“I got it all figgered out,” Levi shouted to an attentive audience. “It ain’t the drinkin’ that kills a man, it’s the soberin’ up. So you just don’t never sober up.”
“By God, that ain’t nothin’ but the truth,” said Ike, “and we can stretch old Stewart’s bounty hunt out for as long as his money lasts, stayin’ drunk all the way.”
“Stone’s got a dog with him,” Jubal said. “Let’s be looking for dog tracks.”
“Hell,” one of the newly hired riders cackled, “I’m so drunk I can’t see hoss tracks.”
“No more whiskey in the morning, then,” Jubal said. “Save it for after supper, so you can sleep it off. This ain’t no shorthorn we’re after. He could double back, belly-down with a Winchester, and ambush the hell out of us.”
There was grumbling, but they couldn’t deny the logic of what Jubal had said. Reaching a spring, they unsaddled and made camp for the night. The wind had a chilly bite, and far to the west, a gray band of clouds had swept over the setting sun.
“By this time tomorrow night,” somebody predicted, “there’ll be rain. Then we got no hoss tracks, dog tracks, nothin’. How do we know we’re still on his trail?”
“We don’t,” said Jubal, “but have you ever knowed it to rain all over Texas at the same time? We ride on till the rain lets up, and then we circle till we find the trail again. Damn it, don’t none of you jaybirds know nothin’ about tracking?”
Southeast Texas. January 3, 1874
Nathan arose at first light, built a small fire, and prepared breakfast for himself and Cotton Blossom. He loaded the packhorse, saddled the grulla, and rode out, reining up on the first rise. There he surveyed the back trail and found no sign of pursuit, but Stewart’s band of vigilantes would be coming, and it would be they who determined Nathan’s course of action. He would stay ahead of them, and over the course of a week or two, attempt to wear them out. If that failed, it meant old man Stewart wanted him dead, whatever the cost, and Nathan would take the offensive.
By noon, the thunderheads had moved in from the west on a rising wind, swallowing the January sun. When the rain came, it was cold, but Nathan rode on, taking advantage of the daylight. The farther he rode during the storm, the farther his pursuers would be riding blind, seeking to pick up his trail. With darkness just minutes away, he reined up beside a creek at the foot of a steep slope. There was enough of a rock overhang to provide shelter to Nathan and Cotton Blossom. Others had sought shelter here, and someone had thoughtfully gathered some firewood. Nathan built a small cookfire, extinguishing it as soon as possible, so there would be fuel for a breakfast fire. It promised to be a perfectly miserable night, as the storm grew in intensity.
“Damn it,” said Byler, “we should of rode on until we found some shelter ’fore we laid up for the night.”
“You ain’t likely to find a hotel any closer than San Antone,” Jubal said. “If a little rain bothers you, maybe you should of stayed in the saloons in El Paso. It ain’t too late to ride back, and that goes for any of the rest of you.”
“I ain’t bothered by the rain,” said Connolly, “but I’d as soon be ridin’, as settin’ here like a half-drowned rooster.”
“By God, you’ll be a dead rooster,” Ike Puckett said, “if you ride blind into Stone’s camp. It ain’t likely he’ll ride on in a storm like this.”
“Not the least bit likely,” Jubal agreed, “and there’s nothin’ he’d like better than for us to come stumblin’ after him through the rain, not knowin’ where he is.”
“You don’t know ever‘thing, Wells,” said Mayberry, who was still drunk. “When the rain’s done, we still won’t know where the hombre is, till he starts makin’ tracks again. He could hole up and us be right on him, ’fore we know he’s there.”
“I ain’t denyin’ that,” Jubal said, “with all of you owl-eyed. No more whiskey except at suppertime, and the next scutter that ends up falling-down drunk gets booted out.”
Nathan was three days out of El Paso before he eventually sighted the dust of the men following him. Lest they learn how close they were, he built his fire in daylight, with brush along a creek to dissipate the smoke. He then rode on another ten miles before he made camp. Waiting until it was dark, he left his packhorse picketed and rode back to scout the enemy camp. It was time he knew just how many men were on his trail. The wind was out of the west and so he was downwind from his pursuers. He left the grulla far enough away so that the animal wouldn’t nicker and reveal his presence. Never knowing what might develop, he took his Winchester. The bunch had obligingly established their camp near a creek, along which there was abundant growth, and Nathan crept along it from the north. Cotton Blossom had crept on ahead, and when the dog didn’t double back, Nathan was reasonably sure none of the vigilantes were on watch. He easily identified the troublesome trio from New Mexico, Wells, Puckett, and Odell, and counted twelve more men he didn’t recognize. There were three loaded packsaddles, proof enough that Artemus Stewart was sparing no expense. The coffeepot hung over the fire from an iron spider, and that gave Nathan an idea. It never hurt to keep the enemy on the defensive, seeing to it that they slept uneasily, never knowing for sure where their adversary was. He waited until Levi Odell tipped a whiskey bottle and fired, shattering the bottle in Odell’s face. His next shot sent the coffeepot flying, while a third and fourth sent the horses galloping in a mad run down the creek. He then retreated, while pandemonium broke loose in the camp. Men cursed, rifles and Colts roared, and several men who had sought the safety of darkness were drawing fire from their companions.
“Damn it,” Jubal Wells roared, “hold your fire.”
“Help me,” Odell whined, “I’m bleedin’ to death and I can’t see.”
“The hosses is gone,” somebody shouted. “Let’s go look fer ’em.”
“It’s so dark you can’t see your hand in front of your face,” said Ike Puckett. “We’ll have to wait for mornin’.”
It was the truth, for clouds had moved in, hiding the moon and stars. Nathan reached his horse, mounted, and rode back to his own camp, knowing he wouldn’t be followed. In a showdown, they might surround him or ride him down, but in a war of nerves, he had a definite edge. All he had to do was stay ahead, ride back under the cover of darkness, and just worry the hell out of them.
Nathan’s pursuers spent an uneasy night, awaking to a chill west wind and a mass of low-hanging clouds that promised more rain. Nobody was in a mood for breakfast until the horses had been found, and they set off on foot. With the cold wind at their backs, the animals had drifted more than two miles. Breakfast was late, for they had but one coffeepot, and some of the men had to wait for a second pot to boil. Before they were finished with breakfast, a drizzling rain had set in. Some of the men who had been into the whiskey the night before were sorely in need of some “hair of the dog,” but Jubal Wells was in an even more vile mood than those with hangovers. In silence they mounted and rode out, wet, cold, and hating one another. More than one man silently vowed that Nathan Stone would pay, but there would be unpleasant surprises ahead beyond anything their limited imaginations might conceive.
As the drizzling rain swept in, Nathan Stone laughed. While there was little shelter in east Texas, one man could find a rock overhang, the undercut bank of an arroyo, or some means of sleeping dry. Fifteen men, however, would have no dry bed, perhaps no fire, and unless they had another pot, no coffee. As Nathan rode on, the rain became more intense. His pursuers had barely found his trail following the first rain, and now they were about to lose it again. Adding to their woes, after last night they would be forced to take turns standing watch, for they knew not when Nathan Stone would visit them again. Reaching a spring at the foot of a rise, Nathan reined up. There was a blowing rain out of the west, for the wind had risen. Nathan found shelter on the lee side of some rocks and built his supper fire. When he had eaten and fed Cotton Blossom, he put out the fire, saving some of the wood for the morning. He then roll
ed in his blankets with a square of canvas over them as protection from the blowing rain, and slept soundly.
Half a day’s ride behind, however, his pursuers had no shelter, and for a lack of dry firewood, were chewing on jerked beef.
“Damn such weather,” Ike Puckett growled. “I’d give a day’s pay for some hot coffee.”
“I’d give a day’s pay if I didn’t have to listen to all this crying,” said Jubal Wells.
“Well, hell,” Kendrick said, “with old Stewart footin’ the bill, we should of bought us a tent. If I’d of wanted to set on my hunkers in the rain, eatin’ jerked beef, I could of joined the Union army.”
“If it’ll make you feel better,” Wells snapped, “I’ll cut your pay to eight dollars a month and you can make believe this is the Union army.”
Under cover of darkness, an overcast sky and continuing rain, Nathan again visited the vigilante camp. He ventilated the spare coffeepot and with some well-placed shots, again stampeded the horses. By the time the men on watch got their Winchesters into play, Nathan had already done his damage. While confusion reigned, he mounted his horse and rode back to his own camp. Twice he had shot up their camp, and either time, he could have killed two or three men. He had nothing against them, and he still hoped that if the trail proved treacherous enough, most of them would give up the chase. His shooting had been close enough until they had to know he had spared them. But how much longer could he continue to spare them? The weather cleared up, and after the tenth day on the trail, all his pursuers were still there. Obviously, some of them would have to be hurt or killed, to make believers of the rest. On the eleventh day, an unexpected opportunity presented itself in a most unusual manner.
Having seen no threat from the men on their back trail, Cotton Blossom had taken to ranging far ahead. On this particular day he doubled back, growling. The sun was several hours high, and if there was danger ahead, Nathan wanted to face it before dark. Picketing the packhorse, he rode warily ahead, following Cotton Blossom. After not more than two miles, Nathan heard a dog bark. Reining up, taking his Winchester, he dismounted. There was a rise ahead, and using underbrush for cover, Nathan crept to the crest of it. Below, he couldn’t believe his eyes, for there was an Indian camp. For the time and place, they almost had to be Comanche. Obviously, they planned to remain there for the night, and in Nathan’s mind, a devious plan was taking shape.
Returning to his horse, he rode back to his picketed packhorse. There he waited until he could see a distant plume of dust that told him his pursuers were almost within striking distance. Leading his packhorse, he rode north until he was sure the animal would be safe. He then rode back to the rise that overlooked the Comanche camp. He counted probably thirty Indian braves. Shucking his Winchester from the boot, he fired four times among the Indians, careful that his slugs didn’t find human targets. His shooting had the desired effect, for every man with a horse lit out toward the brush from which the shots had come. Nathan kicked the grulla into a fast gallop, back the way he had come, toward the pursuing vigilantes. Once he had some brush and undergrowth between him and the Comanches, he rode north. Before the Comanches reached the point where Nathan had changed directions, they were able to see the oncoming vigilantes. With a blood-chilling whoop, they galloped ahead.
Reaching a rise from which he could see the drama, Nathan dismounted, resting his lathered horse. Even from a distance he could hear the terrified cries of the vigilantes. Making no attempt to fight, virtually falling over one another, they wheeled their horses and rode for their lives. Nathan rode ahead to his packhorse. From there, he continued north until he was well past the Comanche camp. He then rode east until he found a suitable camp for the night.
Far to the west, Jubal Wells and his vigilantes were trying to evade the Comanches. Wells, Puckett, Odell, Byler, Connolly, Warnell, and Kendrick had escaped, but only because of the darkness.
“My God,” said Ike Puckett, “there must of been fifty of the varmints. I wonder if the rest of the boys got away.”
“You know they didn’t,” Kendrick replied. “Hell, they was ahead of us, and they’re the reason we got away.”
“We ain’t got away yet,” said Jubal. “If they’re Comanches, they may be right here at first light, beatin’ the bushes and lookin’ for us.”
CHAPTER 12
Come first light, Jubal Wells and six nervous companions looked warily around before leaving the brush in which they had concealed themselves.
“Trouble with Comanches,” Warnell said, “the varmints don’t give up easy. Lose ’em, and they’re likely to slope around for three days, huntin’ you.”
“We got more to worry about than our hides,” said Wells. “Them three packhorses are loaded with all our supplies, and we’re two weeks out of El Paso. Old man Stewart will have us drawn and quartered if we ride in with nothin’ to show for all the money he’s got tied up in this.”
“God, yes,” Levi Odell said. “We can’t go back to El Paso empty-handed, and without grub and supplies, we can’t go on. Either way, we’re in a hell of a mess.”
“We can’t set here in this thicket,” said Kendrick. “At least, we got our horses. Let’s ride out and look for the packhorses.”
The first thing they found were the scalped and mutilated bodies of their companions. All eight had been stripped of everything, including their boots.
“Lord, God,” Warnell said, “I hope they wasn’t alive when them varmints done this.”
They rode on, anxious to be away from the grisly scene. “We’ll ride south,” said Jubal. “Them packhorses was bein’ led by Mayberry, Gruhn, and Paschal, and when they was hit, it would of spooked the horses. We rode north, and I don’t remember seein’ ’em ahead of us.”
“I reckon it’ll depend on whether them Comanches rode out last night,” Ike Puckett said. “They couldn’t see them horses in the dark.”
To their surprise, they found two of the horses almost ten miles south of where they had been attacked by the Comanches.
“Damn,” said Levi, “they would find the one with the whiskey.”
“I’m glad they did,” Jubal said. “Maybe they’ll stay drunk enough, long enough for us to leave ’em behind. A man can’t live without grub, but he can do without whiskey.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Levi sourly.
Nathan arose at first light, and with the Comanches in mind, decided against a breakfast fire. He and Cotton Blossom shared some jerked beef and they took the trail. Nathan believed they had come more than five hundred miles. Unless he rode far south, to one of the border towns, San Antonio would be the closest. He was unsure as to how many of his pursuers the Comanches had accounted for, but he suspected he would still be outnumbered considerably. On the plains, they might eventually surround him, but in town, they would hardly attempt it. He could take them individually, or even two at a time, but not all of them at once.
“He’s bound for somewhere,” Jubal said, at the start of the thirteenth day, “and it’ll be harder for us to gun him down where there’s law.”
“Yeah,” said Ike. “Remember when we was goin’ through his pack? That telegram was about a ranger friend of his. Hell, if he’s friends with the rangers, we could all get shot down or strung up.”
“I’m considerin’ that,” Jubal said. “There’s bound to be rangers in Austin, and maybe in San Antonio. We got to salt him down before he gets there. There’s nothin’ much but cactus and sagebrush. I say we flank him to the north and south and cut him down in a crossfire while he’s out here in the open.”
“That makes sense,” said Byler. “We ain’t gettin’ nowhere trailin’ along behind him. He always knows where we are. If we’re closin’ in on two sides, he can’t stand us all off.”
“Byler,” Jubal said, “you, Kendrick, Warnell, and Connolly flank him to the north. Ike, Levi, and me will cover him from the south. Stay just out of rifle range, worryin’ him for a while. When we find an open stretch, where he don
’t have a shred of cover, we’ll all move in and close the door on the varmint.”
Nathan soon discovered what his pursuers had in mind. Surveying his back trail, he could see two rising clouds of dust, one to the north and another to the south. They had split their forces, planning to box him in on the open plains ahead. He had no way of knowing how far he was from the nearest town, where he had a chance to take a stand. As far as he could see, there wasn’t enough cover to hide a prairie dog. His only advantage was that when they got within range with their Winchesters, they were within range of his, but he couldn’t properly defend himself from two attacking forces, even if he had cover. He rode desperately on, only too well aware that his grulla and the packhorse couldn’t maintain such a gait for more than a few miles. He had but one chance, and that was to swing due south. There were the border towns of Del Rio and Eagle Pass, but even they might be too distant. That left him only the brush and barrancas9 to the south of the Rio Grande. If he made it that far. One immediate advantage of his change in direction was that the riders attempting to flank him to the north lost their quarry. Eventually they might flank him to the east, but only by hard riding, which would exhaust their horses. He still had the riders who had been flanking him to the south, and all they had to do was keep coming because they had seen and understood his move. Slugs began kicking up dust to his right, but soon they would be within range. Another more serious problem arose when the grulla slammed a hind leg deep into a hole. The animal came to a dead stop, pitching Nathan from the saddle. There was no time to see to the grulla, to see if the horse had been lamed or its leg broken. Nathan got to his feet and snatched the Winchester from its saddle boot, leaving the spooked packhorse to shift for itself. Nathan wasn’t sure where Cotton Blossom was, but the dog couldn’t help him. Slugs sang over his head as he sought cover, and one found its mark, tearing into his back, above the left shoulder blade. Going to his knees, Nathan stumbled to his feet in time to take a second slug above his left knee. There was no cover, no protection, so he bellied-down and began returning the fire. He had the satisfaction of seeing two of his attackers tumble from their saddles, and that had a profound effect on the third rider, Jubal Wells. He dropped back out of range, but the riders who had been flanking Nathan to the north had circled and were now coming at him from the east. Nathan dared not focus his attention on them because Wells would have a clear shot at him. But the four riders had barely begun to fire, when a deadly rifle cut loose somewhere beyond them. Three of them were shot out of their saddles, driving the fourth man straight toward Nathan, who cut him down with a single shot. Suddenly there was silence, all the more profound without the thunder of Winchesters.
The Killing Season Page 16