The Dawn of Fury (62 page)

“Ezra,” Josephine said, “let's you and me set on the front porch awhile.”

Lacy said no more until Ezra and Josephine were well out of hearing. It took her only a few seconds to find her tongue, and what she had to say came as a shock even to Nathan.

“So they told you. I don't give a damn what they think, or what anybody thinks. I'm moving to town. I just came back for my things.”

“It's your life,” said Nathan mildly. He refused her the satisfaction of knowing that he was disappointed in her, that he cared what she did, and that further infuriated her.

“Damn you,” she screamed, “you
don't
care, do you?”

“Would it matter if I did?”

She then resorted to tears, but they were tears of anger and frustration. He said nothing, watching her. Finally she stomped off into another part of the house, to the room that she had been occupying. Nathan got up and went out the back door, Cotton Blossom following. Between the house and the barn there was a buckboard, a pair of matched bays hitched to it, and on the seat, a man about Nathan's age. He was dressed all in black, including his hat. Taking his time, Nathan approached, and when the man turned to face him, his hand was near the butt of his Colt. His eyes hard and cold, Nathan spoke.

“When a man greets me with his hand on his pistol, I get the feeling he's been up to something that won't stand the light of day.”

“I've heard of you,” he said, with a contemptuous half-smile. “You're Nathan Stone, the man-killer. Well, I'm Monte Juno, and you don't look so damn tall to me.”

“I look taller when you're on your back in the dirt,” said Nathan,“but I won't kill a man without cause. I can laugh at you and pity her, and that's all either of you are worth. But if I ever have cause to kill you, then you'd best be wearing your buryin' clothes.”

Before Juno could respond—if he had intended to—Lacy walked stiffly past Nathan without speaking. Juno reached down for her carpetbag and then gave her a hand up to the buckboard seat. He clucked to the horses and wheeled the buckboard, and Nathan watched them as they rounded the house and were soon out of sight on the road toward town. With a sigh he walked back to the house, but instead of going into the kitchen, he continued on around to the front porch. Ezra and Josephine sat on the top step and Nathan hunkered on the ground.

“I brought her here,” Nathan said. “If she left owing you, I'll pay.”

“She's paid through the end of the month,” said Josephine, “and that's two more days. Anyway, we wouldn't expect that of you.”

“I'll pay for another month for me, the black, and my packhorse,” Nathan said. “I need some rest and I reckon the black does too.”

Despite the trouble with Lacy, Nathan welcomed Josephine's bountiful supper. Banker Ames Tilden arrived late, and he seemed genuinely glad to see Nathan.

“After supper,” said Tilden, “we need to talk.”

When the meal was over, Nathan followed the banker out to the front porch. Tilden leaned on the rail and Nathan leaned there beside him.

“We had an agreement,” Tilton said, “that in the event of your death, Lacy Mayfield was to receive your estate. I believe you should know that she has gone to great lengths to have you declared legally dead so that all your funds—including interest—could be turned over to her.”

“I'm not a damned bit surprised,” said Nathan. “She didn't succeed?”

“She did not,” Tilden replied. “There's a legal procedure involved, and just last fall she seemed excited at having received a letter from you. Since you had to be alive to write that letter, I persuaded her legal counsel they were wasting their time.”

“I'm obliged,” said Nathan.

For two weeks Nathan made the rounds of various saloons, vainly seeking some clue to the remaining three men on his death list. One night, while at the bar in the Silver Dollar, Nathan heard that Wild Bill Hickok was in the house. He found Hickok observing a poker game. Hickok wore his hair down to his shoulders. His black pin-striped trousers were stuffed into the tops of stove-pipe boots. His stiff, white shirt had ruffles down the front and hung open at the throat. His unbuttoned black vest partially covered the forward-turned butts of his pearl-handled revolvers. An expensive pinch-creased black Stetson was tilted back on his head. Two of the five men dropped out of the game and Hickok took an empty chair, his back to the wall. Nathan took the other chair, and the two of them played for an hour without winning a single pot.

“Gentlemen,” Hickok said, “Lady Luck is a faithless wench who appears to have forsaken me. I bid you adieu.”

“I'd have to amen that,” said Nathan, getting to his feet. “Belly up to the bar,” he told Hickok, “and I'll buy. At least we'll get something for our money there.”

Hickok laughed, appreciating the humor. It was still early and Nathan had grown tired of saloons. It soon should be suppertime at Cherry Creek Manor, and unless Nathan intended to eat in town, it was time he rode out. Having made Hickok's acquaintance, he found himself reluctant to leave.

“It's near suppertime,” Nathan said. “Will you join me?”

“Why not?” said Hickok. “There's something to be said for a bad night at the games of chance. It frees a man to seek decent nourishment, instead of hunkering over a poker table all night, grazing off the saloon free lunch.”

Nathan found himself liking Hickok immediately, for he was an amiable man with a sense of humor and apparently, some degree of education. However, there was much that Nathan had yet to learn. When sober, Hickok had a way with women, an undefinable charm that in no way seemed affected. On the other hand, he possessed a violent temper that often manifested itself when he was drunk. Hickok chose one of the more fashionable restaurants, and in the lobby was a placard announcing the opening of a comedy,
My American Cousin,
at the Palace Theatre. Nathan swallowed hard, for Lacy Mayfield's name was prominently displayed. When Nathan and Hickok were about to leave the restaurant, Hickok paused before the placard.

“I've never seen a mining town that didn't have some kind of theatre,” Hickok said, “and I've never attended this one. Tonight would be a good time to go. Will you join me?”

“I reckon I'll go,” said Nathan. “A man can't spend all his time in the saloons.” The truth of it was, Nathan had been doing exactly that, allowing it to serve a twofold purpose. While he sought some information on the three men on his death list, he was using the activity as a means of ridding his mind of Lacy Mayfield. With her in mind, the very last place he wanted to go was the Palace, where her memory would be personified for a painful two hours. However, he told himself, it wasn't his nature to run and hide from anything or anybody. He would attend her damn play, taking a seat as near the stage as he could. Nathan and Hickok arrived early, and despite it being an opening night, they were able to get seats near the front row, at center stage.

For a while Nathan was uncomfortable watching Lacy perform. However, the stage was well lighted, and after the intermission, the girl discovered Nathan in the audience. Where her earlier performance had been flawless, she now began to stumble over her lines.

“She keeps looking this way,” Nathan said to Hickok. “I think she's got her eye on you.”

“I'd not be surprised,” said Hickok, dead serious.

When the play was over, many of the patrons gathered near the stage in hopes of speaking to some of the cast, but Lacy Mayfield didn't appear. But Monte Juno did. He wasted no time in confronting Nathan.

“Damn you, he said, ”you made her nervous.”

“Is that a fact?” said Nathan. “Why, this is the first time I've ever seen her on stage. I'm so taken with her, I might just be here every night for the run of the play.”

Juno was so furious his mouth worked, but no words came out. He stomped away and Nathan laughed.

“Ah,” Hickok said, seeing the light. “The plot thickens.”

“She gave me the boot for him,” said Nathan, “and you can see why. I've never looked worth a damn in a clawhammer coat and top hat.”

“It's a hardship,” Hickok replied, biting his upper lip and jiggling his flowing mustache. “He looks like the kind who'd live off a lady's wages.”

“Oh, he has a place of his own,” said Nathan. “Saloon and gambling house called Monte's Hacienda. I've been meaning to drop in for a neighborly visit and try a few hands at his tables. I hear he serves only rye and bourbon, catering to gents with an educated thirst.”

“By the saints,” Hickok thundered. “Let us not delay this visit any longer. I have been known to down good rye until the sun rises or until I can't.”

Hickok was becoming well known on the frontier, and certainly in its many saloons. Monte's Hacienda was no different. He was met at the door by Monte Juno himself, and while he welcomed Hickok, he cast dark looks at Nathan, who grinned at him. Hickok looked around, saw no gambling tables, and headed for the stairs. Nathan followed. The second floor was devoted entirely to gambling, although there was a bar along one wall. Hickok paused at the bar.

“Bottle of rye,” he thundered.

The bartender produced the bottle and a glass.

“Another glass,” Hickok bawled. “What do you reckon my pard's gonna drink out of? His hat?”

There was a burst of laughter and the bartender hurriedly brought another glass. Hickok snatched the glasses in one hand and the bottle in the other and went looking for a table. One of the poker games had dwindled down to two participants and the house man. Hickok took a chair, his back to the wall, and Nathan took one across the table from him. Hickok belted down two shots of rye, while Nathan drank nothing. He hung his vest on the back of an empty chair and got down to some serious five-card stud. The house man was nervous, his eyes on the forward butts of Hickok's Navy Colts. The fickle Lady Luck who had scorned Nathan and Hickok earlier now smiled on them abundantly, as Hickok took the first and second pots, while the third and fourth went to Nathan. The other two gamblers eyed the house dealer suspiciously, as Hickok took the fifth pot and Nathan the sixth. It was time for Juno to appear, and he did.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “this game is over.”

“Like hell it is,” shouted one of the losing gamblers. “I want a chance to git my money back.”

“Some other time,” said Juno. His eyes shifted from the empty whiskey bottle to Hickok, who was now gloriously drunk.

“Well, hell,” Hickok muttered, “we got to make our own fun.”

With dazzling swiftness he drew the Navy Colts, firing first one and then the other. Four seperate pyramids of bottled whiskey exploded, while the long mirror behind the bar came down in a tinkling crash. Three men piled on Hickok while a fourth swung a Colt at Nathan's head. He caught the arm, slammed the man's face into the surface of the table, and buffaloed him with the muzzle of one of his own Colts. He tried to go to Hickok's aid, but as was the case with most saloon brawls, men leaped into the fray for the sheer hell of it. Bottles flew, chairs smashed into walls, tables broke, and Colts roared. A slug struck a hanging lamp, showering men with burning oil. Nathan went down under an avalanche of bodies and somebody drove a knife into his left arm, just below the shoulder. A Colt roared close by, and one of the men pinning him down screamed.

“Enough, damn it,” a bull voice roared. “This is the law.”

It ended as abruptly as it had begun. Men got to their feet nursing bloody noses, spitting blood from smashed mouths, rubbing throbbing heads. Blood dripped off Nathan's fingers from the knife wound in his upper arm, but Hickok had been shot three times. Once in the left side, and once in each upper thigh. The sheriff was dressed in a town suit, gray Stetson, and black polished boots, but the shotgun he carried was all business.

“You varmints got some walking to do,” he said. “Is anybody unable?”

Hickok, gripping the edge of a table, managed to get to his feet.

“Damn it, Sheriff,” a man complained, “I didn't have nothin' to do with all this.”

“I expect none of you jaspers had anything to do with it,” said the lawman, “so I aim to be fair. I'm lockin' all of you up, and you can tell it to the judge in the morning.”

- “I'm hurt,” a man complained.

“I'll send the doc around to patch up them of you that's needful of it,” said the sheriff. “Now get movin', all of you.”

They moved, Hickok limping, as were some of the others. There were twelve men. Hickok and Nathan were locked in one cell, while the others were divided two or three to a cell.