The Dawn of Fury (18 page)

“All right,” said Nathan. “I have my faults, but refusing to admit being wrong isn't one of them. I didn't ask you to throw in with me, but ever since last night, I've been thanking God that you did. That's the last refuge of a prideful man, Eulie. He gets mad as hell when he has to swallow an ugly truth about himself. You should know that, and I'm sorry for what I said.”

“I do know that,” Eulied replied. “I should. My daddy's that way. He's never been wrong, and I've taken many a beating for disagreeing with him.”

“Too damn much pride, then. Like me.”

“Like you,” she said. “He didn't care a damn about me leaving, but with his pride at stake, I'd not be surprised if there's a price on my head. Pride is a dangerous thing, if it's spread too thick.”

“You're right,” he said. “I never thanked you properly for last night, but I am now.”

“I don't want thanks,” said Eurlie. “I want your promise you'll put your pride on the shelf and back off when there's no good cause, and when you're surrounded by men who can and will shoot back.”

“All right, damn it, all right,” he said irritated. “I reckon after four years of war, comin' out on the losin' end, and then bein' kicked around by the Yankees in Libby Prison, I'm a mite touchy.”
⁵

“I don't care
what
your reasons are,” she said, just as irritably. “I want to know if you've learned anything from last night.”

“Yes,” he growled. “I've already admitted you're dead right and I was wrong. What more do you want?”

“I want you to promise me you'll stay out of saloon poker games as long as you can,” Eulie said, “and when you must sit in, don't be so damn quick to draw when you're outgunned eight to one.”

“Yes, Mama.”

“I'm not your mama,” she snapped. “If I were, I'd get me a big switch and stripe your behind.”

She lost him then, as a faraway look came into his eyes and in his mind he drifted beyond her reach, where she could not follow. Again he was seeing those lonely new-made graves in faraway Virginia, and finally the grave of old Malachi. From somewhere, sounding more distant and more lonely than ever, came the mournful howl of a dog. Suddenly he was jolted back to the present by the rumble of a wagon and the clatter of hooves.

“Somebody's coming,” Eulie said. “We'd better get up in the hayloft.”

They scrambled up the makeshift ladder, which consisted of slats nailed to the wall of a tack room. Through a wide crack they could see the front of the house, where two men had stepped down from a buckboard. They both were well dressed, and the older of the two stepped up on the porch and pounded on the door. There was an early-morning breeze, and being downwind from the strangers, Nathan and Eulie could hear their conversation.

“He's not here,” the younger man said.

“I didn't expect him to be,” said the portly one who had knocked, “but I wanted to be sure.”

“Leighton,” said his companion, “he hasn't paid his rent in nine months. Why don't you just get the sheriff and have him thrown out?”

“Because he owes me two hundred and twenty-five dollars, Barnfield, and I don't intend for him to weasel his way out of paying it. If I kick the old fool out, I'll never see a dime. Let's have a look in the barn and see if he has any livestock worth the taking.”

“Hell,” Barnfield said, “you can't just take a man's property because he owes you money. You'll have to go to court and get a judgement against him.”

“I know that,” said Leighton, “but I don't know that he has anything more than his teams and wagons. Let's go look in the barn.”

“Damn,” Nathan growled under his breath, “they'll find our horses.”

But the strangers never reached the barn. Cotton Blossom met them, his hackles up, growling ominously.

“Go back to the buckboard,” Leighton said, “and get the whip.”

“I'm goin' back to the buckboard,” Barnfield replied, “but not for the whip. I'll wait for you there.”

He retreated, but Cotton Blossom did not. The hound advanced, making it obvious he had no intention of backing off. The portly Leighton then made a big mistake. He turned for the buckboard. He almost made it. He was about to hoist himself to the buckboard's seat when Cotton Blossom sank his teeth into the seat of his pin-striped trousers and tore fabric.

“By the Eternal,” Leighton bawled, as Barnfield drove away, “I'll sue!”

“I'd think about that,” Barnfield replied. “We were trespassing.”

In the barn loft, Nathan laughed until he cried, but Eulie wasn't so jubilant.

“I'd have paid good money to see that,” said Nathan, wiping his eyes.

“I'm glad you enjoyed it,” Eulie said, “because it could cost us more than money. If that pair does any talking, somebody could connect the dog to us. You heard what he said about Bean being nine months behind with his rent. They were trespassing, so that one Cotton Blossom went after can't complain about that. But he
can
go to court, get a judgement against Bean, and come back with the sheriff. They could take
our
horses and saddles, damn it, as part of Bean's property, to satisfy his debt.”

“Like, hell they can,” Nathan said. “I never heard of such, taking a man's property for back rent.”

“That doesn't mean it can't happen,” Eulie replied. “Let's hope it can't be done quickly.”

But as the day dragged on, they saw nobody, and eventually they joined Cotton Blossom in an empty stall near their horses. They drank water from their canteens and chewed on jerked beef from their provisions. Nathan fed Cotton Blossom hunks of jerky, and finally the three of them dozed in the heat of the afternoon. It was near sundown when they finally heard the rattle of wagons, announcing the arrival of Roy Bean and his Mexican teamsters. The wagons were drawn up near the barn. The oxen were unharnessed and turned into an adjoining corral, where Delmano and Renato forked hay down to them. Bean entered the barn, looking for Nathan and Eulie.

“Well,” he said, finding them, “I reckon nobody come huntin' you.”

“No,” said Nathan, “but a pair of hombres was looking for you.”

“Not really,” Eulie corrected. “We heard them talking, and they had the notion to look around for something of yours they could take for back rent. Their names were Leighton and Barnfield, and it seemed like Leighton's idea. Cotton Blossom bit him on the behind and they left, with talk of a suit.”

Bean laughed. “Lord A'mighty, Stone, I got to have me that dog. I'll give you fifty dollars fer him.”

“Sorry,” Nathan said, “I can't part with him. He's all the family I have left.”

“Now as I look at 'im a mite closer,” Bean said, “I reckon he does have yer eyes.”

It was Eulie's turn to laugh, and Nathan joined in. Bean finally turned serious.

“I fin'lly collected some freightin' money that's been owin' me since spring. I went by an' give some to Leighton, to git the greedy varmint off'n my back.”

“You caught your rent up, then,” Eulie said.

“Some of it,” said Bean. “Don't owe fer but five months now.”
⁶

“Since we can't go into town,” Nathan said, “how are chances of us going to the house long enough for a decent meal? We'll bring our own grub.”

“No need fer that,” Bean said, “an' I'll feed the dog too. Come on. Delmano and Renato can eat after they bring them other teams an' wagons from town.”

“Speaking of town,” Eulie said, “have the McClendon riders been searching for us?”

“No,” Bean replied, “an' you ain't got to worry about that. McClendon jist slapped a thousand-dollar bounty on each of yer heads, an' telegraphed the sheriffs in different towns, sendin' yer names an' descriptions.”

“How in hell can he do that?” Nathan exploded. “He's not the law, and besides, we fired in self-defense.”

“That's how powerful he is,” said Bean. “He sent men all over town, an' they hunted till they found that boardin' house where you took a room. They got yer names from the register.”

“Then we won't be safe wherever we go,” Eulie said.

“That's spilt milk,” said Bean.

They entered the house, and it was just as cluttered as the yard. The living room had no furniture. Instead, there was a pile of wagon canvas, old harness, a saddle, bridles, and four enormous wooden kegs that might have once—and perhaps still—contained whiskey. From there they went directly into the dining room. There was a heavy, handmade X-frame oak table that could easily seat twenty. There was a backless oak bench on each side, each one stretching the length of the table.

“Set,” Bean commanded. “I know where ever'thing is.”

Nathan and Eulie took their seats on one side of the table, watching Bean as he fired up an enormous wood stove that squatted in the adjoining kitchen. He made the coffee first, and when it was ready, cheerfully poured it into unmatched cups. He then set about preparing the meal. He brought knives and forks to the table, and then plates, none of which were alike. Finally he brought platters of ham, eggs, and fried potatoes. He refilled the coffee cups, returned the pot to the stove, and took his seat on the other side of the table. There was no talk until the meal was finished. It was Nathan who finally spoke.

“You sure you want a pair of teamsters that's dodging the law?”

“I ain't sure that'll be a problem,” said Bean. “You know Texas is under military law, an' that means most towns has got a guv'ment-appointed sheriff. From what I seen in Austin an' Houston, lawmen that's been appointed by the Federals don't get excited long as it's Rebs agin Rebs. You gun down a blue coat an' they'll set the whole damn army after yer hide. I reckon when old McClendon hollers froggy, San Antonio jumps, but that don't include the Federals. They're spread too thin, an' they're scared to death of the Comanches.”

“The soldiers control the telegraph, then,” Nathan said.

“Damn right they do,” said Bean. “McClendon raised enough hell, I'd say, till they let him send his telegrams, but they won't mean doodly, comin' from him. There's talk the officer in charge in San Antone might get raked over fer allowin' McClendon to use the telegraph. Jist be ready to move out at first light.”

Bean's wagon led out at dawn. Delmano and Renato followed, while Eulie and Nathan brought up the rear with the fourth and fifth wagons. Both their horses and the packhorse trailed Nathan's wagon on lead ropes. Nathan had made it his business to be last in line, knowing that Cotton Blossom would follow the wagon. It would lessen the chances of their being surprised from the rear, by Comanches or anyone else. The empty wagons made good time. By Bean's estimate, fifteen miles.

“You'd do a hell of a lot better,” Nathan observed, around the supper fire, “if you took a load south from San Antonio. Don't you ever haul anything
to
Corpus Christi?”

“Nothin' to haul,” Bean replied. “Hell, after four years of war, Texas ain't got nothin' to ship out. Ever'thing's got to be brung in.”

As Bean had predicted, the Comanches didn't molest the empty wagons. Sixty miles north of Corpus Christi, they had built their supper fire on the east bank of the Nueces, where the river began its southward journey toward the gulf. Suddenly, Cotton Blossom trotted a few yards downriver, his hackles rising.

“Somebody's coming,” said Nathan.

“Indians, maybe,” Eulie said.

“No,” Nathan replied. “It's just one horse.”

“Keep yer guns handy,” said Bean. “In these times, you don't give no man the benefit of the doubt.”

The stranger evidently shared Bean's skepticism, for he reined up well out of rifle range.

“Hello the camp,” the rider shouted. “I'm friendly. Got three men down the river a ways, an' we've had Injun trouble.”

“Ride on in,” Bean responded, “but keep yer hands where we kin see 'em.”

The stranger rode in, reins looped about the saddle horn, his hands shoulder high. His horse was a bay, and nothing seemed unusual about the man. His black Stetson had seen a lot of dust, wind, and rain, and his flannel shirt and Levi's pants were far from new. His Colt was tied down on his left hip, butt forward for a crosshand draw. He might have been a drifter or even a cowboy although Nathan noted that he sat a single-rigged saddle.

“Git down,” Bean invited.