The Killing Season

by Compton, Ralph

Dr. Wilkes dug out the lead, bandaged the wound, and sat up with Nathan most of the night. When Nathan’s temperature rose, the doctor dosed him with whiskey. Hickok and Nathan’s few friends were there early on Saturday morning.

  “With luck, he’ll make it,” Dr. Wilkes said.

  Shortly after noon, Wild Bill—wearing a Prince Albert frock coat—entered Nuttall and Mann’s Number Ten Saloon. Charles Rich, Captain Massie, and Carl Mann already had a game in progress. There were no more than ten men in the saloon.

  “Sit down, Bill,” Mann urged.

  “Only if Charlie will swap me the wall seat,” said Hickok.

  “Aw, hell,” Rich scoffed, “sit down. Nobody’s gonna back-shoot you.”

  Uneasily, Hickok sat down, but after only a few minutes, he stood up.

  “Charlie,” said Hickok, “change seats with me.”

  This time, all three men laughed him down, and again Hickok took his seat. Rich was on his right, Mann on his left, and Massie right in front of him. Hickok had a clear view of the front door, but he was conscious of the small door behind him. The night before, Bill had beaten Massie, but was soon losing heavily to him. Hickok spoke to Harry Young, the barkeep.

  “Harry, bring me fifteen dollars’ worth of pocket checks.”

  Young left the bar, brought the pocket checks, and placed them on the table beside Hickok. At that time, Jack McCall came in through the front door. In a game the night before, Hickok had cleaned out McCall, and feeling sorry for him, had given McCall enough money for a drink and his supper. McCall leaned on the bar, looking around. Wild Bill sat facing him, but was busy studying his cards. Quickly McCall moved down the bar, lest Wild Bill look up. Reaching the end of the bar, McCall stopped, but a few paces behind the stool on which Hickok sat. Suddenly there was the roar of a pistol.

  “Damn you, take that!” McCall shouted. In his right hand he held a smoking pistol. The time was just past three P.M.

  Wild Bill’s head had jerked forward from the force of the slug, and for just a few seconds, his body remained upright. It then relaxed and fell backward off the stool. From his lifeless fingers, his cards fanned out on the floor: the ace of spades, the ace of clubs, and two black eights. Those, and the jack of diamonds. The dead man’s hand ...28

  For a few seconds, nobody understood what had taken place. There was a numbness in Captain Massie’s left wrist, for he had caught the spent slug after it had killed Hickok. All eyes were on Hickok, and when his body fell back, they knew, for McCall was backing toward the rear door. The gun was in his hand, pointed toward Carl Mann.

  “Come on, ye sons of bitches,” McCall snarled.

  Twice McCall pulled the trigger, and twice the weapon misfired.

  McCall ran out the back door, mounting the first horse at hand. Because of the heat, the saddle cinch had been loosened, and McCall fell sprawling. Staggering to his feet, he ran down the street, but the town had been alerted.

  “Hickok’s been shot! Wild Bill is dead!”

  McCall ran into a butcher shop, but prodded with the muzzle of a Sharps, he was persuaded to come out. He surrendered without a struggle. Saloon Number Ten’s doors were locked, with only Hickok’s friends and persons of authority being allowed to enter. A miner’s court was hurriedly assembled and Jack McCall was tried. His defense was that he owed Hickok money from a gambling debt and feared for his life, and that Hickok had murdered his brother. There was no proof of either claim, but the court set him free, and McCall immediately left town.

  On August 3, 1876, Wild Bill Hickok was laid to rest in a coffin covered with black cloth and mounted with silver. His Springfield rifle was placed at his right hand.

  Dosed with laudanum, Nathan Stone slept until the evening of August third, well after Hickok had been buried. Colorado Charlie brought the news.

  “They got him, then,” said Nathan grimly.

  “Yes,” Charlie said. “McCall pulled the trigger, but he was paid to do it. There’s word goin’ around that he was paid two hundred dollars, but no word as to where the money came from. I could name a dozen men who could have put up ten times that much.”

  “All I want to know,” said Nathan, “is the direction McCall took when he rode out.”

  “South, toward Cheyenne,” Charlie said.

  “Why the hell didn’t some of you go after him?” Nathan demanded.

  “We all wanted to be here for Bill’s buryin’,” said Charlie. “Besides, you heard Bill and his talk of dying. It was his time. Wasn’t but one live shell in McCall’s forty-five.”29

  Three weeks after having been shot, against the doctor’s orders, Nathan Stone got out of bed, dressed, and strapped on his Colts. Saying nothing, he bought a few provisions at the mercantile, and with Empty running ahead, rode south.

  Cheyenne, Wyoming. August 29, 1876

  Nathan’s first stop was the Union Pacific depot, where he described Jack McCall to the railroad agent.

  “Sorry, pardner,” the man said, “but it’s been months since I’ve had a passenger goin’ east. They’re all comin’ from there.”

  Nathan sat down on a baggage cart, pondering his next move. It was possible that his quarry had climbed aboard a boxcar and thus escaped, but there was no way of knowing. If McCall hadn’t come to Cheyenne with plans for taking the Union Pacific east, where had he gone? Nathan returned to the depot, where he had seen a huge map on the wall.

  “Pardner, I’d like to study your map.”

  “Go ahead,” said the railroad man.

  Nathan studied the map and quickly decided that if McCall hadn’t taken the train east, that he must be somewhere within riding distance of Cheyenne. There was Laramie City, a few miles east, and Denver, Colorado—now a state—a hundred miles south. Recalling all he had heard about Jack McCall, it seemed the man had constantly been in trouble. Before going to Deadwood, he had been involved in cattle rustling in Nebraska. Now, having left Deadwood, Nathan considered it unlikely that McCall had any money, for he had fancied himself a gambling man. It seemed a good possibility that McCall had already run afoul of the law somewhere, and with that thought in mind, Nathan went looking for the office of the United States marshal. The marshal’s name was Dave Landers, and Nathan was honest with him, regarding his search for McCall.

  “Your search is over,” said Landers. “I had a telegram this morning, from Deputy U.S. Marshal Balcombe, in Laramie City. McCall has been arrested there, and is charged with murder. Balcombe heard him bragging about shooting Hickok, and he’s going to stand trial.”

  “He’s already been tried in Deadwood and found not guilty,” said Nathan.

  “That trial was illegal,” Landers said, “and any act by a vigilance committee or court is not recognized by courts of the United States. At the time of Hickok’s murder, Deadwood was—and still is—an outlaw town. Every man in Deadwood is there illegally. By treaty, in 1868, the Black Hills were set aside as an Indian Reservation, within the jurisdiction of the United States.”

  “That all sounds legal,” said Nathan, “but where will McCall be tried? Here?”

  “No,” Landers said. “We at first intended bringing him here for a preliminary hearing before the United States commissioner, and then await a request from the governor of Dakota Territory. But we’ve decided to keep McCall in Laramie City. There he is to be examined before Judge Blair, with court-appointed attorneys for his defense.”

  “Damn it,” said Nathan, “he’ll weasel out of it somehow.”

  “I doubt it,” Landers replied. “He’s already confessed to Deputy U.S. Marshal Balcombe, and he’s promised to repeat his confession to Judge Blair. McCall will be taken to Yankton, Dakota Territory, for trial and sentencing. Now, I have some advice for you. Go about your business and leave McCall to the law. there’s been enough vigilante justice.”30

  “I only went after McCall because it seemed he wasn’t going to pay for killing Hickok. Now that I know he’s in the hands of the law, that he’ll be tried in a real court, then
I’ll back off and let the law have him.”

  “Bueno,” said Landers.

  Nathan found a hotel willing to accept Empty, and took a room for the night. He had no regrets about leaving Deadwood, for he had left Wild Bill in a grave there. While he had won a few hundred dollars in the saloons, the only thing he looked back on with pride was having united Vivian Stafford with her long-lost brother, and the friendship he had established with Harley. The more he thought about it, the more inclined he was to ride to Dodge and see how Harley had adapted to railroading. But after supper, when he and Empty had returned to their hotel room, he had to admit to himself that what he really wanted was to see Vivian Stafford again. At first light, he rode south.

  Denver, Colorado. September 1, 1876

  Nathan hadn’t been to Denver for a long time, and he took a hotel room, preparing to stay at least a day or two. There were newspapers from St. Louis, Kansas City, and Denver’s own Rocky Mountain News. The town was still celebrating, for on August first, Colorado had become the 38th state. The stars and stripes flew above the temporary state capitol on Cherry Street. It seemed the town was bursting with civic pride, and even some of the lesser saloons had been fancied up for the occasion. Fireworks crackled at all hours of the day and night, sounding like distant gunshots. Empty was skittish, keeping to the bushes when he could. Nathan discovered a new saloon called the Casa Verde, a two-story affair that promised gambling twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. It was secluded, surrounded by trees and shrubs, offering sanctuary for Empty while Nathan was inside. The downstairs had a bar, a kitchen, tables for dining, a few poker tables, and a roulette wheel. Nathan suspected the high-stakes gambling took place upstairs, and had it confirmed when one of the waiters met him in the foyer.

  “If you wish to dine or gamble for table stakes, sir, it’s the first floor. The high-stakes tables are upstairs, and so are the pretty girls.”

  “I’ll go upstairs,” said Nathan.

  He had long been familiar with the “Pretty Girl Saloons.” The women wore nothing, or close to it, catering to high rollers, their purpose being to take a man’s mind off how much and how often he lost. The upstairs could only be described as plush. There was deep carpet on the floor, dusty rose, to match the drapes. The chairs had upholstered seats and backs, the fabric an elegant gray. The long bar and the tables were mahogany. The “pretty girls” went from table to table, laughing as they avoided groping hands. They wore pink slippers, pink bows in their hair, and a short pink jacket that covered only their shoulders and their arms to the elbow. The rest was bare. Nathan vowed to keep his mind on his cards, and for a while, managed to do so. But all his good intentions went to hell on greased skids when he looked up and found a near-naked Melanie Gavin staring at him in openmouthed surprise.

  “This is a hell of a long ways from Ohio,” said Nathan.

  “I got as far as Kansas City,” she said, “and I just couldn’t go through with it. There was no kin in Ohio except Mother’s snooty old maid sister. Life with her would have been hell.”

  “I don’t see you wearing wings and a halo now,” said Nathan. “In fact, I don’t see you wearing much of anything.”

  “I have money in the bank,” she snapped. “Would you prefer that I hire myself out as a drudge, for two dollars a week?”

  “I’d prefer that you didn’t prance around naked in a saloon,” said Nathan, “if I had any say in the matter.”

  “Since before I was old enough to know my behind from my big toe, I’ve always had somebody telling me what to do or what not to do. There was mother, then Clell Shanklin, and then eventually, you. I don’t expect you to understand, but it’s important to me that I have control of my life, that I do what I want to do. Even if it means prancing naked in a saloon.”

  “I never tried to tell you what to do,” Nathan said, “and I don’t aim to start now. I may not agree with what you’re doing, but I respect your right to do it.”

  “Do you honestly mean that?”

  “I mean it,” said Nathan. “How late are you here?”

  “I get off at midnight. I have a room in a boardinghouse, three blocks from here.”

  “I’ll walk you there,” Nathan said. “Until then, I’ll try my luck at the tables.”

  Nathan saw her just briefly the rest of the evening. In a Pretty Girl Saloon, it was bad for business, having a girl seem partial toward one man, and it encouraged familiarity. Nathan paid close attention to his cards and those of the other gamblers because they were playing five-card stud. The bets were ten dollars, and when Nathan folded, he was ahead two hundred dollars. The rest of the gamblers hardly noticed him leaving, and he waited downstairs for Melanie. She came down the stairs wearing a stylish long dress, but before they could depart, the barkeep waved her over. She spoke to him briefly, joined Nathan, and they left.

  “What was that all about?” Nathan asked. “He looked at me like he thought I was about to drag you off and have my way with you.”

  “Well, aren’t you?”

  “I reckon,” said Nathan.

  She laughed. “The barmen have been told to watch out for the girls. They question us if somebody meets us there. An occasional gambler will follow us outside and try to buy what he saw upstairs.”

  “As I see it,” Nathan said, “that’s one of the problems with these naked girl saloons. Men get the wrong impression. They reckon if a girl’s willing to show it, she’s willing to sell it.”

  “It’s not that way,” said Melanie. “It’s a look-but-don’t-touch game, and any man wanting more than that belongs in a whorehouse. We’re a pleasant distraction, keeping a man’s mind off how much he’s lost at the table. Most of our gamblers are well-to-do and won’t miss the money, but you’d be surprised at how tight some of them are.”

  Nathan spent two days in Denver. Despite Melanie’s questionable means of earning her living, he still enjoyed being with her, and when he finally rode away, it was with a standing invitation to return. After the initial shock of finding her in a Pretty Girl Saloon, he actually felt better about her. He had to admit that, in going into the saloon instead of the home of a stuffy old aunt, she had likely made the better of the two choices.

  Dodge City, Kansas. September 7, 1876

  Nathan went first to the railroad depot and found Foster Hagerman in his office.“If you’re looking for your old job,” said Hagerman, “you’re out of luck. By God, this Harley Stafford is somethin’ else.”

  “That’s why I sent him to you,” Nathan replied. “I’m good, and he’s better than me. Where am I likely to find him?”

  “In Pueblo,” said Hagerman. “Won’t be back for a couple of days. But Vivian’s at the Dodge House, and I reckon that’s why you’re here.”

  “Not entirely,” Nathan said. “I just got a bellyful of Dakota Territory.”

  “Good,” said Hagerman. “I know you’ll want to meet our new sheriff. He’s a young gent name of Wyatt Earp.”

  CHAPTER 34

  “I missed you terribly,” Vivian said, when Nathan reached the Dodge House. “I just can’t begin to tell you how much this means to Harley, and he’ll be as glad to see you as I am. How long are you going to be here?”

  “I haven’t decided,” said Nathan. “After you and Harley left Deadwood, everything just went to hell. I guess you’ve heard about Wild Bill.”

  “Yes,” she said, “and I’m sorry. I’m so thankful you helped Harley get out of there, and I’m just as thankful you got out. You’re not going back, are you?”

  “My God, no,” said Nathan. “Not unless we have to fight the Sioux and the government drafts me.”

  They were in Vivian’s room at the Dodge House, and Empty dozed beneath the only window. It was near suppertime.

  “I’m going to take a room so I’ll have a place to leave my saddlebags,” Nathan said, “and then we’ll have supper at Delmonico’s.”

  “Leave them here,” said Vivian. “You don’t need a room. We stayed together befo
re we went to Deadwood, and nothing’s changed.”

  “Oh, but it has,” Nathan said. “Harley’s here. I won’t feel right, and there may be others who won’t approve.”

  “Damn the others,” she said. “Harley spends all his time with one of the girls from the Long Branch. I told him what I went through before I found you here in Dodge, and I promise you, you’re welcome to anything he has or ever hopes to have.”

  “And that includes you?”

  “That includes me,” she said.

  “Even if I ride off to Texas and you don’t see me again for a year?”

  “Even then,” she said. “I believe in life the way you helped Harley see it. He says you play the hand as it’s dealt to you, and sometimes you win. It’s when you do nothing, hoping your luck will change, that you lose it all.”

  Nathan remained in Dodge until Harley returned, and for the week after. While he had expected some changes in Harley Stafford, he was amazed at the degree to which the man had changed in so short a time. He had gained weight and barely limped at all. Hagerman, recalling how helpful it had been to Nathan, had insisted that Harley learn Morse code.

  “With my messed-up legs, I never expected to climb a telegraph pole,” Harley said, “but when I had to do it, I did.”

  “Sometimes Hagerman’s a hard man to work for,” said Nathan, “but he believes in paying a man who can put up with him.”

  “He’s paying me more in a month than I sometimes earned in a year,” Harley said.

  Nathan continued his habit of reading the newspapers from Kansas City and St. Louis, and in mid-September, he found interesting stories in both papers. The James and Younger gangs, attempting to rob the bank in the little town of Northfield, Minnesota, had been met with a hail of lead. While Frank and Jesse had escaped, the Youngers hadn’t been so fortunate. Bob Younger had been seriously wounded. He, his brothers James and Cole, and Charlie Pitts—a member of the James gang—had been captured.