The Dawn of Fury

by Compton, Ralph

  Simon practically fell from the mule he’d ridden. He sat on the edge of the porch and clasped his hands, trying to control their trembling. Finally he steadied himself enough to tell the story.

  “Antler Joe an’ Fat Jack be dead,” said Simon, “an’ Joe’s woman be hurt bad. Five others be shot in arms an’ laigs. I send rider to Tanglewood to fetch Doc Trotter.”

  “You did exactly right, Simon,” Hayden said. “Are you sure it was Wild Bill Longley and McKowen who did the shooting?”

  “I see ’em, suh,” said Simon. “I swear before God it be them. Wil’ Bill, before he shoot, he holler at us. He not be satisfied, he say, until we uns all be dead er run out’n Lee County.”

  “That sounds like him,” Hayden said grimly. “When they rode out, which way did they go?”

  “North, suh.”

  “Bound for Indian Territory,” Hayden said. “About all we can do is send a rider to the Ranger outpost in Austin, or to the Union army’s commanding officer there. The telegraph might head them off at Waco, Dallas, or Fort Worth.”

  “If I was running from the law, bound for Indian Territory,” said Nathan, “I’d shy away from any towns between here and there.”

  “I know,” Hayden sighed, “and so will Longley and McKowen.”

  “My God,” Viola cried, “they can’t be allowed to escape. The Rangers will send a man after them.”

  “The Rangers have no jurisdiction in Indian Territory,” said Nathan, “and from what I’ve heard, all the Union outposts are shorthanded. But you’re right. The law should have a record of this. I’ll ride to Austin tonight and report it. How far is Austin?”

  “Forty-five miles,” Hayden said, “but this is not your responsibility.”

  “As much mine as anybody’s,” said Nathan. “Besides, I have reasons for riding out tonight. Reasons of my own.”

  “You’ll be coming back, won’t you?” Viola asked anxiously.

  “I hope so,” said Nathan. He hated lies and half-truths, and he knew if he rode to Austin tonight, he would take the coward’s way out and not return.

  “Then saddle Daybreak,” Viola said, “and I’ll ride with you.”

  Nathan sighed. She wasn’t going to make it easy for him. Now she must know what he hadn’t intended telling her.

  “Viola,” said Nathan, “I told you I have reasons of my own for riding out tonight, and now you’re forcing me to spell out those reasons. When I ride out, I’ll be followed, and when the showdown comes, I don’t want you in the line of fire.”

  “Nate Rankin, then,” said Jesse Hayden.

  “Rankin and maybe some hired guns,” Nathan said. “If I can draw him away from here and pull his fangs, he shouldn’t trouble you again. If he wants to carry a grudge, then let it be against me.”

  “No,” said Viola, “I won’t let you do it. Return his money. Nobody has to know.”

  “He’ll know,” Nathan said. “It’s more than just the money. He’s got his share of pride. It’s time somebody poked some holes in him and let it out. It’s time for me to ride. There’ll be a moon later.”

  “Nathan,” said Jesse, “I don’t like this. It’s a job for the law.”

  “Wrong,” Nathan said. “The killings in Lexington are a job for the law. The law won’t care a damn what I think Rankin’s about to do. They’ll be concerned only after I’m shot dead, provided there’s enough proof to go after the varmints that did it. They won’t be expecting me to ride out tonight and that gives me an edge. Whatever happens after I leave here, you’re to know nothing about it. Understand?”

  “I understand,” said Hayden. “You’re welcome here anytime. Simon, come in the house and Viola will make some coffee. Come on, Viola.”

  Bit Viola was not easily discouraged. Suddenly Nathan found her face uncomfortably close to his, and in the lamplight from the front door, there was no mistaking the tears on her cheeks.

  “I know what you’re doing and why you’re doing it,” she said softly. “Just tell me that you won’t forget me, that I’ll see you again.”

  “I won’t forget you,” he said, “and if I live, somehow—somewhere—I’ll see you again.” Despite the presence of her father and old Simon, he kissed her long and hard. Without another word, he turned away.

  “Vaya con Dios,” she cried.

  Nathan wasted no time. When he reached the barn, he led the black out of his stall and saddled the animal in the darkness. It took him longer to load the packhorse, for he dared not light a lantern. He led the horses out of the barn, pausing a moment. There was a light breeze out of the southwest, and it brought the fragrant odor of tobacco smoke. At least one of them had a lot to learn about stalking a man. Nathan mounted and rode south, leading the packhorse. Cotton Blossom loped on ahead.

  Five hundred yards west of the Hayden barn, Hugh Rankin waited. With him were Driggers and Gadner, a pair of gunmen Nate Rankin had hired.

  “Damn it, Junior,’ Driggers said, ”I told you to stomp out that smoke. You might as well of fired a couple of shots so he’d know we’re out here.”

  “I told you to stop callin’ me Junior,” Hugh snarled, “and I don’t take orders from you. Daddy put me in charge of this.”

  “Shut up, the both of you,” Gadner said. “I thought I heard something.”

  “He’s ridin’ out,” said Hugh. “Let’s go after him.”

  “Go ahead,” Driggers said sarcastically, “and get your ears shot off.”

  “By God,” said Hugh, “if we lose him, I ain’t takin’ the blame.”

  “Perish the thought,” Driggers said, with an ugly laugh. “I reckon your daddy would spank you, an’ I hear he’s got a heavy hand.”

  “Come on,” said Gadner. “We’ll ride a couple of miles behind him until he beds down for the night or until moon-rise, whichever comes first.”

  “Daddy wants him dead,” said Hugh. “Just don’t neither of you forget what you got to do.”

  “Oh, we ain’t about to forget,” Gadner said. “Are we, Driggers?”

  “Naw,” said Driggers. “We got it planned out perfect.”

  The pair had been paid five hundred dollars apiece for the killing of Nathan Stone, but their ambition went beyond that. It was no secret that the gambler they were trailing had ridden away with ten thousand dollars of old man Rankin’s gold. When the gambler was dead, who was to stop Gadner and Driggers from claiming the gold as their own? Certainly not the snot-nosed Rankin kid ...

  Chapter 23

  Nathan rode for an hour, rested the horses, and rode on. He waited until the pale quarter moon added its glow to that of the twinkling stars. He then began seeking a suitable spot to spread his blankets for the night. He rode into a hollow and reined up beside a fast-running creek. On the farthest bank was an upthrust of waist-high boulders. Nathan led his horses a few yards up the creek. There he unsaddled the black and removed the packsaddle from his packhorse. It must appear that he had indeed made camp for the night. He spread his blankets near the creek, directly across from the stone barricade on the farthest bank. With some brush, dry leaves, and stones, he arranged his blankets so that from a distance the intruders couldn’t tell he wasn’t in them. While it was an old trick, it was still the best defense a man had while being stalked at night. After they cut down on his empty blankets, they wouldn’t know whether he was alive or dead until he made some move. Before he fired, he must know how many men he faced, for his own muzzle flash would reveal his position. He crossed the creek, and with Cotton Blossom beside him, settled down behind his stone abutment to wait. His pursuers, when they came, must be afoot, lest their horses nicker and reveal their presence. He had a definite edge, for the night wind was out of the northwest. Cotton Blossom heard them first, for his hackles began to rise. Nathan tightened his grip on the hound. He drew and cocked his right-hand Colt. Nathan’s eyes were used to the gloom beneath the trees that lined the creek and he could see them when they paused to study the mound of blankets beside the creek. Sudd
enly two Colts roared, then roared again. Nathan held his fire. After a long silence, a voice spoke.

  “That finished him, Driggers. There’s his saddle an’ saddlebags. Let’s have a look.”

  “Like hell, Gadner,” said a young voice. “Daddy told me to take charge of those saddlebags. I’ll get them.” He stepped forward.

  “You’re about to get more than you bargained for, kid,” said Gadner. He cocked his Colt and shot Hugh Rankin in the back.

  Nathan’s shot sounded like an echo of Gadner’s, and the slug slammed the gunman backwards into the brush. Driggers got off one quick shot, sufficient to mark his position with a muzzle flash, and Nathan shot him. Nathan waited, lest one of the three be playing possum, but there was no sign of life. Nathan crossed the creek, gathered up his blankets, saddle, and saddlebags, and made his way to his grazing horses. Quickly he saddled the black, loaded his pack horse, and rode south.

  Austin Texas. July 5, 1867.

  Nathan found Ranger headquarters, and Captain Jennings was one of the two Rangers on duty. Quickly Nathan reported the killings by Longley and McKowen.

  “I’ll have word sent north to every outpost with the telegraph,” Jennings said, “but I doubt it’ll do much good. They’ll expect that. One of these days, unless somebody shoots him first, Longley will get his neck stretched.”

  “Any more word on Virg Dillard?” Nathan asked. “No,” said Jennings, “but that bunch of renegades he’s been running with is still raising hell in north Texas. You’ll find them somewhere in Indian Territory or likely southern Kansas. Or worse, they’ll find you. I hope this Virg Dillard is worth what it’s likely to cost you, finding him. Ride careful, my friend.”

  Indian Territory. July 10, 1867.

  Nathan rode across the Red, and with sundown just minutes away, began looking for a spring or creek where he might spend the night. Cotton Blossom was somewhere ahead, exploring these new surroundings. Nathan rode eastward along the river until he found a stream that emptied into it. The stream was the runoff from a spring, and there were numerous remains of old fires. There were bits of paper, rusted tins, and a faded paper tag from a sack of Durham. White men. Beyond the spring, half buried in leaves, a white object caught Nathan’s eye. It was a human skull, its sightless eye sockets fixed grimly on the darkening sky. Had it belonged to one of the renegades who had come to a predictably bad end, or to one of their hapless victims? Nathan gathered dry wood, and using a stump hole for a fire pit, cooked supper for himself and Cotton Blossom.

  “Cotton Blossom,” Nathan said, “I’m counting on your ears. I’m turning in for the night.”

  Nathan lay awake listening to the horses cropping grass. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been asleep when he suddenly awakened, uncertain as to what had roused him. There wasn’t a sound. And then it hit him. The horses no longer cropped grass! Nathan rolled to his left, coming up with his right-hand Colt cocked and ready. The night erupted with gunfire, lead slapping into the blankets where Nathan had slept only seconds before. Nathan’s Colt roared once, twice, three times, as he fired at muzzle flashes. A horse nickered, Cotton Blossom snarled, and there was an agonized scream. Cotton Blossom had made his presence felt. Then it ended. Again there was the reassuring sound of the horses cropping grass. The attack, for whatever purpose, hadn’t succeeded. Nathan began searching in the direction from which the shots had come. He hadn’t expected his hurried return fire to have found a target, but in the dim starlight he could see a body lying face down. He dared not strike a light, for there had been two bushwhackers. Had it not been for Cotton Blossom’s timely attack, Nathan might have been caught in a deadly cross fire. There was a slight sound and he turned, his Colt ready, but it was only Cotton Blossom returning.

  “Thanks, pard,” Nathan said, fondling the dog’s ears. “Without you, I’d be a dead man.”

  The suddeness of the attempted ambush had shaken him, and Nathan slept poorly. With the first gray light of dawn he was on his feet. The dead man was maybe thirty years old and dressed like a cowboy. His pistol lay beside him, while his holster was tied down on his right hip for a cross-hand draw. A left-hand cross-hand draw! In the man’s pocket there was a knife and two double eagles. Fifty yards distant, Nathan found where Cotton Blossom had surprised the second of the two bushwhackers. On a rock outcropping there were brown stains, evidence that Cotton Blossom had drawn blood. Almost a mile away, Nathan found where the horses had been tied. The survivor had ridden away, leading the dead man’s horse, leaving a trail that Nathan could follow at a fast gallop. After a hurried breakfast, with Cotton Blossom trotting ahead, Nathan rode in pursuit. He reined up after crossing a small creek. Here his quarry had paused to cleanse his wound, leaving behind a bloodied bandanna. Nathan rode on, stopping occasionally to rest the horses. He had ridden not more than ten miles when Cotton Blossom came loping back to meet him. Now this was an unusual occurrence. Cotton Blossom rarely doubled back, unless summoned. He hadn’t even returned when Nathan had stopped to rest the horses, for the pause had clearly been temporary. His return made it clear Nathan should not continue following the obvious trail. Nathan tied the packhorse’s lead rope to a low-hanging pine branch. He then rode away at a right angle, east, for a few hundred yards. Then he resumed a northerly direction, Cotton Blossom bounding ahead of him. Far ahead, Nathan could see a rock- and tree-studded rise.

  “If this varmint aims to hole up, Cotton Blossom, that’s a likely place,” Nathan said.

  He dismounted, tied his horse to a shrub, and continued on foot. He dared not ride any closer, lest his horse nicker and betray his presence. Cotton Blossom had gone on ahead. Now he looked back, assured himself that Nathan was following, and trotted on. He would know where the bushwhacker was hiding, and experience had taught him not to take the obvious approach. Nathan watched Cotton Blossom, taking his direction from the dog. It soon became obvious he was being led around the rocky, brush-shrouded ridge. Reaching the far side, still following Cotton Blossom, he cautiously made his way through concealing brush until he could see two picketed horses. That should put him somewhere behind the bushwhacker, he concluded, and he silently thanked the ever-observant Cotton Blossom. The bushwhacker’s position was an elevated one, and he could have fired straight ahead or to either side with ease, had Nathan not ridden beyond his field of vision. Nathan crept on until he could see the black crown of a hat beyond some brush. He drew his left-hand Colt and shot off a branch just above the hat.

  “Come out of there with your hands over your head,” he shouted, “or the next shot will be a mite lower.”

  Slowly a head appeared above the brush, and finally, two hands.”

  “Come on,” Nathan said impatiently, “move.”

  The rider wasn’t much over five feet, if that. Above the left knee, the leg of his Levi’s was in tatters, revealing a once-white, now bloody, bandage.

  “I’m tired of skunk-striped bushwhackers,” said Nathan angrily. “I ought to stomp hell out of you and then hang you upside down over a slow fire.”

  “Then come on, damn you, if you’re man enough.”

  “I’m man enough,” Nathan said. He strode forward, seizing the front of the faded shirt. In the resulting struggle, his adversary’s hat was flung aside, and Nathan froze. This renegade was not a man, but a hard-eyed, long-haired, hell-cat of a female!

  While she lacked the strength of a man, she had the element of surprise, and she used it to her advantage. She threw a hard right that caught Nathan full on the nose. A bloody, blinding blow, that for a few seconds clouded his vision. Anticipating her next move, he grabbed the front of her shirt, hauling her up short just in time to save himself from a boot in the groin. But she was quick, using their proximity to one another to snatch his left-hand Colt from its holster. Nathan caught her right wrist in his left hand, forcing her to drop the revolver, and again she drove a boot toward his groin. He caught her right foot with his right hand, and with a firm grip on wrist and foot, he swept her off the g
round, slamming her down flat on her back. Her head struck hard and she went limp. Nathan rolled her over, and using his bandanna, tied her hands behind her back. She now had a bloody gash on the back of her head where it had struck the edge of a stone. Retrieving his dropped Colt, Nathan spoke.

  “Now, by God, what in tarnation am I goin’ to do with you?”

  “Turn me over,” came the muffled reply. “I can’t breathe.”

  “I’m tempted to leave you on your belly,” Nathan growled, wiping his still-bleeding nose on his shirtsleeve. “Anything to water down your snake-mean disposition.”

  Finally, after much wriggling, he took pity on her, rolled her over and allowed her to lean against a stunted oak.

  “Why don’t you drag off my Levis’ and tie my ankles?” she shouted. “You won’t ever get a chance like this again.”

  “You have the body of a woman,” said Nathan grimly, “but you got slickered out of everything that goes with it.”

  Nathan endured a round of swearing that would have put a bullwhacker to shame. Behind her, avoiding her booted feet, he took hold of her shoulders and helped her to stand. For all her hostility, she would have fallen without his support.

  “Your wounds need tending,” Nathan said, “but I’ll need water. I’ll help you to your horse and then I’ll get my packhorse. I have medicine.”

  “It was your damn dog near chewed my leg off,” she said accusingly.

  “You’re lucky he didn’t chew on you some more, while you were kicking and clawing at me,” said Nathan. “He don’t take kindly to me bein’ gunned down by some low-down, no-account bushwhacker.”

  “That wasn’t my idea,” she said, refusing to look at him.

  “Maybe not,” said Nathan, “but you were all set to help cut me down in a crossfire if Cotton Blossom hadn’t changed your mind.”

  She had nothing more to say. When they reached her two picketed horses, Nathan examined them critically. One was a roan, the other a bay.