“She’s worth more than all the other Horrells, with the Higgins pack thrown in,” said Nathan. “The worst thing you can do—for your sake and Molly’s—is to allow yourself to be dragged into this Horrell-Higgins fight. The Horrells will get over Molly leaving, but if you kill one of them, they’ll hound you as long as there’s one of them alive. Back off.”
“Thanks, Nathan,” Fisher said. “That’s how I finally come to see it last night. It ain’t easy, admittin’ I’m dodging the Horrells, but I’ll do it for Molly.”
“Vivian and me were ready to ride on,” said Nathan. “I think when I see you again, this Horrell-Higgins thing will had burned itself out.”
Nathan and Vivian rode out after breakfast, leaving King Fisher and Molly content with their decision to take an extended journey into Old Mexico.
“I feel so much better about them,” Vivian said. “Molly left home to escape the fighting and killing, and now he’s taking her away from it for good.”
“King Fisher’s a prideful man,” said Nathan. “It took nerve for him to overcome that, for Molly’s sake. There’s no shame in backing off from a fight you can’t win.”
San Antonio, Texas. January 15, 1877
Nathan and Vivian took a room for the night. It was still early, but far to the west, thunderheads were gathering. There would be a storm before morning. After supper, they had some time before dark.
“Since we’ll be leaving early in the morning,” Nathan said, “we ought to stop by the ranger station, in case there’s been a telegram for us.”
“I don’t like telegrams,” said Vivian. “They’re almost always bad news.”
They reached the ranger outpost just as Ranger Jack Hardeman was locking the door. He knew Nathan from past visits, and he had been a close friend of Captain Sage Jennings.
“This is a welcome surprise,” Hardeman said. “I’ve been here alone all day, and I was about to ride to Fisher’s place, looking for you. Just a while ago, a telegram came for you, and it’s urgent.”
The message had been written in Hardeman’s scrawl, and it was brief. It had been sent by Foster Hagerman, and it read:
Harley wounded and condition critical stop. Hospital in Pueblo.
Vivian took the message with shaking’ hands, and her tears fell as she read the words.
“When can we go,” she cried, “and how long will it take us?”
“There’s no point in leaving before morning,” said Nathan, “and it must be near seven hundred miles. Pushing the horses, we can make it in ten days.”
“Oh, God,” she cried, “he could be dead by then.”
“He could,” said Nathan, “but I’m counting on him to hold on until we get there. I’ll need to know what happened, so I can go after the varmints responsible.”
“I was hoping he could avoid this, by taking a job with the railroad.”
“His is a lawman’s job, Vivian,” Nathan said. “All he lacks is the badge, and while it’s a mite dangerous, he could do worse. I was shot and shot at, and I’m alive.”
Nathan and Vivian left San Antonio at first light, riding northwest. Empty ranged far ahead. They rode until darkness caught up to them, eating jerked beef and drinking spring water. Each morning they arose before daylight, and each day became a repetition of those past. They seldom spoke, each of them aware that at any moment, the clock might be ticking away the last seconds of Harley Stafford’s life.
Pueblo, Colorado. January 26, 1877
Reaching the ten-bed hospital, Nathan and Vivian were surprised to find Hagerman there. He looked as though he hadn’t slept much. The question was in their eyes, and he didn’t wait for them to speak.
“Harley’s alive,” he said, “but just barely. If the doctor will let you see him, maybe it will make a difference.”
CHAPTER 35
“You can have five minutes with him,” the doctor said. “He’s very weak from loss of blood.”
Nathan caught his breath when they entered the room. Harley Stafford lay with eyes closed, almost as white as the sheet that covered him. Vivian knelt beside the bed.
“Harley,” she said softly. “Harley.”
Slowly the eyelids moved, as though even that small effort was too great. Finally, when his eyes opened, it took a moment for him to respond. Nathan knelt beside Vivian, to be sure Harley could hear him.
“Pardner,” said Nathan, “I’ll be going after them. They’ll pay.”
“Tomorrow,” Harley whispered. “Need ... to ... talk.”
“I’ll wait,” said Nathan. “Rest, so you’ll feel like talking.”
Nathan stepped out into the hall, leaving Vivian alone with Harley. Foster Hagerman was there, and until Nathan could talk to Harley, Hagerman would do.
“Tell me what you know,” Nathan said.
“I know any normal man would be dead,” said Hagerman. “My god, he was hit five times. I think he’s been hanging on until you got here. The bastards dynamited the track thirty miles east of here. Harley got three of them before they shot him. They got away with fifty thousand dollars in gold.”
“Damn it,” Nathan said. “I thought you had learned not to set a specific schedule for those shipments. How could they have known which train it was on?”
“I don’t know,” said Hagerman, “unless there’s a Judas among us.”
“When did it happen?”
“Twelve days ago,” Hagerman said. “It happened early in the morning of the day I sent you the telegram.”
“Has no attempt been made to trail the outlaws?”
“No,” said Hagerman. “The engineer reversed the train, bringing Harley in. A report was filed with the sheriff here, but he was unable to raise a posse. The town hasn’t forgotten what happened when a posse took the trail of the Chapa Gonzolos gang. I suppose the only positive thing is the fact it hasn’t rained since the robbery. The outlaws had two wagons.”
“They’ve also had time to reach Santa Fe,” said Nathan.
“You’re going after them?”
“Yes,” Nathan said. “They’re going to pay for what they did to Harley.”
“The gold shipment ...”
“Damn the gold shipment,” said Nathan. “All I can promise you is that this particular bunch of coyotes won’t be robbing any more trains.”
To everybody’s surprise, Harley Stafford was stronger the next morning. Despite all the doctor’s cautioning, he insisted on talking to Nathan.
“I counted a dozen of them,” Harley said. “I was ridin’ the caboose, and I got out of there when they stopped the train. But they expected that, and some of ’em had dropped back. Time I hit the ground, they had me in a crossfire.”
“Do you remember anything that might help me identify them?”
“Not much,” said Harley. “I didn’t have much time. Those I saw, close up, seemed to be Spanish or Mexican. One of them—maybe the leader—was duded up all in black, with a red sash around his middle, and he rode the biggest mule I ever saw.”
“Vivian will be here with you,” Nathan said, “and I want you to devote all your time to getting back on your feet. I’ll see you when I’ve settled with this bunch of coyotes.”
“I’m obliged,” said Harley. “Vaya con Dios, amigo.”
While Vivian hated to see Nathan go, Harley’s improved condition raised her spirits. Nathan rode out, Empty surging ahead. They followed the AT and SF tracks to the place the train had been stopped. The track had been repaired, while the old rails lay in a twisted tangle some distance away. Nathan had no trouble picking up the trail. It led southwest, and there were nine riders. There were two wagons, drawn by mules for faster travel, and Nathan suspected the eventual destination was Santa Fe. It brought back memories of those days when Nathan had trailed Chapa Gonzolos and his renegades to Santa Fe, only to find that Gonzolos was a respectable man, thought to have inherited wealth. Nathan believed he was two hundred miles from Santa Fe, and he rode at a slow gallop, resting his horse at regular inte
rvals.
Santa Fe, New Mexico Territory. January 31, 1877
Reaching Santa Fe late in the day, Nathan found a hotel willing to accept Empty, and took a room for the night. The trail he had followed had become lost, when he had entered the frequently traveled streets of town. Even if the outlaws had another destination in mind, they would still have gone through Santa Fe in the hope of confusing any possible pursuers. At least one of the outlaws rode a horse with a bad shoe, for part of the calk was missing. Before wasting time in Santa Fe, Nathan would ride a half circle to the south, seeking a continuation of the trail. After supper he bought a newspaper. He and Empty then returned to their hotel room. Nathan then went through the newspaper, finding only one article of interest. On January twenty-second, in a clash with the Higgins clan, Merritt Horrell had been killed.
“That’s the start of it, Empty,” said Nathan. “Thank God King Fisher wasn’t foolish enough to get caught up in that.”
Nathan rode out after breakfast. When he was far enough from town, he swung south in a half circle. To his dismay, he immediately found the trail he had lost upon reaching Santa Fe. He verified it by seeking and finding the print of the shoe with the broken calk. He had been on the trail five days, and the outlaws had a twelve-day start. But where in tarnation were they going? He considered the possibility they were bound for the border, their eventual destination being Old Mexico, but he soon rejected that. Had they been going to Old Mexico, they should have traveled due south following the robbery. Instead, they had taken a southwesterly course, and after passing through Santa Fe, had continued in that direction. Nathan rode on, conscious of a change in the land. The second day after riding out of Santa Fe, he began to recognize the territory. When he had been on the manhunt that had brought him west, he had searched the mining camps of Nevada and Arizona. He now was riding among the stately ponderosa pines that grew so prolifically in the territory. He sensed that the trail he followed must soon come to an end, for he had left Pueblo ten days ago. He was in a land where winter seldom ventured, and despite the dryness of the soil, there were wild flowers. It was rough country for wagons, and he soon found the remains of a broken wagon wheel. The wheel that had replaced it had a wider tire, and left a distinctive track. It would be something to remember if he had to identify the wagon.
Eventually he heard a dog barking somewhere ahead. Since he had no idea where the outlaws were bound, he couldn’t ignore the possibility that he had reached their stronghold. Cautiously, he rode on. To his surprise, when he topped a ridge, he could see a village. There were fields in which men toiled, and the peaceful scene reminded him of those long-ago days in Virginia, before the war. If the outlaws he sought were bound for this village, they didn’t have to know Nathan Stone was trailing them. The trail continued toward the main street of the town. Nathan could see a mercantile, a livery, a one-story hotel, and what looked like a courthouse or town hall. There were other false-fronted buildings that proved to be saloons. Beside a saloon—The Yucca—were two wagons with canvas up. Nathan dismounted, looping the grulla’s reins about the hitch rail. He then went around to the side of the saloons where the wagons were. On one of them, the right rear wheel was just a little different, the tire a little wider. One of the wagons he had been following. He entered the saloon, finding the bar lined with hard-eyed men. It was enough to arouse his suspicion, for working men didn’t spend their daytime hours in a saloon. He noticed immediately that every man was armed, their Colts thonged down. Several carried two guns, and they all eyed Nathan. He ordered a beer, made his way to a table, and sat down. Attention shifted away from him, when another man elbowed his way through the swinging doors. He spoke to one of the men at the bar, and he looked at Nathan, his hand near the butt of his Colt. He spoke.
“Mister, you was seen payin’ attention to them wagons outside. I reckon you’d better tell us what your interest is.”
Nathan stood up. “I used to be a bull whacker, and I have an interest in wagons. Now you tell me why that concerns you.”
“I reckon you ain’t near as concerned with that wagon as you are with its cargo, and if you know what that is, then I know why you’re here.”
He was fast, but not fast enough. Nathan fired once, and with the Colt steady in his hand, he edged his way toward the swinging doors.
“Drop the gun, bucko,” said a voice from the door. “You’re covered.”
Nathan had no choice. He dropped the gun, and quickly the man behind him seized his other weapon. Then they all rushed him, kicking, gouging, slugging. He was struck with a pistol barrel, dazing him, and was finally beaten to the floor.
“Couple of you get him over to the jail,” one of his assailants said.
Nathan awakened with a pounding headache, lying on a slab of a bunk. He sat up, aware of the bars surrounding him. In the corridor stood a man with a star.
“I defended myself,” said Nathan. “Why am I in jail?”
“Murder. I’m Sheriff Hondo, an’ I’m just goin’ by what the boys told me. Got plenty witnesses. Tomorrow, Judge Ponder will decide what to do with you.”
Nathan had no idea what had become of Empty. The dog was resourceful, and would survive, unless one of the gunmen shot him. Late in the afternoon, a dozen heavily armed men rode in from the west. They laughed and shouted, and when they dismounted, heavy canvas bags were removed from their horses. They looked for the world like a band of thieves returning with their plunder.
“Everybody to the saloon,” one of them shouted. “Drinks are on us.”
Every man within hearing—one of whom was Sheriff Hondo—headed for the saloon. It gave Nathan something to think about, and the more he thought about it, the less he looked forward to his appearance before Judge Ponder. Peaceful though it seemed, the place had all the earmarks of an outlaw town, up to and including the sheriff and the judge. Nathan had no supper, and for breakfast, he was brought a pot of beans, bacon, and a tin cup of coffee. Judge Ponder’s courtroom was in the rear of the building that housed the jail. Most of the men who had jumped Nathan in the saloon were in the courtroom.
“Ever’body stand,” said Sheriff Hondo.
Nathan remained seated, earning himself a sour look from Judge Ponder, as he took his place on the bench.
“Who is this man, and what is he charged with?” Judge Ponder demanded.
They hadn’t even bothered asking his name, and Nathan said nothing, forcing Sheriff Hondo to pose the question.
“What’s your name?” Sheriff Hondo growled.
“Nathan Stone.”
“His name’s Nathan Stone, your honor,” said Sheriff Hondo. “He shot and killed Billings yesterday, in the saloon.”
“You have witnesses?”
“All them gents in front of you,” Sheriff Hondo said.
“Swear them in,” said Judge Ponder.
“All you varmints is sworn in,” Sheriff Hondo said. “Did all of you see Stone shoot Billings yesterday?”
“Yeah,” they answered. “We seen it.”
“Who was first to draw?” Sheriff Hondo asked.
“Stone,” they all shouted.
“Now get on over to the saloon an’ have yourselves a shot,” said Hondo. “Put it on my tab.”
“Do you have anything to say in your own defense?” Judge Ponder asked.
“I’m not guilty,” said Nathan, “and I want a trial by jury. I’m a citizen of the United States of America.”
“You’re not in the United States,” Judge Ponder said. “This is Arizona Territory, and we make our own laws. You have been proved guilty, and there ain’t nothin’ a jury can do to change that. I’m sentencin’ you to five years at hard labor.”
“Come on, bucko,” said Sheriff Hondo. “You look like you got a strong back. You’ll need it. We’re buildin’ a dam, and you get the honor of helpin’ it along.”
Nathan was taken outside. Sheriff Hondo pointed to a buckboard, and Nathan climbed up to the box. The sheriff mounted the box and took
the reins. Nathan was amazed at the many fields under cultivation. Long before they reached it, he could hear the roar of the river.33
“Trouble with this damn country,” said Hondo, “is there ain’t enough water. We aim to divert water to irrigate the crops, opening an’ closin’ the gates, as needed.”
Nathan said nothing, marveling at the man’s nerve, speaking as though they were old friends. Yet he was obviously a willing accomplice to a system that robbed men of their freedom, using their labor to further its own ends. The site they had chosen for the dam was at a bend in the river, where the natural elevation of the land would readily result in a runoff, when the dam was ready. But work on the dam had obviously just begun. Man labored, digging holes for pillars that would become the backbone of the dam. Piles of logs lay ready, and Nathan could hear the sound of axes and saws at work. There was the crash of a fallen tree. Sheriff Hondo reined up, waiting until one of the guards reached the buckboard.
“Quivado,” said Sheriff Hondo, “this is Mr. Stone. He’s going to help us build the dam. Mr. Stone, the other guard is Sanchez, and you’ll meet him in time. Now, if you’ll step down, Quivado will take charge of you.”
Nathan climbed down, not liking the looks of Quivado. He was Mexican, some Indian, and the blacksnake whip coiled about his arm looked all business. He had long hair, a flowing mustache, and a grim mouth that looked as though it had never smiled. In one big hand was a set of leg irons. He knelt down to lock them in place, while Sheriff Hondo kept his eyes on Nathan.
The Killing Season Page 49