The Killing Season

by Compton, Ralph

  “We trust you,” said Sheriff Hondo, “so we’re leaving your hands free. Besides, you’ll need them to swing an ax and pull a saw.”

  The sheriff drove away, and Quivado looked at Nathan in anticipation. He nodded in the direction of the laboring men, and Nathan headed that way, the cumbersome chains jingling with every step. The three men peeling the pine logs paused, leaning on their axes and wiping their sweaty faces on their dirty sleeves.

  “Damn it,” shouted Quivado, speaking for the first time, “git back to work. This ain’t no church social. Stone, take an ax an’ git to peelin’ them logs.”

  Nathan took an ax and joined the trio of sweating men. Quivado sought shade, taking a seat with his back to a half-grown pine, a Winchester across his knees. Sanchez, Nathan guessed, would be with the laboring men who were felling trees. Nathan said nothing to his companions, waiting for a better time. Their eyes, when they occasionally met his, were dull with hopelessness. When the sun was noon high, Quivado called a halt. There was no food. There was a bucket of water, a gourd dipper, and they were allowed a few minutes of rest. Quivado was always within hearing distance, and he never took his eyes off them. The labor continued until sundown, when two wagons arrived. Four men in chains were marched out of the woods. Behind them, with a Winchester, was the other guard, Sanchez. The leg irons were removed, allowing the men to climb into the wagons. Nathan and his three companions were in one, while the four who had been felling trees were in the other. Quivado and Sanchez were mounted, riding on either side of the second wagon.

  Nathan expected a bunkhouse, but nothing like the one to which they were taken. It was long, low, without a single window, and it appeared there were accommodations for at least a hundred men. It also appeared that when they were locked in for the night, nobody would be allowed to leave until the next morning. Large earthen jars took the place of an outhouse, and the place stank to high heaven. There were buckets of water with dippers, and tin washbasins for washing face and hands. More wagons were coming in from the fields, and Nathan counted forty more laborers. He followed his companions into the stinking bunkhouse, and for the first time, one of them spoke to him.

  “You got maybe fifteen minutes to wash up, if you’re of a mind to. We got to eat an’ git back here ’fore dark.”

  The reason for that wasn’t difficult to understand. There wasn’t a lamp in the place, nor was there a fireplace or a stove. The bunks—in tiers of two—lined the walls. There was only a thin straw tick over a slab of wood. Supper was a lackluster affair, consisting of beans, bacon, corn bread, and coffee. The men were then marched back to the bunkhouse and the doors were locked. Nathan took a bunk near the three men with whom he had worked during the day.

  “Tell me about this place,” he said in a low voice.

  “Ain’t that much to tell. I’m Withers. The other two gents is Strong and Rutledge. We been here maybe six months. It don’t pay to talk too much. Some of this bunch is Judas to the bone. They’ll sell you out for an extra spoonful of beans.”

  “How long are you in for?” Nathan asked.

  “Hell, ever’body gets five years,” said Withers, “an’ don’t go thinkin’ you’ll be let out when you’ve done your time. If you live that long, they’ll trump up some charge and give you another five years. Ain’t but two ways of gettin’ out of here, an’ one’s as bad as the other. You can leave in a pine box, or they’ll send you to the territorial prison, in Yuma.”

  “Why the prison? Hell, this is all the prison I ever want to see.”

  “Judge Ponder’s workin’ a deal with somebody at Yuma. For enough money—I hear it’s ten thousand dollars—a man can buy his way out of the territorial prison. He’s turned loose, like he escaped, and then the prison announces he’s been captured. Only it ain’t him that goes back to Yuma. Judge Ponder delivers them some poor damn fool like you or me, and he goes to Yuma, with added time for escaping.”

  “While Ponder and some bastard at Yuma splits the money,” said Nathan.

  “You got it,” Withers said, “an’ that ain’t all. This damn town is nothing more than an outlaw stronghold. I hear that Ponder collects from fifty to a hundred dollars a month, per man, for guaranteed safety from the law. This bein’ a territory, there ain’t a damn thing anybody can do about it.”

  “What about the farming?”

  “That’s a front,” said Withers, “should some outsider get nosy, but even that brings in money. The fruit, vegetables, and melons is hauled to Tucson, as well as some of the mining camps.”

  “Withers,” somebody growled, “shut the hell up. How’s a man to sleep?”

  Nathan sighed, shifting positions. It looked truly hopeless. Nobody knew where he was, and there was no means of getting word to anyone who could and would come to his aid. But he dared not give up. He would mind his business and bide his time, which was all he could do....

  Pueblo, Colorado. February 1, 1877

  Harley Stafford was on his feet, restless, and worried.

  “There’s nothing we can do, Harley,” said Vivian. “We don’t know where Nathan went, and even if you were able to ride, there’s no trail. There’s been five days of rain.”

  “I’ll give it one more week,” Harley said, “and then I’m goin’ lookin’ for him. He’s in neck-deep and can’t reach us, or he’s dead. In either case, there’s some gun work that needs doin’. I aim to see it done.”

  “Then I’m going with you,” said Vivian. “It’s bad enough if I’ve lost Nathan, without waiting for days, weeks, or months, not knowing what’s happened to you.”

  “I can’t argue with that,” Harley said. “I know how you feel.”

  “What about your position with the railroad?”

  “Hagerman understands. Hell, he’d better. Nathan went after that bunch of outlaws when I was so shot up I couldn’t move. That’s railroad business.”

  “You know better than that,” said Vivian. “He’s doing this for you, because you’re his friend. He may have given his life for you.”

  “You think I don’t realize that?” Harley cried. “I told him I’d be there, if he ever had need of me, and by God, I’m going, if I have to crawl on my hands and knees.”

  The days wore on, and the men labored under the Arizona sun without their shirts. Nathan’s hands went from blisters to calluses, while his upper body, arms, neck, and face turned a deep bronze. Occasionally, while they were in the woods, he caught a glimpse of Empty. He had no idea what had become of his saddlebags, with all the money he had. He hadn’t been searched after they had taken his Colts. Long ago, he had prepared for just such a time as this, by having a small leather pocket sewn into the upper of his left boot. In that pocket he had placed the silver shield given him by Texas Ranger Captain Jennings, and the silver watch given him by Byron Silver. Somehow they would help him, if he had some means of reaching them. But they were far away, and the fires of his hopes burned dim, as one weary day dragged into another....

  Empty lay in the shade of a fir, near enough to the laboring men to hear the sound of their axes and saws. Small game was plentiful enough, and he had managed to keep himself alive. At first, he hadn’t understood why Nathan remained with these strange men, but he well understood the destructive ability of the Winchesters the guards possessed. Many times, Empty had trotted along the back trail, pausing to look back, but each time he had returned. Unwilling to leave Nathan, he waited....

  Nathan kept his silence, avoiding trouble with his captors, but one morning everything changed. When it was time to go to breakfast, Withers still lay on his bunk, unable to get up. He was still there when the wagons came to take the prisoners to their day of labor.

  “Withers is sick,” one of the men told Quivado.

  “I got the cure for what ails him,” said Quivado, uncoiling his whip.

  When he drew back the whip, Nathan caught his arm. His right fist came up, smashing Quivado in the face. The burly guard stumbled against the wall, but Nathan was unab
le to pursue his advantage. Sanchez, the other guard, slammed the butt of his Winchester into the back of Nathan’s head, and he fell facedown.

  “The rest of you get out of here,” said Quivado, wiping his bleeding nose, “and take Withers with you. I aim to teach this damn fool a lesson he ain’t likely to forget.”

  The rest of the men trooped out, two of his comrades carrying Withers. Quivado then set to work with the deadly blacksnake whip. He cut Nathan’s shirt to ribbons, lashing him unmercifully, ceasing only when his arm grew tired. He then mounted his horse and rode after the wagons.

  For a long time, Nathan lay there, trying to accept the agony that was his. He could feel the blood running down his back. Something must be done. He struggled to his hands and knees, and was finally able to sit on the edge of one of the bunks. He removed what was left of his shirt. When he was able to stand, he took a wooden bucket that was almost full of water, and stumbled outside. He found a place where the soil was loose, having been trampled by the hooves of horses and mules. He poured the water over as wide an area as he could, until there was a patch of mud. He then eased himself to the ground and lay down, his tortured back in the cooling mud. It was an old remedy, and he didn’t know if it would save him from infection, but he had nothing else....

  Sheriff Hondo took a chair and sat down. Judge Ponder wasted no time in getting to the point.

  “The first week in April,” said Ponder, “there’s going to be another escape at Yuma. You will capture the prisoner and return him to the territorial prison, as usual, for which authorities there will pay you a hundred dollars.”

  “There an’ back,” Sheriff Hondo said, “that’s five hundred miles. Ain’t it time I was gettin’ more money for my part in this racket?”

  “Keep referring to it as a ‘racket,’ ” said Judge Ponder, “and you’ll cease to be part of it. You’re being paid as the sheriff, for which you do virtually nothing. Don’t push your luck.”

  “You’re takin’ an almighty lot for granted,” Sheriff Hondo said bitterly. “Suppose I ride away from here an’ don’t bother comin’ back?”

  “Then I’ll be forced to put a price on your head, and telegraph every lawman on the frontier,” said Ponder. “That would be a real problem for you, I think. Nobody likes an outlaw sheriff.”

  “You scruffy, double-dealing old coyote,” Hondo said bitterly.

  When he had gone, slamming the door behind him, Judge Ponder laughed.

  Nathan lay on his back, closing his eyes to the sun, and eventually the searing pain subsided. He got to his feet, careful not to break the poultice of dried mud, and made his way back into the bunkhouse. Quivado had left him to live or die on his own, and for that, Nathan was thankful. He stretched out, belly-down, on his bunk, wondering what had happened to Withers.

  When the wagons had reached the dam site, Withers had been dragged out and forced to stand. Each time, he collapsed in a heap on the ground, unmoving, even when Quivado struck him with the murderous whip.

  “Damn him,” said Quivado, “leave him be. I’ll see that he does twice as much work tomorrow.”

  But it was a promise Quivado would be unable to keep. Before the sun was noon high, Withers was dead....

  CHAPTER 36

  At the end of the day, when the rest of the men returned to the bunkhouse, nobody bothered Nathan. Quivado came in, evidently to see if Nathan was alive, and then left. The rest of the prisoners said nothing, their eyes on Nathan’s mud-plastered back.

  “Where’s Withers?” Nathan asked.

  “In the ground,” somebody said. “You took a beating for nothing.”

  “I reckon that’s a matter of opinion,” said Nathan.

  Despite his beating, Nathan went to supper. He looked Quivado in the eye, and the man looked away. Nathan slept belly-down, but he was in no condition to labor in the hot Arizona sun without a shirt. His guards had reached the same conclusion, for when the prisoners were taken to breakfast the next morning, Sanchez tossed Nathan a faded denim shirt. It was too large, allowing for his lacerated back. The wet mud had aided in the clotting of blood, and the torn skin had begun to scab over. The muscles were sore, aching from the beating, but Nathan vowed Quivado wouldn’t have the satisfaction of knowing.

  Several times, Nathan saw Empty, and the dog didn’t look hungry. Obviously, he was puzzled by Nathan’s circumstances, but his loyalty wouldn’t allow him to leave. But where was he to go? He had no home, unless he remembered those days in New Orleans. Days passed, and Nathan’s back healed. Quivado still looked at him in a way that Nathan didn’t like, as though Quivado had plans for Nathan Stone. It was enough to prevent most of Nathan’s companions from so much as speaking to him, for they feared any friendliness toward him might result in punishment from Quivado. Strong and Rutledge, who labored beside Nathan each day, spoke to him cautiously when Quivado wasn’t around. While he dared not speak to the others about such, Nathan’s mind was constantly in a turmoil, considering and rejecting all possible means of escape. He was in leg irons all day, constantly under guard, and at night the bunkhouse was locked, with guards outside. He needed a horse and his guns, and any chance of his getting to either began to seem more and more unlikely. Armed and mounted, he would have to shoot his way out, against virtually impossible odds. Every outlaw in town—even those paying for sanctuary—would kill him if they could, for his escape would jeopardize their safety. His only hope of rescue lay with Harley Stafford, and Harley was more than seven hundred miles away, without the slightest idea as to where Nathan might be. How long, he wondered, before a slug from a Winchester became more tolerable than imprisonment and endless days of slave labor?

  Nathan had silently vowed not to antagonize Quivado again, for he suspected a second bout with the whip would be fatal. But he had no control over Quivado’s brutal, sadistic nature, and he believed it was but a matter of time until Quivado came after him again. Nathan and three of his companions were preparing to drop a heavy ponderosa log into a hole, where it would become an upright for the dam. Nathan’s foot slipped, and without his support, his three companions were unable to control the log. It fell, and went tumbling down the slope, toward the river.

  “Damn you,” Quivado shouted. Dropping his Winchester, he came after Nathan with the deadly whip.

  But Nathan caught the lash with his left hand, and with a mighty heave, tore it out of Quivado’s grasp. Quivado went for the Colt at his hip, but he was slow. Even the leg irons didn’t stop Nathan. He threw himself to the ground and rolled, going after the Winchester Quivado had dropped. Quivado fired twice, the slugs kicking up dust, but before he could fire a third time, Nathan had his hands on the Winchester. He fired once, twice, three times, sending Quivado sprawling in the dirt. But there was the roar of a second Winchester, and Nathan was struck in the back. He fell belly-down and lay still. Sanchez, the second guard, approached. He prodded Nathan with the toe of his boot, without response. Kneeling, he felt for a pulse. The man was still alive. This was a situation that needed a bit more authority than he possessed, and since he couldn’t leave these laborers to seek the sheriff, they must all go together.

  “Rutledge,” said Sanchez, “bring my horse.”

  The horse was near enough not to be a temptation to Rutledge, and when he brought the animal, Sanchez pointed to another of the prisoners.

  “You, Haynes, help Rutledge get Stone across the saddle.”

  The two men lifted Nathan to the saddle, turning him belly-down.

  “Now,” said Sanchez, “we’re all going to take a walk to Judge Ponder’s office. Stone is their responsibility, since he’s unable to work. Rutledge, you lead the horse.”

  While it was more than a mile to town, to Ponder’s office, nobody complained. Every man secretly hoped Nathan Stone lived. Hadn’t he rid them of the sadistic, evil Quivado? Somebody saw them coming, and by the time they reached the dusty main street, Sheriff Hondo was waiting.

  “Sanchez, what’n hell ...”

 
; “Stone shoot Quivado, I shoot Stone,” said Sanchez. “I cannot leave these hombres by themselves. What could I do but bring them with me?”

  Sheriff Hondo had no logical argument, so he said nothing. Instead, he took Nathan’s wrist, seeking a pulse. It was there, and he sighed with relief. Stone could still recover in time for the exchange Judge Ponder had in mind.

  “Wait here, Sanchez,” Sheriff Hondo said. “I’ll talk to Judge Ponder.”

  Judge Ponder listened. Finally he spoke.

  “Take Stone to the saloon. Tell Mallet I said patch him up, bed him down somewhere, and pour the whiskey down him. Then I want you to go with Sanchez, and get those men back to work. For the rest of the day, you’ll replace Quivado.”

  “By God, I’m the sheriff,” Hondo bawled.

  “For the rest of today, and until I say otherwise, you’re Quivado,” said Ponder.

  Nathan awoke, uncertain as to where he was, recalling only that he had been shot. He could hear the clink of glasses and the distant hum of voices, evidence enough that he was in the back of a saloon. On a table beside his bunk sat a whiskey bottle and a pitcher of water. He raised himself on one elbow and drank thirstily from the pitcher. The whiskey accounted for his thundering headache, but it had evidently rid him of fever, for he was sweating. Suddenly a curtain was drawn aside, and Sheriff Hondo stood there looking at him.

  “Well, you’re alive,” said Hondo. “Soon as you’re able to be up and about, the judge wants to see you.”

  “I can understand that,” Nathan said. “He wants to look me in the eye while he adds another five years to my sentence.”

  “Oh, I don’t think he aims to do that,” said Hondo. “He’s a compassionate man.”