The Dawn of Fury (8 page)

“I've never seen you before in my life,” said Bart Hankins. “I've done you no wrong.”

“Think back to last November,” said Nathan grimly. “Back to Charlottesville, Virginia. You were one of the seven scum who murdered my family and fired the house.”

“You have no proof,” Hankins said.

“I have an eyewitness,” said Nathan.

“You'd shoot an unarmed man?”

“No,” said Nathan, taking an extra Colt from his waistband. “I'll lay this Colt on the desk and you can go for it. It's more of a chance than you deserve. Stand up.”

Hankins got to his feet, but his eyes were not on the Colt that lay on the desk. It was all that saved Nathan. Hankins had palmed the sleeve gun and the .41-caliber derringer's slug ripped a furrow in the desktop just as Nathan's slug tore into Hankins's belly. Hankins fell back down into his swivel chair. Nathan snatched the Colt from the desk and was out the door and running.

Frank and Jesse James and the Younger brothers had just approached the teller's cages, their Colts drawn, then the two shots ripped the early-morning stillness. After a moment of shocked hesitation, the four outlaws dropped their canvas sacks and broke for the door. Nathan Stone was already out of the bank and around the comer when Frank and Jesse hit the front door, the Youngers at their heels. Closed doors within the bank's lobby opened and Colts roared. The citizens of the little town had reacted swiftly, and from points along the main street, rifles began crashing. A hail of lead slammed into the wooden door frame and there was an explosion of shattered glass. Bob Younger dropped his Colt when a slug tore into his upper right arm. The four outlaws, reaching their horses, snatched the reins and mounted on the run. As the six rode away at a fast gallop, there was shouting behind them as the town mounted a posse.

Following the shooting of Hankins, it had taken Nathan Stone but a few seconds to escape the bank, but he was well aware that his action had foiled a bank robbery. Mounting the black horse, he rode west at a fast gallop, Cotton Blossom loping along beside him. A clatter of hoof-beats told him he was being pursued. There hadn't been enough time for a posse, so it had to be the outlaws. He looked back and there were six of them, the lead rider coming hard. They were already within pistol range, but a posse would be coming. They were going to ride him down. Nathan drew his Colt but thought better of it. Any gunfire would aid a posse that would quickly gun down Nathan Stone as one of the fleeing outlaws. The lead rider was gaining, and Nathan knew what was coming. He kicked free of his stirrups, and when the other man left his saddle, the two of them were flung to the ground in an ignominious tangle of arms and legs. Nathan fought free, rolled, and came up with his Colt. But so had his antagonist. It was a standoff, and they faced one another grimly.

“Go ahead,” said Nathan, “but I'll take you with me.” The rest of the outlaws had reined up. “Jesse,” Frank shouted, “leave it be. There's a posse coming. Mount up and let's ride.”

“I been hit,” Bob Younger cried, “and I'm bleedin' like a stuck hog.”

“Hell, no,” snarled Jesse James, “I ain't leavin' it be. This varmint got us the blame for a robbery and we ain't got a dollar to show for it.”

“Well, this ain't no time to shoot him,” Cole Younger said, “with a posse on our tail. Bob's hurt. Besides, since when has it bothered you what you was blamed for?”

“Since the damn Pinkertons started raisin' the price on my head,” said Jesse. “Just like they'll be raisin' it on yours.”

“Dingus,” Frank said, “that posse will be mounted by now. A shot will bring them on the run. Now, damn it, you mount up and ride, or the rest of us will leave you standin' here.”

Reluctantly, Jesse James holstered the Colt. He turned cold blue eyes on Nathan Stone and the look in them bordered on madness. When he spoke, his voice was almost inaudible, an evil hiss.

“You damn spoiler, if our trails ever cross again, I'll kill you, whatever it costs me. That ain't a threat, but a promise, and Jesse James keeps his promises.”

The six of them mounted and rode away at a fast gallop to the southwest. Nathan mounted and rode due west, toward the Kansas line, where he had hidden the packhorse. His one hope was that the posse wouldn't forsake the trail of the six outlaws to pursue him. While he had incurred the wrath of Jesse James, he decided it had been worth it. Unknowingly, the outlaws had drawn attention away from him, and the killing of Bart Hankins during the aborted robbery might become a mystery that would never be solved. Hankins, however, had known why he died.

Taking no chances, Nathan rode at a slow gallop, concealing his trail as best he could. He could hardly blame Jesse James for his fury. The outlaws had taken the blame while Nathan had taken his vengeance. But there was yet a debt unpaid. If Nathan Stone and Jesse James met again, one of them would die.

Indian Territory, from what Nathan had heard, was a desolate area where renegades on the dodge holed up. He doubted the James and Younger gangs would ride any farther into the territory than was necessary to lose the posse. Being from Missouri, they never strayed far from it. Nathan reined up and dismounted, resting his horse. There was no evidence of riders on his back trail.

“Cotton Blossom,” said Nathan to the panting dog, “we have a decision to make. Hankins is dead, but where in tarnation are the rest of the varmints? Where do we go from here?”

While Nathan might be taken for an owlhoot in his own right, he had no fear of being recognized as a result of his brief association with the James and Younger gangs. The killers he sought wouldn't know they were being pursued, so there was little chance he'd find them hiding in Indian Territory.

“Those killers rode west,” Nathan said, “and I'd bet a horse and saddle one or two of them are from Texas. Since we don't know for sure where this trail's taking us, Texas is a good place to start. Let's ride south, Cotton Blossom.”

Nathan and Cotton Blossom passed the villages of Parsons and Coffeyville, Kansas without stopping, keeping out of sight. The little towns were not too far from the Missouri village where the killing had taken place. Nathan rode until he was sure he was well into Indian Territory before stopping. There was a poorly painted sign nailed to the trunk of a tree that told him he was approaching Muscogee. While he doubted he would find the killers he sought in Indian Territory, it would cost him nothing but a little time and the price of a beer or two to visit some of the saloons. He reined up before the Cherokee Saloon, half-hitching his mount and the packhorse to the rail.

“Stay, Cotton Blossom,” he said.

Four men sat at a back table, a bottle, glasses, and a deck of cards before them. They eyed Nathan as he walked to the bar and ordered a beer. He paid, took the brew, and leaning his back against the bar, returned the stare of the men at the table. They suddenly lost interest in him, and one of them began shuffling the cards. Nathan finished his beer, set the glass on the bar, and headed for the door. He could sense the eyes of the barkeep and the four men at the table on his back, wondering who he was. That he might be on the dodge didn't concern them, but the possibility that he might be a lawman—perhaps from Fort Smith—did. He visited the other two saloons where the few patrons viewed him with the same suspicion. Before he rode out of town, Nathan stopped at the general store and bought a second holster for his extra Colt. He now wore a tied-down Colt on each hip, and after endless hours of practice, could draw and fire with either hand. He rode on, pausing on a ridge to be sure he wasn't followed.

Finding a spring, Nathan stopped and cooked his supper well before dark. After watering his horses, he rode a mile or more until he found a draw with ample graze. There he picketed his horses and spread his blankets, secure from the chill night wind. Cotton Blossom would warn him of any intruders. But the night was peaceful enough, and he returned to the spring for breakfast. The real danger in Indian Territory, as he was well aware, was the possibility of being murdered or robbed by renegades. But a change had taken place that eased his mind considerably. No longer content to just trot along behind the packhorse, Cotton Blossom had taken to ranging ahead and occasionally falling behind. The hound seemed to sense Nathan's caution, and in the late afternoon, Cotton Blossom caught up, after scouting the back trail. He whined and trotted back a few yards the way he had come. Nathan reined up.

“Somebody on our back trail, Cotton Blossom?”

Cotton Blossom growled low in his throat. A few yards ahead was a mass of head-high boulders, and on a ridge almost a mile distant, a dense thicket. Nathan kicked his horse into a slow gallop. The animals must be picketed far enough ahead that they wouldn't nicker when the pursuers drew near. Quickly Nathan half-hitched the reins of his mount and those of the packhorse to a scrub oak, well within the thicket. Taking his Henry from the boot, he ran back down the slope to the distant pile of boulders, Cotton Blossom at his heels. They didn't have long to wait. There were three riders, and the first man Nathan thought he recognized from the poker table at the Cherokee Saloon. Nathan waited until the trio had ridden past and then stepped out behind them.

“That's far enough,” Nathan said. “You're covered. Rein up.”

He added emphasis to his words, cocking the Henry. “Now,” said Nathan, “wheel your horses around to face me, and keep your hands away from your guns.”

The three turned to face him, their hands shoulder high.

“I reckon,” Nathan said grimly, “the three of you have some good reason for following me.”

“This is free range,” said the man Nathan remembered from the saloon. “We can ride where we damn please, and we don't owe you nothin'. Besides, we wasn't trailin' you.”

“I don't believe you,” Nathan said. “Using a thumb and finger, lift those guns and drop them. Then dismount.”

Slowly they lowered their hands to the butts of their pistols, but the third man—the one farthest from Nathan—made a fatal mistake. He drew. Even as his finger tightened on the trigger of the Colt, a slug from Nathan's Henry ripped into his belly, tossing him over the rump of his horse to the ground. The remaining riders carefully lifted their pistols and dropped them. Then they dismounted.

“Now,” said Nathan, “the two of you start walking. Back the way you came.”

“Damn you,” one of the men snarled, “it's a thirty-mile walk, an' we got no food or water.”

“Then I'll just shoot the pair of you,” Nathan said, “and solve all your problems.” He cocked the Henry.

Without another word they lit out down the back trail in a shambling run. The only one of the trio who hadn't spoken paused, and looking back, made a final plea.

“Ain't you white enough to at least let us keep our guns? They's killer Injuns in these parts.”

“Then you skunks should feel right at home among 'em,” said Nathan. The Henry roared again, the slug kicking dust just inches from the man's boots. The pair stumbled on. Nathan gathered the two discarded weapons and the Colt from the hand of the dead man. All the weapons he placed in the saddlebags of one of the horses. Gathering the reins, he led the three horses up the rise to where his own mount and packhorse waited. He had another two hours of daylight. He would ride another twenty miles before making camp. In the morning he would dispose of the trio's weapons and turn their horses loose.

Nathan rode shy of the little village of Durant, Indian Territory, and crossed the Red River into north Texas. While he knew little about the state, he believed he was far enough west that he could ride due south and reach Dallas or Fort Worth. By now he was certain the Federals had taken control of the state government. A mounted, armed stranger would be immediately suspect. Even more so one who led a packhorse. With the military in control, he dared not let it be known he was on a manhunt, riding a vengeance trail. If he rode through towns where soldiers were garrisoned, he would undoubtedly be questioned, forced to reveal his reason for being in Texas. On the other hand, if he avoided the towns and the soldiers, there was little likelihood he would ever find the killers he was seeking. One thing never changed, whoever had control of the reins of government. There would be saloons, thimblerig men, and slick-dealing gamblers.