The Dawn of Fury (11 page)

Nathan had begun his duties at the Lily Belle on Tuesday night, and by Thursday was mystified as to why the place needed or wanted a house dealer. For three nights, Nathan sat alone, shuffling the cards and dealing himself hands of solitaire. On Friday night there was a brief three-handed game of draw poker. On Saturday night there was a decent game of five-card stud that began early and lasted until closing time. Judge Prater came in an hour before closing and when the game ended, tallied the winnings.

“Not bad, Stone,” Prater grunted. “You've earned twenty dollars.”

“Decent for one night's work,” said Nathan, “but spread over five nights, it's not all that impressive.”

He half-expected Prater to explode, but the judge did not.

“Texans are broke,” Prater said, “and you can't get blood out of a turnip. There'll be new blood when the soldiers and administrators from Washington arrive. The commander at Fort Worth tells me north Texas is still short two hundred soldiers.”

When the soldiers arrived at Waco there were only six, one of whom was a Sergeant Dixon. Much to Nathan's relief, Judge Prater insisted on having the soldiers take rooms at the Prater house. While the soldiers were Yankees and half the ages of the Prater women, it made no difference.

Having found Nathan Stone close-mouthed, the barkeep was forever talking behind Judge Prater's back.

“Prater's a savvy old
paisano,”
said Watkins, when he and Nathan had the saloon to themselves. “Notice how he's suckin' up to them blue bellies? He's had this county in his pocket 'fore they come, and he'll have it sewed up when they're gone. They'll owe him, and if there's any cash or goods comin' from Washington to Texas, old Sam will claim it all.”

The presence of the soldiers made some difference, but not so far as Nathan was concerned. The youngest of the trio was more than a dozen years older than he, but that didn't stop them. In a way, Nathan enjoyed the constant attention of the three women, but he had a nagging premonition that all this was leading up to some kind of conclusion he wouldn't like. At some point, in passing their partially open doors, he was treated to views of them in various stages of undress. He didn't doubt that he could have enjoyed a full-blown affair with any one or perhaps all three of the Prater women, but Nathan Stone was no fool. Even while on his best behavior, there were all the elements of disaster, and it wasn't long in coming. While Eunice and Eldora didn't spare him their attention, he had the feeling Eulie was making plans that included him.

Disaster finally struck the first Sunday in July.

It had been a big Sunday night at the Lily Belle, and Nathan had not been able to get away from the place until almost four o‘clock in the morning. Nathan hadn't been asleep more than two hours when he was awakened by something. At first he thought he was dreaming, and, rolling over, tried to free his mind of the disturbance. But it refused to go away, and Nathan sat up. The sound was human, the persistent moaning of someone in pain. Nathan got up, and wearing only his Levi's, stepped into the hall. The door to Eulie's room stood partially open, but the curtains were drawn and he could see nothing in the darkened room. Without warning, something smashed into the back of Nathan's head. Stunned, he went to his knees, and then face down on the floor. The first conscious awareness came with the screaming of a woman. At first it seemed far away, coming closer as consciousness slowly returned. He opened his eyes and found it was Eulie—a stark-naked Eulie—doing the screaming. He lay on his back, and he no longer wore Levi's. Suddenly the room was full of people. There was Eunice and Eldora wearing dressing gowns, four of the soldiers wearing only blue trousers, and finally worst of all—there stood old Sam Prater in his nightshirt. Eulie was still screaming, and the judge exploded.

“Damn it, woman, shut your mouth and cover yourself!”

Nathan sat up, looking around for his Levi's.

“Watch him, Sergeant,” bellowed Judge Prater. “He' going to run for it.”

“I doubt it,” Sergeant Dixon said calmly. “He's not even wearing a pair of socks.”

“As a matter of fact,” said Nathan furiously, “I'm looking for the Levi's I was wearin' when I was lured in here.”

Nathan felt something digging into his bare backside and found it was a piece of glass. Eulie had slugged him with a heavy glass vase. Finally the other two soldiers showed up, and the lot of them stood there as confused as a flock of geese viewing a dried-up pond. Nathan finally spotted his Levi's under the bed and reached for them. His action made Judge Prater aware that Eulie, still bare as a plucked chicken, was staring at Nathan while Sergeant Dixon and his men stared at Eulie. Without a word, Prater snatched a sheet off the bed and flung it over the girl's shoulders. One of the soldiers had helped Nathan to his feet, and although dizzy, he had managed to get into his Levi's.

“What do you want we should do with him, Judge?” Sergeant Dixon asked. “Lock him up in the jail?”

“No,” Eulie cried. “He ...”

“Shut up, woman!” Judge Prater shouted. “Just shut the hell up.”

“If it's not asking too much,” said Nathan, still furious, “I'd like to return to my room.”

“Since it's Sunday,” said Judge Prater, “you will be confined to your quarters until in the morning. Then the court will decide what to do with you. Sergeant Dixon, I'll want a man in the hall outside his room and another beneath his window. Search his room and confiscate his weapons.”

“Nathan,” Eulie began. “Nathan ...”

Nathan looked at her just once, and the fury in his eyes silenced her. The soldiers followed Nathan to his room. They left him inside, Sergeant Dixon retaining Nathan's belt and holsters, and the twin Colts. He looked questioningly at Judge Prater.

“Leave his weapons with the guard in the hall,” said Prater. “One man in the hall and one outside, the six of you can keep watch in eight-hour shifts.”

“Judge Prater,” said Sergeant Dixon, “I don't think ...”

“Yes, Sergeant?”

“I don't think there'll be a problem,” said the sergeant. He had been about to say this was not the kind of duty of which his superiors would have approved, but thought better of it. After all, it would last only until this poor bastard went before the court in the morning ...

Still wearing only his Levi's, Nathan stretched out on the bed and tried to think. There was a bloody, egg-sized lump on the back of his head, and it hurt like hell. He silently cursed himself for a greenhorn, having allowed himself to be euchered into this ridiculous predicament. He recalled hearing his father speak of “the old days,” when a man and a woman were caught in a compromising situation. A wedding generally followed, the sooner the better. Unless all this became a nightmare from which he suddenly awakened, Nathan thought he knew what lay ahead. Nathan Stone would marry Eulie Prater or go to jail, and one was as unappealing as the other. Did he prefer to have somebody bury a Bowie knife in his gut or shoot him through the head?

Despite his pain and nausea, he laughed. This was the kind of thing, if it continued to its obvious conclusion, that would be told and retold around camp fires until Judgment Day. There was a time to fight and a time to run, and a man stayed alive by knowing the difference. Come dark, Nathan Stone would recover his weapons, saddle his horses, and ride south.

Nathan slept, awoke, and slept again. Time dragged. For his escape to be successful, everybody had to be asleep except the two soldiers on guard, and it must be late enough for the edge of their subconscious to become dulled. Somewhere in the house a clock struck the hour, and Nathan waited impatiently until it struck twelve. He stood where he would be behind the door when it opened and began groaning softly. He must arouse the guard without awakening the rest of the house. He groaned louder.

“What's wrong in there?” the soldier asked softly.

“I ... I'm sick,” Nathan gasped, allowing his words to end in an even more agonized groan.

The door opened a little, but Nathan had blown out the lamp and the room was dark. The soldier took one more step and that was all Nathan needed. His left arm circled the man's throat, cutting off his wind, and he was quickly silenced with a powerful blow from Nathan's right fist. Nathan took his belt, holsters, and weapons from the hall, buckling the familiar rig around his middle. He then grabbed the guard's ladderback chair, securing it under the door knob. He spread-eagled the unfortunate soldier on the bed, and using part of a ripped up sheet, tied the man's arms and legs to the iron bed frame. He then stuffed a piece of the sheet into the unconscious man's mouth so he wouldn't be able to awaken the entire house with his shouts. Nathan secured his saddlebags to his belt. On second thought, he stuffed the rest of the sheet into his saddlebag. He still had to bind and gag another soldier.

Nathan eased back the curtain. He dared not simply slide down the rope intended for a fire escape. He would have to locate the soldier and drop on him from the open window. He could see nothing without raising the window, and he had to do that an inch at a time, expecting at any moment to have it creak and betray him. Slowly, ever so slowly, he raised the window enough to get his head and shoulders through. There was a moon, thank God, and he then understood why he hadn't been able to see the sentry. The man sat with his back against the wall, his head between his knees, probably asleep. Quietly Nathan got himself into position, sitting on the windowsill. He struck the ground on bended knees and walloped the sleeping soldier on the head with the muzzle of his Colt, assuring him an even deeper sleep. Using the rest of the sheet, Nathan bound the unconscious soldier hand and foot, and then tied a gag that would keep the man silent until somebody removed it. There was a slight sound, and Nathan crouched, his Colt cocked and ready. But it was old Cotton Blossom, and he followed as Nathan ran toward the barn.

Nathan led his horse and packhorse out into the moonlight, and in just a matter of minutes was ready to ride. He mounted and rode south, leading his packhorse, Cotton Blossom loping along beside him. Old Judge Sam Prater would be furious, but come the dawn, Nathan would be well out of old Prater's jurisdiction. The Federals, already shorthanded, wouldn't be sending out soldiers to trap a husband for one of Sam Prater's man-hungry daughters.

“I'll just have to be damn careful not to ride through Waco again, Cotton Blossom,” Nathan said. “At least as long as old Sam Prater's alive.”

It bothered Nathan that he had spent so much time in Prater's saloon but had learned nothing as to the whereabouts of the renegades on his death list. He rode a cold trail with little to guide him beyond the names old Malachi had managed to remember. But when a man rode west with the intention of leaving his past behind, he often took a new name. Still, Nathan thought grimly, these killers likely wouldn't expect pursuit. It was all the edge—all the hope—he had.

Once he was safely outside Waco, Nathan took his time getting to Austin. The following day being July fourth, he found the town in a festive mood. It was the perfect holiday, right in the middle of the week. It allowed most of the populace several days prior to the event to get gloriously drunk, and the several days following in which to sober up. Nathan made the rounds of most of the saloons, listening to the talk, talking to barkeeps, learning nothing. Leaving town, he rode south until he reached a spring near which there was plenty of graze for his horses. He cooked and ate his supper early, dousing the fire well before dark. But he slept little, for he could hear exploding fireworks, and the distant rattle sounded almost like gunshots. Come first light, Nathan prepared breakfast, fed Cotton Blossom, and rode south, toward San Antonio.