The Dawn of Fury (82 page)

“Necessary tools for a burial detail, sir?” Captain Bennett asked.

“Later, Captain,” Hatton said. “Tend to the living first. Bring me a full report of your findings and we'll take it from there. Dismissed.”

When the patrol had left his office, Hatton set about building a fire in the stove from the coals of the night before. He needed coffee to sustain him for a while. From what seemed a great distance, he could hear the barking of a dog ...

Barely conscious, Nathan heard the chirp of birds. Suddenly they became silent, and he tried to draw and cock a Colt, but neither hand had the needed strength. There was a rustling among the leaves and grass, and Nathan felt Cotton Blossom's wet nose against the back of his hand. There were voices, and while he didn't know them, they weren't the voices of killers looking for him.

“There he is!” one of the soldiers shouted.

“Corporal Evans,” said Captain Bennett, “you're in charge of getting him out of here and back across the river. You'll need two men to bear the stretcher and two to make way for it. Sergeant Goodner, you'll come with me.”

Corporal Evans and his four men got Nathan on to the stretcher and while the privates began the ordeal of getting the stretcher through the underbrush, Corporal Evans led Nathan's horse. As Captain Bennett and Sergeant Goodner approached the cabin near the mouth of the arroyo, they marveled at the outlaw hideaway. Each man drew his revolver, for they knew not what might lie ahead. While the door to the cabin was open, they approached it with caution until they could see the booted foot of El Gato. They quickly learned there was nobody else in the cabin, and it was Sergeant Goodner who made an astonishing discovery in one of the small rooms.

“Lord Amighty, Captain, come have a look at this!” Goodner shouted.

It was a veritable fortune in currency and gold, much of it in the green strongboxes used by the military for transferring payrolls.

“You'll have to remain here, Sergeant,” said Captain Bennett, “until I have reported to Lieutenant-Colonel Hatton. A recovery of this magnitude will turn Washington on its ear. Let's move on and be done with this.”

The two men approached the bunkhouse with caution, although both doors stood open. They stepped in, revolvers drawn, and froze. Blood had pooled and dried on the floor and splattered the log walls. There were ten dead men, but the eyes of the two men were drawn to the horror that was the remains of young Mary Stone. When the soldiers turned away, it was Sergeant Goodner who spoke for them both.

“What they got was too good for them. May their souls burn in hell for eternity for what they did to her.”

Nathan Stone was taken to Fort Dodge more dead than alive, and as he hovered near death for three days, it seemed he lacked a will to live. But there was an indomitable spark that flamed anew, and he began slowly to recover.

For the first time since he had been wounded, the post doctor allowed Nathan to get up and walk about. In the afternoon, a private came looking for him.

“Sir, you have a visitor. He's waiting for you in the post commander's office.”

Joel Netherton got to his feet when Nathan stepped through the door, and offered his hand. Nathan took it.

“So that's what you came to Kansas City to tell me,” Netherton said.

“Yes,” said Nathan. “I'm not a man to sail under false colors, and that's what I had been doing. I thought I was holding back for Mary's sake. If I'd been a man with the strength of my own convictions, she would be alive today.”

“I want you to know we made a ninety-percent recovery on every one of the robberies. I'm proposing a ten-thousand-dollar reward on behalf of the Kansas—Pacific, and you'll be getting another five thousand five hundred for the outlaws. It was an extraordinary piece of work, and you may yet receive a medal or commendation from the Congress. Your friend Byron Silver's working on that.”

“I'm obliged, Joel, but I don't want any of that.”

“But you've earned it ten times over,” said Netherton.

“I don't care,” Nathan said bitterly. “It's like ... God, it's like I've sold Mary ... put a price on her ...”

“I think I understand,” said Netherton. “When you're up to it, come to Kansas City. The board of directors would like to meet you.”

“No offense, Joel, but I'd rather not.”

At Lieutenant-Colonel Hatton's request, Nathan met with him before leaving the post. The officer handed Nathan an envelope containing two sheets of paper.

“That's a report on the outlaws,” Hatton said. “Using Washington sources, such as army records, we've assembled a background on each of them. Most of them, with the exception of El Gato, were deserters. El Gato was wanted for a variety of things, from robbery to murder, in both Mexico and Texas. Some of them were using assumed names, while some used their own.”

“Thank you,” said Nathan, tucking the envelope in his pocket.

“I suppose it's none of my business where you're going from here,” the officer said, “but some of us feel like we have an investment in you. You have potential, son. Don't let it go to waste.”

“Sir, I'm obliged for everything you've done,” said Nathan. “Frankly, I don't know what I'm going to do or where I may go. How do you suddenly have the props kicked out from under you, seen your world wither and die before your eyes, and then try to start over?”

“I can't answer that,” Hatton said. “Just remember, you're welcome here, and if there's anything I can do, you have only to ask. Good luck.”

Nathan left the office, mounted his horse, and rode out, Cotton Blossom trotting beside him. As he rode, he read the report Hatton had given him, detailing the criminal records of the outlaws. Dade Withers had been guilty of murdering another soldier and escaping from prison. His age was given as twenty-three, and he had been born in Charlottesville, Virginia.

“Eppie,” Nathan said, “I want you to have Mary's horse and saddle.”

The old lady wept for Mary and wept for Nathan when he rode away.

“I seen your picture in the paper,” the kid said, “and I hear you're fast with a gun. Well, I'm faster than you, and I aim to prove it.”

He wasn't a day over seventeen and he had been waiting until Nathan left a mercantile with his purchases. As though by magic, people had gathered to see one of them die. Nathan waited until the last second, his hand not moving until the kid cleared leather. The kid stood there, a hitch rail supporting his dying body, staring unbelievingly at the blood pumping from a hole in his chest. Slowly the life drained out of his eyes and he fell, his Colt clutched in his dead hand. Nathan stood there looking at him, sick to his very soul. He had been given no choice. Then, as though from far away, he heard the talk he was destined to hear again and again ...

“... gun-slingin' varmint's kilt little Rusty Limbaugh, from over yonder in Smelterville.”

“... never seen the like. He's a born killer. It's in his eyes ...”

“... kid never had a chance ... damn killer ... oughta be strung up ...”

When the sheriff came, even the lawman was intimidated, and some of the onlookers laughed. Nathan rode silently away, leading his packhorse, Cotton Blossom trotting alongside. But there would be no escape, for Nathan had been branded a killer. It would become a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Nathan Stone had no illusions about what lay ahead. One who gained a reputation with a fast gun had only one means of escape, and that's when he faced a man with a faster gun. To finish what destiny had begun, Nathan rode on, the clock always ticking, toward the killing season ...