The Killing Season

by Compton, Ralph

  “Damn these people!” Nathan raged. “I did everything a man can do to get around killing the little varmint, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. Come morning, Cotton Blossom, we’re ridin’ to Missouri. I aim to raise hell and kick a chunk under it.”

  Nathan ventured out for supper that evening and for breakfast the next morning. He then turned in his room key, saddled the grulla, loaded the packhorse, and rode eastward, toward Kansas City. He followed the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe tracks, for that was the most direct route. He might have taken the train, but he had no assurance there would be a boxcar, and he needed his horses. First he would learn why the Kansas-Pacific had allowed the use of the etching in a death sentence reward notice. Then he would ride on to Jefferson City, to the state capital. There he would demand that the state’s attorney general wire the sheriff of Springfield, where the killing of Rusty Limbaugh had taken place. Nathan had acted in self-defense, and since the state hadn’t pressed charges, the Limbaugh family’s reward should put them in violation of the law. Nathan had little doubt he would be vindicated, but that would be small consolation if some bounty hunter gunned him down before the wrong could be righted.

  Kansas City, Missouri. April 6, 1873

  While Nathan was treated courteously at Kansas-Pacific, the nature of his complaint had him meeting with Miles Herndon, the railroad’s attorney.

  “You must understand,” Herndon said, “that the Kansas-Pacific had nothing to do with the etching being used in a reward dodger. The Liberty-Tribune created the etching to complement the story the Kansas-Pacific supplied. The etching belongs to the newspaper.”

  “You’re telling me this damn newspaper can use a likeness of me anyway it sees fit,” said Nathan angrily. “Even in an unlawful wanted poster that could get me shot dead.”

  “That’s what it amounts to,” Herndon replied, “and attacking the newspaper will get you exactly nowhere. If this reward has not been sanctioned by the state, then it’s illegal, and as such, could and should be withdrawn. You would do well to contact the state’s attorney general, requesting that he contact the sheriff in the county where the reward has been posted. If the law agrees you acted in self-defense, then a cease-and-desist order from the attorney general could be served through the county sheriff.”

  Nathan left the attorney’s office, convinced he had been given sound advice. However, he was a hundred and eighty miles west of Jefferson City, and Missouri was teeming with potential bounty hunters who would kill a man for a hell of a lot less than five thousand dollars. He bought a paper, replacing the one he had ripped to shreds. Placing it in his saddlebag, he began the long ride to Jefferson City.

  Jefferson City, Missouri. April 10, 1873

  “Ma’am,” Nathan said, “I’m not here to see an assistant to the attorney general. I want to see the attorney general himself.”

  “Sorry,” said the prim gray-haired receptionist, “but the attorney general will see you only if circumstances warrant it. His assistant, Charles Atchison, will make that decision.”

  After an impatient half hour, Nathan was shown to Atchison’s office. He sat with hands clasped, looking at Nathan over the top of his spectacles. Nathan leaned on the desk, the newspaper under his arm.

  “Mr. Atchison,” he said, as calmly as he could, “I need the help of the attorney general.”

  “So does everybody entering this office,” said Atchison, unruffled. “I suppose you are going to tell me why.”

  “I am,” Nathan replied, spreading the page of the newspaper with the wanted notice on Atchison’s desk. Without wasting words, he explained events leading up to the shooting in Springfield, renewing his claim of self-defense.

  “If there are no charges against you,” said Atchison, “then you are within your rights, demanding that this offer of a reward be withdrawn. It is indeed illegal. A telegram to the county clerk in Springfield should determine that. You are welcome to wait in the outer office.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Uneasily, Nathan waited, considering the possibility that the sheriff in Springfield had yielded to pressure and made him a fugitive. Could Atchison, excusing himself to send a telegram, be summoning the law to arrest Nathan Stone? But within half an hour, Atchison beckoned Nathan back into his office.

  “There are no charges against you in Springfield,” Atchison said. “Court records call the killing justifiable homicide. This office will issue an order to the sheriff in Springfield, and he will notify the parties involved that their offer of a reward is illegal, and is to be withdrawn immediately.”

  “Suppose they refuse to abide by that order?”

  “Someone will have to take them to court,” Atchison replied.

  “You mean I—Nathan Stone—will have to take them to court,” said Nathan.

  “Of course,” Atchison said. “The state will prosecute, but only when formal charges have been filed.”

  “So if they ignore your order and refuse to remove the price on my head, it’s up to me to file charges and take them to court. What will the court do, spank them?”

  “Your sarcasm is not appreciated,” said Atchison stiffly. “Found guilty, there would be a severe fine. At least fifty dollars, I’m sure.”

  “Then send your court order,” Nathan said. “I’ll go on keeping my guns handy and an eye on my back trail.”

  Nathan departed in disgust, returning to the livery where he had left the horses and Cotton Blossom. He had but one consolation, and that was that he had seen the notice of the reward only in the Kansas City Liberty- Tribune. But Kansas City was a “jumping-off place” for anyone heading west, and that damning reward notice might hound him wherever he rode. Nathan was only a few miles from St. Louis, and he decided to go there. While he was still miles away, he could hear the bull-throated bellow of steamboat whistles, and it brought memories of those pleasant days in New Orleans, with the McQueens.

  Finding a livery, Nathan saw to the care of his horses. Then he and Cotton Blossom went looking for a hotel or rooming house. Nathan chose a rooming house not far from the riverfront, with several cafes and saloons nearby. He had no trouble finding copies of the St. Louis Globe-Democrat and the Kansas City Liberty- Tribune. These were a week later than the issues he had read in Kansas City, and he wanted to see if the reward notice appeared in either paper. First he fanned through the Globe-Democrat and then the Liberty-Tribune without finding the offending advertisement. However, in the Kansas City paper, he found a piece that grabbed his attention. One of the James gang had been captured and had sworn that neither the James nor Younger gangs had shot and killed Bart Hankins during the failed bank robbery of February 13, 1866, in Gallatin, Missouri. Now the Hankins family had hired the Pinkertons and had posted a ten thousand dollar reward. Hankins had been the first of seven men Nathan had tracked down and slain, keeping the oath he had taken on his murdered father’s grave.5

  “Damn it,” said Nathan aloud, “the glory seekers were bad enough. Now this.”

  At first he could see no way the Pinkertons could tie him to the killing of Hankins, but his mind wouldn’t leave it alone. By God, there was a way! The Pinkertons had enough influence to gain access to military records and thus might learn the identities of the other men with whom Hankins had returned to Virginia. Six men who, along with Bart Hankins, had died by the gun of Nathan Stone. With Pinkerton persistence, there was more than enough evidence to establish a pattern. While all Hankins’s companions had been gunned down while trying to kill Nathan, there was nobody but Nathan Stone who could swear that Bart Hankins had drawn first. It was time for a decision. For the next two weeks, Nathan allowed his beard to grow, leaving his room only for meals and to see that the livery was properly caring for his horses. Finally, the mirror convincing him his appearance had been sufficiently altered, he made the rounds of various saloons, sitting in on poker games, but avoiding high stakes. Only once did he encounter a hint of recognition. During a game of five card stud at the Emerald Dragon, a thin man
in town clothes put down his cards and stared across the table at Nathan. Finally he spoke.

  “Ain’t I seen you somewhere before?”

  Nathan laughed. “I doubt it. I’d remember an ugly varmint like you.”

  His companions all howled with laughter, and the moment passed. Feeling a little more secure, having spent three weeks in St. Louis saloons, Nathan rode back to Kansas City. He had continued buying regular copies of the Kansas City Liberty-Tribune without again finding a reward notice with the etching of himself. Perhaps the attorney general’s order had served its purpose, or perhaps the Limbaughs had just given up from lack of success.

  Kansas City, Missouri. May 26, 1873

  Reading the current Kansas City Liberty- Tribune, Nathan discovered something that intrigued him. Edward Beard, a saloon owner from California, had been attracted to Kansas by the cattle boom, and had established a saloon and dance hall in Delano, just outside Wichita. Beard advertised around-the-clock high stakes poker and was seeking house dealers. While with the Kansas-Pacific Railroad, Nathan had spent many months in various Kansas towns. Having allowed his beard to grow, it was time to learn whether or not his changed appearance had made any difference in towns where he was most likely to be recognized. He rode to Delano and offered his services as a house dealer, and his first impression of Edward Beard was unfavorable. He had a quick tongue, cold green eyes, flaming red hair and beard, and little patience.

  “Twenty percent of the take,” said Beard shortly. “It’s your game. I ain’t responsible for slick dealing, card shaving, knife or gun work.”

  Nathan laughed. “So that’s why you’re in Delano instead of Wichita. No law out here.”

  “It’s no business of yours why I’m here,” Beard said. “If you can’t ride the bronc, then stay out of the saddle.”

  “I can ride your bronc,” said Nathan evenly. “Just don’t get in my way.”

  Beard had a whorehouse upstairs, and he was anything but gentle with the women. For some reason Nathan never understood, Beard’s place was enormously popular with the military, and soldiers were there from as far away as Fort Dodge, Fort Leavenworth, and Fort Hays. While riding the vengeance trail, Nathan had often visited the forts, and during his first week at the tables, he was greatly encouraged when none of the soldiers seemed to recognize him. Nathan and two other dealers—Benton and Kinzer—worked the tables from three in the afternoon until eleven at night, and Nathan got the impression they were more hired guns than house dealers. The night of June third, Nathan had his suspicions confirmed. Two soldiers got into a violent argument with Emma Stanley, one of Beard’s prostitutes.

  “Damn you,” one of the soldiers shouted, “you owe me change.”

  “I gave it to you,” Emma shouted back.

  One of the soldiers drew his pistol, probably as a threat, but Emma seized his arm and the weapon roared. Wounded in the leg, Emma screamed. The soldier dropped the pistol and raised his hands. Benton, the house dealer, drew his Colt and would have shot the soldier in the back, but for Nathan. He drew his Colt and shot Benton. That should have ended it, but Edward Beard cut loose with a Colt. The soldiers who had argued with Emma escaped, but Beard, firing wildly, gunned down two innocent soldiers. Private Doley took a slug in the throat, at the base of his tongue, while his companion, Private Boyle had his right ankle shattered. Every other soldier in the saloon went to the aid of their wounded comrades, taking them away. The Colt still in his hand, Beard stalked across the floor and confronted Nathan.

  “Damn it,” he shouted, “if you had to shoot somebody, why didn’t you shoot the fool who shot Emma?”

  “Because Benton was about to shoot an unarmed soldier in the back,” said Nathan coldly. “You’ve just shot two men who had done nothing. I’d say you’re in deep enough, already.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” Beard shouted. “Now you and Kinzer tote Benton out back. This is bad for business.”

  Nathan and Kinzer carried Benton out the back door and put him down. Kinzer wiped his brow and spoke.

  “He’s bought himself a mess of trouble. Hurt a soldier, and the rest of them will come down on you like a pack of lobo wolves.”

  Nathan said nothing, but Kinzer spoke the truth. Wound or kill a soldier—whatever the reason—and his comrades were likely to show up with fire in their eyes and guns in their hands. It was but a matter of time, and for Edward Beard that time arrived quickly.

  Nathan had taken a hotel room in Wichita, stabling his horses in a nearby livery. Each time he rode to Beard’s saloon, he had taken to leaving Cotton Blossom at the livery, with the packhorse. The dog hated saloons, was ever on his guard, and was capable of biting some clumsy drunk. The night after Beard had shot the two soldiers, it was ominously quiet, with nobody at the poker tables. Two or three men were upstairs, but none of the soldiers had returned.

  “They’ll be back,” Kinzer predicted, “and there’ll be hell to pay.”

  “Just shut up!” Beard shouted, but he obviously was worried, for in addition to his Colt, he carried a Winchester under his arm.

  “They’ll come back and kill us all,” Emma whined.

  Nathan said nothing. He had no intention of being caught on the short end of a gun fight with the Union army. It started with the sound of a shot, the tinkle of glass, and a slug through a saloon window.

  “Ever’body out,” a voice shouted, “and nobody gets hurt. We’re burnin’ this place to the ground.”

  “Like hell,” Beard replied. He cut loose with the Winchester, firing wildly through the windows into the darkness. “Shoot, damn it,” he bawled at Nathan and Kinzer.

  “There’s nobody to shoot at, you damn fool,” said Nathan in disgust. “You’ve played out your string. Don’t make it any worse.”

  But Beard seemed not to hear. He continued firing into the night, and while he had no targets, the soldiers did. The dozen hanging lamps began exploding, scattering flaming coal oil everywhere. One of the lamps showered Beard with burning oil. He dropped the Winchester and threw himself on the floor, rolling, trying to extinguish the flames. There were screams from upstairs, as the attackers took aim at lamps through upstairs windows. Girls practically fell down the stairs in various stages of dress and undress, while men fought their way down, boots in their hands. But the vengeful soldiers were not depending on the shattered lamps and scattered coal oil. They had brought coal oil of their own, and soon flames were racing up outside walls and licking in through shattered windows. Smoke swept down the stairs as the second floor caught.

  “You men outside,” Nathan shouted, “hold your fire. We’re coming out.”

  “Come on,” came the shouted response. “We won’t shoot.”

  “By God,” Beard snarled, “when we go out, we’ll go shootin’.”

  “I reckon not,” said Kinzer, slamming the muzzle of his Colt against the back of the saloon owner’s head. “Take the crazy varmint’s feet,” he told Nathan, “and we’ll tote him out.”

  A hundred yards from the burning saloon, they left Beard under an oak. In a shower of sparks, the saloon’s roof caved in, and there was a clatter of hooves as the vengeful soldiers rode out.

  “I don’t aim to be here when he comes to,” said Kinzer. “Adios.”

  “Neither do I,” Nathan replied.

  The two of them went to their picketed horses, saddled the animals, and rode toward the lights of Wichita. Behind them came the frustrated cries of women.

  Nathan had no idea what kind of stink Edward Beard might stir up in Wichita, and he had no desire to become embroiled in it. At first light he rode west, leading his packhorse with Cotton Blossom trotting ahead. He had a little more than a hundred dollars and a dead man to show for his two weeks at Edward Beard’s saloon. Dodge City was a two-day ride, and he had left there hurriedly, thanks to the reward notice he had discovered in the Kansas City Liberty- Tribune. He had no particular reason for going there, except that he wanted the Beard episode behind him. Besides, bein
g friends with the post commander at Fort Dodge, he could learn anything of importance that had come over the telegraph.

  Dodge City, Kansas. June 8, 1873

  Feeling more secure behind his newly grown beard, Nathan again took a room at the three-story hotel. It was convenient, for the livery and two cafes were within walking distance. He again bought the latest editions of the Kansas City and St. Louis newspapers, but found nothing of interest concerning himself or anybody he knew. The next morning, he rode to Fort Dodge, renewed his friendship with the post commander and was given permission to speak to the post telegrapher.

  “Do you read code?” Corporal Henegar asked.

  “Yes,” said Nathan.

  “I keep copies of all incoming messages for thirty days, but they’re just like I took ’em off the wire. No military secrets, nothing classified.”

  “That wouldn’t concern me,” Nathan replied. “I have friends on the frontier, and all I want is to see if they’re alive and stayin’ out of trouble.”