The Dawn of Fury

by Compton, Ralph

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Epilogue

  Teaser chapter

  The Trail Drive Series from National Bestselling Author

  INTO THE WEST

  GUNSMOKE

  Ralph Cotton

  A LONG ROAD—AND LONGER ODDS

  Nathan Stone was 19 years old. He had no home anymore, and no friends save a hound dog who wouldn’t let Nathan go off without him. To get the horse and gun he desperately needed, he had to kill a man—and even though that killing was in self-defense, it was killing all the same.

  That killing was Nathan Stone’s first taste of what the future held as he sat tall in a dead man’s saddle with a dead man’s Colt at his hip ... from Kansas to Texas, from Arkansas to Colorado, from the streets of New Orleans to the trackless Indian Territory.

  Each mile he covered was blood-slick with danger. Each card he turned was for deadly stakes. Each legendary outlaw he met was a different challenge. Each man he killed was one less on his list. Nathan Stone would never rest until he had done the impossible—track down seven men who struck like rattlers and fled like phantoms ... and made Nathan Stone the most feared gunfighter of the untamed West....

  “Compton writes in the style of Louis L’Amour and Zane Grey.”

  —Huntsville Times

  “You won’t be disappointed in the work of this very important writer.”

  —-Tombstone Epitaph

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

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  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, December 1995

  Copyright © Ralph Compton, 1995

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

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  eISBN : 978-1-101-12751-3

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  Prologue

  The James River Plantation, near Charlottesville, Virginia. November 15, 1865.

  “Seven riders comin’, suh,” said the old black man.

  “Thank you, Malachi,” Joshua Stone said. “You’re a free man now, and you’d best hide yourself. If they’re Yankees, there could be trouble.”

  Malachi left the room, taking refuge in the loft where he could observe the parlor. Neomie Stone and sixteen-year-old Rachel peered nervously out a window at the approaching riders.

  “Perhaps they’re Confederates and mean us no harm,” Neomie said.

  “Perhaps,” said Joshua, but he knew better. The men rode good horses and none of them wore the threadbare gray of the Confederacy. They all carried saddle guns, and beneath their coats, holsters attested to the presence of sidearms. The seven looked exactly like what Joshua Stone feared they were: renegades who had probably fought on neither side, but had taken advantage of the war to pillage and murder. The lead rider, a tall man with a shock of white hair, dismounted and pounded on the door with the butt of his pistol. The rest of the riders dismounted, and Joshua eased the door open just a little.

  “We’re needin’ grub,” said the white-haired stranger.

  “We can’t spare any,” Joshua said. “We have little enough for ourselves.”

  Joshua tried to close the door, but the stranger was too quick for him. He kicked the door, slamming it against the wall.

  “We’ll have a look for ourselves,” the intruder said.

  The seven surged into the parlor. One of the men seized Neomie’s dress at the throat and ripped it to the waist, while a second man threw Rachel to the floor and got astraddle of her. Joshua slammed a right to the jaw of the man who was stripping Neomie, and the renegade hit the floor with a crash. Drawing his pistol, he shot Joshua Stone in the belly. Stone fell backward onto a sofa. He tried to rise, but could not. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he saw his wife and daughter stripped, violated, and brutally murdered. Their passion spent, the men looked at one another, shaken by the enormity of their crime.

  “We’d best get the hell out of here,” said the white-haired renegade. “Snider, Dillard, Foster, check out the barn and be sure there’s no livestock. Jenks, Tull, Withers, sack the kitchen for anything worth takin’.”

  The others needed no urging, anxious to escape the grisly scene. Finding the barn empty, the trio skirted the house and mounted their horses.

  “The old fool wasn’t lyin’,” shouted one of the renegades from the kitchen. “There ain’t enough here to fool with.”

  “Then take what there is,” the albino said.

 
The three quickly took what little food remained in the house, bounded off the front porch, and joined their mounted comrades. The man with the mane of white hair remained in the house.

  “Hankins,” bawled one of the impatient renegades, “you ridin’ with us or not?”

  “Somebody’s got to think for this outfit,” said Hankins when he finally stepped out the door. “Never leave any evidence behind.”

  By the time old Malachi recovered from the shock enough to creep down from the loft, flames had gobbled up the drapes and were biting into the papered walls and the ceiling. The heavy carpet was afire in a dozen places. Malachi couldn’t fight the fire, but there was one thing he could do. The Stones had been his family, and although they were dead, there was one last thing he could do for them. He could save their earthly remains from the fire and see that they had a proper burial in the family graveyard. But Malachi was old and tired, with the miseries in his back.

  “Lawd God,” the old Negro prayed aloud, “gimme de strength to git ’em out of here in time.”

  He took Neomie and Rachel first, gritting his teeth to avoid crying out at their ravaged bodies. When he returned for Joshua, he was startled to find a spark of life remained.

  “Malachi,” Stone whispered. “Malachi.”

  “De house is burnin’, suh,” said Malachi. “I got to git you out.”

  “I’ll be ... dead ... then,” said Joshua Stone. “Malachi, Nathan will ... will be coming. Tell him ...”

  “Tell him what, suh?”

  “Remember ... these men,” said Joshua Stone. “Tell Nathan .. tell him to ... hunt them down ... and kill them ...to the last ... man.”

  “I tell him, suh,” Malachi said. “I tell him.”

  Miles away, the seven renegades reined up and looked back. A spiraling column of gray smoke dirtied the blue of the sky. Satisfied their heinous crime had been concealed, they rode on.

  Richmond, Virginia. January 3, 1866.

  Nathan Stone had gone to war with the Confederacy when he had been only fifteen. Now barely nineteen, his dark hair was graying at the temples and his pale blue eyes said that he had seen more than his share of hell. He wore Confederate gray trousers, a faded gray shirt with both elbows out, and no hat. His belly was gaunt, and lacking a coat, he shivered in the cold wind. The Yankees had turned him loose afoot, weaponless, without a scrap of food. He had scrounged a little food, but mostly he had gone hungry. For three long years he’d had no word from home, and his longing to return was somehow tempered with an uneasiness he couldn’t explain. Nobody had escaped the privation and suffering wrought by the war, and he wondered how it had affected his own family. He approached Richmond with the hope that he might find some food, but that hope died when he beheld the devastation of the city. Debris littered the streets, while in stark contrast the capitol building stood undamaged. He limped on in worn-out boots, his blistered feet in agony with every step. He had only to follow the James River eighty-five miles, to the point where it swung north toward Charlottesville. There would be his home. Or what remained of it ...

  The James River Plantation, near Charlottesville. January 12, 1866.

  Mighty oaks surrounded the Stone home, and leaves crunched brown and dry beneath Nathan Stone’s weary feet. Through the barren branches of the oaks, he could see only the standing chimneys of what had been his home. He stood there in shock, his legs trembling with weariness, while that which had been only nameless fear became full-blown reality. There was no point in delaying the inevitable, and he trudged on. Somewhere ahead a hound bayed low and mournful. The hound bayed again, closer, and by the time Nathan reached the burned-out house, he could see the dog. It looked as gaunt and as starved as he felt. The animal glared at him suspiciously, its hackles up, growling.

  “Cotton Blossom,” said a familiar voice, “hush yo’ mouth.”

  “Malachi,” Nathan shouted. “Malachi!”

  “Mist’ Nathan, suh,” Malachi cried, “do it really be you?”

  “What’s left of me,” said Nathan wearily. “I expected ... hell, I don’t know what I expected, but not this, Let’s set, and you tell me what happened. All of it.”

  Malachi talked for almost an hour. Nathan Stone sat with his face buried in his hands. He wept as the old Negro haltingly described the shooting of Nathan’s father and the violation and brutal murder of Neomie and Rachel.

  “I couldn’t save de house, suh,” Malachi said, “but I was able to git de folks out. Dey be in de fambly graveyard. I lay ’em out as fittin’ an’ proper as I know how, an’ I speak from de word of de Almighty God, prayin’ he take they souls to rest.”

  “Thank you, Malachi,” said Nathan. “That helps. I reckon the Yankees took all the livestock during the war.”

  Ever’thing, suh,” Malachi said. ”De springhouse ain’t been hurt, nor de barn. Me an’ ol’ Cotton Blossom sleep there. He catch him a rabbit ever’ now an’ den, an’ I eat from de garden. Frost kilt de rest, but dey’s still plenty of taters.”

  “God,’ said Nathan, ”I could eat them raw.”

  “I fix a fire pit near de barn,” Malachi said. “I go roast a bunch of dem taters.”

  Nathan walked down the hill to the springhouse. It was of stone, and had literally been built over a spring. It had provided clear, cold water, and a year-round coolness that had preserved their milk, butter, eggs, and meat. But within its stone walls was a legacy old Joshua Stone had set aside for just such a time as this, and never in young Nathan Stone’s life would there be a greater need for it. Nathan found the familiar yard-long piece of hickory, beveled at one end. From the springhouse door he counted the flat stones in the floor until he reached a specific one. Using the beveled piece of hickory, he dug around the edge of the stone until he could get beneath it and raise it. The hole beneath was just large enough for a small canvas bag. Nathan emptied it on the stone floor, and the gold double eagles gleamed dully in the dim light. There were ten of them. Two hundred dollars! Strong in Nathan’s mind were his father’s dying words.

  Remember these men. Tell Nathan to hunt them down and kill them. To the last man.

  He’d have done that on his own, had it taken the rest of his life, but his father’s cry from the grave seared this quest for vengeance on his very soul. He would need a good horse, a saddle, a weapon, ammunition, some decent clothes, and a little money for food. But what of old Malachi? The faithful Negro had buried Nathan’s family and had suffered great hardship so that he might deliver Joshua Stone’s final message to his son. But old age had caught up with Malachi, and he could never ride the trails that Nathan Stone believed lay ahead. But even with his father’s plea branded on his heart and mind, he couldn’t leave old Malachi to starve. The Yankees had won the war and were boasting they had freed the Negro, but for what purpose? To wander a war-ravaged land, pursued by the spectre of starvation? While Nathan could not and would not leave Malachi behind, he knew the old man would never survive the trail that Nathan Stone must ride. Now, though, he needed rest and food, even if that food were only roasted potatoes. He could smell them as he neared the barn, and his empty belly lurched in anticipation.

  “De taters don’ be big,” Malachi said, “so dey don’ take long, cookin’ ‘em. Dey be ready d’reckly.”

  Malachi had a blackened pot three-quarters full of water, and as he dug the egg-sized potatoes out of the ashes, he dropped them into the water.

  “When dey cool some,” said Malachi, “jus’ wash ‘em off an’ eat ’em skins an’ all.”

  The potatoes were bland and the centers a little raw, but Nathan wolfed down a dozen of them. Malachi buried more in the ashes and stirred up the fire. Cotton Blossom sat on his lean haunches watching them eat, looking deprived as only a hound can.

  “We must have meat,” Nathan said. “Have you tried trapping rabbits?”

  “No, suh,” said Malachi. “Ain’t seen none. But we got de bait. Dey be carrots in de garden.”

  Despite Malachi’s pessimism, Nathan
managed to trap two rabbits, and on the second day after his return, they had roast rabbit for breakfast. Hungrily they devoured everything but the bones and hide.

  “Sorry, Cotton Blossom,” said Nathan. “You’ll have to catch your own.”

  “You be going soon,” said Malachi, on the third day following Nathan’s arrival.

  “No,” Nathan said, “I’m not leaving you behind.”

  “I cain’t go, suh,” said Malachi. “I be too old an’ tired. I jus’ stay alive to tell you what yo’ daddy say. I be goin’ home soon.”

  Nathan was awakened sometime after midnight by the baying of the hound. It had a bone-chilling finality that got Nathan’s attention, and he found Cotton Blossom in the next stall where Malachi slept on a bed of hay. It was an eerie scene. The dog stood over Malachi in a protective manner, growling at Nathan as he approached.

  “Malachi,” Nathan said. “Malachi.”

  Malachi was silent. The sound of Nathan’s voice had some calming effect on Cotton Blossom and the hound backed away, allowing Nathan to get close enough to take Malachi’s wrist. There was no pulse. Old Malachi had gone home.

  Nathan dug Malachi’s grave next to that of Joshua Stone, laying the old man to rest with remembered words from the Bible. He lingered by the graves, his heart heavy. He could go now, riding a bloody trail that would lead him he knew not where. Cotton Blossom sat beside Malachi’s grave, baying mournfully as Nathan walked away. Charlottesville was the nearest town, twenty miles to the north, and he headed that way. Leaves rattled behind him, and Nathan turned to find the hound following. They were outcasts, two of a kind, their loneliness drawing them together for the long trail ahead.

  Chapter 1

  Charlottesville, Virginia. January 16, 1866.