Autumn of the Gun

by Compton, Ralph

  “That’s one part of this running feud that makes sense,” said Nathan. “I saw Holliday walk into a saloon in Las Vegas, New Mexico and shoot a man tending bar. Nobody knew why. I reckoned it was a grudge shooting.”

  “Many a man started out carrying a grudge,” Lanham said, “and by the time he has satisfied his grudge, he’s become a killer with a reputation that follows him the rest of his life.”

  “That’s the gospel truth,” said Nathan. “I know at least one man who’s ridden that trail. It’s a hard life, and there’s only one escape. I recall some words—maybe from the Bible—that says a man who lives by the sword dies by it. I reckon those words apply to a gun.”

  “I’m afraid they do,” Lanham said, his eyes on the well-used twin Colts thonged to Nathan’s hips.

  Tombstone, Arizona Territory October 25, 1881

  Nathan was on the street when Tom McLaury and Ike Clanton drove a wagon into town for supplies. Holliday discovered the pair was in town and began cursing them as they began loading the wagon at Brown’s Grocery, next to the New Orleans Restaurant. Norris Lanham stepped out of the restaurant, joining Nathan.

  “Who’s the hombre siding Holliday?” Nathan asked.

  “Morgan Earp,” said Lanham.

  Tombstone, Arizona Territory October 26, 1881

  Nathan was awakened by gunfire at first light. Empty was reared up on his hind legs, looking out the window. Nathan got up and looked out, but saw nobody.

  “We’re awake now, Empty,” Nathan said. “We might as well have breakfast.”

  Empty was let into the kitchen to be fed, and Nathan entered the New Orleans Restaurant, where Norris Lanham was already seated. Nathan pulled out a chair and sat down across the table from the saloon owner.

  “I heard shooting,” said Nathan. “I reckoned the fight had started.”

  “No,” Lanham said. “I don’t know what that shooting was about, but there was other trouble last night. Last night, while Ike Clanton was eating supper, Holliday took to cussing him and challenged him to a fight. Holliday was backed by the Earps. But Ike wasn’t armed and just walked away. Later, I hear Ike was pistol whipped by Virgil Earp. There’s Tom McLaury at that table over yonder against the wall. I’m hoping he’ll finish eating and leave before Holliday and the Earps show up.”

  McLaury did finish his meal and leave the restaurant, only to meet Wyatt Earp in the street.

  “Wyatt,” said McLaury, “I ain’t wantin’ a fight.”

  “Well, you’re damn sure going to get one,” Earp replied, drawing his revolver.

  “No,” said McLaury, his hands up.

  Earp slapped McLaury with his left hand and then clubbed him on the head with his gun, knocking him down. For a moment, Earp glared at the fallen Tom McLaury in disgust. Finally, he holstered his weapon and walked away.

  “Damn him,” Nathan said, through clenched teeth.

  Lanham laughed. “I take it you don’t think much of the he-coon of the Earp clan.”

  Nathan said nothing. Empty was waiting for him at the corner of the building and the two of them started back to Inez McMartin’s rooming house. There he stretched out on the bed and by dinnertime was thoroughly bored.

  “Come on, Empty,” said Nathan. “We might as well go back to the restaurant and eat.”

  Across the street from the restaurant, Nathan paused. Next to the restaurant, in front of Brown’s Grocery, Wyatt Earp had a horse by the bridle, backing it off the boardwalk.

  “Damn you,” Frank McLaury said, emerging from the store, “take your hands off my horse.”

  “Then keep him off the boardwalk,” Earp snapped, backing the animal into the street. “It’s against the town ordinance.”

  Cursing Earp, McLaury mounted the horse and rode toward the O.K. Corral, where he tied the animal.

  “Billy Clanton and Frank McLaury rode in a little while ago,” said Norris Lanham, who had witnessed the exchange. “The Clantons and McLaurys are all here. All hell’s goin’ to bust loose before this day’s done.”

  “I’ve seen enough damn feuds to last me a lifetime,” Nathan said. “I aim to have me a good dinner, go back to the rooming house, and not do a blasted thing until seven o’clock tonight.”

  “Come on,” said Lanham, “and I’ll join you for dinner.” Nathan put the Clantons, McLaurys, and Earps out of his mind, spending an enjoyable hour in the restaurant. Afterward, thinking of his old habit of reading newspapers, he left the restaurant, bound for the office of the Tombstone Epitaph, which fronted Fremont Street to the north. When he left the Epitaph office, the sun told him it was near three o’clock in the afternoon. Near the west end of Fremont Street, near C. S. Fly’s Lodging House, the Clantons and McLaurys had gathered. At that moment, turning the corner of Fourth and Fremont, came the Earps and Doc Holliday. Beside Wyatt Earp strode Holliday, with the ugly snout of a shotgun extending beneath his long coat. Beside Doc, like angels of death in their long black coats, stalked Virgil and Morgan Earp. Both Morgan and Doc had been deputized for the occasion, and the four men wore the star of lawmen. Nathan Stone paused where he was, unable to return to his rooming house without crossing Fremont. He watched in grim fascination as the Earps and Holliday drew closer to the Clantons and the McLaurys. Death was only seconds away.

  Medina, Texas July 1, 1881

  “If Vivian Stafford can ride and win races, then so can I,” said Rebecca Tuttle. “All I need is experience. Mr. Bell has already promised me a chance, as soon as we find a horse I like.”

  “While I’m chasing rustlers, you’ll be out somewhere breaking your neck,” Wes said.

  “I’ve ridden every horse Tameka and Wovoka have gentled since we’ve been here,” said Rebecca. “I’ve ridden them with only a saddle blanket, and I haven’t been hurt once.”

  “Well, I don’t want you riding alone,” Wes said. “I’ve been seeing tracks, and I’d bet my saddle it’s that bunch of rustlers.”

  “They haven’t bothered us since they attacked the house, when Tameka and Wovoka killed three of them near the barn,” said Rebecca.

  “No,” Wes replied, “but Bell told me riders from some of the other ranches have been shot at. They’ll get around to us, now that Bell’s hired four more Lipan Apaches to defend the place. I took for them to be especially eager to ambush those Indian riders. Bell says these Apaches can track a man across solid rock.”

  “All the more reason for the rustlers to leave us alone,” said Rebecca. “These Apaches don’t sound like the kind to be taken by surprise.”

  “Maybe not,” Wes said, “but I’m thinking those outlaws might shoot up the house or dry-gulch one of us. That would force Bell and the Apaches to go after them. Even these Apaches can be outgunned if there’s enough outlaws laying for them.”

  “Perhaps it won’t come to that,” said Rebecca. “Mr. Bell has asked for help from the Texas Rangers.”

  “I don’t look for them to be of much help,” Wes said. “There’s just too much territory for so few men.”

  On Saturday, July 2, near suppertime, a dusty rider reined up before Frank Bell’s ranch house. A thonged-down Colt rode low on his right hip. Unblinking eyes looked at them from beneath the brim of a weatherworn Stetson. His Levi’s, blue flannel shirt, and scuffed boots might have belonged to any cowboy in south Texas. He spoke.

  “I’m looking for Frank Bell.”

  “You’re looking at him,” said Bell.

  “I’m Ranger Bodie West,” the stranger said. “I’m answering your call for help.”

  “Step down and come in,” said Bell. “We’re about to set down to supper. I’ll see that your horse is rubbed down, fed, and watered. The gent here with me is Wes Tremayne, one of my riders.”

  “I’ll see to your horse,” Wes said.

  “I’m obliged,” said West, dismounting. His eyes rested on Wes a long moment before he followed Bell into the house.

  Wes led the horse to the barn, where he unsaddled the animal and rubbed him down. He
then turned the horse into the corral. It went immediately to the water trough and drank its fill. Then it rolled in the corral dust and got up and headed for the hay manger mounted on the side of the barn.

  “It’s nearly full of hay,” said Wes. “That should be enough for you.”

  When Wes reached the ranch house, Bell and West were already at the table, drinking coffee.

  “By the time you wash up,” Martha Bell said, “supper will be on the table.”

  When Wes reached the table, Martha and Rebecca were bringing in the food. Bodie West stood up and bowed.

  “This is Martha and Rebecca,” said Bell, forgetting to mention who was who.

  “I’m Frank’s missus,” Martha said. “Sometimes he forgets.”

  They all laughed at Bell’s expense, and there was little conversation until the meal was finished. Ranger Bodie West was the first to speak.

  “Ma’am, I haven’t had a feed like this since I was last at my mama’s table.”

  “Thank you,” said Martha Bell. “We’re pleased to have you with us.”

  “Before we get down to business,” West said, “I have to satisfy my curiosity, and I’m hoping I won’t be out of line. Mr. Tremayne, you remind me of someone. He’s probably

  the best friend the Texas Rangers ever had, and he should be wearing a Ranger shield. His name is Nathan Stone. Take twenty years off him, and the two of you could be twins. Are you in any way related to such a man?” “I know of nobody by that name,” said Wes. ”My family is dead. I spent most of my early years in an orphanage.”

  “Sorry,” West said. “Forgive my prying.”

  “Mr. West,” said Bell, changing the subject, “we’re having a problem with rustlers in these parts, and aside from three of ’em my men gunned down a few weeks back, they’re always off and gone across the border before we can catch them. What’s to be done?”

  “The Rangers are spread mighty thin,” West said, “and usually by the time we can get a man on the case, the rustlers have crossed the border. I can spend a few days with you, and if they strike lead a posse after them. But if they strike at night—and generally they do—I’m as handicapped as you are. By the time it’s light enough to trail them, they are already near enough to the border to out-ride us.”

  “That’s honest talk,” said Bell. “There’s three other ranches within ridin’ distance of us, and I reckon we can gather a posse of our own. But I got to tell you, if we’re able to ride these varmints down, we aim to shoot to kill. I want it said plain that the law’s on our side before we salt these varmints down.”

  “You’ll get no argument from the Rangers,” West said, “and if anything is ever said to the contrary, I’ll stand behind you. The one thing I can’t do is sanction your chasing them across the border. There’s an agreement between Washington and Mexico City that says we must respect one another’s borders.”

  “Suppose we ran this bunch across the river,” said Wes, “gunned them down, and rode back into Texas without the Mexicans catching us?”

  “You might get away with it,” West said, “but it wouldn’t be worth the risk. If you were caught by Mexican authorities, it would be blown up into an international incident. You might be tried, convicted, and executed. Being in violation of the agreement with the Mexicans, there would be little any of us could do to save you.”

  “You got nothing to worry about,” said Bell. “I’d never ask any man that’s ridin’ for me to take such a risk as that.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” West said. “There is one thing I can and will do, though. I can send an official notice to the Mexican border patrol, complaining about this continual rustling. I’d bet a horse and saddle that Mexican stock is being rustled across the border and sold in this country. So it could be a mutual problem the Mexicans are as anxious to solve as we are.”

  “I hope you’re right,” said Bell, “and we’ll appreciate whatever you can do.”

  “I’m going to visit some of the other ranchers in the area,” said Ranger Bodie West the following morning. “Maybe all of you can get together and organize an around-the-clock posse.”

  “We’re obliged to you for ridin’ by,” Frank Bell said.

  “There’s not enough of them to be of any help to us,” said Wes when the Ranger had ridden away. “We’ll have to stomp our own snakes.”

  Medina, Texas July 15, 1881

  Two weeks after the Ranger’s visit, the rustlers began their night attacks on the area ranches, and Frank Bell acquired—among others—the very horse Rebecca Tuttle had been waiting for.

  “He’s built to run,” said Bell. “Fifteen hands, stocky, deep muscled, and as sturdy legged as they come. He’s got that deep chest, low withers, and powerful hindquarters. His neck’s thick, while his head’s broad and short.”34

  “Him fly like aguila,” Tomeka said.

  “Eagle,” said Bell. “I reckon that suits him.”

  “I want to ride him in the races,” Rebecca said. “Tameka, Wovoka, will you gentle him for me?”

  After the black horse had been Indian gentled, Rebecca spent virtually all her time with him. She galloped him wildly across the plains, using only a saddle blanket, and the horse grew fond of her. Then rustlers struck the Calloway ranch in the late afternoon, and two cowboys died.

  “The varmints didn’t take a single horse or cow,” Frank Bell said angrily. “They just wanted to make us all even more jumpy than we already are.”

  “No more long rides alone, Rebecca,” said Wes.

  “Eagle runs like the wind,” Rebecca said. “They can’t catch me.”

  “A slug from a Winchester can,” said Bell.

  Rebecca yielded, and picked a quarter-mile stretch along the Medina River, in sight of the Bell ranch house. On a Thursday evening in mid-September, Bell and Wes sat on the back porch and watched Rebecca astride Eagle, thundering along the river.

  “She’s a natural,” Bell said. “I believe she can ride and win.”

  Suddenly, from across the river, there were distant rifle shots. Nickering in pain and fear, the black horse reared.

  “Damn it,” Wes shouted, “loose the reins! Loose the reins! ”

  Shaken, Rebecca did exactly the opposite, and as the reins tightened, Eagle reared all the more. Losing his balance, he fell on his back, all his massive weight on the slight rider beneath him. The horse rolled, came to his feet, and stood sniffing anxiously at his fallen companion. But Rebecca Tuttle lay silent, unmoving. Disregarding the possibility of more fire, Wes Tremayne ran toward her, his heart in his throat and tears in his eyes.

  CHAPTER 24

  Tombstone, Arizona Territory October 26, 1881

  There was little Nathan could do but watch as the feuding factions came together in a vacant lot between McDonald’s Assay Office and C. S. Fly’s Lodging House. Ike and Billy Clanton, Billy Claiborne, and the McLaury brothers were approached by Doc Holliday and Virgil, Morgan, and Wyatt Earp. Tom McLaury stood behind his horse; but for a Winchester in his saddle boot, he was unarmed. Doc Holliday stood opposite him, a pistol under his belt and a shotgun beneath his long coat. There was a light wind from the west and Nathan could hear their every word. Wyatt Earp spoke first.

  “All you sons of bitches have been looking for a fight, and now you can have it.”

  “No,” Ike Clanton shouted, “I’m unarmed.”

  “Up with your hands,” Virgil shouted.

  “Don’t shoot me,” Billy Clanton cried, throwing up his hands. “I don’t want to fight.”

  “I ain’t armed,” Tom McLaury declared, opening his coat.

  At point-blank range, Morgan Earp shot Billy Clanton in the chest, while Wyatt drew his pistol and pumped lead into Frank McLaury’s stomach.

  “Stop the shooting!” Ike Clanton shouted. Still unarmed, he seized Wyatt Earp’s left arm, but Earp broke loose.

  “The fighting has now commenced,” Wyatt said. “Fight, damn you, or get out of the way.”

  Ike Clanton,
with Billy Claiborne on his heels, fled to Fly’s Photograph Gallery, behind the C. S. Fly Lodging House. When Tom McLaury’s horse shied at the gunfire. Holliday raised his shotgun and shot Tom in the right side. He staggered a few steps and fell. Mortally wounded, Billy Clanton and Frank McLaury drew their guns and managed to wound Morgan and Virgil Earp and Doc Holliday. His right wrist broken by a bullet, Billy Clanton lay on his back, firing with his weapon braced on his knee. Then a final slug struck him in the stomach. The tragedy had taken less than thirty seconds. The McLaury brothers and Billy Clanton were dead, and of the Earp faction, only Wyatt hadn’t been hit. Nathan watched as the dead were carried away. Slowly, Sheriff John Behan made his way down Fremont Street toward the bloody scene. He paused before the Epitaph office, and almost apologetically, he spoke.

  “I tried to disarm them, but it had gone too far. It had to happen, and my God, it has.”

  Quickly, Nathan crossed Fremont and, passing through a vacant lot, went between Fly’s Photograph Gallery and the open stalls of the O.K. Corral. He was then able to get to Inez McMartin’s Rooming House without meeting anyone. Half a block away, he could see the scene of the shooting. A crowd had gathered, and more were coming. He hoped nobody had seen him before the Tombstone Epitaph office on Fremont. Beyond a doubt there would be an inquest, probably a trial, and the last thing he wanted was to become embroiled in any affair that involved Holliday and the Earps. Obviously, the Earps had intended to kill their adversaries and had gunned them down without mercy, even as Billy Clanton and the McLaurys had not fought back until they had been mortally wounded. Nathan had seen too many such feuds to believe the fight was over. There would be more killings, probably from ambush.35

  “Empty,” said Nathan, “we’ll be having supper a mite late.”

  He stretched out on the bed, not wishing to venture back out on to the street until everybody’s curiosity had been satisfied. As the westering sun gave way to the coming of the night, Nathan and Empty made their way around the rear of Fly’s Photo Gallery and past the roofed stalls of the O.K. Corral. Reaching the New Orleans Restaurant, they parted company, the hound going to the back door where Elsie Lanham would be expecting him, and Nathan entering the restaurant. The eating establishment was crowded, and the only topic of conversation seemed to be the recent gunfight. Norris Lanham sat alone at a table, nursing a cup of coffee. He nodded, and Nathan took a seat. He said nothing until Nathan had ordered his meal and was sipping coffee.