Autumn of the Gun

by Compton, Ralph

  “I hear you saw the Earps and Holliday enforcing Tombstone law.”

  “Unfortunately,” said Nathan. “I saw them shoot some gents who had their hands up, some of them unarmed.”

  “There’ll be an inquest,” Lanham said. “Is that what you’re going to tell the coroner’s jury?”

  “I don’t aim to tell the coroner’s jury anything,” said Nathan. “With them facing me, I’m not afraid of Holliday or the Earps, but it’s foolish to antagonize a bunch of killers when it serves no good purpose.”

  “An excellent point,” Lanham said. “I wouldn’t want this repeated, but Virgil’s going to lose his star within a few weeks. His having deputized his brother Morgan and Holliday for what obviously was a grudge fight has left the town of Tombstone in an embarrassing position. You can expect the newspapers here to present this in the best possible light, with the Earps and Holliday upholding the law.”

  “The press can make or break a man,” said Nathan. “After this, I reckon Holliday and the Earps will be nine feet tall and a yard wide.”

  “You can count on it,” Lanham said. “In little towns like Tombstone, the editors of the newspapers serve as stringers, feeding news to larger papers in other parts of the territory. They generally get paid by the word, so they juice it up as much as they can. I don’t doubt there’ll be an inquest before a coroner’s jury, or that Holliday and the Earps will take the rap for the killings. But it’s all a formality. It’ll all be smoothed over and legalized in the hope that one of these factions will leave and the other will follow. When do you aim to ride out?”

  “Tomorrow,” said Nathan. “I reckon it’ll take a few days to get all the legal machinery in motion. If somebody wants to make plaster saints of Holliday and the Earps, they won’t need or want my testimony. If I thought any of them were about to get what they all deserve, I’d stay. But even before talking to you, I had my doubts.”

  “Wherever you are,” Lanham said, “pick up a newspaper. I believe you’ll discover that Holliday and the Earps were lawmen, acting only in the best interests of the good citizens of Tombstone.”

  Tombstone, Arizona Territory October 27, 1881

  “We’re sorry to see you go,” said Elsie Lanham as she brought Nathan’s breakfast. I gave Empty an extra portion. I’ll miss him at the back door at meal time.”

  “No more than he’ll miss you,” Nathan said. “I’ll miss you, too, and if I ever get back to Tombstone, you can bet we’ll be taking our meals here.”

  Before Nathan left the restaurant, Norris Lanham arrived with an edition of the local paper, the Tombstone Epitaph. The story was front-page news. Nathan ran his eyes over the columns until he found a heading that read: “Earp Brothers Justified.”

  The feeling among the best class of our citizens is that the Marshal was entirely justified in his efforts to disarm these men, and that being fired upon, they had to defend themselves, which they did most bravely ...

  There was more, but Nathan didn’t bother reading it. Norris Lanham had been correct in his assessment of the situation, and Nathan felt better about his decision to ride on.

  “You can see how the town fathers are going to handle it,” said Lanham.

  “Yeah,” Nathan said. “It takes a brave bunch to gun down men who are unarmed or have their hands up.”

  Leaving the restaurant, the first person Nathan saw was Mel Holt. Reining up, he hooked a leg around the saddle horn and spoke.

  “We reckoned you’d ride out on Sunday, but Susie wants you for supper tonight. This is her eighteenth birthday, so she’s old enough that the Horrells can’t come looking for her. She’s baked another cake for the occasion.”

  “The truth is,” said Nathan, “I’d planned on seeing you and Susie today, before I ride on. I’ll get my horse and ride back with you when you’re ready.”

  “I’m ready when you are,” Holt said. “I just rode in looking for you.”

  Susie Holt was glad to see Nathan, but some of the joy went out of her when she learned he was about to leave.

  “I hate to see you go,” she said. “Mel’s told me so much about you that with you here, I felt almost ... like we had family close by.”

  “I’ll stay tonight,” said Nathan, dreading the time when he must leave these two good friends.

  Breakfast became a memorable occasion, and Nathan made the most of it, unsure as to when he would sit before such a bounty again.

  “I’ve packed some food for you to take with you,” Susie said, “and something extra for Empty.”

  “We’re obliged,” said Nathan.

  When the moment of parting came, and as they stepped out the door Empty bounded up on the front porch. He knew he and Nathan were about to leave these friends.

  “I’m going to miss you, Empty,” Susie said; kneeling, she threw her arms around him. “Don’t you forget me, you big old hungry bag of bones.”

  “Don’t forget where we live,” said Holt, offering his hand.

  Nathan shook Holt’s hand long and hard, not knowing if he would ever see either of them again. He often had premonitions, and he had one now. Swallowing hard, he mounted the grulla and rode away, Empty following. Still vivid in his mind were the brutal killings he had witnessed the day before. From the little he had read in the Epitaph, he believed Norris Lanham was right, that the entire affair would be glossed over. From what he had seen with his own eyes, there had been no heroes in that dusty alley a few yards above the O.K. Corral. The men acting in the name of the law had come to settle a grudge that had been festering for months, and they had come with killing on their minds.

  Medina, Texas September 15, 1881

  Wes Tremayne fell on his knees beside Rebecca, and when she tried to speak, there was bloody froth on her lips.

  “It ... wasn’t Eagle’s ... fault ...” she whispered.

  She died then, and in that moment Wes Tremayne learned a terrible truth about himself. He had believed he had come to grips with his emotions, that nothing could touch him to the heart, but the loss of Rebecca affected him as nothing else ever had. Dry eyed, he had seen both his grandparents buried. Now, not caring that Frank Bell was present, he wept long and hard until no tears remained.

  “I’ll get some blankets,” said Bell, “and we’ll take her to the house.”

  The night that followed was long and hard, for Wes Tremayne never slept. He sat at Frank Bell’s kitchen table, drinking coffee. The Bells were up well before dawn, Martha to begin breakfast, Frank to talk to Wes.

  “Unless you got other ideas,” Bell said, “we can bury her yonder by the river, under that big cottonwood.”

  “That’s as good a place as any,” said Wes. “Let’s do it as soon as possible, because I want to be on my way.”

  “You’re going after them?”

  “After whoever fired those shots,” Wes said.

  “They’re likely headed for the border,” said Bell.

  “That doesn’t matter to me,” Wes said. “I’ll chase them to hell and go in after them if that’s the only way.”

  During the short time at the Bell ranch, Rebecca Tuttle had become friends with everybody there, including the Lipan Apaches. Tameka and Wovoka dug the grave, and from the family Bible, Frank Bell read the words. The service was short. After saddling his horse, Wes rode back to the house.

  “I can send some of the Lipans with you, if you want,” said Bell.

  “I’m obliged,” Wes said, “but I’d rather you didn’t. You’ll be needing them to protect your ranch and your stock.”

  “We hope you’ll come back,” said Martha Bell. “You’ll always be welcome.”

  Wes rode on across the river, seeking the position from which the unseen rifleman had fired the shots. Eventually he found five shell casings near the place from which the outlaw had done the shooting. From the sign, it appeared the rifleman had fired from a left-handed position. While it wasn’t much to go on, there was a good chance his pistol rode on his left hip, or possibly butt fo
rward on his right hip, for a cross-hand draw. In either case, it was something to remember. As Wes had quickly learned, an unconventional draw might be the most memorable thing about a man. Quickly he found where the man had picketed his horse, and he had no difficulty following the tracks that led downriver. The outlaws never bothered concealing their tracks, depending on the nearness of the border to discourage any and all pursuit. That, Wes thought, was about to change, as he rode grimly on. It came as no surprise when he learned that the solitary horseman had crossed the Medina River and his trail led due south. But circumstances changed quickly. The rider dismounted and, leading the horse, turned eastward. The animal favored the left-front leg; its lameness had forced the rider to change his destination. He now seemed bound for San Antonio, and Wes kneed his horse into a slow gallop. While Wes wasn’t sure how far he was from San Antonio, he believed it was farther than a man on foot could walk, even if he had walked all night. The tracks seemed fresh, and Wes had to consider the possibility of an ambush. When he was unable to see beyond a rise or through thickets and brush, he rode wide, paralleling the trail until the way was again clear. When Wes dismounted to rest his horse, he studied the tracks of the man he pursued. Spur rowels dug deep into the sand and appeared to be of the cartwheel variety, popular among Mexican riders. Wes rode on, reining up when a cow bawled somewhere ahead. There were more bovine laments, and Wes rode on until he was within sight of the cow camp. There was the smell of wood smoke from a branding fire, mingled with the stink of scorched hair and hide. Wes reined up well out of gun range, for the man he was trailing might be among these cowboys. His horse nickered and one within the camp answered, alerting them to his presence.

  “Hello the camp,” Wes shouted. “I’m friendly.”

  “Ride in,” one of the men responded.

  Wes rode in, reining up near the branding fire. It was time to introduce himself and explain his reason for being there.

  “I’m Wes Tremayne, from the Frank Bell ranch. I’m following a man who fired on the ranch late yesterday, causing a woman to be killed. I believe this man is part of a band of rustlers who have been hounding ranchers in the area.”

  “I’m Jess Whittaker,” said an elderly man in range clothes, “and this is Rafter W. We had our share of rustling. The gent you’re chasin’ was here sometime last night. If you can catch the varmint, we’d be interested in makin’ his acquaintance. He took a prime cow hoss from our remuda, leaving’ us a crow bait.”

  “When I settle with this hombre, I’ll turn your horse loose,” Wes said.

  Backstepping his horse, Wes rode wide of the camp and began looking for the trail of the elusive rider. He rode in a circle, and when he crossed the trail, it had again turned due south.

  “We got us some ridin’ to do, amigo,” said Wes to his horse. “He’s still ahead of us, on a fresh mount.”

  Wes rode on, resting and watering his horse, painfully aware that he seemed no closer to his adversary. In his haste and fury, he had brought no supplies. In his saddlebags was only a quantity of jerked beef. The sun slid slowly down the western horizon toward the rim, where it would soon disappear in a moonless night sky, and Wes had no choice but to make camp for the night. When he reached a spring, he unsaddled the horse, picketing it on the little graze there was. Leaving his saddle beside the spring, he spread his blankets above it in a concealing thicket. He was learning the ways of the frontier, the means of staying alive.

  Southern New Mexico Territory November 2, 1881

  Nathan felt a little guilty as he rode north, again avoiding El Paso.

  “Empty,” he said, “I’m just not ready to tie myself down to a woman. Not even one as pretty as Molly Horrell. I reckon we’ll just follow the Rio north, and from Pueblo take the train to Dodge.”

  Nathan reached the Rio Grande a hundred and seventy miles north of El Paso. There he made camp for the night and cooked supper for Empty and himself. He was about to douse the cookfire when he heard the rumble of a wagon somewhere to the south. Quickly he put out the fire and stood facing downriver until he could see the approaching wagon. A man in town clothes and a top hat controlled the reins of the four-mule team. Beside him sat a woman whose gown seemed totally unsuited to the frontier, but the Winchester rifle across her knees looked all business. But the six riders accompanying the wagon were all the more out of place, for they were soldiers in Union blue. The lead rider, with the silver bars of a captain riding the epaulets of his blue coat, raised his right hand. The rest of the soldiers reined up, and the wagon rumbled to a halt. The captain spoke.

  “I must ask you to identify yourself, sir, and state your business.”

  “I’m Nathan Stone,” said Nathan, “and I can’t see that my business is any of yours.”

  Something about the man didn’t ring true, and Nathan didn’t like him. The nearest military outpost would have to be at El Paso, and with Indians no longer a threat, how did a civilian-driven wagon command a six-man escort? It was the woman who spoke, further deepening the mystery.

  “Captain, I don’t believe he’s a threat to us. Darkness is only minutes away. Perhaps we can spend the night here. Have you any objection, Mr. Stone?”

  “None,” said Nathan, “as long as your soldiers back off. I don’t like being regarded as a fugitive.”

  She laughed. “I am Kathleen La Mie, and this is my husband, André. The soldiers—”

  “Madam,” the captain snapped, “I am capable of introducing myself and my men.”

  “Then do so,” the woman replied, and the officer fought to control himself before he finally spoke.

  “I am Captain Kendall. This is Sergeant Gannon, Corporal Walton, and Privates Olson, Baird, and Ponder.”

  “Where is your outpost?” Nathan inquired.

  “I don’t regard that as any of your business,” said Kendall.

  “Maybe it’s more of my business than you think,” Nathan said, his cold eyes meeting Kendall’s. “I know most of the commanding officers at the Texas outposts, and some of the other personnel, but I don’t recall ever seeing you.”

  “I am newly assigned to the outpost at Houston,” said Kendall. “Are you satisfied?”

  “No,” Nathan replied. “What are you doing in New Mexico?”

  “We are a military escort,” said Kendall, barely controlling his temper. “Indians—”

  “Indians haven’t been a threat since 1874,” Nathan said. “Try again.”

  “Captain,” said Kathleen La Mie, “I see no need for secrecy. Mr. Stone, we are bound for Colorado. The wagon’s cargo is vintage French wine, in quart bottles, twelve of them to a case.”

  “For that you need a military escort?” Nathan asked.

  “We believed so,” she said. “It’s worth a fortune.”

  “Then why wagon it eight hundred miles across country?” Nathan asked. “Why didn’t you take it from New Orleans to St. Louis by steamboat, and from there on to Colorado by train?”

  “We had our reasons,” said André La Mie, speaking for the first time.

  “Now,” Kathleen said, “if you’re satisfied, we’ll make camp, and after supper, you may sample our vintage wine.”

  “I’m obliged,” said Nathan, “but I’m not much of a wine drinker.”

  La Mie stepped down from the wagon box and began unharnessing the teams. Kendall and his men dismounted and unsaddled their horses. Kathleen La Mie started a fire and got supper under way. Kendall and his men settled down, waiting for the food to be prepared. It was uncharacteristic of the military, dawdling about a civilian camp, and with darkness falling, a potential enemy could see the fire from a great distance. Not liking or trusting these strangers, Empty had disappeared. Nathan sat with his back against a pine, and he was aware that the soldiers—if that’s what they were—had their eyes on him. Nathan gave as good as he got. He kept his eyes on Captain Kendall, and the more he saw of the man the more suspicious he became. The sleeves of Kendall’s officers coat were much too short, and inst
ead of regulation boots he wore cowman’s boots with pointed toes and high, undershot heels.

  “Captain,” said Nathan, “you’re setting a poor example for your men. Those boots you’re wearing aren’t regulation.”

  “Mind your own damn business, Stone,” Kendall replied.

  One of the privates laughed, and Kendall cast him a dirty look. Kathleen La Mie paused at the supper fire, her eyes on Kendall. She spoke.

  “André, break out a bottle of wine, and starting with Mr. Stone, pour all of us some. Perhaps it will relax us for the meal.”

  La Mie let down the wagon’s tailgate and, standing on it, began fumbling around inside the wagon. He emerged with a fancy quart bottle of green glass with a green and gold label. He continued pawing around until he produced a box, from which he removed a dozen glass goblets. These he placed on the wagon’s tailgate, carefully filling each glass with wine.

  “You may go first, Mr. Stone,” said Kit. “You are our guest.”

  Nathan went to the wagon, downed a glass of wine, and returned to his former position. The wine was no better or worse than what could be had in almost any saloon on the frontier, and his suspicion grew all the more. While he had no idea what these people were transporting, he was now virtually certain the wine was only a cover. The La Mies had been all too anxious for him to sample the wine. Eventually, this bunch had to sleep, and if they posted a guard, Nathan intended to discover the secret within that wagon. He did his best to conceal his suspicion and to appear amiable. While the others partook of the wine, Kathleen La Mie had her eyes on Nathan. Finally she spoke.