The Dawn of Fury

by Compton, Ralph

  “Nathan,” Lacy cried, tears streaking her cheeks, “he’s been shot.”

  “Who did it?”

  “We have no idea,” Ezra said. “He’d dragged himself as far as the road, and I found him as I was returning from town. This is Doc Embry. I rode back to town for him, and he’s promised to do what he can.”

  “This is completely beyond any training I’ve had,” said the doctor. “He’s been hit with buckshot. I’ve managed to stop the bleeding. Now it’ll all depend on how deep the lead is, and whether or not it’s damaged any vital organs. For a certainty the lead will have to be removed.”

  “Do what you can, doc,” Nathan said. “If there’s anything you need, any medicine ...”

  “What I have with me will be sufficient,” said Embrv. “All I can do is remove the lead and disinfect the wound. After that, he’ll be up against the same danger as a man with a gunshot wound. The infection could kill him.”

  “God,” Nathan groaned, “how do you get whiskey down a dog?”

  “You don’t,” said the doctor, “and it wouldn’t matter if you could. A dog doesn’t sweat. Right now, he’s more dead than alive, and all I can tell you to do is wrap him in blankets, get him before a roaring fire, and try to raise his body temperature. He can’t sweat, but he can pant. See that he at least does that. In the morning, if he’s still alive, remove the bandage and douse the wound with more disinfectant. Keep him warm until he dies or shows some signs of healing.”

  With that, Doc Embry began the tedious job of probing for the buckshot, and not even Nathan could stomach that. He turned away, recalling the miles he and Cotton Blossom had traveled together, wondering if this trail would be the last one. Josephine left the room for a few minutes and returned with an armload of blankets.

  “These have been retired until there was a need for them,” she said.

  Doctor Embry worked for almost an hour removing all the lead pellets. He doused the wound with disinfectant and bandaged it as best he could. He cleaned his instruments, returned them to his satchel, and then he spoke.

  “He’s more fortunate than I at first thought. He didn’t take a full load, but enough to cost him a lot of blood. Keep him warm, or better yet, hot. If he makes it through tomorrow, he’ll be all right.”

  “I’m obliged, Doc,” said Nathan, insisting that the doctor accept a double eagle.

  When Doctor Embry had gone, Nathan and Ezra carefully wrapped Cotton Blossom in all the blankets, until only his nose was visible.

  “I’ll build a fire at our place,” Nathan said. “You folks have done more than enough, and I’ll stay up with him tonight.”

  “You’ll need hot coffee,” said Josephine. “Build up the fire here in the parlor, and lay him before it. We’ll stay up and keep you company.”

  And that’s the way it was. Nathan kept adding wood to the fire, and he sweated far into the night. Each time he touched Cotton Blossom’s nose, it felt warm. Before dawn he was exhausted, and Ezra took over adding wood to the fire. Nathan slept an hour, and when he awoke, he thought his eyes were deceiving him, for the bundle of blankets was moving! Dropping to his knees, he drew the blankets away from Cotton Blossom’s head, to find the dog looking at him.

  “By God,” Nathan shouted, “he’s gonna make it!”

  Ezra Grimes knelt beside him, feeling Cotton Blossom’s nose.

  “He’s better,” said Ezra, “but he ain’t gonna be lopin’ around for quite a spell.”

  “I expect he thinks we’re trying to roast him alive,” Josephine said. “Ezra, fix up a wide wooden box for him. With that mess of blankets, he ought to be plenty warm in the kitchen, next to the stove. He’s welcome to sleep there until he heals.”

  Cotton Blossom improved and began to eat. Often. It would be a while before he could walk, however. Josephine seemed to enjoy his company.

  “She should have had a houseful of young’uns,” Ezra confided. “We had a son, and he died young.”

  Denver. December 6, 1867.

  It was still early, hours before Nathan would escort Lacy to the Palace Theatre for the first performance of Under the Gaslight. With Cotton Blossom on the mend and time on his hands, Nathan’s mind turned again to the elusive Clinton Foster and Milo Jenks. Damn it, if he failed to find them in Colorado, where would he go from here? Frustrated, he rode into town, determined to visit every saloon there at least one more time. Some of them wouldn’t open until noon. In the first two, he encountered bleary-eyed barkeeps who told him nothing. The third saloon—the Denver Bagnio—had a whorehouse upstairs and a single patron in the saloon. Nathan ordered a beer, and when the barkeep brought it, he posed the same question that had gone unanswered many, many times.

  “I’m looking for a pair of hombres name of Clinton Foster and Milo Jenks. Ever hear of them?”

  “Friend,” said the barkeep, “I don’t remember names worth a damn. Keeps me out of trouble.”

  Nathan finished his beer and was about to go, when the Bagnio’s lone patron caught his eye. Dressed in miner’s garb, he hoisted the bottle, and Nathan thought he was being offered a drink. Out of courtesy, he spoke.

  “Thanks, pardner, but it’s too early for that.”

  “Hell, that wasn’t what I was meanin’. Bring me a bottle, and I’ll tell you about them varmints you was askin’ about. They friends of yours?”

  “No,” Nathan said. “Barkeep, bring this gent another bottle of whatever he’s drinking. I’m buying.”

  “Now,” said Nathan, taking a chair, “what do you have to say that’s worth a bottle of whiskey?”

  “Depends,” he said, “on how much you want to know about Foster an’ Jenks. I can tell you where they was two weeks ago, an’ what they was doin’.”

  “Then tell me.”

  The stranger said nothing, waiting until the barkeep brought the bottle. He pulled the cork with his teeth, filled his glass and emptied it. Only then did he speak.

  “Virginia City, Nevada. Foster an’ Jenks is part of a bunch of thieves that’s robbin’ miners of their gold. Kind of like the Plummer gang, back in Virginia City, Montana Territory, in sixty-three an’ -four. These two-legged varmints wait till you got enough gold in your poke to make it worth their while, an’ then they bushwhack you. Me an’ two other hombres snuck out in the middle of the night an’ escaped ‘em. They purely ain’t no law, an’ these sidewinders hang around the saloons an’ play cards, waitin’ for some fool to wind up his diggings an’ try to leave with his gold. This Foster an’ Jenks, besides bein’ thieves an’ killers, is just poison mean. I seen ’em provoke a man into a fight an’ then beat him to death.”

  “You’re sure about the names, then,” Nathan said.

  “Hell, yes, I’m sure. They claim to be from Missouri, an’ they talk like it. They look like some of the trash that might of deserted durin’ the war. Are you the law?”

  “No,” said Nathan, kicking back his chair. He got up and left before any more questions could be directed at him. He didn’t know the man’s name, but that wasn’t important, for his story had a ring of truth. Nathan rode back to Cherry Creek Manor. Despite his strong lead, he wanted those maps Ames Tilden had promised, even if he had to wait for them.

  Under the Gaslight opened to capacity crowds. It was a major production, with musicians in the orchestra pit. Nathan was impressed. Later, when he and Lacy were alone in their quarters, she made an announcement that didn’t surprise Nathan.

  “Monday, I’m reading for a part in Under the Gaslight. If I’m good enough, I’ll become Eva’s understudy. Do you think I can do it?”

  “Yes,” said Nathan, “I believe you have the feeling for it. I’ve learned that Foster and Jenks, two of the men I’m after, are holed up in a Nevada mining town. Will you look after Cotton Blossom while I’m gone?”

  “If he needs looking after,” said Lacy. “Josephine’s spoiling that dog. Why don’t you wait until after Christmas before you go? We may never spend another Christmas together.”


  “Maybe I will,” Nathan said, knowing he must wait for the maps that Ames Tilden had promised him. “Before I go, I need to talk to Ames Tilden. I aim to leave you a thousand dollars. I’ve deposited most of the rest of it in the bank, and if I don’t return within a year, Tilden will see that you get it.”

  Despite his desire to take up the vengeance trail, Nathan didn’t regret his decision to wait until after Christmas, for in mid-December a blizzard swept in from the west, filling the mountain passes with impossibly high drifts of snow. The temperature didn’t rise, and there was more snow. Three days before Christmas, Nathan stopped by the bank and picked up the government maps Ames Tilden had secured for him. But the bad weather continued, and Nathan could only wait. Not until the second day of January was there a warming trend and relief from snow and freezing temperatures. Nathan decided to travel light, and arranged to leave the pack horse with Ezra. While Ezra and Josephine knew nothing of his purpose in riding away, with Lacy remaining in Denver, they had no reason to question his return. He rode into town and bought enough supplies to last a month, and while there, he bought a newspaper. One item interested him. In October, Ben Thompson had been involved in a near shooting in Austin, Texas. As noted by the press, it was one of the rare occasions when Thompson had acted on the other side of the law. He had drawn his pistol and driven away five thugs who had been attacking a local judge.

  Virginia City, Nevada. January 28, 1868.

  Encountering more snow along the way, Nathan had been forced to hole up and wait out several storms. The very first thing that caught his attention as he rode into the mining town was a prominent sign that read “Sheriff.” His informant had said there was no law. Nathan dismounted and entered the office. The sheriff was a big man, none of it fat. He carried a tied-down Colt on his left hip, and a Winchester leaned against the wall. Nathan introduced himself.

  “Sheriff Ab Dupree. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m lookin’ for a pair of hombres,” said Nathan. “Jenks and Foster by name.”

  “Friends of yours?” Dupree asked. His eyes had turned cold.

  “No,” said Nathan. “I aim to kill them both.”

  “I wish you luck,” Dupree said, relaxing. “We strung up nine of the no-account coyotes just before Christmas. Thieves and killers, every one, and my one regret is that Jenks and Foster—if that’s their names—escaped.”

  Discouraged, Nathan rode out, bound for Gold Hill.

  Gold Hill, Nevada. February 2, 1868.

  “Them varmints wouldn’t of stopped here,” Nathan was told. “Try Tonopah, Callville, or Pioche. They’re new camps, an’ likely no law.”

  Callville, Nevada. March 10, 1868.

  Nathan rode to Tonopah and Pioche, but learned nothing of Jenks and Foster until he reached Callville, far to the south, on the bank of the Colorado. It was a small camp, all but played out, and Nathan found the miners angry.

  “Hell, yes, they was here,” Nathan was told. “They hung around the cafe and the saloon, learnin’ what they could. Three miners was dry gulched in two days, losin’ their gold and their lives.”

  “Which way did they go when they left here?” Nathan asked.

  “The bastards crossed the river an’ rode into Arizona,” a miner said. “We got up a posse an’ went after ’em, but they lost us.”

  Nathan studied the map of Arizona Ames Tilden had supplied. While there were many mines marked on the map, Tilden had cautioned that some of them had probably played out. Wearly, Nathan mounted and rode across the Colorado.

  Tombstone, Arizona. April I5, 1868.

  Wearily, Nathan dismounted before the sheriff’s office. He had ridden into almost two dozen mining camps without finding a trace of the men he was seeking. Not surprising, he thought, for most of the camps were small pickings, not wealthy enough to attract the murderous Jenks and Foster.

  “They were here,” said Sheriff Lon Hankins. “We ain’t a mining town, but we got a strong bank, and we’ve learned to recognize bank robbers before they clean us out. We met these varmints with a dose of lead, and if they hadn’t hit us at closin’ time, we’d have run ‘em down. We got some lead in ’em, but nothin’ serious enough to stop ‘em. They hung on until dark, and that’s when we lost ’em. They rode north.”

  There had been no rain, and Nathan managed to pick up the northbound trail of two horsemen. While he had no assurance the riders he was trailing were the elusive Jenks and Foster, he had no other leads. Near the ashes of a recent fire, he found a bloody bandanna, proof enough that at least one of the men had been wounded. Nathan’s spirits rose. While the pair had eluded him so far, they were on the run. They had avoided villages and isolated ranches, and seemed to have some destination in mind. Nathan studied his map of Arizona, and from landmarks, decided the fugitives had crossed into northwestern New Mexico Territory. His heart leaped. Could they be bound for Denver? But that didn’t seem possible. The trail continued almost due east, and when it reached a river, Nathan reined up, searching his memory. While studying a map of the southwest, he had noticed that the famed Rio Grande—which became the border between Texas and Mexico—had its beginning in southern Colorado. Could this be the Rio Grande? The trail Nathan was following turned due north, following the river.

  “By God,” said Nathan aloud, “they’re headed straight for that little town in southern Colorado, Ciudad de Oro.”

  Denver, Colorado Territory. April 1, 1868.

  Lacy Mayfield and Eva Barton had just left the Palace Theatre, having made arrangements for Lacy’s debut on stage the next Friday.

  “God,” Lacy said, “I’m scared to death. I wish Nathan was here for this.”

  “Perhaps it’s better that he isn’t,” said Eva. “When he returns, you’ll have a surprise for him.”

  While Nathan was gone, Lacy had been sharing a room with Eva, and from time to time, Cotton Blossom joined them. It had taken him a month to gain the use of his hindquarters. Now he often sat near the barn, waiting, for he knew that when Nathan returned, he would be riding the black horse. Sometimes, Ezra or Josephine would lure Cotton Blossom into the kitchen, feed him, and he would spend the night beside the stove. Lacy had begun reading the local newspaper, for it carried accounts of Indian raids, such as those by Quanah Parker and his Comanches in West Texas, of doings at the various forts, of new diggings in Montana and Nevada Territories, and of outlaws who had been killed or captured. Ezra found her at the table in the kitchen, with a cup of coffee and the newspaper.

  “Anything good happening?” Ezra asked.

  “If there is,” said Lacy, “I haven’t found it. In January, in California, a man named John Morco was beating his wife. Four men came to her rescue, and this Morco murdered them all. In March, the James and Younger gangs robbed the Southern Bank of Kentucky, in Russellville.”

  She folded the newspaper and put it aside. She always read it with the hope there might be some word of Nathan Stone, yet fearing that if there was, it would chronicle his death.

  Ciudad de Oro, Colorado Territory. May 3, 1868.

  Ignoring the rest of the town, Nathan reined up before the Oro Peso Saloon. On the glass window, lettered in fancy red and gold script, Nathan read: “Law Offices and Court Room—Judge Elijah Tewksbury.” Dismounting, he looped the reins of his horse over the hitch rail and stepped through the swinging doors into the saloon. Nathan counted six men, one of them the barkeep. He stood with his hands on the bar, while the five men gathered at an oval table forgot their poker hands. Nathan stepped to his left, away from the bar, away from the swinging doors, his back to the wall. Then he spoke.

  “I’m looking for Clinton Foster and Milo Jenks.”

  The silence became deadly, the only sound being the distant clang of a blacksmith’s hammer. One of the men facing Nathan backed his chair away from the table, leading several of the others to do the same. The barkeep might have a sawed-off shotgun beneath the bar, lethal at close range, and it was a risk Nathan Stone couldn’t
afford to take. He spoke again.

  “I want Foster and Jenks, nobody else. But I’ll kill any man backing their play.”

  Slowly the first man who had backed away from the table stood up, and when none of his comrades moved, Nathan knew he had a chance. He waited for the other man to draw, and when he did, Nathan shot him, slamming him into his chair and tipping it over backwards. Nobody moved, and Nathan kept the Colt steady. Suddenly a door at the far end of the bar opened, and a man who had to be Judge Elijah Tewksbury stepped into the room. His dress consisted of a long swallowtail coat, dark trousers, black polished boots, and a white boiled shirt behind a black string tie.

  “I am Judge Elijah Tewksbury,” he said in a bullfrog voice. “This is a peaceful town. Who are you, and what is the meaning of this?”

  “I came here looking for Clinton Foster and Milo Jenks,” said Nathan. “They’re a pair of killers. One of them just drew on me and I shot him. Now who is the varmint I just shot, and where’s the other one?”

  “The man you just shot is Clinton Foster,” Tewksbury said. “At least, that’s how we knew him. We know nothing of his past. Milo Jenks rode out a week ago. He was asked to leave, and I have no idea where he went. Do any of you know?”

  “When they come here,” said one of the men, “they rode in from the south. I remember Jenks talkin’ about a woman he knowed in Austin, Texas. Kept sayin’ he aimed to go there.”