnabas McQueen, and I was faced with bribes on every hand, all wanting me to lose an occasional race.”

  “I can safely say you’ll never be faced with that, working for the AT & SF,” said Hagerman. “The worst that can happen is that you may be shot dead, but you already know that. Nothing’s changed. When you’re in town, we’ll pick up the tab for your room at the Dodge House and your meals at Delmonico’s. Oh, there is one difference. I’ll ask for a raise in pay, taking you up to two hundred a month.”

  “I’m obliged,” Harley said, “but the job would be enough. I’ve won money on every McQueen race except one, so I’m not hurting.”

  “Good,” said Hagerman, “but I’m paying you for the risk involved. The James gang has made a fine art of train robbery, and others have begun to follow their example.”

  Hungry, Wes Tremayne had left the train in Kansas City. Big for his age, able to do the work of a man, he had survived on a poorly paid job at a livery, mucking out stalls. He had slept in the hayloft, often half-frozen, as the bitterly cold wind whipped through the cracks. Worse, there were drifters seeking shelter, and he often fought them for the little money he had, or for his clothing. One night he climbed into a partially loaded boxcar in the AT & SF railroad yards. A string of cars waited on a side track while an engine with tender backed toward them. When the tender bumped into the first of the cars, the brakeman completed the coupling and signaled the engineer with his lantern. The big locomotive lurched into motion, gathering speed, bound for Colorado. But the destination of several of the boxcars was Dodge City, Kansas, and in the small hours of the morning the cars were shuttled onto a side track and left there. Wes Tremayne slipped out. The sliding doors had not been locked, for the car was carrying heavy machinery. Dawn was several hours away, and the cold west wind had the feel of snow. While the railroad depot was closed, a small waiting room was unl
ocked, and it was there that Wes sought refuge. He had the price of a meal, and he suspected the prospects of work here would be as bad or worse than in Kansas City. With the first light of dawn, Wes left the depot seeking a cafe. He’d eaten nothing since the previous morning, and was sorely in need of food and hot coffee. It was early, and there were few on the streets, and when Wes found a cafe that was open, there was nobody but the cook.

  “Mister,” said Wes, after paying for his meal, “I’m traveling west and I need work. I can do just about anything. Do you know of anybody needing a man?”

  “Well,” the cook said, “you might try the Alhambra Saloon. Talk to Vic Irwin. He’s forever needin’ a swamper. It’s the kind of work most men shy away from, because it pays just about enough to keep you in grub. But if Vic likes you, he’ll fix you a bunk in the storeroom.”

  “Thanks,” said Wes. “I’ll talk to him.”

  “You’ll have to wait. The Alhambra don’t open until ten o’clock.”

  Wes walked the streets, pausing in an occasional doorway to escape the wind. Already there was sleet rattling off the boardwalk, an almost certain sign of snow to follow. Somewhere a clock—probably in a church or courthouse tower—struck nine. When it finally struck ten, the snow had already started, but Wes knew where the Alhambra Saloon was. He found a single bartender on duty.

  “I need to talk to Mr. Irwin,” Wes said.

  “Set down,” said the bartender. “I’ll get him.”

  Vic Irwin prided himself on knowing and understanding men. He had operated saloons all his adult years, and he had opened in Dodge while it was still a tent city. The moment he entered the saloon, the young man got to his feet, and not once did his ice-blue eyes leave those of Irwin.

  “Mr. Irwin,” he said, extending his hand, “I’m Wes Tremayne, and I need work. I’ve been told you need a swamper, and I’m asking for the job.”

  Impressed, Irwin took the extended hand. Finally he spoke.