“Black horse,” he said aloud, “what’n hell happened and where are we? For sure, it ain’t Colorado. It’s almighty warm for September, too.”
Leading the black, Nathan got out into the open where he could see the stars in a clearing sky. He was still wet from the rain, the wind was cold, and he felt like he hadn’t eaten in days. He dug around in his saddlebags seeking food—perhaps jerked beef—and found nothing.
“By God,” he grumbled, “somebody’s cleaned me out, but what damn fool would take food and leave double eagles?”
He mounted the black, and following the stars, rode north. He knew not where he was, his last recollection being of the Canadian river, in northwest Texas. He knew only that he needed food, and occasionally resting the black, he rode until dawn. The sun came up in a sky so intensely blue it hurt his eyes. Finally, when the chill was out of his bones, he lay down and slept for what he judged was two hours. He sat up, watching the black graze.
“God Almighty, feller, what’s happened to you? You was grained every day in Austin. Now you’re a rack of bones.”
For that matter, so was he. Saddling the black, he rode on. Before noon he crossed a river that he decided must be the North Canadian, and he was sure of it when he reached another in just a few minutes. This, he was virtually certain, was the Cimarron. The crossing of it would take him into southern Kansas, and if he continued due north, he judged he was not more than half a day’s ride from Fort Dodge. But Fort Dodge was a military installation not catering to civilian needs, and he doubted it had changed since he and Lacy were there. He needed grain for his horse and food and rest for himself, and after crossing the Cimarron, he rode eastward along the river. He was hopeful of finding a village where he might at least stay the night. The wind was out of the west, caressing him with moist fingers, promising more rain. Finally he reached the bend in the Cimarron where it flowed southeast into Indian Territory.
“Damn,” he said aloud, “I might ride plumb to Missouri before finding grub and a bed.”
He was sorely tempted to just ride north and take his chances at Fort Dodge when he came upon a clearly defined wagon road from the northwest. The ruts told him there had been more than one wagon and the direction that they had been going to or from Fort Dodge. The trail led east as far as he could see, and he rode on. He reached a stand of willows, and from the runoff, he realized there was a substantial spring. He rode around, still following the trail, and came upon a sprawling, false-fronted building built of logs.32 There was a crudely lettered sign hanging from a pole that read: Trade goods, grub, whiskey, rooms. There wasn’t another building anywhere in sight. Along the front ran a hitch rail and tied to it, heads drooping, stood three horses. It was the most unlikely place in the world for a trading post until one considered the proximity of Indian Territory. This opportunist, whoever he was, had gone after the owlhoot trade, catering to men who dared not venture any closer to civilization. The prices would be outrageous. With that in mind, Nathan tied the black alongside the other horses and entered the building. He wasn’t too surprised that one side of it had been devoted to a saloon. There were just four tables and the three men who sat at one of them eyed him suspiciously. Two of them had skewed their chairs around so that they all faced the door. Nathan didn’t even look at them, going straight to the part of the building that was devoted to goods of all kinds. But the patrons of this isolated post were not permitted to walk freely among the counters piled with goods. A whiskered, barrel-chested man wearing run-over boots, grimy Levi’s, and an undershirt approached. His sweaty, florid face suggested that he had drunk too much of his own whiskey.
“What are you needin’, pilgrim?” There are no friendliness in his eyes.
“Grain for my horse,” Nathan said, “and grub for me. Enough coffee, hard tack, bacon, and jerked beef to last a week. Do you have airtights?”
“Peaches an’ tomatoes. Dollar apiece.”
“Half a dozen of each,” said Nathan. “Twenty-five pounds of grain, in burlap.”
“Forty dollars for the lot,” said the storekeeper, with a straight face.
It was four times too much, but Nathan paid. As he was about to leave, a calendar caught his eye. Pages had been turned forward to May 1869.
“That calendar says May 1869,” Nathan said. “That can’t be.”
“Sorry it don’t meet with your approval, bucko, but this is the eighteenth day of May. Last year was 1868. You got some reason for believin’ otherwise?”
Nathan turned away, saying nothing. The storekeeper had spoken so loud the three men at the saloon table had heard and Nathan could hear them laughing. They all watched with amusement as he made his way to the door, but his mind was occupied with the startling thing he had just learned. There was more than eight months of his life for which he was unable to account. What had happened to him? He loaded his food into the saddlebags and divided the burlap sack of grain behind his saddle. He hadn’t liked the looks of the trio in the saloon. He rode back the way he had come, determined to put as much distance between himself and this owlhoot paradise as he could. The bed and town grub would have to wait. He could still reach the Arkansas before dark, and might be fortunate enough to find shelter from the coming storm.
But the rain found him two hours from sundown. There was no lightning, and for that he was thankful. He rode on, following the wagon ruts that had led him to the trading post, virtually certain if he continued following them northwest, they would lead him to Fort Dodge. He didn’t reach the fort until after dark, and the rain hadn’t let up. The sentry refused to open the gate, and called the sergeant of the guard.
“I’m Sergeant Helms,” the soldier said. “We do not admit civilians after dark. If you’re needing food and quarters, there’s a tent city eight miles upriver, on the west bank.”
“Tent city?”
“Yes,” Helms said. “There’s plans for a town. The railroad’s coming.”
Nathan rode on. He had heard talk of a railroad, but he had also heard the Union Pacific had priority. But the tents were there. One was stocked as a mercantile, the second had been set up as a cafe, while the third was serving as a hotel. A cot and blankets for the night cost two dollars, and Nathan paid. Sleeping dry would be worth it. He lugged his saddle, bedroll, and saddlebags into the tent. He then rubbed down the black, despite the drizzling rain, and then fed the animal a good bait of rye. He then went to the makeshift cafe. There were X-frame tables and benches, and a dozen men were eating and talking. The menu consisted of thick beef stew, cornbread, and black coffee. Nathan paid for two orders. While he ate, he listened to the talk, and by the time he was finishing his coffee, most of the men had departed. Nathan directed a question at the two that remained.
“Is it true there’s goin’ to be a town here?”
“Damn right,” said one of the men. “It’s already been surveyed, and lots are going for two hundred and fifty dollars.”
“Seems a mite soon for building a town,” Nathan said. “The railroad won’t be here for a while, I hear.”
“They’re sayin’ two years,” the second man replied. “Folks with money is buying up all they can. Once the railroad gets here, these lots will go for a thousand dollars and more.”33
Nathan returned to the tent where he had rented a cot. Removing his gunbelt, his boots, and his damp clothes, he stretched out under the blankets, listening to the patter of rain on the canvas above. He fell asleep pondering those months of his life for which he could not account.
Chapter 29
Denver, Colorado Territory. May 29, 1869.
Nathan took his time, following the Arkansas west, spending the night in several villages where there was some kind of hotel. As soon as he was sure he was in Colorado, he rode northwest. He reached Cherry Creek Manor in the early afternoon and found Ezra Grimes at the barn, Cotton Blossom with him. The dog raced madly around Nathan, circling the horse, and when he dismounted there was a glad reunion. When Nathan finally freed himse
lf from the excited Cotton Blossom, he walked to meet Ezra, who was grinning.
“I didn’t want to get between you and him,” Ezra said. “I reckoned I’d wait my turn.”
“He looks some better than when I last saw him,” said Nathan. “Thanks.”
“Thank Josephine. She fed him about six times a day, soon as he got so he’d eat, and he’s had plenty of rest. You go on to the house, and I’ll rub down your horse.”
“I’m obliged,” Nathan said. “God, it seems like I’ve been gone forever. Is Lacy home?”
“No,” Ezra said. “Tell Josephine to put the coffee on. I’ll join you in a few minutes.”
Nathan walked on toward the house, wondering what had happened while he had been gone. When Nathan had mentioned Lacy, Ezra’s lips had tightened and all the joviality had gone out of him. Cotton Blossom trotted beside Nathan as though fearful he might disappear again. Josephine heard him when he hit the first step and met him on the porch with a hug. The moment the door was opened, Cotton Blossom bolted into the kitchen.
“Cotton Blossom,” said Nathan, “mind your manners. Out.”
“Oh, let him stay,” Josephine said. “He slept by the stove while he was hurt, and by the time he had healed, he just kind of made a place for himself beside the stove. My land, I’m glad to see you. We expected you last September. October at the latest. We were afraid something had happened to you.”
“Something did happen to me,” said Nathan, “and I’m not sure what. Why don’t we wait for Ezra and I won’t have to tell it but once.”
“But there’s Lacy ...”
She caught herself, but Nathan was quick to note that same look of consternation he had seen in Ezra’s face.
“While we’re waiting for Ezra,” he said, “why don’t you tell me all about Lacy? I reckon she’s made a name for herself on the stage.”
“That she has,” Josephine said, “but that’s not what concerns you, is it?”
“No, ma’am,” said Nathan. “She’s making a name for herself in other ways?”
“Ezra’s told me to mind my own business,” Josephine said doubtfully. “I’d not want to cause trouble ...”
“If there’s somethin’ I need to know,” said Nathan, “I’d take it as a favor if you told me. I won’t fault you if it’s bad news. You have my word.”
“I told Ezra you should know” she replied, “and that it would be better coming from one of us. She’s the gossip of the town.”
“Then tell me,” Nathan said. “I had no hold on her. As long as I’ve been away, I can’t blame her for making a life for herself.”
“Nor could anyone else,” said Josephine, “if she hadn’t done it with that no-account Monte Juno.”
“Who is he?”
“He owns a saloon and gambling casino called Monte’s Hacienda. He’s taken to showin’ up here in the evenings with a buckboard, driving Lacy to the theatre, and he doesn’t always bring her back. She started seeing him the last week in April, and I’ve lost count of the times she’s been out all night. He came for her last night, and we haven’t seen her since.”
“I can’t fault a man for owning a saloon,” Nathan said. “There’s been times when I’ve worked as a house dealer. I won’t say it’s fair, but when a woman gets a bad name, it’s usually blamed on her conduct, not the hombre she runs with.”
“I understand,” said Josephine, “but this Monte Juno has a reputation in town that goes beyond his owning this saloon and gambling place. He dresses well and has the ways of a gentleman, and Lacy sees only that.”
“I reckon I’ll just have to wait and see what she has to say for herself,” Nathan said. “I’m obliged for you having told me.”
At that point, Ezra came in, wiping his hands on the legs of his Levi’s.
“Now,” he said, looking at Josephine, “I reckon you’ve heard all the bad news I told Josey to keep to herself. What can you tell us about your travels?”
Nathan told them much of what he had experienced, but not of the tragic vengeance of Viola Hayden. Instead, he concentrated on the months that had passed for which he couldn’t account.
“Sounds like amnesia,” Ezra said. “A heavy blow to the head can shuck your memory, leaving you with no recollection of who you are, where you’re from, or where you’re going. Another blow can bring it all back to you.”
“Maybe that’s what happened to me,” said Nathan. “I came to my senses in a stand of trees, right after a storm, with a nasty cut on the back of my head.”
“If there was lightning,” Ezra said, “it might have spooked your horse. A good, strong tree limb can unhorse a man almighty fast in the dark.”
There was the sound of footsteps on the back porch. Lacy Mayfield stood in the doorway, her eyes wide and her face pale with shock.
“Hello, Lacy,” said Nathan.
“After all these months,” she snapped, “is that all you have to say?”
“I doubt anything I have to say will interest you,” said Nathan. “I reckon what you have to tell me will be more interesting.”
“Ezra,” Josephine said, “let’s you and me set on the front porch awhile.”
Lacy said no more until Ezra and Josephine were well out of hearing. It took her only a few seconds to find her tongue, and what she had to say came as a shock even to Nathan.
“So they told you. I don’t give a damn what they think, or what anybody thinks. I’m moving to town. I just came back for my things.”
“It’s your life,” said Nathan mildly. He refused her the satisfaction of knowing that he was disappointed in her, that he cared what she did, and that further infuriated her.
“Damn you,” she screamed, “you don’t care, do you?”
“Would it matter if I did?”
She then resorted to tears, but they were tears of anger and frustration. He said nothing, watching her. Finally she stomped off into another part of the house, to the room that she had been occupying. Nathan got up and went out the back door, Cotton Blossom following. Between the house and the barn there was a buckboard, a pair of matched bays hitched to it, and on the seat, a man about Nathan’s age. He was dressed all in black, including his hat. Taking his time, Nathan approached, and when the man turned to face him, his hand was near the butt of his Colt. His eyes hard and cold, Nathan spoke.
“When a man greets me with his hand on his pistol, I get the feeling he’s been up to something that won’t stand the light of day.”
“I’ve heard of you,” he said, with a contemptuous half-smile. “You’re Nathan Stone, the man-killer. Well, I’m Monte Juno, and you don’t look so damn tall to me.”
“I look taller when you’re on your back in the dirt,” said Nathan,“but I won’t kill a man without cause. I can laugh at you and pity her, and that’s all either of you are worth. But if I ever have cause to kill you, then you’d best be wearing your buryin’ clothes.”
Before Juno could respond—if he had intended to—Lacy walked stiffly past Nathan without speaking. Juno reached down for her carpetbag and then gave her a hand up to the buckboard seat. He clucked to the horses and wheeled the buckboard, and Nathan watched them as they rounded the house and were soon out of sight on the road toward town. With a sigh he walked back to the house, but instead of going into the kitchen, he continued on around to the front porch. Ezra and Josephine sat on the top step and Nathan hunkered on the ground.
“I brought her here,” Nathan said. “If she left owing you, I’ll pay.”
“She’s paid through the end of the month,” said Josephine, “and that’s two more days. Anyway, we wouldn’t expect that of you.”
“I’ll pay for another month for me, the black, and my packhorse,” Nathan said. “I need some rest and I reckon the black does too.”
Despite the trouble with Lacy, Nathan welcomed Josephine’s bountiful supper. Banker Ames Tilden arrived late, and he seemed genuinely glad to see Nathan.
“After supper,” said Tilden, “we need to t
alk.”
When the meal was over, Nathan followed the banker out to the front porch. Tilden leaned on the rail and Nathan leaned there beside him.
“We had an agreement,” Tilton said, “that in the event of your death, Lacy Mayfield was to receive your estate. I believe you should know that she has gone to great lengths to have you declared legally dead so that all your funds—including interest—could be turned over to her.”
“I’m not a damned bit surprised,” said Nathan. “She didn’t succeed?”
“She did not,” Tilden replied. “There’s a legal procedure involved, and just last fall she seemed excited at having received a letter from you. Since you had to be alive to write that letter, I persuaded her legal counsel they were wasting their time.”
The Dawn of Fury Page 40
