Nathan rode west along the Red, all too aware of his own trail. Suppose he had miscalculated? Suppose Baker and his friends reached the river at some point behind Nathan? Being on the run, Baker would be immediately suspicious of fresh tracks, and the hunted would become the hunters. Nathan reined up, his unease, the premonition of impending disaster, was growing stronger by the minute. If the outlaws were trailing him, he dared not backtrack. Instead, he must take cover and gain whatever advantage he could. But there was no adequate cover, except possibly along the river, for the banks were high. He would have to lead his horses down. But there was no time. A horse nickered and his own answered. Nathan rolled out of the saddle, taking his Winchester with him, only to have a slug kick dirt in his face.
“You’re covered, pilgrim,” said a cold voice. “Leave that rifle on the ground an’ git up. Don’t use the hoss fer cover, neither.”
Nathan considered his options. He was a dozen yards from the river bank. If they killed the horse, its body would offer him little protection, for one of the killers could quickly flank him. Vainly he tried to see his foes, for until he could, he had no target. His chances were small, at best, and unless he coaxed the outlaws into the open, none. Leaving his Winchester on the ground, he got to his knees, then to his feet.
“Smart hombre,” said the unseen gunman. “Now step out from behind that hoss.”
“Why should I?” Nathan countered. “When I do, how do I know you won’t shoot me?”
“You don’t,” said the voice. “You’ll just have to trust me.”
There was laughter, and Nathan learned there were at least three men. He might have a small chance, even against such odds, but not without being able to see them. He tried one last desperate ruse.
“You have the guns,” Nathan said. “I’ll move when you step out where I’m able to see you. It don’t take much of a man to hide in the brush and shoot from cover.”
“By God,” said the first voice, “I don’t need no cover. Nobody says I’m less of a man an’ goes on living.”
“Damn it, Baker,’ said a second voice, ”he’s got law wrote all over him, and he’s just jawin’ to save his hide.”
“All the more reason fer me killin’ the scutter,” said Baker. “Curry, you an’ Snider just hunker down here in the bushes, so’s you don’t git hurt.”
Nathan’s heart sank. If Curry and Snider remained out of sight, then he hadn’t a chance. Baker was fast. Almighty fast, and even if Nathan outdrew him, Baker’s companions could shoot Nathan from cover. Somehow he had to get them all where he could see them.
“That’s right, Baker” Nathan taunted. “Let them hide there in the brush. After I gun you down, they’ll be that much closer when they run for their horses.”
“You mouthy varmint,” said Snider, “even if you’re good enough to take Baker, I’ll kill you.”
“Nobody’s faster than me,” Baker snarled. “Side me if you got the sand, but if either of you pulls iron ahead of me, I’ll kill him and pistol-whip you.”
Despite Baker’s arrogance, Snider and Curry had been shamed out of hiding. When Baker stepped out, they were with him. Baker was to Nathan’s extreme right, Snider to his left, and Curry facing him. They had fanned out so that there was no possible way Nathan could take them all. By some miracle, he might get two of them, but the third man would surely kill him. There was no point in sacrificing the faithful black horse, so Nathan stepped clear of the animal. But Nathan had an edge. A snarling, clawing Cotton Blossom darted out of the brush, and the very moment Baker’s hand touched the butt of his revolver, the hound sank his teeth into the outlaw’s left leg. Baker’s shot tore into the ground and he began beating Cotton Blossom with the revolver.
Snider and Curry were taken by surprise, but they recovered quickly. Snider had his gun clear of leather when Nathan put two slugs through his belly. Curry got off a shot and the lead tore through Nathan’s right thigh, just above the knee. Nathan stumbled backward and went down, allowing Curry’s second slug to go over his head. From flat on his back, Nathan shot the outlaw once in the chest. Despite Cullen Baker’s reputation and big talk, the deal had gone sour. Baker was running toward the brush and his waiting horse. Nathan fired twice, but Baker was hunched over, zigzagging. The wound in Nathan’s thigh was bleeding badly, and only by seizing the stirrup leather of the black horse was he able to get to his feet. His first concern was for Cotton Blossom. He hadn’t actually seen Baker’s reaction to the dog’s attack, and he feared the shot from Baker’s revolver had struck Cotton Blossom. With difficulty he got down on his knees. The dog’s head was bloody, but on closer examination, Nathan found he had been knocked senseless by the heavy muzzle of Baker’s revolver. Nathan had begun carrying a quart of whiskey in his saddlebag for just such a need as this. He removed it, along with some yard-long lengths of muslin. Some of these would cleanse and bind his own wound, but first he soaked some of the cloth with whiskey and cleaned the nasty gash on Cotton Blossom’s head. The dog’s eyes were open, but he lay still, aware that Nathan was trying to help him. When the blood had been wiped away, Nathan poured whiskey into the open wound.
“Sorry, old pard,” said Nathan. “It burns like hell, but it’s all I have for either of us. It’ll have to do till we get back to Fort Smith.”
There was a chance Baker might return, but Nathan thought it was more likely the outlaw would ride a few miles and then lay in ambush. By morning, Nathan wouldn’t be able to stand on his wounded leg, and the whiskey might not stave off infection. Baker had escaped, but Nathan didn’t feel like risking the loss of a leg by pursuing the outlaw. He was satisfied, having accounted for Tobe Snider, one of the seven men he sought. He was a hundred and fifty miles south of Fort Smith, in a cold, drizzling rain. If he rode all night, stopping only to rest the horses, he would be there by early afternoon of the next day. Nathan found the horses belonging to Snider and Curry, took time to unsaddle the animals, and then set them free. He then went through the pockets of the dead outlaws, but found only a few gold coins, no identification.
“Hombres,” said Nathan to the dead men, “I’m goin’ to do as much for you as you’d have done for me. Good luck with the buzzards and coyotes.”
Cotton Blossom was on his feet, but he was weak, and there was no prowling ahead. He loped along beside the packhorse as Nathan began the long ride to Fort Smith.
Fort Smith. June 15, 1867.
Upon returning to Fort Smith, Nathan had given up his badge. After ten days of rest, his wound healed, he was at the livery, loading his pack horse. The rest had restored Cotton Blossom’s enthusiasm, and he too seemed ready for the trail.
“Sorry to see you go, Nathan,” Russ Lambert said. “That means the rest of us will have to work harder for the same money.”
“I have a hankering to ride back to Texas,” said Nathan. “Maybe I’ll meet Cullen Baker again, if somebody else don’t get him first.”
“I expect you’ll have to stand in line,” Lambert said. “The man just don’t make friends easy.”
Taking his time, Nathan rode south. He crossed the Red about seventy miles north of Dallas, and spent more than a week in the town, frequenting all the saloons. He neither drank nor gambled, but listened to the conversations of gamblers, bullwhackers, soldiers, cowboys, and farmers. Saloon women did their best to lure him upstairs, but to no avail. He bought them watered-down drinks so that he might question them, but when he rode out of Dallas, he had learned nothing regarding the whereabouts of the five killers he sought.
He considered riding to Waco and telling old Judge Prater of Eulie’s fate, but thought better of it. The old yarmint would just blame Nathan, and might have him shot on general principles. He shied away from Waco and rode on. Somewhere north of Austin he began seeing crudely lettered signs announcing a horse race in Lee County on July fourth.
“Cotton Blossom,” Nathan said, “I’ve endured half the damn saloons in east Texas, and all for nothing. A horse race ought to draw f
olks from all over. I reckon we’ll just slope on down there and see who shows up.”
Two hours before sundown, he rode into the little town of Lexington, Texas.19
Chapter 22
Lexington, Texas. July 3, 1867.
In Texas, it was a time in which the affluence of a town was judged by the number of saloons it boasted, and Lexington had three. There was a hotel of sorts, a mercantile, a livery, and two cafes. Food could be had at all the saloons, if a man wasn’t too picky. There was no courthouse, no jail, and apparently, no sheriff. A small sign nailed to an oak announced to anybody who cared that the population was a hundred and fifty-two.20
“A room for tonight and tomorrow night,” Nathan told the hotel desk clerk. “You got any objections if my dog stays with me?”
“Not if he don’t cause a ruckus or bite nobody,” the man replied. “Two dollars, in advance.”
“Where will the race be run?” Nathan asked, handing him the money.
“Right down main street, quarter mile.” He was short, gray, with mild blue eyes, and he fixed them on Nathan’s twin Colts.
He looked as though he wanted to say something more, but allowed his better judgment to prevail. Nathan took his room key and returned to his horses. Although the hotel was a single-story affair, he didn’t wish to take his loaded packsaddle to his room. Instead, he rode on to the livery, making arrangements for his horses and requesting that his saddle, packsaddle, and bedroll be secured in the tack room. His saddlebags he chose not to leave in anybody’s hands but his own. It was still early on a Wednesday afternoon and there were few horses tied to any of the saloon hitch rails. It seemed the Tumbleweed had the fewest patrons, and Nathan elbowed his way through its batwing doors. He needed a talkative bartender. Two men sat at a back table, while the bartender leaned on the bar. He was an elderly Negro, bald except for a gray fringe above his ears. He reminded Nathan of old Malachi, resting in an unmarked grave in Virginia.
“What’ll it be, suh?”
“A beer,” said Nathan, “and maybe you can tell me somethin’ about the race tomorrow.”
“They don’ be a lot to tell. Ain’t but two hosses runnin’. One of ’em’s a black, name of Shadow. T’other is a Todillo.”21
One of the men at the table slid back his chair, got up, and headed for the bar. When he spoke, it was to the bartender.
“Simon, why don’t you tell him the truth of it.”
“Ah can’t take no sides, suh,” Simon replied.
“Why don’t you leave Simon out of it and tell me yourself,” said Nathan.
“Why not? I’m Johnson McKowen. If you aim to take part in tomorrow’s race, there’s two sides. Put your money on the black and you’re lined up with the cattlemen. If you’re fool enough to go with the other nag, you’re in bed with Negroes and sodbusters.”
“I don’t take kindly to having somebody make my bed and then tell me I have to lie in it,” Nathan said.
“Ah don’ want no trouble in here, gentlemens,” said Simon.
“Come on, Driggers,” McKowen said.
The second man at the back table got up and brought the bottle, and the two of them shouldered their way through the batwings and onto the boardwalk.
“Somebody needs to beat his ears down around his boot tops,” said Nathan.
“Amens, suh,” Simon said, “but he do his fightin’ with a pistol. He bad, but his friend be worser.”
“I reckon his pard has horns, hooves, and a spike tail, then,” said Nathan.
“Close, suh,” Simon replied. “You evah hear of Wil’ Bill Longley?”
“Yes,” said Nathan, “but nothing good. Are he and this McKowen varmint involved in the race tomorrow?”
“I afraid so, suh, an’ it wasn’t none of our doin’. There be cattlemens here, an’ there be farmers, an’ whilst we ain’t always love one another, we always git along.”
“But Longley and McKowen have changed all that, I reckon,” Nathan said.
“They do, suh,” said Simon. He kept his eyes on the front door, lest he be overheard. Satisfied, he continued. “My people, they come here as slaves, back when Texas be owned by Mexico. They come from Alabama, Miss’ssipi, Georgia, an’ Kaintuck. White folks what bring us here, they be farmers. My people be farmers too, for they work the land. Cattlemens they come, but we still git along. We been have this hoss race ever’ July fourth, back far as I remember. Now it become a war, cattlemens agin the rest of us.”
“They’re laying their money on Shadow to win the race, then,” Nathan said, “and are using hatred and distrust to scare the rest of you into losing.”
“They do that, suh,” said Simon. “Odds agin Todillo be twenty to one.”
“I like that kind of odds,” Nathan said. “Where do I place my bet?”
“The mercantile. Mr. Hicks take all bets. Lawd bless you, suh.”
When Nathan reached the mercantile, he wasn’t surprised to find McKowen and Driggers there. Hicks proved to be a grim-faced man who looked as though he hadn’t smiled in his life. He said nothing, his arms folded, waiting for Nathan to speak.
“I’m here to place a bet in tomorrow’s race,” said Nathan.
“Cattlemen or sodbusters?”
“Neither,” Nathan said grimly. “I’m betting on the gray. The Todillo.”
“Haw, haw,” McKowen scoffed, “don’t bet no more’n you can afford to lose.”
“I’ll take my loss,” said Nathan “if it’s honest.” From his pocket he took a handful of double eagles. He dribbled them out on the counter one at a time until there were twenty-five.
“Five hundred dollars!” Hicks exclaimed. “I ... I’m not sure we can cover a bet that large. The odds ...”
“According to the odds, you’ll owe me ten thousand dollars,” said Nathan. “Now write me a receipt, and be sure you include the odds.”
Hicks looked helplessly at McKowen and Driggers, but found no support there. Reluctantly he wrote out the receipt, signed it, and gave it to Nathan. Without a word, Nathan left the store. Cotton Blossom was waiting, and since it was nearing suppertime, Nathan decided to try the cafe nearest the hotel. The sign in front had faded, leaving nothing legible except “Cafe.” It was still early, so the place was virtually empty, and that’s how Nathan liked it. The graying old fellow behind the counter looked and walked like a stove-up cowboy.
“I’m paying for the dog’s supper too,” Nathan said, “if you have no objection to him coming in.”
“He’s welcome. I allus thought a man should own one good doog an’ one good hoss ’fore he dies.”
Nathan had just begun to eat when the girl entered the cafe. She had dark hair and green eyes, and was probably not more than a year or two past her teens. The other diners had left, and she headed straight for Nathan’s table. He pushed back his chair and stood as she approached.
“I’m Viola Hayden,” she said. “You just bet five hundred dollars on the horse I’m riding in the race tomorrow.”
“I did,” Nathan said. “I’m a gambler and I like the odds. Anything wrong with that?”
“No ... yes ... I ... I’m not sure,” she said. “When I heard you had bet so much on Daybreak, I just wondered why. There’s ... something I think you ought to know. Most everybody’s afraid ...”
“Of Wild Bill Longley and his amigos,” said Nathan.
“Yes,” she replied. “My father and most of the other farmers settled here in the thirties when this area was part of a Mexican land grant arranged by Stephen Austin. After Lincoln’s proclaimation freed the slaves, some of the ranchers resented us. Bill Longley, Johnson McKowen, and a few others have taken to fanning the flames, claiming the ranchers are on one side, while the farmers and the Negroes are on the other. Our annual Fourth of July race is a countywide event. Now it’s being used to set neighbor against neighbor. I believe you should know that if Daybreak wins, the cattlemen are promising trouble. You may never collect your winnings.”
“That’s part of
the risk in gambling,” Nathan said. “I get the feeling that the cattlemen—sided by Longley and his bunch—don’t intend to lose that race.”
“That’s what Daddy says, and he’s threatening to withdraw Daybreak from the race, because he fears for me to ride him.”
“It wouldn’t be a bad idea,” said Nathan. “If your horse is withdrawn there won’t be a race.”
“We can’t withdraw,” the girl said. “Things have gone too far. Somehow we must make people in this county understand they are being used by Longley and his kind. Do you know he’s known as the ‘Negro Killer’?”
“No,” Nathan said. “I’ve never seen the man.”
“He’s killed before. Mostly Negroes, and he’s always managed to bribe or buy his way out. He’s promised trouble tomorrow, if Daybreak wins.”
“I haven’t seen either horse and nobody’s told me anything about them,” said Nathan, “except that one represents the farmers and the other the cattlemen. Being fair, if nobody interferes, which do you think has the best chance?”
“Daybreak,” she said. “I raised him from a Colt and I can ride him bareback. Nate Rankin is the rancher who owns Shadow, and he’s a fine horse, but Rankin’s son will be riding him. Hugh outweighs me by at least sixty pounds.”
“That might make the difference, then,” Nathan replied. “Has anything been done to prevent Longley and his bunch from interfering with the race?”
“Daddy’s taking some precautions, I think. Would you like to ride out to our place and see Daybreak? Besides, with so much of your money riding on our horse, I’d like Daddy to talk to you. I think you should know of trouble that might arise tomorrow.”
The Dawn of Fury Page 29
