The Dawn of Fury

by Compton, Ralph

  At that moment the men within the cafe yielded to their curiosity and came out to see what had happened. Among them was the cook, with a lighted lantern. Bean borrowed the lantern and followed the officer into the shadows where the dead man lay. The search produced only a pocketknife, most of a plug of tobacco, and three double eagles.

  “Strange,” Lieutenant Willingham said, “the way this happened. You have no idea, I suppose, as to the reason behind it?”

  “Nothin’ fer sure,” said Bean. “Now I got me a problem. Five loaded wagons an’ three drivers, includin’ me. If you got no objection, I reckon I ought to talk to the doc an’ see what the verdict is. Prater took one in the leg, but Stone might have bought the farm. Looked almighty bad.”

  “Come along,” Willingham said. “It might be too soon to learn anything, if Lieutenant Pilkington has to dig out the slugs.”

  Bunks had been set up in the back of the government warehouse, and on one of them lay Nathan Stone. His upper chest had already been bandaged, and the medic was cleansing the nasty wound in his side. Eulie sat on one of the bunks, anxiety in her eyes. One of the privates held a lamp close, providing as much light as possible for Lieutenant Pilkington. Bean and Willingham kept their silence until Pilkington had bandaged the second wound, and when the medic finally faced them, he answered their questions without being asked.

  “If he never has another piece of luck, he’s got no gripe coming,” said Lieutenant Pilkington. “Shot clean through both times. If either slug had struck a bone, he’d be a dead man. He’ll need a month of rest.”

  “I’m glad fer him,” Bean said. “I was jist talkin’ to the Lieutenant here, an’ he reckons he kin put ’em up at the Shore Hotel till I git back from San Antone.”

  “We’re obliged,” Eulie said, “but we can pay.”

  “We’re obliged to you and Stone for your help in recovering that stolen gold,” said Lieutenant Willingham. “We’ll stable your horses.”

  “I believe this man should remain here for the night,” Lieutenant Pilkington said. “His worst enemy is infection, and I’ll need to look in on him at regular intervals.”

  “I’ll stay too, then,” said Eulie.

  Roy Bean left them there, returning to the loaded wagons where Delmano and Renato waited. Bean unfolded the paper he had removed from the dead man’s pocket and lighted a match so that he could see. It was a bounty poster, and while there were no photographs, there was an accurate description of the pair Bean knew as Nathan Stone and Eli Prater. There was a bounty of a thousand dollars on each of their heads. Old McClendon was dead serious.

  Chapter 10

  After Lieutenant Pilkington had heavily dosed Nathan with laudanum, he turned to Eulie.

  “You’re welcome to some of this,” he said. “While your wound isn’t all that serious, it may cause you some pain. This will help you sleep.”

  “Thanks,” said Eulie, “but I aim to stay awake. You’ve done well, tending to Nathan’s wounds, and we’re obliged. Now about all that’s to be done is see him through the fever. If you’ll get me a bottle of whiskey, I’ll do that.”

  “You’re right,” the officer said. “That’s important, but you can pour whiskey down him as well as I can. He must sweat out the infection. I’ll go get the whiskey.”

  While the medic was gone, Roy Bean returned. Having made certain that none of the military personnel was around, he took the bounty poster from his pocket and passed it to Eulie.

  “I took this off’n the varmint that done the shootin’,” he said, “an’ I reckon it’s clear enough why he done it. I told Lieutenant Willingham that I didn’t know why ye was shot. It won’t help none if word gets around.”

  Eulie sat up, leaning over enough to see by the light of the lamp next to Nathan’s bunk. Quickly she read the death warrant for Nathan and herself.

  “I jist thought you’d oughta know,” said Bean. “Come mornin’, get yerselves a room in that hotel an’ lay low fer a while. Stay out of the saloons, an’ when Stone can ride, git the hell outa Texas till this blows over.”

  “Thanks,” Eulie said. “Now you have two wagons for which you have no drivers. But we hadn’t counted on this.”

  “Hell,” said Bean, “ye got no business goin’ back to San Antone, even if ye was able. Delmano an’ Renato met up with three Mexes that’s needin’ some reason fer bein’ on this side of the border. I hired two of ’em to drive the extry wagons back to San Antone. If my credit’s good fer another wagon an’ teams, I’m hirin’ the third one. Jist watch yer back, Eli, an’ when yer pard’s able, saddle up an’ ride. Good luck.”

  On his way out, Bean passed Lieutenant Pilkington returning with a quart bottle of whiskey.

  “If he gets too restless during the night,” said Pilkington, “then don’t hesitate to wake me.”

  “I doubt I’ll be needin’ to,” Eulie said, “but thanks.”

  The rest of the bunks had been moved well away from Nathan and Eulie, and Eulie prepared for a long vigil. Some hours into the night she awoke, and feeling Nathan’s brow, found he had a raging fever. It was time for the whiskey. She poured a third of the bottle down him, and not being much of a drinking man, he wheezed and coughed. For just a moment he opened his eyes, but there was no recognition in them. She eased him back down on the bunk. As the Lieutenant had promised, Eulie’s wound began to ache, and she had no trouble keeping her eyes open for the rest of the night. When the windows began to gray with first light, Lieutenant Pilkington came to examine Nathan’s wounds and to change the bandages.

  “He could use another slug of that whiskey,” Pilkington said. “I’d not be surprised if this fever stays with him all day, but it should break sometime tonight.”

  “I’ll give him half of what’s left,” said Eulie. “This morning, if you will allow me the use of your stretcher and two of your men, I’ll take us a room at the hotel.”

  “First, I’d better take a look at your own wound,” Pilkington said. “How are you feeling?”

  “You were right,” said Eulie. “That leg hurts like hell, but I can stand on it.”

  “I don’t recommend that for any longer than it takes to reach the hotel,” Pilkington said. “Lie down and stretch out that leg.”

  The wound was clean and Pilkington grunted in satisfaction. He doused it with more disinfectant and bound it with a clean bandage.

  “It should heal clean,” said Pilkington. “Here’s a day’s dose of laudanum. Now one of us can help you to the hotel, if you like.”

  “Thanks,” Eulie said, “but it’s not that far. While you’re gone for the stretcher, I’ll pour some more whiskey down Nathan.”

  Eulie paid for two weeks in advance at the Shore Hotel, and since it was still early, Nathan was moved there without attracting undue attention. For the time and place, the Shore was fancy. There were braided rugs on the floors and the rooms were large. Extra blankets had been provided for Nathan so that he might sweat out the fever. The room’s single window was curtained and the furniture was made of heavy oak.

  “His temperature’s down,” said Lieutenant Pilkington, when he came by in the afternoon to check on Nathan. “By tomorrow, he’ll be out of danger, I think. I’ll leave you enough laudanum to get him through the night, and by this time tomorrow, he should be awake and ready for some food. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  By late afternoon, Nathan’s fever had broken, and near suppertime, he opened his eyes.

  “God,” he groaned.

  “Do your wounds hurt?” Eulie asked.

  “No,” he croaked, “but my head does. Feel like I’ve been on a three-day drunk. My mouth and throat feel like a desert. Water.”

  Eulie fished a tin cup out of a saddlebag and filled it with water for Nathan to drink.

  “Thanks,” he said. “What’n hell have you been pouring down me?”

  “Whiskey,” Eulie replied. “You’ve been burning up with fever.”

  “How long ... have I ...”

&
nbsp; “Since early last night,” Eulie said. “The army doctor dug two bullets out of you, and you’re supposed to rest.”

  “Rest, hell. Reach me that chamber pot. Then I want to know who cut down on us, where I am ...”

  “All right, damn it, I’ll tell you,” she said. And she did.

  Nathan had closed his eyes and she thought he had dropped off to sleep, but when she stopped talking, he was looking straight at her.

  “This whole thing just makes me mad as hell,” he growled.

  Eulie said nothing, but he could see exasperation in her eyes.

  “That bushwhacking varmint put two slugs in me before I could pull my iron,” he said. “I came off like a damn greenhorn, and I reckon I got just what I deserved.”

  “Well, by God,” Eulie said, “I’d hoped, after that shooting in San Antone, I wouldn’t have to tangle with the Nathan Stone pride again, but I reckon I was wrong. What’s bothering you is that you got gunned down in an ambush and a female pistoleer saved your bacon.”

  That silenced him. The truth was, he felt inadequate. This woman—Eulie Prater—had come to his rescue for the second time in a matter of days, and while he didn’t wish to seem ungrateful, it rankled his hide, made him feel less a man. He sighed. She knew him too well.

  “If the damn shoe fits, you got to wear it,” he said. “I got no call to look down on you. With two slugs in me, I was in no condition to fight back. I’m beholden to you, because if you hadn’t plugged him, the varmint that cut me down would have escaped. I’m a prideful man, and there’s times when old pride jumps on me and digs in the spurs before I know he has control of me.”

  “You were being a little selfish, wantin’ to gun the varmint down,” said Eulie. “Hell, he was trying to kill me too. I had as much right to him as you did.”

  The following morning Lieutenant Pilkington came by and was amazed to find Nathan Stone sitting on the edge of the bed eating breakfast.

  “You should be in that bed,” said Pilkington. “Do you want to start those wounds bleeding again?”

  “I wouldn’t be sitting here,” Nathan said, “if I wasn’t up to it. It’s a testimony as to how well you patched me up. I’m obliged.”

  “I can’t take all the credit,” said Pilkington. “You were damned lucky. Either of those shots could have killed you if they’d struck bone. When you feel strong enough, Lieutenant Willingham will be wanting to question you. He must file a report on the incident.”

  Nathan nodded and the medic departed.

  “That’s all we need,” Eulie said, when Pilkington had gone, “is to have our names on file with the military. Somebody’s just liable to put two and two together and tie us to that shooting in San Antonio.”

  “Let them,” said Nathan. “They can’t prove we’ve gunned down anybody that wasn’t trying to kill us.”

  “Roy Bean said we should leave Texas as soon as you’re able to ride, and do it before they find out we’re fugitives.”

  “By God,” Nathan said, “it puts a crimp in my tail, bein’ run out when I’ve done no wrong. Besides, I believe the killers I’m lookin’ for are here somewhere.”

  “Oh, damn,” said Eulie wearily, “Nathan Stone’s iron-clad pride rears its ugly head again. And don’t use your manhunt for an excuse, because you don’t have so much as a thread of evidence that a single one of those six men is anywhere in Texas.”

  It was irrefutable logic, and Nathan grinned despite himself. He then stretched out on the bed, weaker than he had been willing to admit.

  “I reckon we’ll go,” he said.

  Corpus Christi, Texas. September 25, 1866.

  Two weeks after the shooting, a ship arrived from New Orleans. There was much excitement, for the packet had brought a bundle of newspapers only a few days old. Eulie bought one and the news-starved outpost snatched the rest of them in less than an hour. The paper was a Sunday edition in two sections, so Eulie took one and Nathan the other. Nathan read only a little of the front page when he came off the bed with a shout. Eulie looked at him as though he had lost his mind.

  “By God,” Nathan said, “They’re there! In New Orleans!”

  “Who’s in New Orleans?” Eulie asked.

  “Tobe Snider and Virg Dillard,” said Nathan. “But for the one I found in Missouri, I’d lost track of the murdering varmints I’m lookin’ for. Now I know there’s two of them in New Orleans. Here, read this.”

  Eulie took the newspaper and found the brief story that had excited Nathan. Snider and Dillard were identified as a pair of killers who had been linked to French Stumberg, the man behind a New Orleans gambling empire. The killers, as the newspaper referred to them, had been freed by the courts through the influence of Stumberg. There was no more, but that was enough.

  “We ride out at first light tomorrow,” Nathan said.

  “Like hell we do,” Eulie replied. “Lieutenant Pilkington said you should have a month to recover from your wounds. You’ve had just half that.”

  “It’s my damn carcass,” said Nathan, “and I reckon I know when it’s able to ride. I’ve been all the way across Texas without accomplishing anything except bein’ hogtied by you and gettin’ myself shot. Now I know where two of those murdering sidewinders are, and by God, I’m going after them.”

  But Lieutenant Pilkington warned him about opening his wounds by riding before they had properly healed, and Nathan grudgingly agreed to wait another week.

  On October first, Nathan and Eulie rode out of Corpus Christi. Cotton Blossom ranged ahead, and with Nathan leading the packhorse, they rode northeastward, following the shoreline.

  “Do you aim to stop along the way?” Eulie asked. “There’s Houston.”

  “I don’t aim to stop anywhere in Texas,” said Nathan. “Like Bean told us, it’s time to ride on, and now I have a damn good reason.”

  Nathan and Eulie passed to the north of Houston, spending their nights on the plains of east Texas beside spring or creek. There was an excitement in Nathan that he found hard to contain, but he was often sobered by something in Eulie’s eyes—a despondency—that got to him. She would be with him but a few more months, and when she was gone, that haunting look in her eyes would follow Nathan Stone down every lonely trail he would ride ...

  Nathan and Eulie crossed the Mississippi twenty-five miles south of Natchez.

  “When we reach New Orleans,” Eulie said, “we should find us a boardinghouse, with a stable for the horses.”

  “I aim to,” said Nathan. “Since these two skunks I’m after seem to be under the wing of a big-time gambler, it may take me a while just reaching the varmints.”

  Chapter 11

  New Orleans. October 16, 1866.

  Nathan and Eulie had followed the Mississippi, and their first sight of New Orleans was the western outskirts, which soon would become known as the Garden District. There were no shops, saloons, or hotels, for much of it was residential, with stately two-story dwellings shaded by live oak and magnolia trees. The first identifiable street they reached was St. Charles. They rode for what seemed half a mile before reaching a cross street, which a faded sign said was seventh.

  “Damn,” Nathan grumbled, “we should have stayed with the river. This is too highfalutin’ for boardinghouses and hotels.”

  “I think we should shy away from the river,” said Eulie. “I don’t know how it is here, but I talked to a drummer once who had come from St. Louis. He said every drunk, thief, and killer in town always hangs out near the river.”

  “My kind of people,” Nathan said. “We’ll ride on for another mile or two, and if we don’t soon see a boardin’-house or hotel, we’ll ride south, back toward the river.”

  St. Charles looked like a boulevard into what seemed more and more of a residential area. Virtually all the homes were two story, many of them taking refuge behind what appeared to be stately marble columns, the whole surrounded by well-kept grounds and spreading oaks. Graceful palms hung their heads over the wide street, offering
shade from the October sun. A buckboard, drawn by an aging gray horse, approached and passed them. A fashionably dressed woman held the reins in her left hand, an open parasol in her right, and seemed not to notice the pair of dusty riders and their packhorse. Cotton Blossom took offense, trotting after the buckboard, barking.

  “Cotton Blossom,” Nathan said, “stop that. Come here.”

  The hound obeyed, not in the least repentant, and gave Nathan a curious look. Eulie laughed.

  “I reckon he’s never seen anything the equal of that,” she said.

  “My God,” said Nathan, “neither have I. I can’t imagine anybody gettin’ all frocked up like that. This ain’t Sunday, is it?”

  “No,” Eulie replied. “It’s Thursday, I think. Tarnation, if they dress like that in the middle of the week, what do they wear on Sunday?”

  “I don’t know,” said Nathan. “If we dig in here for a while and get all civilized, I reckon that’s what you’ll be wearing. Just promise me you won’t tote a parasol when it ain’t even rainin’. That looks foolish as hell.”

  “If I thought you was serious,” she said, “I’d shoot you. That’s just about the way my daddy thought a woman should get herself up, if she ever had any hope of snaring a man. Me, I always reckoned that if a man had to fight his way past four petticoats and pantaloons, he’d just say the hell with it.”

  Nathan laughed. “You don’t want to be a lady, then.” “I tried not to be for thirty years, but I reckon I would rather be a woman. In private, anyhow.”

  “The next decent-looking cross street we come to,” Nathan said, “I think it’s time we cut back toward the river. If we don’t find the kind of place we’re lookin’ for, there should be somebody we can ask. In this fancy neck of the woods, we’re likely to be shot, just on general principles.”

  They rode south on Eutarpe, and nine blocks later, found themselves within sight of the Mississippi. As Nathan had expected, there were warehouses, eateries, saloons, and bawdy houses strung out along the river as far as he could see. Far ahead, where the Mississippi fed into the Gulf, the masts of sailing ships were visible.