The Dawn of Fury

by Compton, Ralph

  January 10, 1870, Nathan Stone rode west, following the Kansas—Pacific tracks. He knew the train schedule. For the time being, thanks to destruction of the track by Indians and outlaws, trains ran only during daylight hours. A train leaving Kansas City one morning remained at Hays overnight and returned to Kansas City the next day. Round-house facilities were always at end-of-track. From what Nathan had been told, a second line rider would leave Kansas City on Wednesday, scheduled to reach Hays on Sunday. Another pair of riders would follow a similar schedule, riding east to Kansas City, and, following a two-day layover, returning to Hays. Maybe a hundred and fifty miles west of Kansas City, Nathan should meet the eastbound line rider from Hays. By the time Nathan reached Hays on Friday, a second rider from there should be leaving for Kansas City. While these four outriders couldn’t possibly cover the entire line, they would make it more difficult for those who wrought destruction on telegraph lines and Kansas—Pacific tracks.

  Nathan felt he had an edge, Cotton Blossom being with him, and the hound ranged far ahead. He distanced himself from the track, however, when a train bound for end-of-track rumbled past. There were three flat cars loaded with rails and ties, two boxcars, and a caboose. The engineer and fireman waved, for they knew of the outriders hired by the railroad. There had been some criticism of the railroad for including a baggage car on any train carrying a government payroll, and Nathan could understand what the critics were getting at. Why make it obvious a train carried a government payroll by transporting it in a “money coach?” Why not just bolt a safe or strongbox to the floor of a caboose? Nathan reached Abilene before sundown and took a room at the Drover’s Cottage. There would be two or three nights each week when he must roll in his blankets wherever darkness found him, but he wouldn’t turn down a bed and hot grub when it could be had.

  By first light he was riding west, and two hours out of Abilene he found where Indians had sabotaged a section of track. Lacking tools for wrecking the track by dislodging the rails, they had devised a means of having the weight of the locomotive do it for them. Beneath coupling joints—where one rail met the next—they had dug away the ballast, leaving ties and rails suspended over a hole four feet deep and a dozen feet long. Not only would the rails buckle under the initial weight of the locomotive, the iron monster would topple from the track and possibly be destroyed. The train had already left Hays and end-of-track, and would be two hours or more into its return journey to Kansas City. Nathan had no tools to repair the roadbed, nor was it his job. It was his duty, however, to warn the crew of the oncoming train.

  From his saddlebag he took a lineman’s belt and his portable telegraph key. Telegraph poles had spikes for hand-and footholds driven in on two sides at alternating levels. Nathan climbed a pole, tied his instrument into the line, and tried a preliminary code. There was no response. Using a similar code, he tried to reach an operator at Hays and again there was no response.

  “Damn Indians,” he growled aloud.

  He climbed down, returned the telegraph key and lineman’s belt to his saddlebag, and rode on westward. Somewhere between where he was and Kansas City, the telegraph line was down, just as it was down ahead of him. While he must eventually repair both breaks, his most urgent duty was to warn the oncoming train, stopping it short of the ruined track. The crew might or might not be able to repair the roadbed to the extent that the train could proceed. Nathan would be forced to backtrack until he found where the telegraph line was down, repair the break, and report the situation to the Kansas—Pacific dispatcher at Kansas City. That done, he must try to make up for lost time as he rode toward Hays looking for a second break in the telegraph line. Suddenly he reined up. Why was he riding to intercept the train, when all the engineer needed was enough distance to brake the locomotive to a stop before it reached the damaged road bed? Every unnecessary mile he rode toward Hays would be a mile he must backtrack, seeking the downed line that must be repaired before he could telegraph Kansas City. He rode on, dismounting when he reached a stream that flowed through a culvert under the railroad track.

  “We might as well eat, Cotton Blossom. This is as good a place as any to wait for the train.”

  He shared jerked beef with Cotton Blossom and they drank cold water from the stream. Nathan opened the cover on his watch and found it was almost two o’clock. He judged he was at least a hundred miles west of Kansas City. The train from Hays was six hours into its journey, and within the hour there had to be some sign of its coming. He got down on his knees, put his ear to a rail and heard a distant humming. The train was coming! One thing to be said for the Kansas plains, he thought. If there was anything in the sky for ten miles—be it circling buzzards or smoke from a locomotive—a man with good eyes had no trouble seeing it. There was virtually no wind, and he soon could see a dirty gray smudge against the unrelenting blue of the western sky. He tied his horse well away from the track, beside the stream. He then took his position on the track. It stretched straight ahead as far as he could see. There was no excuse for the engineer not seeing him. He was able to discern the rising column of smoke long before he could see the train. Growing larger by the second, it came on. Nathan removed his hat, waving it high over his head. Suppose the engineer failed to see him or just ignored him, and the train went thundering on to destruction? But that didn’t happen, for outlaws had no reason to rob east bound trains. There was a screech of the big locomotive’s brakes, and Nathan could see the engineer hanging out the big window of the cab. Nathan walked back so that he could be heard without shouting over the chuffing and hissing of the locomotive.

  “Indians dug out the roadbed half a dozen miles up the track,” Nathan said. “Telegraph line’s down, east and west.”

  “Damn,” the engineer growled. “We’ll be settin’ here till dark, waitin’ on a section crew.”

  “I won’t mind that,” said the fireman, who had climbed down to the ground. “I’m just thankin’ God you found the sabotaged track. That’s hard as hell to see from a moving train. Even if we’d seen it, we likely couldn’t have got this ol’ iron horse stopped before she buckled them rails and rolled over with us. I’m glad you was out here, mister.”

  “So am I,” Nathan said. “Now I have to ride back toward Abilene and find where they’ve broken the line. I’ll telegraph Kansas City for a section crew.”

  Mounting his horse, he saw the brakeman step down from the caboose, on his way to learn what had stopped the train. Nathan rode almost to Abilene before finding the broken line. Their method had been simple enough. Roping the top of the pole and dragging it down had snapped the slender wire. Nathan made no effort to raise the pole, leaving that for the section crew. Using pliers the railroad had provided, he managed to twist the broken ends of the wire together after releasing one of them from the glass insulator attached to the fallen pole. He then tied his instrument into the wire and got immediate response from the operator in Kansas City. Following instructions, Nathan sent, as nearly as he could, the location of the downed pole and broken wire, and then the location of the sabotaged section of track. When Kansas City had confirmed, he returned the key to his saddlebags and again rode west. When he reached the undermined track, he found that the engineer had brought the train to within a few hundred yards. Nathan paused on his way west and spoke to the engineer and fireman.

  “I patched the broken line and telegraphed Kansas City. They know where you are and why.”

  “Thanks,” said the engineer.

  Nathan continued west, following the track, and found the second break in the telegraph line some twenty miles distant. He then telegraphed Hays and again contacted Kansas City to report the location of the second break. The section crew was going to be busy for a while. Come sundown, he unsaddled the black and shared a meager supper with Cotton Blossom. He believed he was at least a hundred and twenty-five miles west of Kansas City, and he felt some satisfaction in his accomplishments. He had saved a train being derailed, found and repaired two widely separate
d breaks in the telegraph line, and successfully sent and received messages using Morse code. There was considerable satisfaction in having stepped into this new role and performed successfully. He again rode west at first light, and an hour later met his counterpart, a rider bound for Kansas City.

  “Howdy,” said Nathan. “I’m Nathan Stone, riding for the Kansas—Pacific from Kansas City to Hays.”

  “Benton Valentine,” the other rider said, offering his hand. “Nothing’s happened at my end. How about yours?”

  Nathan told him of the events of the day before, and they parted. Nathan reached Hays on Friday morning, meeting with Otto Donaldson, the Kansas—Pacific dispatcher there. Donaldson welcomed him with a grin.

  “I’ve been hearing nothing but good about you, Stone. If the other three perform as well as you, there may be hope for the Kansas—Pacific yet.”

  Nathan returned to the boardinghouse where he had shared a room with Wild Bill. He had three nights in Hays before returning to Kansas City, and he paid in advance for a room through Sunday. He and Cotton Blossom found a cafe where they had eaten before and had an early supper. Donaldson, the local dispatcher, had told of Nathan’s achievements on behalf of the railroad, and the editor of the local newspaper found him in the cafe.

  “I’m Emmet Plato,” the young man said. “I’m editor of the newspaper here. Donaldson said look for a two-gun man with a dog. You’re Nathan Stone?”

  “I am,” Nathan replied. “Donaldson has a big mouth.”

  “That he does,” said Plato cheerfully, “and I’m glad he does. He’s one of the few sources of news. You have no idea how difficult it is, publishing a weekly paper in Hays. If you have the time, will you tell me what it’s like being an outrider—a troubleshooter—for the railroad?”

  “I’ll be here till Monday morning,” Nathan said. “I seem to have plenty of time.”

  He related all the details of his ride from Kansas City, including the discovery of the damaged roadbed, stopping the train, repairing the telegraph line, and the sending of messages to Kansas City and Hays. Plato scribbled it all down, and his gratitude was boundless. He was easy to talk to, and the conversation quickly centered on the boomtown violence that prevailed in Hays.

  “When I left here last October,” said Nathan, “Hickok was county sheriff, and there was some question as to whether his election was legal or not. Was it?”

  “It was not,” Plato sighed. “Governor Harvey and the State of Kansas refused to validate the Ellis County election for sheriff, held last August. A new election was held on November second, and Pete Lanihan beat Wild Bill. He was allowed to remain in office until the first of the year. He certainly wasn’t afraid of drunken soldiers and bullwhackers. I’m afraid that can’t be said of Lanihan.”

  Nathan continued to perform his duties with distinction, and when he reached Hays on Friday, July fifteenth, he was surprised to find Wild Bill Hickok in town. Nathan and Cotton Blossom were in their usual cafe having supper. Hickok came in, and, as though they had parted only hours before, dragged out a chair and sat down across the table from Nathan.

  “I hear you’ve become the Kansas—Pacific’s righthand man,” said Hickok with a grin. “There was a story on you in the Denver paper.”

  “I could put in a word for you with the railroad,” Nathan said, returning the grin. “It pays a hundred dollars a month, and all you have to do is stay alive. They’ll teach you Morse code, too.”

  “I’d jump at it, if it wasn’t for that Morse,” said Hickok. “I never was much good at sums, and I reckon those dots and doodles would hurt my eyes.”

  Somewhere, in one of the newspapers he was constantly reading, Nathan had seen a report that Wild Bill was losing his sight. At the time he had doubted the truth of it, but now he wasn’t sure. On Sunday morning, Nathan joined Hickok for breakfast.

  “Since you’re ridin’ out in the morning,” said Wild Bill, “let’s have us a night on the town.”

  “I reckon not,” Nathan replied. “I aim to get an early start.”

  But Wild Bill Hickok wasn’t a man to take no for an answer, and again he caught Nathan in the cafe having supper. Hickok seemed to have no friends in Hays, and Nathan finally agreed to visit a saloon or two for a few hands of poker. Drum’s was one of the more popular places and it was there they went. The poker didn’t bother Nathan nearly as much as Wild Bill’s drinking, for he had seen Hickok drunk before. The saloon was full of soldiers from the Seventh Cavalry at Fort Hays, and five of them had congregated at a huge round table playing poker. The only civilian was the house dealer. There was just one empty chair and Hickok took it, his back to the wall. Nathan stood out of the way, content to observe. Already the soldiers were loud and rowdy. Cotton Blossom had retreated to a corner, wary of everybody.

  “Hey,” somebody at the bar shouted, “yonder’s old duckbill, the sheriff that got throwed out.”

  There was laughter, but Wild Bill wasn’t quite drunk enough, and he kept his calm. However, he had a full bottle of rye whiskey, and Nathan started looking for a break in the game in which he might lure Hickok outside. Any saloon in Hays would be better than this, for the soldiers at the table were already drunk, or nearly so. They had become careless in their play, and as a result, Hickok was winning consistently. Intentionally or otherwise, the soldier to Bill’s right knocked the half full bottle of whiskey off the table, upside down in Hickok’s lap. He stood up, the front of his trousers soaked, and men roared with laughter. Hickok seized the whiskey bottle and broke it over the head of the soldier who had upended it. Wild Bill’s chair toppled backward when a soldier lunged across the table at him. Nathan drew a Colt and buffaloed a soldier about to smash a chair over Hickok’s head, only to have another soldier slug him with the butt of a revolver. Dazed, Nathan fell to his knees and his assailant hit him again. The soldiers had begun kicking Hickok, when Wild Bill drew his revolver and started shooting. Two soldiers were hit, and the others backed hastily away. Hickok got to his feet, the pistol in his hand. His back already to the wall, he followed it to the door, the revolver cocked and unwavering in his hand. Reaching the saloon door, he backed out. Seconds later, there was the pound of hooves as Hickok rode away.

  Sheriff Lanihan came, accompanied by a doctor, and the two badly wounded soldiers were taken away. Nathan’s had his badly cut scalp tended to by the doctor. With Cotton Blossom following, Nathan left the saloon, returning to his room at the boardinghouse and to bed. He rose early with a sore head and after breakfast went to the Kansas—Pacific dispatcher’s office to tell Donaldson he was leaving.

  “Some hell of a brawl at Drum’s last night,” Donaldson said.

  “So I heard,” Nathan replied. “Anybody bad hurt?”

  “You could say that,” said Donaldson. “Private Kile’s dead. Lanigan may not make it. Hickok’s done it this time.”

  Chapter 32

  The last week in November 1870, Nathan Stone surprised everybody who knew him. He resigned from the Kansas—Pacific. He had friends in Kansas City, Abilene, and Hays, none of whom wanted him to leave. He had found a home, if he had wanted it, but he had not wanted it. He told himself the unfulfilled promise to his dead father lay heavy on his mind, but he didn’t really believe that. In the old South, vengeance had seemed a noble calling. Now it seemed more and more like he was using his vendetta as a crutch, leaning on it, without a life of his own and wanting none. Somehow, somewhere, he must find and kill Dade Withers, the last man on his death list. In a few days it would be four years since he had taken an oath on his father’s grave, and he had not a single clue as to the direction he should take in satisfying that oath. He had found Clinton Foster in the wilds of Indian Territory, and from what he had heard and read, it was still a haven for renegades, deserters, and comancheros. Leading his packhorse, with Cotton Blossom following, he headed there, via Wichita.

  Wichita, Kansas. December 2, 1870.

  The last of the Texas herd had come up the trail until the next sp
ring, and there was little activity in Wichita. Nathan knew it wasn’t wise to enter Indian Territory without a packhorse. He could carry only a little food in his saddlebags, and certainly none of the utensils necessary for cooking. His wages from the railroad and the twelve hundred he had brought with him from Colorado left him with more than two thousand dollars. It was more than enough to cost him his life anywhere on the frontier, living among outlaws. But the man he sought was an outlaw who might remain on the outer reaches of civilization indefinitely. To find that man, the time had come when Nathan Stone must become—or appear to become—an outlaw himself. He bought enough supplies to last six months. While he wasn’t a drinking man and didn’t use tobacco, he took along four quarts of whiskey, a supply of plug, and a dozen sacks of Durham. If he survived the outlaws and renegades, he still might have to contend with the Indians.

  Indian Territory. December 5, 1870.

  Nathan followed Chisholm’s wagon road35 for two days before riding west, deeper into Indian Territory. The first evidence of human habitation came with the distant crack of a rifle. The lead tore into a pine close enough to spook the black, and the horse reared. Nathan calmed the animal and reined up. It was a warning shot, and he waited for a challenge. It wasn’t long in coming.