But the more he thought of Kate McDowell, the more of an enigma she became, for within his saddlebags there had been hundreds of dollars in double eagles. If she had really wanted to cause him grief, why hadn’t she simply taken his horse, leaving him afoot and virtually broke? Of course, she hadn’t known about the money, and if she had, Nathan was inclined to believe her interest was in him. He thought of her without the rough clothing and decided that with a bit of finery she would be an attractive woman.
“Damn it,” he said aloud, “that’s what she wanted me to think.”
Empty canted his head, lolling his tongue as though laughing at Nathan’s dilemma. Nathan continued in silence until he had worked most of the grease into his boots, then stomped his feet into them and donned his hat.
“Come on, pard,” he said to the dog, “and let’s get some town grub. Maybe a slab of apple pie will sweeten my disposition.”
Nathan did feel better after eating, and he bought a copy of the town’s twice-weekly newspaper and headed back to his room. The entire front page had been devoted to a single story, headlined “The Lincoln County War.” Nathan had heard of it and of its most prominent participant, a young hellion known as Billy the Kid. Removing his hat, gunbelt, and boots, he stretched out on the bed while Empty curled up on the throw rug.
According to the newspaper, the “war” was actually a deeply rooted feud that had arisen from cattle rustling, rivalry over choice grazing, litigation over the settling of an estate, and the meddling of unscrupulous politicians seeking to use the Tunstall-McSween-Murphy feud for their own ends.
Nathan read the story with interest, for he wondered how Billy the Kid—no more than a young boy—had come to play so prominent a part in the conflict. The violence had begun early in 1878 with the killing of John Tunstall, an English-born rancher. Unarmed, Tunstall had been gunned down by members of a deputy sheriff’s posse. At least four known outlaws had ridden with the posse, and they had been more interested in killing the unarmed victim than in enforcing the law. One of those with Tunstall when he had been shot had been the youth who had made himself a reputation as Billy the Kid. The Kid, a slender, buck-toothed boy of about eighteen, had already been a fugitive from the law. He had hired on as a range hand and had been with Tunstall only a short time. Tunstall had given the kid a good horse, a saddle, and a new gun. Billy had been quick to learn, and had been genuinely fond of his employer.
As the newspaper pointed out, little was known of the Kid’s early life. The time and place of his birth were uncertain, and his original name appeared to have been Henry McCarty. The earliest record of his family had been the remarriage of his mother, Mrs. Catherine McCarty, to William Antrim. The wedding had taken place on March 1, 1873, at Santa Fe. The Antrims and the two McCarty boys, Henry and Joe, went to live in Silver City, New Mexico. But less than a year after her remarriage, Mrs. Antrim died from a lung ailment. After her death, Henry—then known as the Kid—ran wild, and near Fort Grant, Pima County, Arizona, he shot and killed his first man. A coroner’s jury called the shooting “criminal and unjustifiable,” forcing the Kid to skip the county. Reaching Lincoln County, New Mexico, the young gunman had assumed the name of William Bonney and had gone to work for John Tunstall.
As the story unfolded, Nathan found himself more and more in sympathy with the boy known as William Bonney, alias Billy the Kid. After the murder of Tunstall, Billy had set out to take vengeance on the killers, who, having been in the sheriffs posse, had not been prosecuted. On the morning of April 1, 1878, Sheriff William Brady and his deputy, George Hindman, had been shot and killed in broad daylight while walking on the main street of Lincoln. Billy the Kid had been one of several accused of the crime, and Lincoln County had offered a reward of two hundred dollars for each of the killers.
Three days after the killing of the lawmen, Andrew Roberts, a member of the posse that had killed Tunstall, rode into town. Hearing of the rewards, the heavily armed man had set out for Blazer’s Mill, where he was told the killers of Brady and Hindman might be. As he neared the mill, he met a party of riders that included Billy the Kid. The men ordered Roberts to surrender, but he refused, and Charles Bowdre—one of Billy’s companions—shot Roberts. Dying, Roberts shot three of his assailants. George Coe and John Middleton were wounded, while Richard Brewer, the young man who had been foreman on Tunstall’s ranch, was killed.
On April 18, a grand jury indicted Bowdre, Billy the Kid, and several others for the killing of Andrew Roberts. The indictment also charged Billy and two others for the killing of Brady and Hindman. The following day, the Kid appeared in court and pleaded not guilty. Following his appearance, a minor revolution rocked Lincoln County, and not until April 14, 1879, did the Kid come to trial. Sheriff Brady had been a member of the Murphy faction, and following Murphy’s death, the McSween followers had held an unauthorized election and installed a new sheriff sympathetic to their interests. But the Murphy bunch appealed to the governor of the territory, who appointed a Murphy man to the position. Returned to power, the Murphy faction set out to arrest Billy the Kid and crush the McSween group. The newly appointed Murphy sheriff and his posse—sided by hired gunmen brought in from other counties—found Billy in July 1878 with his McSween followers in Lincoln. The showdown came for the Murphy and the Tunstall-McSween riders, who had been led by McSween since Tunstall’s death.
“My God,” said Nathan aloud, “it beats all I ever heard.”
But there was much more. After two days of ineffectual shooting in town, Billy and his friends had been driven into and trapped in the McSween residence. Late in the afternoon of the third day—July nineteenth—the Murphy posse set fire to one wing of the adobe house. As the fire crept toward them, the defenders blazed away with their guns while Mrs. McSween played the piano. During the fight, Deputy Sheriff Robert Beckwith of the Murphy clan was killed, and four of the embattled defenders, including McSween himself, met similar fates. As darkness settled over Lincoln, Billy the Kid ran from the house and escaped into the night. Later that night, the posse became part of a mob that broke into the Tunstall-McSween store and robbed it of some six thousand dollars worth of goods.
With both Tunstall and McSween dead, the Murphy faction was victorious, and Billy the Kid had become an outlaw on several murder charges. But news of the bloody vendetta reached Washington, and President Rutherford B. Hayes appointed General Lew Wallace as acting governor of New Mexico, with instructions to bring peace. Wallace immediately issued an amnesty proclamation, and Billy, gun in hand, had met the general alone in a designated place. A reconciliation failed because two of Billy’s deadly enemies—aided my Murphy sympathizers—had broken jail. Protecting himself, Billy the Kid rode away.
“Damn them,” Nathan said, “They’ll never let him out of it alive. He’ll be murdered in the name of the law.”
Acting Governor Wallace had appointed Oden Wilder as sheriff of Lincoln County, with authority to deputize as many men as he needed to arrest those who had participated in the feud. Every man so deputized would be paid a hundred dollars a month and provided with ammunition for Winchester and Colt. There was a hand-drawn map of Lincoln County, and Nathan was struck with its nearness to El Paso.
“Empty,” said Nathan, “Sheriff Wilder needs some hombres in that posse that don’t kill without cause. I reckon we’ll ride down there and lend a hand for a while.”
His horse carrying double, Wes Tremayne took his time. Thankfully, Rebecca Tuttle rode well, and Wes had only to concern himself with Emily. Hoping to avoid the remaining three outlaws, Wes rode south for what he believed was ten miles. He then veered west, and they soon were out of Indian Territory. Rebecca trotted her horse abreast of his.
“I’m glad we’re back on the open plains,” Rebecca said. “It seemed so gloomy and kind of forbidding back there, like something was ... waiting ...”
“Indian Territory,” said Wes. “I’ve heard a lot about it, but nothing good.”
Little was said during
the ride back to Mobeetie, Texas. James McIntire, the little town’s new sheriff, listened attentively while Wes explained what had happened.
“My God,” McIntire said, “you tangled with the Eck Pierce gang and killed Pierce?”
“He saved Mother and me,” said Rebecca.
“Four of the bunch rode out,” Wes said. “I reckoned they had business here.”
“They did,” said McIntire. “I rode over to Fort Elliott, and while I was there they robbed a saloon and killed a man.”
“You didn’t try to catch them?” Rebecca asked.
“Ma’am,” said McIntire, “besides me, there’s eight men in Mobeetie, and not one of them would follow me into Indian Territory.”
“No help from the army, I reckon,” Wes said.
“None,” said McIntire. “Half a dozen men with Winchesters could hole up down there in the territory and gun down a whole company of soldiers.”
“Sheriff,” Wes said, “freeing these ladies from Pierce and his outlaws might have been the easy part. Mr. Tuttle is dead, they have no place to go, and Miss Emily is clean out of her head.”
“I fully agree with you,” said McIntire, “and it’s more than I can handle. I suggest you ride to Fort Elliott and talk to the post commander, Captain Selman.”
Wes could understand McIntire’s reluctance to become involved in the situation. It wouldn’t be any easier for the post commander, but he wouldn’t have much choice. They rode on to Fort Elliott, and Wes asked for a meeting with Captain Selman.
“Captain Selman will see you now,” said Sergeant Willard.
The three of them were shown into Selman’s office, and the captain listened as Wes told him what had happened. He concluded with an explanation of Emily Tuttle’s condition.
“We have no facilities for treatment here,” Captain Selman said. “I can have the post doctor examine her.”
“How is that goin’ to help,” Wes asked.
“I don’t know that it will,” said Captain Selman. “I’m at as much a loss as you are, and I’m suggesting this because I don’t know what else to do. There’s a comfortable sofa in the next room. I’ll send for the doctor.”
Rebecca led Mrs. Tuttle into the adjoining room and had her lie down on the sofa. A table and chairs completed the furnishings. Hanging from a peg on the wall was a gunbelt and holster, and within the holster was a revolver. Closing the door behind her, Rebecca returned to Captain Selman’s office. Within a few minutes, Sergeant Dillard returned with the post doctor.
“This is our post doctor, Lieutenant Carlton,” Captain Selman said. “Miss Tuttle, if you’ll tell him—”
But Selman was interrupted by a shot from the next room, and when he flung the door open, Rebecca screamed. Emily Tuttle still lay on the sofa, but her face was gone. In a pool of blood on the floor lay the revolver.
CHAPTER 16
Lincoln County, New Mexico July 10, 1880
Sheriff Oden Wilder eyed Nathan with suspicion. Finally he spoke.
“You’re not from around here, and you’re not partial to the Tunstall, McSween, or Murphy factions.”
“No,” Nathan replied.
“Then what’s your interest?”
“A hundred dollars a month,” said Nathan. “That, and the fact that I have some time on my hands.”
“Not wanted by the law?”
“No,” Nathan replied. “I’ve had some experience working for the law. I rode for the court out of Fort Smith, Arkansas for a few months, and you’re welcome to telegraph the Texas Ranger outposts at San Antonio, Austin, or Houston. They know me well. And if that’s not enough, telegraph Captain Ferguson, the post commander at Fort Worth.”
“I reckon that won’t be necessary,” said Wilder. “Part of the problem here is that we have had men riding under the authority of the law who were sympathetic to the Tunstall, McSween, or Murphy bunch. The acting governor has demanded that the killing stop, and that means enforcing the law against any of the three hell-raising elements involved.”
“All three factions are still active?” Nathan asked.
“Yes and no,” said Sheriff Wilder. “The Murphy bunch is pretty well intact, but with Tunstall and McSween dead, their followers seem to have banded together under the leadership of William Bonney, also known as Billy the Kid.”
“Those who are still alive are fugitives, then,” Nathan said.
“Not necessarily,” said Sheriff Wilder. “We intend to prosecute those who robbed the Tunstall-McSween store, provided there’s sufficient evidence. This bunch, we believe, are part of the Murphy outfit. The remnants of the Tunstall and McSween factions are pretty well united behind Billy, and they’re supporting themselves by stealing horses and cattle. They’re all subject to arrest by whatever means may be necessary.”
“I hope you haven’t issued John Doe execution warrants,” said Nathan. “I won’t ride under the kind of law that permits killing a man for the sake of a reward, without proper identification.”
“Neither will I,” Sheriff Wilder said, “and I’m pleased you feel that strongly. There’s been entirely too much killing in the name of the law. I’ll swear you in.”
Wilder administered the brief oath, and from a desk drawer took a silver star.
“I’ll need a hotel or boardinghouse where my dog’s welcome,” said Nathan.
“We have an arrangement with the Santa Fe House,” Sheriff Wilder said. “You’ll get room and board for a single price. Here’s a letter identifying you as a legal representative of this office. Use it to secure your room at the hotel, and to requisition your shells at Elmo’s Mercantile.”
The Santa Fe House, a two-story structure, proved to be a better-than-average hotel, with its own restaurant. Across the street was a livery and an all-night cafe. Nathan was assigned a room on the first floor, and as he and Empty were about to enter the room, a door opened across the hall. A man stepped out, and Empty growled, his hackles rising.
“I don’t like dogs,” the stranger said, his hand near the butt of his revolver.
“I reckon it balances out, then,” said Nathan mildly. “My dog doesn’t like you.”
“I’m Slack Tarno, deputy sheriff, part of Sheriff Wilder’s posse, and I’m sayin’ that damn scruffy hound don’t belong in this hotel.”
“I’m Nathan Stone, deputy sheriff, part of Sheriffs Wilder’s posse, and the dog goes where I go. My temper’s on a short rein. Any hostility toward my dog, and I’ll be takin’ it personal.”
Tarno stomped on down the hall toward the lobby, and Nathan noted he carried twin Colts in a buscadera rig, both holsters thonged down.
Half an hour before suppertime, in an arrangement with the hotel, Nathan took Empty to the kitchen, where the cooks fed him.
“Sorry, pardner,” said Nathan to the dog, “but we won’t be takin’ our meals together for a while.”
The men Sheriff Wilder had deputized were on call twenty-four hours a day, requiring them to remain in a single location so they could be mounted and on the trail in a matter of minutes. So for the sake of unity, Nathan would take his meals in the hotel’s restaurant, something he seldom did. He returned Empty to their room, washed up, and made his way to the hotel’s dining room.
“You deputies have been assigned those two big round tables, over yonder next to the wall,” one of the cooks told Nathan. “Your order will be taken immediately.”
There were eight chairs at each of the round tables. Five men were already seated at one, while three were seated at the other. Nathan took a chair at the table with the trio, for Slack Tarno was seated at the other. Nathan’s companions seemed amiable enough, and they introduced themselves.
“I’m Tuck McFadden,” said one.
“I’m Bib Driscoll,” said the second.
“I’m Warren Hinderman,” said the third.
“I’m Nathan Stone,” Nathan said, shaking their hands.
Within minutes, three more men took chairs at the table. They were Tobe Crump, B
eal Pryor, and Stub Byler. Nathan introduced himself and shook their hands. A sixth man had taken a chair at the second table.
“My God,” said Tuck McFadden, “there’s thirteen of us. An unlucky number.”
“Sorry,” Nathan said. “Does anybody know how many deputies will be hired?”
“Nobody’s told us,” said Bib Driscoll. “There was a dozen of us ahead of you, and we heard rumors that Wilder’s been given permission to hire as many as twenty men.”
“That’s one hell of a big posse,” Nathan said.
“This is one hell of a big county,” said Driscoll, “and it’s in one hell of a big mess. I won’t be surprised if we have to split into two or three groups.”
Conversation ceased while the waiters took orders. That done, men from the second table, with the exception of Slack Tarno, got up and introduced themselves to Nathan. There was Bode Watts, Peavy Burris, Neil Sutton, Rand Dismukes, and Simpson Dumont. They all seemed friendly enough, and Nathan didn’t foresee any trouble, but Slack Tarno wasn’t one to leave well enough alone. When he spoke, it was loud enough for everybody in the restaurant to hear.
“Stone’s got this ugly hound dog that lives with him. I’m surprised he ain’t got the varmint in a chair, hiked up to the table.”
“I considered it,” said Nathan, “but I reckoned you’d be here. He’s almighty picky about who he sets down to eat with.”
“That’s sound thinkin’,” McFadden said. “Set him down next to Tarno, and he’s likely to get fleas.”
“Yeah,” said Driscoll, “an’ God only knows what else he might catch.”
Except for Tarno, everybody within hearing roared with laughter, and there was more fun at Tarno’s expense. Tarno tried to ignore them, his smoldering eyes concentrating all their hatred on Nathan. The rest of the men, seeing and understanding Tarno’s reaction, said no more, and conversation lagged. When the waiters brought the food, the meal was eaten in silence. Tarno was the first to finish and the first to leave the dining room.
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