The Dawn of Fury

by Compton, Ralph

  “I shouldn’t have gone out,” she said, “but I was only a short way from the door. It was like . . . they were looking for someone.”

  “Likely they were,” said Nathan. “There are few women in this town, or in any other town on the frontier.”

  “What’s going to happen to the soldiers?”

  “They’ll do some time at hard labor,” Nathan said. “The post commander can’t allow them to go unpunished.”

  “But they didn’t hurt me. It’s Cotton Blossom that was hurt.”

  “He’ll live,” said Nathan. “He did what he thought was right.”

  The next morning, Nathan and Mary went to the courthouse. They did not see the two soldiers who had been charged. Mary left a deposition with the clerk, with the assurance it would be used at the hearing.

  “I’ve never cared much for this town,” Nathan said. “I’ll talk to the Kansas-Pacific dispatcher and the newspaper editor, and we’ll move on.”

  “Hey,” said Donaldson, his eyes on Mary, “you’ve come up in the world since leaving the old KP.”

  “I’m surprised you’ve been able to keep any trains on the track without me out there,” Nathan said.

  “It ain’t been easy, son,” said Donaldson. “I never knowed there was so many Indians with nothin’ to do ’cept worry other folks.”

  But Donaldson had little to report, except that Wild Bill Hickok was in Colorado. Nathan had never visited Emmet Plato’s newspaper office, so he and Mary had to search for it. When they walked in, Plato virtually ignored them, fixing his eyes on Cotton Blossom, who clearly would have preferred to be somewhere else.

  “Ah,” Plato exclaimed, “so this is the savage beast that singlehandedly undermined the credibility of the United States Army.”

  “He bit a soldier who wasn’t minding his manners,” said Nathan.

  “God,” Plato said, rolling his eyes heavenward, “if he’s here come next election, he could be the new sheriff.”

  “I hear Hickok’s in Colorado,” said Nathan. “What happened after he shot those two soldiers last July?”

  “One of the men died and the other recovered,” Plato said. “There was talk about charging Wild Bill with murder, but there was some more trouble involving the military, and a civilian was killed. When it all came back to Hickok, he got out of it. The judge decided it was a Mexican standoff, bein’ as much the fault of the soldiers as Hickok’s. They were all drunk, and it wasn’t Hickok that started the fight. If I had any say, I’d not build a fort anywhere close to a town, or a town anywhere close to a fort.”

  Plato had no other information of use to Nathan, so he and Mary rode out of Hays, bound for Abilene. They were following the Kansas-Pacific track, and not more than fifty miles east of Hays, they came upon the body of a Kansas-Pacific outrider, Denton Valentine. He had been shot in the back. Twice.

  “Outlaws,” Nathan said. “There must be a train coming carrying an army payroll.”

  “What are you going to do?” Mary asked.

  “See if I can find Denton’s horse,” said Nathan. “He’ll have a telegraph instrument in his saddlebag. Maybe I can stop the train.”

  They followed the tracks of the riderless horse, eventually finding the animal grazing beside a spring runoff. The telegraph instrument was in the saddlebag, but it was of no use. The telegraph line had been cut somewhere to the east. The line to Hays was open, and Nathan quickly sent a message to Hays, to Donaldson. Quickly he placed the telegraph key in his own saddlebag and mounted his horse.

  “We have some riding to do,” he told Mary. “They’ve cut the telegraph line somewhere between here and Kansas City. I have to stop that train, if I can.”

  “Suppose we run into the robbers before we reach the train?”

  “There’ll be hell to pay,” Nathan said. “I look for them to try and stop the train somewhere between here and Abilene. We may not have time.”

  He kicked his horse into a slow gallop, Mary following. Cotton Blossom loped along behind. They had stopped to rest the horses for the third time when Nathan put his ear to the rail.

  “The train’s coming,” he said. “Stay far behind me. Somewhere just ahead, the outlaws will be waiting, likely to blow up the track.”

  “Please be careful,” she said.

  Nathan mounted and rode on, Cotton Blossom following. Soon he could see the locomotive’s smoke against the sky. Far down the track, tiny figures were scurrying about. Nathan unshucked his Winchester, jacking in a shell, but he was too late to save the track. There was an explosion that seemed to shake the earth, as twisted rails were flung heavenward, amid a rain of ballast and ties. If he could get past the outlaws, Nathan still might be able to warn the trainmen. But the outlaws had seen him. They lost all interest in the train, for it was theirs unless the engineer was warned in time to stop. Lead sang all around Nathan. He held his fire, for shooting from a fast-moving horse was a waste of ammunition. A slug tore into his left side, the force of it almost driving him from the saddle. Grimly he hung on, as more lead hit him high in the chest. Ahead, through dimming vision, he could see the train, and it seemed to be slowing. Suddenly the valiant black horse staggered and broke stride. Nathan quit the saddle, rolling with the fall. He tried to turn on his belly, to bring the Winchester into firing position, but his body refused. Dimly he thought he heard gunshots. Somebody was firing from the train. Finally, he saw Mary’s face. But just for a fleeting moment. Then he knew no more.

  What Nathan hadn’t known was that while he had drawn the outlaws’ fire, Mary Holden had ridden as near as she dared, desperately waving her sheepskin coat. The engineer had been able to stop the train, and thanks to a new railroad policy, half a dozen armed men had begun riding every train that carried an army payroll. Heavy fire from the train drove the outlaws away, and now the railroad men concerned themselves with the fate of Nathan Stone.

  “I know him,” the engineer said. “He used to work for the KP.”

  “Please,” Mary cried, “we must get him to a doctor.”

  “We can’t take him to Hays,” said the engineer, “but we can reverse this train and take him back to Abilene. Some of you men let down a ramp and load the lady’s horse and packhorse into a boxcar. Remove his saddle and saddlebags from the dead horse, too.”

  They rolled Nathan in his own blankets and placed him in the same boxcar into which they had loaded the horses and Nathan’s saddle.

  “I’ll ride with him,” Mary said. “Come on, Cotton Blossom.”

  Cotton Blossom would have refused if he’d had any choice. The locomotive lurched into reverse, and Cotton Blossom fell, skidding up against the end of the car. No sooner had he gotten to his feet when the train lurched a second time, and again he was thrown up against the end of the car. Finally he crept into a corner and huddled there until the train reached Abilene. The Kansas-Pacific had built a depot of sorts, and when the telegrapher tested the line to Kansas City, he found it intact.

  “Contact Joel Netherton,” said the engineer. “Tell him Nathan Stone just saved him a train and an army payroll, not to mention our lives. There’s a three-day job for a section crew maybe seventy-five miles west of here.”

  The doctor brought his buckboard to the depot, and with the help of the engineer, lifted Nathan from the boxcar into the buckboard.

  “I’m going with him,” Mary Holden said, “wherever you’re taking him.”

  “To my house,” said the doctor. “We don’t yet have a hospital.”

  “Joel Netherton of the Kansas-Pacific will be in touch with you,” the engineer told Mary. “One of you men ride with the doc, to help him unload. We’re going to be here awhile. I expect we’ll be returning to Kansas City.”

  The doctor’s name was Webber. Gerald Webber. His wife Madelyn, a thin, efficient woman, was his nurse.

  “Ma’am,” said Doctor Webber.

  “Mary.”

  “Mary, then,” the doctor said. “He’s in serious condition. Neither of the slugs
exited, which means I’ll have to dig them out. He’s already lost a lot of blood. Maybe too much. It’s not going to be easy to watch. Perhaps you’d better wait in the parlor.”

  “No,” Mary said, “I’ll stay with him, whatever happens.” Cotton Blossom sat outside in the doctor’s yard. The railroad men, while they waited for orders from the dispatcher in Kansas City, led Mary’s horse and Nathan’s packhorse to the livery. Their saddles and the packsaddle was taken inside the Kansas-Pacific depot. For two hours, Doctor Webber worked over Nathan. Finally he rinsed away the blood and disinfected and bandaged the wounds.

  “I can’t do more than give him a fighting chance,” said Webber. “He lost a lot of blood before I got to him, and he lost more while I was probing for the lead. Neither slug struck any vital organs or bones, and that’s in his favor, but it’s been a severe shock. If he’s alive this time tomorrow, I’d say he’ll make it. He’ll need to remain here tonight, and possibly tomorrow night. The rest of the way, he’ll be fighting infection.”

  “I’m staying with him, then,” Mary said, “no matter how long.”

  “Then I’ll have Madelyn set up a cot for you in here. I’ll be looking in on him several times during the night.”

  Four days later, the doctor declared Nathan out of danger. He was then taken to the hotel, and it was there that Joel Netherton, of the Kansas-Pacific, came to see him.

  “I’m pleased to see you again,” said Netherton, “although I’d like the circumstances to be different.”

  “So would I,” Nathan replied.

  “I have good news for you,” the railroad man said. “The Kansas-Pacific has authorized me to pay you a reward of a thousand dollars and to pay all your medical expenses, your lodging here at the hotel, until you’re back on your feet.”

  “That’s mighty generous,” said Nathan. “I’m obliged.”

  “We’re in your debt,” Netherton replied. “All we’re out is the repair of a piece of track. But for you, we might have lost a train, its crew, and an army payroll.”

  “You’re having considerable trouble with train robbers, then.”

  “Yes,” said Netherton. “We believe these robbers you intercepted are the same ones who have dogged us for months. A sheriff’s posse once picked up their trail just south of here, but lost it when they escaped into Indian Territory.”

  “Ten or eleven riders?”

  “Eleven, as a matter of fact,” Netherton said. “How did you know?”

  “I think I know who they are and where they are,” Nathan said.

  The frown on Mary Holden’s face and the worry in her eyes told him her thinking was running neck and neck with his own.

  “Great Scott,” said Netherton, “when you’re feeling up to it, will you share that information with railroad authorities?”

  “I reckon,” Nathan said, “but it’ll be a fight to the death.”

  When Netherton had excused himself, Mary looked at Nathan long and hard. Finally she spoke.

  “You’re not thinking of leading a posse into Indian Territory, are you?”

  “I haven’t thought about it, one way or the other,” said Nathan, “but don’t you think the world would be a better place without that bunch of gun-totin’ varmints?”

  “Yes,” she said, “but why does it have to be you who rids the world of them? I want you alive. Doesn’t it matter to you what I want?”

  “You know it does,” he said, “but you also know the kind of hombre I am, that I won’t cash in my chips settin’ in a rocker before the fire, with you holding my hand.”

  “Yes,” she said, “you’ll go out in a hail of bullets, doing your damndest to take as many with you as you can. I just want to put it off as long as possible.”

  “So do I,” he replied.

  The wounds had taken more out of Nathan than he had believed, for it was the first week in June before he began to feel himself. The doctor advised another month of rest, and the next time he saw Netherton, the railroad man encouraged it.

  “We’re having a big celebration July fourth,” said Netherton, “and I want you and Mary there. There’ll be brass from Washington, railroad officials, all the beer you can drink, speeches . . .”

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” Nathan said. “Shooting outlaws, si, speeches, no.”

  “Whoa,” said Netherton, “you unjustly accuse me.”

  “I’ve heard of these hog killings where a bunch of hombres talk, with nobody carin’ a damn what they say. I’ll be there on one condition, that I can leave when I’m good and ready.”

  “That’s how it’ll be, then,” said Netherton.

  Kansas City, Missouri. June 20, 1871.

  The Kansas-Pacific offered transportation from Abilene to Kansas City, but Nathan wanted to ride. It was a good time to buy horses in Abilene, for many a cattleman sold his remuda at trail’s end. Nathan still mourned the loss of his faithful black, and made up his mind never to own another black, for it would be a constant reminder of one that could never truly be replaced. He finally settled for a grulla, almost the exact shade of gray as Mary’s. They reached Kansas City and when Nathan presented Mary to Eppie Bolivar, she welcomed the girl without question. They settled in at Eppie’s boardinghouse and Nathan resumed his habit of reading newspapers from other towns, forever seeking a name that was never there. What had become of John Wesley Hardin and the men who rode with him?

  A week before the affair on July fourth, Netherton’s wife took Mary into town and outfitted her in what was considered proper dress for the time. The fun began when she returned, and spent an hour getting herself up for Nathan’s approval. It was a ballroom dress that almost swept the floor, with what seemed a never-ending array of petticoats. Her slippers were a matching light blue. She came out, almost falling over the numerous petticoats, and Nathan laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” she demanded. “Would you rather I wore a flannel shirt and Levi’s?”

  “There’d be less chance of you falling and breaking your neck,” said Nathan. “I’m wearing what I always wear, or I don’t go.”

  But Nathan yielded to pressure, some of it from Mary, and eventually bought new black pin-striped trousers, white ruffled shirt, string tie, black boots, and a new, high-crowned gray hat.

  “Damn it,” he complained, “a man walks around dressed for burying, he’s likely to be shot, just on general principles.”

  But the affair was deemed a huge success, and Nathan Stone enjoyed it far more than he expected to or would later admit. Byron Silver was there, and while much of his and Nathan’s joint efforts could not be discussed, they had their moments.

  “I reckon we’d best enjoy this blowout,” Silver said. “It’s the first time we’ve even been together for any length of time that one or both of us wasn’t bein’ shot at.”

  “Yeah,” said Nathan. “I miss it, don’t you?”

  Silver remained in Kansas City two more days before returning to Washington. Finally, on July eighth, Nathan hit paydirt with his newspapers. On July sixth, in Abilene, Charles Cougar had been shot dead after a quarrel with John Wesley Hardin. Another piece charged Hardin with killing Juan Bideno, a Mexican, in the tiny village of Bluff City, Kansas. There was no mention of the men who had supposedly left Texas with Hardin. The writer of one of the articles had suggested that Hardin had come up the trail with a Texas herd to Wichita, but that was unconfirmed. The trail-drive story made sense to Nathan, accounting for the time it had taken Hardin to reach Kansas.

  “I’m riding to Wichita,” Nathan told Mary. “You can stay here, if you want. There’s a chance the man I’m after came up the trail from Texas with a Texas herd.”

  “And if he didn’t,” said Mary, “you’ll be off on another trail, and I may never see you again. I’ll go with you.”

  Wichita, Kansas. July 11, 1871.

  Nathan made the rounds of all the saloons without learning anything that was helpful to him, until a bartender suggested he ask at the hotels and the boardinghouses. />
  “Most gents just off the trail usually stay at least one night,” said the helpful bartender.

  “Do you really think these men are going to use their own names?” Mary asked.

  “There’s a good chance they will,” said Nathan. “This would have been their first night here. I reckon Hardin won’t be usin’ his own name now that he’s shot some hombres, but he might have, that first night off the trail.”

  “I’m sorry,” the desk clerk at the Drover’s Cottage said, “but we do not reveal information about our guests.”

  “Damn uppity place,” said Nathan, as he and Mary went out the door.

  But Nathan’s luck turned completely around when he reached a less-than-elegant hotel called the Texas.

  “I’ve been looking for some hombres to get here for three months,” said Nathan to the clerk. “They were comin’ up the trail with a herd, and I’d say if they got here, it was on maybe the fourth or the fifth.”

  “Have a look at the register, if you want,” the clerk said.

  Nathan started on July third, and on the next page, found what he was seeking. The scrawled signature read: J. W. Hardin, and on the line below it, D. Withers.

  “They may not be in Wichita,” Nathan said exultantly, “but they’re somewhere in Kansas.”

  “You can’t be sure of that,” said Mary. “It’s not more than forty miles from here to Indian Territory.” Immediately, she bit her tongue, for Indian Territory was the last place she wished to go, or have Nathan go. But to her surprise and relief, he had other ideas.

  “After Hardin left here, he went to Bluff City,” Nathan said, “and from there, he had to ride to Abilene. What I need to know is whether or not Dade Withers is with him. If Withers is on his own, then the hell with Hardin. I’ve been trailing him because he’s been my only contact with Withers.”