The Dawn of Fury

by Compton, Ralph

  “I have been instructed to see that you men attend to Mr. Stumberg’s thoroughbreds,” he said haughtily, “and you are to begin immediately.”

  “Yes, massah,” Silver replied with maddening sarcasm. “When do we eat, suh? We ain’t had a bite in nigh two hours, suh.”

  Nathan could see it coming, but it was Silver’s play, and Nathan let him handle it. Shanklin was painfully, impossibly slow. Before he even had a hand on his pistol, he was staring into the muzzle of Silver’s cocked Colt. Shanklin’s hand fell away from his gun and the breath went out of him.

  “Supper is at five,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “The two of you will take your meals in the kitchen. The rest of the house is strictly off limits to you.”

  Silver’s contemptuous laughter spoke volumes and it silenced Shanklin. Without another word he stalked out. Silver eased down on the hammer and returned his Colt to its holster.

  “You purely know how to get under a man’s hide,” Nathan said. “He ain’t very sudden with his iron, but if he back-shoots you, speed don’t make a hell of a lot of difference.”

  “When a man turns his back on a sidewinder,” said Silver, “he deserves gettin’ bit. Let’s take a look at Stumberg’s thoroughbreds.”

  One of the horses was a bay, the other a chestnut. The slatted fronts of the stalls were only head high, allowing the horses to see anyone approaching. Silver came face to face with the chestnut and the horse snorted, laying back his ears.

  “You’re a handsome critter,” Silver said, leaning over the gate, “but I reckon you’ve been led about by some hombre that was scared of you. Well, old hoss, I’m not afraid. Pick up them ears and let’s be friends.”

  Silver extended his hand as though to touch the horse, and the chestnut snorted and reared, but he didn’t back away, though there was room to do so. Silver’s extended hand never wavered and the horse moved closer. Slowly the hand moved, stroking the animal’s muzzle, and the chestnut relaxed, unafraid of this man who didn’t fear him. Silver watched as Nathan Stone went through a similar routine with the bay. Within minutes they were able to open the stall gates and lead the horses out into the corridor of the barn. Both the animals submitted readily to a halter and were led out to the exercise track. The horses were thoroughbreds in every sense of the word. Their coats were thin and silky, their long, graceful necks running into well-defined withers and long, sloping shoulders. Their eyes were big and alert, their nostrils large, their heads clean cut and very fine. Each of them stood sixteen hands or more.

  “We’ll give them an hour to start,” Silver said, “and increase it some as they get used to it.”

  They began by walking the horses, progressing to a trot, and, finally, to a slow gallop. Finally they dropped back to a walk.

  “God,” Nathan panted, “I never spent so much time afoot since the Yankees shot my horse from under me.”

  “I reckon we’ll get ourselves in shape along with the horses,” Silver replied. “At least it’s comin’ on winter. In summer, I suspect some of that Texas heat bleeds over into these parts.”

  While the sky was overcast, an hour of activity had both men and horses in a sweat. Nathan and Silver used old blankets and rubbed both animals down before returning them to their stalls. Besides a plentiful supply of hay in the loft, there were several hundred-pound bags of oats in the tack room.

  “Well,” said Nathan, “our day’s work is done. Unless Stumberg’s expectin’ us to work out the horses more than once a day.”

  “Once a day’s enough,” Silver replied. “If he demands more than that, it’s not for the benefit of the horses, but to harass us.”

  The afternoon dragged on. By five o’clock, Nathan and Silver were ready for supper. They walked up to the house, crossed a wide back porch, and went in through the back door. Following the odor of baking bread, they found the kitchen at the end of a short hall. Beyond it was a sumptuous dining room. A chandelier of six lighted lamps hung above a long table covered by a crisp white cloth. Within the kitchen was a plain oak table with four hard-bottom chairs, obviously for the cooks and servants. An enormous fat man in chef’s hat and dirty white apron stared at Silver. Finally, when it seemed he wasn’t going to speak, he did.

  “Well, by God, Silver, I ain’t seen you since I was at Old Canal House. I was told just this mornin’ you’d be up here lookin’ fer grub. I reckoned I was just bein’ hoorawed, but damn, here you are, an’ you dragged some poor soul down with you.” He lowered his voice almost to a whisper. “What you done, sunk the steamboat?”

  “Nothin’ I can talk about, Antoine,” Silver said. “This hombre is Nathan Stone. Are we allowed to sit down decent and eat off plates, or will you just heave some scraps out the back door?”

  “You can eat here in the kitchen till somebody tells me different,” the cook said. “I didn’t know you was a horse handler.”

  “Neither did I,” Silver said, “until last night.”

  Nathan and Silver got through the first week without difficulty, mostly because they saw nothing more of Drew Shanklin. But on the eighth day, as they walked the thoroughbreds, things changed. There was the distant crack of a rifle, and a slug whipped through the crown of Silver’s hat. Before the echo of the shot had died, Nathan and Silver were belly down, Colts cocked and ready. But there were no more shots. The horses had pranced away.

  “That one wasn’t serious,” Silver said. “He wasn’t that far away, and he could have cut me down, dead center.”

  “I reckon we’d better go back to the barn and get our Winchesters,” said Nathan, “and from now on, take them with us.”

  “Si, bueno,” Silver agreed.

  From then on, when leaving the barn for any reason, Nathan and Silver always carried their Winchesters. But there were no more shots, and the first time they took their rifles to the house, Antoine noticed. He said nothing at the time, but waited until the next morning. When Nathan and Silver showed up for breakfast—when it was likely that Shanklin and the rest of Mayfair House still slept—Antoine spread part of a New Orleans newspaper on the kitchen table.

  “If anybody know you see this,” Antoine whispered, “I don’ know nothin’ about it.”

  “Thanks, Antoine,” said Silver. “Nobody will hear anything from us.”

  Quickly Nathan and Silver read the short article, then read it again:

  Gunmen identified in recent killings, the headline read. It has come to this editor’s attention by anonymous letter that Nathan Stone and Byron Silver are responsible for the deaths of two men who were gunned down in a secluded area near the river. Our informant claims Stone and Silver are employed by gambling czar French Stumberg, while the dead men were representing Stumberg’s rival, Hargis Gavin. Neither gambling kingpin could be reached for comment.

  “I reckon we know who the anonymous informer is,” Nathan said. “Just one thing I don’t understand. Why didn’t the varmint go one step farther and tell Gavin’s killers where they could find us?”

  “That might have been a little obvious,” said Silver drily. “Stumberg has an even dozen gambling houses, and if Gavin’s even half smart, he could have found us in a couple of days.”

  “If Gavin’s bunch is planning to gun us down,” Nathan said, “they’ve had plenty of chances. Hell, they’re shootin’ from cover.”

  “We’re supposed to believe it’s Gavin’s killers after us,” Silver replied, “but I doubt it, for reasons you’ve just pointed out.”

  “I ain’t wantin’ to hear this,” Antoine said. “There’s ham, eggs, bread, potatoes, an’ coffee on the stove.” With that, he went to the far end of the kitchen and took a chair.

  Nathan and Silver refilled their coffee cups and then heaped their own plates from the food on the stove. For Antoine’s sake, they finished their breakfast and left the house before discussing their perilous situation any further. Reaching the tack room, they sat on Silver’s bunk so they could talk softly.

  “That means we’re bein
’ saved for somethin’ that Stumberg reckons he’ll be able to use to his benefit,” Nathan observed. “Any ideas?”

  “Nothing I’d swear to,” said Silver, “but if I had to guess, I’d say he aims to use us in some way to give himself an edge in that horse race.”

  -“That’s been botherin’ me some,” Nathan replied. “Back before the war—before our way of life was taken from us—we had our share of races. There was one horse, a thoroughbred, that comes to mind. There was some big money ridin’ on him, but he came in almost dead last on a quarter-mile track. When the race was done, that horse was just hittin’ his stride. If that race had been two miles, that horse would have run the legs off the rest of them, but he wasn’t worth a damn in a short run.”

  “I’ve never seen thoroughbreds run,” Silver said. “These animals have had plenty of exercise. Why don’t we get them up to racing speed for a trial run, and see how fast they are? We’re a mite heavy, I reckon, but we should be able to make up for that by not using saddles.”

  They led the thoroughbreds along the track for a while, walking and trotting, and then at a slow gallop. Then, without even saddle blankets, they mounted; Silver on the chestnut and Nathan on the bay. Simultaneously they kicked the horses into a fast gallop, wheeling them at the end of the short track and galloping back to the barn. They rubbed the animals down and returned them to their stalls.

  “That’s damn disappointing,” said Silver. “Just looking at the critters, you’d believe they could fly if they had wings. But by God, I believe my old roan could beat both of them from a standing start, without working up a good sweat.”

  “I think so too,” Nathan said, “on a quarter-mile track. But make it a two-mile race, and your roan would be eatin’ their dust.”

  “But the track at Gretna is a quarter mile,” said Silver. “That likely means Stumberg’s about to lose a bundle unless he has an edge.”

  “Count on it,” Nathan said, “but I believe he aims to have that edge. I only wish I knew how we figure into it.”

  Chapter 17

  Three weeks after Nathan and Silver arrived at Mayfair House, they were again the targets of hidden riflemen. They had been to the house for breakfast and were returning to the barn when the concealed rifles cut loose. But this time, Silver and Nathan had their Winchesters, and, dropping to the ground, they returned fire. Three more slugs kicked up dirt, searching for them, and then the firing ceased.

  “Close,” Nathan said, holding a handkerchief to his left ear. “One of the first two came within a whisker of taking my head off.”

  “Looks like they mean business,” said Silver, “and that pretty well kicks our theory about the race hell west and crooked.”

  “Maybe not,” Nathan said. “They had us pinned down on the lee side of this rise, and there was two of them. They could have stayed with it until they got the range and cut us to ribbons. They’re still playing with us.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” said Silver. “Look up yonder.”

  Drew Shanklin was standing on the back steps looking toward the distant trees from whence the shots had come. Seeing Nathan and Silver watching him, he turned and went back to the house.

  “He can always testify that somebody—probably Hargis Gavin’s killers—were gunning for us,” Nathan said. “That would draw suspicion from Stumberg, point the finger at Gavin, and get rid of us, all with two Winchester slugs.”

  “But not until the day of the race,” said Silver. “I don’t know how it figures in, but damn it, you’ve seen Stumberg’s nags run, and they don’t have a prayer in a quarter-mile race.”

  At Barnabas McQueen’s breakfast table, a somber mood prevailed. McQueen had opened the New Orleans paper to the damning story blaming Byron Silver and Nathan Stone with the killing of two of Hargis Gavin’s men. The rider McQueen knew as Eli Prater had read the story and now turned troubled eyes on McQueen and his sympathetic wife, Bess.

  “They’re only guessing,” Eulie fumed. “Why would a newspaper print something like this, when it’s only rumor? Don’t they know they’re signing the death warrants of two men?”

  “The newspapers can argue what they’ve done is in the public interest,” said McQueen. “On the face of it, one gambling faction is gunning for the other, and nobody really gives a damn.”

  “It was a shameful thing to do,” Bess said. “They’ve told everything except where those poor souls can be found, leaving them at the mercy of Hargis Gavin’s killers.”

  “Oh, they’ve left no doubt as to where Stone and Silver can be found,” said McQueen. “The paper says they’re employed by French Stumberg, and that means they’re in or near one of Stumberg’s gambling dens. It’ll be a matter of time until Gavin finds them, if he’s so inclined.”

  “It seems like he wants them dead,” Eulie said bitterly. “Nathan threw in with Stumberg to escape Gavin’s guns, and now it looks like Stumberg’s thrown him to the wolves.”

  “It does, for a fact,” McQueen agreed. “I’d bet the farm that this damn unknown informer was Stumberg or somebody close to him. Who else could have known the names of the pair that shot it out with Gavin’s men?”

  “I can’t speak for this Silver,” said Eulie, “but Nathan Stone ain’t the kind to set on his hunkers and wait for somebody to shoot him. I don’t know where he is, but I know this: If somebody’s gunning for him, he’ll know it, and he’ll take a lot of killing.”

  “I don’t know how or if this fits in,” McQueen said, “but I have it from a good source that Stumberg’s thoroughbreds are at McDonoughville, near his Mayfair House. That’s no more than a stone’s throw south of the horse track at Gretna. I’m thinking of riding down there. If Stumberg’s smart, there’ll be somebody working those horses, and I’d like a look at them.”

  “I’m going with you,” said Eulie. “I have a stake in this race.”

  “We’ll ride at first light tomorrow,” McQueen said. “Stumberg’s barn will be somewhere near Mayfield House, I reckon, and that bunch will be up most of the night. We ought to be able to get close enough to see the barn and the horses without anybody seeing us.”

  The morning following the attempted ambush, Nathan and Silver took their time getting to the house for breakfast. Taking chairs at the kitchen table, they watched Antoine fuss around the stove, doing his best to seem uninterested in them.

  “That shooting yesterday makes no sense,” Nathan said. “Why didn’t they gun us down from behind, instead of waiting for us to leave the house?”

  “Damn it,” Silver growled, “I thought we had decided this whole thing is to establish a reason for us bein’ gunned down at a time suitable to Stumberg, and maybe shifting the blame to Hargis Gavin.”

  “I reckon we agree on that,” Nathan replied, “but why all this show? The story in the paper was enough to throw the blame in Gavin’s lap.”

  “We’re in no position to make any moves,” said Silver. “Stumberg has a reason for keeping us alive, and I don’t aim to jump the traces as long as he’s stacking the deck.”

  Antoine brought them steaming cups of coffee, and while they sipped that, he heaped their plates. Conversation lagged as Nathan and Silver began eating. Antoine brought the coffeepot, refilling their cups. Finally he poured himself some coffee and took a chair at the table, acting as though he had something to say.

  “Damn it, Antoine,” Silver said, “speak up before you bust a gut.”

  “Stumberg will be here tomorrow,” said Antoine.

  “Any idea as to why?” Silver asked.

  “No,” the cook replied. “Shanklin’s got a burr under his tail. Come in here an’ told me to wear a clean apron an’ hat, like I ain’t got the sense to do it without him tellin’ me.”

  Nathan and Silver said nothing more while they were in the kitchen, but it was something to think about. On the way back to the barn, Silver said what they were both thinking.

  “I reckon he aims to see what we have to say about bein’ shot at.”
/>   “He won’t hear a damn thing out of me,” Nathan said.

  “Nor from me,” said Silver. “Our hole card’s likely a deuce, but we’ll not let him know that.”

  Their usual routine was to spend at least an hour exercising the horses as soon as they returned from breakfast, and they did so this morning, for big gray clouds hung low and there was a promise of rain.

  Eulie Prater and Barnabas McQueen took the ferry across the river, and with McQueen knowing the way, they bypassed Gretna, coming in to the west of Stumberg’s Mayfair House. Cotton Blossom trotted along somewhere to the rear, and wasn’t with them when they reined up among the trees several hundred yards west of Stumberg’s barn. Nathan and Silver were walking the horses.

  “There! With the bay,” Eulie cried. “That’s Nathan!”

  But she wasn’t the first to make the discovery. With a glad yip, Cotton Blossom went tearing through the brush.

  “Cotton Blossom!” Eulie cried. “No.”

  “Let him go,” said McQueen. “Maybe we can talk to Stone. There’ll be less chance of us bein’ seen if he comes to us.”

  Cotton Blossom danced around Nathan and almost spooked the bay. Nathan had to calm him before he could welcome the dog.

  “This is Cotton Blossom,” Nathan said by way of introduction. “I reckon there’s friends of mine up there in the woods. Hold the bay. I’m goin’ up there.”