The Dawn of Fury (23 page)

“Nathan,” Eulie said. “I like it here.”

“So do I,” said Nathan. “We'll stay a spell.”

“Ride on to the house, then,” McQueen said. “It's over yonder beyond the barns. You can stable your horses in the second one.”

He watched them ride away, and Eulie waited until they were well out of his hearing before she spoke.

“You're always forgetting that I have two thousand dollars. This would be worth twice what he's asking. At least we didn't have to come up with a story as to why we're here. You don't look all that innocent with a Colt on each hip.”

“None of his damn business,” said Nathan irritably. “He took it upon himself, assumin' we're here for a horse race. Hell, that's ten weeks off.”

“No matter,” Eulie replied. “We're going to that race. At least, I am. In the old days, before the war, Daddy owned some thoroughbreds. I've ridden in a race or two myself. That's why I took Daddy's horse. I trained him.”

“Damn,” said Nathan, with a straight face, “havin' seen you naked as a skint coyote, I reckoned there wasn't any secrets left. Now you tell me you train and ride thoroughbreds. You find that easier than ropin' and brandin' men?”

“I do,” Eulie said, with an equally straight face, “and a hell of lot more satisfying. Horses are smarter, they learn faster, and unless they're mistreated, they don't get ornery and bite at you.”

Nathan laughed, slapping his thigh with his hat. By then, they were almost to the house. Built of logs, it was squat and sprawling, with two chimneys. A few yards from the main house was another log structure that looked like the cookhouse McQueen had mentioned. Beside it was stacked three head-high ricks of stove-length wood. Smoke spiraled from the chimney and the air was rich with the tantalizing odor of cooking food. Well beyond the house, there was a line of lesser log structures that had to be the cabins where the boarders slept. Eulie and Nathan dismounted, and by the time they reached the long porch, the front door had been opened by a woman who seemed a fitting companion for Barnabas McQueen.

“Welcome,” she said. “I'm Bess.” She was tall and still slender, and the years had been kind to her. While there was gray in her hair, there was youth in her eyes. Nathan answered her greeting.

“I'm Nathan Stone, ma'am, and my partner's Eli Prater. We'll be needin' room and board for a while. We spoke to Barnabas on the way in. There'll be us, our three horses, and my dog, Cotton Blossom. Here's a hundred dollars for us and the horses for a month. Barnabas didn't say how much for the dog.”

“And he'd better not,” Bess said. “There's no charge for him. Already I'm feeding that pack of four-legged gluttons that Barnabas keeps, and not a one of them worth the shells it'd take to blow their heads off. Take your pick of the sleeping quarters. Right now, they're all empty. Stable your horses in the nearest barn. We'll have supper in an hour.”

While the cabins were small, they were spacious, with a comfortable bed, dresser with mirror, water pitcher and basin, and a pair of cane-bottomed, ladder-back chairs. There was a coal oil lamp on the dresser and curtains on each of the two windows. The back door opened to reveal an outhouse. A large braided oval rug covered most of the floor.

“I can't imagine there being a better place in all of New Orleans,” said Eulie.

“I'm glad you like it,” Nathan replied, “but I'm not likely to learn anything out here. I'm after two killers, and I look to find them somewhere in town, in the gambling houses or the saloons.”

After taking the packsaddle and their provisions into the cabin, Nathan led their horses to the barn and unsaddled them. He rubbed the animals down, found stalls for them, and returned to the cabin. There, he and Eulie found themselves waiting until suppertime.

“After supper,” said Eulie, “Let's ask McQueen if we can go to the stables where he keeps his thoroughbreds. I'd like to see them.”

The bell that announced supper looked as though it had once been part of a locomotive. When Nathan and Eulie answered its call, they found their hosts taking their meal in the cookhouse. Bess McQueen introduced the cook—a graying little man in a chefs hat—as simply Pierre.

“Pierre speaks English tolerably well,” said McQueen, “but when he gets steamed, he cusses entirely in French. I reckon that's why Bess hired him.”

“That,” said Bess, unperturbed, “and he's an excellent cook.”

Following a superb meal, after final cups of coffee, Eulie spoke.

“Mr. McQueen, do you mind if we go to the stable? I enjoy horses, and I'd like to look at your thoroughbreds.”

“I don't mind at all,” McQueen said. “It won't take long, since I have only three. Bess, are you coming with us?”

“No,” said Bess.

Through the cool of the evening, with sundown just minutes away, they walked to the distant stables. It still being daylight outside did nothing to diminish the gloom within the stable, and McQueen took a lantern from a peg beside the door. Even in the poor light from the lantern, it became obvious why the building was so enormous, for an oval horse track dominated the center of it.

“Being so near the Gulf,” said McQueen, “there are times when we have three or four straight days of rain. Weather's not fit for man or beast.”

The stable consisted of many stalls, all of them arranged around the oval that was the track. One horse nickered while another began blowing and stomping about.

“That's Diablo making all the noise,” McQueen said. “I don't know what I'm going to do with him. Thoroughbreds can be high strung, temperamental, and nervous, but Diablo goes beyond that.”

“He's never been raced, then,” said Eulie.

“Not that I know of,” McQueen replied.

The stalls had Dutch doors, allowing only the top half to be opened. Thus one could see into a stall without being kicked or trampled by a nervous or frightened horse. McQueen opened the Dutch doors to one of the stalls, and the horse—a gray—stood there quietly looking at them.

“This is Prince,” said McQueen. “He's won considerable money for me.”

McQueen opened the Dutch doors to the next stall, revealing a chestnut, and while he didn't seem as calm as Prince, neither was he frightened.

“This is Duke,” McQueen said. “He's the youngest of the three, and I'm working with him now.”

“All geldings, I reckon,” Nathan said.

“All geldings,” said McQueen. “Otherwise they couldn't keep their minds on the race, with mares around.”

Finally they reached the stall where the third horse still snorted and kicked the walls.

“Better stand back,” McQueen said. “He can't get out, but when I open the upper halves of these doors, he may try to bite your ears off.”

A big black with a white star on his forehead, Diablo didn't lunge at them, but he flattened his ears and bared his teeth. While Nathan stood behind McQueen, Eulie hadn't backed away. Suddenly she spoke softly, and while the words sounded strange and meaningless to Nathan and McQueen, the big black horse seemed to understand. The ears perked up and the terrible teeth were no longer bared. Without a word, Barnabas McQueen stepped aside as Eulie continued the strange one-sided conversation. The horse came a step closer and nickered, but not in fear or anger. Eulie went no closer and Diablo remained where he was, seeming to understand every word spoken. It all ended as suddenly as it had begun, when Eulie stepped back. McQueen closed and latched the doors, and almost immediately Diablo began pawing and nickering.

“I've never seen anything like that,” McQueen said. “What did you say, and how in thunder did he ...”

“Something I learned years ago, in south Texas,” said Eulie. “From an old Indian horse gentler. He was a Lipan Apache, and I spoke just as he did, in the Apache tongue.”

“No wonder I didn't understand,” McQueen said. “What did you say? What is the secret?”

“No secret,” said Eulie. “I just told him he's a handsome horse, that I want to become his compañero. Perhaps it is the music of the words.”

“Gentle him, train him,” McQueen said. “Get him ready for this next race, and I'll pay you five hundred dollars.”

“No,” said Eulie. “I won't take your money. Diablo was honest with me, and I'll be honest with him. Should we become friends, it will be only because the two of us desire it. I will become his friend, and perhaps later on, should you conduct yourself properly, he'll become your friend.”

Barnabas McQueen had been profoundly impressed, and the conversation ended with Eulie agreeing to gentle the black horse and ready him for the coming race. Nathan said nothing until he and Eulie reached their cabin, and when he finally spoke, it struck her the wrong way.

“Sometimes,” he said, “I forget you're not a man.”

“I can believe that,” she snapped. “You haven't laid a hand on me since Corpus Christi, before you were shot. Don't I have everything in all the right places?”

“Yes,” he said, “you're everything you should be. It's ... I ... damn it, I don't
know
what's wrong with me. For a while, with you, there in south Texas, I ... I just forgot I was trailin' a bunch of killers. Now I know that a pair of them are here ... in New Orleans ... and they're heavy on my mind. I ... damn it ... I have trouble thinking of anything else.”

“How well I know,” Eulie said with a sigh. “I had you for a while, and you were Nathan Stone, the man. Now you're riding the vengeance trail again, and you're Nathan Stone, the killer.”

“The truth hurts,” said Nathan. “What do you aim to do?”

“I can't go back to Waco,” Eulie said. “I'll stick with you, help you if I can, bury you if I must. But if you ever again turn to me, I want it to be you wanting me, not because I've tried to force you into it. Go on back to the saloons and gambling halls. I'll gentle McQueen's horse, if I can.”

“I never knew you felt that strong about horses.”

“I've never been hurt or disappointed by a horse,” said Eulie.

Nathan could think of no suitable response to that, and when he shucked his boots and hat, Eulie blew out the lamp.

In the house, the McQueens were very much awake. And talking.

“I tell you, Bess,” McQueen said, “I never saw anything like it. Why, the confounded horse would have taken off my head if I'd been close enough, but this Prater spoke some gibberish, some Apache tongue ...”

“And wouldn't take your money,” said Bess.

“That's the damn mystery of it,” McQueen agreed. “A down-at-the-heels rider, with nothing but a horse and saddle.”

“No mystery, Barnabas. This Prater is a Texan. So was my father. He'd work for nothing, if he believed the cause worthy, and if he felt it unworthy, there wasn't enough gold in the world to buy him. Besides, these riders—especially Stone—are here for some reason other than a horse race.”

“I reckon you're right about Prater bein' a Texan,” McQueen agreed, “but I ain't sure about Stone.”

“I am,” said Bess. “He walks, talks and rides like a Westerner, but I have the feeling he's a Southerner who went West after the war. You know, they didn't actually tell us they're here for the race. We just assumed they were. While I don't know who Stone is, I doubt he carries those two tied-down pistols for show.”

“You reckon he's running from the law?”

“If he isn't, he will be,” Bess said. “You know the Federals are using the Reconstruction law to take away the guns of Southerners.”

“Unless they happen to be part of a gambling empire owned by a Yankee scoundrel like French Stumberg,” said McQueen.

“That kind of talk can get you killed,” Bess warned, “and even if you had proof, there's nothing to be done.”

“Stumberg should have stayed with his fancy gambling halls and steamboats,” said McQueen. “Now he's got himself some fast horses and reckons he can steal our races like he steals everything else. The first sign of anything crooked, and somehow, I'm going after him.”