Autumn of the Gun

by Compton, Ralph

  “No,” said Nathan. “Not tonight or any other night. Tomorrow, after the buying, I’ll be riding on.”

  Nathan said no more, for Ward Guthrie and Hiram Kilgore were approaching, and as he turned away, he heard Guthrie speak to Delaney.

  “Come on, Jess. Leave it with the bartenders. We’re goin’ up to Seaborn’s quarters and rip the place apart. He’s stashed that money somewhere.”

  Southeast Texas February 1, 1881

  Exhausted, weak from hunger, Wes looked down on the outlaw camp from the brush that grew along the rim. The outlaws were passing around a bottle. Wes was barely able to see Rebecca, for she had distanced herself from them. Somehow she must be made aware that Wes was alive. From one of the loops on his gunbelt, he took a cartridge and, carefully judging the distance, threw it. It fell in the sand just inches from Rebecca. Using her body to hide her movements from the outlaws, she drew the .38 Colt from beneath her shirt, hoping Wes could see that she was armed. While she had no idea what he might attempt, she didn’t believe he could successfully defend himself against three gunmen. Even in the pale moonlight, Wes had seen the pistol and knew they hadn’t disarmed her. There was no cover that would allow him to descend the arroyo’s rim without being seen, and he circled around to the shallow end. He ground his teeth in frustration, for lack of a means of communicating with Rebecca. Her accuracy with a gun—or lack of it—wouldn’t matter if they made their move together. She would distract the outlaws, allowing him the edge he needed. Now he had but one choice, and that was to go in shooting. But that all changed in an instant.

  “Woman,” Sellers shouted, “git over here.”

  “No,” said Rebecca defiantly. “If you want me, then you’ll have to come and get me.”

  “Then I’ll come an’ git you,” Sellers said, “and I’ll take you first.”

  “Come on,” said Rebecca, “if you’re man enough.”

  Wes took a deep breath. She was speaking for his benefit, drawing one of the outlaws away, reducing the odds. From his position, Wes couldn’t see any of them. He waited, depending on his ears. It was Rebecca who gave him his cue, when she spoke.

  “I have a gun, and I’ll shoot.”

  Sellers laughed. “Sure you will. If you had a gun, you’d of used it before now.”

  The stillness of the night was shattered by the roar of a gun, and Wes was off and running. In the shocked silence following the shot, Sellers cried out.

  “I ... I’m ... shot.”

  Doak and Burris were on their feet, reaching for their guns, when Wes shouted his challenge.

  “Hold it. You’re covered.”

  But the outlaws ignored the warning and began firing. Wes gunned them down, and as he turned toward Rebecca she came running to meet him.

  “I saw them shoot you,” she cried, “but I ... I knew you’d be coming for me, if ... if ... you were still alive.”

  “My head hurt like nine kinds of hell,” said Wes, “but I got here as soon as I could. The smoke helped.”

  “Help me,” Sellers cried. “I’m ... gut-shot.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Rebecca, “but you didn’t believe me when I said I had a gun.”

  “Mister,” Wes said, “I’m doin’ as well by you as you did by me. You’ll lay there and take your chances with the coyotes and buzzards.”

  Wes released the horses belonging to the outlaws. He then saddled his own horse and Rebecca’s, and with Frank Bell’s horses on lead ropes, they rode out.

  Lincoln, New Mexico August 2, 1881

  Nathan rode behind the hearse taking Kate to the cemetery. Drawn by four matched blacks, the macabre vehicle made its way past the old adobe jail from which Billy the Kid had so recently shot his way to freedom for the last time. Sheriff Pat Garrett and Jess Delaney were among the few mourners. The minister was waiting, and the service was brief. Without a word, Nathan mounted his horse and rode away. Empty had refused to follow the hearse, joining Nathan on his way back through town. Following the Rio Grande south, he reined up and looked back. It was yet another town in which he had the uneasy feeling he was leaving part of himself.

  “Well, Empty,” he said aloud. “Where do we go from here? Molly’s in El Paso?”

  With Kate strong on his mind, he wasn’t ready to resume his relationship with Molly Horrell, but if he returned to El Paso, would he have any choice? That reminded him of a similar situation in New Orleans, where Vivian Stafford awaited him at the McQueen place. Would he ever see Barnabas and Bess McQueen again?

  “Damn it,” he growled, “I’m boxing myself in.”

  Unwilling to ride farther without resolving the problem, he dismounted. Picketing the grulla so that it might graze, he sat down, his back to a pine, to think. He was forced to admit that he wasn’t ready to settle down, and however strongly he felt about any woman, life on the trail became more difficult when she accompanied him. He had never forgotten how Eulie Prater had frowned on his fondness for saloon gambling. While Eulie’s remains rested in a grave near New Orleans, it seemed to Nathan there was a little of her in every woman. Could a woman ever be satisfied with a man whose first love was a deck of cards?

  “Empty,” said Nathan, getting to his feet, “we won’t be goin’ back to El Paso any time soon, and I reckon that goes for New Orleans, too. I don’t know what’s goin’ to cure me of this wanderlust. A slug between the eyes, maybe.”

  Nathan mounted the grulla and, with Empty following, rode west, toward Arizona Territory.

  Beaumont, Texas February 4, 1881

  “We’re still on time,” Wes said as they rode into Beaumont. “If Barnabas McQueen’s already here, we can turn these horses over to him and save tonight’s livery bill.”

  “We only have to find the sheriff’s office,” said Rebecca. “It seems Frank Bell knows a lot of lawmen.”

  “Not a bad idea,” Wes said, “with so many rustlers. There’s the sheriff’s office.”

  Sheriff Waddy McLean stood up behind his desk, as Wes and Rebecca entered.

  “I’m Wes Tremayne,” said Wes, “and this is Rebecca. We’re with Frank Bell, and we have some horses for Barnabas McQueen of New Orleans. Mr. Bell said you’d know if Mr. McQueen’s here, and if he is, where we can find him.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” said the sheriff. “I’m Waddy McLean, and the way Bell uses me, I ought to be collectin’ wages. McQueen’s here. You’ll find him at the Beaumont Hotel, I reckon. If he ain’t there, put the horses up at Elkins Livery, near the track. McQueen’s other horses are stabled there. If you miss McQueen, I’ll tell him you’re here. Where will you be stayin’?”

  “We’ll stay at the Beaumont Hotel,” Wes said.

  Leaving all the horses at the Elkins Livery, Wes and Rebecca registered at the Beaumont Hotel.

  “I’m looking for Barnabas McQueen,” said Wes.

  “The McQueens are in room nine,” the desk clerk said. “They may be in the dining room now, having breakfast.”

  But when Wes knocked, the door was opened immediately.

  “Mr. McQueen,” said Wes, “I’m Wes Tremayne, and this is Rebecca. We’re with Frank Bell and we’ve brought your horses. They’re at Elkins Livery.”

  “Much obliged,” McQueen said. “This is Bess. We were about to go to breakfast. Will you join us?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Wes. “We’d like that.”

  “Hold on,” McQueen said, “and I’ll get Vivian.”

  He knocked on a door across the hall, and the girl who returned with him left Wes staring and Rebecca envious.

  “This is Vivian Stafford,” said McQueen. “Vivian, this is Wes and Rebecca. They’ll be going to breakfast with us.”

  Wes and Rebecca said little during the meal, listening to the McQueens talk about their horses, races they had won, and races they hoped to win. In the course of the conversation, McQueen got around to praising Vivian for all her winning rides. Wes regarded her with new interest, while Rebecca scarcely regarded her at all.

  �
��I’m riding in races tomorrow and Sunday,” Vivian said. “Are you going to stay?”

  “Yes,” said Wes, avoiding Rebecca’s eyes. “I’d like to see you ... the horses ... run.”

  “We’ll race Modelo tomorrow,” Vivian said, “and Petalo on Sunday. This will be the first time for Modelo to run here, and there’ll be good odds. Be sure to place your bets.”

  Following breakfast, Wes and Rebecca went to their room, and Rebecca exploded.

  “You didn’t ask me if I wanted to stay for the races.”

  “I wasn’t aware that I had to ask your permission for anything,” said Wes coldly.

  “I’m not going,” Rebecca said, just as coldly.

  “Then don’t,” said Wes. “You can set here till moss grows on the north side of you, for all I care.”

  Furious, she threw herself face down on the bed. Wes got up, pulled on his boots, buckled on his gunbelt, and grabbed his hat.

  “Where are you going?” she demanded.

  “Out,” he said. “I’m betting every dollar I have on Modelo.”

  “That’s a damn lie,” she cried. “You’re betting it on Vivian Stafford.”

  “Have it your way,” said Wes. “She’s riding the horse.”

  Southwestern New Mexico August 5, 1881

  Nathan rode as far south as he dared, careful not to cross the border into Mexico, but seeking a less mountainous terrain. Soon he came upon the ruts of what he suspected was the old Butterfield Overland Mail Route.30 But there was something more.

  “Empty,” said Nathan, “these are fresh tracks. There’s a wagon with four outriders up ahead of us. Who can they be, and where are they going?”

  It was an unlikely time and place for anyone on legitimate business, for New Mexico and Arizona were—al—though recognized by the Union—still territories. From El Paso to Yuma, there was hundreds of miles of Mexican border, a haven for thieves and killers who had ridden beyond the reach of the law. Nathan rode cautiously, reining up when he heard cursing. He dismounted and advanced, leading the horse.

  “By God,” a voice bawled, “get your backs under that pole and heave.”

  Four Mexicans wearing leg irons threw their combined weight under a long pole, seeking to lift a wagon whose left rear wheel had shattered. Four men stood beside their saddled horses, Winchesters at the ready, while the man shouting orders stood with his hands on his hips. Again he spoke.

  “Halsell, you and Thacker get ready to pile those stones under the axle when they lift the wagon.”

  “Damn it, Childress,” one of the men grumbled, “I didn’t hire on to git down in the dirt with a bunch of Mexes.”

  “Do as you’re told, Thacker,” Childress shouted, “or by God, I’ll have you shot for insubordination.”

  The Mexicans threw their weight behind the pole, raising the wagon, while Halsell and Thacker began laying the flat stones in place. But the stones had been hastily and poorly laid, and when the wagon was let down, the column tumbled. The hapless Mexicans looked at Childress, and he motioned for them to raise the wagon again.

  “Maybe you’d oughta have a couple of the Mexes stack them rocks. Colonel,” one of the other guards said, “and have Halsell and Thacker help lift the wagon. That don’t take no brains.”

  “When I want advice from you, Colcord, I’ll ask for it,” said Childress. “You and Beal get your backs under that pole and help raise the wagon.”

  Unwillingly they did as ordered, and the pile of stones supported the wagon. Nathan advanced, while Empty backed off, growling. It was enough to get the attention of Childress, and he turned, his hand on the butt of his revolver. When he spoke, it was without friendliness.

  “Who are you?”

  “Stone,” said Nathan. “I’m Nathan Stone.”

  “And your business?”

  “My business is my business,” Nathan said. “Who are you?”

  “I am Colonel Barkley Childress, United States Army, retired.”

  “Sorry I can’t say I’m pleased to meet you,” said Nathan. “Why are those four men in irons?”

  “They are slaves,” Childress said. “I bought them in Mexico, and they are mine to do with as I see fit. I am taking them to Tucson, where they will be sold. Are you satisfied?”

  “No,” said Nathan. “The days of slavery are over. You—or whoever has the key to those leg irons—set those men free. You’re in violation of federal law.”

  “Federal law be damned,” Childress shouted. “New Mexico and Arizona are territories. Who is going to enforce federal law? You?”

  “If need be,” said Nathan.

  Childress was in a poor position, for his men—Halsell, Thacker, Colcord, and Beal—had laid aside their Winchesters when Childress had ordered them to help with the repair of the wagon. While each man was armed with a revolver, Nathan Stone had twin Colts thonged down, and he wasn’t in the least intimidated.

  Childress laughed. “How ironic. I believe this is referred to as a Mexican standoff. We must negotiate, I suppose.”

  “No,” said Nathan. “You don’t negotiate a man’s freedom or his life. I’m ordering you one more time to set those men free.”

  “If I refuse,” Childress said, “are you going to shoot me?”

  “If I must,” said Nathan. “I’ve shot better men.”

  Childress had moved his right hand closer to the butt of his pistol, and believed he had an edge. That was his first mistake. He immediately made the second one, snatching the weapon from its holster. One of Nathan’s Colts roared and Childress dropped his gun. While the four hired guns were armed, they froze, for each man found himself looking into the deadly bore of Nathan Stone’s Colt.

  “Now,” said Nathan, “who’s going to unlock those leg irons?”

  “Damn you,” Childress said through gritted teeth, “you’ve broken my arm.”

  “I could just as easily have killed you,” said Nathan, “but I’m saving that. Now, if you don’t turn those four men loose, I’ll break your other arm. Then if you still need some convincing, I’ll gut-shoot you.”

  Awkwardly, using his left hand, Childress loosed a leather thong from his belt. At the end of it was a single key.

  “Here,” he said, flinging the key at Thacker. “Unlock the leg irons.”

  “Not yet,” said Nathan. “The four of you toss your weapons over here. Then you’ll unlock the leg irons.”

  Sullenly the four removed their weapons from their holsters and pitched the guns at Nathan’s feet.

  “Now,” Nathan said, “remove those leg irons.”

  One by one, the four Mexicans were freed. While they apparently didn’t understand what was being said, they fully understood the Colt in Nathan’s hand and the fact that the hated shackles were being removed. And once freed, it was to Nathan that they looked.

  “Libre, Mejicanos,” said Nathan, pointing south.

  They understood. Like frightened quail, they vanished into the underbrush. When the four were well on their way toward the border, Nathan gathered the discarded weapons and, looping his bandanna through the trigger guards, hung the weapons from his saddle horn. Careful to keep the men covered, he took the Winchesters, shoving one into the saddle boot of each man’s mount. He then gathered the reins of the four horses and backed away.

  “I am not one to forget,” Childress said. “We’ll meet again.”

  “You’ll find your horses and weapons somewhere ahead,” said Nathan. “Replace the wagon wheel, and you won’t be afoot. I’d suggest you leave the mules hitched to the wagon. If anybody gets ambitious, I’ll be watching my backtrail, and it’ll be your last mule ride.”

  Leading the four horses, Nathan circled wide. Empty awaited him on the trail ahead, and again Nathan rode west.

  Beaumont, Texas February 5, 1881

  Saturday, the day of the first race, Rebecca still sulked, and it didn’t help her disposition when Wes left her to have breakfast with the McQueens and Vivian Stafford.

  “The odds
were ten to one,” Wes told McQueen.

  McQueen laughed. “Better take them while you can get them. Modelo’s about to make some changes.”

  Wes thought Vivian Stafford looked a bit uncertain, and he wondered if he had been wise, betting all his money on Modelo. Winning, he’d have five thousand dollars. Losing, Rebecca would never let him forget. After breakfast, he returned to the hotel, kicked off his boots, and lay down to rest. Rebecca pretended to be asleep, but curiosity got the best of her, and she spoke.

  “I suppose you bet on the horse. Or was it the rider?”

  “Both,” Wes said. “When Modelo wins, I’ll have five thousand dollars.”

  “Suppose he loses,” said Rebecca. “Then what do you get?”

  “A kiss from the rider,” Wes said recklessly, “but I don’t expect to lose. McQueen’s horses are winners.”

  Despite Rebecca’s dislike for Vivian Stafford, she was there for the race. In competition with fourteen other horses, Modelo beat his closest rival by two lengths. Wes, in his excitement, grabbed Vivian in a bear hug. When he went to collect his money, Rebecca followed. Despite her anger, she was impressed. Many a man labored a lifetime and never saw so much money all at one time.

  “I suppose you’re going to bet all that on tomorrow’s race,” she said.

  “Yes,” he said with a straight face, “and I aim to sell our horses and saddles. When I add that to all this—”

  “I can hang around the saloons tonight, selling my body,” she said.

  He looked at her, half believing, and despite herself she laughed.

  “I aim to salt most of this away against hard times,” he told her. “I reckon I’ll risk five hundred on tomorrow’s race.”

  “I’ll go with you,” said Rebecca. “I still have money from the sale of those mules. Do you still want to work for Frank Bell, now that you have so much money?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I want to become friends with those Lipan Apaches and learn how they gentle horses.”