Sedalia, Missouri January 2, 1882
Having spent a month in Missouri, Nathan had accomplished only one thing. He had been fired upon twice from ambush and had narrowly missed being hit both times. When he grew weary of sleeping on the ground and eating his own hurriedly cooked meals, he retreated to Eppie Bolivar’s boardinghouse in Kansas City. There he rested, reading the Kansas City newspaper, seeking some clue that might help him solve a mystery that began to seem more and more impossible.
“Nathan,” said Eppie, “you’re not even sure that Jesse James is in Missouri. There is evidence aplenty that Frank and Jesse left the state for more than four years. What proof do you have that they’re even here?”
“I’ve had my doubts,” Nathan said, “but if they’re not here somewhere, why is everybody so damn hostile? I can’t find them if they’re not here, but I’ve already just missed being the guest of honor at two ambushes.”
“How long are you going to pursue this before giving it up as a lost cause?” Eppie asked. “What is it going to accomplish for your friend if you’re shot dead?”
“I’ll give it a few more weeks,” said Nathan. “I hate to give up.”
But all Nathan’s enemies weren’t friends of the James boys. Leaving Sedalia, he rode south to Springfield. He was just emerging from the newspaper office when he ran headlong into Amy Limbaugh. She looked older and harder, and her eyes were brimming with hate.
“You!” she hissed.
“Me,” said Nathan mildly. “I was hoping while you were doing time, you had bitten yourself and died of the poison.”
“You murdering bastard,” she shouted.
“I never shot anybody that wasn’t shootin’ at me,” said Nathan, “and you know it.”
“I don’t care what your reason was,” she gritted. “You killed my brother and I won’t be satisfied until you’re dead.”
“Then don’t expect any slack from me because you’re a woman,” said Nathan. “Come gunning for me, and I’ll kill you as readily as I would if you were a man. Just remember, ma’am, I don’t make threats. When I tell you something, take it as a promise.”
Nathan left her standing there, hating him, and entered the mercantile for grain for his horse. When he stepped out of the mercantile, a slug ripped into the sack of grain he carried under his arm. She was across the street, under a saloon awning, holding a Colt with both hands. The weapon roared again, and the slug burned a furrow across Nathan’s left hip. He drew his Colt and fired once, and she stumbled back against the saloon wall. Her Colt sagged, clattering to the boardwalk, and the cursing Amy Limbaugh stood there with blood soaking the left side of her shirt. Men came on the run, some of them with their hands on their weapons, all of them looking murderously at Nathan Stone. The sheriff was among the first to arrive, and all he seemed to see was Amy Limbaugh’s bloody shirt. He drew his Colt, advancing toward Nathan.
“Sheriff,” Nathan said, holstering his Colt, “I only defended myself. See the hole in this sack of grain, and the bloody welt across my thigh? She fired at me twice, before I pulled my gun, and I can prove she served time for trying to ambush me in Jefferson City.”
“I wasn’t sheriff then,” the lawman said, “but I seem to recall the incident. Damn it, Amy, ain’t you learnt nothing?”
“Yes,” she cried. “I’ve learned if I want him dead, I’ll have to kill him myself.”
“Mister,” said the sheriff, “I’ll take her to jail and have her patched up. I’ll hold her until you’ve had a chance to leave town. Or you can press charges if you want. With her record, she’ll go back to prison.”
“I’m not interested in sending her back to prison,” Nathan said. “When it comes to her learning anything, there’s no hope for her. Save prison for those smart enough to learn from their mistakes. Lock her up for a while, and if you have any influence with her family, tell them I won’t spare her again.”
Nathan slung the sack of grain across the rump of his horse and stepped into the saddle. Some of the men who had gathered were shouting at him, their hands on the butts of their revolvers. Before riding away, Nathan spoke.
“She planned to kill me, and I only defended myself. I urge all of you to keep that in mind. Pursue me and I’ll kill you. Sheriff, you remember that too.”
“I aim to,” said the sheriff. “The rest of you, go on about your business. You ride after this hombre, prepare yourself for whatever he dishes out. I won’t get involved.”
Nathan rode out, heading north, uncertain as to what would be his next move.
El Paso, Texas December 18, 1881
Cautioning Renita to remain in her room, Wes rode to town the next morning after breakfast. He wanted to know if Frank Wooten had been released from jail, and learned that he had been. By listening to talk, he also learned that Dallas Stoudenmire had ordered Wooten out of town. But nobody seemed to know where Frank Wooten was. Wes returned to Granny Boudleaux’s boardinghouse to find Renita watching for him, a question in her eyes.
“He’s been let out of jail and ordered out of town,” said Wes, “and nobody seems to know where he is. We’ll sit tight, and I’ll have another look tomorrow.”
The following day, Wes waited until near noon before riding into town. When he rode past the carpenter’s shop, two men were putting the finishing touches on a coffin. Reining up, Wes spoke.
“Who’s it for?”
“Gent name of Wooten,” said one of the men. “Somebody found him strung up just north of here.”
“Where is he now?” Wes asked. “I used to know a man named Wooten.”
“He’s at the undertaker’s,” one of the carpenters said. “They don’t aim to plant him if the county won’t pay.”
Wes reined up before the undertaker’s, dismounted, and went in.
“You have an hombre here name of Wooten,” Wes said. “Mind if I look at him?”
“Go ahead,” said the undertaker hopefully. “Are you family or friend?”
“Neither,” Wes said. “I once knew a gent name of Wooten and I wonder if this could be him. He owed me money.”
“If he is,” said the undertaker, “you’re still out of luck. He didn’t have a dime on him and the county is balking at burying him.”
Frank Wooten was stretched out on a wooden pallet. Pinned to his coat was a ragged piece of paper, and scrawled on it in pencil there were two words: Horse thief.
Wes left before the eager undertaker could get to him again. He remembered what Renita had said about Wooten stealing horses somewhere north of town. It seemed Wooten had gone back for more horses and had encountered a vindictive rancher. Wes rode back to the boardinghouse and broke the news to Renita.
“It’s a terrible way to feel,” the girl said, “but I’m glad he’s gone. When I think of him, all I can recall is him hurting me.”
“I can’t fault you for feeling that way,” said Wes. “My mother died when I was born and I never knew my father. When my grandparents—my mother’s mother and father—were gone, I was sent to an orphanage. I ran away from there and I’ve made my own way ever since.”
“Now that Frank Wooten’s gone, and can’t come looking for me, can I ... may I ... stay with you?”
“I reckon,” Wes said, “but I’d feel better if you were of age. How long until you’ll be eighteen?”
“The fourth of next April,” said Renita. “Not quite three and a half months. Can’t I just say that I’m eighteen until I actually am?”
“That’s not a bad idea,” Wes said. “It might stop all these foolish looks we’re gettin’ in the dining room.”
“If I’m going to be eighteen, why can’t we share the same room? They think we are already.”
“Do you think you’re ready for that?” Wes asked. “Do you know what it means?”
“Yes, I know what it means, and I’m ready for it. Since I was ten, I’ve had to fight men who wanted me when I didn’t want them. You’re not like any of them,. You were kind to me without asking anything in return.”
“I just don’t want you believing you have feelings for me when it’s only gratitude,” said Wes. “I helped you because I saw your need, not to take advantage of you. You don’t owe me anything. I’m a gambler. I’m not sure I’m that much better than Frank Wooten was. Please keep that in mind.”
“I will not,” she said. “Frank had a weakness for whiskey, and the more he drank, the worse his skill with the cards became. You don’t drink whiskey, and you have money for food and a nice place to live. Frank never had that, and he killed my mama by being always on the move. He just wore her out, and he was wearing me out. Until I met you, I didn’t care if I lived or died. You’re young, but you’re a man. Frank was much older, and he was never a man. I want to stay with you if you’ll have me.”
“I’ll answer that by taking you to town and buying you some new clothes. Horse and saddle too, if you can ride,” said Wes.
“I can ride, but I hate for you to spend so much on me. I’m not used to it. I never had new clothes. Just mama’s hand-me-downs, and after she took up with Frank, not even that.”
Nobody seemed to recall that Renita had been with Frank Wooten, and the trip to town was uneventful. Wes bought a bay horse and saddle for Renita, and they stabled the horse alongside his. When they returned to the boardinghouse, Wes made it a point to seek out Granny Boudleaux.
“Granny, starting tonight, Renita’s moving in with me, so we won’t need the room she has. She has no family, and neither do I.”
“Is good,” Granny said. “Is what we all expect.”
They bypassed Renita’s room, and Wes unlocked the door to his. He piled all their purchases on the bed and turned to the girl.
“Do you want me to leave while you try them on?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “You bought them, and you have the right to be the first to see me wear them. Besides, the bed’s not that wide. We’ll be—”
“A mite crowded,” Wes finished.
The dress she wore was faded white in places, and she wore nothing else. She tried on the different dresses, trying to see herself in the small oval mirror over the dresser.
“How do I look?” she asked anxiously.
“Grand,” said Wes.
“I feel like a queen,” she said. “Which one should I wear for supper?”
“Your choice,” said Wes. “You look wonderful in them all. I’m looking forward to us going to supper.”
“So am I,” she said, “but not nearly as much as I’m looking forward to tonight. How long since I’ve been able to lie down unafraid?”
The day after Christmas, Jim Gillett resigned from the Texas Rangers. Wes spent a few minutes with Gillett after breakfast.
“I’ll be around El Paso for a while,” said Gillett. “I’m thinking of ranching.”
Wes laughed. “Are you sure you want to raise stock this near the border?”
“Maybe not,” Gillett said. “The truth is, I have my eye on a woman, and she comes from a good family here in El Paso.”
“Good luck,” said Wes.
Kansas City, Missouri March 31, 1882
The first genuine lead Nathan eventually found was in a short paragraph he read in a Kansas City newspaper. A former member of the James gang had been captured, and in a bid for a lighter sentence had revealed that Jesse James was indeed living in Missouri as Thomas Howard. The outlaw had been captured near Marysville, Kansas. Nathan rode to a number of small towns in eastern Kansas, especially those that were county seats. There he pored over records of registered voters, spoke to newspaper editors, and sought courthouse records that might reveal men named Howard. Few being aware of the alias, there was no way of knowing the Thomas Howard Nathan sought was Jesse James, and so there was no hostility. Unfortunately, there was no Jesse James either. Not one of the Howards proved to be the man Nathan was seeking. Most were older men who had lived in the same house all their lives, while it was a known fact that Jesse James had left Missouri for at least four years. Since Nathan had taken Eppie Bolivar into his confidence, he often talked to her about his frustrations.
“You don’t know that Jesse’s using an alias,” said Eppie. “this outlaw they captured may have just told the law what they wanted to hear.”
Nathan sighed. “I know. He may not be in Missouri, either. I had hoped that if this varmint was telling the truth, that Jesse might be hiding somewhere near where this outlaw was captured. But if I keep moving in that direction, I’ll have to go into Abilene, Wichita, and beyond. My God, it’d take me forever.”
“Then why not take some of the towns on the Missouri side,” Eppie suggested. “Most of the robberies took place in Missouri. And have you noticed that almost without fail, the James gang never went too far from the scenes of their crimes?”
“Maybe you have something there, Eppie,” said Nathan. “I’ve been beatin’ the bushes in Kansas, when Jesse James is holed up in Missouri. There’s only been one robbery by the James gang since the shoot-out at Northfield, in September 1876. On July 15, 1881, a Chicago, Rock Island & Pacific train was boarded by the James gang at Cameron and Winston. Both these towns are north of Kansas City, and both are in Missouri. Damn it, I should have started with them.”
“Not necessarily,” Eppie said. “Both those towns are small towns. A man living under an alias should be in a town large enough that he doesn’t attract attention to himself. Why don’t you try St. Joseph?”
“Eppie,” said Nathan, “you’re a caution. I’ve been too close to this thing. I’m going to St. Joseph, and if I draw a blank there, I’m going to give it up for a lost cause.”
St. Joseph, Missouri April 2, 1882
It was Sunday, so the courthouse, the post office, and the newspaper office all were closed.
“We’ve waited this long, Empty,” said Nathan, “so I reckon we can wait another day. Maybe tomorrow something will happen.”
CHAPTER 29
El Paso, Texas March 1, 1882
In the weeks following Jim Gillett’s departure from the Rangers, Wes Tremayne spent most of his days in the various saloons, sharpening his skills as a gambler. It began to have its inevitable effect on Renita.
“Why must you spend so much time in the saloons?” she complained. “I hate them.”
“Because I must have something to do,” said Wes. “El Paso is home to rustlers and outlaws from both sides of the border, and unless I obviously have some other way of making a living, I’ll be suspected of being one of them.”
“Then let’s go somewhere else,” she suggested.
There it was. Wes sighed and told her the truth—that as a Ranger, he had been sent to this tumultuous border town.
“There’s some kind of change in the wind,” said Wes. “I aim to ride it out.”
But Wes had begun making enemies, most of them among the men who lived on both sides of the border. In Mexico, they abided by no rules, and wanted none. Armijo Barboncio’s hand was quick with cards or gun, and his quick temper made for an unholy trilogy. Few Saturdays passed that didn’t find him in El Paso’s Acme Saloon, involved in a poker game. Wes had observed Barboncio’s adeptness with the cards before, and was virtually certain the man was cheating, but he wanted to take part in a game to be sure. The Saturday afternoon he sat in Dallas Stoudenmire was there, and appeared to be the big loser. After yet another losing hand, Stoudenmire turned hard eyes on Barboncio and said exactly the wrong thing.
“Mex—if that’s what you are—them cards is dancin’ to your tune a mite too often.”
“You are implying that I cheat, señor?”
“Implying, hell,” said Stoudenmire brashly. “I’m accusin’ you.”
Stoudenmire had slid back his chair far enough to get to his gun, but never completed his draw. He found himself staring into the deadly muzzle of Barboncio’s cocked Colt.
“You will apologize—take water—or I kill you,” Barboncio said grimly.
“I ... I reckon I was wrong,” Stoudenmire stammered. “My apologies
.”
Barboncio laughed, holstered his revolver, and tipped back his sombrero. Stoudenmire slid back his chair, got up, and quickly left the saloon. Observers backed away, all of them feeling less like men in the face of Stoudenmire’s cowardice. It was Barboncio’s turn to deal, and with a smirk he did so. When it came time to show their hands, Barboncio had a straight diamond flush.
“By God,” said one of the losers, “it’s the first time I ever seen a man draw two damn straight flushes in one day.”
“It’s not difficult,” Wes said quietly, “when you’re bottom dealing.”
What followed happened in less than a heartbeat. Armijo Barboncio was swift as a striking rattler, but died with his gun in his hand. Wes Tremayne had fired only once, and Barboncio had drawn first.
“My God,” somebody cried, “what happened?”
“Somebody get the marshal,” a bartender shouted.
But nobody bothered with Stoudenmire. Two bartenders removed Barboncio’s body to a storage room near the back door. The game was over and Wes was about to leave the saloon when he saw Jim Gillett near the back door. Gillett nodded and Wes followed him out the back door.
“You’ve put your foot in it, kid,” said Gillett. “The little sidewinder you shot was part of the Sandlin gang. You won’t be safe anywhere in this town. They’ll get you.”
“Maybe,” Wes said. “but it had to be done. Stoudenmire made me sick to my gut.”
“Stoudenmire’s finished as a lawman,” said Gillett.
“Who do you reckon will replace him?”
“Me, maybe,” Gillett said. “My name’s in the pot.”
Wes laughed. “You’ve been telling me how hell’s goin’ to bust loose here at any time, and now you’re wantin’ to take Stoudenmire’s job. Why?”
“Call it vanity, I reckon,” said Gillett. “Bein’ a Ranger, my hands were tied. I’ve had to play second fiddle to Stoudenmire. I’ll side you when I can, but watch your back.”
Autumn of the Gun Page 41
