The Dawn of Fury (32 page)

Silver laughed. “I ain't that smart. I've always regretted that I wasn't around for the fight at the Alamo. I'd've fitted right in. Hell, a Texan would go after a cougar with a cottonwood switch. That's my excuse, Stone. I'm a Texan, born and bred.”

“So how do you know I'm not?” Nathan asked.

“You don't have the lingo,” said Silver. “I'd give you another five years, if you live that long. You're an unreconstructed Southerner. I'd say you've dodged some Yankee lead, and somebody that's roosted in your family tree had some education.”

“I'm a year out of Virginia,” Nathan said, “and all the Yankee lead didn't miss. My mother was a schoolteacher before the war, and the little I know, I learned from her.”

It was the most he had revealed of his background to anybody except Eulie Prater, and he said no more. Silver didn't press him, nor did he volunteer any information about himself. Silver tugged off his boots, evidence enough that he was calling it a night. Nathan followed his example, and Silver blew out the lamp. Nathan lay awake with his thoughts, and he suspected Silver was doing the same, for there was no snoring. It would be a long night . . .

Nathan and Silver arose well before first light and had their final meal in the St. Charles dining room. Checking out was a matter of gathering their few belongings and turning in their keys. They went immediately to the livery, and while Nathan paid his bill, Silver went from stall to stall, looking for a horse that appealed to him. Eventually he selected a grulla, a gray so dark it was almost black. He then bought a second-hand double-rigged Texas saddle, with saddle blankets included.

“God,” Silver growled, “a hundred for the horse and fifty for the saddle. Time I'm fixed with a Winchester, saddlebags, and a bedroll, I'll be busted.”

“You could have bought a center-fire rig for ten dollars less,” Nathan observed.
¹⁶

“Well, hell,” said Silver, “I could have saved
fifty
dollars if I'd just bought a long-eared jack. You ain't even a Texan, and I don't see
you
settin' a center-fire saddle.”

“Oh, shut up,” Nathan said. “A man drawin' two hundred a month can afford expensive fixings and fancy horses.”

When they reached the mercantile, Silver bought bacon, beans, coffee, and salt. To that he added a bedroll, saddlebags, a Winchester, and three tins of shells. Immediately he loaded the Winchester, the mark of a cautious man, for he knew not what lay ahead. It was a turbulent time, and a man who aimed to stay alive planned accordingly.

“I reckon,” said Nathan as they mounted, “you know the way to McDonoughville.”

“I've never been there,” Silver replied, “but it ain't the kind of place you're likely to get lost. We follow the river east and just before it forks, there's a ferry. We'll cross there, and it ain't more'n two miles to Gretna. A little ways past Gretna is what they call McDonoughville. A wide place in the trail, I reckon.”

“I've heard some talk about the track at Gretna,” said Nathan. “That's where the races are held. Damned convenient for Stumberg, having his Mayfair House in McDonoughville. Who do we report to?”

“One of the house gamblers,” Silver said. “A surly varmint name of Drew Shanklin. He rode shotgun on the
Queen of Diamonds
on her runs to St. Louis, until Stumberg replaced him with me.”

“When you show up,” said Nathan, “I reckon it's safe to say he won't be breakin' out the good whiskey and renewin' old friendships.”

Silver laughed. “I'd be flattering myself if I said he hates my guts. I'd say I'm a hell of a lot lower than that on his totem pole. And don't look for him to take a fancy to you, when you ride in with me.”

“It wouldn't matter if he'd never seen either of us in his life,” Nathan observed. “I'd be downright disappointed if Stumberg didn't send him word last night. If we go astray, somebody's got to spank us.”

“Stone,” said Silver with admiration, “I purely like your way of gettin' a handle on a situation pronto. The time's a-comin', if you don't get shot dead, when you can call yourself a Texan and nobody will disagree.”

Reaching the ferry crossing, they found the vessel on the south bank of the river and had to await its return. They each paid a dollar, led their horses aboard, and were taken across. The south bank of the river was lined with willows, and when they rode away from the ferry landing, they couldn't see more than a few feet in any direction.

“Prime place for an ambush,” Nathan said. He shucked out his Winchester and jacked a shell into the chamber.

“God, but you're a doubting hombre,” said Silver, “and so am I.” Drawing his own Winchester from its saddle boot, he cocked it.

But they heard nothing and saw nobody. The undergrowth and willows diminished until they could see the roofs of a few buildings ahead.

“That's Gretna, I reckon,” said Silver. “Let's ride through there until we reach the south fork of the river. We can follow it to McDonoughville.”

Gretna, strangely enough, was strung out on both sides of the river's south fork, connected by a crude wooden bridge. There was a mercantile, a livery, a single-story hotel, a pair of saloons, and half a dozen residences. Nathan and Silver rode south without drawing any attention.

“There's the horse track,” Silver said.

The track—if that's what it was—ran for a quarter of a mile along the river and was visible only to the extent that the underbrush and bushes had been cleared away. There were clumps of broom sedge and weeds that reached a horse's belly. To the west of the track, maybe a hundred yards, was a long, low horse barn. There was a series of slatted stalls, each of which opened into a common corral. Behind the barn, overhanging it, was a line of trees. Between the grown-up track and the river were more trees, so dense that the river was no longer visible.

“I don't like the looks of this damn track,” Nathan said.

“Neither do I, for the same reason you don't,” said Silver. “Too much cover, too close.”

Nathan and Silver rode on, and not more than a mile after the track played out, they reached what had to be McDonoughville. There was only a mercantile, surrounded by a few residences. A few hundred yards beyond, on the west bank of the river, sat an imposing two-story house. It was white with green shutters, at the end of a winding lane lined with stately oaks.

“I reckon that's Mayfair House,” Nathan said.

“I reckon it is,” Silver agreed. “Who else but Stumberg would want all that fancy trappings at the tag-end of nowhere?”

“He can ride that steamboat right up to the front door,” said Nathan, “If the south fork of the river's deep enough.”

“It is,” Silver said. “That's something you'd best keep in mind.”

There was a rise behind Mayfair House, and beyond it was the stable Stumberg had mentioned. There would be room for a dozen horses, Nathan guessed, and behind the stable was a cleared stretch a dozen yards wide and several hundred yards long.

“We ought to unsaddle and stable the horses,” said Nathan. “The question is, do we do it before or after we announce our arrival?”

“Before,” Silver said cheerfully. “Whatever we do, he'll welcome us like a pair of bastards at a family reunion, so why bother?”

Nathan and Silver bypassed the house, dismounting before the stable. A horse nickered from within, and Silver's mount answered. There were a dozen stalls within the stable, four of them occupied. Nathan and Silver unsaddled, securing their saddles, bedrolls, and saddlebags in a tack room. Then, using old saddle blankets, they rubbed down their mounts and led each of them into an empty stall. Nathan forked down some hay for them.

“Only two of them are thoroughbreds,” said Nathan from the loft. “Are we to exercise all of them, or just the two for the race?”

“Unless we get specific orders to the contrary,” Silver said, “just the two thoroughbreds. I figure the others belong to the house gamblers, one of them Shanklin.”

The bunks Stumberg had spoken of were in the tack room. There were two, against opposite walls, and they consisted of wood frames latticed with two-inch-wide strips of rawhide. Nathan took one bunk and Silver the other. When they had spread their bedrolls, they stretched out. Silver tipped his hat over his eyes.

“I reckon you're in no hurry to renew old friendships,” Nathan said.

“You reckon right,” said Silver. “Besides, it's not even ten o‘clock, and that bunch at the house is still gettin' their beauty sleep. You wouldn't deny 'em that, would you?”

But Silver had figured wrong. They had relaxed for only a few minutes when they were roused by a bellow that would have awakened the dead.

“Get the hell out of those bunks. You
peladoes
think this is some kind of rest home?”

Silver eased back his hat and opened one eye. Suddenly he leaped to his feet—acting as if he were in fear of his life, he snapped to attention.

“My God,” he hissed at Nathan in mock terror, “it's him. It's him.”

Nathan emulated Silver's performance, falling from his bunk and getting hastily to his feet. It had the desired effect on Shanklin. His pale face flamed red, and when he opened his mouth, speech failed him. Nathan's first impression of the man verified Silver's negative description. Shanklin was dressed like a dandy, with black pin-striped trousers, black silk vest, and white shirt with ruffles. He was hatless, his dark hair slicked back. A wide black leather belt with silver concho buckle circled his ample middle, and from it, in a cutout holster on his right hip, rode a pearl handled pistol. Shanklin looked angry enough to draw the weapon and begin firing. Eventually, after a mighty struggle, he recovered enough of his dignity to speak.

“I have been instructed to see that you men attend to Mr. Stumberg's thoroughbreds,” he said haughtily, “and you are to begin immediately.”

“Yes, massah,” Silver replied with maddening sarcasm. “When do we eat, suh? We ain't had a bite in nigh two hours, suh.”

Nathan could see it coming, but it was Silver's play, and Nathan let him handle it. Shanklin was painfully, impossibly slow. Before he even had a hand on his pistol, he was staring into the muzzle of Silver's cocked Colt. Shanklin's hand fell away from his gun and the breath went out of him.

“Supper is at five,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “The two of you will take your meals in the kitchen. The rest of the house is strictly off limits to you.”

Silver's contemptuous laughter spoke volumes and it silenced Shanklin. Without another word he stalked out. Silver eased down on the hammer and returned his Colt to its holster.

“You purely know how to get under a man's hide,” Nathan said. “He ain't very sudden with his iron, but if he back-shoots you, speed don't make a hell of a lot of difference.”

“When a man turns his back on a sidewinder,” said Silver, “he deserves gettin' bit. Let's take a look at Stumberg's thoroughbreds.”

One of the horses was a bay, the other a chestnut. The slatted fronts of the stalls were only head high, allowing the horses to see anyone approaching. Silver came face to face with the chestnut and the horse snorted, laying back his ears.

“You're a handsome critter,” Silver said, leaning over the gate, “but I reckon you've been led about by some hombre that was scared of you. Well, old hoss, I'm not afraid. Pick up them ears and let's be friends.”

Silver extended his hand as though to touch the horse, and the chestnut snorted and reared, but he didn't back away, though there was room to do so. Silver's extended hand never wavered and the horse moved closer. Slowly the hand moved, stroking the animal's muzzle, and the chestnut relaxed, unafraid of this man who didn't fear him. Silver watched as Nathan Stone went through a similar routine with the bay. Within minutes they were able to open the stall gates and lead the horses out into the corridor of the barn. Both the animals submitted readily to a halter and were led out to the exercise track. The horses were thoroughbreds in every sense of the word. Their coats were thin and silky, their long, graceful necks running into well-defined withers and long, sloping shoulders. Their eyes were big and alert, their nostrils large, their heads clean cut and very fine. Each of them stood sixteen hands or more.

“We'll give them an hour to start,” Silver said, “and increase it some as they get used to it.”

They began by walking the horses, progressing to a trot, and, finally, to a slow gallop. Finally they dropped back to a walk.