Nathan turned away, furious. How did you defend a woman’s honor when she had none, when she had willingly become a whore?
Nathan had started up the stairs, uncertain as to what he should do, when somewhere ahead of him there was a shot. He took the steps two at a time and when he reached the upper hall, doors were open and men looked questioningly at one another. When a second shot rang out, Nathan was better able to place it. He started down the row of doors on the other side of the hall. When he tried the first two, he found them locked, but the third opened easily. Nathan stepped into the room, aware that others were behind him. A lamp burned beside the bed, and on it lay Nate Rankin and Viola Hayden. Wearing only his socks, Rankin clutched his bloody belly.
“She ... shot me,” he groaned. “She ... gut-shot ... me ...”
Beside him lay the naked body of Viola Hayden, a Colt in her limp hand and the side of her head a bloody mess. Nathan backed away, sick to his very soul. Others had seen the gory sight, and there were shouts of confusion.
“Rankin’s still alive,” a man bawled. “Somebody get the doc.”
But Viola Hayden had known what she was doing, and by the time the doctor arrived, Rankin had joined her in death. Nathan walked slowly down the hall, toward the stairs, recalling the last words he had heard her speak.
I’ll never forget. Never.
“Neither will I, Viola,” he said aloud. “Neither will I ...”
Chapter 28
Nathan had no idea where Jesse Hayden was buried, but he was feeling a burden to lay Viola to rest beside her father. It was still early—not more than an hour after Viola’s terrible act of vengeance—when Nathan went looking for Captain Jennings.
“Yes,” Jennings said, “I know where Jesse’s buried. There’s a little graveyard not far from where they lived. In the morning we’ll rent a buckboard and take her home.”
On Monday, August thirty-first, Nathan and Jennings claimed Viola’s body from a local undertaker. They split the cost of having her laid out, and of a decent coffin. With Nathan driving the buckboard and Jennings riding alongside, they were about to leave when Ben Thompson rode up.
“I didn’t know the lady,” he said, “but I’ve heard she had cause, and I admire her for playing out her hand. I’m riding along to pay my respects.”
Captain Jennings said nothing. Nathan, knowing the Ranger’s opinion of Thompson, spoke.
“Come along, then,” said Nathan.
Thompson rode on one side of the buckboard and Jennings on the other. It was still early and Austin had not yet come alive. They reached the little church with its adjoining burying ground shortly past noon. It came as a pleasant surprise to Nathan to find many people gathered before the church. One of them was a black-robed preacher.
“They were neighbors to the Haydens,” Captain Jennings said. “I sent a rider out last night, believing they all would want to know. The grave should be ready.”
It was, and the lifelong friends of the Haydens had not forgotten. They wept, heaping wildflowers on the new-made grave beside that of Jesse Hayden.
Austin, Texas. September 2, 1868.
Nathan had heard of Ben Thompson’s younger brother, Billy. In some ways, it was said, Billy was the complete opposite of Ben, while in other ways they were disturbingly alike. Like Ben, Billy had a short fuse, was moody and quick to take offense, and was lightning fast with a Colt. Ben had a room at the Capitol Hotel, and it was there—in the lobby—that Nathan met Billy for the first time.
“Let’s go eat,” Billy suggested, “and then find us a poker game.”
After supper they went to De Oro saloon, where Ben and Billy bought into a game of five-card stud. Recalling the fury in Ben’s eyes after his loss at the Cattleman’s Emporium, Nathan backed off. When it came to gambling, one Thompson at a time was plenty. But Billy lasted for only a few hands. He began sharing a bottle with William Burke, an army sergeant, and Burke wanted to leave.
“I’m goin’ to a whorehouse ’fore I git too drunk,” said Burke. “Any of you man enough to go with me?”
“Hell,” Billy said, “anything you can do, I can do better, and twice as often.”
But as it turned out, both Burke and Thompson were too drunk, for when they reached the whorehouse, three other soldiers—friends of Burke—were outside. An argument ensued and Billy Thompson left, cursing the soldiers. He returned to De Oro Saloon as Ben and Nathan were leaving. But Sergeant Burke had followed Billy.
“Damn you,” Burke shouted, “I’ll kill you.”
Billy Thompson turned, drew, and fired once. There were many witnesses to the shooting besides Nathan and Ben, two of whom were soldiers who knew Burke. To everybody’s surprise, including Billy Thompson, Sergeant William Burke was unarmed. There was ugly talk directed at Billy Thompson, and the military was about to become involved, for the soldiers had quickly mounted and had ridden away. None of this was lost on Ben Thompson.
“Billy,” said Ben, “get your horse and let’s ride.”
They rode out without so much as speaking to Nathan. It was still early, but he returned to his room at the hotel. Tomorrow he would ride out, bound for Colorado. While he had a good friend in Captain Jennings and a certain liking for fiery Ben Thompson, he felt the need to leave Austin, for strong on his mind was the tragic loss of Viola Hayden.
Nathan had checked out of his hotel and taken his horse from the livery, and was having breakfast when Captain Jennings joined him.
“I saw you when you came in,” Jennings said, “and you looked like a man about to take to the trail.”
“I’m bound for Colorado,” said Nathan. “I left my dog with friends there and I’m afraid he’ll forget who I am.”
“Our friend Ben Thompson’s in jail,” Jennings said. “The Federals are considering filing charges against him for helping Billy escape last night. He could have beaten that, but Ben’s never been one to leave well enough alone. Five years back, he had a shooting scrape with James Moore. Last night, after helping Billy escape, Ben ran into Moore again, in a saloon. They had words and Ben shot and wounded Moore. Ben went before a magistrate a while ago. Would you believe he cussed the man and threatened to kill him, once he got his gun?”
“God,” said Nathan, “what’s going to happen to him now?”
“He’ll do some time,” Jennings said. “Just watch the newspapers.”
Nathan considered visiting Ben Thompson before riding out, but what good would it do? The little gambler would be in a vile mood, and Nathan’s mind was burdened enough. He rode northwest, following the Rio Colorado. Despite the Comanche raids in northwest Texas, Nathan left the Colorado when it made its westward turn, riding in a more northerly direction. Before reaching the Red, he crossed another river whose name he didn’t know.29
Reaching the Red, Nathan found tracks of unshod horses, but they were many days old. Searching his memory, he tried to recall the other rivers that lay ahead. After the Red, there was the Canadian, the North Canadian, the Cimarron, and finally, after he was into Colorado, the Arkansas. Nathan never heard the shot, for the slug struck him above the left ear and flung him out of the saddle. The black horse stopped, looking back at its fallen rider, but Nathan Stone didn’t move. Suddenly a bearded apparition appeared. His hair long and bushy, he wore no hat, while animal hide covered his thin body and his feet. Under his arm was a .50-caliber Sharps. The black horse was about to spook when the strange man spoke. The black perked up its ears and allowed the stranger to take the reins. He led the horse to where Nathan lay. Kneeling, he felt for a pulse.
“The varmint’s alive,” he said aloud, “an’ he don’t look like no damn Yankee.”
He lay down the Sharps long enough to hoist Nathan across his saddle. He then led the black north, toward the distant Canadian River. Reaching the river, he followed it west until its channel became deeper and its banks rose higher and higher as he progressed. Finally there was nowhere to walk, shy of the water, and he stepped into it, leading the h
orse along the shallows. He eventually reached a dry shelf that was the start of a break in the river’s high north bank. The entrance to the cave was such that it was invisible unless one waded the river westward. The stranger led the black horse inside, and after easing the still-unconscious Nathan to the cave’s stone floor, he unbuckled the pistol belt, removing Nathan’s twin Colts. He then unsaddled the black horse. Finally he stirred up the coals from an earlier fire, and filling a blackened pot from the river, put some water on to heat. Suddenly Nathan groaned and stirred, lifting a hand to his bloodied head.
“Git yer hand away from there, boy. I’ll fix it when the water’s hot.”
Slowly Nathan sat up, shaking his head. Finally he was able to focus his eyes on the bearded old man before him.
“Where ... am I? Who ... am I?” “Yer in my cave, an’ yer my only son, Jed Whittaker. Who else would ye be?”
“I ... don’t know,” Nathan said. “How did I ... get here?”
“I brung ye here. Me, Jeremiah Whittaker, yer pa. Found ye upriver a ways, after some Yankee shot ye out of yer saddle. They’s a bad wound upside yer head. Lay back on yer good side an’ I’ll see to yer hurt.”
From a small brass-bound trunk he took a woman’s petticoat and ripped a strip from it. This he soaked in the hot water and cleansed Nathan’s wound. He then took a tin of salve from the trunk and applied some of the ointment to Nathan’s wound. Another wide, folded strip from the petticoat provided a bandage. He then stood back to admire his handiwork.
“Be good as new in a week,” Whittaker said. “I knowed ye wasn’t kilt in the war, like they said. Takes more’n damn Yankees to kill a Whittaker. I knowed ye’d come ridin’ back. Damn it, why couldn’t yer ma of lived to see it? That’s Lillie’s things back yonder in the trunk.”
“I don’t know anything about any war,” said Nathan, “and I don’t remember you or anyone named Lillie.”
“Ye been addled by that gash on yer head,” Whittaker said. “Rest up a spell an’ it’ll all come back.”
“Tell me about the war, about the past,” said Nathan. “Maybe that will help me to remember.”
“We had us a place up in Kansas, along the Cimarron,” Whittaker said, “an’ yer ma throwed a fit when ye joined the Rebs. Then come that day in sixty-three, when we got word ye was dead. Lillie took sick an’ she never was well again. She died, an’ when the Reb deserters an’ renegades took to raid-in’ us, they was worse than the damn Yankees. I loaded as much as our mule, old Mose, could tote, an’ I lit out down here. The blamed wolves got old Mose last winter.”
“The war ... what about the war ...”
“The war ain’t never gonna end, Jed. That’s why I’m so glad to see ye come a-ridin’ home. It’s a mite late in the year now, an’ the first snow’s a-comin’ soon. But come spring, son, with ye sidin’ me, we’re takin’ back our place on the Cimarron. Rebs or Yanks, we’ll kill all the varmints.”
The snow came and they lived on deer and elk downed by Jeremiah and his Sharps. Nathan’s wound healed but his memory continued to fail him. Try as he might, he could remember nothing prior to the time he came to his senses in Jeremiah’s cave. Gradually he learned a little more about his surroundings. The black horse had to be taken beyond the confines of the cave and the river banks for grazing, and for a lack of grain, the animal grew gaunt. Despite Nathan’s lack of memory, something stood between him and Jeremiah Whittaker, and he could never think of the old man as his father. Occasionally he wore the twin Colts, and as he handled them, his mind tried vainly to reach back into his past, to grasp some long-forgotten experience.
Denver, Colorado Territory. January 15, 1869.
Despite the letter received from Nathan the past fall, Lacy Mayfield had begun to fear the worst. Nathan well knew of the terrible winters on the high plains, and she couldn’t imagine him delaying his return this long, unless he was waiting for spring. While Lacy’s success on the stage was exciting, and her future in Denver seemed assured, that wasn’t enough. Her mentor, Eva Barton, had been accepted by a professional troupe and was only seldom in Denver. It was bitter cold outside, with snow drifted high and the promise of more. Lacy went into the Grimes kitchen and from the ever-present pot, poured herself some coffee. Ezra Grimes sat at the table, snow melting off his boots, nursing his hot cup of coffee. Beside the kitchen stove, where he spent more and more of the cold winter days and nights, lay Cotton Blossom.
“I brought the paper from town,” Ezra said.
“Thank you,” Lacy said. “At least we can read about places where there’s something going on besides a snowstorm.”
“That’s because news takes so long to get out here,” said Ezra. “Some of what you’ll read about likely happened last fall.”
“Here’s one,” Lacy said. “Ben Thompson was involved in a shooting in Austin, Texas last September. He’s serving two years in the state prison. His brother Billy killed a soldier the same day, but escaped.”
“I’ve heard a lot about the Thompson brothers,” said Ezra, “and none of it’s been good.”
“Lord,” Lacy said, “here’s something that happened in Arkansas not even two weeks ago, on January sixth. The killer, Cullen Baker, was poisoned by his own father-in-law.”
“Josephine came into the kitchen and stirred up the fire in the stove. Cotton Blossom stood up, watching her expectantly. Ezra laughed, winking at Lacy.
“Josephine’s done ruint Nathan’s dog,” he said. “Every time you throw a chunk of wood on the fire, Cotton Blossom thinks the cooking’s about to start.”
“I’ll say one thing for him,” said Josephine, “since he showed up, I’ve never had to throw anything out.”
Milo Jenks’s relationship with Laura Evans was short lived, for Jenks was a womanizer and a dandy who used his shared proprietorship in the Bagnio Saloon as a means of expanding his conquests. Evans soon found it in her best interests to dispose of him, and did so by paying him five thousand dollars for his share of the Bagnio. That suited Jenks, for his original investment had more than doubled, enabling him, as he saw it, to advance to a higher level in Denver’s business and social order. He changed his name to Monte Juno, bought a struggling saloon and renamed it Monte’s Hacienda. With the exception of beer, he limited his drinks to rye and bourbon, catering to patrons with an “educated thirst.” Contrary to prevailing custom, he eliminated the upstairs whorehouse and installed a gambling casino.
Jenks—now Juno—began dressing more elegantly than ever, attending the theatre, and tipping his hat to the ladies. Especially the pretty, unescorted ones. He would conduct himself like a gentleman, setting his ambition higher than the saloon girls and whores who had always been part of his checkered life. Once he had adopted this new standard, he began eyeing women boldly, and some who never knew Milo Jenks existed began showing some interest in this Monte Juno. But the girl who caught and held his eye appeared nightly on the stage of the Palace Theatre. He began his pursuit of Lacy Mayfield in mid-January and it was the last day in April before she finally agreed to see him.
North Texas, on the Canadian River. 30 May 15, 1869.
Nathan often spent his days staring into the murky waters of the river, his tangled mind a confusion of names, places, and almost-remembered events. He no longer listened to old Jeremiah Whittaker and his recounting of a past that meant nothing. While he didn’t know how he came to be in the old man’s company, he had a feeling—and that feeling was growing stronger—that he was in no way related to Whittaker. He had gone through his bedroll and his saddlebags, sharing his provisions with Whittaker until they were gone. His hope of finding some means of identifying himself was short lived. There was the account—from an Austin newspaper—of a pair of outlaws suspected of a series of robberies, but there were no names. Was he one of those hunted outlaws? Then there was the watch. Was he in some way affiliated with the United States government? He had more than three hundred dollars in double eagles. Had he earned the money or stolen it?
Whittaker had become sullen as a result of Nathan’s continued indifference and obvious inability to recall anything. There were times when the two of them looked at one another across the fire, one as hostile as the other. Whittaker did all the hunting, traveling afoot, refusing to ride the black horse. Nathan had grown thin, the result of a continuous diet of nothing but elk, venison, or an occasional wild turkey. Finally the day came when the old man didn’t return from the hunt. Despite the lack of rapport between them, Nathan felt lost, and he slept little. He waited until almost noon of the following day before making a decision. He saddled the black, buckled on his Colts, took his bedroll and saddlebags and rode out to look for Whittaker. He rode east, following the river, and when he found Whittaker, the old man lay face down, his back bristling with arrows. His Sharps and ammunition were gone.
There were tracks of many unshod horses that led in from the north. The tracks continued eastward along the river. Whittaker had talked some about the Indians—the Comanches—and despite having been at odds with Whittaker most of the time, he found himself furious at the cowardly manner in which the old man had been killed. He slid the Winchester from the saddle boot with intentions of seeking vengeance, a question troubling his mind. Had he ever shot a man? In seeking his identity, he had practiced drawing the twin Colts, and his dexterity with the weapons now came to his defense. At some time in his life he had been forced to defend himself. If he must again use these weapons against men, was he not justified? He rode around a bend in the river and immediately it began to widen. He soon discovered he was riding along the north bank of what had become a substantial lake.31
Nathan reined up. The tracks of the Indian horses had been crossed and recrossed by other animals coming to water, meaning that the Indians might be as much as a day ahead. The wind had risen, coming out of the northwest, and the sun had been swallowed by a mass of clouds rolling in from the west. He might have time to bury old Whittaker, for there was a spade back at the cave beside the river. But Nathan never reached Whittaker’s body or the cave. He heard the thump of hooves and the excited shouts of the men who straddled the horses. They were riding from the north, seeking to head Nathan off. While they weren’t quite within range, those who were nearest were already loosing arrows. He counted at least a dozen, and shoving the Winchester back into the boot, he rode for his life. Seeing that he was trying to outride them, the Indians turned their mounts west, paralleling the river. The storm was all that saved Nathan. Thunder rumbled and the rain was whipped in on the wind in blinding gray sheets. Rounding the bend in the river, the black horse continued straight ahead, thundering into a stand of trees. It was dark as night and Nathan never saw the low-hanging limb. It swept him from the saddle and he was thrown flat on his back on stoney ground. Minus his rider, the black horse stopped, waiting patiently. When Nathan finally came to his senses, the rain had stopped and night was upon him. His head hurt like fury, and when he put his hand to the gash, he could feel the blood on his fingers. Dark as it was, he could see the black horse standing near, waiting.
The Dawn of Fury Page 39
