Nathan had soon learned that the killer he sought was not among the renegades, and as he plotted his escape, he had learned that El Gato had a girl he planned to sell into slavery, in Mexico. Talking to her, Nathan had learned that her name was Mary Holden, that she longed to escape. But before Nathan could make a move, he had been forced to ride with El Gato and his outlaws on a winter raid into Kansas. Slipping away during a blizzard, Nathan had returned to El Gato’s camp, overpowering the two men El Gato had left behind. He had then taken Mary south, to Fort Worth, Texas. Nathan had been in Texas often enough to have become friends with the post commander, Captain Ferguson, and the officer, assuming Mary was Nathan’s wife, had assigned them a cabin. By the time Nathan and Mary had left Forth Worth, riding north, Nathan Stone had done the very thing he had vowed never again to do. He had become involved with a woman, more committed than he had ever been, but still burdened with his oath to kill the last of the seven renegades who had murdered his family in Virginia.
While at Forth Worth, Nathan had learned by telegraph that Texas outlaw John Wesley Hardin had been involved in shootings in several south Texas towns and was believed to be riding north. One of several men who had been riding with Hardin had been identified as Dade Withers, the seventh and last man on Nathan’s death list. He and Mary had ridden to Fort Dodge and then to Hays without finding a trace of Hardin. Fifty miles east of Hays, on their way to Abilene, they had ridden into a holdup involving a Kansas-Pacific train. As he had traded lead with the outlaws, Nathan had been seriously wounded. But the train crew had remembered him from his Kansas-Pacific days, and taking Mary and the wounded Nathan aboard, had reversed the train and backed it to Abilene. The railroad, grateful for Nathan’s daring, had paid all his medical bills and presented him with a reward. When he had recovered, he had been offered the task of taking a posse after the outlaws, for they had become an expensive nuisance, destroying track and stopping trains bearing army payrolls. But Nathan had declined, determined to find that seventh man, so the Kansas-Pacific had hired other men to trail the train robbers.
Again Nathan had taken Hardin’s trail, and he had found evidence that the outlaw and his companions had reached Wichita with a trail herd. But there the men had split up, and Nathan had trailed Dade Withers west, knowing only that the man rode a horse with an XIT brand. Reaching Fort Dodge, Nathan and Mary had learned that a lone outlaw had robbed the mercantile at Dodge City, just west of the fort. At the mercantile, Nathan had learned the outlaw had ridden south on a horse bearing an XIT brand. He had not been followed, for he had struck exactly at sundown, so when Nathan had taken the trail the next day at first light, it had been easily followed. But the lone rider had traveled less than a mile when he had been surrounded by others. He had ridden away with the larger band and Nathan had followed them all south until they had crossed the Cimarron, into Indian Territory. Thus the seventh man on Nathan Stone’s death list had become part of El Gato’s band of renegades.
Riding to Kansas City, Nathan had agreed to pursue the outlaws on behalf of the Kansas-Pacific Railroad, but learned something that stopped him in his tracks. Mary Holden was expecting his child, and he had set aside everything else to marry the girl. But Mary had refused to remain safely in Kansas City, insisting on staying at Fort Dodge until Nathan and his posse had captured the band of renegades. But the outlaws always escaped into Indian Territory, leaving Nathan frustrated. Unknown to Nathan, El Gato had been sending a man to Fort Dodge to look and listen, and the outlaw chieftain had learned that Mary—his former captive—was there. Nathan had become fed up with railroad methods and had ridden to Hays. From there he had taken a train to Kansas City to resign from the railroad posse. Awaiting just such an opportunity, that very morning El Gato’s men had stolen Mary away from the fort and had taken her into the wilds of Indian Territory, to the outlaw stronghold. Only Cotton Blossom, Nathan’s hound, had followed.
Learning that Mary had been abducted, the post commander at Fort Dodge had telegraphed the Kansas-Pacific office in Kansas City. Nathan immediately had engaged a locomotive and tender for an emergency run to Hays. From there, he had ridden to Fort Dodge, arriving after dark. He had learned that a party of soldiers had gone after Mary, only to be ambushed. Nathan had then ridden out alone, to find Cotton Blossom awaiting him near the Cimarron. With the dog guiding him, he had ridden into Indian Territory and had found the outlaw camp. In the darkness of El Gato’s cabin, he had killed the outlaw leader in a knife fight, only to learn that the renegades—a dozen strong—had already ravaged and murdered Mary. Grief and rage had taken control of Nathan Stone, and he had burst into the outlaw bunkhouse, his Winchester blazing. He had gunned down ten of the outlaws—including Dade Withers—but had been so severely wounded he had been in danger of bleeding to death. He had been saved only because Cotton Blossom had returned to the fort and had been able to attract the attention of the soldiers.
Healed in body but sick to his soul, Nathan had ridden to Kansas City, only to learn the newspapers had created him an unwanted reputation as a fast gun, a gunfighter. The Kansas-Pacific had released an etching of him, and his reputation seemed to have spread throughout the frontier. In one town after another, he had been forced into gunfights to save his own life, with each new killing adding to the deadly legend. Finally, in the fall of 1872, he had managed to drop out of sight. Riding south to New Orleans, he had found refuge with Barnaby and Bess McQueen, who had befriended him and Eulie so long ago. There he had remained until the last week in February 1873. Finally he had ridden away, hopeful of escaping his past, only to find it stalking him like the pale horse. There in the street of this little Texas town he had been forced to face up to the awful truth. He was a marked man. While he had fulfilled his promise to his dead father, it now seemed a hollow victory, as he thought of what it had cost him. His vendetta had led to a bitter parting with Molly Tremayne, in St. Louis. He had been hell-bent on going to New Orleans, and it was there that Eulie had been shot. His winning—and taking—ten thousand dollars had cost Viola Hayden her father, driving her to murder and suicide. Lacy Mayfield had been gunned down trying to save one of the very men Nathan had sworn to kill. Poor Mary had suffered a horrible death in Indian Territory only because she had wished to be near him. He groaned, for their faces seemed to have been burned into his mind with a hot iron, and he couldn’t escape them. Sensing his anguish, Cotton Blossom came near. He scratched the dog’s ears, thankful for his faithfulness, feeling even that was more than he deserved.
For a long time Nathan lay looking at the silver stars in the purple of the sky, until he finally slept. Sometime after midnight something awakened him, and he realized it had been the rattle of dry leaves, as Cotton Blossom had gotten to his feet. It was in the small hours of the night, when every sound was magnified many times, and it was all the warning Nathan Stone had. With the snick of an eared-back hammer, he was moving, rolling away from his saddle, palming a Colt. There was a roar from the surrounding thicket and two slugs slammed into Nathan’s saddle. He fired three times. Once at the muzzle flash, once to the left, and once to the right. There were no more shots, and there was a rustle of leaves as Cotton Blossom trotted toward the thicket. Nathan followed, and taking the dead man by the ankles, dragged him out into the clearing. The moon had risen, and with the starlight Nathan had no trouble identifying the man.
“Damn you, Vern Tilton,” Nathan said bitterly. “Damn you ...”
CHAPTER 1
Lampasas, Texas. March 18, 1873
Nathan Stone had ridden halfway across Texas without again being forced to resort to his deadly revolvers. Within him was the desperate hope that his dismal luck might be about to change. He had ridden all day in a cold, steady rain, and his horses plodded along with heads down. A lank and sodden Cotton Blossom looked as though he had been skinned and his hide again stretched over his bones. Nathan’s eyes roamed the muddy, deserted street that was Lampasas, seeking a livery, for his horses were done. Then he would find
a hotel with a dry bed, and finally a cafe with hot food for himself and Cotton Blossom. Reaching the livery, his horses trotted gratefully under the roof of an open shed that faced the street. With total darkness but a few minutes away, a lighted lantern hung from a peg driven into the wall. Nathan dismounted, and from somewhere within the livery, a horse nickered. Nathan’s packhorse answered, alerting the liveryman to their presence. He came limping out, looking like the stove-up cowboy he probably was.
“Howdy,” he said. “You reckon she’s a-gonna rain?”
“The way it’s been threatenin’ all day,” Nathan said, “I wouldn’t be surprised. My horses are as used up as I am. A double measure of grain for each of them, and there’s an extra dollar for you, if you’ll rub them down.”
“Bueno hombre, thinkin’ of yer hosses. I’ll see to ’em.”
“I’m obliged,” said Nathan. “Where’s the hotel?”
“Down the street, way you was headed. It ain’t no caravansera.”1
“Good,” Nathan replied. “All I want is a roof over my head.”
The Colorado Hotel had obviously taken its name from the nearby Colorado River. It had two floors and Nathan took a room on the first. Cotton Blossom was accepted without question. There was a cafe beside the hotel, and thanks to the continuous rain and chilling wind, the eatery was virtually deserted. A bored cook leaned on the counter while a man sat at a back table eating a steak.
“Amigo,” said Nathan, “I’m gaunt, and my dog’s a notch or two below that. Is he welcome?”
“Mister,” said the cook, “business has been so god-awful bad, I’d welcome a tribe of hungry Comanches. The dog’s welcome to leftovers, and there’ll be plenty. What with all this rain, I’ll be closin’ early.”
“Bring me the biggest steak in the house,” Nathan said, “thick, cooked through, and sided with whatever else you got.”
“You got it. While it’s on the fire, I’ll feed the dog. He looks like he’s missed a few meals.”
“We both have,” said Nathan.
A chair scraped as a man got up, and Nathan found himself face-to-face with Texas Ranger Captain Sage Jennings. Grinning, Jennings put out his hand and Nathan took it. He hadn’t seen Jennings since the ranger had joined him in the burying of Viola Hayden in Lexington, many months ago.
“Come on back to my table,” Jennings said.
Nathan did, taking a chair across from Jennings. Cotton Blossom had followed the cook to the kitchen, and after he had fed the dog and put Nathan’s steak on the fire, he brought the coffeepot and a tin cup for Nathan. For a moment Nathan just sipped the hot coffee, reluctant to discuss the painful past. But Jennings already knew it, minus the details. He spoke only of Nathan’s work on behalf of the Kansas-Pacific Railroad, allowing Nathan to comment if he chose. Silent at first, he soon learned that he needed to talk, to unburden himself. So he told the sympathetic ranger all of it, up to and including the shooting in Newton, a few days before.
“There’s no end to it, Cap,” said Nathan. “One damn fool after another, they pull their guns, and I have to shoot them to keep them from shooting me. Hell, I’m ready to stop the world and get off. How do I escape this reputation I don’t want, never wanted?”
“You don’t,” Jennings said somberly. “This is the killing season, and the only law is a fast gun. You, my friend, are living under a blessing and a curse. The blessing is your fast gun that’s keeping you alive, while the downside is the curse. Your deadly reputation. Perhaps it’s time you consider my earlier suggestion and become a lawman.”
“Legalize my killings? I’ve seen what’s happened to Wild Bill Hickok and I don’t want it said I’m just a killer behind a badge. I know you mean well, and I’m obliged for your concern. Now, if it’s any of my business, what are you doing this far north?”
“I’m only a day’s ride from Austin,” said Jennings, “and there’s nothing I can tell you that you couldn’t learn in most any saloon. Texas is after a killer name of Clint Barkley. He’s also known as Bill Bowen, and he’s brother-in-law to Merritt Horrell. That won’t mean a lot to you until you know something of the Horrells. The Horrell-Higgins feud has been going on for God knows how long. There’s five of the Horrell boys. Benjamin, Martin, Merritt, Samuel, and Thomas. They fought together through the Civil War and they’ve raised hell to a lesser degree ever since. The state of Texas has pretty well shied clear of the feud between the Horrell and Higgins clans, but the word’s out that the Horrells aim to defend Clint Barkley with their guns. For that reason, we’re expecting Clint Barkley in these parts.”
“And you’re here to welcome him,” Nathan said.
“I wish it was that simple,” said Jennings with a sigh. “The man Barkley killed was a friend of mine, and I’m here only because I raised hell for the privilege. The governor has commissioned a state police force, and I’m waiting for a Captain Tom Williams and deputies to arrive from Fort Worth. I was told Williams is in charge, and I’m not to make a move unless so directed by him.”
“By God, that’s a slap in the face, an insult,” Nathan said. “You don’t aim to accept that, do you?”
“I do,” Jennings replied. “This whole affair has been conducted with about as much secrecy as a sod-buster barn raising. Had I been in charge, I’d have ridden in, waited for Barkley to show, and taken him without going up against the Horrells.”
“Now,” said Nathan, “you’d have to fight the Horrell clan just to get at Barkley.”
“Exactly,” Jennings replied. “I aim to stay at the hotel, waiting for this Tom Williams and his men to arrive. They’re supposed to be here tomorrow.”
“I have no particular place to go,” said Nathan, “so maybe I’ll just hang around and see how this turns out. Not that I expect you’ll be needing help, of course.”
“No way,” Jennings said. “If I buy into this without specific orders, I’ll likely be reprimanded by the governor.”
The cook brought Nathan’s steak, along with onions, potatoes, bread, and a whole dried apple pie. Cotton Blossom waddled out of the kitchen, seeking a place to lie down. When Nathan had finished his meal, he and Jennings left the cafe and returned to the hotel. As it turned out, Jennings had the room adjoining Nathan’s.
“I’ll see you at breakfast,” said the ranger.
Nathan let himself and Cotton Blossom into the room, locking the door behind them. The dog curled up on an oval rug beside the bed, and Nathan tossed his hat on the dresser. Removing his buscadero belt with his Colts, he hung them on the head of the bed. He removed his boots and then his sodden clothes, spreading them on the floor to dry. He then blew out the lamp and eased himself gratefully into the bed. More than ever, he was thankful for a roof over his head, for the wind was slamming sheets of rain against the windows.
Nathan awoke before first light, aware that the rain had diminished or ceased. Taking an oilskin packet from inside his hat band, he removed a match and lighted the lamp on the dresser. He then poured water from a big white porcelain pitcher into a matching basin and, with a bit of soap, shaved. Cotton Blossom got up, walked to the door, and stood there wagging his tail.
“Come in, Cap,” Nathan said, unlocking the door.
“That’s some dog,” said Jennings, stepping into the room. “If he’s ever the daddy of pups, I want one.”
“We stayed a spell with friends in New Orleans,” Nathan said. “He ran with a couple of their female hounds, but I reckon he didn’t get that involved. Anyhow, he’s a mite old. He was grown when I came back from the war, and he’s been with me seven years.”
The rain had ceased during the night and there was blue sky visible through patches of gray clouds. The wind was chill, but there was a hint of early spring, for occasional tufts of grass had begun to green. Nathan and Jennings had breakfast, washing it down with plenty of black coffee. Cotton Blossom again ate in the kitchen, emerging as well-fed and satisfied as a hound ever gets. Nathan and Jennings returned to the hotel, to Jennings’s
room. Nathan took the chair while the ranger sat on the bed.
“So these newly appointed Texas lawmen arrive today,” said Nathan. “Do you reckon they’ll come looking for you, or just take the bit in their teeth and go with it?”
“It depends on whether or not they’ve been told I’m here,” Jennings replied. “Unless I’m asked to take part, I aim to mind my own business.”
Jennings was not wearing the famous silver star-in-a-circle. Few rangers did when working alone, especially in hostile territory, for they were feared and respected to the extent that outlaws took no chances. Rangers were shot in the back or ambushed.
“I reckon you have some idea as to where to find this Clint Barkley,” said Nathan.
“Him bein’ brother-in-law to Merritt Horrell,” Jennings said, “I reckon I’d cat-foot it out to Merritt’s ranch. If he wasn’t there, I’d call on the rest of the Horrells until I’d rousted him out. He could be with any of them. These feuding clans are generally so bound up with one another, when you cut one, they all bleed.”
“So these lawmen you’re waitin’ for could ride into a hail of lead from five outfits,” said Nathan.
The Killing Season Page 2