The Dawn of Fury (14 page)

“Once you've gained a reputation, there'll be some who will take you any way they can get you. Have you heard of Cullen Baker?”

“No,” said Nathan.

“You will. He's maybe thirty-five, and his family moved from Tennessee to east Texas when Baker was a child. He killed his first man before he was twenty, and when it comes to drawing and firing a pistol, he's been called the fastest man alive. He's also being called ‘The Swamp Fox of the Sulphur,' because he hides out in the brakes along the Sulphur River when the law gets too close.”

“Well, hell,” Nathan said, “he's an outlaw. He's fair game.”

“That only provides an excuse for shooting him in the back legally. When a man gets a reputation as a fast gun, it doesn't matter which side of the law he's walking on. Glory seekers see him only as a target.”

“And while I'm riding a vengeance trail, sitting in at poker tables, and establishing myself as a target, you're willing to risk your neck to help me avoid being ventilated by some skunk who fancies himself a fast gun. Why?”

“Why?”
She laughed bitterly. “For God's sake, Nathan, why are men so ignorant in the ways of women? I'm thirty-four years old. I could almost be your mother. What choice did I have? Should I have hung around Waco until I died of old age or somebody shot me out of pity? How many women have you known who would lure a man into a bedroom, strip, and then screech long and loud enough to draw a crowd?”

“Not many,” Nathan admitted, with a half grin. “There's a matter of pride.”

“Pride, hell,” she said venomously. “I had none, needed none. My pompous old daddy has enough for every living soul within a hundred miles of Waco. Pride? Damn the pride. I wanted a man, wanted to live like a woman, if only for a little while.”

“I can understand your feelings,” Nathan said, “but you call this ‘living like a woman,' dressed like a man, drifting from town to town with a gambler who's a killer in disguise?”

“It's the closest I've been, so far. Beneath these clothes, you
know
I'm a woman. Since we seem to be laying all the cards on the table, and it was you who brought up the subject of pride, I have a question for you. From what you've told me, I think you come from a good family. I envy you, having had a father who meant so much, his dying words would have you riding this vengeance trail for God knows how many years. But what about your pride? Gambling isn't a proud profession, and having the name of a killer ought to be a few notches below that.”

It got to him in a manner she had never expected. His face flamed red and he turned away from her. His eyes were on the distant Gulf, but empty, seeing nothing. She was immediately sorry. Genuinely so. She moved closer, her hand on his arm.

“I had no right to say that, Nathan. Actually, it's pride that's made you the kind of man you are, and the lack of it that's made me the woman I am. I have all the characteristics of a whore, lacking one thing. Pay me two dollars, and I will have gone full circle.”

He took her by the shoulders and shook her until her teeth rattled. He then drew her to him in the gathering darkness, and the force of his words thrilled her as had nothing else in her lonely, dreary life.

“Damn it, Eulie Prater, you're no more a whore than I am a gambler. We may be sacrificing some pride, but by God, that's how life is. You have to trade one thing for another, and it's just a matter of deciding which is the most important. You've been truthful with me. You knew what you wanted, but you admitted you went about it the wrong way, luring me into your bedroom. Well, I'm not sure that was all wrong. It sure as hell got my attention, and I'm putting it behind me. As far as I'm concerned, you've proven yourself, and you're some kind of woman. There are times when courage stands taller than pride, and we did have a choice. God help the both of us, if we've made the wrong ones.”

Far out in the gulf a light winked, disappeared, and winked again.

“It's on one of the sailing ships,” Eulie said, “and it's been dark for more than an hour. What took them so long to make a light?”

“It's not on one of the anchored vessels. Too far out. I think it's one of the running lights on a third ship approaching the harbor. This has all the makings of a busy town. Why don't we walk down there and have us a look at the place? Cotton Blossom will stay with the horses, and they'll be safe enough. For the time being, I'll stay out of the saloons, using my role as a gambler only when I have to. Those sailing ships out there interest me. Not for what they are, but for what they represent. With Texas under Reconstruction, who's going to be able to afford this as a seaport, to import anything?”

“The Federals?”

“The Federals,” said Nathan. “Texas is one hell of a big piece of territory, and I'm not sure the Federals haven't bitten off more than they can chew. Except for the Union Pacific, the frontier's years away from having railroads. I believe these sailing ships are evidence there's going to be a change in the government method of operation. I won't say there'll be no more wagon trains from the river towns such as St. Louis and Shreveport to points west ... I'm saying that these southern ports, such as Corpus Christi, Galveston, and New Orleans are going to be used more and more.”

“If you're thinking of us maybe joining one of the freight outfits, I can drive a team. But suppose the Federals are doing their own freighting?”

“Perhaps they are,” Nathan said, “but I doubt it. We got here early in the afternoon and there wasn't a blue coat in sight. If they don't have the men to garrison a few soldiers here, where are they going to get drivers and outriders for a freight outfit? Ever since I rode west, I've been hearing how undermanned the military is. And not just in Texas, either. Indians are raising hell on the frontier, and I think the Yanks have limped out of one war right into another. When those freight wagons show, I look for them to be civilian owned and driven. There'll be somebody here in this town who's responsible for all this incoming freight. With a third ship coming in, somebody will have to make a move pretty soon. Let's slope on down there and see what we can learn.”

“If I'm to pass for a man,” said Eulie, “I'll need a man's name. We'd best decide on that before we start meeting too many people.”

“You're dead right about that. What's your middle name?”

“Eulie.”

“Oh, hell,” Nathan said. “Your first name, then.”

“Elizabeth.”

“That's even less useful,” said Nathan. “Maybe we can use part of it. Suppose you become Eli Prater?”

“Appropriate,” she said, “after what my father tried to do to me. I'm surprised he didn't think of that.”

“You can be a quiet hombre,” Nathan said, “speaking only when you have to. Thank God you don't have a high-pitched voice. You don't sound so much like a woman unless you get excited.”

“Thanks, Nathan,” said Eulie drily. “If some varmint gets me excited, instead of screaming, I'll just shoot him.”

“That should solve all our problems,” Nathan said, grinning in the darkness. “Strap on that binder. Then we'll walk down there and see what we can learn.”

Once they neared the village of Corpus Christi, it seemed considerably more impressive. It was the tents housing the saloons that gave the place a temporary, sordid look. From a distance, even the permanent structures had seemed squat and inadequate, but a closer examination revealed glass windows, and next to the hotel, a less obvious building that turned out to be the town hall. Its name had been skillfully painted above double doors that boasted brass knobs.

“From the look of this,” Eulie said, “you'd never know Texas has been involved in war. Some of it's new, but most of it's been here awhile.”

“False prosperity,” said Nathan. “Yankee money. While politicians in Washington have imposed military rule through Reconstruction, they still have to spend money to make it work. If they're using civilian labor and civilian bullwhackers, some money has to change hands. There must be a mercantile, with food and goods freighted in, if only to supply the administrators that Washington has sent or will send here. Their trade, along with that of the civilian laborers and freighters the military is forced to hire, makes it all look better than it probably is. I'd bet my saddle that all those saloons are backed by Yankee money.”

False or not, even at night the town had an air of prosperity about it. Many of the structures—especially the tent saloons—had kerosene lamps aglow either beside or above the entrance. The Shore Hotel, by far the most grandiose building in town, had mounted a set of brass carriage lamps, one on each side of the wide front entrance. While less elegant, the double doors of the mercantile were similarly lighted. Despite the breeze from the Gulf, the doors were propped open.

“You might as well get your shirts, holster, and pistol belt,” Nathan said. “Remember, the less said the better, and I'll speak for both of us if I can.”

As Nathan had predicted, the mercantile was well stocked, including a good selection of arms and ammunition. Eulie chose a gun rig—a solid black holster and matching belt—with silver buckle and conchos. Whoever actually owned the store, there was a grizzled old Texan running it, and Nathan felt more at ease.

“You have a surprisingly good selection of weapons and ammunition,” said Nathan, “considering.”

“Considering the Comanches,” the old man laughed. “One thing the Yanks learnt damn quick. You can't hire men to freight goods through Comanche country unarmed, Reconstruction or not. I got two dozen of the new seventeen-shot Winchesters. It's replacin' the Henry, you know.”

“It won't be replacing mine,” Nathan said. “If a man can't shoot his way out with sixteen shots, one more won't make a damn bit of difference.”

“Them's my sentiments exactly,” the old man laughed, “but for them that's needful of a long gun, it's the best there is.”

“My pardner here might want one,” said Nathan. He looked at Eulie and she nodded.

“I'll git you one,” said the storekeeper. “How many shells?”

“Two hundred rounds,” Nathan said. “That won't be too many in Comanche country.”

“Might not be enough.”

“He can tell us something about the freighting business,” Eulie whispered, when they were alone.

“Yes,” Nathan said, “and we'll have to trust somebody not to get too nosey. I'll talk to him some before we leave.”

The old-timer returned with the Winchester, and without warning, tossed the weapon to Eulie. She caught it expertly in her left hand, jacking it open with her right. The storekeeper broke the seal on the tin of shells, placed it on the counter, and watched approvingly as the new owner of the Winchester fully loaded it. The weapon was still coated with grease from the factory, and a greenhorn might have wiped his hands on the legs of his trousers. But Eulie stood at ease, the Winchester under her arm.

“Old-timer,” said Nathan, “I'm Nathan Stone, and my pardner is Eli Prater. You spoke of freighting goods through Comanche country. When we rode in yesterday there were a pair of sailing ships anchored off shore, and we saw what looked like the lights of a third one a while ago. We reckoned there must be a lot of freight going somewhere, and wondered who's doing the hauling. If they're hirin', we could sure use the work, as outriders or teamsters.”

“I'm Jed Hatcher,” said the storekeeper, “and you could be in luck. That is, if you consider whackin' a freight wagon through Comanche country lucky. For the time being, the Federals are usin' a civilian freight outfit out of San Antone, run by a cantankerous old varmint named Roy Bean.
²
He's never showed up with more'n three wagons, and he drives one of ‘em himself. Dunno if he can't find more teamsters or if he just can't afford to hire 'em. He hauls to Austin and San Antone, and by the time he finishes one run, he generally has to turn right around and come back for another. He'll likely be in here sometime tomorrow. He'd better be, if he wants to keep his contract. The Federals is havin' to pay a man to keep watch over them goods out there on the dock until Bean's wagons shows up.”

“No outriders, then,” Nathan said.

“None,” said Hatcher. “I sold him three Winchesters and a pile of shells for 'em. If the Comanches-shows up, he depends on them Winchesters him and his men keep handy.”

“We're obliged,” Nathan said. “Maybe we'll hang around and talk some business with him.”

“Good luck,” Hatcher grinned. “I got plenty shells for that Henry, too.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” said Nathan. “I'll likely need them.”

“Well,” Eulie said, when they had left the store, “what do you think?”

“I think if Bean can get his hands on another pair of wagons, we'll get a chance to risk losing our hair to the Comanches. That is, if they ride this far south. I've heard that most of their hell-raising is confined to east Texas.”

“Don't you believe it,” said Eulie. “God, in 1842 the Comanches laid an ambush in Bandera Pass, just north of San Antonio. They waited until a party of Texas Rangers were in the gorge and then cut down on them. Five Rangers were killed and six were wounded. The survivors said mostly it was hand-to-hand fighting, both sides using Bowie knives.”
³

“It's unlikely the Comanches have changed their ways any since then,” Nathan said, “so it's a serious threat. What do you think?”

“I think the Comanches will be an occasional threat, while working the gambling tables at the saloons could get you shot dead at any time. When I say that, I'm thinking of that cold-eyed devil, Ben Thompson. I can handle a team and a Winchester, and I'd feel safer taking our chances with the Comanches.”