The Dawn of Fury

by Compton, Ralph

  “Cotton Blossom,” Nathan said, “first big town we come to, I reckon I’ll mosey through some of the saloons. I can slick deal when I have to. If we find the tinhorns at work in the saloons, then I reckon old Nathan Stone can become a gambler. At least in the eyes of the Federals.”

  It was a questionable profession at best, but more than one man made his living riding from town to town, spending his life hunched over a poker table in one saloon after another. Nathan still had most of the stake his father had left him, and all the gold he had taken from the outlaws and renegades he had been forced to shoot. He was well-enough heeled to put up a decent front for a while, and a good enough poker player that he could win more than he lost. Fort Worth had always been a Federal garrison, even before the war, and he suspected the fort might now be deploying Federal troops throughout north Texas. Why not ride immediately to Fort Worth, have them challenge his presence in Texas, and test his new identity as a knight of the green cloth? With that in mind, he rode on, more confident of the opportunity to continue his manhunt unmolested by the occupying Federals.

  Fort Worth, Texas. March 2, 1866.

  As a civilian in a state occupied by the military, Nathan was required to report to the commanding officer and state his business. When the young corporal who had escorted Nathan to Captain Ferguson’s office had departed, the officer eyed Nathan critically, his gaze lingering on the pair of thonged-down Colts. He spoke before Nathan was allowed to introduce himself.

  “The south is under Reconstruction,” Ferguson said bluntly. “Men who fought against the Union are not permitted to bear arms.”

  “I’m from Kansas,” Nathan lied. “I have no argument with the Union. I make my living, such as it is, at the card table.”

  For a long moment Ferguson said nothing, and Nathan suspected he had lost some ground with the captain. When he finally spoke, there was a coldness in his voice.

  “While we don’t encourage it, there is no law against professional gambling. You will, however, be limited to the saloon at the sutler’s, and if you instigate trouble, you’ll find yourself pulling time in the stockade.”

  “Captain,” Nathan said, his eyes boring into Ferguson’s, “I’m not a man to start trouble, but I’ve finished some in my time. When I’m prodded, I don’t hang my tail between my legs and run. I stand my ground.”

  “Your choice,” said Ferguson. “You’ve had your warning.”

  Nathan responded to that by letting himself out the door and closing it behind him. He had picketed his horses outside the fort, where the post’s horses and mules grazed. There was no livery, and had there been, he doubted it would have been available to him and his animals. He unsaddled both his horses and the sentry allowed him to bring his saddle and packsaddle inside the gate. Other dogs wandered about the post, so Nathan allowed Cotton Blossom to follow. The hound had learned not to follow Nathan into a building without permission. Cotton Blossom trotted to one end of the long porch and lay down to wait. A post the size of Fort Worth required a large sutler’s and an equally large saloon. There was a forty-foot bar of polished oak and a brass rail that ran the length of it. The floor was of oak, with an ample array of brass spittoons. There were two rows of hanging lamps, one running the length of the bar, and the other illuminating the string of tables that filled the other half of the saloon.

  All the tables were occupied by men drinking, playing poker, or both. It was as good time and place as Nathan was likely to find, when it came to the launching of his new career. He wandered among the tables, listening to men talk. The names of six killers were branded forever into his mind, and when men drank and talked, there was always the chance he might hear one of those hated names. Finally, he paused at a table where the fourth chair was unoccupied. One of the players was a thin young man with spectacles who might have been a storekeeper or hotel desk clerk. The other two men might have been buffalo hunters, bullwhackers, or outlaws on the dodge. Each wore a Colt, a faceful of whiskers, and a hat tipped low over his eyes.

  “Care if I sit in?” Nathan asked.

  “You got money,” said one of the bearded ones, “come on.”

  Nathan dropped five double eagles on the table and sat down. There was a five-dollar limit, and Nathan lost twenty dollars before he finally won a pot. The thin young man with the spectacles appeared to be the big loser, and soon dropped out.

  “Hell,” said one of the bearded men, “why don’t we make this interestin’? Let’s raise the limit to twenty dollars.”

  “Too rich for my blood, Driggers,” said his companion. “I’m foldin’.”

  “What about you, stranger?” said Driggers. “I’m Jason Driggers, and I take my poker serious.”

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

  The pot quickly reached three hundred dollars, neither man willing to fold. Word quickly spread, and men drifted from other tables. The man who claimed this pot would need some hell of a poker hand and the nerve to back it. The showdown came when Nathan raised another twenty dollars, raising the pot to five hundred dollars. He had just been dealt a third king and thought he knew what was coming. Driggers was about to deal the cards when Nathan spoke.

  “Lay the cards on the table, Driggers. I want somebody else to deal this hand. Somebody with no stake in the game.”

  “By God,” shouted Driggers, kicking back his chair, “are you accusin’ me of cheatin’?”

  “I’m accusing you of nothing,” Nathan said. “We’ll let the next draw decide that. You,” he said to the slender young man who dropped out of the game, “come deal this hand. But before he deals the cards, Driggers, you and me are going to have an understanding. I have three kings, and I’m pretty damn sure the next card on the top of that deck is the king of diamonds. I’m equally sure the card on the bottom of the deck is an ace. As you know, I have three kings, and the average gambler, drawing a fourth king, would raise. But I’m not the average gambler, Driggers. I believe you’re holding three aces and that the card on the bottom of the deck is the fourth ace. I’m sure enough that I’ll challenge you, if you have the guts to accept. If the top card isn’t the fourth king and the bottom card isn’t the fourth ace, then you have my apologies, and the pot’s yours.”

  “Hell no,” bawled Driggers. “I’ll shoot any man layin’ a hand on them cards.”

  But Driggers froze with his hand on the butt of his pistol. Nobody had seen Nathan Stone draw, but suddenly in his right hand there was a Colt, cocked and rock steady.

  “Morris,” somebody shouted, “deal that last hand.”

  Morris—the thin young man with the spectacles—slid the card from the top of the deck and turned it face up. It was the fourth, the king of hearts. There was a shout from the onlookers, and Jason Driggers’s face paled. He knew what was coming. Morris again took a card from the deck, this time, from the bottom. It was the ace of diamonds.

  “Now,” said Nathan, “show your hand, Driggers.”

  There was no way out. Driggers dropped his cards on the table, and three of them were aces. Desperately he turned to the angry, disgusted faces of the men who surrounded him and tried to bluff his way out.

  “You can’t prove a damn thing,” he shouted. “You can’t accuse me of bottom dealin’.”

  “No,” somebody shouted, “but you sure as hell was plannin’ to. I never seen a sweeter setup. You just played your last card here, you damn cheat. Won’t none of us set in with you again. Now git up and git the hell out of here.”

  Driggers kicked back his chair and got to his feet, his face livid. He glared across the table at Nathan, and in his eyes was all the venom of a rattler about to strike. He spoke almost in a whisper.

  “Someday, somewhere, I’ll kill you.”

  “You can try,” said Nathan, “but I’ll be careful not to turn my back on you.”

  Then came the ultimate insult. The men who had witnessed Driggers’s disgrace laughed. Driggers ran from the saloon.

  “Belly up to th
e bar,” Nathan said. “The drinks are on me.”

  Nathan endured the back-slapping and congratulations of the patrons in the saloon. He had established himself as a gambling man. It had been a slick piece of work, something men could appreciate, and the story would follow him. But the bartender had a word of caution.

  “Driggers has had that comin’ for a long time. He’s killed men before, but he’s a low-down, back-shootin’ varmint, and there ain’t been no evidence. He’s got kin at Weather-ford and Lexington, down in Lee County. Some of ’em are damn near as sorry as he is. You ride careful.”

  “Thanks,” Nathan said. “I aim to do that.”

  After one night at Fort Worth, Nathan rode south, bound for Austin. He saw nobody, and after he had watered his horses at a spring, sought a coulee where he might safely spend the night. Cotton Blossom would awaken him if danger came close. But darkness was an hour away and the danger didn’t wait. A distant rifle roared twice, and Nathan Stone slumped to the ground, blood welling from a head wound. Cotton Blossom whined, licking Nathan’s face, but he lay unmoving ...

  Chapter 4

  It was well past dark when Nathan finally stirred. His head hurt like seven kinds of hell. His left eye was swollen shut and the left side of his face was crusted with dried blood. Cotton Blossom trotted anxiously around him. Nathan was but a few feet from the creek and he crawled there on hands and knees. He slacked his burning thirst and then buried his aching head in the cooling water. The shock of it cleared his head and he was able to cleanse his wound. The slug had struck him just above the left eye, ripping a furrow along the left side of his head, just above his ear. When he had washed away the dried blood, the wound began bleeding again. Gripping a stirrup, he staggered to his feet. He leaned against the horse, clinging to the saddle horn while he gained strength in his legs. He had already unpacked the packhorse before he’d been shot. Finally he gained enough strength to remove the saddle from his horse. He took an undershirt from his saddlebag, and returning to the creek, cleaned and bandaged his wound. Then, without even removing his boots, he lay down, his head on his saddle.

  “Keep your eyes and ears open, Cotton Blossom. Tonight I have to rest, but come the morning, I have a debt to pay.”

  Nathan awoke with an aching head and feet unsteady. He got a small fire going, put the coffeepot on to boil, and began broiling hunks of bacon for himself and Cotton Blossom. He drank the strong coffee directly from the pot, and again resting his head on his saddle, waited for the hurt to subside. When he felt strong enough, he saddled the black, and leaving the packhorse picketed, rode east. It was from there the shots had come, and unless the bushwhacker had ridden all night, it was unlikely that he had reached Fort Worth. Wherever he had ridden, he had left a trail, and Nathan soon found it. It led northeast, and Nathan suspected his man wasn’t riding back to Fort Worth, but to Dallas or some point beyond. Nathan rode at slow trot. Cotton Blossom, sensing they were on a trail, loped far ahead.

  Dallas sheriff Eb Chasteen listened to Nathan’s story with little enthusiasm. “So you got yer skull creased,” he said. “You seen the hombre that done it?”

  “No,” said Nathan irritably, “but yesterday I exposed a card cheat name of Jason Driggers in Fort Worth. He promised to kill me, and he’s the only bastard in Texas with any reason to. I trailed him here, and when I find him, there’s goin’ to be a reckoning. I just wanted to be sure there’ll be no misunderstanding between you and me after I find Driggers.”

  “You got no proof this gent took a shot at you,” Chasteen said. “Just your suspicions. Kill a man without provable cause, and you’ll find yourself before a firing squad or on the way to the gallows.”

  They stood on the boardwalk outside the sheriffs office, and from an alley on the far side of the street, a rifle roared once, twice, three times.

  With the first shot, Nathan hit the boardwalk, drawing his Colt as he went down. The sheriff was flung back against the wall as a slug smashed into his shoulder. On his belly, Nathan fired three times into the mouth of the alley, but there was no return fire. Colt in his hand, Nathan scrambled to his feet and in a zigzag run, lit out toward the alley. There was no place for the gunman to hide between the store buildings. For the second time Driggers had attempted a cowardly ambush, and Nathan doubted he had the guts for a standup fight. His horse would be nearby and he would run. Nathan caught up to him in the alley, behind a saloon, already mounted. Driggers kicked the horse into a fast gallop just as Nathan fired. The slug missed Driggers but burned a gash along the horse’s flank. The animal screamed, began to pitch, and piled Driggers.

  “Get up,” said Nathan, holstering his Colt. “I’ll give you more of a chance than you deserve, you back-shootin’ skunk.”

  Nathan stood with his left thumb hooked in his pistol belt, for his left-hand Colt was fully loaded. Driggers got to his hands and knees, then to his feet. He knew what was coming, and sweat dripped off his chin.

  “When you’re ready,” Nathan said.

  Nathan waited, not making his move until Driggers slapped leather. Nathan drew left-handed, and two slugs tore into Driggers, while lead from his opponent’s Colt kicked up dust at his feet. Driggers stumbled backward, fell, and moved no more.

  The gunfire brought men on the run. One of them had heard of Driggers’s disgrace in Fort Worth the day before. He told the story and it was repeated. It would spread across the frontier, and Nathan Stone would become respected as a gambling man and chain-lightning with a pistol, able to draw and fire a deadly Colt with either hand.

  Ignoring the men who had gathered, Nathan reloaded both his Colts and took his time walking back to the sheriffs office. He found Chasteen stretched out on his desk, minus his shirt, a doctor dressing his wound.

  “Driggers is up yonder behind a saloon,” said Nathan. “Are you satisfied I had provable cause?”

  “Yeah,” said Chasteen grudgingly. “Now ride on.”

  Nathan rode out the way he had come, ignoring the questions of men who had gathered outside the sheriff’s office. Let the sullen, appointed lawman do his own explaining. Nathan returned to the camp where he had left his packhorse. His head ached and he took the time to again cleanse and bind his wound. He then watered his horses and rode south, bound for Austin, wondering if his newly acquired reputation would be there waiting for him. There was no help for it. It was a thing with which he must live. Or die.

  Waco, Texas. March 6, 1866.

  Nathan found the Federals had not yet taken over the town of Waco. The sheriff was an amiable old fellow named Sid Hanks.

  “I ain’t got no prejudices ag‘in gamblers,” said Hanks. “If you end up shootin’ somebody, or somebody blows out your light, then you’d best have the cash in your poke for a buryin’. We was broke ’fore the war, and we sure as hell ain’t got no money now.”

  Nathan liked the looks of Waco. He tied both his horses to the rail before a saloon called the Lily Belle. Obviously the place had been named for the lady herself, for a full length painting of her—wearing only a smile—graced most of one wall. The barkeep said, “B’longs to old Sam Prater. Sam’s grandpappy had money. Left Sam this place, along with a two-story house big enough to sleep half of Waco. Old Sam’s three daughters takes in boarders when they’s any to take in.”

  “Sheriff Hanks had no objection to gambling,” said Nathan.“ Do you have a regular game here?”

  “Not any more. House dealer quit and left town by popular demand. You lookin’ for work?”

  “Maybe,” Nathan said. “I can handle the cards, but I deal an honest game.”

  “Faro?”

  “Yes,” said Nathan, “but I don’t have a box.”

  “We have that,” the barkeep said. “Make yourself comfortable. Judge Prater will be along in a while, and you’ll need to talk to him.”

  “Judge?”

  “Old Sam’s been judge as far back as I can remember,” said the barkeep. “Hell, he’s got enough kin in this county to keep him i
n office forever. By the way, I’m Ira Watkins.”

  “I’m Nathan Stone.” He said no more. The barkeep’s eyes dipped quickly to the pair of tied-down Colts and he just as quickly looked away.

  “Is there a hotel in town?” Nathan asked, after the silence had dragged on for a while.

  “No,” said Watkins. “Don’t need one. Not with the Prater house. Ain’t a soul livin’ there right now but the judge and his three daughters.”

  Nathan said nothing, but the question was so obvious, the talkative barkeep answered it anyway.

  “Too many men went to war and not enough come back,” said Watkins. “It’s got to be worryin’ the judge, what he’s goin’ to do with them three females. Eulie’s thirty-five if she’s a day, while Eunice and Eldora’s right on her heels.”

  Nathan kept his silence, If the old Judge suddenly appeared, he would have no way of knowing that Nathan hadn’t been asking these questions the talkative barkeep was so helpfully answering.

  When Judge Sam Prater arrived, he looked every bit as stern and unbending as Nathan had expected. He stepped through the batwing doors and paused. He wore a frock coat, boiled shirt with string tie, dark trousers, a top hat, bushy sideburns, and a full white beard. His eyes rested on Nathan as though prepared to pronounce judgment for a crime of which only he was aware. He eventually cut his eyes to Ira Watkins and the barkup spoke nervously.