The Dawn of Fury

by Compton, Ralph

  He rode for almost an hour, and by the time the trail left the wagon road, sundown was near. Nathan dismounted, looping the reins of the black and the lead rope of the packhorse over a pine limb. On foot, he continued to the top of a ridge. In the valley below was a farmhouse. A few hundred yards to the east of the house was a barn, and in an adjoining corral, Nathan counted five horses. He had heard Frank and Jesse James had friends all over Missouri, otherwise respectable people who harbored the outlaws. If this were the case here, he might have trouble rooting them out. He returned to his horses. When it was dark enough, he would then approach the house, hoping to prove or disprove his suspicions. If there were dogs involved, his reaching the house would be difficult, with or without Cotton Blossom. While he could command the dog to remain with the horses, that left him open to the very real possibility that he might stumble into one or more dogs without warning. But there was another thing to consider, if Cotton Blossom accompanied him and had the misfortune to encounter other dogs. Nothing drew attention quicker than a stomp-down good dogfight.

  Nathan was perhaps a mile west of the ridge from which he had observed the farmhouse. Here he must leave his horses. As he and Cotton Blossom chewed on jerked beef, he listened for any sound, especially of barking dogs. Fearing discovery, he had been unable to follow the trail any farther in daylight, so he didn’t know for certain the isolated farmhouse concealed the outlaws. But all evidence led him to that conclusion. Nathan had heard and read enough about Frank and Jesse James to know that they sometimes escaped a sheriff’s posse by using relays of horses. Leaving their tired horses and mounting fresh ones, they could ride a hundred miles, if necessary. When he judged it was dark enough, Nathan set out for the point where the trail he had been following led across the ridge. In the house far below there was a tiny pinpoint of light.

  Nathan started down the ridge toward the light, Cotton Blossom following. He heartily wished he could communicate to the dog a need for caution, but as they progressed, he realized Cotton Blossom had learned certain things, as evidenced by his conduct. When Nathan rode the black horse, Cotton Blossom could trail ahead, but when Nathan was afoot, it meant he didn’t wish to be discovered. The dog remained slightly behind Nathan, and but for his shadow in the dim starlight, he might not have existed. Nathan circled far to the east of the house, coming in behind the barn. A horse in the adjoining corral stomped its foot and snorted. Nathan would have liked to examine the hooves of the animals, verifying the broken calk, but that was too risky. Any kind of disturbance among the horses would bring wanted men on the run, their guns blazing. Nathan approached the house from the dark side, working his way around to the lighted window. Fortunately the house had been built on the side of a slope, and the kitchen end—where the lighted window was—sat virtually on the ground.

  A lighted lamp sat on a dining room table, and while its glow was feeble, there was light enough to get a man killed, should be fool enough to stand directly before the window. Nathan kept to the side, peering in from the darkness. There were four men at the table while a woman was bringing in food from what obviously was the kitchen. Only one man had his back to the window, and Nathan guessed that man was probably the host. Two of the men—Frank and Jesse James—sat on the far side of the table, facing the window. The third man sat on Jesse’s left, at the end of the table, and Nathan studied him. His eyes were cruel, his mouth turned down at the corners in a perpetual frown, and the hat tipped back on his head was that of a Union officer. Nathan had seen enough. He slipped away, thinking. He might have shot the third man on suspicion alone, but not without exposing himself to murderous fire from both Frank and Jesse James, and had he not killed his man with the first shot, there would be no chance for another. Nor had he ever forgotten that day when the cold eyes of Jesse James had bored into him and the outlaw had promised to kill him. What bothered him most was that these outlaws were slick as calf slobber when it came to escaping. One failed shot on his part could cost him an opportunity that might never come his way again. This situation called for a posse, enough men to surround the house at dawn. Then he remembered the funeral in Gallatin, the hordes of mourners following the coffin of a man the outlaws had gunned down in the bank. Where else was he likely to find a sheriff and a posse willing and eager to ride out in the small hours of the night on the word of a stranger?

  Returning to his horses, Nathan rode back to Gallatin, taking note of various landmarks along the way. He found nobody at the small jail, but it was still early and there were lights in many windows. He had no trouble finding the little house where Sheriff Kilmer lived. He was a small-town lawman, but he was no fool. The light went out, and Kilmer spoke from behind the front door.

  “Who is it, and what do you want?”

  “I spoke to you this afternoon, after the funeral,” Nathan said, “and I want a sheriff and a posse. I’ve found the owlhoots who killed your banker.”

  “Open the door and come in,” said Kilmer. “You’re covered.”

  Nathan turned the knob and stepped into the living room. Light from another room bled in through an open door. Kilmer was fully dressed except for his boots and hat. Nathan closed the door and lifted his hands shoulder high. Only then did Kilmer ease down the hammer of his Colt and holster the weapon.

  “Set,” said the sheriff, “and talk.”

  Nathan did, and Kilmer listened, chuckling with appreciation as Nathan told of trailing the riderless horse to the isolated farm, swearing when he learned of the presence of Frank and Jesse James in the farmhouse.

  “By God, that’s Sim Hinkel’s place,” Kilmer said. “Him and Emily’s been here forty years and more. How in hell can they shelter outlaws and killers?”

  “There’s no accounting for the hombres men choose for their friends,” said Nathan. “I’m telling you what I saw. You’ll have to take my word until you see for yourself. Like I told you, I don’t care a damn about any reward or recognition. All I want is a clean shot at Ringo Tull.”

  “I can’t promise you that,” Sheriff Kilmer said. “I’ll be in charge of the posse and there’ll be no shooting unless they start it. We’ll surround the house and they’ll be ordered to surrender.”

  “Sheriff,” said Nathan, “you can’t drown a man that was born to be hung. Jesse James will never be taken alive. I understand your position, and while I don’t aim to try and tell you how to do your job, I’d like to offer you some advice, based on hard-won experience. When you organize your posse, be sure every man can and will shoot. I’ll follow your rules, because I want to ride with you. I believe I’ve earned that right.”

  “Beyond a doubt,” Sheriff Kilmer said. “I want you to come with me while I organize the posse. There’s a small stable behind the house, room enough for your packhorse. Why don’t you leave him there?”

  Chapter 31

  Sheriff Kilmer quickly found ten men eager to take part in the capture of the notorious Frank and Jesse James. Nathan led them to the farmhouse and was satisfied with the manner in which the sheriff deployed his men in the surrounding of the house. He believed, however, that the lawman was underestimating the ruthlessness and resourcefulness of Frank and Jesse James, and his doubts were justified when Sheriff Kilmer issued his challenge. It came an hour before the dawn.

  “You in the house,” Kilmer shouted. “Frank and Jesse James. This is the law, and you’re under arrest. Come out with your hands up. We have the house surrounded.”

  “We’re comin’ out,” came the reply from within the house, “but Sim and Emily are comin’ with us. They’ll see us safe to our horses, and if you cut down on us, they’ll die. Now back off.”

  Nathan slipped away and ran for the barn. He didn’t intend for all his work to be for nothing, and this might be his last chance at Ringo Tull. He ducked between the rails of the corral fence, and with his back to the barn wall, concealed himself in the shadows. There was more shouting near the house, and Nathan doubted the posse would fire at any of the outlaws if they
emerged in a group, with the Hinkels before them. Once they reached the corral, however, they must separate to mount their horses. Nathan heard Emily Hinkel sobbing before he saw their dim shapes in the starlight. One of the outlaws dropped three rails from the corral, and they moved toward the horses. But the animals were wary of so much activity in the predawn darkness, and moved toward the far side of the corral.

  “Come here, you damn jughead,” somebody mumbled.

  Saddles were out of the question, and they were having trouble mounting the skittish horses bareback. Nathan recognized Ringo Tull, for he wore the broad-brimmed hat of a cavalry officer. The other two men were hatless, and it was they who mounted first. They kicked their horses into a gallop, leaving Sim and Emily Hinkel lying in the corral dust. Tull had managed to mount, but before he could gallop away, Nathan put two slugs beneath the hooves of the already skittish horse. The animal reared, throwing Tull to the ground.

  “Get up,” Nathan ordered, “and be careful what you do with your hands.”

  Tull got to his feet and lifted his hands shoulder high.

  “In the fall of 1865,” said Nathan, “seven no-account varmints murdered my family. You were one of them.”

  “You got the wrong hombre,” Tull said. “I never been in Virginia in my life.”

  “I didn’t say you had,” said Nathan, “but you’ve just given me all the proof I need.” He holstered his Colt. “Now go for your gun.”

  It was almost Nathan’s undoing. Tull’s Colt was on his left hip, butt forward, but his right hand didn’t move. His left hand came down slowly and he had the sleeve gun palmed before Nathan drew. The derringer roared once, the slug plowing into the dust of the corral, for Nathan had shot Ringo Tull just above his belt buckle.

  The sheriff and some of the posse were close enough to have witnessed the shooting.

  “Damn,” said one of the sheriffs men, “you were close enough to plug Frank or Jesse, and you shot this varmint.”

  “It was this varmint I wanted,” Nathan replied. “I’m leaving Frank and Jesse to you and your amigos.”

  He left them standing there. Returning to where the horses were tied, he mounted the black. With Cotton Blossom following, he rode back to Gallatin, to Sheriff Kilmer’s stable, and got his packhorse. From there he rode south to Kansas City, reclaiming his room at Eppie Bolivar’s boardinghouse. When he had rubbed down his horses, then watered and grained them, he returned to the house seeking breakfast.

  “You’re late,” said Eppie. “Cotton Blossom’s already finished.”

  “Cotton Blossom’s never finished,” Nathan said. “He just likes to catch some shuteye until it’s time to eat again.”

  Two days later, Nathan found a short paragraph in the Kansas City paper about Sheriff Kilmer and his posse flushing Frank and Jesse James from a farmhouse south of Gallatin, Missouri. While it stated that Ringo Tull, a member of the James gang, had been killed during the escape, Nathan’s name was not mentioned.

  Nathan decided to remain in Kansas City for a while, mostly because he enjoyed the nearness of the river and the quiet living at Eppie Bolivar’s boardinghouse. Cotton Blossom always made friends with whoever did the cooking, and Eppie had fallen victim to his charm. It was convenient for Nathan when Cotton Blossom was satisfied to remain behind, for the dog was never at his best in saloons and gambling houses. Nathan continued riding into town three days a week, occasionally visiting the saloons, listening to the talk of bullwhackers, roustabouts, bartenders, and gamblers. There were newspapers from Omaha, St. Louis, Memphis, and New Orleans, as well as the local Kansas City Star. It was in the Kansas City paper that he read of the most recent episode in the lives of Frank and Jesse James. Despite their clash with the law, they had holed up at yet another farmhouse in Clay County, not far from Kansas City.34

  Four members of a sheriff’s posse had been about to close in on Frank and Jesse as they hid out in a barn on the Samuels farm. Warned by a Negro who was employed by Samuels, Frank and Jesse had spurred their horses out of the barn when the posse had begun to close in. There had been a wild exchange of gunfire that had killed Deputy Sheriff John Thomason’s horse. The notorious James brothers had again escaped.

  The first week in January 1870, there was a story in the Kansas City newspaper that intrigued Nathan. It concerned trouble along the right-of-way of the Kansas-Pacific Railroad between Kansas City and Hays, some three hundred miles west. It was a twofold problem, both of vital concern to the government, and it threatened the very existence of the railroad. Telegraph poles and lines were being pulled down by Indians—the Cheyennes—who hated and feared the “talking wire” and sought to destroy it. Fort Hays—a mile south of the town—had become a major government supply point for forts in all of western Kansas and part of Indian Territory. Disruption of telegraph service between Kansas City and Fort Hays had incensed the military. But that wasn’t all. Military payrolls went by rail as far as end-of-track, tempting outlaws to rob the trains, stopping them by destroying part of the track.

  The Kansas-Pacific was fighting back, offering pay of a hundred dollars a month to plainsmen—men who could and would shoot—to ride along the Kansas-Pacific track from Kansas City to Hays, and back again. Four such men were to be hired. Nathan went to the Kansas-Pacific office and asked for Joel Netherton, the man responsible for hiring. Netherton proved to be a slender young man with glasses who looked like a schoolteacher. He regarded Nathan with interest, his eyes lingering on the twin Colts.

  “Do you own a repeating rifle?” he asked.

  “I do,” said Nathan.

  “Sit down,” Netherton said.

  Nathan took the only available chair except for the swivel chair behind Netherton’s desk in which he sat. The office was only a cubicle whose walls extended only a little above a man’s head, allowing all the dirt, smoke, and noise of the railroad yard to descend like a fog. Somewhere a telegraph key chattered frantically, became silent, and then chattered again. The shrill blast of a locomotive whistle seemed to vibrate the very walls. Netherton shrugged his shoulders, waiting until the train had departed before he spoke again.

  “Can you read and write?”

  “I can,” Nathan replied.

  “Do you by any chance know Morse code?”

  “No,” said Nathan.

  “We can teach you that,” Netherton said. “The railroad decided it would be easier to teach an Indian fighter the code than to teach a telegrapher to shoot Indians.”

  “I’m not too sure about that,” said Nathan. “That set talks almighty fast.”

  “You must know the code,” Netherton said. “You’ll have a portable set with you. There will be times when you’ll have to repair and test a line, and if there’s damage to the track, you’ll have to warn us so we can delay or stop the next train.”

  “I like the sound of it,” said Nathan. “When do I start?”

  “Eight o’clock in the morning,” Netherton replied. “I’ll need you to complete and sign this form before you leave. Place it here on my desk.”

  He went out, leaving Nathan with a single sheet of paper and a pencil. He grinned. All the Kansas-Pacific required of him was his signature. That absolved them of all responsibility in the event he was killed by Indians or outlaws, struck by lightning, run over by a locomotive, if his horse threw him or fell on him, if he shot himself ... and the list rambled on. He signed it, leaving it and the pencil on Netherton’s desk. He believed he could learn Morse code and believed it was knowledge he could use to his advantage on the frontier. Besides, his duties would take him across three hundred miles of frontier every five days. When he reached Hays on Friday, he had the weekend there. The next Monday he would ride out for Kansas City, spending the next weekend there at Eppie’s.

  Nathan spent three days laboring over the code, attempting to memorize the combinations of dots and dashes that formed different letters of the alphabet. Finally, at the end of the third exhausting day, Netherton felt he was ready for the
test. The morning of the fourth day, he was allowed to try his hand at “receiving” a message. It came slowly, and to his everlasting surprise, he found himself able to take it down on paper. As he mastered the code, the transmissions were speeded up. When he was allowed to “send,” he quickly became adept, for he knew the code.

  “Congratulations,” said Netherton. “You leave for Hays next Monday.”

  Nathan had made arrangements to leave his packhorse at Eppie’s place, for he would pass through Abilene, as well as several other villages that had sprung up along the Kansas—Pacific tracks. If he were chased by Indians or outlaws, a packhorse might hinder him when he should be riding for his life. Worse, the horse and its pack might prove an added temptation to the Cheyennes. He could survive from his saddlebags, taking up the slack when there was town grub to be had. He had no idea what situation might confront him as he rode from Kansas City to Hays and back again, but the railroad led west, and it might bring him the one remaining killer who had yet to die ...

  Abilene was only seventy-five miles west of Kansas City, a day’s ride for a man on a good horse, and for that reason, most of the trouble with Indians and outlaws was taking place between Abilene and Hays, for the telegraph could relay messages quickly to Kansas City. A locomotive with tender and a freight car could be dispatched within the hour, bringing soldiers or a posse with horses, but only if the telegraph line was intact and there was somebody who knew the code to send the message. Every train crew included at least one qualified telegrapher, but Indians and outlaws had rendered them useless, for they had taken to pulling down or cutting telegraph lines ten to fifteen miles east of where they had torn up the track. That left a train crew with a dead telegraph line back to Kansas City and the soldiers at Fort Hays more than two hundred miles ahead. The outlaws, seeking military payrolls, were a hazard only to westbound trains. The Indians, however, intent on the destruction of the telegraph and the railroad, might strike anywhere along the line. So far they had concentrated on the lonely stretch of track between Abiline and Hays.