Autumn of the Gun

by Compton, Ralph

  “So if it’s all right with you, Granny,” said Nathan, “I’d like for Molly to remain here with you, helping where she can.”

  “Is good,” Granny said. “Just lak—”

  She caught herself just shy of mentioning Myra Haight’s name.

  “Just like home,” Nathan finished.

  “Is home,” said Granny. “No debt to bank. We make much money. Suppertime.”

  “We had a little somethin’ in town, Granny,” Nathan said, “but it’s hard turnin’ down one of your meals. Maybe we can hold some more.”

  It was more for Molly’s sake than his own, and she didn’t disappoint him. When the meal was finished, Granny led Molly to a room next to Nathan’s, and he wondered if the old lady already knew something he did not. Later, far into the night, he was sure of it, for when he answered a knock on the door, Molly Horrell was there.

  “I can’t sleep,” she said softly. “The ghosts won’t leave me alone.”

  Nathan let her in and closed the door. Come the dawn, she was still there.

  Dodge City, Kansas March 15, 1880

  Harley and Wes took the eastbound to Kansas City. The following morning, at six, they would depart for Pueblo, Colorado. There would be a military payroll bound for Fort Dodge and, after a turnaround in Pueblo, a shipment of gold ore back to Kansas City.

  “You’re about to cut your teeth on a big one,” Harley said. “On the way west, we’re subject to bein’ shot between here and Dodge, and on the way back, between Pueblo and Kansas City.”

  “The only thing I don’t like,” said Wes, “is bein’ locked in the baggage car. If we’re hit, I can’t be of much help to you. Can’t we change that?”

  “With good reason,” Harley said. “What do you have in mind?”

  “If you’re ridin’ the caboose,” said Wes, “why not have a boxcar at the far end of the baggage car, behind the tender? I can ride the boxcar, where they won’t be expecting me.”

  “I think that can be arranged,” Harley said. “From Kansas City, I’ll telegraph Hagerman in Dodge.”

  The six a.m. westbound left on schedule, Harley riding the caboose and Wes concealed in a boxcar between the tender and the baggage car. The thieves stopped the train a few miles west of Wichita. Harley climbed atop the caboose with a Winchester as six of the outlaws reined up just out of range. One of them shouted an order.

  “You on the caboose and anybody inside, leave your guns and step out with your hands up.”

  “And if we don’t?” Harley shouted.

  “We’ll shoot the engineer and fireman and dynamite the baggage car,” the outlaw shouted back.

  But when the train had begun slowing, Wes Tremayne had climbed through a hatch to the roof of the boxcar. Belly down, he made his way toward the tender, and by the time the four outlaws demanded the fireman and engineer step down, Wes was within range. It all depended on him. Swallowing hard, he cut down on them with his Colt. Two of the outlaws dropped, all the break the trainmen needed. Seizing their weapons, the engineer and fireman gunned down the remaining two outlaws. Leaping from the engine cab, they ran toward the rear of the train, their Winchesters ready. Wes ran along the tops of the cars, reloading as he ran. Harley saw him coming and opened up with his Winchester. Realizing their comrades at the head of the train were down, the six outlaws ran for their horses. The brakeman stepped out of the caboose, firing after them with his Winchester, but they were out of range, mounting their horses.

  “They’re gone,” Harley shouted. “Let’s get this train moving.”

  “Then we’ll have to reverse it and back it to Wichita,” said the engineer. “They ripped out a considerable piece of track.”

  “Do that,” Harley said. “We can’t set here on the prairie with a payroll aboard. Pile those dead owlhoots in the baggage car. Maybe the sheriff in Wichita can identify them.”

  Reaching Wichita, the engineer backed the train onto a side track and Harley sent a telegram to Kansas City, requesting a section crew to repair the track. The trainmen were loud in their praise of Wes, crediting him with gunning down two of the outlaws.

  “Wes,” said Harley, “you came through when it counted most.”

  “The first time I ever shot a man,” Wes replied, “but there was no other way.”

  “There never is when you’re dealing with outlaws,” said Harley. “They’ll kill you if they must and not give it a thought. I aim to talk to Hagerman and see if we can’t rid ourselves of that baggage car. It’s as good as telling outlaws there’s a payroll aboard. How many times did Nathan tell them to secure the payroll in the caboose, in a bolted-down strongbox?”

  “Who?”

  “Nathan Stone,” Harley said. “He got me on with the railroad after he left. ”My God, he was good. He once trailed a band of outlaws into Indian Territory, and only two of them escaped. Singlehanded, he killed eleven men.“21

  “I’d like to meet him,” Wes said.

  “Eventually you will,” said Harley, “and when you do, he’s not the kind of man you’ll soon forget.”

  The section crew took awhile repairing the track, and the westbound went on its way four hours behind schedule. Foster Hagerman was waiting for them when the train rolled into Dodge. Harley stepped down from the caboose, grinning.

  “You made a good choice,” Harley said. “Wes gunned down two of the outlaws, while the engineer and fireman got two more. I just sat in the caboose and watched the rest of them ride for their lives.”

  “From now on, I think we’ll do what Nathan was forever suggesting,” said Hagerman. “We’ll bolt down that strongbox to the floor of the caboose and secure the payrolls there.”

  “What about the boxcar behind the tender?” Wes asked.

  “I think we’ll keep that,” said Hagerman. “It made a difference when the outlaws tried to take the engineer and fireman hostage.”

  “Wes needs a rifle,” Harley said. “Do you have a Winchester he can use until he can get one of his own?”

  “Yes,” said Hagerman, “and I’ll see that he gets a new one, compliments of the railroad. Losing that payroll would have hurt us.”

  The train pulled out for Pueblo. Trainmen began talking about the quiet young man with the pale blue eyes and a fast gun.

  El Paso, Texas April 1, 1880

  Nathan’s relationship with Molly Horrell blossomed quickly and became so obvious that Nathan felt compelled to speak to Granny Boudleaux. Finally, when he was alone with her, he did.

  “Granny, I don’t quite know how to say this, but Molly...”

  “Molly need a man,” Granny cackled, “and you a man. Why that bother you? Molly younger and more pretty than Myra was.”

  “It bothers me for the same reason my ... my arrangement with Myra bothered me,” said Nathan. “I’m a wanderer, needin’ to ride on, and I don’t know when I’ll be returning to El Paso.”

  “You feel guilty,” Granny said, “but why? She partners with me. She have home, food, and money. When you here, she have you. Bueno!”

  “I only hope she sees it that way,” said Nathan.

  “I talk to her,” Granny said. “I need her, you want her, she wait.”

  But Nathan had his misgivings. And when the time came, they would be justified.

  CHAPTER 13

  Dodge City, Kansas April 16, 1880

  As Wes Tremayne became more confident, he thonged down his Colt on his right hip and began wearing it regularly. True to his word, Foster Hagerman presented Wes with a new Winchester. With Harley’s help, Wes bought a horse and saddle and learned to ride. Harley and Wes were usually in town on Friday night, and it became a custom for them to have supper at Delmonico’s, where Vic Irwin usually joined them. Harley was amused, for it was difficult to tell whether Vic Irwin or Foster Hagerman was proudest of the progress Wes Tremayne had made in so short a time. Far into the night, Wes practiced drawing his Colt, until he could draw and fire with dazzling speed.

  “My God,” Harley told Foster Ha
german, “the kid can already outdraw me. Before he’s done, he’ll equal or better Nathan Stone.”

  “Something about him—maybe his eyes—makes me think of Nathan,” said Hagerman.

  It being Friday, Hagerman joined Harley, Wes, and Vic at Delmonico’s for supper, and they had just left the cafe when trouble started. It was almost dark, and from across the street came a challenge.

  “You, saloon swamper, I told you we’d meet again. Nobody slaps Burt Savage around and goes on livin’. I’m invitin’ you to draw, unless you got a yellow stripe down your back.”

  The three men with Wes Tremayne were in no position to side Wes, as long as it was a fair fight. And though they had confidence in him, their misgivings were strong. While Wes had proven himself against train robbers, and could draw and fire with blinding speed, he had never faced another man in a shoot-out. It was a trial that had to come, and Wes Tremayne knew it. He stepped off the boardwalk and stood there waiting as his three companions got out of the line of fire.

  “When you’re ready, scrub bucket,” Savage taunted.

  Wes said nothing. He seemed totally relaxed, and his confidence had an adverse effect on his opponent. Burt Savage drew and fired, but he was no match for Wes Tremayne. The roar of Savage’s Colt sounded as an echo, and his slug slammed into the ground at his feet. Wes holstered his Colt and waited as Savage stumbled backward into a hitch rail. His knees buckled and he fell face down in the dusty street.

  “Great shootin’, Wes,” Harley shouted.

  A sheriffs deputy arrived, and it took only a few minutes for him to declare that Wes had acted in self-defense. But men from within Delmonico’s had witnessed the fast gun of Wes Tremayne, and it became a thing of which legends are made. For the next two days, Wes was embarrassed beyond words as men slapped him on the back and insisted on shaking his hand. It was with considerable relief that he boarded the eastbound for Kansas City on Monday.

  “How long is this likely to go on?” he asked Harley.

  “Kid,” said Harley, “it’s just started. When word of it gets around, there’ll be others, all wantin’ to prove they can beat you.”

  “But why?” Wes persisted. “I only defended myself.”

  “That’s how it always begins,” said Harley, “and it’ll go on as long as men try to look taller than they are by pulling a gun.”

  El Paso, Texas May 1, 1880

  The longer Nathan remained in El Paso, the more difficult it became for him to leave. Molly’s first night in his bed—to Granny Boudleaux’s amusement—became an unabashed nightly ritual, and if Molly Horrell ever thought of King Fisher, she concealed it well. On Monday, Nathan always took Granny Boudleaux’s money to the bank for deposit, and it was on such an occasion that he became involved in a holdup. He was about to present his deposit to the teller when the robbers made their presence known.

  “Down on the floor, all of you,” a masked man shouted.

  There were four of them, all with guns drawn. Nathan dropped to one knee and fired, dropping one of the robbers, and before the others could overcome their surprise, he cut down a second man. Encouraged, one of the tellers opened fire, and the remaining two outlaws broke for the door.

  “My God,” exclaimed an elderly man who proved to be the bank’s president, “that was a remarkable thing!”

  To Nathan’s dismay, the rest of the bank’s personnel and the customers who had seen his reaction gathered around him, and that’s how it was when Sheriff McCormick arrived. He examined the two dead men, whistled long and low, and then set about asking questions of the bank’s patrons and personnel. When he reached Nathan, there was admiration in his eyes.

  “That was a slick piece of work,” he said. “Do you know who those men are?”

  “No,” said Nathan, “I’ve never seen them before.”

  “They’re part of the Sandlin gang,” McCormick said. “They’re wanted on both sides of the border, and there’s bound to be a reward.”

  “I don’t want it,” said Nathan. “I have my own reasons for disliking bank robbers.”

  But the harder Nathan tried to escape the limelight, the more difficult it became. While he refused to talk to newspaper reporters, others who had witnessed the shooting seemed to glory in the repeating of it. As a result, he eventually was forced to accept a thousand-dollar reward, and that fired public interest to even greater heights. But one evening, near dark, as Nathan rode out of town, a hidden rifleman cut down on him. He barely escaped with his life, and attempts to trail the bushwhacker were futile.

  “It’s likely the Sandlin gang, bent on revenge,” Sheriff McCormick said.

  “I’m obliged to the town for making them aware of me,” said Nathan. “Why did you think I didn’t want your rewards and newspaper stories?”

  “Well,” McCormick said, “it’s the first time anybody ever interrupted a holdup and gunned down some of the gang. We had no idea—”

  “Now you do,” said Nathan, “and what would you suggest that I do?”

  “Was I you,” McCormick said, “I’d ride on. This bunch is dug in solid, wanted on both sides of the border. I hear there may be more than two dozen of them. They got a regular border empire, and if they want you, they’ll get you.”

  Nathan rode back to Granny Boudleaux’s, considering what Sheriff McCormick had told him. It was reason enough for him to leave El Paso. He didn’t consider it his responsibility, bringing the Sandlin gang to justice, but what choice did he have if he allowed himself to be sucked into a grudge fight? It was time to talk to Molly, and he planned to do so immediately after supper. But his enemies didn’t wait. They allowed him to stable his horse and reach the house, and from the darkness, half a dozen Winchesters cut loose. Lead shattered windows with a tinkling crash, and soot rained down as a slug struck a stovepipe.

  “On the floor!” Nathan shouted.

  But the onslaught ended as suddenly as it had begun.

  “My God,” Molly cried, “what was that all about?”

  “The Sandlin gang’s after me,” said Nathan. “They’re out to get even for the owlhoots I gunned down in the bank last week. They tried to backshoot me in town a while ago.”

  “You talk to sheriff,” Granny Boudleaux said.

  “I have,” said Nathan. “He suggested I ride on.”

  “No,” Molly cried.

  “There’s more than two dozen of the varmints, and they’re holed up on both sides of the border,” said Nathan. “You want a daily dose of what you had tonight?”

  “Cost hundred dollar, fix windows,” Granny Boudleaux said.

  “If you go, I’m going with you,” said Molly.

  “Molly,” Nathan said, “there are men all over the frontier who would like to see me dead, and they’ll kill anybody standin’ in the way. That includes you.”

  “If you ride away,” said Molly, “I may never see you again.”

  “If I stay here and ride into El Paso, you may never see me again,” Nathan said. “I’ll ride back when this settles down, but I don’t aim to stay here, where lead meant for me can kill you or Granny. Surely you can understand that.”

  “I can understand your reasoning,” said Molly, “but I don’t like it.”

  “He smart hombre,” Granny said. “You listen.”

  Assured by Nathan that he would return, Molly made the best of it, and Nathan rode north the next morning at dawn.

  Las Vegas, New Mexico June 1, 1880

  It was still early, but Nathan and Empty sought a cafe for supper. As they entered, it came as a surprise to Nathan when he found himself face to face with the notorious Doc Holliday. Nathan hadn’t seen Holliday since the temperamental little gambler had shot up a saloon in Dallas. Ignoring Nathan, Holliday left the cafe.

  “My God,” said the cook in awe, “that’s Doc Holliday.”

  “Yes,” Nathan said, “I’ve seen him before.”

  “The word is, he’s here to get Charlie White,” said the cook.

  “Who’s Ch
arlie White?”

  “Bartender over to the Tumbleweed Saloon,” the cook said. “A grudge on Holliday’s part, I reckon.”22

  “If you got no objection to my dog, he’s a payin’ customer,” said Nathan.

  “He’s welcome,” the cook said. “It’s been a slow day.” After supper, Nathan found a livery and stabled his horse. He then went looking for a hotel and a room for the night. It was still early, and since Nathan had never been in Las Vegas before, he decided to see the town.

  “Empty,” said Nathan, “I may visit a saloon or two, so I’m leavin’ you here with my bedroll and saddlebags.”

  Nathan locked the door, unconcerned with leaving Empty behind, for he didn’t know which the hound hated more—steamboats, locomotives, or saloons. Las Vegas didn’t seem much more than a village, and when Nathan reached the Tumbleweed Saloon, it appeared the most likely place to spend some time. It was still the supper hour, and there were only five men in the saloon. One of them was the bartender, and the remaining four were at a table, playing poker. Nathan ordered a beer and wandered over to the game in progress.

  “Mind if I sit in?” he asked.

  “Table stakes,” said one of the men. “Dollar a game.”

  Nathan dragged out a chair and sat down. He promptly lost three hands and was about to fold when the bat wings swung open and Doc Holliday stood there.

  “I ain’t wantin’ trouble, Doc,” the bartender said, his hands shoulder high.

  “You’re damn well about to get it,” Holliday shouted.

  Charlie White ducked behind the bar and came up with a sawed-off shotgun, but he had no chance to use it. Holliday had drawn his pistol and fired twice. The scatter-gun clattered to the floor, and the hapless bartender fell across it. Holliday turned and walked out the door. Only then did one of the poker players venture behind the bar, and he shouted to the others.