“Tarnation,” said Nathan. “I reckon I’ll have to stay awhile and watch Ben work. I’d say if he can use his gun as well for the law as he has against it, he’ll be one hell of a lawman.”
“He has potential,” West said, “if only he can control his temper. A gun is a lot like money. It can serve you well if it’s properly used, or it can get you into all kinds of trouble if you don’t know how to handle it.”
To Nathan’s surprise, Ben Thompson appeared to be an excellent lawman. Rarely did he have to resort to his gun, for his reputation was enough. One Saturday evening in San Antonio, Nathan and Ben were having supper when King Fisher came in.
“Thunderation,” said Fisher, wringing Nathan’s hand. “I been wonderin’ what became of you. Remember when we cleaned up on that horse race? My God, my luck’s never been that good again. Are you aimin’ to be here July fourth?”
Nathan laughed. “I haven’t planned that far ahead. Another horse race?”
“Damn right,” Fisher said. “When you get enough of Ben, ride down to the ranch for a while. I got me a horse to enter in that July fourth race. Just wait till you see him.”
“I’ll stay a while,” said Nathan. “Where’d you get the horse?”
“He’s a rustler,” Thompson said. “You didn’t know that?”
“Shut up, Thompson,” said Fisher.
Fisher’s horse was a black, reminding Nathan of Barnabas McQueen’s Diablo. Fisher had hired an Indian rider, and the black won the race with good odds. But on July 11, Thompson and Jack Harris renewed an old feud. King Fisher explained it to Nathan.
“It started over a gambling incident in 1880,” Fisher said. “Harris, along with Joe Foster and Billy Simms, own and operate the Vaudeville Theatre and Gambling Saloon, the wildest and most popular place in San Antone. Let’s get over there before Thompson does something foolish.”
When they reached the saloon, Thompson stood outside on the boardwalk in conversation with another man.
“That’s Billy Simms,” Fisher said, “a longtime friend of Ben’s.”
Simms went back into the saloon, and Thompson turned his attention to Nathan and King Fisher.
“Ben,” said Fisher, “you’re city marshal of Austin. Don’t forget that.”
“City marshal be damned,” Thompson said. “I’m here to settle with Harris, but I can’t find him.”
But Jack Harris had entered the saloon by the back door, and was told by one of the saloon’s employees that Thompson was outside and had been looking for him. Harris got a shotgun from behind the bar and positioned himself behind the door nearest Thompson. Several saloon patrons, not wishing to be caught up in a shoot-out, rushed outside.
“Jack has a gun,” one of them shouted to Thompson.
“Come on,” Harris taunted from inside. “I’m ready for you.”
But Thompson drew and fired through the blinds. The slug ricocheted and ripped into Harris’s right lung. A second shot by Thompson missed, but Harris was finished.
“Damn it, Ben,” King Fisher said, “why did you do that?”
“I owed him,” said Thompson, “and I pay my debts.”
“What do you aim to do now?” Nathan asked.
“The only thing I can do,” said Thompson. “I’m turning myself in. Then I’ll resign as marshal of Austin.”
Jack Harris, mortally wounded, died that night.
CHAPTER 30
El Paso, Texas August 15, 1882
Two weeks passed before the night riders struck again. Patiently, from dusk to dawn, Wes had kept watch, armed with a shotgun. When the marauders began firing from the predawn darkness, Wes answered their muzzle flashes with a bellow from the shotgun. His responses drew their fire, but he was bellied down and a poor target. He fired twice, reloaded and fired twice more. There was no more return fire. Quietly, Wes made his way into the house, confident the outlaws had pulled out.
“You alive,” Granny said from the darkness. “Good.”
“More alive than some of them, I think,” said Wes. “Come daylight, I’ll have a look.”
But within minutes, there was a clatter of hooves, followed by a knock on the door.
“Who are you?” Wes inquired.
“Jim Gillett. Sounded like a war in progress out here.”
Wes opened the door and Gillett stepped inside.
“Granny’s in the kitchen making coffee,” said Wes. “Time we have some, it should be light enough to see. I had only muzzle flashes to shoot at, but I may have got one of them. They didn’t stay long.”
Renita was already at the kitchen table, and when she spoke it was more to Gillett than to Wes.
“How long will this terrible thing go on?”
“Don’t look for it to end any time soon,” Gillett said. “With Wes fighting back, it may get a lot worse.”
“I’ve only started to fight,” said Wes. “I’ll be out there with the shotgun the next time, the time after that, and the time after that, until they get enough.”
“Or until they kill you,” Renita said.
“Or until they kill me,” Wes echoed. “The very first thing I learned when I came west is that if you won’t fight you’re branded a coward.”
“I suppose that’s worse than being shot dead,” said Renita.
“On the frontier it is,” Gillett said.
Nothing more was said, and when the first gray fingers of dawn touched the eastern horizon, Gillett and Wes left the house to search the grounds. They didn’t have to search too long or hard. The first man lay belly down.
“God Almighty,” said Gillett, when he rolled the dead man over. His face was gone.
“Here’s another,” Wes shouted.
The second man hadn’t fared any better, for he had taken a load of buckshot in the chest. A search of the grounds produced no more bodies.
“You’ve got to be the luckiest hombre alive,” said Gillett.
“I prefer to think of myself as careful,” Wes replied.
“Go on being careful,” said Gillett, “but don’t rule out luck. You’ve accounted for no less than three of the Sandlin gang, and they’ll be wanting you almighty bad.”
“Do you want me to plant these two varmints?”
“No,” Gillett said. “We’ll let the country bury them.”
Gillett rode back to town and Wes returned to the house.
“How many you get?” Granny wanted to know.
“Two,” said Wes.
“My God,” Molly Horrell said, recalling Nathan Stone’s experience, “you’ll have to run for your life.”
“I’m not the running kind,” said Wes. “I hear there’s thirty men in the Sandlin gang. That means I only have to shoot twenty-seven more.”
They could only look at him in amazement, for he was deadly serious.
San Antonio, Texas August 15, 1882
“My God,” Nathan said, “why don’t you suggest something simple, like me running for governor of the state of Texas?”
Bodie West laughed. “I don’t have that much influence, but I can get you appointed city marshal of Austin, to replace Ben Thompson. It pays pretty well, and you’ll be right here with friends. Come on, damn it. They need a good man, and there’s nobody around here as qualified as you. It’ll only be for the rest of Thompson’s term, and there’ll be an election a year from this November. You’ll be out of it the following January.”
“A little more than fifteen months,” said Nathan. “I reckon I can stand it that along.”
El Paso, Texas September 18, 1882
Monday was usually a slow day in town, and Wes had spent the afternoon engaged in draw poker in the Manning Brothers Saloon. Actually, it was a partnership, involving J. W. Jones, Frank, Doc, and Jim Manning. There had been a long-standing feud between Dallas Stoudenmire and the Mannings, and during the day there had been hard words between Doc Manning and Dallas Stoudenmire. Just before six o’clock in the evening, the poker game stalled as Stoudenmire came in and began cursing
the Mannings. J. W. Jones, trying to make peace, approached Jim Manning.
“Jim, go find Frank, and all of you settle this thing.”
Jim Manning nodded and went out to look for his brother Frank, but he situation worsened. Dallas Stoudenmire and Doc Mannings stood toe to toe, with Stoudenmire doing most of the cursing.
“Ease up, gents,” said J. W. Jones, stepping between the two men.
But when Jones pushed them apart, both men drew guns. Manning fired first, shooting over Jones’s shoulder. The slug ripped through Stoudenmire’s arm and chest and, dropping his gun, Stoudenmire stumbled backward into the door. Manning pressed his advantage, firing a second time, but the slug didn’t penetrate Stoudenmire’s body. Instead, it struck some folded papers in Stoudenmire’s shirt pocket, and only knocked the wind out of him. The fight continued outside on the boardwalk as the men struggled, each seeking an advantage. Stoudenmire finally got his hands on his belly gun and shot Doc Manning in the arm. Manning dropped his gun, but wrestled Stoudenmire, preventing him from firing another shot. As they cursed and fought, Jim Manning returned with a Colt in his hand. He began firing at Stoudenmire, and while his first shot missed, the second one didn’t. It struck Stoudenmire behind his left ear, and he died on his feet. Doc Manning seized one of the fallen weapons, straddled the body, and began pistol-whipping the dead man.
“Stop it, Doc!” Jim Gillett shouted. With considerable effort, he separated Manning from the dead Stoudenmire. Gillett then appealed to the bystanders. “Jake, get somebody to help, and tote Stoudenmire over to the undertaker’s.”
Ignoring the Mannings, Gillett went into the saloon and began questioning the patrons about the fight.
“It looked about equal,” said Wes, when Gillett got to him.
“You charging me, Marshal?” Doc Manning asked, as Gillett left the saloon.
“No,” said Gillett shortly. Mounting his horse, he rode away.
Austin, Texas August 16, 1882
When Nathan answered the knock on the door of his hotel room, he was surprised to find Ranger Bodie West standing there.
“I’ll be in town tonight,” West said. “What about supper?”
“I never miss it,” said Nathan. “Does the invite include Empty?”
“It does,” West said, “if I have to pay for him to have a place at the table.”
They had supper at a cafe where Nathan had eaten before, and Empty was fed in the kitchen. When the meal was finished, Nathan spoke.
“I haven’t heard from King Fisher in a while. Is he keeping his hands clean?”
West laughed. “He has no choice. He’s acting deputy sheriff of Uvalde County.”
“The hell he is,” said Nathan. “When did this happen?”
“In the fall of 1881,” West said.
“I’ve seen him since then,” said Nathan, “and he said nothing about it.”
“When you saw him last, he was with Ben Thompson,” West said, “about the time Ben was forced to resign as Austin’s city marshal. That’s a sore spot with Ben, and I’d say that’s why Fisher didn’t tell you about his own appointment. He’s taking it seriously, I’m told, and is talking about running for sheriff of Uvalde County two years from now.”
“I’ll have to get down there for a visit,” said Nathan. “Maybe around Christmas, or the first of the year.”
“I’ll help you get a few days off after the first of the year,” West said. “Christmas is generally a time when all kinds of hell break loose and lawmen are needed most.”
Uvalde, Texas January 10, 1883
“Bein’ a lawman don’t take as much time as I allowed it would,” Fisher said.
“I’m glad to see you get such an appointment,” said Nathan. “I let Bodie West talk me into finishing Ben’s term in Austin, and it hasn’t been half bad. I think it’s discouraged a few ambitious hombres who wanted to become fast guns at my expense. For a while it seemed everywhere I went, somebody was forcing me into a gunfight, and I was killing men I didn’t even know. It was that or risk having them kill me.”
“I know how it is,” Fisher said. “It’s shoot or be shot.”
Three days after Nathan’s arrival, Fisher was called on to investigate a stage holdup. Nathan rode with him to the scene and accompanied him as he began trailing the pair of suspects.
“It looks like they’re headed for the Leona River,” said Fisher. “The only nearby town is Leakey, and there’s only two or three ranches strung out along the river.”
“I’ll back your play,” Nathan said, “if you need me.”
They reined up where the tracks crossed the river.
“Looks like the Hannehan ranch,” said Fisher. “Just Jim and Tom Hannehan and their mother. I reckon we might as well ride over there and be done with it.”
Fisher rode on across the river, Nathan following. When they approached the ranch, two men stepped out on the porch.
“You Hannehans are under arrest,” Fisher shouted.
One of the men went for his gun, but Fisher drew and shot him. An elderly woman stepped out the door and knelt beside the dead man.
“Damn you,” she cried, her voice breaking, “you’ve killed Tom.”
“Sorry, ma’am,” said Fisher, “he shouldn’t have gone for his gun. I’ve trailed the two of them from the scene of a stage holdup. I’ll be taking Jim with me. Where’s the loot you took from the stage, Jim?”
“In the barn,” Jim said sullenly. “I’ll get it.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Fisher.
Nathan remained with the distraught Mrs. Hannehan until King Fisher and Jim Hannehan returned with the stolen money.
“I’ll be taking Jim with me, ma’am,” Fisher said. “Do you want us to help bury Tom before we go?”
“No,” said Mrs. Hannehan, looking Fisher in the eye. “I reckon you’ve done enough for me.”41
There was no conversation as Fisher and Nathan, accompanied by the handcuffed Jim Hannehan, rode back to Uvalde.
“There are parts of bein’ a lawman I purely don’t like,” King Fisher said when the unfortunate Hannehan had been locked in a cell.
El Paso, Texas December 2, 1882
When the Sandlin gang struck again, it was in a devastating manner that nobody was expecting. Twelve-year-old Jody Connors rode in at dawn, his frantic cries alerting the town.
“What is it, boy?” Jim Gillett inquired.
“They took my pa and my brothers, Jeff and Jory,” the boy panted.
“Who took them?” Gillett asked.
“I don’t know. They wore masks. Ma says hurry.”
“I’ll gather some men,” said Gillett.
Wes rode in, having come to have breakfast with Gillett.
“Trouble at the Connor ranch,” Gillett shouted, to the men attracted by Jody Connors’s arrival. “Who’ll ride with me?”
“I will,” said Wes.
Quickly, a dozen men gathered, and they followed Jody Connors north. Reaching the ranch, they found Mrs. Connors on the porch with a shotgun.
“They rode west, sheriff,” she shouted.
“They’re headed for the border,” said Wes, galloping his horse alongside Gillett’s.
Slowly but surely, the trail veered southwest, and then due west. But as they neared the Rio Grande, their quest abruptly ended. Revolving grotesquely in the breeze, three men hung from a branch of a cottonwood. Standing on his saddle, Gillett cut the ropes and the three bodies were lowered to the ground. Pinned to one of the dead men’s shirt was a scrap of paper. Scrawled on it in pencil was a message:Three of yours for three of ours.
Jim Gillett looked at Wes. It was clear enough. The Sandlin gang had extracted payment in kind for the three outlaws Wes had killed, and the significance of it wasn’t lost on the rest of the men who had accompanied Gillett. Some of them were already looking at Wes with disapproving eyes.
“Some of you stay here with these men,” Gillett said. “Mrs. Connors will have to be told about this, and I�
�ll see if they have a wagon we can use. If they don’t, then I’ll send one from town.”
“No use in all of us settin’ out here with three dead men,” somebody growled.
“Then two of you stay until I can get a wagon out here for the bodies,” said Gillett. “Harris, how about you and Phillips?”
The two men nodded and the others mounted and rode hurriedly away, for obviously they were uncomfortable in the presence of death. Wes remained, and when Gillett started for the Connors ranch, Wes rode with him.
“I reckon you know what this is building up to,” Gillett said.
“Yes,” said Wes. “Every time we kill one of the Sandlin bunch, they’ll ride across the river and kill somebody on our side, and they won’t be particular.”
“You’re goin’ to become unpopular in a hurry,” Gillett said, “because you’ve managed to gun down three of the Sandlin gang. Since they can’t get their hands on you, it appears they’ll kill any and everybody.”
“Then maybe I’d better give them a stronger reason for coming after me,” said Wes. “Maybe I’d better begin wearin’ this Ranger shield instead of keeping it in my pocket.”
“That won’t accomplish anything,” Gillett replied. “The Sandlin gang knows Rangers aren’t allowed to follow them south of the border.’
“Then I’m going to do what I should have done before now,” said Wes. “I’m resigning from the Rangers. Then I can follow these outlaws anywhere I please, without the Rangers or the State of Texas being at fault.”
“That’s just partially true,” Gillett said. “As a civilian, you’re still not permitted to go into Mexico without official permission.”
“Then I reckon it’ll be between me and the federals in Washington,” said Wes. “I just can’t believe the State of Texas will object to me getting these damn outlaws any way that I can.”
“Neither can I,” Gillett said, “unless you’re captured in Mexico and Washington gets involved. Mexico could officially give them hell, and they’d pass it along to Austin.”
Autumn of the Gun Page 43