Autumn of the Gun

by Compton, Ralph

  “God,” said one of the men, “there’s fifty riders with Sheriff Hondo. We’ll be outgunned near ten to one.”

  “Maybe,” Nathan said, “but Ponder has dynamite somewhere. He used it building the dam. Let’s find that dynamite, and we’ll even the odds.”

  They searched the jail and Ponder’s quarters without result. In the outer office, a faded, dirty rug covered most of the floor. Shoving Ponder’s desk against the wall, Nathan kicked the rug aside, revealing an iron ring flush with the floor. Two men seized the ring and raised the door. There was a lamp on Ponder’s desk. Nathan lighted it and held it above the yawning hole. Wooden steps vanished into the darkness.

  “Anybody down there?” Nathan shouted.

  There was no response.

  “Gimme the lamp,” said one of the men. “Some of you cover me, and I’ll go down and light the way.”

  There was no other way, and Nathan surrendered the lamp.

  “My God!” the man shouted from below. “There’s gold down here!”

  “I wouldn’t get too excited,” Nathan said. “It’s stolen. What about the dynamite?”

  “One full case an’ part of another,” came the response. “There’s caps an’ fuses, too.”

  “Some of you get down there,” Nathan said, “and bring up the dynamite, caps, and fuses. We have work to do, and we may not have much time.”

  After they had brought up the dynamite, Nathan took the lamp and went below. He wanted his own Colts and Winchester, given him by Texas Ranger Captain Sage Jennings. He quickly found the weapons concealed under canvas. When he reached the head of the stairs, he found the men had broken out the dynamite.

  “We’ll fuse and cap single sticks,” said Nathan. “Short fuses, not more than six or seven seconds. We’ll spread out all over town, each of us with a few sticks of dynamite. I found my weapons below, so you can have the pair of Winchesters and the Colts I took from Tasby and Doss.”

  “When that bunch rides in, we’d best throw the dynamite while they’re bunched,” one of the men said. “Elsewise, they’ll scatter, and we don’t have the guns for a standoff.”

  “That’s the idea,” Nathan said. “If nothin’ else, the blast should stun them long enough for us to take their guns.”

  Nathan returned to his picketed horse, taking the Winchesters and extra ammunition from the saddlebags. He had all but forgotten Empty when the dog loped out of the brush and growled deep in his throat. Something was definitely wrong, and when Nathan looked to the south, he knew what it was. There was a faint plume of dust against the blue of the sky. The outlaw posse was returning! Nathan hit the steps to the jail on the run.

  “They’re coming,” Nathan said grimly. “A couple of you stay here with me and the rest of you spread out and take cover. Drop some of that dynamite in their midst, and their horses should pile them. Some will be stunned by the blast, giving you time to grab their guns. The others will come up shootin’, and it’ll be up to those of you with guns to cut them down.”

  Each man grabbed two or three sticks of dynamite and they scattered like quail. Two of the men remained with Nathan. Standing near the door, they could see the first horsemen topping the hill to the south. With open fields on each side of the trail, there was no cover for the defenders except the few buildings on the edge of town. By the time the outlaws were close enough for the dynamite to be thrown, they would be within range of Nathan’s Winchester. Once the approaching riders were close enough, the defenders wasted no time. Dynamite rained on them, much of it exploding in the air above them. On the heels of one explosion there was another. Horses screamed and pitched, men cursed, and those who had been thrown rose from the dust only to be gunned down. Sheriff Hondo lit out in a run for the jail, only to have a thrown stick of dynamite explode right over his head. He sprawled in the dirt to rise no more. Half a dozen of the outlaws who had stayed in their saddles wheeled their horses and rode for their lives. Taking advantage of the thrown dynamite, the defenders rushed into the street, seizing the guns of the confused outlaws. Those who had survived the dynamite blasts staggered to their feet, only to be shot down without mercy, most of them with their own weapons. When the dust settled, forty-five outlaws lay dead. Not one of the defenders had been hurt, and there was a victorious shout. The men gathered in front of the jail. They owed their very lives to Nathan Stone, and they listened respectfully as he spoke to them.

  “Men,” Nathan said, “what becomes of this town is of no interest to me. I want just one thing. Part of that gold under Ponder’s office was stolen from the AT & SF Railroad, and I want it returned. A friend of mine almost gave his life for it.”

  “What happens to the rest of it?” somebody asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Nathan. “If nobody comes along to claim it, I reckon it belongs to those of you who have had part of your lives stolen by Ponder and his outlaws.”

  Raiding Ponder’s stores of food, the men prepared a meal such as none of them had enjoyed for months. Near sundown, two riders approached from the north, and some of the men readied their guns.

  “It’s all right,” said Nathan. “They’re friends of mine.”

  Harley and Vivian Stafford reined up their horses, surprised at the presence of so many armed men.

  “Get down,” Nathan said. “It’s a long story.”

  The next morning, Nathan and Harley loaded the gold into the same wagon the thieves had used after stealing the shipment from the railroad. Nathan bid farewell to the men with whom he had shared captivity, and took the trail north with Harley and Vivian. Nathan drove the wagon, his grulla trailing behind on a lead rope, while Harley and Vivian rode alongside. Empty loped well ahead of the wagon.

  “The railroad owes you for this,” Harley said, “and I owe you a lot more.”

  “The railroad owes me nothing,” said Nathan. “I did this for you because you’re my friend, not because I see it as a debt to be paid. I’ll see you back to Pueblo, where all this gold will be the responsibility of the railroad.”

  “Where will you go from there?” Vivian asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Nathan.

  She had stopped short of asking him about his intentions toward her. He had—as her brother well knew—shared her bed for months. Now, after the gold had been safely returned to the railroad, could he just ride away? His mind drifted back to those early days on the frontier when he had been riding a vengeance trail, when Eulie Prater had been part of his life. Nathan had gone to New Orleans to kill a man, and it was there that Eulie had died in an ambush that might have been avoided. Every woman Nathan Stone had ever cared a damn about had somehow died a violent death as a result of her relationship with him, Nathan thought dismally. Somehow, by the time they reached Pueblo, Nathan must reach a decision regarding Vivian Stafford. She and Harley had no family, and he believed they should remain together. But he was at a loss as to how he might convince them. They were more than five hundred miles from Pueblo, and even with mules pulling the wagon, they might be on the trail as long as a month. Harley made himself scarce at night, and it became more and more difficult for Nathan not to resume his former intimate relationship with Vivian. Finally the girl became impatient and hit him with a direct question he couldn’t possibly evade.

  “You’re avoiding me, Nathan. Why? Are you tired of me?”

  “Yes,” Nathan admitted. “I’m avoiding you, but not because I’m tired of you. It’s for your sake that I’m backing off, and now I reckon I’ll have to tell you why.”

  He talked for an hour, the two of them sitting on the wagon tongue, and when he had finished, he had the feeling he hadn’t gotten through to her. She quickly confirmed his suspicion.

  “All right,” she said, “you’ve warned me that you’re bad news. I know about your fast gun, your sometimes uncontrollable passion for saloon gambling, and your pride that often kicks common sense out the window. But I still believe in for better or worse. This is the frontier, Nathan. I could get shot by s
omebody that’s gunning for Harley. I’ll never complain about where you go or what you do. I’m willing to take my chances with you, and I can’t see anything wrong with that. Unless you don’t want me.”

  “Damn it, Vivian, it’s got nothin’ to do with me not wantin’ you,” said Nathan. “What I’ve tried to tell you is that I can’t stand the thought of somethin’ happening to you as it happened to the others. My conscience can’t handle any more.”

  “I think you’re blaming yourself unfairly,” she argued. “Perhaps it’s a gamble, but you gamble. Why can’t I?”

  “Because you’re ... you ... I ...”

  “Because I’m a woman,” said Vivian.

  “No,” Nathan said angrily, “because we’re talkin’ about two different things. Gambling for money is one thing, while gambling your life is another. Trailing with me, you’re risking your life, and nothing you can say or do will ever change that. I don’t know where, when, or how it’ll happen, but it will. It’s a feeling that comes over me, and it’s never been wrong yet.”

  They parted in anger, and barely spoke for an entire week. Nathan found himself telling Harley what he had already told Vivian, and he found Harley sympathetic.

  “I reckon I can understand your feelings,” said Harley, “and I don’t know what to tell you. Why don’t we just wait until we get to Pueblo and see if anything changes?”

  It proved to be good advice.

  Pueblo, Colorado May 21, 1877

  The railroad showed its gratitude by hosting a dinner at one of the hotels. It became a joint honor for Nathan and Harley, and they were forced to attend.

  “Damn,” Nathan complained, “why can’t they show their gratitude in some way that don’t force a man into a boiled shirt, tight britches, and a necktie?”

  When the affair was over, some of the railroad personnel insisted that Nathan and Harley accompany them to a fancy saloon for drinks.

  “Go on,” Vivian urged. “I’ll stay here at the hotel.”

  So Nathan and Harley went, and Nathan became interested in a high-stakes poker game that was in progress. The big winner appeared to be Drew Collins, a little man with thinning dark hair, black eyes, and diamond cufflinks. In a solid black suit, he looked like a preacher or an undertaker, and Nathan developed an instant dislike for him. It was Collins who suggested a twenty-dollar limit, and at that point Harley dropped out.

  “Too rich for my blood,” Harley told Nathan. “Maybe we ought to mosey back to the hotel.”

  “Not yet,” said Nathan

  Only four men remained, and the pot quickly reached five hundred dollars. Finally it reached a thousand dollars, and two more men folded, leaving only Nathan and Collins.

  “Your turn to fold,” Collins said with a smirk.

  “I’ll raise you five hundred dollars,” said Nathan.

  There was twenty-five hundred dollars in the pot when it was time to show their hands. With a flourish, Collins laid down four face-up aces.

  “Beat that,” the smug little gambler said.

  “I can,” Nathan replied. He dropped five cards on the table. Four of them were kings and the fifth was an ace of spades.

  Collins had reached for the pot, and when Nathan seized both his arms, two more aces fell from the sleeves of Collins’s coat.

  “Collins,” said Nathan, “where I come from, that’s called cheatin’”

  “By God, that’s what we call it here, too,” said a man who had been forced out.

  Half a dozen angry men seized Collins, dragged him through the saloon, and flung him out on the boardwalk.

  “Mister,” a bartender said, “you’d best take your money and get out of here. Collins is ever’ bit as touchy as Ben Thompson. He’ll kill you.”

  “Come on, Nathan,” said Harley.

  Nathan and Harley returned to the hotel. To Nathan’s dismay, he found Vivian in his room, and she refused to leave.

  “Harley,” said Nathan, “tell her—”

  “Tell her yourself,” Harley said. “She quit listenin’ to me a long time ago.”

  Harley had refused breakfast and Nathan thought he knew why. He didn’t intend to involve himself in the hassle between Nathan and Vivian. Suddenly, as they neared a vacant building, there was a rattle of gunfire. One slug burned its way along Nathan’s neck, under his left ear. With his Colt in his hand, he was off and running, but by the time he reached the old store building the bushwhacker was gone. Nathan could hear shouting behind him and he turned back. Vivian Stafford lay on the boardwalk, blood rapidly soaking the left side of her shirt.

  CHAPTER 1

  Nathan had little doubt that Drew Collins had been responsible for the ambush, and in due time he would find the vindictive little gambler. But not until he knew that Vivian was out of danger. While they waited for a verdict from the doctor, he talked to Harley.

  “What’s just happened can happen again,” Nathan said. “Now do you understand what I’ve been trying to tell Vivian?”

  “I reckon I can,” said Harley.

  “As soon as I know she’s going to live, I aim to ride out,” Nathan said. “It’s up to you to convince her it’s for her sake.”

  “You’ll be taking care of Collins, then.”

  “Yes,” said Nathan, “and when we meet again, I don’t aim for him to have anybody to throw lead at except me.”

  By the next morning, Vivian was sleeping peacefully, out of danger. Nathan joined Harley Stafford and Foster Hagerman for breakfast.

  “First thing I need to know,” Nathan said, “is whether Collins took the train after the shooting. It would be the logical thing, unless there was too much time before the next train.”

  “I can answer that for you,” said Hagerman. “While you and Harley were concerned with Vivian, Sheriff Brodie began looking for Collins. The next train east was more than four hours away. The sheriff found a livery that had sold Collins a horse and saddle. It’s a safe bet that your man is almost to Denver by now.”

  “Thanks,” Nathan said. “Now, can you take it a step farther? Before I saddle up and light out for Denver, can you wire the Kansas-Pacific terminal and find out whether or not Collins has taken a train east?”

  “It’s a two-day ride from here to Denver,” said Hagerman. “If Collins is headed that way, he won’t be there until late this evening. Before you go galloping off anywhere, why don’t you talk to Sheriff Brodie? He’s having the Kansas-Pacific terminal watched by the law in Denver. If Collins shows up there, he’ll be arrested. Why don’t you wait another day, until Brodie hears from Denver?”

  “I reckon that makes sense,” said Nathan. “I just don’t like waiting, and if he fails to take the train from Denver, the little varmint’s got a two-day start on me.”

  “He could ride to Cheyenne and take the Union Pacific to California,” Harley said.

  “My God,” said Nathan, “that’s even worse. Cheyenne’s a just a hundred miles north of Denver. He could reach Denver sometime tonight and be in Cheyenne late tomorrow.”

  “Then you’ll never catch up to him on horseback,” Hagerman said. “If Brodie gets no response to his inquiry to Denver, have him wire the Union Pacific terminal in Cheyenne. If Collins doesn’t take the train at Denver or Cheyenne, he could have gone anywhere.”

  It made sense, and Nathan waited. Denver was a hundred and fifty miles north, while Cheyenne was a hundred miles farther. A wild-goose chase of such magnitude wasn’t very appealing. After supper, Harley and Nathan went to the sheriff’s office, but Brodie could tell them nothing positive.

  “No sign of Collins at the Kansas-Pacific terminal in Denver,” said Brodie.

  “Will you wire the Union Pacific at Cheyenne?” Nathan asked.

  “Yeah,” said Brodie. “If we don’t catch him there, you might as well give up on him taking a train, unless he headed for Hays when he left here. But I wouldn’t consider that likely. It’s more than two hundred and fifty miles.”

  “If he don’t show at the Union Pac
ific terminal in Cheyenne by tomorrow,” Harley said, “we’ve lost him.”

  “Like hell,” said Nathan. “He left here on a horse, and there’s been no rain. That trail I followed into southern Arizona Territory was twelve days old. This one will be three days old at the most.”

  “I’m riding with you,” Harley said. “It was my sister he shot.”

  “But he was shooting at me,” said Nathan. “I want you here with Vivian.”

  Harley laughed. “I reckon I know why. But if you’re goin’ to be around until sometime tomorrow, you’ll be able to talk to her. You owe her that.”

  “No sign of Collins at the Union Pacific terminal in Cheyenne,” Foster Hagerman said.

  “About what I expected,” said Nathan.

  “Vivian’s awake and asking for you,” Harley said.

  “Damn,” said Nathan with a sigh.

  Nathan and Harley reached the small hospital where Harley had been laid up.

  “I’ve already talked to her this morning,” Harley said. “Your turn.”

  Removing his hat, Nathan went in. Vivian Stafford sat on the edge of the bed.

  “You surprised me,” she said. “I expected you to ride out while I was sleeping off the laudanum.”

  “I aim to track down that skunk of a bushwhacker,” said Nathan uncomfortably.

  “I suppose you aim to do it without me.”

  “I do,” Nathan said. “Do you need more reasons, or is the one you’ve had enough?”

  “It’s enough,” she said, surprising him. “When will I see you again?”

  “When I get back to Dodge,” said Nathan. “Hagerman’s checked out every possible railroad connection, including the Union Pacific. I’ll have to find the little varmint’s trail and ride him down.”

  Not wasting any more time, Nathan took his horse from the livery, and, with Empty following, he rode out. Estimating that he was five miles from Pueblo, he began circling the town. With the mostly barren, unsettled Utah Territory to the west and a railroad to the east, Nathan expected Collins to ride north or south. When he finally found what he hoped was the trail it led southeast. Nathan reined up, and Empty doubled back.