“Charlie’s alive! Somebody get the doc!”
By the time the doctor arrived, two of the tables had been shoved together, and the wounded Charlie White was stretched out on them.
“He was shot twice,” one of the poker players volunteered.
“I don’t think so,” said the doctor. “His head’s been creased, and that’s the extent of his injury. He’ll have a fierce headache for a while, but he’ll live.”
The owner of the saloon was sent for, and Charlie White was sent home. The poker game broke up, amid speculation that Doc Holliday might return. Nathan left the saloon and returned to his hotel, wondering why no lawman had shown up to investigate the shooting. He was unimpressed with Doc Holliday. Twice he had encountered the man; both times he had been engaged in a saloon shooting.
Caldwell, Kansas June 19, 1880
Nathan had spent an unusually pleasant Saturday night in the Sunflower Saloon. There had been a six-hour poker game that had broken up at midnight. Suddenly a fight broke out near the bar, and it took half a dozen men to separate the combatants. One of the men—the drunker of the two—wore a brace of twin pistols.
“Who’s the gent with the buscadera rig?” Nathan asked a bystander.
“George Flatt. Used to be a marshal, but his hard drinkin’ and quick guns got him in trouble. The gent that just tangled with him is Frank Hunt, a new deputy marshal that’s been appointed by Mayor Mike Meagher. Flatt gives Hunt hell ever’ chance he gets.”
Apparently, some of Flatt’s friends had persuaded him to leave the saloon, and Nathan left right behind them.
“George,” said one of the men accompanying Flatt, “let’s go to Segerman’s Restaurant for some grub.”
After some persuading, Flatt agreed to go, and the trio started across the street to the restaurant. Suddenly there was a shot, and Flatt lurched forward, shot through the back of his skull. Before he fell, three more slugs ripped into his body.
“Frank Hunt’s killed him,” somebody shouted. “I seen him.”23
Ogallala, Nebraska June 26, 1880
Ogallala proved to be a lively town stretched along the Union Pacific Railroad tracks. There was an abundance of saloons and boardinghouses catering to railroad men, and again Nathan left Empty behind while he visited the saloons. He had won more than three hundred dollars since leaving El Paso, and not once had he been forced to pull a gun. But the saloons in this Nebraska town interested him. One of them—the Cementario—had a crimson death’s head painted above the door. It was the rowdiest of the lot, and Nathan was surprised to find the house dealer was none other than the unpredictable Billy Thompson. Nathan bought a beer, leaned against the bar, and searched the crowd, fully expecting to see Ben. But this time, it seemed Billy was on his own, for Ben was nowhere in sight. Nathan moved closer and it soon became obvious that Billy Thompson had continued his relationship with the bottle. He was just drunk enough to have unbounded confidence in himself, which proved to be his undoing. One of the men dropped his cards, slid back his chair, and stood up.
“Billy Thompson,” he shouted, “you’re a cheatin’, tin-horn bastard!”
“Damn you, Jim Tucker,” Billy snarled. “Draw.”
But Texan Jim Tucker had an edge, for he hadn’t been drinking. Both reached for their guns as onlookers fought to get out of the line of fire. Billy Thompson didn’t get off a shot. He stumbled back and sat down in his chair, bleeding from five wounds.
“Here comes Sheriff Naylor,” somebody shouted.
Sheriff Ollie Naylor looked from Jim Tucker to the bleeding Billy Thompson. Despite his wounds, Billy still gripped his Colt.
“Even break, Sheriff,” said Tucker. “He was cheating.”
“He sure as hell was,” another man agreed. “If he ain’t dead, let’s string him up.”
“Nobody’s gettin’ strung up,” said the sheriff. “Some of you tote him to the doc’s place.”
Thompson was taken away, but there was angry talk as Jim Tucker spread out the cards from which Billy had been dealing. Nathan remained in the saloon after the sheriff had departed, and there was more talk about lynching Billy Thompson.
“Wait till the little varmint’s healed some,” a man said. “Then we’ll introduce him to the business end of a rope.”
Ben Thompson always seemed to be around when Billy got in over his head, but for once, it seemed Billy was on his own. Nathan found the doctor’s office and went in. Since he considered himself a friend to Ben Thompson, he could at least telegraph Ben and tell him of Billy’s predicament—if only he knew where Ben was. Nathan waited in the outer office until the doctor came out.
“I’m Dr. Summers. What can I do for you?”
“I’m Nathan Stone, a friend of Ben Thompson, brother to the man that was brought over from the saloon. I reckon I can telegraph Ben, if Billy knows where he is.”
“Billy Thompson is in no condition to talk to you,” said Dr. Summers. “As soon as I’m finished with him, the sheriff is having him moved to the hotel, under guard.”
There was little Nathan could do except leave, and he did. Many a man on the frontier had been shot dead for cheating at cards, and it seemed Billy Thompson had been in town long enough to accumulate some enemies. Nathan found Sheriff Ollie Naylor.
“Sheriff,” said Nathan, “I know Ben Thompson, Billy’s brother. As a favor, I’m willing to telegraph the news to Ben, if you know or can learn where he is.”
“Friend,” Sheriff Naylor replied, “do yourself a favor and stay out of this. If Ben Thompson shows up in this town, he’ll likely be strung up alongside his hell-raising little brother.”
“Bein’ sheriff,” said Nathan, “you seem almighty certain Billy’s goin’ to be strung up.”
“I’ve never lost a prisoner to vigilantes yet,” Naylor said, “but there’s always a first time. I’m just one man. After the doc’s had him moved to the hotel, I’ll post a guard at his door. Beyond that, I’m makin’ no promises.”
While Nathan had no intention of taking on a lynch mob to save the troublesome Billy Thompson, he decided to remain in town another day or two. He still wasn’t convinced that Ben wouldn’t show up.
The next afternoon, Nathan returned to the saloon where Billy Thompson had been shot, and to his surprise, he encountered Bat Masterson.
“Been here long?” Bat inquired.
“Couple of days,” said Nathan. “I was here when Billy Thompson was shot.”
“I heard about that,” Masterson said. “Let’s find us a table and talk.”
They took chairs at a corner table, and Masterson called for a bottle and glasses. He drew the cork with his teeth and filled their glasses. Masterson spoke.
“I am assuming Billy isn’t dead. Where is he?”
“At the hotel,” said Nathan. “I would have telegraphed Ben, but I have no idea where he is. I’ve been warned to stay out of this by none other than Sheriff Naylor himself.”
Masterson laughed. “That’s good advice. Ben’s about as welcome here as a Comanche war party at a sodbuster barn raising. He’s in Dodge. Somebody from the saloon where Billy was shot telegraphed Ben, and he talked me into comin’ here and saving Billy’s hide if I can. I came in on the Union Pacific westbound.”
“Tarnation,” said Nathan, “he was hit five times. He won’t be able to move for maybe a week, and then he’ll likely be moved to the jail. You aim to take him out on the train?”
“Yes,” Masterson said. “He’ll be in no condition to ride.”
“I’m not fond of Billy Thompson,” said Nathan, “but I consider Ben a friend. I’ll help you if I can.”
“You’d best keep your nose clean,” Masterson said. “I have a plan, and if it fails, I see no reason for you being hanged from the same limb as Billy and me.”
Taking Bat’s advice, Nathan didn’t involve himself in the rescue. Instead, he went to the Union Pacific terminal and learned that there was an eastbound every night at eleven. It almost had to be the train
Masterson had in mind. Every night, half an hour before the train arrived, Nathan was in the shadows across the street from the hotel. Four days after Masterson had reached town, the escape took place. At ten-thirty, a surrey with curtains drawn rolled up before the hotel. Ten minutes before eleven, a fusillade of gunfire ripped the night. Not surprisingly, the furor took place at the farthest point from the railroad terminal. Billy Thompson was lowered out a second-floor hotel window with a rope, and Masterson was waiting for him. As the two of them entered the waiting surrey, there was the whistle of the approaching eastbound.24
“My hat’s off to you, Bat Masterson,” Nathan said aloud as the surrey vanished into the night. He slipped away, returning to his room, where Empty waited.
Dodge City, Kansas July 1, 1880
While Wes Tremayne had won the respect of all who knew him, there was a dark side that began to trouble him. He was pointed out in Kansas City and Pueblo as a fast gun who had accounted for two train robbers on his first run, and papers in other towns had picked up the account of his fight with Burt Savage in Dodge. Newspapers in Kansas City, having gotten his schedule, had begun sending reporters to meet the train.
“Harley,” said Wes, “I’m tired of newspaper people following me around. What can I do about them?”
“Not much, kid,” Harley said. “Sometimes I think the railroad encourages them. It’s a way of letting train robbers know they’re likely to catch hell.”
But the stalking turned deadly. Wes had just stepped down from the baggage coach in Dodge when he was challenged.
“Tremayne, I’m callin’ you out. Draw.”
“I don’t know you,” Wes replied, “and I have no fight with you.”
“The hell you don’t! I’m Ivan Curry. I’m faster than you, and you ain’t gonna deny me the chance to prove it.”
The engineer and fireman had left the cab, and Harley had stepped down from the caboose. They were out of range, waiting. Wes sighed. It was his fight, and he waited for Curry to draw. His first shot was wide, and only then did Wes draw. He fired once, and Curry stumbled back into the wall of the depot. He dropped the Colt, his knees buckled, and he fell facedown in the ballast along the track. Wes ejected the spent shell, thumbed in a live one, and holstered the Colt. Drawn by the shots, a crowd was gathering.
“Damn it, Wes,” Harley scolded, “never hold back when you know you have to fight. He could have killed you.”
“But he didn’t,” said Wes. “I didn’t want to fight him.”
The arrival of the train in Dodge was still an exciting event, for there were current newspapers from Kansas City and St. Louis, as well as mail and goods not readily available in Dodge. All those who waited, whatever their reason, were drawn to the shooting. One of them was the editor of the local newspaper.
“I was forced to draw,” said Wes, “and I don’t want to talk about it. Please leave me alone.”
But his plea fell on deaf ears and he was forced to take refuge in Foster Hagerman’s office. He found Hagerman unsympathetic.
“Hell, Wes, you did what you had to do. Besides, it will add to your reputation.”
“A reputation I don’t want,” said Wes. “Why can’t I just do my job and be left alone?”
But the curious, including the newspaper editor, found willing witnesses who told of Wes Tremayne allowing Ivan Curry to shoot first, and then killing him with a single shot. Wes Tremayne was forced to accept the terrible truth. As much as he appreciated his position with the railroad, the very nature of it was creating for him a deadly reputation as a killer. Supper at Delmonico’s became a gala event, with Harley, Foster Hagerman, and Vic Irwin praising him. But when darkness crept over the land and distant stars became pools of silver in a purple meadow, Wes Tremayne reached a decision. Four months shy of his fifteenth birthday, taking his few belongings, he saddled his horse and rode away.
Nathan considered riding to Cheyenne but thought better of it. While he didn’t doubt Byron Silver’s ability to undo the turbulent events that had resulted from their recent visit, he didn’t believe in kicking sleeping dogs. He considered riding back to Dodge, but came up with two good reasons for avoiding it. Trouble stalked Ben and Billy Thompson like their shadows, and he had little doubt the unpredictable pair would be in Dodge. So he rode south, toward Denver.
Nathan reined up. They were nearing the South Platte River when Empty came trotting back, his hackles up. Dismounting, leading his grulla, Nathan continued on foot. There was something or somebody ahead of them. Suddenly a horse nickered and Nathan’s grulla answered. Nathan threw himself belly down, and slugs ripped the air where he had been standing. One of them creased the grulla, and the animal galloped away. His Winchester in the crook of his arms, Nathan moved ahead, and the very instant he spotted his antagonist, the man saw him. Nathan cut loose with the Winchester, and the lead slammed into the other man, taking him down the bank and into the river. Only then did Nathan see the girl who crouched in the underbrush.
“Come on out,” Nathan said, “and if you have a gun, leave it there.”
“I don’t have a gun,” she cried. “He robbed a bank and took me captive.”
She crept out, and Nathan doubted she was more than nineteen. He also doubted she had been taken captive, for she was dressed for riding. Her boots, Levi’s, and red-checked shirt looked new.
“He took you from the bank, I reckon,” said Nathan.
“Yes,” she replied. “I-I’m hurt. He kicked me in the belly—”
She had unbuttoned her shirt near the belt line, and almost caught Nathan off guard. He still held the Winchester, and he flung it as hard as he could. The muzzle of it struck her wrist, and she dropped the deadly little derringer.
“Damn you,” she shouted, “you’ve broken my arm.”
“I’m ready to forget you’re a woman, and break your neck,” said Nathan grimly. “Now you’re goin’ to talk, and talk straight, or you’ll be sorry you ever laid eyes on me.”
“You can’t make me talk,” she snarled.
“Maybe not,” said Nathan, “but I can make you wish you had.”
CHAPTER 14
Seeking to get as far from the railroad as possible, Wes Tremayne rode south. While in Dodge, he had learned something about the territory to the south. Within a day’s ride, there was Mobeetie, Texas, and nearby Fort Elliott. Beyond that, Fort Griffin, Fort Worth and all of south Texas. He was drifting, with no destination in mind, not knowing what he wanted to do. He thought of Vic Irwin, Harley Stafford, and Foster Hagerman, the men in Dodge who had befriended him, and suffered pangs of guilt. He had taken the coward’s way out, riding away without a word to any of them. With the railroad providing his room and board in Dodge, he had saved almost all his money, so he wasn’t broke. He rode into Mobeetie well before midnight, checked his horse into the livery, and took a room at the newly constructed hotel. With so much on his mind, he wasn’t sure he could sleep, so he left the hotel and visited one of the saloons. He had never had more than an occasional beer, so he avoided the bar. While poker interested him, he had avoided it, not wanting to risk his money. Now he had cut loose from the railroad, was in a strange town, and he felt a little reckless. A poker game was in progress. One of the men folded, leaving a house dealer and three soldiers who seemed more drunk than sober. Wes dragged out a chair and sat down.
“Table stakes,” the house man said. “Dollar a game.”
Wes remained in the game long enough to win ten dollars. By the time he kicked back his chair and stood up, one of the saloon women had taken his arm.
“There’s more action upstairs,” she said.
“Thanks,” said Wes, “but I reckon not.”
She laughed. “Come back, kid, when you have some hair on your chest.”
Wes left the saloon and returned to the hotel.
“What’s your name?” Nathan asked the sullen girl.
“Kate McDowell.”
“Who was the man I shot?” Nathan asked.
“Will Blackburn.”
“There was nobody else involved in the robbery?” Nathan asked.
She laughed. “There are four others. Will double-crossed them and took all the gold. They would have killed him. Now they will kill you.”
“They can try,” said Nathan. “Now why don’t you tell me where you fit into this?”
“I told you I was taken captive. Will wanted me to go with him, and when I refused he took me anyway.”
“You’re lying,” Nathan said, “and you’re not very good at it. I freed you from Blackburn, and you thanked me by tryin’ to gut-shoot me with a sleeve gun.”
“At least I knew Will,” she snapped. “I don’t know you. For all I know, you’re just another outlaw after the gold.”
“For a town woman taken against. your will,” said Nathan, “it was mighty convenient, you bein’ all decked out in a man’s shirt, Levi’s, and boots. Explain that.”
“Will brought the clothes and made me change. Now are you satisfied?” she said.
“No,” said Nathan. “I aim to have a look in Blackburn’s saddlebags, but I reckon I’d better pull your fangs first. Get belly down; I’m goin’ to tie your hands behind you.”
“Is that necessary? You took my gun.”
“All right,” Nathan said, against his better judgement. “Don’t try anything foolish.”
But no sooner had he turned toward Blackburn’s horse than she sprang into the saddle of her own mount, kicking it into a gallop. Nathan’s grulla grazed a hundred yards away, and he had but one option. Mounting Blackburn’s horse, with intentions of riding after her, he made an alarming discovery. The horse was lame, reason enough for Blackburn attempting to gun him down. Having lost Kate McDowell—if that had been her real name—he turned his attention back to the saddlebags the lame horse carried. But to his dismay, there was nothing but personal items, leading him to wonder if the elusive girl had told him the truth about the bank robbery. But why had he been forced to kill a man who might not have been what the girl claimed he was? Empty growled, alerting Nathan to a new danger. Seven horsemen approached, and the lead rider wore a lawman’s star on the left lapel of his vest. Some of the men held Winchesters at the ready, and the others were prepared to draw their Colts. Nathan waited as they approached. They reined up, and it was the badge-toter who spoke.
Autumn of the Gun Page 20
