The Killing Season

by Compton, Ralph

  “The railroad can still use you,” said Netherton. “Outlaws are still robbing trains, but with you riding shotgun, your reputation alone would scare them away.”

  “Thanks, Joel,” Nathan said, “but it’s my reputation I’m trying to live down.”

  Kansas City, Missouri. August 3, 1873

  Nathan’s wounds healed, and by the day of the trial, he was ready to be done with the whole affair. He listened with disgust as a court-appointed defense attorney tried to convince a jury that Amy Limbaugh was a noble, courageous woman who had sought only to avenge her dead brother. But the jury deliberated only twenty-five minutes.

  “Has the jury reached a verdict?” the judge asked.

  “We have, your honor,” the foreman replied. “We find the defendants guilty as charged.”

  “The defendants will come forward for sentencing,” said the judge.

  Amy Limbaugh and the surviving gunman, Simp Anderton, were led before the bench.

  “Amy Limbaugh and Simpson Anderton, I hereby sentence each of you to five years in the state penitentiary,” the judge said. “Court is adjourned.”

  Amy Limbaugh lost all her feigned innocence, flooding the courtroom with an array of swearing that would have made a bullwhacker envious.

  “By God,” said Brandon Wilkes with some admiration, “the woman has talent greater than her ability to fire a pistol. Nonetheless, Mr. Stone, in the interest of your continued good health, I’d suggest you be elsewhere when the state turns her loose.”

  “I aim to be,” Nathan said. “I have business in Ellsworth.”

  Before returning to Eppie Bolivar’s place for his horses and Cotton Blossom, Nathan returned to the telegraph office. There he sent a telegram to Captain Ferguson, at Fort Worth, inquiring about Captain Jennings. Captain Ferguson’s reply was brief, and Nathan read it a second time, swallowing a lump in his throat ...

  Regret to inform you Captain Sage Jennings died two weeks ago.

  “I swear before God, Cap,” Nathan gritted through clenched teeth, “I’ll gun down Clint Barkley if I have to follow him to the gates of hell and go in after him....”

  CHAPTER 5

  Ellsworth, Kansas. August 14, 1873

  Nathan took a room at a boardinghouse, and leaving Cotton Blossom at the livery with the horses, set out to make the rounds of the saloons. He could think of no more likely place to begin his search for Clint Barkley. The third saloon he entered—which was Joe Brennan’s—he found Ben Thompson running a game of monte. Thompson flashed him that twisted grin he reserved for his few friends. Thompson had shed his frock coat, and as far as Nathan could see, the deadly little gambler wasn’t armed. Aware of his obvious “nakedness,” he seemed embarrassed.

  “This is one of the few towns where I’m on good terms with the law,” Thompson said. “Sheriff C.B. Whitney’s a friend of mine. He has a gun ordinance. He’ll be asking for your irons.”

  “He can ask till hell freezes,” said Nathan. “My guns go where I go. I’m looking for a killer name of Clint Barkley. He may also use the name of Bill Bowen.”

  “It’s unlikely he’d linger here, then,” Thompson said. “He wouldn’t be comfortable with the sheriff’s gun ordinance. About all I’ve seen looked to be soldiers and railroad men.”

  Ben’s brother Billy entered the saloon as Nathan was leaving. The younger Thompson either didn’t recognize Nathan or didn’t consider him worthy of recognition, for he didn’t speak. Nathan noted with approval the hotheaded little varmint was unarmed. Long before Nathan had made the rounds of the saloons, he encountered the sheriff. He was an older man, but he still spoke with authority.

  “I’m C.B. Whitney, sheriff of Ellsworth. Are you aware there’s a gun ordinance?”

  “I am,” Nathan replied. “I’m Nathan Stone. Are you aware there may be men in this town who would like nothing better than catching me unarmed?”

  “I’m considering that,” said Whitney. “I’ve been reading about you in the newspapers. I’m not one to meddle in a man’s business, but under the circumstances, I need to know how long you aim to be here.”

  “Probably not more than another day,” Nathan said. “I’m looking for a killer. His name is Clint Barkley, and he sometimes calls himself Bill Bowen. He back-shot a friend of mine in Texas. He carries a tied-down Colt, dresses like a cowboy, and might hire on with some ranch. He’s an aggressive, short-tempered little varmint, remindin’ you of an overgrown banty rooster.”

  Whitney laughed. “I know the type, and I reckon him and me would have had words if he’d been through here. Keep your irons. I’m trusting you not to use them unless it’s shoot or be shot.”

  Nathan nodded. It was a fair offer, and the old sheriff was leaving himself open for criticism by making an exception to the town ordinance. After a fruitless day in the saloons, Nathan stopped by the livery for Cotton Blossom and they went to supper. There being little else to do, Nathan turned in for the night. Ellsworth was looking less and less like the kind of place Clint Barkley would hole up.

  Ellsworth, Kansas. August 15, 1873

  When Nathan and Cotton Blossom went to breakfast, Nathan stopped at the mercantile and bought three newspapers. One of them was a weekly, from Dodge City. Nathan went through the Kansas City and St. Louis papers first, finding little to interest him. But the Dodge City weekly had news from Texas, and although it was weeks’ old, Nathan read it all with interest. The Sutton-Taylor feud was raging in Texas. William E. Sutton had shot up a party of Taylors in April, near Cuero, Texas. The Taylors had retaliated and there had been another shooting fray in June. John Wesley Hardin had been involved in shootings in July. Once in Cuero, Texas, and again in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Nathan looked in vain for some mention of the Horrells, but found nothing. He did find a death notice for Captain Sage Jennings. The old ranger had been buried at Fort Worth with military honors. There was no mention of any survivors. How many an old frontiersman had died thus, alone, not even a next-of-kin to mourn his passing? Angrily, Nathan threw the paper aside, those few words roaming the shadows of his mind like harbingers of doom. Would that not be his fate, his life’s blood leaking into the sand of a lonely arroyo or into the dusty street of some lawless western town? Nathan returned to his room because the saloons wouldn’t open for another two hours. Cotton Blossom sat watching him reprovingly. The dog hated the saloons, but it rankled him, being left with the horses at the livery. Making the rounds of the saloons, Nathan saved Brennan’s until last. He would pause there only long enough to speak to Ben Thompson before riding out. Reaching the saloon, he found Thompson about to leave.

  “I got some business with a gambler name of John Sterling,” Ben said grimly. “I lined up some side bets with him, which we was goin’ to split, but the bastard won a hatful of cash and sneaked out without divvying.”

  Thompson stomped out of the saloon, Nathan following. In a nearby saloon, Thompson found Sterling, drinking with Happy Jack Morco, a local policeman.

  “You damn tinhorn thief,” Thompson shouted, “you owe me money.”

  “I owe you nothing,” Sterling responded.

  Sterling swung at Thompson and Ben returned as good as he got. But that was when Happy Jack Morco bought in, drawing his Colt and holding it on Ben.

  “That’s enough, Thompson,” said Morco.

  “It looked like an even scrap to me,” Nathan said, his cocked Colt on Morco.

  “Who the hell are you?” Morco snarled.

  “A hombre that don’t like seein’ an unarmed man prodded with a gun,” said Nathan. “Put it away.”

  “I’m the law,” Morco insisted.

  “I don’t care a damn who you are,” Nathan said. “You don’t need the gun. Ben’s leaving. Aren’t you, Ben?”

  “Yeah,” said Thompson, realizing he was up against the law.

  “You’re in violation of the town’s gun ordinance,” Morco said, glaring at Nathan.

  “I have an understanding with the sheriff,” said Nathan. �
�Put your gun away and back off. Get moving, Ben.”

  Morco holstered his gun and Nathan began backing toward the door. Not until he was outside on the boardwalk did he relax.

  “Damn that Morco,” Thompson said angrily, “that was between me and Sterling.”

  “You were about to play right into Morco’s hands,” said Nathan, just as angrily. “He wanted you to go after him. Then he could have jailed you for assaulting a lawman or shot you dead.”

  Nathan thought it was over, but by the time he and Thompson reached Joe Brennan’s saloon, Morco and Sterling burst in, Sterling shouting.

  “Get your guns, you damn Texas sonsabitches, and fight.”

  Ben Thompson was out the door on the run. Nathan remained where he was. He had no intention of being sucked into a gunfight with a lawman, even if the badgetoter was as biased and unfair as Morco appeared to be. On his way back, Ben was joined by Billy, his younger brother. Billy was staggering drunk and he had a shotgun. Billy stumbled, pulling one of the triggers, and a load of buckshot narrowly missed two bystanders.

  “Damn it, Billy,” Ben shouted, “let me have the scattergun.”

  Billy was too drunk to resist, and Ben took the weapon away from him, passing it to a bystander.

  “Now, you damn sonsabitches,” Ben bawled, “if you want to fight us, here we are.”

  At that very moment, Sheriff C.B. Whitney and a friend, John DeLong, tried to calm the Thompson brothers.

  “Come on,” said Whitney, who was unarmed. “Let’s go to Brennan’s. I’m buying the drinks.”

  “Look out, Ben!” somebody shouted.

  Ben turned to see Sterling and Morco charging, guns drawn, Morco in the lead. Ben threw up his rifle and fired, but Morco had ducked into a doorway, and Ben’s slug ripped into the door jamb. Before Ben could fire again, there was a deep-throated bellow behind him, and he whirled to see Sheriff Whitney stumble and fall.

  “My God, Billy,” Ben cried, “you’ve killed our best friend.”

  Everybody—including policeman Jack Morco—seemed stunned. Ben Thompson took advantage of the lull, hustling the now sober Billy toward a livery. There was a rattle of hooves and Billy Thompson was gone. Ben went to his hotel and barricaded himself in his room, daring anybody to come in after him. Mayor James Miller approached Thompson’s room, ordering him to surrender. Thompson refused. Furious, Miller fired the entire police force. Finally, when Jack Morco was persuaded to surrender his arms, Ben Thompson gave up his gun and allowed himself to be taken into custody.

  When all the shouting and shooting was done, sundown was not more than an hour distant, and Nathan decided to stay another night. From what he had heard, Ben Thompson would go before the court in the morning, and while the daring gambler had in no way been involved in the shooting of Sheriff Whitney, he had helped his brother Billy escape.

  To Nathan’s total surprise, Ben Thompson had only been charged with firing at Happy Jack Morco, and when Morco failed to show up, the charges were dropped. Ben Thompson caught Nathan’s eye and winked. “Luck of the draw,” said the dapper gambler.

  Weary of towns, Nathan planned to pass Dodge City a few miles to the east, and long before reaching the tracks of the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe, he could hear the faint bellow of a locomotive whistle. A train traveled westward, bound for Dodge. But the whistle sounded no more. The next sound rumbled like distant thunder, shaking the ground. Nathan shucked his Winchester from the boot and kicked the grulla into a fast gallop. Soon Nathan could see the dirty gray of smoke against the blue of the sky, and when he came within sight of the train, it stood idle. Smoke still billowed from the blown express car, while the engineer and fireman stood beside the locomotive, their hands in the air. A lone gunman held them captive, and while Nathan wasn’t quite within range, he cut loose with his Winchester. It had the desired effect, drawing the attention of the outlaw, and the trainmen were on him in an instant. But the firing alerted the rest of the robbers, and some of them bellied down under the wrecked baggage car. Nathan reined up and left the saddle, using each bit of cover to advance. Near the far end of the train, he could see a rider coming, trailing nine horses on lead ropes. Taking careful aim, Nathan shot the rider out of the saddle, and he was now close enough for several additional shots to spook the horses. There were angry shouts from the baggage car, as the outlaws saw their means of escape galloping away. Nathan now had the advantage. While he was outnumbered, his adversaries had virtually no cover unless they retreated to the baggage car, and that soon lost its appeal, for the fireman and engineer had retrieved their weapons and were adding to the woes of the train robbers. Finally they ceased firing altogether, and scrambled under the baggage car, putting it between themselves and Nathan. Nathan reined up and used the baggage car for cover, cutting loose on the retreating outlaws. He brought down two more before they were out of range. Nathan noted with approval that the engineer and fireman were binding the captured outlaw hand and foot. Finished, they came to meet him, grins on their grimy faces.

  “By God,” the engineer said, “one cowboy in the brush is better than two Pinkertons in the baggage car.”

  “We’d better go have a look at them,” said Nathan.

  There were three men in the baggage car, one of them in the garb of a railroad man, and he regarded his two companions with disgust. One of them had a bloody gash above his eyes, and it was he who spoke.

  “We drove them away,” he shouted triumphantly.

  “We, hell,” said the brakemen. “You didn’t fire a shot till they was on the run, and it was you that said they wouldn’t dynamite the express car. They was goin’ to blow the safe, too, if this gent with the Winchester hadn’t took a hand.”

  “They got nothing, then,” Nathan said.

  “Nothing,” the brakeman replied. “We’re owin’ you, mister ...”

  “Stone. Nathan Stone.”

  “Why, I know you!” the engineer said. “The Kansas-Pacific would have been a gone beaver if you hadn’t wiped out that band of thieves.”

  “My God,” said the fireman, “I just wish the AT and SF had the gumption to hire you, instead of these damned Pinkertons.”

  “You have some track that needs fixing,” Nathan said, uncomfortable with the praise. “We can’t be more than a few miles from Dodge. Your dispatcher there should be able to get a repair crew out here pronto. I can ride that way and take him word.”

  “You tell him he’d better,” the engineer replied. “We ain’t settin’ out here after dark with a busted open express coach and a safe full of government payroll. I’ll put this old iron horse in reverse and back her all the way to Wichita.”

  Nathan rode west, following the tracks. Being so near Dodge, the bombers hadn’t used dynamite to blow the rails. Instead, they had removed a single section of rail, enough to derail a train. Two men, Nathan judged, could repair the damage in a few minutes. He had considered suggesting that the trainmen make the repairs themselves, but that was akin to suggesting that a cowboy milk the cows. Reaching Dodge, Nathan rode to the railroad depot, where he told the dispatcher of the attempted robbery and the torn-up track.

  “Them damn lazy Irish,” the dispatcher groused. “They could replace that rail easy, if they would.”

  Nathan laughed. “The engineer said if they wasn’t out of there before dark, he’d just reverse the train and take it back to Wichita.”

  “He would, too, damn it, makin’ it look like I ain’t doin’ my job.”

  Nathan rode away. He had saved them a payroll, and it was up to them to repair their railroad. Someone called his name, and Nathan reined up.

  “I’ll buy your supper,” said Sheriff Harrington, “if you’ll tell me how you finally got that Limbaugh filly off your back.”

  Nathan didn’t really want to talk about Amy Limbaugh, but Sheriff Harrington had been a friend to him. Anyway, his taking the time to ride through Dodge and make a report of the attempted robbery and destroyed track to the railroad had brought him
very close to suppertime. Why not enjoy a comfortable bed and a hot meal, and then ride out in the morning?

  “On one condition,” said Nathan. “You’ll have to feed my dog, too.” “On one condition,” Harrington replied. “When was the last time he was fed?”

  “Best I recollect,” said Nathan, “it was the fall of sixty-six, just before we came west.”

  Nathan spent almost two hours with Harrington, and ended up telling the lawman not only of the Limbaugh trial in Kansas City, but of the train robbery he had thwarted.

  “You’re missing your calling,” Harrington said. “Thieves are giving the railroads hell. You could name your own price, just doing what you did today. Locking Pinkertons in the baggage car with the payroll will accomplish just one thing. The varmints will dynamite the coach, like they did today. You and your horse traveling in a boxcar near the end of the train could stop these train robberies cold.”

  “It’s something to consider,” said Nathan. “But for now, I have another trail to ride, down into New Mexico Territory. A debt I have to pay for a friend.”

  “I understand,” Harrington said. “If you ever decide you’d like to ride shotgun for the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe, the division boss is right here in Dodge. I’ll see that he’s told you saved him a payroll today.”

  Leaving Dodge, Nathan rode southwest. Before darkness caught up to him, he would be in northeastern New Mexico Territory. He was about to cross the Cimarron, into the Indian Territory’s panhandle, when he discovered the wagon tracks. Three heavily loaded wagons, and on the flat Kansas plain he could see where they had crossed the Cimarron and veered south. There were tracks of at least nine horses, and the wagons were drawn by mules instead of oxen, which meant that somebody was in a hurry.

  “Must be a valuable load, Cotton Blossom,” Nathan said, “with nine men ridin’ shotgun. They could have used the railroad as far west as Dodge, unless they’re involved in some scheme that can’t stand the light of day. As it is, they’ve likely come all the way from Saint Louis or Kansas City, keepin’ to the plains and avoiding towns. That’s a hell of a lot of extra work for honest bull whackers.”