The Dawn of Fury (36 page)

“Likely by the same varmint that had our names printed in the newspaper,” Nathan said.

The implication was clear enough, and though Stumberg kept his silence, the hard eyes that bored into Nathan spoke volumes. The gambler walked away and up the hill toward Mayfair House.

“Never kick sleeping dogs when you don't have to, and don't stomp a sidewinder that ain't strikin' at you,” said Silver.

“Hell,” Nathan said angrily, “I don't feel the need for stayin' on the good side of a varmint layin' plans to have me shot dead.”

When Nathan had unsaddled and rubbed down Silver's horse, he led it into a stall and returned to the tack room. He sat down on his bunk, dragged off his boots, and hung his hat over them. He eyed Silver, but Silver said nothing. Finally Nathan spoke.

“I'll say one thing for Stumberg. The varmint's got more brass than a whorehouse bed. He as good as told us we're goin' to be bushwhacked durin' that race. How can he be so sure we won't just ride and say to hell with it?”

“He has an edge, an ace in the hole,” Silver said. “Like you said, he's as good as told us we'll likely be caught in a crossfire. He figures between that and kicking us off the Queen of Diamonds, we'll be mad as hell and of a mind to get even.”

“He's right about that part of it,” said Nathan, “but I have a stronger reason. My pard will be ridin' Barnabas McQueen's Diablo, and McQueen thinks the black can walk away from all the others. Especially those thoroughbreds of Stumbergs. I think so too.”

“If that's true,” Silver said, “you'd have been wise to figure some way of keeping your friend out of that race.”

“To this particular friend,” said Nathan, “riding McQueen's Diablo next Saturday is worth the risk. We're talking about a south Texas rider who has more feeling for horses than anybody I've ever known.”

“So that's part of your reason for playing out your string,” Silver said. “To try and save your friend from being shot out of the saddle.”

“A big part of it,” Nathan replied.

“I suppose yours is a more noble cause than mine,” said Silver, “but I am committed, and when I've given my word, I'll stick till hell freezes.”

“I admire you for that,” Nathan said. “At the finish, after we shoot our way past the ambush, we'll be finished with Stumberg. I have the promise of a bunk at McQueen's place out on Bayou Road. I can't see that he'll be in any more danger with both of us than he'll risk with just me.”

“I'll ride with you,” Silver replied. “I'll need a place to hole up until Sunday, when the Queen of Diamonds returns from St. Louis. I have a hole card to play, and when the dust settles, I doubt McQueen will be bothered for having taken us in. Once we've drawn fire from those bushwhackers, we can raise some hell of our own.”

“We have to face the possibility that one or both of us won't come out of this alive,” said Nathan. “Those varmints will be shootin' to kill this time. Damn it, this could be the end of the trail.”

“I've considered that,” Silver said. “I don't know you any better than you know me, but I feel like we've been over the mountain together. If I make it and you don't, is there anything I can do for you, besides evening the score?”

“All my kin are dead,” said Nathan, “so I reckon that'll be enough. I'd say you're a bueno hombre, Silver. If I live and you cash in, I'll gun down those bushwhackers if I have to follow them to hell. Besides that, is there anything else I can do?”

“Just one thing,” Silver said. “If I live, I'm bound to silence, but if I die, all bets are off. Inside my right boot there's a slit in the leather. Behind the lining you'll find written instructions that must be followed to the letter. There is a telegram that must be sent. The message will be just two words: ‘Twenty-one.' It is not be be signed. After that, you follow the instructions. That's all I'm permitted to tell you. If you'd just done the sensible thing and got the hell out of here, I'd not be revealing this much.”

Nathan laughed. “If I escape the ambush, you're givin' Stumberg's bunch another chance at me.”

“Wrong,” Silver said. “If I don't make it, I'm placing in your hands the power to destroy French Stumberg. But unless I'm shot all to hell, you or nobody else is going to deny me that privilege.”

“There is one thing you can do,” said Nathan. “If we both live through this, I'd like to know why you're so willing to risk your neck. God, I knew fire-breathing Rebs who wouldn't have taken the risks you're taking.”

“Let's just say that something lit a fire under me,” Silver said. “If you side me through this and we both live to talk about it, I reckon you'll have earned the right to know where I'm coming from.”

This talk with Silver forced Nathan to question his own motives. While he rode a perilous vengeance trail, committed to gun down seven killers, it had been his own choice. So had been his decision to gain the confidence of French Stumberg as a means of getting to Dillard and Snider, a pair of the killers he sought. Now it appeared that Snider—and possibly Dillard—had fled New Orleans. Nathan's vengeance trail had taken a new turn and he now knew enough about Stumberg's unsavory activities to consider just riding on, but he could not. He had committed himself to a cause, an unlikely alliance with the enigmatic Byron Silver that could destroy them both. But, he had to admit, his motivation went beyond his word to Silver, and Nathan Stone had to face a truth he had been avoiding. Eulie Prater had become a part of his life, and with her determination to ride Diablo into what promised to become a deadly ambush, he couldn't forsake her. The vengeance trail would have to wait until he either saved Eulie's life or until they both died in the same hail of bushwhacker lead. Damn it, he would keep his word to Silver and save Eulie if he could, but when the smoke cleared—if he were alive—he would again ride the vengeance trail, and all the devils from hell wouldn't stop him ...

The rain began on December twenty-third and continued through Christmas Day. It was a tiresome, dreary time with little to do but wait. One morning, Nathan kicked off his blankets and sat up in his bunk.

Silver grinned at him. “Merry Christmas,” said the Texan.

“Yeah,” Nathan grunted. “The same to you.”

“I reckon we won't be swappin' gifts,” said Silver with a straight face.

“On, we can do it in spirit,” Nathan replied sourly. “I won't swear at you if you'll dig a hole and drop your damned good humor into it. I reckon there's nothin' that gets on a man's nerves more than trying to be mad as hell and havin' some grinnin' varmint trying to be funny.”

Three days of sun had done wonders for the track, and by eleven o'clock, a substantial crowd had gathered in anticipation of the race. A dozen fires crackled under as many coffeepots and a rich aroma filled the air. Most of the horse owners and their riders were there, Bess McQueen and Eulie in a buckboard and McQueen on his horse. McQueen had spoken to a dozen men who shared his hatred of French Stumberg, and these staunch friends had arrived with Winchesters in their saddle boots. If Nathan Stone's suspicions were well founded, McQueen was determined that none of Stumberg's killers was going to escape.

“Here they come!” somebody shouted.

Nathan Stone and Byron Silver rode from the south, each of them leading one of Stumberg's thoroughbreds. Drew Shanklin waited, accompanied by Red and Jake Prinz. Nathan and Silver reined up, passing the lead ropes of the horses to Shanklin. Then, without a word to the trio, Nathan and Silver rode back beyond the starting line, where McQueen stood beside his horse and Bess and Eulie waited in the buckboard. Nathan performed the introductions, and Silver swept off his hat. Cotton Blossom regarded Silver with undisguised suspicion.

“When this is all over,” Nathan said quietly, “I'm bringing Silver with me. He needs a place to hole up for a night or so.”

“Right,” said McQueen.

“Lots of hombres driftin' around with Winchesters,” Nathan said. “Do you know anything about that?”

“Not a thing,” McQueen said innocently.

As the start of the race drew near, the crowd became restless. Few wished to remain at the starting line, and began arranging themselves at intervals along the track. While they wanted to see the finish, they didn't want to risk missing what might happen prior to it. The finish line was marked with a wide red ribbon stretched across the track, and on either side of it stood one of the judges. Each horse was numbered according to its position at the starting line. Stumberg's horses were numbers two and twelve, while Diablo had drawn fourteen. That put Eulie on the outside, nearest the river, and Nathan took some comfort in that, for he would be riding nearest her. Unless he and Silver had figured everything totally wrong, they would be the first to draw fire, allowing them to go after the bushwhackers before Eulie and the other riders were in danger. It all depended on who took the lead in the race, and Nathan knew Eulie Prater would never hold back, if it meant her life ...

There was a shot signaling the start of the race and the horses were off and running. A big roan took an early lead, with Diablo running a close second. The rest of the horses were bunched. Eulie leaned forward and seemed to speak to the horse, and Diablo responded. Clearly, unless something went wrong, he would soon take the lead. Nathan rode well to the rear, Winchester ready. Uncertain as to what was expected of him, Cotton Blossom trailed behind. Then without warning, several of the bunched horses tried to break free. Shouldering into others, they sparked a neighing, biting ruckus. It allowed Stumberg's bay and chestnut to gallop ahead. They seemed to be getting into the spirit of the race, for they surged into the final stretch running third and fourth. Nathan tensed. If there were going to be trouble, now was the time.

Suddenly there were two rapid shots, the second sounding like an echo of the first. Lead burned across Nathan's right arm, just above the elbow. As rapidly as he could jack in the shells, he fired three times into a thicket, just below a rising puff of smoke. There were more shots, but from different positions. Firing while mounted posed some difficulty, and Nathan rolled out of the saddle. He hit the ground running, zigzagging toward the river with Cotton Blossom right behind him, but there were no more shots. Nathan moved cautiously into the brush and found a dead man. Nathan doubled back, caught up his horse and rode toward the finish line. It seemed everybody had congregated there, and Nathan soon learned why. The shooting had ceased and an ominous quiet reigned. The big roan's rider sat on the ground, the left shoulder of his shirt bloody. Bess McQueen was doing her best to calm the riderless Diablo, but everyone else seemed in shock.

On the ground, on their backs, lay Byron Silver and Eulie Prater. Cotton Blossom had taken a position beside Eulie. Lifting his lean muzzle toward the heavens, he howled mournfully. Blood soaked the entire left side of Eulie's shirt. A slug had torn into Silver's right side, just above the butt of his Colt. Silently Nathan knelt beside Eulie and took her wrist, seeking a pulse. It was there, but one look at her pale face told him it no longer mattered, for on her lips was a red froth. Sick to the depths of his soul, tears blinding his eyes, Nathan knelt there, never wanting to rise. Then he remembered Silver lying there, perhaps dying, and taking a limp wrist, sought a pulse. It too was detectable, but weak. Sleeving his eyes dry, Nathan forced himself to look at Silver's face. There was no telltale froth on Silver's lips.

“Nathan ...”

Her voice was no more than a whisper, but Nathan heard. Eulie's eyes were dull with pain, but they were open, desperately seeking his. Others had crowded around, but Nathan ignored them. On his knees he leaned close.

“Diablo ... won...” she whispered. “He ... won ..”

Those were her last words. Nathan got blindly to his feet and through tear-dimmed eyes, found himself face to face with Drew Shanklin.

“Damn it,” Shanklin snarled, “you and Silver are responsible for this. It was you they were after ...”

Nathan brought up a bone-crushing right all the way from his knees, behind it all the anguish and fury that engulfed his soul. It smashed into Shanklin's jaw, lifted him off the ground, and dropped him into an unconscious heap under the hooves of Silver's grulla. Blind with fury, Nathan jacked a shell into the chamber of his Winchester. He paused only when he felt a hand on his arm.

“Barnabas's gone for a doctor,” said Bess McQueen. “I'll have some of the men wrap Eulie in some blankets and take her to the buckboard.”

“You ... you knew about her,” Nathan said wonderingly.