“I am asking you to leave,” Tewksbury said. “Immediately.”
Nathan said nothing. Keeping his Colt cocked and ready, he moved to his right and backed toward the doors. Knowing the risk, he backed out of the saloon. Once he was clear of the swinging doors, he whirled with his back to the wall. Immediately there was the clamor of voices and the thump of boots, and Nathan fired once beneath the swinging doors. The lead slammed into the saloon floor and the activity ceased. His Colt ready and his eyes on the door, he seized the reins and mounted his horse. He sidestepped the black away from the door and kicked it into a fast gallop, riding south.
Milo Jenks hadn’t shared Clinton Foster’s liking for the seclusion of the Ciudad de Oro, and when Jenks had fought with another of Tewksbury’s men, he had willfully allowed himself to be driven out. From there he had ridden to Fort Dodge, taking with him two thousand dollars in gold, his share of the money he and Foster had accumulated from various robberies. Let Foster lay around Tewksbury’s saloon and drink himself broke. While Jenks didn’t know exactly what he was looking for, he quickly decided Fort Dodge wasn’t it. It was no better than Ciudad de Oro, and possessed the added disadvantage of an eagle-eyed marshal who viewed strangers with suspicion. Jenks rode west, bound for Denver. There he made the acquaintance of Laura Evans, owner of the Bagnio Saloon, and after two weeks of sharing her bed, invested his two thousand dollars. A man could do worse than owning part of a saloon in a boom town, especially when there was a thriving whorehouse upstairs ...
Riding far enough south to be sure he wasn’t being followed, Nathan reined up to rest the black and to consider what he had learned. Should he ride on to Austin, with no word to Lacy? Already two days out of Denver, if he returned here, it would cost him another two days. Besides, Lacy couldn’t go with him. Tomorrow she would be reading for a part in Under the Gaslight, and the wounded Cotton Blossom might be unable to travel for a month. As he recalled, his last words to Lacy had cautioned that he could be gone for as long as a year. With that possibility in mind, he had left her money enough for just such an absence. He rode south, bound for Austin.
Santa Fe, New Mexico Territory. May 5, 1868.
Nathan rode into Santa Fe, New Mexico Territory at sundown, two days south of Ciudad de Oro. After stabling his horse, he found a restaurant and ordered a platter of ham and eggs. Finishing that, he ordered a second one. His hunger satisfied, he got himself a hotel room and slept soundly until first light. Arising, he returned to the restaurant and had breakfast. Next to his hotel, the Santa Fe Saloon did a thriving business around the clock. It offered drinks of all kinds—domestic and imported—and there was a trio of billiard tables. Early as it was, there was a poker game in progress, with four men pitting their skills against those of a house dealer. Despite Eulie’s warning, Nathan still thrilled to a fast-moving saloon game, the captivating flutter of the shuffled cards, the clink of glasses. Mostly to justify his being there, he sidled over and questioned the barkeep.
“I’m looking for an hombre name of Milo Jenks. Have you maybe seen or heard of him?”
“No. Not much goin’ on during my shift. Talk to the night men.”
Nathan returned to his room for his saddlebags. With Jenks riding to Austin, Nathan thought it unlikely that he would remain in any town for more than a night, and just as unlikely that he would be remembered. However, it required only a little time to inquire along the way, and Nathan did exactly that in each town or village through which he passed.
When Nathan reached the point in the Rio Grande where the river veered due south, he rode southeast, knowing this would eventually put him in Texas. If his sense of direction hadn’t failed him entirely, somewhere in southwest Texas he would come up on the Rio Colorado. He could then follow it the rest of the way, for the river flowed through Austin on its way to the Gulf of Mexico. Three days after leaving the Rio Grande, Nathan reached what he believed must be the Rio Colorado.27 It was sluggish and shallow, but it reached a width and depth worthy of its name as it progressed. Nathan rode all that day and the next, uncertain as to exactly where he was, but sure of his direction. He moved away from the river at night, carefully dousing his fire, lest it draw the unwelcome attention of marauding Comanches. This being Nathan’s first time through west Texas, it seemed sparsely populated, if at all.
At the end of his second day on the Colorado, he was about to unsaddle his horse when there came the unmistakable sound of gunfire somewhere to the south. While it wasn’t his fight, there was the possibility that some poor soul was pinned down by Indians, and a man with a Winchester might make a difference. There were no more shots, and Nathan reined up when he heard cursing. Drawing his Winchester from the boot, he cocked it and trotted his horse ahead until he came upon seven men dressed in Union blue. One of them—a private—was using a doubled lariat to beat a half-naked man who lay face down on the ground.
“That’s enough,” Nathan said. “You’re exceeding the limits of military discipline.”
“I am Captain Derrick,” the one man in officer’s uniform said, “and this is none of your business. Ride on, or you’ll be placed under military arrest and taken to the guard house at Fort Concho. Carry on, Private.”
The private drew back for another blow with the lariat only to have a slug from Nathan’s Winchester rip through the flesh of his upraised arm. But the impromptu act cost Nathan, for one of the soldiers shot him out of the saddle. His Winchester was torn from his hand, and his entire shoulder and right arm was numb. He had been hit high up, beneath the collar bone.
“Get up,” Captain Derrick ordered. “Sergeant Webber, relieve this man of his weapons and assist him in mounting. Privates Emmons and Taylor, lash the deserter across his saddle.”
Webber took Nathan’s Winchester and his cartridge belt with its twin Colts. Nathan watched as Emmons and Taylor hoisted the beaten man across his saddle. All the blood hadn’t come from the beating. The poor devil had been shot at least twice. In the back. Captain Derrick regarded Nathan with hard, cruel eyes. Finally he spoke.
“You, sir, are under military arrest. You will be taken to Fort Concho, given medical attention and held there until I decide your punishment.”
Chapter 26
Fort Concho, Texas. May 11, 1868.
The column rode south, the horses of both captives on lead ropes. Nathan couldn’t believe this was happening, couldn’t believe the cruelty he had witnessed, couldn’t believe these men were Union soldiers. None of the Unionists he had known—even the Yankee guards at Libby Prison—had been insensitive and cruel. The more certain he became that these men were imposters, the more determined he became to undo their scheme and destroy them. But first he must have his wound tended, for the shock had worn off and the pain swept through him in waves. The fort, when they reached it, looked newly constructed, and was on the bank of a river. On the farthest bank, downstream from the fort, was a cluster of log buildings that looked like the beginning of a town.28
Once inside the gates, they proceeded to a log hut that was used as a dispensary.
“Dismount,” Captain Derrick said, his eyes on Nathan. He then turned to his men. “Emmons, you and Taylor take the deserter inside and have him seen to.”
“Hell,” said one of the privates, “he looks dead.”
“That’ll be for the doc to say,” Captain Derrick said. “Now, by God, take him inside.”
“Now,” said Derrick, turning back to Nathan, “who are you and where were you going?”
“I’m Nathan Stone and I’m bound for Austin. I’m going there to join the Rangers.”
“You’re lying.”
“You asked,” Nathan said, “and I told you. Captain Jennings is expecting me.”
“I can telegraph Austin and find out.”
“Do that,” said Nathan. “Captain Jennings knows me well.”
Derrick looked undecided and Nathan pressed his advantage by not saying another word. Finally Derrick flung open the door to the dispensary.
“Get in there,” he said. “I’ll deal with you later.” Nathan stepped into the room, Derrick behind him. Privates Emmons and Taylor leaned against the wall. The man accused of desertion lay face down on a bunk. The man working over him wore only an undershirt and Union blue trousers. He had the look of a soldier and the dexterity of a doctor.
“Here’s another for you, sawbones,” Derrick said.
The doctor said nothing. Derrick stalked around to the other side of the bunk until he was facing the medic.
“I’m talking to you, by God,” Derrick shouted.
“Yes, sir. I heard you, sir,” said the doctor coldly. He saluted crudely with his bloody left hand.
Privates Emmons and Taylor were grinning widely until Derrick turned to them, changing their expressions entirely.
“Get the hell out of here,” Derrick said. “Unsaddle my horse and the mounts of the two prisoners.”
“You,” he said, pointing to Nathan, “will remain here until your wound has been treated. Then you will be taken to the guardhouse. There will be an armed guard outside the door and all sentries have been instructed to shoot to kill.” He left, closing the door behind him.
“I’ll get to you as soon as I can,” said the medic, looking at Nathan for the first time. “This man is near death.”
“I know,” Nathan said. “They were beating him with a doubled lariat when I stopped them.”
“Your mistake,” said the doctor. “He’s not going to make it, and you’re trapped here with the rest of us.”
“I think I’ve earned the right to know what the hell’s going on here,” Nathan said. “As much as you can tell me, anyhow. I’m Nathan Stone.”
“I’m Lieutenant Calloway,” said the doctor, “and this post has been overrun by outlaws. Renegades. The only reason I’m not in the guardhouse with the others is because I’m needed here in the dispensary. They captured the fort a week ago, and the man I’m working on now is the third they’ve shot. The other two—a corporal and a private—are dead.”
“God Almighty,” Nathan said, “every man on the post is locked up?”
“Eighteen soldiers,” said the doctor. “The civilians needed for various duties are free, but they’re living in fear of their lives. Sutton, here, is the blacksmith. They have made an example of him.”
“I can’t believe they were allowed to just ride in and take over.”
“If any of us live through this,” Lieutenant Calloway said, “I expect we will all be cashiered out of the service. That is, if we’re not laughed out. Derrick and his bunch rode in a week ago yesterday. They all were in Union blue, and that got them through the gate. They moved quickly, taking our post commander, Colonel O’Neal, prisoner. They then threatened to kill him unless the rest of us surrendered our weapons.”
“What in tarnation do they have in mind?”
“None of them has talked,” said Lieutenant Calloway, “but I have my own ideas. The last week in June, some of the brass from Washington will come to Fort Worth. During July, they’ll be conducting post inspections here, at San Antonio and at Houston. They’ll be traveling with the same military escort that brings our payroll. The difference is, this will be the payroll for all three outposts. They’ll be coming here first. That’s why I believe they’ve taken over this post. The payroll for any one fort might not be worth the risk, but the payroll for three of them should be more than ten thousand.”
“By God,” Nathan said, “that has to be what they have in mind, but hell, there’s time to turn this around.”
“When you figure it out,” said Lieutenant Calloway, “I’m sure every man on this post will be eternally grateful. Now take off your shirt and stretch out on the other bunk. Maybe I’ll have better luck with you. Come sundown, Mr. Sutton will no longer be with us.”
Lieutenant Calloway didn’t have to probe for the lead, for it had gone on through. He applied disinfectant and bound Nathan’s wound.
“No bones broken,” Calloway said. “I’m going to ask Derrick to allow you to remain here until tomorrow. There’ll likely be some fever and you’ll need to sweat out the infection. I have most of a quart of whiskey.”
“Captain Derrick didn’t strike me as a man known for his compassion,” said Nathan.
“Compassion-wise,” Lieutenant Calloway said, “he’s just a few notches below a rattlesnake. That is, of course, unless he has some reason for wanting you kept alive.”
“He just might have such a reason,” said Nathan. “Do you have the telegraph here, and a man who can operate it?”
“We have it,” Lieutenant Calloway replied, “and Corporal Drago knows the code. They brought him out of the guardhouse once to answer a telegram sent to Colonel O’Neal.”
“Wound or not,” said Nathan, “I need to get into that guardhouse just as soon as I can. I can get us out of this, but I must talk to Corporal Drago and figure some way for us to use that telegraph.”
Lieutenant Calloway almost smiled, but something in Nathan’s Stone’s ice-blue eyes changed his mind. He spoke.
“I don’t really know you. I don’t know what influence you have, but I believe you’re serious. God knows, we need a miracle, and maybe you’re it. If there’s anything I can do, I’ll side you till hell freezes.”
Nathan was lying on the bunk when Captain Derrick returned. He ignored Nathan, turning his attention to Lieutenant Calloway.
“Sutton won’t last out the day,” Calloway said. “The other man should remain here at least until in the morning. There may be infection that could kill him.”
“Keep him here, then,” said Derrick, and he left.
“You do have something going for you,” Lieutenant Calloway said.
Nathan said nothing. Calloway had given him some laudanum and he slept.
Lieutenant Calloway looked in on Nathan between midnight and dawn. The fever was there, but slight, and Nathan forced down a third of the whiskey Calloway had saved for just such a purpose. Nathan arose at dawn, so stiff and sore he could hardly move. He went with Lieutenant Calloway to the mess hall, where he had breakfast. The renegade, Captain Derrick was there and he wasted no time approaching Nathan. With him was one of his men, dressed as a private and armed with a Winchester. They took Nathan at riflepoint to the guardhouse. It was a sturdy structure, built of logs, with a wooden outer door and an inside door of steel bars. Behind Nathan they locked the doors.
Some of the captive soldiers sat on hard wooden bunks, while the others sat on the floor, their backs to the wall. The only light came in through a trio of small windows, and they too were barred. The men said nothing, but their anxious eyes were on Nathan. He spoke.
“I’m Nathan Stone,” he said. “Yesterday, I stopped some varmints wearin’ soldier blue from beating a man they’d shot. One of them shot me, and I spent last night in your dispensary. Lieutenant Calloway told me how these outlaws captured your post. Do you have any plans for busting out of here?”
“I am Colonel O’Neal,” said a graying man with a scabbed wound over his eye. “It’s a disgrace the way they rode in here and took us without firing a shot, and I’m sorry to say that we’ve been in here for a week without devising any sensible plan of escape. Sutton tried to escape, to bring help.”
“Sutton died yesterday, in the dispensary,” Nathan said.
“I was afraid of that,” said O’Neal.
“Calloway believes these men have taken over the post with the intention of stealing a military payroll due here sometime next month,” Nathan said. “Do you agree with his thinking?”
“Yes,” said O’Neal. “I haven’t spoken to him since the takeover, but we have had plenty of time to consider their motivation. How the hell did they know of this payroll, of this post inspection? Damn it, they rode in here less than a week after I had received word of it myself. There will be officials from Washington, so the escort will number perhaps a dozen soldiers, but that won’t be nearly enough. There are twenty-two of these renegades, and th
eir uniforms will give them all the edge they’ll need.”
“If we can’t break out of here,” Nathan said, “then we’ll have to send for help. We’ll use the telegraph.”
“I’d like to know how you aim to do that,” said a corporal.
“Do any of these renegades know how to operate the telegraph?” Nathan asked.
“We don’t think so,” said Colonel O’Neal. “Corporal Drago is our post telegrapher, and he’s had to answer several telegrams directed to me. If they had a man who knows the code, they wouldn’t need Drago.”
“That makes sense,” Nathan said. “Which of you is Drago?”
“I am,” said the corporal who had questioned Nathan’s intention to use the telegraph to send for help.
“Drago,” Nathan said, “if none of them understands the code, why couldn’t you add a second message immediately after the reply they forced you to send?”
“I ... didn’t think of that,” said Drago sheepishly.
“Even if they don’t read the code,” Colonel O’Neal said, “they ought to have some concept as to how long it would take to send their message.”
“Not if the second message is short,” said Nathan. “Drago, the next time you’re forced to respond to a message in Colonel O’Neal’s name, can you bury a short second message immediately after the first?”
“I can try,” Drago said. “How short?”
“Seven words,” said Nathan.
“I can do it if I memorize the message,” Drago said. “If I break rhythm, they’re likely to catch me.”
“He won’t get the chance,” said O’Neal, “unless we receive another telegram that requires an answer. That may not happen again for weeks.”
“You’d better hope it happens sooner than that,” Nathan said, “because it’ll take time for help to reach us after word goes out. Do any of you have paper and pencil?”
“I do,” said Drago. “Write out the message and I’ll memorize it.”
The Dawn of Fury Page 36