The Dawn of Fury

by Compton, Ralph

  “I’ll investigate,” Summerfield said.

  Lieutenant-Colonel Hatton immediately sent a telegram to Nathan Stone in care of the Kansas—Pacific dispatcher in Kansas City.

  Kansas City, Missouri. March 12, 1872.

  Upon reaching Kansas City, Nathan wrote and mailed a letter to banker Ames Tilden in Denver. Nathan had requested that his funds be transferred to the Cattlemans and Merchants Bank in Kansas City, payable to Nathan or Mary Stone. Briefly he considered taking his packhorse from Eppie Bolivar’s stable, but that would involve taking the animal back to Hays via boxcar. He wouldn’t be that long concluding his business in Indian Territory, one way or another. He had until four o’clock the next morning, when the westbound left for Hays, but there was no point in delaying his meeting with Joel Netherton of the Kansas—Pacific. He purely hated being in town afoot. There was no wind, the sun was doing what it did best, and he was sweating by the time he reached the Kansas—Pacific terminal. Nathan found Netherton with a sheaf of papers in his hand, and before Nathan could speak, the railroad man handed him the telegram received just a few minutes earlier.

  “I didn’t know where you were,” Netherton said. “I was hoping you were on your way here.”

  His heart in his throat, Nathan read the short message and wadded the paper in his clenched fist. It no longer mattered what he had come to tell Netherton. Instead, he had a request.

  “Joel,” he said, his voice trembling, “I have to get to Hays. I can’t wait for tomorrow’s train. I need a locomotive and a tender. I’ll pay.”

  “You won’t have to pay,” said Netherton. “There’s a yard engine with steam up. Come on. I’ll clear it with the dispatcher and assign you a fireman and an engineer.”

  Nathan stood behind the engineer, keeping out of the fireman’s way, begrudging every minute it took the racing locomotive to reach Hays.

  “We’re up to fifty and high-balling,” the engineer said. “I don’t dare push her any harder. Anything on the track, any damage, and we’re goners.”

  “I’m obliged,” said Nathan.

  They reached Hays in just under five hours.

  “Here,” Nathan said, handing each of the men five double eagles. He swung out of the cab before they could refuse. It would be dark within the hour and he groaned, for he was still eighty miles from Fort Dodge. He ran to the livery, reclaimed his horse, and within minutes was riding south at a fast gallop. A horse couldn’t maintain such a gait for long, and he was forced to rein up to a slow gallop. He had to rest the horse at intervals, and he traveled the last few miles in total darkness. The sentry on duty at the gate admitted him quickly and he rode immediately to Lieutenant-Colonel Hatton’s office.

  “I regret having to tell you this,” Hatton said, “but we were forced to abandon the trail at the Cimarron. This abduction was planned, and my patrol rode into an ambush. Men with rifles were firing from cover. One of my soldiers was killed and two more wounded. At dawn I can send a larger force.”

  “I’m obliged, sir,” said Nathan, “but that won’t be necessary. I aim to do what I should have done months ago.”

  “By the way,” Hatton added, “your dog is still out there somewhere. He refused to leave. Magnificent animal.”

  Nathan felt a surge of warmth for the valiant hound. Cotton Blossom, if the outlaws hadn’t managed to shoot him, might be able to accomplish what all the soldiers and fighting men in Kansas could not. The dog might be able to trail the thieves and killers to wherever they were holed up. Nathan doubted they would be found at the Cocodrilo Rancho, for he could find his way to that.

  He returned to the cabin he had shared with Mary, and when he lighted a lamp, there were all the memories. Her half-finished sewing, her clothes and some of his washed, dried, and folded neatly on the bed. He feared what the outlaws would do to her, for they were spoilers, defilers. They would use her, break her spirit, perhaps destroy the child that was his. He sank down on the bed, buried his face in his hands, and wept ...

  Mary was petrified with fear, but she refused to weep. Breed finally reined up and allowed her to straddle the horse. Her belly cramped, and while she could bear the pain, she feared what it might have done to her inside. But that, as it turned out, would be the least of her worries. She believed soldiers had been sent from the fort, because hidden men with rifles had opened fire as soon as Breed had taken her across the river. She thought of Nathan, almost three hundred miles away, fearing what he might do when he learned of her fate. That he would be coming she had no doubt, but surely he wouldn’t come alone. But then dread swept through her in a wave, for that was exactly what he would do. He had always told her his business with the Kansas—Pacific, but as she thought back, she realized she had no idea why he had felt compelled to go all the way to Kansas City to meet with Joel Netherton. Thinking back, she was able to see how he must have restrained himself for her benefit. But at last he had been unable to restrain himself, and this had been a side of himself that he hadn’t wanted her to see. Her thoughts were jolted back to her own plight, and she began looking for familiar landmarks. There were none. She had been wondering if the outlaws had abandoned Cocodrilo Rancho; she had been hoping they had not, for Nathan could find it without difficulty. But all her hopes were dashed when Breed reined up before a larger, more elaborate cabin than the one she had known before. Breed dismounted and handed her down. She shuddered, for when the door opened, El Gato stood there grinning evilly.

  “Ah, señora, after so long, you honor us with your presence. I think before we are finished with you that you be wishing for the old days. There was a time, señora, I would have killed any man who lay a hand on you. Now, I think since you betray me, I think I give you to them to do as they wish. Then, when your Señor Stone come for you, he will be allowed to see what is left. Then we kill him, señora.”

  “I am a married woman,” Mary said, “and I am with child. Have you no conscience, no decency, no respect for a woman?”

  “For a woman, si, for a pig, no. You are a pig who has been ruined. I am sick as I look at you. Take her to the bunkhouse, Breed. She must be prepared for the coming of Señor Stone.”

  “No,” Mary begged. “Please ... for the love of God ...”

  El Gato laughed, and Breed lifted her back onto the horse. It wasn’t far, and he walked, leading the animal. Breed pushed her before him into another log building that served as a bunkhouse. The outlaws lounged on their bunks in various stages of undress, and she closed her eyes. Breed shoved her back on one of the bunks and jerked off her boots. She felt hands unbuttoning her Levi’s while others ripped the buttons from her shirt. Then she was naked, as the men shouted over her. Breed came first, and she screamed ...

  Nathan got up, poured cold water from a pitcher into a basin, and washed the grief from his face. He then checked his saddlebags, making sure he had some jerked beef and sufficient ammunition for his Colts and the Winchester. He then returned to Lieutenant-Colonel Hatton’s office, finding Hatton about to leave.

  “Sir,” Nathan said, “I need to speak to the officer who led that patrol that was ambushed. I want to know where that rider crossed the Cimarron.”

  “That will be Lieutenant Atherton. But, my God, man, you’re not going into Indian Territory tonight?”

  “I am,” said Nathan. “Tomorrow they’ll be expecting me. Where will I find Lieutenant Atherton?”

  “Wait here,” Hatton said. “I’ll have the sergeant of the guard get him for you.”

  Lieutenant Atherton was a young man who had a bloody bandage on his left arm, above the elbow.

  “Lieutenant Atherton,” said Hatton, “this is Nathan Stone. He needs to know where your patrol was ambushed this evening, where that rider you were trailing crossed the Cimarron.”

  “Ride due south,” Atherton said, “bearing just a little southeast, to the sharp bend in the river. It bows up and then back down. That’s where he rode across, and that’s where the others were secured, on the south bank, in heav
y brush. We didn’t get off a shot.”

  “My dog’s out there, too,” Nathan said. “Where?”

  “We left him there where the rider crossed, at the bend,” said Atherton. “We tried to get him to follow us, but he wouldn’t.”

  “Thanks, Lieutenant,” Nathan said.

  “You’re not going after them tonight?”

  “I am,” Nathan replied.

  “Good luck,” said Atherton, shaking his head.

  Nathan rode out, knowing exactly where the crossing was that Atherton had described. Cotton Blossom had known he would be coming; he just hadn’t been sure when. A hundred yards shy of the river crossing, Nathan dismounted, and leading the horse, continued on. There was no moon, and in the starlight, a shadow disengaged itself from the brush. Cotton Blossom! Nathan knelt down and threw an arm around the dog. There was a lump on his head with beads of dried blood, and his coat was still damp. He had been across the river.

  “Good boy,” Nathan said. “Let’s go.”

  Cotton Blossom headed straight for the river crossing, pausing at the sloping bank to be sure Nathan was following. Nathan mounted, and the water was shallow, allowing the horse to cross without difficulty. Leaving the water for the south bank, Nathan could see all the possibilities of a deadly ambush. Second-growth trees and underbrush were head high, and Nathan practically had to break trail for the horse. He couldn’t even see Cotton Blossom, and only when he paused could he hear the rustle of dead leaves and grass, proof the dog was still ahead of him. Finally they were through the worst of it, the trees becoming tall enough to have choked out some of the troublesome underbrush, briars, and thorn-laden bushes. The wind was from the south, bringing the faint smell of wood smoke. Nathan drew up. It was time to leave his horse. He tied the reins to a low-hanging limb and carrying the Winchester, he continued on, with only an occasional glimpse of the shadow that was Cotton Blossom. The dog had gone looking for Mary and had found the outlaw stronghold. Nathan was amazed when he found the way in, for the camp was within a deep arroyo, with the entrance to the south. Trees and vines overhung the rims to the extent they met in the middle, creating a leafy shelter that rendered the arroyo virtually invisible. It was as near a perfect camp as Nathan had ever seen. Dimly he could see the outline of a cabin from which there was no light. Beyond it was a long, low structure with lamplight winking from a single window. The smaller cabin was where he would find the elusive El Gato, and he regretted he had not brought a Bowie knife, for the first shot would send the outlaws scattering. But he had one advantage. They must get past him to leave the arroyo, and his Winchester had seventeen deadly loads that said none of them was going to get out of there alive.

  He wondered where Mary was, wondered if she were still alive; his knowledge of El Gato and his followers told him the girl was dead. Reaching the dark cabin, he touched the door. It opened silently, probably on leather hinges. He stepped inside. Cotton Blossom had remained outside, wanting no part of the sinister cabin, and Nathan conceded that between the two of them, the dog was the smarter. There was no windows, at least in the front half of the cabin.

  “Ah,” said a voice, “I have been expecting you, Senor Stone. Only a fool would come seeking El Gato in the dark. A fool or a brave man, and it is often there is but a thin line between the two, eh?”

  Nathan hunkered down on his knees before he spoke. El Gato might fire at the sound of his voice.

  “I came for Mary,” Nathan said. “Dead or alive, I want her. But that’s not all. Before I leave here, you’re going to die.”

  Nathan held the Winchester out ahead of him, gripping its muzzle, its stock braced on the floor. When El Gato made a swipe with the knife, there was a clang of steel on steel, as the blade struck the Winchester’s muzzle. Nathan released the Winchester, seizing the arm wielding the knife. He came off the floor, his right knee slamming into El Gato’s groin. The knife fell to the floor, but El Gato recovered quickly and seized Nathan in a bear hug. They went down, El Gato on top. Nathan could feel the knife at his back, and he moved just enough to free it. Seizing it in his right hand, he drove it with all his strength into El Gato’s back. The mighty grip relaxed, and, withdrawing the knife, Nathan drove it in again. Humping the body off him, he got to his knees, feeling around until he found his Winchester. While he didn’t understand El Gato’s passion for coming after him with a knife, he now had an edge when it came to dealing with the rest of the outlaws. He slipped out the door and found Cotton Blossom waiting. Taking his time, Nathan headed for the distant bunkhouse, wondering how many doors there were. He believed it was like the bunkhouse at Cocodrilo Rancho, with a door and a fireplace at each end, but with the inhabitants gathering at one end only. He crept closer to the window, for it was low enough that he could see inside. He stood to the left of it, lest he be outlined in the light from it. Men lay on bunks, but he saw no sign of Mary. Was it possible she lay dead in the darkness of El Gato’s cabin? He didn’t think so. Within the walls before him was the last of the seven men he had sworn upon his father’s grave he would kill, but Dade Withers no longer seemed important.

  Nathan ducked below the window, moving to the other side, so that he might see farther into the interior of the bunkhouse, and that’s when he saw her. What was left of her. She lay on her back on the floor, an iron poker driven through her belly.

  As El Gato had put it, there was only a thin line between a brave man and a fool, but Nathan Stone fitted into neither category. In that instant, he became a madman. He kicked open the door, firing the Winchester as rapidly as he could lever shells into the chamber. Men came off their bunks, dying with their hands on their gun butts. But not all the outlaws were caught off guard. Breed, Kirkham, Swenson, and Vanado came up shooting. Nathan took a slug in his right side and it threw him backward to the floor. He let go of the Winchester, drew his Colt, and shot Breed in the chest. He sat up and a shot from Vanado’s Colt knocked him down again. Drawing his left-hand Colt, Nathan shot Kirkham. Swenson and Vanado ran toward the other end of the bunkhouse, where there was no light. Nathan sent slugs screaming after them, but they slammed open a door and were lost in the night. Nathan tried to get up, and found he had been hit five times. He could feel blood from the wound in his side soaking his Levi’s. Another, high up, was soaking the front of his shirt. A third slug had ripped through his upper left arm, missing the bone. There was a bloody, painful furrow torn across each of his thighs. Somehow, he had to get to his horse. The two outlaws who had escaped might be waiting in the dark to gun him down, but he dared not remain where he was, to bleed to death.

  Using the edge of one of the upper bunks for support, Nathan managed to get to his feet. He felt lightheaded and knew he was losing blood. There was death all around him, and with life leaking out of him, he wept for Mary and the child he would never see. If he made it back alive, the fort could send a burial detail. The door hung open, and he could hear the anxious whining of Cotton Blossom, for the dog was reluctant to come in. While the raw furrows on Nathan’s thighs hurt like hell, he could walk, using his Winchester for support. He managed to get outside, leaning against the log wall of the bunkhouse as he tried to gain strength. He had not eaten since supper the night before, and not much then. If he could reach his horse, there was jerked beef in the saddlebag. A step at a time, he reached the cabin where he had fought El Gato. Cotton Blossom was ahead of him, guiding him. There was a rise for a hundred yards, as he left the arroyo, and in his weakened condition it seemed steeper than it was. He wondered how much farther he must go before reaching his horse. Suddenly he was so tired he had to rest. He leaned up against a pine for support, aware that he was blacking out. Slowly his knees buckled and he slid to the ground. Later—he didn’t know how much later—he came to his senses, wondering where Cotton Blossom was. He must get up, go on, but he was so tired ...

  “Sergeant of the guard!”

  The sergeant on duty made his way to the front gate, wondering what the matter was. Sentry duty had beco
me more hectic at Fort Dodge since the town had been laid out. He looked at the stars. Three hours to first light.

  “All right, Private Fenton, what is it this time?”

  “A dog, sergeant. It’s Nathan Stone’s dog.”

  “Then let him in, damn it. He’s been here so often, he’s practically on the duty roster.”

  “He won’t come in.”

  “Then by God, leave him out there.”

  But Cotton Blossom wouldn’t be ignored. He began barking, the irritating, incessant yapping of a dog who has a problem requiring human attention.

  “He wants something,” said Private Fenton. “Something or somebody.”

  Sergeant Haley pondered the situation. Stone wasn’t on the post or the dog wouldn’t be outside, refusing to come in. Nathan Stone was a civilian, but he was highly regarded by Lieutenant-Colonel Hatton.

  “Walk your post, private. I’ll speak to Lieutenant-Colonel Hatton.”

  At first, Hatton didn’t answer the knock, and when he did, Sergeant Haley felt foolish, waking the post commander over a barking dog.

  “Sir,” Haley said, “I hesitated to wake you, but this might be a little more serious than it appears. The dog belonging to Nathan Stone is outside the gate. He won’t come in and he won’t go away.”

  “I fear it is serious, Sergeant,” said Hatton, “and we may be too late. Wake Captain Bennett and tell him I said to mount a patrol for immediate duty. He is to meet me at my office in fifteen minutes.”

  Nathan awoke. Through the branches of the pine he could see the stars. It was late—or early, depending on how you looked at it—past two o’clock in the morning. Again he wondered where Cotton Blossom was. His mind wasn’t serving him well, and he had lost all sense of direction. While the wound in his side still bled, the bleeding of his chest wound seemed to have ceased, for the blood had dried and his shirt seemed plastered to him. He tried to rise, but his legs wouldn’t support him. He longed for a blanket, something of warmth, for his teeth chattered with the cold. Maybe if he rested a little longer, he would have the strength to rise ...