Autumn of the Gun

by Compton, Ralph

  “How can I return this Ranger shield and get word of my resignation to Bodie West?” Wes asked.

  “Get your parcel ready and give it to the stage driver, along with ten dollars,” said Gillett. “It won’t hurt if you tell West in your letter what you’re up against here in El Paso. In fact, if you’re serious about resigning, what’s the point in staying here? Sandlin and his bunch won’t follow you.”

  “The first and most difficult thing I had to learn,” Wes said, “is that a man—if he’s to go on considering himself a man—can’t run from a fight. I’ve been beaten bloody, had the hell stomped out of me, but I’ve never run and I won’t now.”

  “Well, now,” said Gillett, “that’s an admirable thing as long as you can live with it, but being shot dead by a gang of outlaws is a mite more permanent than havin’ your tail feathers ripped out, hand to hand.”

  They were nearing the Connors ranch and the conversation came to an end. Standing on the front porch, Mrs. Connors appeared not to have moved, for she still cradled the shotgun in her right arm. Wes and Gillett reined up and, dismounting, Gillett spoke.

  “Ma’am, there’s no good way to tell you this. They’re all dead. Do you have a wagon we can use to bring them in?”

  “Yes,” she said, in an emotionless voice. “Mules are in the barn, and the wagon’s in a shed behind it.”

  Wes and Gillett hitched the mules to the wagon and set out on their macabre mission. Gillett drove the wagon, his horse on a lead rope behind it.

  “That woman’s got a hard way to go,” said Wes. “What will she do, with a ranch, and her menfolk dead?”

  “Sell out, if she can find a buyer,” Gillett said, “but that ain’t likely. Some of these places are just ten-cow outfits, in debt to the bank.”

  After loading the three dead men in the wagon, Gillett and Wes set out for the ranch house. When Gillett reined up, Mrs. Connors was waiting. She fixed her eyes on the dead, and when she spoke, her bitter words sent chills up Wes Tremayne’s spine.

  “They worked from daylight to dark, never hurt nobody, and look what they got for it.”

  “Ma’am,” said Gillett, “we’ll be glad to dig the graves if you’ll show us where you’ll be wanting them. I can drive to town for some coffins.”

  “Dig the graves over yonder beyond the barn, under the big oak,” she said. “I’ll get some blankets for them. They didn’t have no luxuries when they was alive, and I reckon they wouldn’t want none now that they’re dead.”

  Gillett drove on to the barn. In a tackroom they found picks and shovels.

  “I’d have paid for the coffins,” said Wes.

  “I’m glad you didn’t make the offer,” Gillett said. “All she has left is the rags of her pride, and I’d not want to take that from her.”

  There were rocks in the soil, and digging the graves took them three hours.

  “I’ll go to the house and see if she wants to be present for the burying,” said Gillett.

  Mrs. Connors answered Gillett’s knock and stood there waiting, saying nothing.

  “The graves are ready, ma’am,” Gillett said. “Do you want to be present?”

  “I reckon not,” said Mrs. Connors. “Me and young Jody is sorrowful enough. After the burying, I’ll go read the Word over them.”

  When the three men had been buried, Gillett drove the wagon back to the barn and unharnessed the mules. He and Wes then rode on to the house.

  “We’re done, ma’am,” Gillett said. “Is there anything else we can do?”

  “No,” she said. “We’re obliged to you for seeing to their needs.”

  “Call on me,” said Gillett, “if there’s anything more I can do.”

  “There’s plenty I can do, and I aim to do it,” Wes said, as they rode back to town.

  Austin, Texas March 9, 1883

  “I’m here to testify in court tomorrow,” said King Fisher. “I reckon we have time to win a bundle at the poker tables tonight.”

  Nathan laughed. “I don’t always win. First time you’re with me on a bad day, you’ll be cured. Let’s have supper first, while we still have money.”

  “After that,” Fisher said, “let’s go to the Cattleman’s Emporium. I want to visit the upstairs, where the naked women are.”

  “They’re there to distract you,” said Nathan, “to take your mind off the game.”

  “I reckon they got the right idea,” Fisher replied. “When a naked woman can’t capture a man’s attention, the varmint might as well lay down and let somebody shovel dirt in his face.”

  Nathan and Fisher reached the Cattleman’s Emporium just after ten o’clock, and to their surprise, when they climbed the stairs to the upper level, there sat Ben Thompson. His top hat was tilted back on his head and on the table before him was a bottle, a glass, and a substantial pile of poker chips.

  “Thompson,” said Nathan, “I didn’t know you were in town.”

  “I purposely avoided you,” Thompson replied. “Every time I come to this town I get in trouble with the law, and you’re wearin’ the badge. You’ve done me some favors, and I’m trying to avoid shooting you.”

  “Thanks,” said Nathan. “We’re here because Fisher wants to see the naked women.

  “I never mix business with pleasure,” Thompson said, “and gambling is business.”

  “Well, I aim to play a few hands of poker,” said Nathan. “I’ve seen all these women before.”

  The trio spent the rest of the day in the Cattleman’s Emporium, and near suppertime, when they departed, Thompson was the big winner.

  “I’m on a roll,” Thompson said. “After supper, I’m going back up there.”

  “I didn’t do bad myself,” said Fisher, “considerin’ I was mixing business with a considerable amount of pleasure. But I reckon I’ll call it a day. I got to be in court early tomorrow.”

  Thompson laughed. “I ought to get up and go with you, King. It’ll be the first time you’ve ever been in court when you wasn’t on trial for shootin’ somebody.”

  “You should talk, Thompson,” King Fisher said. “Why I remember—”

  “Oh hell,” said Nathan, “if there was any justice, both of you would be doing life in Huntsville prison.”

  Following King Fisher’s day in court, he again accompanied Nathan and Ben Thompson to the Cattlemen’s Emporium.

  “I can’t understand why they keep allowing you in here, Ben,” said Fisher. “You don’t come to look at the women, and when you leave, you always have a sackful of Emporium money.”

  “I bought a membership in the place,” Thompson said. “Cost me a thousand dollars. I come here as often as I can, to win back some of my money.”

  The following morning, before King Fisher was to return to Uvalde, the three friends had breakfast.

  “Thompson,” said King Fisher, “why don’t you ride back with me? We can spend one night in San Antone, and go to the Vaudeville Variety Theatre.”

  “My God, King,” Nathan said, “Ben’s got no business in there. Have you forgotten he killed Jack Harris, one of the owners, two years ago?”

  “No,” said Fisher, “I haven’t forgotten, but Ben was acquitted. Hell, Jack was after him with a shotgun.”

  “Yeah,” Thompson agreed, “I ain’t often shot anybody that wasn’t trying to shoot me. If I avoided every place I’ve had to shoot some varmint, I’d have to go back east and look for work selling dry goods. It’s been a while since I’ve been to San Antone. I reckon I’ll go along with King.”

  After breakfast, Nathan watched them ride out, unaware that he was seeing the two of them alive for the last time.

  El Paso, Texas January 15, 1883

  “You’ll have to wait for a letter from Bodie West, accepting your resignation from the Rangers,” said Jim Gillett. “If I may ask, when you’re officially free, what do you aim to do?”

  “I aim to see that the Sandlin gang learns I no longer live at Granny Boudleaux’s,” Wes replied. “I’ll take my meals
there, and Renita will be there, but I’ll spend my nights along the border and riding to some of the surrounding ranches. I aim to see that nobody else is murdered by the Sandlin gang while they’re trying to get to me.”

  “By God,” said Gillett, “I’ve never seen one hombre so damned determined to get himself killed. There’s hundreds of miles of border, and while you’re settin’ at one place, those outlaws will cross somewhere else.”

  “Maybe,” Wes said, “but they won’t be able to back me into a corner, killing someone else trying to get to me.”

  “You’re overlooking something, Wes,” said Gillett. “Sooner or later, with you riding at night, you’re going to have another fight with the Sandlin gang. I’d bet the little that I have, and all I hope to have, that Sandlin will murder some more innocent people, like he did the Connors men. While the Sandlin bunch may not be able to find you, you won’t be able to find them, either. Are you prepared to take the responsibility for their murders, as a means of retribution for members of the gang that you’ve killed?”

  “I realize they can pile all that on me,” Wes said, “but if somebody doesn’t go after the Sandlin gang, are they going to be allowed to have their way forever? I think, if you’ll recall, this bunch of varmints was stealing and killing before I ever killed any of them. If I back off and leave them alone, you’re just as good as telling them they have a license to steal and kill as often as they like. There’s a price on everything, Jim, and sooner or later the people of southwest Texas will have to pay. Running from a fight only puts it off until another time. Don’t you see that?”

  CHAPTER 31

  San Antonio, Texas March 11, 1884.

  When they reached San Antonio, Ben Thompson and King Fisher visited a saloon and saw a play that had just opened at the Turner Hall Opera House. Finally, a few minutes past ten o’clock that night, they went to the Vaudeville Variety Theater. There, two years ago, Thompson had killed Jack Harris, one of the owners.

  “Let’s have a drink at the bar,” Thompson suggested, “before we go upstairs to watch the show.”

  They then climbed the stairs to their box seats to watch the show. No sooner had they reached their seats when they were joined by Jacob Coy, Joe Foster, and Billy Simms, the former partners of Jack Harris.

  “Ben,” said King Fisher, “let’s go. We can see the show some other time.”

  “Damn the show,” Thompson said. “This bunch has come after a dose of the medicine I spooned out to old Jack two years ago.”

  “You had no call to shoot Jack,” said Joe Foster. “It ain’t over.”

  “You got that right,” Thompson replied. “I’ll send you to hell with old Jack.”

  “Thompson,” said Jacob Coy, the bouncer, “stop causing trouble or I’ll boot you out of here.”

  “Not till I’m done with old Joe,” Thompson replied.

  Thompson slapped Foster and, drawing his revolver, cocked it and shoved the muzzle into Foster’s mouth. Jacob Coy seized the cylinder of the revolver, and Foster fought with Ben.

  “Ben,” said Fisher, “let’s get out of here while we can.”

  But it was too late. While scuffling with Foster, Ben managed to get off just one shot, which struck Foster in the leg. Seconds later, gunfire, from shotguns and rifles, erupted from an adjoining box. Ben Thompson and King Fisher died in a hail of lead. King Fisher had never drawn his revolver, but had been hit thirteen times in the head, chest, and leg. Ben Thompson had fired only once, but had been hit nine times. When the city marshal arrived, the dead bodies of Ben Thompson and King Fisher lay sprawled in the box from which they had come to see a variety show. On their faces were numerous powder burns. There were no weapons in evidence.

  “Marshal,” said Jacob Coy, “Thompson started a fight with Joe, and before I was able to break it up the shootin’ started from that box over yonder.”

  “And I suppose you have no idea who did the shooting,” the lawman said.

  “No,” said Coy. “Whoever it was, they shot Joe. We got to get him to the doc.”

  Word of the shooting in San Antonio was quickly telegraphed, and it was Bodie West who told Nathan Stone.

  “I reckon there was nothing said about who did the killings,” Nathan said.

  “No,” said West. “An ambush is a cowardly act, the last resort of men who don’t have the guts for a stand-up fight. Jacob Coy, Joe Foster, and Billy Simms were with Thompson and King Fisher in a box on the balcony of the Vaudeville Variety Theater. Joe Foster was wounded and his leg is to be amputated. Coy and Simms have left town.”

  Nathan removed the city marshal’s badge from his shirt and passed it to West.

  “Nathan,” said West, “you’re an excellent lawman. Stay here.”

  “King Fisher was a good lawman,” Nathan said grimly, “and you see what it did for him. Him and Thompson had their faults, but by God they didn’t deserve to die like that, with nobody to avenge them.”

  “So you’re about to take on another vendetta,” said West. “Let me remind you there is no conclusive evidence as to who did the killings. You’re the last man I’d ever want to see on the wrong side of the law.”

  Nathan said nothing. He checked out of his hotel and went to the livery for his horse, but before he could leave Austin, the Austin Statesman had a special edition on the streets, covering the killings. There were no facts beyond the little Bodie West had learned by telegraph. Most of the four-page newspaper consisted of excerpts from the lives of Thompson and Fisher, while an editorial on page one condemned the city of San Antonio for allowing the ambush of two prominent Texans in a single day.

  San Antonio, Texas March 12, 1884

  Nathan went first to the Vaudeville Variety Theatre, inquiring about Joe Foster, Billy Simms, and Jacob Coy.

  “Mr. Simms and Mr. Coy are out of town,” he was told by a bartender. “Mr. Fisher is in the hospital.”

  “What can you tell me about the shooting here yesterday?” Nathan asked.

  “Nothing,” said the bartender. “I wasn’t here.”

  Nathan went next to the city marshal’s office, where he spoke with the deputy on duty, Ira Dement.

  “We have no suspects,” Dement said. “All we know is that both men were shot at very close range, from a box next to and slightly above theirs.”

  “Then the three men in the box with Thompson and Fisher should have seen whoever did the shooting,” said Nathan.

  “Not necessarily,” Dement replied. “The show hadn’t started and the theater was still dark. None of the three with Thompson and Fisher saw anyone, so they testified. All we got from them was that suddenly there was a roar of gunfire. All they claim to have seen was muzzle flashes.”42

  “I was told Foster’s in the hospital,” said Nathan. “Am I allowed to talk to him?”

  “No,” Dement said. “The bone in Foster’s leg was shattered and the doctor had to amputate it. The shock was too great, and Foster died early this morning.”

  Nathan considered going to the Ranger outpost, but after considering what Bodie West had told him, he changed his mind. Leaving his horse at a nearby livery, he rented a room for himself and Empty. He then spent the rest of the day and most of the night visiting various saloons and listening to talk. But he learned nothing of any value.

  While Nathan was in no mood for breakfast, he ate anyway, lingering over coffee. He thought back to the time, now almost eight years ago, when Wild Bill Hickok had died in Deadwood, Dakota Territory. His death had been as senseless as those of Ben Thompson and King Fisher. Jesse James, while admittedly an outlaw and killer, had died with a slug in the back of his head. King Fisher had been just thirty years old, Ben Thompson forty-two, and Hickok thirty-nine.

  “My God,” said Nathan aloud, “I’m thirty-seven years old. I’ve been a wanderer for eighteen years. How much longer do I have?”

  Suddenly he felt old, alone, forsaken. Suppose he hung up his guns, called it quits, tried to settle down? He thought of El Paso, of Grann
y Boudleaux’s boardinghouse, of Molly Horrell. She was still a young woman, beautiful by anybody’s standards, and he suddenly wanted to see her, if she still waited. He left the cafe and mounted his horse. He was more aware than ever of his own mortality, and with an eerie sense that his time was short, he rode west, toward El Paso.

  El Paso, Texas March 24, 1884

  Since the hanging of the three Connors men, there had been a continued feeling of unease. Wes Tremayne made it a point not to be seen entering or leaving Granny’s boardinghouse, and despite his haunting the border at night, he hadn’t encountered the Sandlin gang. Renita became more distant, and even when Wes was there, they seldom spoke. To spare Wes the possible danger of riding in during daylight, Granny had begun feeding him breakfast before first light and supper well after dark. He had grown lean and hard, his eyes squinted from lack of sleep, and he carried his Winchester wherever he went, even to the table.

  “Rub him down and feed him a double ration of grain,” Nathan said, turning his tired horse over to the hostler at the livery. “It’s been a long trail. Store my saddle in your tackroom. I may not be riding for a while.”

  Having been gone for so long, Nathan was a bit reluctant to just walk into Granny Boudleaux’s place unannounced, but he needn’t have worried. When he arrived, the old Cajun woman was sweeping the front steps.

  “Nathan Stone,” she cried. “You come back!”

  “Yes,” said Nathan, “I’m back. Maybe I can stay awhile this time.”

  “You sneak in quiet,” Granny said. “Molly in kitchen.”

  Molly was in the kitchen, but Renita Wooten was with her. The younger girl’s face went white when she saw Nathan. Seeing her fear, Molly turned.

  “Nathan!” Molly cried. “Nathan!”