The Killing Season

by Compton, Ralph

  “Nothing there but routine stuff,” said Henegar. “If you have contacts at other posts, I could inquire.”

  “I know Captain Ferguson, at Fort Worth,” Nathan said. “Since you’re not busy, tell him Nathan Stone wants to know what’s happening in Texas, aside from the Comanches raising hell.”

  Corporal Henegar sent the message and waited for a reply. When it came, Nathan read it as Henegar took it down. When the instrument became silent, Nathan was gripping the back of a chair, his face deathly white.

  “Bad news?” Henegar asked.

  “Yes,” said Nathan. “Captain Sage Jennings is one of the best friends I have in this world. Nothing could be worse than knowing he’s been back-shot, lying there in Fort Worth and may never walk again.”

  “Well,” Corporal Henegar said, “I’m sorry to have brought you this kind of news.”

  “Don’t be,” said Nathan. “I’m obliged to you. Otherwise, I might have been months, getting back to Texas. Now I can ride out today.”

  Nathan returned to Dodge City, turned in his hotel key, and paid his bill at the livery. He saddled the grulla, loaded his packhorse, and rode south. All he had was the barest of details, knowing only that Jennings had been ambushed and his condition. Captain Ferguson might not have known anything more than what he had telegraphed, but that was enough to send Nathan to Fort Worth. Assuredly, Jennings would be in no condition to go after his bushwhackers, but that wouldn’t stop Nathan Stone. Riding steady, resting his horses hourly, he could reach Fort Worth—three hundred and eighty miles distant—within six days. He only hoped, if the ranger’s condition was critical, that he would live until Nathan could talk to him, hopefully to learn who had done the shooting.

  Fort Worth, Texas. June 16, 1873

  “He’s been here two weeks,” Captain Ferguson said. “He was brought here because we have a post surgeon. He was hit four times and two of the slugs were lodged near the spine. Our medic, Lieutenant Carter, successfully removed the lead.”

  “But he still can’t move,” said Nathan.

  “No,” Ferguson replied.

  “I’m obliged for what you’ve done, Captain,” said Nathan. “I’d like to talk to him, if I may.”

  “You’ll find him at the post hospital,” Captain Ferguson said. “Speak to Lieutenant Carter first.”

  Fort Worth was one of the few frontier outposts with a full-fledged hospital, and it was obvious why Captain Jennings had been brought here. Lieutenant Carter proved to be a very blunt young man.

  “His condition is still serious,” said Carter. “He lost a lot of blood and he’s still very weak. He’s eating poorly, if at all. He just doesn’t seem to care. Don’t stay too long.”

  When Nathan stepped into the room, he could scarcely believe his eyes. Jennings lay silent, his eyes closed. His body seemed to have shrunk, graying his hair, transforming him into an old man.

  “Cap?” Nathan said softly. “Captain Jennings.”

  “Nathan,” said Jennings. “Nathan Stone. I’d take your hand if I could. But that’s just one of ... many things I can no longer do.”

  The lump in Nathan’s throat felt half the size of Texas as he moved a chair near the old ranger’s bed. Swallowing hard, he sat down. When he finally trusted himself to speak, he did.

  “Who did it, Cap?”

  “I can’t truthfully say,” Jennings replied, “but I was trailing the Horrells and Clint Barkley. I rode into that ambush like a damn tenderfoot.”

  “You have every reason to believe it was the Horrells, then.”

  “Yes,” said Jennings, “but I have no proof. It happened near Georgetown. A rancher heard the shots, found me, and hauled me to town in his wagon. The doc patched me up and had me brought here. The doc here—Lieutenant Carter-dug out the lead, but I’m hurt in two places near the spine. He says my chances are fifty-fifty. I may heal in time, and then I may be crippled for life. Just like them skunk-striped Horrells, leavin’ just enough life in me so’s I ain’t worth a damn to nobody.”

  “You haven’t had time to heal, Cap,” Nathan said. “Did anybody trail the varmints?”

  “No,” said Jennings. “They still got no sheriff at Georgetown, and by the time the sheriff from Lampasas rode over there, the trail had been rained out. Later, when I finally could talk a little, Captain Ferguson telegraphed the ranger outpost in Austin. I asked for a man to be sent to the Horrell ranches, and they’re deserted. They’ve quit the territory, taking Clint Barkley with them, I reckon.”

  “They gunned down three lawmen at Lampasas,” said Nathan, “and now you. What does it take for the state of Texas to put a bounty on their heads?”

  “I’m through wondering what the state of Texas will or won’t do,” Jennings replied. “I have been officially reprimanded by the governor for trailing the Horrells without authorization from the state, and after a review, my commission with the rangers may be revoked. I might as well just die, damn it, and get out of everybody’s way.”

  “Listen, you old catamount,” said Nathan, “you’re not about to die. At least, not for a few more years. You’re goin’ to get up out of that bed, and when you do, you’ll still be wearin’ the star of the Texas Rangers. Now I have things to do, and I’ll see you again tomorrow.”

  The old ranger managed a grin, and Nathan closed the door. Lieutenant Carter nodded at Nathan approvingly, for he had been listening. Returning to the post commander’s office, Nathan spoke to Captain Ferguson.

  “When time permits, Captain, I need the use of the telegraph.”

  “Get with the telegrapher,” Ferguson replied. “As far as I know, the instrument’s been idle all morning.”

  Nathan composed a telegram to Washington, to his friend Byron Silver, at the office of the attorney general. While Captain Sage Jennings might never rise from his bed, he wouldn’t be stripped of his commission as a Texas Ranger.

  The following morning, Nathan returned to the post hospital, where he found Captain Jennings in a better frame of mind.

  “You don’t aim to roost here until I’m on my feet,” he said.

  It was a statement, not a question, and Nathan laughed. “No,” he said, “I reckon you can manage that without me. I aim to mosey around and see if I can find out where that bunch of Horrells went.”

  “I suspected as much,” said Jennings.

  “I like to think you’d do the same for me,” Nathan replied.

  “I would,” said Jennings. “It means a lot, havin’ you here. A man never knows who his friends are until he’s down. I’m obliged.”

  “You’ll be hearing from Byron Silver,” Nathan said.

  “You telegraphed him?”

  “I did,” said Nathan. “If I hadn’t, he’d have skinned me like a coyote and hung my hide out to dry.”

  Jennings laughed. “He went to Washington to work among the Yankees, but he never stopped bein’ a Texan.”

  “I’ll be in touch with Captain Ferguson by telegraph,” Nathan said, “and when I ride back this way, I want to see you on your feet. Maybe I’ll spend Christmas with you.”

  “I’d like that,” said Jennings. “Ride careful, amigo.” Before riding out, Nathan took the time to meet with Captain Ferguson.

  “When you have access to the telegraph,” Ferguson said, “get in touch with me and I will see that you get a progress report on Captain Jennings.”

  “I’m obliged,” said Nathan.

  He saddled his horse, loaded his packhorse, and with Cotton Blossom leading out, rode south,. toward Georgetown.

  Georgetown, Texas. June 22, 1873

  Nathan didn’t bother taking a hotel room in Georgetown. Instead, he began questioning people about the Horrells and where they might have gone after quitting the territory. He learned nothing of importance until he reached Duncan’s Mercantile. There he spoke to Andrew Duncan, who seemed reluctant to talk.

  “Damn it,” Nathan said, “I’m looking for Clint Barkley and the Horrells. Nobody else. From what I’ve le
arned, they’ve quit the territory. Now I know the Horrells hired riders from around here, and I want the names of some of those men.”

  “No,” said Duncan, “I ain’t wantin’ on the bad side of ’em. I got to live here.”

  “I won’t name you,” Nathan replied, “unless I’m forced to bring the law into this. Now speak up.”

  “Tobe Warner, Wat Iverson, and Bob McKeever,” said Duncan, “and I ain’t seen any of ’em in a month.”

  It was more than Nathan had expected. There was always a chance the trio had ridden away with the Horrells, but an equally good chance they had not. Most of the ranchers in south Texas had managed to get a herd to market, and so were able to afford a rider or two. For three days, Nathan rode from one ranch to another. Eventually, at a Circle J line camp he found a surly, uncooperative Bob McKeever.

  “I told you,” said McKeever stubbornly, “I quit the Horrells. I don’t know where they went, and I don’t give a damn.”

  When Nathan took a step toward McKeever, the rider went for his gun. His left hand moving like a striking rattler, Nathan seized McKeever’s arm, forcing him to drop the Colt. Fisting his left hand, McKeever took an awkward swing at Nathan, only to receive Nathan’s thundering right against his chin. Releasing McKeever’s right wrist, Nathan let the man slump to the ground on his back. Shaking his head, McKeever sat up, looking for his dropped Colt. But Nathan had retrieved the weapon, had swung out the cylinder, and was punching out the shells.

  “Damn you,” McKeever snarled, “you got no right ...”

  “I reckon you still need some convincing,” said Nathan. “Get up.”

  “I got no reason to fight you. I ain’t done nothin’.”

  “You know more than you’re telling,” Nathan said grimly. “Thanks to those damn no-account Horrells, a mighty good friend of mine may not make it. By God, somebody’s goin’ to pay.”

  “But I didn’t shoot ...”

  “I didn’t say he’d been shot,” Nathan replied, “but you knew, damn you, and you know who did it. Now you tell me what you know—every damn thing you know—or I’ll beat your ears down around your boot tops.”

  “It was Clint Barkley shot the ranger,” McKeever said. “That’s when I quit.”

  “I believe you,” said Nathan. “Now where did Barkley and the Horrells go?”

  “The Horrells was goin’ to New Mexico Territory. Barkley had a woman in Ellsworth or Hays. Said he was goin’ there.”

  Nathan dropped McKeever’s empty Colt, mounted his horse, and rode away, Cotton Blossom and the packhorse trailing behind.

  Nathan rode north, spending his nights on the trail, avoiding towns. As unwilling as McKeever had been, Nathan could see no reason for him lying. He had implicated Barkley and the Horrells in the ambush of Captain Jennings, and the lot of them quitting the territory was characteristic of the back-shooting sidewinders they were. Barkley, having done the actual shooting, would want to get as far away as he could. Nathan wanted Barkley, and while all he had was Bob McKeever’s word, he had tracked men with less. He had to consider the possibility that Barkley had remained with the Horrells, that he might find them all in New Mexico Territory, but suppose Clint Barkley had ridden to Kansas? By the time Nathan reached Kansas by way of New Mexico Territory, Barkley could lose himself in Colorado, Wyoming, Nebraska, or the Dakota territories.

  “We’ll try Ellsworth and Hays, Cotton Blossom,” Nathan said. “If we don’t find him there, then we’ll look for him and those damned Horrells in New Mexico Territory.”

  Eighty miles north of Fort Worth, Nathan crossed the Red River into Indian Territory. It brought back unpleasant memories, for there he had found Mary, only to lose her to El Gato and his renegades. The second day after crossing the Red, Nathan was sure of what he had only suspected before leaving Texas. He was being followed. In the territory, death might come from any direction, and sometimes the back trail took priority over what lay ahead. Reaching a rise, Nathan always paused, looking back. The sun bore down with a vengeance, and at first Nathan thought it was distance, that his eyes were seeing the tag end of a dust devil. Topping the next rise, he saw it again. A telltale puff of dust, while not a breath of air stirred.

  “I don’t know who you are, mister,” Nathan said aloud, “but I don’t aim to ride across Indian Territory with you on my back trail.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Reaching the bottom of the slope, Nathan dismounted and removed his Winchester from the boot. From much experience, Cotton Blossom knew this was gun work and remained with the horses. Nathan crept up the rise, keeping within the cover of underbrush and thickets. When he had a good view of the farthest slope, he bellied down, cocked the Winchester, and waited. The rider was bearded, and while Nathan couldn’t be sure, he felt like he had seen this man in the cafe in Waco.

  “That’s far enough,” Nathan said. “You’re covered.”

  “You don’t own this territory,” said the stranger. “I got as much right here as you.”

  “Pilgrim,” Nathan replied, “you’ve been on my back trail since I left Fort Worth, and whatever your reason, I don’t reckon it’s in my best interests. Using just your thumb and finger, ease out that Colt and drop it. Then step down from your saddle.”

  The response was what Nathan had expected. The stranger rolled out of his saddle on the offside, drawing his Colt as he went. He fired three times beneath the belly of the horse, but the slugs ripped the air over Nathan’s head. He fired once, and his slug caught the gunman in the chest, slamming him on his back. Nathan was up and running, kneeling beside the dying man.

  “Who are you, and why were you trailing me?”

  “I ... ain’t ... talkin’.”

  “El Gato,” Nathan said, playing a long shot. “You were with El Gato, one of the two varmints that escaped. You murdered my wife.”

  “We all ... had ... her,” he said. “Ever’ damn one ... of us ...”

  He tried to laugh, but it was choked off. Nathan had been about to smash his face in with the butt of the Winchester, but it was too late. The outlaw was dead. Unsaddling the man’s horse, Nathan set the animal free, leaving the dead man where he lay. The buzzards and coyotes were welcome to him. Returning to his horses, Nathan mounted and rode on. Unbidden, his mind drifted back to that terrible night in Indian Territory when he had found Mary dead after having been violated by El Gato’s outlaws. Nathan had gone after them with a blazing Winchester, killing ten. He had accounted for the eleventh man in Waco, and now he had gunned down the twelfth and last in the wilds of Indian Territory. But there was no elation, no joy, only the empty realization that gunning them down could in no way compensate for all he had lost. Then, from the forgotten past, drifting over the lonely years, came a Bible verse his mother had taught him.

  “Vengeance is mine,” saith the Lord.

  “That makes sense,” Nathan said aloud. “Kill a man once, and he’s lost to you. Throw the varmint into the fire and let him fry forever, now that means something.”

  He rode on, unsatisfied, but knowing his limitations. He had avenged Mary in the only way he knew how.

  Dodge City, Kansas. July 6, 1873

  Arriving in the late afternoon, Nathan found himself looking forward to a bath, town grub, and a clean bed. Checking in at the hotel, he bought copies of the St. Louis Globe-Democrat and the Kansas City Liberty-Tribune. As Nathan left the hotel lobby, the desk clerk studied the register and then looked at the clock. His relief would arrive within the hour. Then he would talk to Sheriff Harrington....

  Following his bath and a change of clothes, Nathan headed for a cafe. Having been there before, the cook recognized Nathan and Cotton Blossom.

  “Steak cooked through,” said the cook, “sided with onions, spuds, pie, and hot coffee.”

  “That will do for starters,” Nathan said. “After feedin’ Cotton Blossom and me, you may have to close up and restock. We’ve been on the trail for a spell, without decent grub.”

  Cotton Blossom
headed for the kitchen while Nathan took a back table. Reading the St. Louis paper, he found little of interest, and finishing that, turned to the Kansas City edition. In an item from Wichita, Edward Beard had begun construction on another saloon and dance hall, vowing to have it in operation by October. Ben Thompson and his troublesome brother Billy had spent the night in jail, following a brawl in a Kansas City saloon. The unpredictable pair had left town the next day, traveling west.

  When the door to his office opened, Dodge City’s Sheriff Harrington looked up.

  “Come in, Harley. Somebody rob the hotel?”

  “Nathan Stone—the gent with the dog—checked in a while ago.”

  “He’s at the hotel now?” Sheriff Harrington asked.

  “No,” said Harley. “After takin’ a room, him and the dog went out. Do you reckon there’s a reward?”

  “I don’t know,” Harrington replied. “I had a telegram from the Pinkerton office in Kansas City, and all they asked was that I wire them immediately if Nathan Stone showed up. They made it a point to say he has a dog with him.”

  “No reward, then,” said Harley, disappointed. “A man wanted by the law ain’t likely to be signin’ his own name on a hotel register.”

  “I wouldn’t think so,” Harrington replied. “While the Pinkertons trail bank, train, and stage robbers, they don’t limit themselves to that. I expect folks with money can hire them to track missing persons, too. I’ll telegraph them, tell them Stone’s here, and we’ll see what happens.”

  Receiving Sheriff Harrington’s telegram, the Pinkerton office in Kansas City sent an operative with the message to a Kansas City hotel. Hate-filled eyes read the telegram and steady hands loaded a Colt revolver. The recipient of the telegram checked out of the hotel and took a hack to the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railroad terminal. The schedule said the next train to Dodge would depart within the hour, arriving there before dawn....