The Dawn of Fury (41 page)

Nathan stayed the night, treasuring the short time he would remain with the McQueens. Early the next morning, the first day of 1867, Powers and Grago arrived in a buckboard. Nathan and McQueen greeted them from the front porch.

“I suppose you've come for Silver,” said McQueen. “He's almost bearable, once you get used to him.”

“He does take some getting used to,” Powers said. “We don't dare leave him here too long, sleeping late and taking his meals in bed. He'd take it for a habit, and God knows, we'd never break him of it.”

Powers and Grago stayed for breakfast, and it became a time Nathan Stone would long remember. When Powers and Grago declared it was time to return to town, Nathan decided to ride with them. While they helped Silver to a pallet of blankets in the buckboard, Nathan said his good-byes to the McQueens.

“Nathan,” said McQueen, “if you're ever again in New Orleans, remember that you have friends here.”

“I will,” Nathan promised. “It's been my pleasure and privilege, and I just wish ... it could be ending ... another way.”

“I'll tend Eulie's grave,” said Bess, taking his big hand in hers. “Do ride carefully, Nathan, and you're always welcome here.”

Nathan followed the buckboard, Cotton Blossom trotting behind the pack horse. Nathan had given McQueen Eulie's horse and saddle. Reaching the big horse barn, Nathan paused at Eulie's grave. Cotton Blossom regarded Nathan with mournful eyes, and if dogs could have wept, Nathan believed the hound would have done so. Nathan removed his hat, wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt.

“He paid, Eulie,” Nathan said softly, “but not nearly enough. He could have died a thousand times without being worthy of you ..”

Nathan rode away, Cotton Blossom following, and they soon caught up to the buckboard. Nathan followed as far as the St. Charles Hotel, where Silver would recover. Nathan would have ridden away, but Silver stopped him.

“I've asked Powers and Grago to present you with something to help you to remember us,” said Silver, “and as you ride into new territory, it could be of some help to you.”

Captain Powers handed Nathan a small white box, and inside it was a gold watch and chain.

“Raise the lid,” Silver said.

Nathan did so, and inside the lid was the Great Seal of the United States. Inscribed beneath the seal was a series of numbers.

“Wherever you go,” said Silver, “if you find yourself needing a friend, present this to any Union officer. There's only two of these in existence. I have the other. If you need me, wire Washington, using the code. I'll find you. Vaya con Dios.”

Nathan nodded, unable to speak. He shook hands with the three men and rode west along St. Charles. Nathan could have reached Baton Rouge before sundown, but wishing to be alone, he made camp a few miles shy of town. He prepared a meager supper for himself and Cotton Blossom. Perhaps in the morning they could pass through Baton Rouge and have breakfast there. Dousing his fire well before dark, he rolled in his blankets. Not to sleep, but to think. All the way from New Orleans, he had tried to drive Eulie from his mind, but found he could not. Now he invited her in, aware that it was the only way he could live with her memory. Compared to Molly Tremayne, Eulie had been a plain woman, but it was she who dominated Nathan's thoughts. He tried comparing her to Molly Tremayne, but Molly kept slipping away. Molly had wanted him, but on her own terms. But Eulie? Without question, Eulie had ridden the vengeance trail with him, becoming a wanderer, accepting him for what he was. Suddenly he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that had Eulie lived, she would be with him, not in New Orleans with the McQueens. Eulie had been humble and unselfish, becoming his woman the only way she could. Denied the feast, she had accepted the crumbs. Then, like a divine revelation, it struck him. Despite what he was, knowing what he could never be, Eulie Prater had loved him. Now Eulie would never know that
he
understood, and he wept and cursed himself by turns.

Nathan slept fitfully, awakening often, and the dawn seemed long in coming. He saddled his black, loaded the packhorse, and he and Cotton Blossom set out for Baton Rouge. Following breakfast in a secluded cafe, Nathan went to a mercantile and bought St. Louis and Memphis newspapers. North of town, beside the river, Nathan dismounted. Allowing the horses to graze, he sat with his back to a pine and went through the newspapers. The Memphis paper yielded more information than he had expected, for it reported another killing in Arkansas, laying it to Cullen Baker. There was a pair of drawings, one of Baker and the other of Tobe Snider. Snider, the paper said, was a deserter from the Union army, and was said to be a member of Baker's renegades. Nathan studied Snider's scarred face, committing it to memory. He opened one of his saddlebags, intending to save the newspaper. There was a heavy leather bag, closed with a drawstring. Emptying the contents on the grass, Nathan counted a hundred and twelve double eagles. $2,240! There was also a brief note:

It was signed simply Bess. His last night there, while he slept, she had slipped it into his saddlebag. With the gold of his own, his stake had risen to more than three thousand dollars. Eulie had feared that his saloon gambling would be the death of him, and if she could speak to him now, he knew what she would say:

Stay out of the saloons, Nathan. You have money
...

A little more than sixty miles north of Baton Rouge, Nathan reached a fork in the river where the Red joined the Mississippi.

“We'll have to cross the Mississippi, Cotton Blossom,” Nathan said. “We can then follow the Red into western Arkansas.”

But the Mississippi was deep and wide. Horses, rider, and dog had to swim, and it seemed they would never touch the sandy bottom, allowing them to wade out on the west bank. Two days later, Nathan passed near Shreveport, and on the third day, followed the Red into southwestern Arkansas.
¹⁸

After three days of having seen nobody, Nathan gave up and rode north toward Fort Smith. It had been founded in 1817 as a military post and had become an important supply point during the California gold rush. The town was located near the joining of the Arkansas and Poteau Rivers and had become a “jumping-off place” insofar as western migration was concerned. If Baker and his gang were anywhere in Arkansas, the authorities at Fort Smith should know. Nathan had made his camp a day south of Fort Smith and had just started his supper fire when a rider hailed his camp. The man rode a grulla and led a black. A man's body was tied across the saddle of the led horse.

“Ride in,” Nathan said, “but keep your hands where I can see them.”

The rider reined up a dozen yards away. His grulla's head was down and the animal seemed near exhaustion. The rider was poorly dressed. His Levi's were faded and ripped and his once-blue flannel shirt was faded white in places, while his hat brim drooped like the wings of a sickly bird. But pinned to the left pocket of his shirt was a lawman's star. A Colt rode on his right hip.

“Step down,” said Nathan. “I was about to have supper. You're welcome to join me.”

“I'd be obliged,” the newcomer said, dismounting. “My hoss is ready to drop. Run out of grub two days ago, in Injun Territory. I'm Deputy U.S. Marshal Russ Lambert, from Fort Smith.”

“I'm Nathan Stone. While I get the grub ready, unsaddle your horses. When they've rested and watered, I have some grain in my pack.”

“Much obliged,” said Lambert. “They can use it.”

Nathan already had the iron spider spraddled over the fire and the coffee was beginning to boil. He began slicing thick rashers of bacon into a fire-blackened frying pan. Lambert unsaddled the grulla, and when the animal had rolled, it was almost too weak to get to its feet. When Lambert had removed the body from the black, he unsaddled it. When the horse had rolled, it got to its feet and began grazing with the grulla. Cotton Blossom had been away from camp when Lambert had ridden in. He now regarded the lawman suspiciously.

“That's Cotton Blossom,” Nathan said. “He's not very trusting at first.”

“Neither am I,” said Lambert. “You live longer. Seein' as how I rode in with a dead man, I reckon you got a right to know why, and who he is.”

“I admit to bein' a mite curious,” Nathan said, “but I believe a man who wears a badge has a right to hold back whatever he wants.”

Lambert laughed. “You're a generous man. The Yeager brothers—Jabbo and Jake—took to thinkin' of themselves as another Frank and Jesse, and when they robbed a bank near Fort Smith, they went too far. They killed a man. I tracked the varmints into Injun Territory. When they laid for me, I drilled Jabbo. That's him over there on the ground.”

“Couldn't you just leave him for the buzzards and coyotes, instead of totin' him back to Fort Smith?”

“I could,” said Lambert, “but I need the bounty. A U.S. deputy marshal earns fifty dollars a month. With that, he's got to feed himself and his hoss, and buy ammunition.”

“I reckon the other Yeager rode for his life, then,” Nathan said.

“No,” said Lambert. “He's been trailing me, waiting for a chance to get even. I ain't slept for two nights.”

“You'll sleep tonight,” Nathan said. “Cotton Blossom will warn us if anybody comes near. Tomorrow we'll ride on to Fort Smith.”

The food was ready. They ate warmed-over beans, fried bacon, hard biscuits, and hot coffee.

“I'd near forgot how good warmed-over beans and bacon is,” said Lambert, “and Lord, there ain't nothin' to beat hot coffee.”

“You're pretty well used up,” Nathan said. “Turn in when you're ready. I'll stay up for a while.”

Head on his saddle, Nathan lay awake listening to the horses cropping grass. Cotton Blossom drowsed. Suddenly the hound got to his feet, growling deep in his throat. Nathan lay still, and moving only his right hand, eased his Colt from its holster. The fire had long since gone out, and Lambert lay in deep shadow.

Finally Cotton Blossom lay down and Nathan holstered the Colt. The gunman—if there had been one—had contented himself with scouting their camp. Come first light, Nathan was hunkered starting a breakfast fire when Lambert awoke. The lawman had been so exhausted he had removed only his hat.

“God,” he said, getting to his feet, “I was dead for sleep. I ..”

The shot seemed loud in the morning stillness, and Lambert was driven to his knees when the slug struck him. A second slug barely missed Nathan and screamed off a rock. Nathan rolled to his feet, his right-hand Colt spitting lead. With his left hand he grabbed his Winchester, and in a winding run, headed for a thicket where there were still traces of powder smoke. Two more shots sang over Nathan's head. Holstering the Colt, he fired the Winchester as rapidly as he could lever shells into the chamber.

The bushwhacker had been forced to leave his horse some distance away, lest the animal nicker and reveal his presence. Now, forced to flee the withering fire from Nathan's Winchester, the man's headlong flight through brush and dead leaves allowed Nathan to follow at a comfortable trot. When Nathan emerged from the thicket, he spotted his quarry with a boot in the stirrup, preparing to mount a blue roan. Nathan fired twice, the second shot snatching away the rider's hat.

“Step into that saddle,” Nathan shouted, “and I'll shoot you out of it.”

There was no more bluff in Nathan Stone's voice than there had been in his shooting. The surly bushwhacker backed away from the horse, his hands shoulder high. He was dressed like a cowboy, from flop hat to runover boots. There was a rifle in his saddle boot and a Colt on his right hip.