The Dawn of Fury

by Compton, Ralph

  Chapter 3

  Nevada, Missouri. February 22, 1866.

  It was late afternoon when Nathan picketed the black horse behind a vacant store building and approached the town’s main street afoot. For so small a town, the bank seemed elaborate. It was built of brick, with double glass doors and a plate-glass window across most of the front. There were four teller cages, and to the right and left of the lobby a series of closed doors that likely were offices. As vice president of the bank, Bart Hankins would surely occupy one of them. The bank’s hours were painted on one of the glass doors. It opened at eight and closed at four, except for Saturday when it closed at noon. Closing time was now but a few minutes away. An enormous oak stood before the entrance to the building, and a white wooden bench had been built in circular fashion around the tree’s trunk. As though weary, Nathan sank down on the bench. He tilted his hat over his eyes, studying the interior of the bank through the plate-glass window. He felt foolish, like he was casing the place with the intention of robbing it. But there were four closed doors at each end of the lobby, and Nathan expected Hankins to emerge from one of them. He had no idea where or how he would confront the man. At this point he had no plan beyond finding Hankins, and if all else failed, he needed to know in which of these offices he would find the man. Nathan was sure of just one thing. When the moment came for Hankins to die, it must be face to face. More than anything else, Nathan Stone wanted this man and his cowardly companions to know why they were dying.

  Nathan watched as one of the tellers locked the front doors. Within a few minutes a heavy, silver-haired man emerged from one of the doors to the left of the lobby. Using a key, he unlocked the front door, let himself out, and locked the door behind him. This, Nathan guessed, was the elder Hankins. He departed afoot, and that meant the family lived in town. When the fourth door to the right of the lobby opened, Nathan had his first look at one of the men he had sworn to kill. It had to be Bart Hankins, for he had a mane of white hair and the palid complexion of an albino. He fitted old Malachi’s description perfectly. He too departed the bank afoot, and Nathan allowed him a good start before following. The Hankins residence was at the far end of the town’s main street, and it stood out like a brahma bull in a sheep pen. It was a two-story, built of stone that had blackened to an ugly gray, and was surrounded by a heavy wrought-iron fence. The iron stanchions were inches apart, standing taller than a man’s head, and the uppermost tips were pointed, like spear heads. Nathan watched Hankins unlock the gate and let himself in, to be met by a pair of long-legged hounds. Nathan was thankful that Cotton Blossom had learned to remain with the picketed horse.

  Nathan was shocked. The house seemed more impregnable than the bank itself. Getting to Bart Hankins wasn’t going to be easy. He must waylay the man before he reached the formidable house or after he departed it, or confront him within the bank itself. Nathan hadn’t much time. The longer he remained in town, the more likely he would be remembered. He returned to the picketed black horse, and with Cotton Blossom following, rode out of town. He couldn’t afford the luxury of a night in town. Any hotel desk clerk would remember a stranger. With the dawn, he would go as near the Hankins mansion as he dared and wait for the albino to leave. If for any reason he lost Hankins after he left the house in the morning, it would leave Nathan with but one dangerous option. He would have to confront Hankins within the bank itself.

  Nevada, Missouri. February 23, 1866.

  Nathan had camped far from town in a secluded draw where there was good water and graze. There he picketed the packhorse. He reached town before dawn, leaving his horse and Cotton Blossom behind one of the saloons that fronted the main street. The saloon wouldn’t be open for hours, and Nathan leaned against the corner of the building, looking down the street toward the Hankins mansion. His heart leaped when the huge front door opened and Bart Hankins stepped out. But the albino wasn’t alone. The older man who almost had to be the elder Hankins was with him. That would have been bad enough, but the two men were accompanied by a young girl. Locking the big iron gate behind them, the trio headed down the main street toward the bank. Cursing under his breath, Nathan returned to the alley, mounted the black, and rode to the farthest end of town. He circled around behind the bank, and in a scrub oak thicket, left his horse.

  “Stay, Cotton Blossom,” he said.

  Nathan waited until he was sure the Hankinses had entered the bank, and he allowed enough time for the four tellers to become busy. He must enter the albino’s office unobserved. After the shooting, seconds would count. He would have but a few seconds to make his escape. Nathan entered the bank and walked rapidly past the first three doors to the right of the lobby. When he reached the fourth, he opened it, stepped inside, and closed the door behind him. The surprise was total, and Hankins’ reaction was anger.

  “It’s customary to knock,” he snapped.

  “I didn’t see the need for formalities,” Nathan said mildly. “I’m here to kill you.”

  As Nathan entered Hankins’ office, six riders reined up behind the bank. There was Frank and Jesse James, and the four Younger brothers, Jim, John, Bob, and Cole.

  “Frank,” said Jesse, “you was in there yesterday. Let’s go over it all one more time.”

  “Four teller’s cages,” Frank said. “Bank officers behind closed doors.”

  “Working from the left, then,” said Jesse, “you take the first teller, I’ll take the second, and Bob, you and Cole take the third and fourth. Just the big bills. Jim, you and John hold the horses.”

  “Hell,” growled Jim Younger, “I’d like to go inside. Why do I always have to hold the horses?”

  “By God,” Jesse snarled, “because I said so. Cole, you and Bob wait for me and Frank to get inside. Then you move fast. We’ll hit all four tellers at once. Crack some heads if you have to, but no shooting.”

  “I’ve never seen you before in my life,” said Bart Hankins. “I’ve done you no wrong.”

  “Think back to last November,” said Nathan grimly. “Back to Charlottesville, Virginia. You were one of the seven scum who murdered my family and fired the house.”

  “You have no proof,” Hankins said.

  “I have an eyewitness,” said Nathan.

  “You’d shoot an unarmed man?”

  “No,” said Nathan, taking an extra Colt from his waistband. “I’ll lay this Colt on the desk and you can go for it. It’s more of a chance than you deserve. Stand up.”

  Hankins got to his feet, but his eyes were not on the Colt that lay on the desk. It was all that saved Nathan. Hankins had palmed the sleeve gun and the .41-caliber derringer’s slug ripped a furrow in the desktop just as Nathan’s slug tore into Hankins’s belly. Hankins fell back down into his swivel chair. Nathan snatched the Colt from the desk and was out the door and running.

  Frank and Jesse James and the Younger brothers had just approached the teller’s cages, their Colts drawn, then the two shots ripped the early-morning stillness. After a moment of shocked hesitation, the four outlaws dropped their canvas sacks and broke for the door. Nathan Stone was already out of the bank and around the comer when Frank and Jesse hit the front door, the Youngers at their heels. Closed doors within the bank’s lobby opened and Colts roared. The citizens of the little town had reacted swiftly, and from points along the main street, rifles began crashing. A hail of lead slammed into the wooden door frame and there was an explosion of shattered glass. Bob Younger dropped his Colt when a slug tore into his upper right arm. The four outlaws, reaching their horses, snatched the reins and mounted on the run. As the six rode away at a fast gallop, there was shouting behind them as the town mounted a posse.

  Following the shooting of Hankins, it had taken Nathan Stone but a few seconds to escape the bank, but he was well aware that his action had foiled a bank robbery. Mounting the black horse, he rode west at a fast gallop, Cotton Blossom loping along beside him. A clatter of hoof-beats told him he was being pursued. There hadn’t been enough time for a p
osse, so it had to be the outlaws. He looked back and there were six of them, the lead rider coming hard. They were already within pistol range, but a posse would be coming. They were going to ride him down. Nathan drew his Colt but thought better of it. Any gunfire would aid a posse that would quickly gun down Nathan Stone as one of the fleeing outlaws. The lead rider was gaining, and Nathan knew what was coming. He kicked free of his stirrups, and when the other man left his saddle, the two of them were flung to the ground in an ignominious tangle of arms and legs. Nathan fought free, rolled, and came up with his Colt. But so had his antagonist. It was a standoff, and they faced one another grimly.

  “Go ahead,” said Nathan, “but I’ll take you with me.” The rest of the outlaws had reined up. “Jesse,” Frank shouted, “leave it be. There’s a posse coming. Mount up and let’s ride.”

  “I been hit,” Bob Younger cried, “and I’m bleedin’ like a stuck hog.”

  “Hell, no,” snarled Jesse James, “I ain’t leavin’ it be. This varmint got us the blame for a robbery and we ain’t got a dollar to show for it.”

  “Well, this ain’t no time to shoot him,” Cole Younger said, “with a posse on our tail. Bob’s hurt. Besides, since when has it bothered you what you was blamed for?”

  “Since the damn Pinkertons started raisin’ the price on my head,” said Jesse. “Just like they’ll be raisin’ it on yours.”

  “Dingus,” Frank said, “that posse will be mounted by now. A shot will bring them on the run. Now, damn it, you mount up and ride, or the rest of us will leave you standin’ here.”

  Reluctantly, Jesse James holstered the Colt. He turned cold blue eyes on Nathan Stone and the look in them bordered on madness. When he spoke, his voice was almost inaudible, an evil hiss.

  “You damn spoiler, if our trails ever cross again, I’ll kill you, whatever it costs me. That ain’t a threat, but a promise, and Jesse James keeps his promises.”

  The six of them mounted and rode away at a fast gallop to the southwest. Nathan mounted and rode due west, toward the Kansas line, where he had hidden the packhorse. His one hope was that the posse wouldn’t forsake the trail of the six outlaws to pursue him. While he had incurred the wrath of Jesse James, he decided it had been worth it. Unknowingly, the outlaws had drawn attention away from him, and the killing of Bart Hankins during the aborted robbery might become a mystery that would never be solved. Hankins, however, had known why he died.

  Taking no chances, Nathan rode at a slow gallop, concealing his trail as best he could. He could hardly blame Jesse James for his fury. The outlaws had taken the blame while Nathan had taken his vengeance. But there was yet a debt unpaid. If Nathan Stone and Jesse James met again, one of them would die.

  Indian Territory, from what Nathan had heard, was a desolate area where renegades on the dodge holed up. He doubted the James and Younger gangs would ride any farther into the territory than was necessary to lose the posse. Being from Missouri, they never strayed far from it. Nathan reined up and dismounted, resting his horse. There was no evidence of riders on his back trail.

  “Cotton Blossom,” said Nathan to the panting dog, “we have a decision to make. Hankins is dead, but where in tarnation are the rest of the varmints? Where do we go from here?”

  While Nathan might be taken for an owlhoot in his own right, he had no fear of being recognized as a result of his brief association with the James and Younger gangs. The killers he sought wouldn’t know they were being pursued, so there was little chance he’d find them hiding in Indian Territory.

  “Those killers rode west,” Nathan said, “and I’d bet a horse and saddle one or two of them are from Texas. Since we don’t know for sure where this trail’s taking us, Texas is a good place to start. Let’s ride south, Cotton Blossom.”

  Nathan and Cotton Blossom passed the villages of Parsons and Coffeyville, Kansas without stopping, keeping out of sight. The little towns were not too far from the Missouri village where the killing had taken place. Nathan rode until he was sure he was well into Indian Territory before stopping. There was a poorly painted sign nailed to the trunk of a tree that told him he was approaching Muscogee. While he doubted he would find the killers he sought in Indian Territory, it would cost him nothing but a little time and the price of a beer or two to visit some of the saloons. He reined up before the Cherokee Saloon, half-hitching his mount and the packhorse to the rail.

  “Stay, Cotton Blossom,” he said.

  Four men sat at a back table, a bottle, glasses, and a deck of cards before them. They eyed Nathan as he walked to the bar and ordered a beer. He paid, took the brew, and leaning his back against the bar, returned the stare of the men at the table. They suddenly lost interest in him, and one of them began shuffling the cards. Nathan finished his beer, set the glass on the bar, and headed for the door. He could sense the eyes of the barkeep and the four men at the table on his back, wondering who he was. That he might be on the dodge didn’t concern them, but the possibility that he might be a lawman—perhaps from Fort Smith—did. He visited the other two saloons where the few patrons viewed him with the same suspicion. Before he rode out of town, Nathan stopped at the general store and bought a second holster for his extra Colt. He now wore a tied-down Colt on each hip, and after endless hours of practice, could draw and fire with either hand. He rode on, pausing on a ridge to be sure he wasn’t followed.

  Finding a spring, Nathan stopped and cooked his supper well before dark. After watering his horses, he rode a mile or more until he found a draw with ample graze. There he picketed his horses and spread his blankets, secure from the chill night wind. Cotton Blossom would warn him of any intruders. But the night was peaceful enough, and he returned to the spring for breakfast. The real danger in Indian Territory, as he was well aware, was the possibility of being murdered or robbed by renegades. But a change had taken place that eased his mind considerably. No longer content to just trot along behind the packhorse, Cotton Blossom had taken to ranging ahead and occasionally falling behind. The hound seemed to sense Nathan’s caution, and in the late afternoon, Cotton Blossom caught up, after scouting the back trail. He whined and trotted back a few yards the way he had come. Nathan reined up.

  “Somebody on our back trail, Cotton Blossom?”

  Cotton Blossom growled low in his throat. A few yards ahead was a mass of head-high boulders, and on a ridge almost a mile distant, a dense thicket. Nathan kicked his horse into a slow gallop. The animals must be picketed far enough ahead that they wouldn’t nicker when the pursuers drew near. Quickly Nathan half-hitched the reins of his mount and those of the packhorse to a scrub oak, well within the thicket. Taking his Henry from the boot, he ran back down the slope to the distant pile of boulders, Cotton Blossom at his heels. They didn’t have long to wait. There were three riders, and the first man Nathan thought he recognized from the poker table at the Cherokee Saloon. Nathan waited until the trio had ridden past and then stepped out behind them.

  “That’s far enough,” Nathan said. “You’re covered. Rein up.”

  He added emphasis to his words, cocking the Henry. “Now,” said Nathan, “wheel your horses around to face me, and keep your hands away from your guns.”

  The three turned to face him, their hands shoulder high.

  “I reckon,” Nathan said grimly, “the three of you have some good reason for following me.”

  “This is free range,” said the man Nathan remembered from the saloon. “We can ride where we damn please, and we don’t owe you nothin’. Besides, we wasn’t trailin’ you.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Nathan said. “Using a thumb and finger, lift those guns and drop them. Then dismount.”

  Slowly they lowered their hands to the butts of their pistols, but the third man—the one farthest from Nathan—made a fatal mistake. He drew. Even as his finger tightened on the trigger of the Colt, a slug from Nathan’s Henry ripped into his belly, tossing him over the rump of his horse to the ground. The remaining riders carefully lifted the
ir pistols and dropped them. Then they dismounted.

  “Now,” said Nathan, “the two of you start walking. Back the way you came.”

  “Damn you,” one of the men snarled, “it’s a thirty-mile walk, an’ we got no food or water.”

  “Then I’ll just shoot the pair of you,” Nathan said, “and solve all your problems.” He cocked the Henry.

  Without another word they lit out down the back trail in a shambling run. The only one of the trio who hadn’t spoken paused, and looking back, made a final plea.

  “Ain’t you white enough to at least let us keep our guns? They’s killer Injuns in these parts.”

  “Then you skunks should feel right at home among ’em,” said Nathan. The Henry roared again, the slug kicking dust just inches from the man’s boots. The pair stumbled on. Nathan gathered the two discarded weapons and the Colt from the hand of the dead man. All the weapons he placed in the saddlebags of one of the horses. Gathering the reins, he led the three horses up the rise to where his own mount and packhorse waited. He had another two hours of daylight. He would ride another twenty miles before making camp. In the morning he would dispose of the trio’s weapons and turn their horses loose.

  Red River. February 28, 1866.

  Nathan rode shy of the little village of Durant, Indian Territory, and crossed the Red River into north Texas. While he knew little about the state, he believed he was far enough west that he could ride due south and reach Dallas or Fort Worth. By now he was certain the Federals had taken control of the state government. A mounted, armed stranger would be immediately suspect. Even more so one who led a packhorse. With the military in control, he dared not let it be known he was on a manhunt, riding a vengeance trail. If he rode through towns where soldiers were garrisoned, he would undoubtedly be questioned, forced to reveal his reason for being in Texas. On the other hand, if he avoided the towns and the soldiers, there was little likelihood he would ever find the killers he was seeking. One thing never changed, whoever had control of the reins of government. There would be saloons, thimblerig men, and slick-dealing gamblers.