The Dawn of Fury (54 page)

Ignoring the rest of the town, Nathan reined up before the Oro Peso Saloon. On the glass window, lettered in fancy red and gold script, Nathan read: “Law Offices and Court Room—Judge Elijah Tewksbury.” Dismounting, he looped the reins of his horse over the hitch rail and stepped through the swinging doors into the saloon. Nathan counted six men, one of them the barkeep. He stood with his hands on the bar, while the five men gathered at an oval table forgot their poker hands. Nathan stepped to his left, away from the bar, away from the swinging doors, his back to the wall. Then he spoke.

“I'm looking for Clinton Foster and Milo Jenks.”

The silence became deadly, the only sound being the distant clang of a blacksmith's hammer. One of the men facing Nathan backed his chair away from the table, leading several of the others to do the same. The barkeep might have a sawed-off shotgun beneath the bar, lethal at close range, and it was a risk Nathan Stone couldn't afford to take. He spoke again.

“I want Foster and Jenks, nobody else. But I'll kill any man backing their play.”

Slowly the first man who had backed away from the table stood up, and when none of his comrades moved, Nathan knew he had a chance. He waited for the other man to draw, and when he did, Nathan shot him, slamming him into his chair and tipping it over backwards. Nobody moved, and Nathan kept the Colt steady. Suddenly a door at the far end of the bar opened, and a man who had to be Judge Elijah Tewksbury stepped into the room. His dress consisted of a long swallowtail coat, dark trousers, black polished boots, and a white boiled shirt behind a black string tie.

“I am Judge Elijah Tewksbury,” he said in a bullfrog voice. “This is a peaceful town. Who are you, and what is the meaning of this?”

“I came here looking for Clinton Foster and Milo Jenks,” said Nathan. “They're a pair of killers. One of them just drew on me and I shot him. Now who is the varmint I just shot, and where's the other one?”

“The man you just shot is Clinton Foster,” Tewksbury said. “At least, that's how we knew him. We know nothing of his past. Milo Jenks rode out a week ago. He was asked to leave, and I have no idea where he went. Do any of you know?”

“When they come here,” said one of the men, “they rode in from the south. I remember Jenks talkin' about a woman he knowed in Austin, Texas. Kept sayin' he aimed to go there.”

“I am asking you to leave,” Tewksbury said. “Immediately.”

Nathan said nothing. Keeping his Colt cocked and ready, he moved to his right and backed toward the doors. Knowing the risk, he backed out of the saloon. Once he was clear of the swinging doors, he whirled with his back to the wall. Immediately there was the clamor of voices and the thump of boots, and Nathan fired once beneath the swinging doors. The lead slammed into the saloon floor and the activity ceased. His Colt ready and his eyes on the door, he seized the reins and mounted his horse. He sidestepped the black away from the door and kicked it into a fast gallop, riding south.

Milo Jenks hadn't shared Clinton Foster's liking for the seclusion of the Ciudad de Oro, and when Jenks had fought with another of Tewksbury's men, he had willfully allowed himself to be driven out. From there he had ridden to Fort Dodge, taking with him two thousand dollars in gold, his share of the money he and Foster had accumulated from various robberies. Let Foster lay around Tewksbury's saloon and drink himself broke. While Jenks didn't know exactly what he was looking for, he quickly decided Fort Dodge wasn't it. It was no better than Ciudad de Oro, and possessed the added disadvantage of an eagle-eyed marshal who viewed strangers with suspicion. Jenks rode west, bound for Denver. There he made the acquaintance of Laura Evans, owner of the Bagnio Saloon, and after two weeks of sharing her bed, invested his two thousand dollars. A man could do worse than owning part of a saloon in a boom town, especially when there was a thriving whorehouse upstairs ...

Riding far enough south to be sure he wasn't being followed, Nathan reined up to rest the black and to consider what he had learned. Should he ride on to Austin, with no word to Lacy? Already two days out of Denver, if he returned here, it would cost him another two days. Besides, Lacy couldn't go with him. Tomorrow she would be reading for a part in
Under the Gaslight,
and the wounded Cotton Blossom might be unable to travel for a month. As he recalled, his last words to Lacy had cautioned that he could be gone for as long as a year. With that possibility in mind, he had left her money enough for just such an absence. He rode south, bound for Austin.

Nathan rode into Santa Fe, New Mexico Territory at sundown, two days south of Ciudad de Oro. After stabling his horse, he found a restaurant and ordered a platter of ham and eggs. Finishing that, he ordered a second one. His hunger satisfied, he got himself a hotel room and slept soundly until first light. Arising, he returned to the restaurant and had breakfast. Next to his hotel, the Santa Fe Saloon did a thriving business around the clock. It offered drinks of all kinds—domestic and imported—and there was a trio of billiard tables. Early as it was, there was a poker game in progress, with four men pitting their skills against those of a house dealer. Despite Eulie's warning, Nathan still thrilled to a fast-moving saloon game, the captivating flutter of the shuffled cards, the clink of glasses. Mostly to justify his being there, he sidled over and questioned the barkeep.

“I'm looking for an hombre name of Milo Jenks. Have you maybe seen or heard of him?”

“No. Not much goin' on during my shift. Talk to the night men.”

Nathan returned to his room for his saddlebags. With Jenks riding to Austin, Nathan thought it unlikely that he would remain in any town for more than a night, and just as unlikely that he would be remembered. However, it required only a little time to inquire along the way, and Nathan did exactly that in each town or village through which he passed.

When Nathan reached the point in the Rio Grande where the river veered due south, he rode southeast, knowing this would eventually put him in Texas. If his sense of direction hadn't failed him entirely, somewhere in southwest Texas he would come up on the Rio Colorado. He could then follow it the rest of the way, for the river flowed through Austin on its way to the Gulf of Mexico. Three days after leaving the Rio Grande, Nathan reached what he believed must be the Rio Colorado.
²⁷
It was sluggish and shallow, but it reached a width and depth worthy of its name as it progressed. Nathan rode all that day and the next, uncertain as to exactly where he was, but sure of his direction. He moved away from the river at night, carefully dousing his fire, lest it draw the unwelcome attention of marauding Comanches. This being Nathan's first time through west Texas, it seemed sparsely populated, if at all.

At the end of his second day on the Colorado, he was about to unsaddle his horse when there came the unmistakable sound of gunfire somewhere to the south. While it wasn't his fight, there was the possibility that some poor soul was pinned down by Indians, and a man with a Winchester might make a difference. There were no more shots, and Nathan reined up when he heard cursing. Drawing his Winchester from the boot, he cocked it and trotted his horse ahead until he came upon seven men dressed in Union blue. One of them—a private—was using a doubled lariat to beat a half-naked man who lay face down on the ground.

“That's enough,” Nathan said. “You're exceeding the limits of military discipline.”

“I am Captain Derrick,” the one man in officer's uniform said, “and this is none of your business. Ride on, or you'll be placed under military arrest and taken to the guard house at Fort Concho. Carry on, Private.”

The private drew back for another blow with the lariat only to have a slug from Nathan's Winchester rip through the flesh of his upraised arm. But the impromptu act cost Nathan, for one of the soldiers shot him out of the saddle. His Winchester was torn from his hand, and his entire shoulder and right arm was numb. He had been hit high up, beneath the collar bone.

“Get up,” Captain Derrick ordered. “Sergeant Webber, relieve this man of his weapons and assist him in mounting. Privates Emmons and Taylor, lash the deserter across his saddle.”

Webber took Nathan's Winchester and his cartridge belt with its twin Colts. Nathan watched as Emmons and Taylor hoisted the beaten man across his saddle. All the blood hadn't come from the beating. The poor devil had been shot at least twice. In the back. Captain Derrick regarded Nathan with hard, cruel eyes. Finally he spoke.

“You, sir, are under military arrest. You will be taken to Fort Concho, given medical attention and held there until I decide your punishment.”

The column rode south, the horses of both captives on lead ropes. Nathan couldn't believe this was happening, couldn't believe the cruelty he had witnessed, couldn't believe these men were Union soldiers. None of the Unionists he had known—even the Yankee guards at Libby Prison—had been insensitive and cruel. The more certain he became that these men were imposters, the more determined he became to undo their scheme and destroy them. But first he must have his wound tended, for the shock had worn off and the pain swept through him in waves. The fort, when they reached it, looked newly constructed, and was on the bank of a river. On the farthest bank, downstream from the fort, was a cluster of log buildings that looked like the beginning of a town.
²⁸

Once inside the gates, they proceeded to a log hut that was used as a dispensary.

“Dismount,” Captain Derrick said, his eyes on Nathan. He then turned to his men. “Emmons, you and Taylor take the deserter inside and have him seen to.”