The Dawn of Fury

by Compton, Ralph

  Ezra and Josephine Grimes approached, and Nathan found it necessary to introduce them to Hickok. It was a good time to tell them he was riding out the next morning, and he did so.

  “We’ll hate to see you go,” Josephine said. “Why don’t you and Mr. Hickok take supper with us tonight? The both of you can spend your last night with us.”

  “I’d consider it a pleasure, ma’am,” said Hickok, tipping his hat.

  “Then just ride back with us,” Ezra said. “It’s quite a while until supper, but we can put on a pot of coffee, and there’s fresh apple pie.”

  Nathan was glad to get away from the town, for he had become a curiosity, as people sought to discover his motive for hunting down Milo Jenks. Nathan and Hickok rode their horses alongside the Grimes’s buckboard. Trotting along behind was Cotton Blossom, for he had refused to be left behind. However, the enormous crowd had intimidated him, and keeping him out of the church hadn’t been a problem. Despite the plainsman’s overtures, Cotton Blossom was still wary of Hickok. While the day had gotten off to a terrible start, Hickok was at his charming best and cold sober, and by suppertime, even Nathan smiled at some of Wild Bill’s tales. Following Nathan’s instructions, Ames Tilden had brought Nathan a thousand dollars from his account.

  “Invest the balance,” Nathan said, “and if you go as long as five years without hearing from me, see that it goes to Ezra and Josephine.”

  “You can count on me,” said the banker. “If you’re needing money fast, send me a telegram. I can arrange for you to get your money from any other bank. Except those in states under Reconstruction, of course.”

  “I understand,” Nathan said, “and I’m obliged.”

  Hays, Kansas. August 2, 1869.

  Fort Hays was but a mile south of the town of Hays. From Fort Hays, the government freighted all supplies to Fort Lamed, Fort Dodge, Camp Supply, Fort Sill, and other small forts. There were more than a thousand civilian clerks and “whackers” employed in the different departments at Fort Hays. Meanwhile, with the arrival of the tracks of the Kansas-Pacific Railway, the village of Hays had been elevated to the status of boomtown. Every building necessary for the making of a railroad town was located just east of the Schwaller Lumber Yard. There was the Othero and Sellars Warehouse, which did considerable freighting. North and South Main Streets ran along either side of the track from Chestnut to a little west of Fort Street. On North Main, east to west from Chestnut, was the Capless and Ryan Outfitting Store; the Leavenworth Restaurant; Hound Saloon and Faro House; Hound Kelly’s Saloon; the office of M.E. Joyce, justice of the peace; Ed Godard’s Saloon and Dance Hall; Tommy Drum’s Saloon; Evans’ Grocery Store and Post Office; Cohen’s Clothing; Paddy Welshes’ Saloon and Gambling House; the Perry Hotel; and Treat’s Candy and Peanut Stand—and that was only the beginning. Fort Street was built on the same order from Normal Avenue as far north as the courthouse square. In addition to the railroad, Hays was the stomping grounds of the buffalo hunters, skinners, and hide hunters.

  “Tarnation,” said Nathan, as he and Wild Bill rode down North Front, “I’ve never seen the like.”

  “Most of it follows the railroad,” Hickok said. “Give it a few weeks and it’ll move on, to end-of-track.”

  Nathan and Hickok took a room at Root’s Railroad Rest, a boardinghouse catering to railroad men. Each room had two bunks, and Cotton Blossom slept on the floor between them. The town had twenty-three saloons, and during his first two weeks in Hays, Nathan visited most of them, usually in the company of Hickok. Wild Bill’s reputation resulted in an almost immediate following, and he was often drunk or nearly so, as well-wishers bought him drinks. The town—and Ellis County—was without a sheriff and the governor had declared that Hays must wait until November to elect a new one. But the Ellis County Commission took drastic action and set a special election for August twenty-three.

  “I was here on my way West,” said Hickok, “and they was having a big fuss with the governor then, petitioning for an election in August.”

  “God,” said Nathan, “you must enjoy bein’ shot or shot at, wantin’ to be a lawman here. Soldiers and civilians combined, there must be near fifteen hundred men at the fort, and a good five hundred railroaders, when you consider the grading and track-laying crews.”

  Hickok laughed. “Don’t forget the gamblers, pimps, and whores,” he said.

  Wild Bill won the election handily, and those who previously hadn’t taken him seriously now looked upon him with respect. Hickok wasted no time taking advantage, trading his plains garb for a Prince Albert coat, expensive pin-stripe trousers, white shirt with ruffles, and flowing, black string tie. He was often hatless, displaying his long hair. Men who had joked about his passion for cleanliness now followed his example and visited the bathhouses daily. But for all his vanity, Hickok took his duties as sheriff seriously, seldom drawing his pistols except as clubs to subdue unruly drunks. But one such drunk refused to submit to arrest, and Hickok shot him. He was John Mulrey, a cavalryman; mortally wounded, he died the next day. Newspapers, recalling Wild Bill’s days as a scout for the Union army, were critical of the shooting.

  “Damn it,” Nathan said, “when we came here, they were giving the soldiers hell for wrecking the saloons and fighting with civilians.”

  “My friend,” said Hickok, “a man elected to public office is cursed with the responsibility of performing his duties without offending anybody. Even those who opposed him and hate his guts.”

  Nathan found some advantages to life in an end-of-track boomtown, for there were regular newspapers from Kansas City and St. Louis. While he felt some urgency for seeking out the remaining two men on his death list, he had not a clue as to where he might find them. He was spending less and less time with Wild Bill, for Hickok had become a marked man. There had been attempts on the sheriff’s life; men had fired at him from the darkness, his only clue the sound of running feet. Wild Bill became cautious, avoiding strong light, dark alleys, and sidewalks. He stalked down the center of Main Street, his eyes darting right and left. Reaching a saloon that seemed unduly noisy, he turned sharply, and shoving the doors back against the wall, advanced into the room. His back to a wall, he spoke his piece and got out. Hickok made no exceptions for what he perceived as his duty.

  Nathan’s trouble with Wild Bill arose over an incident with a drunken soldier in the Drum Saloon. Nathan was having a decent night at poker. Next to him sat a soldier who had lost as consistently as Nathan had won. The man got up, slapped his losing hand on the table, and deliberately kicked Cotton Blossom, who wasn’t in his way. Cotton Blossom responded in a predictable manner, sinking his teeth into the soldier’s leg. The man shouted in pain, reaching for his sidearm, only to find himself looking into the muzzle of Nathan’s Colt.

  “You owe him an apology,” said Nathan. “His name’s Cotton Blossom. Mr. Cotton Blossom to you.”

  “By God, I ain’t apologizin’ to nobody’s dog. I’m damned if I will.”

  “You’ll be damned if you don’t,” Nathan said coldly.

  Cotton Blossom had backed away, growling ominously. At that moment, another soldier kicked over the table and a brawl ensued which didn’t cease until Hickok fired a shot into the ceiling. When Wild Bill had been told the cause of the fight, he turned to Nathan.

  “You’ll have to keep the dog out of the saloons,” he said.

  “The dog wasn’t at fault,” Nathan replied.

  “I said you’ll have to keep the dog out of the saloons,” Hickok repeated.

  “I’ll do that, Sheriff,” said Nathan coldly.

  Nathan returned to the room he’d been sharing with Hickok. Taking his bedroll and saddlebags, he went to the livery, where he saddled his black and loaded his packhorse. He then rode east, following the rails, toward Abilene.

  Abilene, Kansas. October 15, 1869.

  Abilene had seen its day as a railroad boomtown, and Nathan found it far less rowdy than Hays had been. But its day as a cattletown had just beg
un, and Nathan was awed by the numerous cattle-holding pens with loading ramps that stretched along the tracks. It was late in the season for Texas herds, so most of the residents were store-keepers or the owners of various other kinds of businesses. Especially saloons. A bank, stores, and saloons stretched along both sides of the tracks. There were more saloons and stores along Texas Street, while to the north, a collection of shacks housed whorehouses and a few dance halls. As Nathan would learn, Abilene was a town virtually built by Joseph McCoy, an Illinois businessman. It had been McCoy who had finally persuaded the governor of Kansas to lift the long-standing quarantine against Texas cattle, permitting the herds to reach the rails at Abilene. The law had been passed by the Kansas legislature in 1855 to protect local cattle from “Texas” or tick fever, carried by Texas longhorns. Abilene’s most prominent establishment was its three-story hotel, the Drover’s Cottage. It featured a bar, a restaurant and a nearby livery, and it was the only place that had charged extra for Cotton Blossom. In fact, the clerk had been reluctant to allow the dog in the hotel at all.

  “Highfalutin damn diggings,” Nathan growled.

  “You are fortunate, sir,” the desk clerk said. “These are winter rates. They are considerably higher in spring and summer.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Nathan said. At least there was no shortage of rooms and theirs was on the first floor. He had to admit it was probably worth what he was paying, for there was deep-piled tan carpet on the floor and heavy drapes on windows that reached from the floor almost to the ceiling. The bed frame was of heavy oak, with thick mattress and strong springs beneath it, while the sheets and blankets looked new. There was a matching oak dresser with a high-standing mirror, a stool, and two chairs of oak, with padded seats and backs. A white porcelain water pitcher, matching basin, and chamber pot completed the ensemble.

  “We’ll stay here a week or two, Cotton Blossom,” Nathan said.

  There were current newspapers from Kansas City and St. Louis in the hotel lobby, thanks to regular westbound trains. Nathan found the local saloons lifeless, and spent little time there. They, like the whorehouses and dance halls, were just marking time until spring, when Texas cowboys came up the trail with their longhorn cows and their wages. After two weeks, without knowing why but lacking a better destination, Nathan rode east, toward Kansas City.

  Kansas City, Missouri. November 4, 1869.

  Long before reaching the town, Nathan could hear the shriek of steamboat whistles, for the mighty Missouri River flowed through Kansas City on its way to rendezvous with the Mississippi just north of St. Louis. The lonesome wail of the whistles brought a flood of memories that swept over Nathan’s mind like fallen autumn leaves. He thought of faraway New Orleans, of his friends the McQueens, of the lonely grave where Eulie slept. Her image faded, only to be replaced by that of Viola Hayden, to whom vengeance had meant more than life. Finally, like a recurring nightmare, he saw Lacy Mayfield come into the line of fire, saw Milo Jenks draw his Colt ...

  “My God,” he said aloud. “My God...”

  Nathan found a boardinghouse just north of Kansas City, near the river. It was far less pretentious than the Drover’s Cottage had been, and Cotton Blossom was welcomed. A widowed lady, Eppie Bolivar, owned the place, and it had the kind of informality and family meals that Nathan appreciated. There was a view of the river from the front porch, and Nathan could see the big boats bound for Omaha and points north, while others steamed south to Kansas City, St. Louis, and beyond. Nathan made the rounds of all the saloons, many of them along the riverfront, without hearing a word about the men he sought. He rode to town three times a week for newspapers, including those from St. Louis, and it wasn’t until December eighth that his persistence paid off. The big black headline of the St. Louis Globe-Democrat read: “James Gang robs, kills.” The Kansas City paper had a similar headline, and the facts in both papers were the same. Frank and Jesse James had entered the small bank at Gallatin, Missouri, pretending to have business with proprietor John W. Sheets. One of the outlaws—thought to be Jesse—had shot Sheets through the head and heart. A clerk, although wounded, had run outside, sounding the alarm and shouting that Sheets had been killed. The outlaws had reached their horses with a small amount of money, when one of them had lost a stirrup while mounting. He had been dragged some distance before freeing himself, and one of his comrades had returned for him. The pair had then escaped on one horse, stealing another from a farmer outside town.

  There had been witnesses, and one witness had mentioned a third outlaw who had held the horses. The Kansas City paper had printed a reward dodger being circulated by the Pinkertons in their unrelenting determination to capture the James gang. There were no photographs, just the names; below the names of Frank and Jesse was a third name: Ringo Tull! Long ago, in Virginia, that had been one of seven names burned indelibly into Nathan’s Stone’s mind. Somewhere there might be another man who bore that name, but Nathan didn’t think so. Only one of the seven had changed his name, and that had been to escape the unsavory reputation he had acquired in Denver. Outlaws—at least on the frontier—had their own kind of vanity that led them to use their own names. There was Ben Thompson, Wild Bill Longley, John Wesley Hardin, Clay Allison, Frank and Jesse James, and the list went on. It was the first lead Nathan had encountered in months. He rode back and said good-bye to Mrs. Bolivar, saddled the black, loaded his packhorse, and set out for Gallatin, Missouri. Cotton Blossom loped ahead, and they reached Gallatin an hour before noon. The bank was closed, and Nathan soon discovered the reason. Up one of the shaded streets Nathan could see a church steeple and he heard the moan of an organ. On Thursday afternoon it could scarcely be anything but a funeral. Nathan rode slowly toward the church. It was a poor time to ask questions, but he needed to know in which direction the James gang had ridden after the robbery. The black hearse with its teams of matched blacks waited outside the church. The black-garbed man beside it had to be the undertaker, and it was to him Nathan spoke.

  “Pardner, is this ... Mr. Sheets, from the bank?”

  “It is, and if you’re from some newspaper ...”

  “I’m not,” said Nathan. “I have an interest in capturing the James gang, and I had hoped I might talk to some of the witnesses.”

  “Sheriff Kilmer’s inside. Wait and talk to him.”

  “Thanks,” Nathan said. “I’ll do that.”

  Nathan waited across the wide street, well out of the way, until the grim proceeding was over the pallbearers brought out the coffin. When the hearse rolled away, most of the mourners followed, some mounted, some afoot. Nathan left his horses and walked across the street, approaching a tall, thin man with a star pinned to his cowhide vest.

  “You’re Sheriff Kilmer, I reckon,” said Nathan.

  “I reckon I am. I’ve already talked to the Pinkertons. You a bounty hunter?”

  “No,” Nathan said. “This is a personal thing. One of the James gang had a hand in murdering my family. Just to get him, I’ll turn the whole bunch in, if I can. The reward has nothing to do with it.”

  “They ain’t much to tell,” said the sheriff. “I got up a posse, pronto. We trailed the varmints north to the Des Moines river, and that’s where we lost ‘em. Just tee-total lost ’em.”

  “How many riders?”

  “Three,” the sheriff said. “I know the damn newspapers didn’t mention a third man, but we tracked three horses. Trouble is, that’s farm country, and there’s wagon roads crossin’ that river at every shallows. All them varmints had to do was keep their horses in the water till they got to the first wagon crossin’. There they could of got out, mixin’ tracks of their horses in with God knows how many others. Pinkertons lost ’em, just like we did.”

  “The papers said one of them lost his horse and that they stole another.”

  “That they did,” said the sheriff. “Took old Dan Smoot’s bay, and he’s been givin’ me hell ever since.”

  “What became of the stray horse, the o
ne that belonged to the outlaws?”

  “Why ... I dunno,” the sheriff said. “We had three riders to foller, and we all lit out after ’em, hell for leather. It was dark when we got back to town.”

  “Thanks,” Nathan said. “It won’t bother you if I try my luck?”

  “None whatsoever,” said the sheriff.

  Nathan mounted his horse, and leading the packhorse, set out down the street toward the bank. It suited his purpose perfectly that all or most of the town had followed the unfortunate banker’s body to the cemetery. There had been no rain, nothing to destroy the sign, and he quickly found where the outlaw had been dragged. It was equally easy to find where he had managed to free himself from the stirrup, and from there the tracks of the freed horse led west. Most western men—outlaws included—had a favorite horse, and if set loose, that horse would return to the nearest corral it considered home. With that in mind, Nathan set out to trail the horse. He soon discovered part of the calk on the left rear shoe was missing, and he sighed with satisfaction. With that kind of edge, he could trail the animal over any wagon road, through innumerable other tracks. It all depended on how long the outlaw had owned the horse, how long the James gang had been holed up at some particular place, and whether or not they felt safe in returning to that place, following the Gallatin bank robbery. The gang had gone to great lengths to lose the sheriffs posse and the Pinkertons, and that argued favorably toward their return to a favored hideout. Nathan had to ride carefully, for he had no idea where the trail would lead, but with the outlaws riding their horses in the water, they must ride north or south until they struck off along a well-traveled wagon road. If his thinking was running true, this horse he was following must, at one of these wagon crossings, turn east or west. Slowly but surely, the trail he followed veered northeast, toward the Des Moines river. When the horse had reached the river, the animal hadn’t crossed, but had traveled south. Nathan followed, feeling he was safe until the trail turned east or west, along one of the numerous wagon crossings. Nathan estimated they had traveled at least ten miles to the south, crossing many wagon roads, when the horse he was trailing suddenly veered west. He had indeed taken one of the wagon crossings, and his tracks were mixed with those of many other horses. Nathan was all the more thankful for the broken calk, for he could follow the trail easily. But when the horse left the wagon road, he must ride with caution, for he had no idea where the outlaw stronghold might be.