“God,” he said, getting to his feet, “I was dead for sleep. I ..”
The shot seemed loud in the morning stillness, and Lambert was driven to his knees when the slug struck him. A second slug barely missed Nathan and screamed off a rock. Nathan rolled to his feet, his right-hand Colt spitting lead. With his left hand he grabbed his Winchester, and in a winding run, headed for a thicket where there were still traces of powder smoke. Two more shots sang over Nathan’s head. Holstering the Colt, he fired the Winchester as rapidly as he could lever shells into the chamber.
Chapter 21
The bushwhacker had been forced to leave his horse some distance away, lest the animal nicker and reveal his presence. Now, forced to flee the withering fire from Nathan’s Winchester, the man’s headlong flight through brush and dead leaves allowed Nathan to follow at a comfortable trot. When Nathan emerged from the thicket, he spotted his quarry with a boot in the stirrup, preparing to mount a blue roan. Nathan fired twice, the second shot snatching away the rider’s hat.
“Step into that saddle,” Nathan shouted, “and I’ll shoot you out of it.”
There was no more bluff in Nathan Stone’s voice than there had been in his shooting. The surly bushwhacker backed away from the horse, his hands shoulder high. He was dressed like a cowboy, from flop hat to runover boots. There was a rifle in his saddle boot and a Colt on his right hip.
“With your thumb and finger, pull that pistol and drop it,” Nathan said.
That order was obeyed and Nathan advanced until he was behind the horse.
“Now,” said Nathan, “you walk back the way you just come, and you do it slow. I don’t usually shoot a man in the back, but I make exceptions for bushwhacking varmints like you.”
Slowly they made their way back to camp. Lambert had his shirt off, but had been unable to deal with the wound. The lead had struck him in the arm, just below his left shoulder. He eyed Nathan’s captive grimly before he spoke.
“You should have kept running, Jake. There’s a rope waiting for you in Fort Smith.”
“Fer bank robbery?” Jake bawled. “Wasn’t me shot that bank clerk.”
“You’ll have to convince the judge of that,” said Lambert.
“He’s got a horse over yonder beyond that thicket,” Nathan said. “I’ll go after it when this skunk’s been hogtied and I’ve seen to your wound.”
While Lambert kept his Colt handy, Nathan took strong rope and, standing Jake Yeager next to a pine, bound his wrists securely behind the tree.
“Ain’t you gonna tie my feet too?” Yeager asked.
“One more word from you,” said Nathan, “and I’ll do better than that. I’ll stuff a horse apple in your mouth.”
Finished with the outlaw, Nathan used the coffeepot to heat water, and when it was ready, he cleansed Lambert’s wound. Then, using part of an old shirt, he bound it as best he could.
“I don’t have any whiskey,” Nathan said. “You’ll need something to kill the infection, but we should reach Fort Smith before it becomes a problem.”
“I’m obliged,” said Lambert. “If you want to go ahead with that coffee, I can go fetch Jake’s horse.”
Nathan had built up the fire and had the coffee boiling when the lawman returned with Jake Yeager’s dun. Lambert had also recovered the outlaw’s Colt and had slipped it under his belt. Nathan fried bacon, and that, with hard biscuits and hot coffee, was their breakfast. Nathan fed Cotton Blossom what was left of the bacon.
“You’d feed a damn dog,” Yeager said bitterly, “an’ let me go without.”
“Jake,” said Lambert, “this dog—or any other—stands considerably taller than you.”
In deference to Lambert’s wound, Nathan saddled the horses. When he had his packhorse loaded, he then loaded the dead Jabbo on his horse and bound him to his saddle. Calming the horse was difficult, for the animal had no liking for its burden. Nathan then untied Jake Yeager and forced him to mount the dun. He bound Yeager’s hands behind him and tied a lead rope to the man’s saddle horn. They then rode north, Nathan leading out, with Jake Yeager’s mount following on a lead rope. Lambert came behind Jake, leading the horse bearing Jabbo Yeager’s body. They stopped every hour or so to rest the horses, untying Jake long enough for the surly gunman to walk about and stretch his cramped arms. Big gray clouds swept in from the southwest, and shortly after midday a cold, drizzling rain began. The last time they stopped to rest the horses, Lambert took the opportunity to speak to Nathan.
“I’d appreciate you goin’ with me when I take Jake in. He’ll try and weasel his way out of killin’ that bank teller, but I aim to see that he gets charged with tryin’ to gun us down from ambush. I want the court to take your testimony. Besides, you won’t be doin’ it for nothin’. You got a five-hundred-dollar bounty comin’ for capturing Jake.”
“I’ll testify,” Nathan said, “but I don’t want the bounty. Jake’s your prisoner.”
They rode on, and when the wind rose, the rain seemed even colder. It was dark when they finally reached Fort Smith. The marshal’s office and the jail were in the courthouse basement. Nathan helped Jake Yeager to dismount, and with Lambert guiding him inside, Nathan loosened the bonds that secured the dead Jabbo to his saddle. He then shouldered the sodden, stinking corpse and followed Russ Lambert into the marshal’s office. An angry old man of maybe sixty leaned across a desk glaring at Deputy U.S. Marshal Lambert, and when Nathan appeared with the dead outlaw, the old-timer began shouting.
“Damn it, Lambert, you come sloppin’ in here knowin’ ever‘body’s gone fer the day, bringing’ two outlaws, one of ’em dead and a-stinking. Jist what in hell am I s‘posed to do with ’em till mornin’? S’pose they ... he escapes durin’ the night?”
“Not my problem, Simpkins,” said Lambert. “You’re in charge here for the night, and all I want from you is a receipt for this pair, showin’ that I brought ’em in. I’m sopping wet, exhausted, cold, hungry, and I’ve been shot, so my patience is wearin’ damn thin. You write me that receipt, and you do it now.”
Simpkins took a receipt book from a desk drawer and began to write. For lack of a better place, Nathan dropped the body of Jabbo Yeager on the floor directly before Simpkins’ desk. Finished, he passed the receipt to Lambert and fixed his horrified eyes on the dead outlaw before him.
“You’re not leaving him ... there?”
“Why not?” Nathan said. “I’ve been totin’ the varmint around all day. It’s your turn.”
Lambert laughed when he had closed the door behind them. “That grouchy old scutter gets twenty dollars a month for settin’ in there where it’s warm and dry. When he finally has to get off his hunkers and do something, he’s bawlin’ like a fresh-cut calf.”
“You’d best find a doc and have that wound tended to,” said Nathan. “Me, I want grub, plenty of hot coffee, and a warm bed. Where can I find a bunk and grub that Cotton Blossom’s welcome?”
“Ma Dollar’s boardin’ house,” Lambert said, “and she owns the cafe next door too. There’s a livery across the street. I always take a room at Ma’s place when I’m in town. Doc Avery lives there too, and he’ll patch me up. It’s too early for him to be drunk. Let’s take the horses to the livery, and then we’ll go to Ma’s.”
“You go on and let the doc look at that wound,” said Nathan. “Tell the lady of the house I’ll want a room for me and my dog. I’ll be there when I’ve seen to the horses. What about the horses the Yeagers were riding?”
“Take them too,” Lambert said. “I reckon the court will confiscate them.”
Nathan led his two horses, Lambert’s, and the two that had belonged to the Yeagers into the welcome shelter of the livery. A boy of maybe fifteen sat on a stool beneath a lighted lantern that hung on the livery’s log wall.
“It’s worth fifty cents apiece to me to have these horses all rubbed down, watered, and grained,” Nathan said. “Would you be willing to do it?”
“Yes, sir,” the boy replied eag
erly.
“Bueno,” said Nathan. “I’ll pay you now, because I’m pretty well give out. When you’re done, stall them for the night and we’ll settle up tomorrow. Do you have a safe place for the saddles and my packsaddle?”
“Tack room,” the boy said. “I’ll see to them.”
Nathan took his saddlebags, and with Cotton Blossom following, made his way to the boardinghouse across the street. Cotton Blossom didn’t much like boardinghouses, but trusting Nathan, he went in. Ma Dollar proved to be in her sixties, probably. She greeted Nathan warmly and spoke to Cotton Blossom.
“We’ll likely be here a few days, ma’am,” Nathan said.
“It’s a dollar a night,” said Ma, “or five dollars for seven days.”
“I’ll pay for a week, then,” Nathan said. “This is my dog, Cotton Blossom. It’s all right if he stays with me?”
“Long as he don’t bark or make a mess, he’s welcome. You’re right next to Deputy Lambert. Room three, down the hall.”
The door to Lambert’s room was open and the lawman was struggling into a clean shirt. The doctor was preparing to leave.
“Soon as I change into dry clothes, I’ll be ready to try that cafe grub,” said Nathan. When he had changed, he took his saddlebags with him, for they contained the leather sack with the gold Eulie had left him.
“Tomorrow morning,” Lambert said, as they walked next door to the cafe, “we’ll talk to the judge and he can hear your testimony. He may want it in writing, unless you plan to be around for a while.”
“I haven’t made up my mind as to how long I’ll be here,” said Nathan.
“If you’ve got nothin’ better to do and you’ll work cheap, I can get you a deputy marshal’s badge,” Lambert said. “Couple of weeks back, Cullen Baker and his bunch had to skeedaddle out of Texas, and they rode into our tern-tory. Would you believe we was so damn short-handed the court didn’t have nobody to send? Time we had a man that could ride south, the varmints was gone again.”
“I’ve heard of them,” Nathan said, careful not to betray his excitement. “Do they bother you often?”
“Often enough,” said Lambert. “Two or three times a year, anyhow. All depends on what Baker’s done in Texas. If he’s killed somebody, then he’ll ride across the line and hole up somewhere to the south of here. It takes a while before he can ride back to Texas.”
“I’ve never been a peace officer before,” Nathan said. “Maybe I’ll try it, if the court will have me.”
“Long as you didn’t desert the Union army and you ain’t wanted by the law,” said Lambert, “you got yourself a job.”
The rain had become more intense and the cafe had few customers. Nathan and Lambert entered, and before they took a table, Nathan spoke to the cook about Cotton Blossom.
“Just keep him near you,” the genial cook said. “With both of you as payin’ customers, the dog eats for free, if he don’t mind beef scraps.”
Nathan laughed. “He never complains. Muchas gracias.”
After a meal of roast beef, potatoes, onions, biscuits, apple pie, and hot coffee, Nathan and Lambert returned to Ma Dollar’s boardinghouse. The rain hadn’t let up, and Nathan was thankful for a roof over his head. He blew out the lamp, and with Cotton Blossom on the rug beside the bed, the two of them were soon asleep.
Fort Smith, Arkansas. January 8, 1867.
Nathan was pulling on his boots when Russ Lambert knocked on the door.
“I’m goin’ to breakfast,” Lambert said. “I thought you might be up and about. The courthouse opens at nine.”
“After a bit of grub and some hot coffee, there’s a small chance I’d feel human,” said Nathan. “Let’s go eat.”
Nathan waited until they were down to final cups of coffee before speaking what was on his mind.
“When there are outlaws or killers on the run, who decides which lawman goes after them? Why did the court choose you to go after the Yeagers?”
“The court had no choice,” Lambert said, “and neither did I. Like I told you, we’re shorthanded, and I was the only deputy in town. If the need arose for a lawman and there was two of us here, one of us would have the chance to volunteer. If neither of us did, the court would send the man who had been inactive the longest.”
“I reckon it ain’t often you have help on a chase, then,” said Nathan.
“Often, hell,” Lambert scoffed. “I been behind this badge three years come April, and I never had any help. Anyway, not till you come along,” he added hastily.
By the time they reached the courthouse, the clouds had broken up and a mild sun peeked through.
“By now,” said Lambert, “Judge Corbin will have read Simpkins’s report. The judge will want to talk to you, but let me talk to him first.”
Nathan waited, thinking of the decision he had made. From what Lambert had told him, it seemed just a matter of time until Cullen Baker’s nefarious activities in Texas would force him and his gang back into Arkansas. On his own, Nathan had no idea where he might find Baker and the scar-faced man, Tobe Snider, but as a lawman, Nathan would have an edge. With the law having free access to the telegraph, Baker’s activities and whereabouts could be reported within minutes. At that moment, Lambert left Judge Corbin’s office and beckoned to Nathan.
“Go on in,” said Lambert. “Room 112. I’ll wait in the lobby.”
Judge Corbin proved to be a tall, graying man, probably in his fifties. He arose behind his desk and extended his hand.
“I’m Elliott Corbin.”
“My pleasure,” Nathan said. “I’m Nathan Stone.”
“Take a chair, Nathan,” said Corbin. “First, I want to thank you for coming to the aid of Deputy U.S. Marshal Lambert. It’s a rare act of courage, taking a man alive when he’s doing his best to kill you.”
“I take no pleasure in killing a man,” Nathan said, “unless he won’t have it any other way.” Nathan felt a twinge of guilt, for that was no longer true. He had begun to change with the death of French Stumberg.
“Mr. Lambert tells me you’re considering applying for a position as a deputy U.S. marshal. I suppose he has told you what it involves and the legal stipulations.”
“He has,” said Nathan. “I’ve never deserted from the army and I’m not wanted by the law. To be honest, I’ve been making my living as a house dealer. A man gets almighty tired sleeping days and spending his nights in saloons.”
“I can appreciate that,” Corbin said. “Based on what you’ve told me, I am prepared to swear you in as a Deputy United States Marshal.”
Nathan placed his hand on the Bible and repeated the short oath as the judge spoke the words. When it was over, Corbin took a silver badge from a desk drawer and handed it to Nathan. He again extended his hand and Nathan took it.
“There are no assignments at the moment,” said Corbin, “but that’s subject to change at any time. Your time is your own as long as you’re available when you’re needed.”
“I have a room at Ma Dollar’s,” Nathan said.
Russ Lambert was waiting, and Nathan grinned, flashing the star that he held in his hand.
“Pin it on,” said Lambert, “so’s the owlhoots have somethin’ to shoot at.”
Weeks passed, and five times Nathan Stone rode after thieves and killers. Only one escaped, fleeing into Indian Territory. Eight men were returned to Fort Smith, six of them alive. Nathan earned almost a thousand dollars in bounties, but that wasn’t what he sought. Not until the first of June was his patience rewarded. He was at Ma Dollar’s, awaiting orders, when Judge Corbin sent for him.
“Nathan,” Corbin said, “we just got word by telegraph that Cullen Baker’s killed a man in Cass County, Texas. As usual, he’s expected to ride across the Red and hole up in Arkansas. You have an admirable record as an officer of the law, but don’t take any chances. While I don’t encourage killing, I’m arming you with execution warrants for Baker and Snider. As for any others, you’ll have to use your own judgment. Good luck.�
�
Nathan rode out within the hour, leading his packhorse, Cotton Blossom loping on ahead. They were perhaps a hundred and fifty miles north of where the Red crossed the line from Texas into Arkansas. From a map in the judge’s office, Nathan had discovered that Baker wasn’t more than a day’s ride from his crossing of the Red, while Nathan must ride hard to reach the same point in two days. Nathan had ridden through that part of the country when he had first come to Fort Smith, and there were brakes along the Red that would conceal a tribe of Indians. Taking the advice of Russ Lambert, Nathan had removed his badge, carrying it in his pocket. It was a sensible precaution for a lawman seeking wanted men, lest he be gunned down on sight. Nathan rode until long after dark, stretching the first day as much as he could. The next morning, after a hurried breakfast, he rode out at first light.
“Cotton Blossom,” Nathan said, “you run on ahead and keep your nose to the ground. I can’t afford any surprises.”
While the hound didn’t understand Nathan’s specific words, he possessed an inherent distrust of strangers. If he saw or heard other riders, he would consider them enemies until Nathan had passed judgment. Nathan’s second day on the trail would be short, as he had planned, and as he neared the Red, he slowed the gait of his horse. From what he had learned about Cullen Baker, the renegade wouldn’t ride far north of the river. He was likely to hole up under an overhang where he couldn’t easily be found, with an eye to defense. Nathan’ best—and perhaps only—possibility lay in cutting Baker’s trail. With that in mind, he found a shallow place and crossed to the south bank of the Red. There was one thing of which he wasn’t sure, an element that didn’t set easy on his mind. He didn’t know exactly where Baker would cross the Red. Nathan estimated he was at least a dozen miles east of the Texas-Arkansas line, and one thing in his favor had been the recent rain, for it would be all but impossible for a rider to conceal the trail left by his horse. Unfortunately, clouds sweeping in from the west promised more rain, and unless Nathan found the trail he was seeking before dark, it would be rained out before the dawn.
The Dawn of Fury Page 28