The Killing Season

by Compton, Ralph

  “That’s what they done last night,” said Holt. “That’s when they plugged Doak, and I reckon they was waitin’ for tonight to get me. I had no sleep last night, and no grub, but for some jerked beef.”

  “You can count on another night just like it,” Nathan said. “We’ll have to make ourselves damn scarce and do some effective shooting.”

  “Won’t neither of you live to see daylight,” one of the prisoners shouted.

  “Get going,” said Nathan, “but don’t kill your teams. Rest them when you must, and water them when you can. I’ll do my best to keep them at bay until we have to stop for the night. Then I reckon both of us will be almighty busy.”

  When they finally were forced to stop for the night, Holt reined up the teams along a creek that flowed through a valley. There was a gentle rise from either bank, leading to a treeline that was well beyond rifle range. The only cover was underbrush along the creek itself.

  “There’ll be a moon tonight,” said Holt, “and they can’t come at us down the slopes. They can come down the creek from either direction, but they’ll have to be afoot. You take one end of the wagon, and I’ll take the other.”

  “Damn it, we ain’t et nothin’ since you locked us in here,” growled one of the men in the wagon.

  “Shut up, Blocker,” Holt said.

  “We’ll have one thing in our favor,” said Nathan. “Empty, my dog, will warn us when they’re getting close. I aim to stay out of that brush along the creek, and just belly-down with my Winchester. They can’t make any moves toward the wagon until they’ve disposed of us.”

  “Maybe we’d better just belly-down beneath the wagon,” Holt said. “There we’ll be in shadow.”

  “There we’ll be trapped,” said Nathan. “Remember, there’s one man without a horse, and I have a horse. If he can’t get to the horse, he’ll take a mule. I think, before they try to gun us down, they’ll go after my horse or one of your mules. Then they’ll stampede the others, leaving us afoot, with two prisoners in a useless wagon.”

  “By God, that makes sense,” said Holt. “So we’ll forget about the wagon for the time being, and wait for them to come after a horse or a mule.”

  “Yes,” Nathan said. “What better way to flush us out than have one man stampede our animals? The other two, then, could gun us down. With that in mind, we may be able to get the varmint that comes after a horse or a mule, further reducing the odds. That could force the other two away for a spell, allowing us to position ourselves near the wagon.”

  “Stone, I, like the way your mind works. Damned if I don’t half believe we’ll come out of this alive.”

  “Never drop your hand until you’ve drawn that last card,” said Nathan. “Now let’s go stake out my horse and your mules.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Nathan and Holt waited, their muscles cramping from inactivity, their patience growing thin. Moonset was still an hour away.

  “Damn them,” said Holt, “they’re waiting for the moon to go down.”

  “Let them,” Nathan replied. “If they come after a horse or mule, they’ll still be out in the open, and the starlight will be enough.”

  The moon had been down only a few minutes when Empty growled once, low.

  “Here they come,” said Nathan. “I look for only one of them to try for a horse or a mule. I’ll cut down on him, and unless I’ve figured everything wrong, the other two will fire at my muzzle flash. That’ll be your target.”

  “Bueno, ”Holt said, “but you’re taking all the risk.”

  “Somebody has to open the ball,” said Nathan, “and until they’re forced to fire, you’ll have nothing to shoot at. Just make that first shot good.”

  Nathan was positioned well away from his horse and the grazing mules, so that he was able to see anyone approaching the picketed animals. But the starlight was deceptive, and it was a while before he could actually be sure a questionable shadow was slowly but surely moving. The interloper was belly-down, with the patience of an Indian. When he had crept close enough, Nathan brushed Empty’s head with his open hand and pointed to the creeping shadow. Empty sprang toward the outlaw, growling. The man scrambled to his feet and Nathan cut him down with a slug from the Winchester. Quickly, Nathan rolled away, as slugs ripped into the ground where he had been lying. The shots had come from somewhere near the creek, and Holt was already returning fire when Nathan got into the fight. It all ended as suddenly as it had started. There were no more shots from the creek. Nathan and Holt ceased firing and waited. Empty made his way to the place from which the shots had come, barking once.

  “That was a slick piece of work,” said Holt. “What’s he tryin’ to say?”

  “They’re dead or they’ve cleared out,” Nathan said. “Let’s have a look.”

  Holt had accounted for one of the outlaws, while the other had apparently escaped. A mule had begun braying and several others joined in.

  “They’re gettin’ spooked because of that dead hombre,” said Nathan. “I’d better drag him away from them.”

  “Still one of them is on the loose,” Holt said. “You reckon he’ll be fool enough to come after us again?”

  “I doubt it,” Nathan replied, “but if he does, I’ll be ready for him. Spread your roll and get what sleep you can. Empty and me will keep watch the rest of the night.”

  Dawn broke with no sign of the escaped outlaw, and Nathan soon had a fire going.

  “God, I’d give a month’s pay for some hot coffee,” Holt said.

  “We’ll have some pronto,” said Nathan, “and some breakfast as well. If that varmint was spooked enough not to come after us in the dark, I doubt he’ll have enough sand in his craw to make his play in daylight.”

  Fort Smith, Arkansas. July 11, 1875

  “You saved my hide,” Holt said, when they reached Fort Smith. “If you’ll come with me to the courthouse, I’ll see that you get credit, and there may be some reward money.”

  “I don’t want the credit or the money,” said Nathan. “It’s enough, just gettin’ back at these varmints for cashing in Russ Lambert.”

  Nathan took a room at Ma Dollar’s boardinghouse, where he had lived while he wore the badge of a deputy U.S. marshal. Having had almost no sleep since encountering Mel Holt and the tumbleweed wagon, Nathan locked his door and slept the rest of the day and the night. Arising, he and Empty had breakfast in a nearby cafe. As they were leaving, Mel Holt came in.

  “Except for the one who escaped,” said Holt, “we wiped out the gang. The court has enough evidence to hang Blocker and Hines, the pair we brought in. With Russ and Doak gone, we’re shy two good men. There’s a badge waitin’ for you, if you want it.”

  “I reckon not,” Nathan said. “I’m bound for the Black Hills, in Dakota Territory. Why don’t you hang up that badge and ride along?”

  “No, thanks,” said Holt. “I’ve heard about that gold strike. But that’s Sioux country. Around here, all I got to bother me is bein’ shot dead by renegades and outlaws who don’t like the idea of bein’ brought before the hanging judge and havin’ their necks stretched.”

  Nathan didn’t linger in Fort Smith, but rode north, bound for Kansas City. No sooner had he crossed into Missouri than he met a sheriff and a posse of nine men. They drew their guns and rode forward, circling Nathan.

  “Who are you,” the sheriff demanded, “and where are you bound?”

  “I’m Nathan Stone. I just left Fort Smith, and I’m bound for Kansas City.”

  “Sheriff,” said a member of the posse, “one of the bank robbers was ridin’ a grulla, just like his.”

  Nathan didn’t like the turn the conversation was taking. He appealed to the sheriff.

  “Sheriff, I spent last night in Fort Smith, and I can prove it. There are other grullas, and I resent being linked to a bank robbery because of the horse I’m riding. Besides, if I was on the run from you and your posse, wouldn’t you consider it a little strange that I’m meeting you, instead of riding away?
”

  “He’s got a point, boys,” the lawman said. “Stone, I’m Sheriff Drucker, from Joplin. Some varmints robbed the bank a while ago, and they lit out south. We lost their trail a ways back. One of the tellers thought he recognized Jesse James.”

  “I’ve seen nobody,” Nathan said. “If they headed south, they’re likely in Indian Territory by now.”

  “That’s what we’d think,” said Drucker, “except the James gang generally don’t ride that far. Now I reckon we’ll have to backtrack.”

  Nathan rode with them, some members of the posse eyeing him with suspicion. Finally they approached a creek, and there were so many tracks, it was impossible to determine if any had been made by horses ridden by the bank robbers or if they had all been made by horses ridden by the posse.

  “This is likely where you lost them,” said Nathan. “When you approached this creek, did you rein up and make sure the trail continued over and beyond the south bank?”

  The men looked at one another in sheepish silence. Finally the sheriff spoke.

  “I reckon we didn’t. Suggs, you take four men and ride downstream. The rest of us will ride upstream. If you find where they left the creek, fire one shot.”

  They seemed to have forgotten about Nathan, and he rode on, careful to bypass Joplin and the scene of the bank robbery. He approached the little town of Nevada, Missouri, with some misgivings. It was here that Nathan had shot Bart Hankins, the first of seven men who had murdered his parents and his young sister in Virginia. The shooting of Hankins had taken place while the James and Younger gangs had been involved in an unsuccessful robbery attempt, and for a while, Hankins’s death had been blamed on the bank robbers. But the Hankins family had concluded that Hankins’s death was in no way related to the failed bank robbery, and the Pinkertons had been engaged to seek evidence linking Hankins’s shooting to the deaths of the men who had accompanied Hankins back to Missouri. While Nathan didn’t wish to kick any sleeping dogs, he wondered where the investigation stood, or if perhaps it had been dropped altogether. While he dared not ask any questions, there was one way he might get some answers. He reined up before the small office of the town’s weekly newspaper, The Nevada Sentinel. A little wooden sign read: J. SAMUELS, ED. AND PROP.

  “I’d like to buy some back issues,” Nathan said.

  “How far back?” Samuels inquired.

  “At least three years,” said Nathan.

  “I don’t have them for sale, back that far,” Samuels said. “I only have for sale copies for the past six months. Beyond that, I have only file copies. You’re welcome to look at those, if you wish.”

  “I’d be obliged,” said Nathan.

  “Have a seat at the table, then, and I’ll bring them to you. Since they’re bound by the year, do you want to begin with this year, to date?”

  “Yes,” Nathan said. “I might not have to go back as far as three years.” He sat down at the table, facing the window and the door.

  “These are for 1875, through last Thursday,” said Samuels. “I’ll bring you the bound set for 1874 when you’re finished with these.”

  The weekly consisted of four pages, the last two being mostly advertising. Nathan had gone through most of the bound set for 1874 before he found what he was seeking. Most of the front page had been devoted to Pinkerton findings that were related to the Hankins case. The Pinkertons, using military records, had learned the names of six men who had been known companions of Bart Hankins. At the time the newspaper had been printed, five of the men were known to be dead, all of them by shooting. The Pinkertons had declared there was a pattern, beginning with Hankins, and that the man who had killed Hankins had also killed five of his six companions. They had named Nathan Stone as the killer, based on the fact there was solid evidence he had killed at least two of Hankins’s friends. All findings by the Pinkertons had been turned over to the Hankins family, and in the next issue of the paper there was a reward dodger. There was no photograph, no etching. In big, bold black print it said: Nathan Stone. Wanted dead or alive, for the murder of Bart Hankins. Reward of ten thousand dollars will be paid by the Hankins family.

  Nathan read no further. If the Hankins family could afford such a reward, then there would be no limit to the number of dodgers they could print or the newspaper advertising they could afford to buy. He thanked Samuels for allowing him the use of the back issues and left the newspaper office. But he didn’t get far. Suspicious eyes watched him from the other side of the street, and the man who fell in behind him wore a badge. Empty waited with the grulla, and the dog’s low growl alerted Nathan to the stranger who followed. It would have been easy for Nathan to turn and fire, but he did not. He waited, and the lawman halted half a dozen yards away. When he spoke, it was less a question and more a statement of fact.

  “You’re Nathan Stone.”

  “Yes,” Nathan said.

  “Sheriff Roscoe Peeler. Lead your hoss down to the office.”

  Peeler made no move toward his weapon, and while Nathan had no idea what might lie ahead, he couldn’t bring himself to gun down a lawman. While the Hankins family had only their suspicions, if he could escape only by killing a sheriff, he would unquestionably become a fugitive. The office was also the jail, and Peeler stepped back while Nathan looped the grulla’s reins about the hitch rail.

  “Stay, Empty,” Nathan said. He mounted the steps, Peeler behind him.

  “I reckon you’d better shuck them guns until I know where you stand,” Peeler said.

  Nathan unbuckled his gun belt and placed it on the desk. The door to the first cell stood open and a man lay on a bunk, snoring. Peeler grabbed a three-foot billy club and struck the bars.

  “Damn it, Peck, get up and make yourself useful.”

  Peck sat up, rubbing his eyes.

  “Light a shuck down to the bank,” said Peeler, “and tell old Dan Hankins that Nathan Stone’s here. If he aims to press charges, he’s got to swear out a warrant. Today, damn it, not next week.”

  Peck stood up and shambled out, not in the least intimidated.

  “For the time being,” Peeler said, “I want you in that cell. If old Hankins has changed his mind about you, I’ll turn you loose. If he ain’t, then you’ll be stayin’ a spell.”

  Having little choice, Nathan entered the cell and sat down on the hard bunk. Peeler kicked the barred door shut and locked it. Peck returned in a few minutes, bearing the news Nathan had expected.

  “He’s filin’ charges,” said Peck. “He’s goin’ to the courthouse right now.”

  “Sheriff,” Nathan said. “I’d appreciate you bringin’ in my saddle, saddlebags, and my Winchester. If you’ll take my horse to the livery and see that my dog’s fed, I’ll pay.”

  “Peck,” the sheriff said, “unsaddle the hoss, bringin’ in the saddle, saddlebags, and the rifle. Then take the grulla to the livery.”

  Peck seemed about to refuse, but Sheriff Peeler’s eyes were on him, and he thought better of it. He went out, shrugging his shoulders.

  “Sheriff,” Nathan said, “if it’s not asking too much, what am I charged with?”

  “Unless Hankins has changed his mind,” said Peeler, “it’ll be murder.”

  “I reckon he’s got proof?”

  “He thinks he has,” Peeler said. “He hired half the Pinkertons in the country.”

  Before sundown, Nathan Stone had been charged with the murder of Bart Hankins, and the curious had gathered outside the jail.

  “Go on home,” Peeler shouted. “Damn it, this ain’t no medicine show.”

  Nathan slept but little on the hard bunk, seeking a solution to this predicament which would put him on trial for his life for a shooting that had taken place more than ten years ago. He didn’t doubt that the Pinkertons had linked him to the killing of those men who had accompanied Hankins that long-ago day in Virginia, and although those killings had been justified, accuse him of murdering Hankins. Beyond a doubt, Nathan Stone had friends who would stand by him till hell
froze over. There were the McQueens in New Orleans, Captain Ferguson at Fort Worth, Sheriff Harrington in Dodge City, Foster Hagerman with the Atichison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railroad, Joel Netherton of the Kansas-Pacific, as well as the Texas Rangers. But not one of them could help him when he stood before the court and faced the damning evidence Daniel Hankins had accumulated. He was waiting for the lawman when Sheriff Peeler brought his breakfast.

  “Sheriff, when am I going to trial?”

  “July twenty-sixth,” said Peeler. “Is there somebody you’re needin’ to telegraph or write to?”

  “A telegram,” Nathan said. “I’ll pay if you’ll send it for me.”

  “I’ll bring you paper and a pencil,” said Peeler.

  He did so, and ignoring the breakfast, Nathan began to write. Addressing it to the attorney general’s office in Washington, he made the message brief:

  Twenty-one stop. Am in jail Nevada Missouri stop. Accused of murder.

  He said no more, signing his name. He folded the paper and passed it to the sheriff, along with a gold eagle.

  “Keep your money,” said Peeler. “You’re entitled to this. You expectin’ an answer?”

  “Maybe,” Nathan said. “I’m not sure.”

  There was an answer, almost immediately. It read: Twenty-one coming. There was no signature. Despite his predicament, Nathan laughed at Sheriff Peeler’s expression.

  “Relax, Sheriff. We’re not planning a jail break.”

  Nevada, Missouri. July 17, 1875

  Silver rode in two hours before sundown, looking every bit the cowboy. His Levi’s and denim shirt were faded almost white, his Texas boots were scuffed, and his Colt was thonged low on his right hip. Only his gray Stetson looked new. Sheriff Peeler got up from his desk, and Silver spoke.

  “Silver’s the name. I need some private conversation with Nathan Stone.”

  “You his lawyer?”

  “I reckon you can call me that,” Silver replied. “Lock me in the cell and take a walk.”