The Killing Season

by Compton, Ralph

  The shriek of a locomotive whistle awakened Nathan. Cotton Blossom had reared up on his hind legs, looking out the window into the darkness.

  “Just a train comin’ in, Cotton Blossom,” Nathan said. “With the railroad through town, it’s like trying to sleep next to a steamboat landing. It’s a good two hours before first light.”

  A single passenger stepped down from the train, and taking a seat on a bench, waited for the town to awaken.

  With the first gray light of dawn, Nathan arose. Leaving his room key at the desk, he and Cotton Blossom headed for the cafe. Immediately after breakfast, they would strike out north, toward Ellsworth. But suddenly, from behind there came a command that drove all thought of food from Nathan’s mind.

  “Nathan Stone, this is Sheriff Harrington. I need to talk to you.”

  His hands shoulder-high, Nathan turned slowly around. Harrington’s Colt was thonged to his right thigh and he looked all business. But the sheriff wasn’t alone. The girl had short dark hair under a flat-crowned hat. Her boots were scuffed, her Levi’s faded, and an old red flannel shirt looked too large. She looked maybe twenty-one or -two, and her eyes were brimming with hatred. Before the sheriff could speak another word, she drew from the folds of her shirt a Colt revolver. There was no doubt she intended to kill Nathan.

  “Hey!” Sheriff Harrington shouted. Seizing her arm, he forced the muzzle of the Colt toward the ground, and the roar of the weapon was loud in the morning stillness. But the girl was resourceful and cat-quick. Facing Harrington, she drove a knee into his groin, and using his moments of agony, wrested the Colt free.

  But she now had Nathan Stone to contend with, for he no longer had any doubts as to her intentions. Before she could cock and fire the Colt, he caught her wrist, and when she tried to knee him as she had the sheriff, he seized her ankle. Using that and the hold he had on her wrist, he lifted her off the ground and slammed her down on her back. She let go of the Colt and Nathan kicked it back toward the hotel. Sheriff Harrington had regained his composure and stood there waiting for the girl to get up. She ignored Nathan, turning her anger upon the sheriff.

  “You could help me,” she snapped, struggling to her knees.

  “I could lock you up for attempted murder,” Harrington said coldly, “and I might yet, you little catamount. You lied to me. You told me you only needed to talk to Stone.”

  She laughed. “Oh, I do want to talk to him, to tell him who I am. Then I aim to kill him, because he murdered my brother.”

  “You don’t have to tell me who you are,” Nathan said. “You’re from Missouri, and you’re one of the Limbaughs.”

  “Amy, by name,” said Sheriff Harrington. “Do you know her?”

  “No,” Nathan replied, “but I know why she’s after me. I had to shoot her hotheaded brother or he’d have shot me. There’s just a hell of a lot she hasn’t told you, Sheriff, and I aim to fill in the gaps. Then I want to know how she dragged you into this.”

  “Then we’ll talk in my office,” said Harrington. “We’re starting to draw a crowd.”

  The three of them walked the short distance to the lawman’s office. There were four cells, none of them occupied. Harrington pointed to the first one.

  “In there, Amy. I aim to hear Stone’s side of this. Then I’ll decide what to do with you.”

  Harrington locked the cell door, took a seat behind an old desk, and nodded toward the only other chair in the room. Nathan sat down and started talking. When he had finished, Harrington got to his feet.

  “What you’ve said has the ring of truth,” the sheriff said, “but I aim to telegraph the attorney general’s office in Jefferson City, Missouri. That’s as much for your benefit as my own. I figure if they hear from enough lawmen, all of us raisin’ hell, the state might get to the bottom of this, and clear you.”

  “I’m more interested in getting the Pinkertons off my trail,” Nathan said. “They’re after me so this female sidewinder can fill me full of lead, and she has no legal right. I’m of a mind to ride to Kansas City and pull some Pinkerton fangs.”

  “You would be more than justified,” said Harrington. “Fact is, after I’ve telegraphed the Missouri attorney general’s office, I’ll contact the Pinkerton office in Kansas City. They should know what Miss Amy Limbaugh’s intentions are, and that as a result of their being involved, you’re in a position to bring charges against them. If they persist in hounding you, then I’d suggest you do exactly that. Now let’s ride to Fort Dodge and send those telegrams.”

  “He’s a killer,” Amy shouted, “and I’ll find him without the Pinkertons.”

  “He could have shot you dead and claimed self-defense,” said Harrington. “Instead, he disarmed you. That’s not the mark of a killer.”

  Reaching Fort Dodge, Harrington sent the telegrams, and in less than a quarter of an hour the Pinkertons responded. Harrington read the message and passed it on to Nathan. The telegram was simple and to the point. Sheriff Harrington was to detain Amy Limbaugh until a Pinkerton operative could question her.

  “I reckon it won’t stop her from comin’ after you,” said Harrington, “but she likely won’t have the help of the Pinkertons. Won’t be another train out of Kansas City until tonight. That’ll give you a head start.”

  “Thanks,” Nathan said.

  They waited for almost an hour for the Missouri district attorney’s office to respond, and when the telegram came, it satisfied Sheriff Harrington.

  “You told it straight,” said Harrington. “The shooting was ruled self-defense and the state has no charges against you. When that Pinkerton varmint steps down from the train, I’ll shove this in his face.”

  When they reached the jail, Nathan dismounted. “Before I ride out,” Nathan said, “I have some advice for Miss Amy Limbaugh.”

  Unlocking the door, Sheriff Harrington went in, Nathan following. Amy Limbaugh just stared angrily at them, gripping the bars.

  “Well, Amy,” said Harrington, “Stone told me the truth, and the Pinkertons have asked me to keep you here until they can talk to you. If you know how, I reckon you’d better come up with some truth of your own.”

  “Damn you,” she shouted, “you can’t hold me without charges. What are the charges?”

  “I don’t know all the fine points of the law,” said Harrington, “but we can always use attempted murder. The Pinkertons may have some of their own. Without their knowledge, you used them with the intention of committing a crime. Legally, Stone can sue the socks off them, and they know it. For that matter, when the Pinkertons are finished with you, Stone can file charges of his own. I certainly wouldn’t blame him.”

  “No charges,” said Nathan. “When the Pinkertons have had their say, turn her loose.”

  “Damn you,” she said. “I don’t want any favors from your kind.”

  “You’ve had your first and last favor from me,” said Nathan. “The next time you pull a gun on me, I’ll kill you.”

  Nodding to the sheriff, Nathan stepped out the door, closing it behind him. Mounting, he rode to the livery for his packhorse. While he expected Sheriff Harrington to truthfully present his case to the Pinkertons, he still intended to confront them personally. With that in mind, he rode eastward, toward Kansas City.

  Kansas City, Missouri. July 12, 1873

  The Pinkerton Detective Agency was housed in a two-story brick building. As Nathan stepped into the lobby, Amy Limbaugh and a pair of hired guns observed him from their hiding place across the street.

  “Find some cover and spread out,” said the girl. “When he leaves the building, wait until he’s down the steps and away from it. Then cut him down.”

  Nathan was shown into the office of Roscoe Edelman, a regional director of the Pinkerton Detective Agency. Edelman said nothing, waiting for Nathan to speak.

  “There’s a gun-totin’ female name of Amy Limbaugh who aims to kill me,” Nathan said, “and through Sheriff Harrington in Dodge, I’ve learned the Pinkertons are responsib
le for her being on my trail. Now I’m here to tell you the straight of it, that the Limbaughs have no legal case against me, and I can prove it. If just one more sheriff comes after me as a result of your damn telegrams, I aim to purely raise hell and kick a chunk under it. Do you understand?”

  “I am not accustomed to being threatened,” said Edelman coldly, “and I refuse to be intimidated by a mouthy gunman. We have acknowledged our mistake, and we will no longer concern ourselves with your whereabouts. That’s all the consideration you’re going to get from this office. Close the door on your way out.”

  Fighting his temper, Nathan turned and walked out, leaving the door wide open. There was little to do except return to the livery where his horses and Cotton Blossom waited. Nathan had left the building and was at the foot of the steps when the first shot rang out. Lead slammed into his left side above his pistol belt, throwing him back against the steps. There was no way he could make it back to the safety of the building, and he rolled off the steps, drawing his right-hand Colt. Belly-down, he had become a more difficult target, and for just a moment, his antagonist forgot his cover. Nathan shot him twice. A second man fired, his slug kicking dust in Nathan’s face. He fired once and had the satisfaction of seeing the killer stumble and fall. But another slug tore into Nathan’s left thigh, and he realized he was caught in a three-way crossfire. The third bushwacker was to Nathan’s left and much nearer. He fired once and Amy Limbaugh screamed when the lead struck her under the collar-bone. All three bushwhackers were down and Nathan was struggling to his knees when the sheriff and his deputy arrived. They stood facing Nathan, their Colts drawn and ready.

  “I’m Sheriff Wilhelm,” the lawman said. “Drop the gun. The party’s over.”

  “I didn’t open the ball, Sheriff,” Nathan said. “Three bushwhackers cut down on me and they’ve all been hit.”

  “You’re just hell on little red wheels with a pistol, ain’t you?” the sheriff said. Then he spoke to his deputy. “Karl, see to them that’s hurt.”

  “You that’s been hit,” Karl said, “hold your fire. I’m a sheriff’s deputy.”

  Nathan staggered to his feet and Sheriff Wilhelm allowed him to keep his guns. The sheriff still hadn’t holstered his weapon, waiting for Karl’s report.

  “He’s right, Sheriff,” said Karl. “There’s three of ‘em, and one’s dead. The other two are wounded, but they’ll live. One of ’em’s a ... uh ... female.”

  Before Sheriff Wilhelm could react to that, a crowd had gathered, drawn by the gunfire. One young man, a press card under his hat band, spoke directly to the sheriff.

  “Sheriff, I’m Brandon Wilkes, with the Liberty-Tribune.”

  “I know who you are,” Wilhelm growled, “and I got no time to talk to you.”

  “I’m not here to talk to you,” said Wilkes coolly. “I want a story from this gentleman who seems to have survived all the shooting. Mr.... ?”

  “Stone,” said Nathan. “Nathan Stone.”

  Karl, the deputy, arrived, his Colt cocked. Ahead of him stumbled a bearded man with the left side of his shirt bloody and a bleeding, weeping Amy Limbaugh. Nathan suspected the girl was playing on the sheriffs sympathy, and to his disgust, Wilhelm seemed to be responding.

  “Ma’am,” Sheriff Wilhelm said, “the doctor’s office ain’t far. Can you make it, or do you need help?”

  “Sheriff,” said Nathan angrily, “this is the second time this little hellion has tried to kill me. By God, if you don’t take that Colt away from her, I’m going to.”

  “I tried,” the deputy said sheepishly, “but she wouldn’t give it to me.”

  “Ma’am,” Wilhelm said, “you’ll have to give me the gun.” Brandon Wilkes, the newspaperman, seemed to have lost all interest in everybody except Nathan Stone. He spoke directly to Nathan.

  “Are you the Nathan Stone who once was a troubleshooter for the Kansas-Pacific? The man who rode into Indian Territory and single-handed, gunned down a band of train robbers?”

  “I am,” said Nathan, disgusted with Sheriff Wilhelm’s fussing over Amy Limbaugh. “I would be obliged if you’d point me toward the doctor’s office. The sheriff has his hands full.”

  There was laughter from some of the crowd that had gathered, and an angry response from Sheriff Wilhelm. He turned on Wilkes.

  “Damn it, Wilkes, you’re interfering. All these people are in my custody and I’ll see that they’re given medical attention. Now get the hell out of here.”

  “Not so fast, Sheriff,” said Nathan. “I want my position in this brought out into the open, and I don’t like the way you’re goin’ at it. That female rattler you’ve cozied up to is responsible for this ambush, and I aim to see that she’s charged with attempted murder. She has no legal grounds for comin’ after me, and I can prove that with one telegram. I believe Mr. Wilkes, here, might be willing to send that telegram in return for how this all started.”

  “Damn right I will,” Wilkes said. “Right after the doctor’s seen to your wounds.”

  “Sheriff,” said Nathan, “I want it understood, before witnesses, that I will be pressing charges against this woman and her hired killer. I can present enough state-sanctioned evidence to hang them both.”

  “Like hell,” the wounded gunman shouted, speaking for the first time. “This woman, she paid me an’ Turk five hunnert dollars apiece. She wanted this gent dead. It was all her idee. Me an’ Turk, we just done what we was told.”

  Brandon Wilkes laughed. “Well, Sheriff, there’s your witness for the prosecution. I expect he will sing like a mockingbird to save his own neck. Once I’ve heard Mr. Stone’s story and sent his telegram, the three of us will get together and satisfy your curiosity as to how all this began and the reasons behind it.”

  Clearly, Sheriff Wilhelm didn’t like it, but there had been too many witnesses to the hired gunman’s hasty confession. Nathan limped along beside Wilkes, and men moved aside for them to pass.

  “You are indeed fortunate,” the doctor said, as he examined Nathan’s wounds. “None of your vitals were hit and no bones broken. Just don’t do anything foolish for the next three or four weeks, and there should be no complications.”

  As Nathan and Wilkes left, they encountered Sheriff Wilhelm and his two prisoners in the doctor’s waiting room.

  “Stone,” said Wilhelm, “I’ll expect to see you at the jail one hour from now.”

  “I have business at the telegraph office,” Nathan replied. “When I’m finished there, I’ll come to the jail to file charges.”

  Nathan had been given laudanum for pain, and while he limped, he was able to walk.

  “For a man that’s been shot twice, you manage remarkably well,” said Wilkes. “You can always do your talking when you’re feeling up to it.”

  “I don’t aim to do another damn thing until this is settled,” Nathan replied.

  “Then you were serious about sending that telegram.”

  “Yes,” said Nathan. “It’s to be sent to the office of the attorney general, Jefferson City, Missouri. Ask for a report on the Limbaugh shooting in Springfield, May 18, 1872. I was forced to shoot in self-defense, and no charges were filed.”

  After the telegram had been sent, Nathan and Wilkes waited for a reply, and while they waited, Nathan talked.

  “The way I see it,” said Nathan, “your newspaper owes me. I came out of Indian Territory shot all to hell, and by the time I was on my feet, your writers had painted me a yard wide and nine feet tall. Every damn wet-behind-the-ears kid with a Colt and shells wanted to test my draw, but it didn’t end there. Taking the word of the Limbaughs, your newspaper set me up as a killer on the run, with a price on my head.”

  “Yes,” said Wilkes, “I remember. We even used the etching from your days with the Kansas-Pacific. But now it’s pay-back time. Just as the Liberty-Tribune falsely accused you, it can now exonerate you by printing your story from start to finish. It can also turn public sentiment in your favor and against the Limbaughs.”<
br />
  “I’m counting on that,” Nathan said, “but it’ll be a mixed blessing. While I’ll be rid of the Limbaughs, I look for a whole new crop of young fools to challenge me, trying to make themselves a name at my expense.”

  It was a dismal prospect, and Wilkes could think of nothing to say. They waited in silence until a reply came to the telegram Wilkes had sent. He read it with satisfaction and then he spoke.

  “It’s just as you said it would be. Now, if you’re up to it, I think we’re ready to talk to Sheriff Wilhelm.”

  Wilhelm had his prisoners in cells, and Amy Limbaugh glared at Nathan in angry silence. Wilkes handed the telegram to the sheriff and Wilhelm read it. When he spoke to Nathan, he was all business.

  “It appears you’re justified in filing charges. The state will prosecute, but you’ll have to be present for the trial.”

  “When?” Nathan asked.

  “It depends on what’s ahead of you on the docket,” said Wilhelm. “Probably three or four weeks.”

  “You’ll need a place to stay,” Wilkes said, when they had left the jail.

  “I have a place,” Nathan replied. “Eppie Bolivar’s. I boarded there while I was with the Kansas-Pacific. I have a saddle horse, a packhorse, and a dog waiting for me at the livery nearest the Pinkerton building.”

  “You’d better stay out of the saddle for a few days,” said Wilkes. “I’ll fetch a buckboard and drive you to the Bolivar place. We can tie your horses on behind.”

  Nathan enjoyed the quiet days at Eppie Bolivar’s boardinghouse, and he became more and more impressed with the thoroughness in which Brandon Wilkes wrote the story of Amy Limbaugh’s vendetta to avenge the death of her brother. Wilkes asked for and got an in-depth report of the attempt on Nathan’s life in Dodge City, as reported by Sheriff Harrington. In each edition of the Liberty-Tribune, Wilkes unfolded a little more of the deadly drama, portraying Nathan Stone as a man wrongly persecuted by a vengeful woman, aided by the powerful Pinkerton Detective Agency. To Nathan’s surprise, men who had known him during his days with the Kansas-Pacific rallied around him. One of them was Joel Netherton.