The Dawn of Fury

by Compton, Ralph

  “The corporal deserves some recognition for getting that telegram on the wire with a gun to his head,” said Silver. “I’ve never encountered anything like this, having outlaws overrun a fort. Why the hell can’t they just go on robbing government supply trains? We have procedure for that.”

  “It’s far from being finished,” Captain Jennings said. “Somewhere within your military chain of command, you have a Judas. How did this bunch learn of the coming inspection, to be integrated with the delivery of military payrolls ? And how in tarnation did they manage to outfit themselves in twenty-two Union army uniforms, all with proper brass and insignia?”

  “God,” said Silver with a sigh, “there’ll be one hell of an investigation, but some good will come of it. Under the circumstances, Washington can’t very well fault Colonel O’Neal and his command for falling into a trap so well set. They’ll likely make regulations that will prevent this happening again. Someday I’ll have to explain how this varmint, Nathan Stone, was able to use my distress code.”

  “I reckon that’ll be easier than explaining the loss of three military payrolls and some dead, high-ranking army brass,” said Nathan. “You had to already be in Texas to have reached us in time, and that tells me you were an outrider for this military inspection.”

  Silver laughed.

  “I wouldn’t dare say this on the street,” said Captain Jennings, “but if we Rebs had laid our plans a little better, these soldiers would be wearing Confederate gray. We had—and still have—the strategists.”

  “I take my life in my hands, just thinking such things,” Byron Silver replied, “but I must agree with you. From now on, we’re one nation under God, but by God, Texas will always be our nation.”

  Austin, Texas. June 19, 1868.

  Byron Silver had to ride directly to Fort Worth to prepare for military inspectors from Washington. Captain Jennings and Nathan returned to Austin, and on the way Nathan mentioned his need to find Milo Jenks.

  “South Texas has always been a hangout for owlhoots, suspected and genuine,” said the Ranger, “but I never heard of Milo Jenks. Generally, when they leave here on the run, somebody else has to gun them down or hang them. They don’t often return.”

  “I reckon it helps, havin’ a Ranger outpost in town,” Nathan said.

  “Hell,” said Jennings, “since you were here last, Ben Thompson actually did something decent. Old Judge Schuetze’s never been too popular, and five gents with knives had him cornered. Ben pulled his pistol and they all lit out. Ben rode out and we haven’t seen him since.”

  “Maybe he rode to Matamoros,” Nathan said. “He has a following there. They followed us both, once, throwin’ lead as they came.”

  Jennings laughed. “He’s got kin here, but he’ll come back. He’s already past due for some time in the juzgado.”

  While the Ranger had said it in jest, it was a prophecy the deadly Ben Thompson would soon fulfill.

  While the outlaws who had overrun Fort Concho had taken Nathan’s gold, he had recovered it. After a prolonged stay in Fort Concho’s guardhouse, Nathan wasn’t ready for the long ride to Colorado. He took a room at the Capitol Hotel, stabling his black at a nearby livery. There being little else to do, he made the rounds of the saloons. There might, he thought, be some talk. If not of Milo Jenks, then perhaps of Ringo Tull or Dade Withers. He went from the Bullwhacker Saloon to the Star, The Keno, the De Oro, without any word of the men he sought. When he reached the Texas, however, he made a discovery that took his breath away.

  Her back was to him and she wore the dress of a Mexican señorita, but when she faced him, she paled. Nathan recovered first, got an arm around her slender waist and led her to a table. The months hadn’t been kind to Viola Hayden. While barely out of her teens, she looked thirty.

  “For God’s sake,” Nathan said, “what are you doing in here?”

  Her laugh was bitter. “It was this or a whorehouse.”

  “Jesse ...”

  “Dead,” she said dully. “He was ambushed a month after you left. Close range, with a shotgun.”

  “Your place,” said Nathan. “Your horse ...”

  “All gone.” Silent tears crept down her cheeks. “I sold everything ... for what I could get ...”

  Nathan’s rage all but choked him. He had turned Nate Rankin’s ambush around, gunning down Driggers and Gadner after they had shot young Hugh Rankin. Now Rankin had gotten his revenge, taking it out on Viola.

  “By God,” Nathan gritted, “Rankin won’t get away with this.”

  “He already has,” said Viola softly. “I accused him to his face, and he laughed in mine. There’s nothing you can do. Please don’t get yourself in trouble over something that ... can’t be changed.”

  Nathan said no more. He waited, drinking an occasional beer to justify his presence, until the Texas closed for the night. He left the saloon with her, not even concerned with where she lived, guiding her toward his hotel.

  “I have a room at a boardinghouse,” she said.

  “I have one at the Capitol Hotel,” said Nathan.

  She didn’t object. She seemed not to care about anything or anybody. He unlocked the door, and when they had entered, locked it behind them. Viola kicked off her sandals and skinned the long dress off over her head. She wore nothing else, and stretching out on the bed, stared vacantly at the ceiling.

  “Damn it,” Nathan said, “this is all my fault.”

  But she said nothing, refusing to condemn him. Her eyes were empty, seeing nothing, as though her body existed while the soul within had departed. Nathan was consumed with guilt. He had lived by the gun, shooting his way out of each deadly situation, unmindful of the consequences. Now the chickens had come home to roost, and someone else—Viola Hayden—was paying for Nathan Stone’s dedication to the gun. Not knowing what to say or do, he sat down beside her. Suddenly she threw her arms around him and wept with an intensity that shook him to his very soul. She clawed him, tore at his clothes, until he was caught up in the frenzy of her passion, and it resulted in the very last thing he had wanted or expected. He got up, his Levi’s around his ankles, and drew off his boots. He removed his shirt, which no longer had buttons, blew out the lamp and lay down beside her. She slept as though she were exhausted, while Nathan lay awake far into the night.

  Nathan awoke to the sun streaming in through the window, fervently hoping that what was still strong on his mind had been only a nightmare. But she was there beside him, naked, leaning on one elbow, looking at him.

  “I’m sorry ... about last night,” he said.

  “Don’t be,” she replied. “I’m not. Better you than some stranger. I ... it’s ... been hell. Did you know that when the hurt goes deep enough, there’s just ... not enough tears to drown it? It ... takes something ... more.”

  “I can believe that,” said Nathan, “and I owe you ...”

  “You don’t owe me a damn thing. The last thing in the world I want is a man who feels obligated to me. I took what I wanted, and you’re free to hike up your britches and ride wherever the hell you want.”

  There were no more tears. The fury in her eyes bordered on madness.

  He stood.

  “What’s wrong?” she taunted. “I was good enough last night. Why not this morning?”

  “You’re not the Viola I knew,” he said. “I feel responsible for what ... you’ve become. I don’t like you this way. For what it’s worth, I don’t sleep with a woman I don’t even like. Last night, there was no giving. Only taking. No more, Viola. No more.”

  Nathan took a shirt from his saddlebag, pulled on his Levi‘s, and stomped into his boots. He then belted on his Colts, took his hat, and without looking back, stepped out the door. He still felt some guilt for having left Viola to face Nate Rankin’s revenge, but her don’t-give-a-damn attitude had left him less remorseful than he might have been. The question was, what was he to do now? Certainly he wanted no more nights like the one he had just endured, but he couldn’t jus
t ride away and put her out of his mind. He had no idea what—if anything—could be done for Viola Hayden. He sought out Captain Jennings and asked the Ranger’s advice.

  “I feel as helpless as you,” said Jennings. “She came to me with her suspicions, I turned her down, and now she hates my guts. Hell, if I went after people on suspicion, I’d have to build a fence around Texas.”

  “It’s killing Viola.”

  “Viola is killing Viola,” Jennings said. “I just thank God I’m not the county sheriff. She’s been locked up for being drunk and disorderly so many times, I’ve lost count, and her reputation’s such that she’d give a whore a bad name. There’s only one thing she hasn’t done, and that’s get a gun and go after Nate Rankin.”

  Nathan spent the day and much of the night making the rounds of other saloons, carefully avoiding the Texas. It was late when he finally returned to his room. He had failed to lock the door when he had left, and it was still unlocked. As quietly as he could, he eased the door open, and in the moonlight through the window, he could see someone in his bed. There was a loud snore. He closed the door and lighted the lamp. His first thought was that she had never left the room, and then he saw the empty bottle on the floor beside the bed. Her dress lay in a heap on the floor and she was just literally, hopelessly, dog-drunk. He rolled her naked body to the other side of the bed, making room to sit and remove his boots. Unbuckling his pistol belt, he placed his Colts on the floor beside the bed, his hat on top of them. He then stretched out on the bed, trying to ignore her snoring. Eventually he slept, and when he awoke, the snoring had stopped. He turned over and found her staring at him. Finally she laughed. It was ugly, bawdy.

  “First man ever slept with me an’ kept his britches on,” she cackled.

  “Viola,” he said, “if I took you away from here—far away—could you put this life behind you and forget everything that’s happened?”

  “No,” she said. “I’ll never forget. Never.”

  To Nathan’s surprise and relief, she got up, dressed, and left without a word. Nathan bought a newspaper in the hotel lobby and went from there to a restaurant. During breakfast, he read the newspaper. All he found of interest was that Austin was about to have its own Cattleman’s Emporium, a private club for drinking, gambling and hell raising. It was set to open on August thirty, and one of its charter members—having paid a thousand dollars—was Nate Rankin. Another was Ben Thompson! There was more, including a stud poker competition, with a five hundred-dollar first prize. The affair was more than two months away, but it promised to be well attended. There would be gamblers from all over Texas. It would be an excuse for Nathan to remain in Austin for a while. As though he needed one. He had to admit to himself that he was unwilling to desert Viola Hayden, despite her obvious desire to go to hell by the fastest possible means. The next time he encountered Captain Jennings, he asked the Ranger about the Cattleman’s Emporium.

  “I don’t consider it an asset,” Jennings said, “and I’m opposed to anything that brings Ben Thompson to town. There’ll be sleeping rooms upstairs for the high rollers, after they’re too drunk to buck the tiger, and I won’t be surprised if there’s some high-class whores available on the house, to the big spenders. Do you aim to stick around for it?”

  “I’d kind of like to see Ben Thompson play poker,” said Nathan. “I’ve been around after the game, when he was bein’ shot at, but I’ve never seen him play.”

  “Watch,” Jennings said, “but stay out of the line of fire. If ever you buy into another man’s fight, be damn sure he’s worthy of the risk. That eliminates Ben Thompson.”

  Nathan occasionally visited the Texas Saloon, but Viola either ignored him or stared at him as though he were a total stranger. Mostly, Nathan frequented other saloons, where there was nearly always a poker game in progress. He preferred five-card stud, but played draw poker, and on occasion, the less popular seven-card stud. Some days he lost. On others, he won as consistently as he had lost the day before. He still had more than three hundred dollars in gold, for he was living off his winnings. He took the time to write a lengthy letter to Lacy Mayfield, in care of Cherry Creek Manor, in Denver. He would be returning to Denver some time in September or October. However, he warned her not to despair if he did not.

  Austin, Texas. August 29, 1868.

  Ben Thompson arrived on Saturday, the day before the grand opening of the Cattlemen’s Emporium. Nathan found him in De Oro Saloon, downing scotch and watching a poker game in progress.

  “The next one’s on me,” Nathan said.

  Thompson nodded. He wasn’t one for frivolous conversation. How talkative he was on any occasion depended on his mood, which was subject to change on short notice. He tossed off the rest of his scotch and finally spoke.

  “Big doings at the Cattleman’s tomorrow night. I can get you in as my guest, if you’re of a mind to go.”

  “I’m obliged,” said Nathan.

  Nathan hadn’t seen Viola in almost two weeks, and when he looked for her at the Texas, she wasn’t there. He questioned one of the bartenders.

  “Quit,” the bartender said. “I hear she’s hired on as one of them fancy girls, over to the Emporium.”

  That brought to mind what Captain Jennings had said, about the Cattleman’s Emporium supplying whores to the big spenders. Surely she wouldn’t resort to that, he thought. He wanted to talk to her, but realized he had no idea where she lived, for he had always been able to find her at the Texas. He made the rounds of the other saloons, coming back to the Texas, without a sign of her. It was possible, he decided, that she was sleeping off a drunk or embarking on one. Tomorrow, perhaps, he could talk to her at the Cattleman’s Emporium.

  For sheer elegance, the Cattleman’s Emporium rivaled anything Nathan had ever seen. There were two floors, and the staircase leading to the second was a dozen feet wide. The carpet, including the stairs, was deep red. The walls were of cedar, while the sixty-foot bar and all the furniture were of polished walnut. A mirror ran the full length of the bar, and there were pyramids of bottled whiskey from one end to the other. Four kegs of beer were on line and there were five bartenders in white coats. At the far end of the room, behind swinging doors, was the kitchen. Suspended from cedar beams were sixteen chandeliers, each the size of a Conestoga wagon wheel, each with pyramided tiers of lighted lamps. Opposite the bar, fancy tables lined the wall, each with a red-and-white-checked cloth. Each chair had a padded back and seat upholstered in red, to match the carpet. There was no sign of gambling on the first floor, reminding Nathan of the Stumberg houses in New Orleans. How well-heeled must a man be to climb those stairs? Windows had been opened and cool night air guttered some of the flames in the many-tiered chandeliers. Nathan allowed his eyes to roam the length of the first floor, and he finally sighted Viola at a table with three men, one of whom was Nate Rankin! Before Nathan could make a move, Ben Thompson spoke from behind him.

  “The gambling’s upstairs. Join me?”

  “Yes,” said Nathan. “I’m obliged.”

  Nathan suspected these were high-stakes games and that if he didn’t go with Thompson, he might not be allowed to enter. He followed the dapper little gambler up the stairs, and Thompson seemed to know where he was going. Without knocking, he opened the first door on the left, and when he entered, Nathan followed. There were more chandeliers, more fancy carpet, and another bar. There was table after table, with every possible game of chance in progress, and there was the distinctive whirr of a roulette wheel. Each poker table had chairs for a house dealer and five gamblers. Thompson chose a table with two empty chairs. He took one and Nathan the other. Thompson, attired in solid black with a black top hat, looked as though he had just preached a funeral, or was about to. Nathan, in flannel shirt and Levi’s, drew a doubtful look from the house dealer. Thompson caught the house man’s eye and he hastily began shuffling the cards. When he spoke, he didn’t look at Nathan or Thompson.

  “Five-card stud. Ten dollars a throw.”r />
  While it was Nathan’s favorite game, a few losses played hell with a man’s roll. Covering all bets, he could lose as much as forty dollars in a single game. On the first draw, Nathan received a face-down hole card and a face-up jack. He put his ten dollars in the pot, noticing that Thompson had drawn a face-up ten. On the second draw, Nathan drew a face-up seven, while Thompson got a second ten. Each of them added another ten dollars to the pot. On the third draw, Nathan drew another jack, while Thompson got a third ten. Each man cast another ten dollars in the pot and received a fourth face-up card. Nathan drew another face-up seven, while Thompson drew a fourth ten. Come showdown, Nathan’s hole card proved to be a third jack, while Thompson’s was a fourth ten. But another gambler took the pot with four kings. Nathan lost two pots before winning one, and after that, he took two more. He lost another, and dropped out, breaking even. Ben Thompson had lost two hundred and forty dollars, not having won a single pot. He dropped out of the game when Nathan did, and while he seemed calm enough, Nathan could see a storm building in his eyes. Thompson paused at the head of the stairs.

  “If you’re of a mind to sample the grub,” Nathan said, “I’m buying.”

  “Another time,” said Thompson. Turning, he walked farther down the hall and disappeared through another door.

  Nathan went on down the stairs to the first floor. Viola and Rankin were no longer at the table. The other two men were lingering over drinks, and Nathan took the bull by the horns and approached their table.

  “There was a lady with you gents a while ago,” Nathan said, “and I wanted to talk to her. Do you know if she’s still here?”

  “Oh, she’s here,” one of them said, “but I reckon she’s busy. Old man Rankin took her upstairs, and they wasn’t goin’ to play poker.”

  “Rankin wasn’t, anyhow,” the second man added, and they both laughed.