The Dawn of Fury

by Compton, Ralph

  Nathan took the stub of pencil and a page torn from Drago’s notebook and started to write. The soldiers crowded close and read:

  Attorney General Washington Concho seized Twenty one

  “Who are you?” Colonel O’Neal demanded.

  “I told you my name. I’m Nathan Stone.”

  “Hell,” said one of the privates, “that’s just a jumble of words, and it don’t make sense.”

  “It makes good sense to me,” Corporal Drago said. “All but the last two words. But that’s some kind of code.”

  “Unless,” said O’Neal, “they question the message and wire back to have it confirmed.”

  “It won’t be questioned,” Nathan said. “Just pray that somebody sends you a telegram requiring an answer.”

  To Nathan’s surprise, he was taken from the guardhouse right after the evening meal. Two privates with Winchesters marched him back to the dispensary. One of them opened the door, and when Nathan entered, the door was closed. Nathan had no doubt that when he was ready to leave, the armed men would be waiting for him.

  “I reminded Captain Derrick you needed your wound disinfected and the bandage changed,” said Lieutenant Calloway. “I’m surprised he agreed.”

  “So am I,” Nathan said. “Thanks. Colonel O’Neal has reached the same conclusion as you. He believes the outlaws are after that military payroll.”

  “That has to be what they have in mind,” said Calloway. “Does the colonel have any plans for escape?”

  “None that I know of,” Nathan said. While he didn’t question Calloway’s loyalty, the less the doctor knew, the better. Despite Galloway‘s—or any man’s—loyalty, he could be tortured and made to tell anything he knew.

  After his wound had been tended to, Nathan stepped out the door, found his guards waiting for him, and was marched back to the guardhouse.

  “That was unusual,” said Colonel O’Neal, “these hellions being concerned about your wound. Did you have a chance to speak to Lieutenant Calloway?”

  “Yes,” Nathan replied, “but I told him nothing of our plans. Like you said, there’s something strange about me being sent back to the dispensary. Now let’s just hope the good doc has a high tolerance for pain.”

  “By God,” said O’Neal, “they would torture a man, wouldn’t they?”

  Nathan was not taken to the dispensary again. After two weeks, there seemed to have been no call for Corporal Drago’s services as a telegrapher. The call finally came on June tenth, and according to Colonel O’Neal, less than two weeks before the delegation from Washington and the payroll was scheduled to arrive. Corporal Drago was gone only a few minutes, but to Nathan and the desperate soldiers, it seemed much longer. After Drago was returned to captivity, he waited a few moments before he spoke.

  “Telegram for you, sir,” he told Colonel O’Neal. “The team of inspectors will depart Fort Worth on June twenty-first, arriving here on June twenty-fifth. You were asked to verify accommodations.”

  “Damn,” said O’Neal, “that’s a two-word response.”

  “Yes, sir,” Drago said with a grin, “but these owlhoots don’t know that. I took a chance and sent our message first, and there was no question, no request for a repeat. The line kind of went dead for a minute, and I told them their message didn’t go through, that I’d have to repeat it. That’s when I sent the verification in your name.”

  “Well done, corporal,” said O’Neal, “but are you sure the code message went through to Washington?”

  “I can’t swear to it, sir,” Drago said, “but the key was live and I was given permission to send.”

  “Colonel,” said Nathan, “the nature of the message should have alerted those receiving it of trouble here at the fort. We can only trust that somebody is sharp enough to understand we don’t have free access to the telegraph.”

  In Washington, the strange telegram had stirred an immediate interest. An aide to Ira McCormick, assistant to the attorney general, had just delivered the message to his superior.

  “This just came in, sir,” said the aide.

  McCormick studied the few words. Three of them hit him hard. One was Concho, the other two, Byron Silver’s code. Clearly this was a plea for help, but perhaps it was more than that. In just a matter of days, military personnel from Washington would be visiting outposts in Texas, and Fort Concho would be one of them. An inspection team of high-ranking officers would be traveling with a military escort bearing a substantial payroll. McCormick was well aware of the coming inspection, for hadn’t he prepared Byron Silver’s orders, sending him as an advance guard to Fort Worth? He knew Silver was there, yet his code—intended as an alert—had been used in this telegram from Fort Concho. Something was definitely wrong at Fort Concho. McCormick composed a message, addressing it to Byron Silver at Fort Worth.

  “Here,” said McCormick to an aide, “have the telegrapher send this at once.”

  McCormick waited, and in less than an hour, he had his reply from Fort Worth. The message was brief: Riding to Concho. It was signed simply Silver.

  Of necessity, Byron Silver had requested a meeting with Captain Ferguson, the post commander at Fort Worth.

  “Captain,” Silver said, “I was sent here to spearhead this planned inspection tour, but I may not be able to. My orders have been changed, and I’m to ride to Fort Concho. How do I find it?”

  “The fort’s on the Concho River, maybe a hundred and seventy miles northwest of Austin. Or from here, southwest, it’s something over two hundred miles. Is something wrong at Concho?”

  “Nothing to concern you,” Silver said. “Washington wants me to check out the post, since it’s first in line for inspection.”

  While saddling his horse, Silver allowed his mind to review what he had learned from McCormick’s telegram. The use of his code told him two important facts. First, the call for help must have come from Nathan Stone, and two, the situation must be truly desperate. The brevity of the message told Silver that it had been sent under circumstances that would have made further details impossible. Fort Concho had been taken, and that meant its defenders were dead or had been taken captive. Silver rode south, to Austin. It would be out of his way and would virtually double the miles to Fort Concho, but he was needful of much that Captain Ferguson and the military might be unable to supply. While he was employed by the Federals, he was forever a Texan. He had aided the Texas Rangers when he could, and stood by them even when the Reconstructionist governor of Texas didn’t officially recognize them. Now he had to call on them for service that might go unrecognized, and if it failed, might meet the reprimand of the president himself. While this was a military matter, he thought grimly, there was not a soul within military ranks equal to what lay ahead. This called for a man with unquestionable courage and dedication, a man with the stealth and resourcefulness of a Comanche.

  Austin, Texas. June 17, 1868.

  While Byron Silver was known among the Rangers, Captain Sage Jennings had been his lifelong friend, and it was to Jennings that he turned now.

  “Yes,” said Jennings, “I know Colonel O’Neal, and Nathan Stone as well. I once tried to recruit him for the Rangers.”

  “Then I’d like you to ride with me to Fort Concho,” Silver said. “I don’t know why Stone’s there, but he is, and somehow he got word to Washington. We must get inside that stockade, and it wouldn’t be unusual, would it, for a Ranger to visit the fort?”

  “I reckon not,” said Jennings. “I can get us in, and I can request a meeting with the post commander, who, if I’m following you, won’t be Colonel O’Neal.”

  “No,” Silver said. “I look to find Colonel O’Neal, his entire command, and probably Nathan Stone in the guardhouse.”

  “Good God,” said Jennings. “How much time do we have before this spit-and-polish bunch shows up from Washington?”

  “They’re arriving in Fort Worth on June twenty-first,” Silver said. “I must report the status of Fort Concho before the brass will be cleared
to leave Fort Worth. We have, at most, four days.”

  “We’d better saddle up and ride,” said Jennings. “We’re two days from Fort Concho.”

  Time dragged for the men locked in the guardhouse at Fort Concho. Most of them had stripped down to their trousers, for it was stifling hot. Nathan had removed the sweaty bandage, for his wound was well on its way to healing.

  “Drago,” somebody asked, “what day is it?”

  “June seventeen, by my reckonin’,” said Drago.

  “Damn,” Sergeant Watts growled, “time’s runnin’ out. After that bunch grabs the payroll, they’ll likely shoot all of us.”

  “There won’t be any payroll for them to grab,” said Nathan, “Until Washington investigates that telegram we sent. It’ll take some time to get help to us from anywhere, and some smart heads to learn what’s happened to us.”

  “God,” Drago groaned, “if a company of soldiers rides in here, we’re goners.”

  “If our message got to the right man,” said Nathan, “there’ll be no soldiers.”

  “We’re maybe ten miles from the fort,” said Captain Jennings, when he and Silver had stopped to rest their horses. “It’ll be dark when we get there.”

  “So you’re just going to ride up and demand a meeting with the post commander, then,” Silver said. “You’re a Ranger, but how do you aim to account for me?”

  “You’ll be a Ranger too,” Jennings replied, handing Silver a silver star-in-a-circle. “There’s no guarantee we won’t be shot dead before we leave, but we’ll get in. To refuse us would arouse suspicion, and if the situation is what we suspect, they won’t dare run that risk.”

  Reaching the fort, they rode boldly up to the gate.

  “Halt!” a sentry commanded. “Identify yourselves.”

  “Texas Rangers,” Jennings replied. “Request permission to meet with the post commander.”

  When the gate finally opened, Silver and Jennings found themselves facing three men. Two of them held Winchesters at port arms, while the third carried a lantern. He wore the stripes of a sergeant, and it was he who spoke.

  “How do we know you’re Rangers?”

  “We’re wearing the shields,” said Jennings. “Rangers are commissioned by the State of Texas, and we cooperate fully with all military outposts. Take us to your post commander.”

  “Privates,” the sergeant growled, “take their hosses and picket them outside the gate.”

  Unwilling the soldiers stepped aside, allowing Jennings and Silver to pass through the gate. They followed the sergeant toward a log building where light glowed dimly through the single window. The sergeant pounded on the door.

  “Who’s there?” growled a voice from inside.

  “Sergeant Webber. There’s some Rangers here, wantin’ to see you.”

  “Let ’em in,” said the voice.

  Jennings went in first, followed by Silver. Webber came in behind them, closing the door. Lightning quick, Jennings drew, and Captain Derrick found himself looking into the deadly muzzle of Captain Jennings’ Colt. The move drew Sergeant Webber’s attention, allowing Silver to club him unconscious with the muzzle of his Colt.

  “The key to the guardhouse, Captain,” said Jennings coldly.

  “I ... don’t have it,” Derrick muttered.

  “The key, damn it,” Jennings gritted, shoving the cold muzzle of the Colt under Derrick’s nose.

  “Webber has it,” said Derrick sullenly.

  Silver knelt beside the unconscious man, turning his pockets inside out. He found a ring with two keys. Taking Webber’s Colt, he shoved it under his waistband. Jennings passed to Silver the Colt he had taken from Derrick, and Silver quickly searched the room, taking every available weapon, including a pair of Winchesters. Besides his own, he had six Colts, and he looped his bandanna through the trigger guards, knotting it. He then began looking for a way out of the room besides the door, for the sentries would be watching that. But there was no other door, and the two windows were too small.

  “Is there another way out of here?” Jennings demanded, again prodding Derrick with the muzzle of the colt.

  “No,” said Derrick.

  Silver dragged the desk to one side, and rolling back an oval rug, found a trap door. Taking hold of an iron ring, he lifted the door, revealing steps leading downward.

  “Wherever it leads,” Silver said, “it’s better than the front door. But I need some light.”

  He rummaged through a supply cabinet and found some candles. One of these he lighted. Then, taking up the Colts by the looped bandanna, and with the Winchesters under his arm, he started down the steps.

  “Luck,” said Captain Jennings.

  At the bottom of the wooden steps, Silver found himself on a dirt floor. But there was no door, no window, nothing ...

  Chapter 27

  “Nothing down there but a hole in the ground,” Silver said, returning to the post commander’s office. “Looks like a last-ditch refuge from Indian attacks. I’ll have to go out the door.”

  “Then we’ll both go,” said Jennings. “The good captain will guide us.”

  “Like hell I will,” Derrick snarled.

  “You’re through making decisions,” said Jennings. “I don’t often shoot a man in the back, but I make exceptions when there’s a need. Now open that door and step out, slow and easy.”

  “They’ll see the guns when the door opens,” Silver said. “I’ll put out the lamp.”

  They went down the steps and had gone only a few yards toward the guardhouse when one of the sentries grew suspicious.

  “Captain Derrick,” he shouted.

  “It’s a trap!” Derrick bawled.

  He tried to throw himself to the ground, but Jennings caught his belt and knocked him senseless with the muzzle of his Colt. Already there was lead singing. Jennings fired at muzzle flashes in the dark.

  “Run,” said Jennings. “I’ll hold them off.”

  Silver was already off and running, drawing some of the fire away from Jennings. The Ranger knelt behind the unconscious Derrick and one of the searching slugs ripped into the outlaw’s body, and it became a burden. While Jennings had accounted for one man at the gate, the remaining sentries were laying down a withering fire. Jennings could hear rifles roaring from other positions, ominous evidence that other outlaws had jumped into the fight. Jennings let go of Derrick and lit out toward the guard house.

  As Silver tried the first key, a slug slammed into the door of the guardhouse. The key wouldn’t fit the lock. Silver tried the second. With a grunt of relief he swung the first door back, only to be confronted with a second with iron bars.

  “We’re out of time,” Jennings panted. “What’s wrong with the door?”

  “Two of them,” said Silver. “Both locked, just one more key ...”

  But the key slipped into the lock and Silver swung the barred door open. Alerted by the shooting, the imprisoned men had been waiting. Nathan was the first to emerge, but lead had begun to rip into the log guardhouse, and one of the soldiers was hit. Starlight made for difficult shooting, but two of the renegade sentries had Winchesters and they almost had the range.

  “Here,” said Silver, shoving a Winchester at Nathan. “We have enough guns for eight of you.”

  “Silver,” Nathan said, “you didn’t bring near enough guns. There’s twenty-two damn outlaws, and they’re aiming to steal an army payroll.”

  “Sorry,” Silver growled. “Next time, I’ll hitch up a wagon.”

  “Silver, Stone,” said Jennings, “come with me. We’re going to go after those varmints at the gate. You men without weapons, stay out of the line of fire. The rest of you keep shooting.”

  Jennings moved far to his left, within the shadow of the high log walls of the stockade. Silver and Nathan followed. It was a flanking movement that would make shooting difficult for the men at the gate, especially if they were concealed behind the parapets above. Reaching the corner of the stockade, they turned, keeping wit
hin the shadow of the front wall through which the gate opened to the outside. Nearing the gate, they stepped over the body of one of the outlaws. Intermittent firing told them there were two others atop the wall, firing from the parapets in response to soldier fire near the guardhouse. Jennings backed away from the wall, but still within its shadow, and his companions followed his example. When next the rifles roared from atop the wall, Nathan, and Silver, and Jennings fired at the muzzle flashes. There was a dull thump and then a second, sounding like an echo of the first. The pair on the wall had dropped their Winchesters.

  “They’ll have Colts, probably,” said Jennings, “and we need them.” He started for the ladder.

  “Back off, Captain,” Nathan said. “They could be playing possum. I’ll go up there. It’s time I took some of the risk.”

  “Then you don’t need a Winchester,” said Jennings. “Here, take this Colt that belonged to the dead owlhoot back yonder.”

  Nathan shoved the Colt under his waistband and climbed up to the narrow catwalk atop the walls. Both the men lay face down, and Nathan was forced to roll them to unbuckle their pistol belts. When Nathan rejoined his comrades, the soldiers were there.

  “Let us have any extra weapons,” O’Neal said. “You men have already done more than your share. We know this post, and we’ll get the rest of them, dead or alive. Just see that none of them try to escape through the gate.”

  “With lariats they could scale the walls,” said Nathan.

  “They could,” Corporal Drago said, “but they ain’t likely to. The hosses is all brought in at night, and nothin’ but a damn fool would risk bein’ on foot in Comanche country.”

  Nathan kept the Colt and gave up the Winchester. With the two Winchesters and two Colts taken from the dead man at the gate, O’Neal and eleven of his soldiers were now armed. For the first time, Nathan, Silver and Jennings were able to talk about this bizarre situation that might have gotten them all shot dead. Nathan explained how he had become involved, giving much of the credit for their rescue to Corporal Drago.