The Dawn of Fury (33 page)

“God,” Nathan panted, “I never spent so much time afoot since the Yankees shot my horse from under me.”

“I reckon we'll get ourselves in shape along with the horses,” Silver replied. “At least it's comin' on winter. In summer, I suspect some of that Texas heat bleeds over into these parts.”

While the sky was overcast, an hour of activity had both men and horses in a sweat. Nathan and Silver used old blankets and rubbed both animals down before returning them to their stalls. Besides a plentiful supply of hay in the loft, there were several hundred-pound bags of oats in the tack room.

“Well,” said Nathan, “our day's work is done. Unless Stumberg's expectin' us to work out the horses more than once a day.”

“Once a day's enough,” Silver replied. “If he demands more than that, it's not for the benefit of the horses, but to harass us.”

The afternoon dragged on. By five o'clock, Nathan and Silver were ready for supper. They walked up to the house, crossed a wide back porch, and went in through the back door. Following the odor of baking bread, they found the kitchen at the end of a short hall. Beyond it was a sumptuous dining room. A chandelier of six lighted lamps hung above a long table covered by a crisp white cloth. Within the kitchen was a plain oak table with four hard-bottom chairs, obviously for the cooks and servants. An enormous fat man in chef's hat and dirty white apron stared at Silver. Finally, when it seemed he wasn't going to speak, he did.

“Well, by God, Silver, I ain't seen you since I was at Old Canal House. I was told just this mornin' you'd be up here lookin' fer grub. I reckoned I was just bein' hoorawed, but damn, here you are, an' you dragged some poor soul down with you.” He lowered his voice almost to a whisper. “What you done, sunk the steamboat?”

“Nothin' I can talk about, Antoine,” Silver said. “This hombre is Nathan Stone. Are we allowed to sit down decent and eat off plates, or will you just heave some scraps out the back door?”

“You can eat here in the kitchen till somebody tells me different,” the cook said. “I didn't know you was a horse handler.”

“Neither did I,” Silver said, “until last night.”

Nathan and Silver got through the first week without difficulty, mostly because they saw nothing more of Drew Shanklin. But on the eighth day, as they walked the thoroughbreds, things changed. There was the distant crack of a rifle, and a slug whipped through the crown of Silver's hat. Before the echo of the shot had died, Nathan and Silver were belly down, Colts cocked and ready. But there were no more shots. The horses had pranced away.

“That one wasn't serious,” Silver said. “He wasn't that far away, and he could have cut me down, dead center.”

“I reckon we'd better go back to the barn and get our Winchesters,” said Nathan, “and from now on, take them with us.”

“Si, bueno,”
Silver agreed.

From then on, when leaving the barn for any reason, Nathan and Silver always carried their Winchesters. But there were no more shots, and the first time they took their rifles to the house, Antoine noticed. He said nothing at the time, but waited until the next morning. When Nathan and Silver showed up for breakfast—when it was likely that Shanklin and the rest of Mayfair House still slept—Antoine spread part of a New Orleans newspaper on the kitchen table.

“If anybody know you see this,” Antoine whispered, “I don' know nothin' about it.”

“Thanks, Antoine,” said Silver. “Nobody will hear anything from us.”

Quickly Nathan and Silver read the short article, then read it again:

“I reckon we know who the anonymous informer is,” Nathan said. “Just one thing I don't understand. Why didn't the varmint go one step farther and tell Gavin's killers where they could find us?”

“That might have been a little obvious,” said Silver drily. “Stumberg has an even dozen gambling houses, and if Gavin's even half smart, he could have found us in a couple of days.”

“If Gavin's bunch is planning to gun us down,” Nathan said, “they've had plenty of chances. Hell, they're shootin' from cover.”

“We're supposed to
believe
it's Gavin's killers after us,” Silver replied, “but I doubt it, for reasons you've just pointed out.”

“I ain't wantin' to hear this,” Antoine said. “There's ham, eggs, bread, potatoes, an' coffee on the stove.” With that, he went to the far end of the kitchen and took a chair.

Nathan and Silver refilled their coffee cups and then heaped their own plates from the food on the stove. For Antoine's sake, they finished their breakfast and left the house before discussing their perilous situation any further. Reaching the tack room, they sat on Silver's bunk so they could talk softly.

“That means we're bein' saved for somethin' that Stumberg reckons he'll be able to use to his benefit,” Nathan observed. “Any ideas?”

“Nothing I'd swear to,” said Silver, “but if I had to guess, I'd say he aims to use us in some way to give himself an edge in that horse race.”

-“That's been botherin' me some,” Nathan replied. “Back before the war—before our way of life was taken from us—we had our share of races. There was one horse, a thoroughbred, that comes to mind. There was some big money ridin' on him, but he came in almost dead last on a quarter-mile track. When the race was done, that horse was just hittin' his stride. If that race had been two miles, that horse would have run the legs off the rest of them, but he wasn't worth a damn in a short run.”

“I've never seen thoroughbreds run,” Silver said. “These animals have had plenty of exercise. Why don't we get them up to racing speed for a trial run, and see how fast they are? We're a mite heavy, I reckon, but we should be able to make up for that by not using saddles.”

They led the thoroughbreds along the track for a while, walking and trotting, and then at a slow gallop. Then, without even saddle blankets, they mounted; Silver on the chestnut and Nathan on the bay. Simultaneously they kicked the horses into a fast gallop, wheeling them at the end of the short track and galloping back to the barn. They rubbed the animals down and returned them to their stalls.

“That's damn disappointing,” said Silver. “Just looking at the critters, you'd believe they could fly if they had wings. But by God, I believe my old roan could beat both of them from a standing start, without working up a good sweat.”

“I think so too,” Nathan said, “on a quarter-mile track. But make it a two-mile race, and your roan would be eatin' their dust.”

“But the track at Gretna is a quarter mile,” said Silver. “That likely means Stumberg's about to lose a bundle unless he has an edge.”

“Count on it,” Nathan said, “but I believe he aims to
have
that edge. I only wish I knew how we figure into it.”

Three weeks after Nathan and Silver arrived at Mayfair House, they were again the targets of hidden riflemen. They had been to the house for breakfast and were returning to the barn when the concealed rifles cut loose. But this time, Silver and Nathan had their Winchesters, and, dropping to the ground, they returned fire. Three more slugs kicked up dirt, searching for them, and then the firing ceased.

“Close,” Nathan said, holding a handkerchief to his left ear. “One of the first two came within a whisker of taking my head off.”

“Looks like they mean business,” said Silver, “and that pretty well kicks our theory about the race hell west and crooked.”

“Maybe not,” Nathan said. “They had us pinned down on the lee side of this rise, and there was two of them. They could have stayed with it until they got the range and cut us to ribbons. They're still playing with us.”

“Maybe you're right,” said Silver. “Look up yonder.”

Drew Shanklin was standing on the back steps looking toward the distant trees from whence the shots had come. Seeing Nathan and Silver watching him, he turned and went back to the house.

“He can always testify that somebody—probably Hargis Gavin's killers—were gunning for us,” Nathan said. “That would draw suspicion from Stumberg, point the finger at Gavin, and get rid of us, all with two Winchester slugs.”

“But not until the day of the race,” said Silver. “I don't know how it figures in, but damn it, you've seen Stumberg's nags run, and they don't have a prayer in a quarter-mile race.”

At Barnabas McQueen's breakfast table, a somber mood prevailed. McQueen had opened the New Orleans paper to the damning story blaming Byron Silver and Nathan Stone with the killing of two of Hargis Gavin's men. The rider McQueen knew as Eli Prater had read the story and now turned troubled eyes on McQueen and his sympathetic wife, Bess.

“They're only guessing,” Eulie fumed. “Why would a newspaper print something like this, when it's only rumor? Don't they know they're signing the death warrants of two men?”

“The newspapers can argue what they've done is in the public interest,” said McQueen. “On the face of it, one gambling faction is gunning for the other, and nobody really gives a damn.”

“It was a shameful thing to do,” Bess said. “They've told everything except where those poor souls can be found, leaving them at the mercy of Hargis Gavin's killers.”

“Oh, they've left no doubt as to where Stone and Silver can be found,” said McQueen. “The paper says they're employed by French Stumberg, and that means they're in or near one of Stumberg's gambling dens. It'll be a matter of time until Gavin finds them, if he's so inclined.”

“It seems like he
wants
them dead,” Eulie said bitterly. “Nathan threw in with Stumberg to escape Gavin's guns, and now it looks like Stumberg's thrown him to the wolves.”

“It does, for a fact,” McQueen agreed. “I'd bet the farm that this damn unknown informer was Stumberg or somebody close to him. Who else could have known the names of the pair that shot it out with Gavin's men?”

“I can't speak for this Silver,” said Eulie, “but Nathan Stone ain't the kind to set on his hunkers and wait for somebody to shoot him. I don't know where he is, but I know this: If somebody's gunning for him, he'll know it, and he'll take a lot of killing.”