The Killing Season (3 page)

“Damn you, Vern Tilton,” Nathan said bitterly. “Damn you ...”

Nathan Stone had ridden halfway across Texas without again being forced to resort to his deadly revolvers. Within him was the desperate hope that his dismal luck might be about to change. He had ridden all day in a cold, steady rain, and his horses plodded along with heads down. A lank and sodden Cotton Blossom looked as though he had been skinned and his hide again stretched over his bones. Nathan's eyes roamed the muddy, deserted street that was Lampasas, seeking a livery, for his horses were done. Then he would find a hotel with a dry bed, and finally a cafe with hot food for himself and Cotton Blossom. Reaching the livery, his horses trotted gratefully under the roof of an open shed that faced the street. With total darkness but a few minutes away, a lighted lantern hung from a peg driven into the wall. Nathan dismounted, and from somewhere within the livery, a horse nickered. Nathan's packhorse answered, alerting the liveryman to their presence. He came limping out, looking like the stove-up cowboy he probably was.

“Howdy,” he said. “You reckon she's a-gonna rain?”

“The way it's been threatenin' all day,” Nathan said, “I wouldn't be surprised. My horses are as used up as I am. A double measure of grain for each of them, and there's an extra dollar for you, if you'll rub them down.”

“Bueno hombre,
thinkin' of yer hosses. I'll see to 'em.”

“I'm obliged,” said Nathan. “Where's the hotel?”

“Down the street, way you was headed. It ain't no
caravansera.”
¹

“Good,” Nathan replied. “All I want is a roof over my head.”

The Colorado Hotel had obviously taken its name from the nearby Colorado River. It had two floors and Nathan took a room on the first. Cotton Blossom was accepted without question. There was a cafe beside the hotel, and thanks to the continuous rain and chilling wind, the eatery was virtually deserted. A bored cook leaned on the counter while a man sat at a back table eating a steak.

“Amigo,” said Nathan, “I'm gaunt, and my dog's a notch or two below that. Is he welcome?”

“Mister,” said the cook, “business has been so god-awful bad, I'd welcome a tribe of hungry Comanches. The dog's welcome to leftovers, and there'll be plenty. What with all this rain, I'll be closin' early.”

“Bring me the biggest steak in the house,” Nathan said, “thick, cooked through, and sided with whatever else you got.”

“You got it. While it's on the fire, I'll feed the dog. He looks like he's missed a few meals.”

“We both have,” said Nathan.

A chair scraped as a man got up, and Nathan found himself face-to-face with Texas Ranger Captain Sage Jennings. Grinning, Jennings put out his hand and Nathan took it. He hadn't seen Jennings since the ranger had joined him in the burying of Viola Hayden in Lexington, many months ago.

“Come on back to my table,” Jennings said.

Nathan did, taking a chair across from Jennings. Cotton Blossom had followed the cook to the kitchen, and after he had fed the dog and put Nathan's steak on the fire, he brought the coffeepot and a tin cup for Nathan. For a moment Nathan just sipped the hot coffee, reluctant to discuss the painful past. But Jennings already knew it, minus the details. He spoke only of Nathan's work on behalf of the Kansas-Pacific Railroad, allowing Nathan to comment if he chose. Silent at first, he soon learned that he needed to talk, to unburden himself. So he told the sympathetic ranger all of it, up to and including the shooting in Newton, a few days before.

“There's no end to it, Cap,” said Nathan. “One damn fool after another, they pull their guns, and I have to shoot them to keep them from shooting me. Hell, I'm ready to stop the world and get off. How do I escape this reputation I don't want, never wanted?”

“You don't,” Jennings said somberly. “This is the killing season, and the only law is a fast gun. You, my friend, are living under a blessing and a curse. The blessing is your fast gun that's keeping you alive, while the downside is the curse. Your deadly reputation. Perhaps it's time you consider my earlier suggestion and become a lawman.”

“Legalize my killings? I've seen what's happened to Wild Bill Hickok and I don't want it said I'm just a killer behind a badge. I know you mean well, and I'm obliged for your concern. Now, if it's any of my business, what are you doing this far north?”

“I'm only a day's ride from Austin,” said Jennings, “and there's nothing I can tell you that you couldn't learn in most any saloon. Texas is after a killer name of Clint Barkley. He's also known as Bill Bowen, and he's brother-in-law to Merritt Horrell. That won't mean a lot to you until you know something of the Horrells. The Horrell-Higgins feud has been going on for God knows how long. There's five of the Horrell boys. Benjamin, Martin, Merritt, Samuel, and Thomas. They fought together through the Civil War and they've raised hell to a lesser degree ever since. The state of Texas has pretty well shied clear of the feud between the Horrell and Higgins clans, but the word's out that the Horrells aim to defend Clint Barkley with their guns. For that reason, we're expecting Clint Barkley in these parts.”

“And you're here to welcome him,” Nathan said.

“I wish it was that simple,” said Jennings with a sigh. “The man Barkley killed was a friend of mine, and I'm here only because I raised hell for the privilege. The governor has commissioned a state police force, and I'm waiting for a Captain Tom Williams and deputies to arrive from Fort Worth. I was told Williams is in charge, and I'm not to make a move unless so directed by him.”

“By God, that's a slap in the face, an insult,” Nathan said. “You don't aim to accept that, do you?”

“I do,” Jennings replied. “This whole affair has been conducted with about as much secrecy as a sod-buster barn raising. Had I been in charge, I'd have ridden in, waited for Barkley to show, and taken him without going up against the Horrells.”

“Now,” said Nathan, “you'd have to fight the Horrell clan just to get at Barkley.”

“Exactly,” Jennings replied. “I aim to stay at the hotel, waiting for this Tom Williams and his men to arrive. They're supposed to be here tomorrow.”

“I have no particular place to go,” said Nathan, “so maybe I'll just hang around and see how this turns out. Not that I expect you'll be needing help, of course.”

“No way,” Jennings said. “If I buy into this without specific orders, I'll likely be reprimanded by the governor.”

The cook brought Nathan's steak, along with onions, potatoes, bread, and a whole dried apple pie. Cotton Blossom waddled out of the kitchen, seeking a place to lie down. When Nathan had finished his meal, he and Jennings left the cafe and returned to the hotel. As it turned out, Jennings had the room adjoining Nathan's.

“I'll see you at breakfast,” said the ranger.

Nathan let himself and Cotton Blossom into the room, locking the door behind them. The dog curled up on an oval rug beside the bed, and Nathan tossed his hat on the dresser. Removing his buscadero belt with his Colts, he hung them on the head of the bed. He removed his boots and then his sodden clothes, spreading them on the floor to dry. He then blew out the lamp and eased himself gratefully into the bed. More than ever, he was thankful for a roof over his head, for the wind was slamming sheets of rain against the windows.

 

Nathan awoke before first light, aware that the rain had diminished or ceased. Taking an oilskin packet from inside his hat band, he removed a match and lighted the lamp on the dresser. He then poured water from a big white porcelain pitcher into a matching basin and, with a bit of soap, shaved. Cotton Blossom got up, walked to the door, and stood there wagging his tail.

“Come in, Cap,” Nathan said, unlocking the door.

“That's some dog,” said Jennings, stepping into the room. “If he's ever the daddy of pups, I want one.”

“We stayed a spell with friends in New Orleans,” Nathan said. “He ran with a couple of their female hounds, but I reckon he didn't get that involved. Anyhow, he's a mite old. He was grown when I came back from the war, and he's been with me seven years.”

The rain had ceased during the night and there was blue sky visible through patches of gray clouds. The wind was chill, but there was a hint of early spring, for occasional tufts of grass had begun to green. Nathan and Jennings had breakfast, washing it down with plenty of black coffee. Cotton Blossom again ate in the kitchen, emerging as well-fed and satisfied as a hound ever gets. Nathan and Jennings returned to the hotel, to Jennings's room. Nathan took the chair while the ranger sat on the bed.

“So these newly appointed Texas lawmen arrive today,” said Nathan. “Do you reckon they'll come looking for you, or just take the bit in their teeth and go with it?”

“It depends on whether or not they've been told I'm here,” Jennings replied. “Unless I'm asked to take part, I aim to mind my own business.”

Jennings was not wearing the famous silver star-in-a-circle. Few rangers did when working alone, especially in hostile territory, for they were feared and respected to the extent that outlaws took no chances. Rangers were shot in the back or ambushed.

“I reckon you have some idea as to where to find this Clint Barkley,” said Nathan.

“Him bein' brother-in-law to Merritt Horrell,” Jennings said, “I reckon I'd cat-foot it out to Merritt's ranch. If he wasn't there, I'd call on the rest of the Horrells until I'd rousted him out. He could be with any of them. These feuding clans are generally so bound up with one another, when you cut one, they all bleed.”

“So these lawmen you're waitin' for could ride into a hail of lead from five outfits,” said Nathan.

“They could,” Jennings said, “unless they use some common sense. These Horrells know Clint Barkley has a price on his head. Any jaybird ridin' in with intentions of arresting him had best come prepared to sling some lead.”

As the day wore on, it became unseasonably warm. The wind died almost entirely and the sun began to suck up the water from the muddy street. Even with the windows open, the hotel rooms became stuffy and uncomfortable.

“God,” said Nathan, “in Texas, you're always soaked to the hide. Either from a three-day rain or from your own sweat. Makes me lonesome for the high country, where you can enjoy blizzards right on through April.”

“There's a saloon down the street aways,” said Jennings. “Let's mosey over there and have us a beer.”

“Suits me,” Nathan said. “We're two hours away from sundown. Maybe your visiting badge-toters aim to arrive after dark, so as not to attract too much attention.”

There was little to distinguish the Matador Saloon from thousands of its kind on the western frontier, and the barkeep had every right to be as bored as he looked. The place was as deserted as a cow camp on payday, and only one of the hanging lamps had been lighted to dispel the gloom. There were plenty of tables, but Nathan and Jennings leaned on the bar.

“Beer for each of us,” said Jennings.

When the barkeep brought the beer, Jennings paid. Cotton Blossom crouched at Nathan's feet, his eyes on the door, for he didn't like saloons or the men who frequented them. Nathan and Jennings had been in the saloon only a few minutes when seven riders reined up outside.

“Oh, God,” the barkeep groaned, “it's the Horrells.”

“Who are they?” Nathan asked innocently.

“Trouble,” the saloon man answered. “There's Tom, Mart, and Sam. I ain't sure who the others are.”

“They'll likely be bellyin' up,” said Jennings. “We might as well get us a table.”

Jennings led the way, Nathan and Cotton Blossom following. The ranger purposely took a table off to the side, as near the swinging doors as possible. The seven men trooped into the saloon, and they were a hard-bitten lot. Every one was armed with a Colt, and as they entered, each man allowed his eyes to linger long and hard on Nathan and Jennings. Cotton Blossom's hackles rose, and he growled deep in his throat.

“Bring us a bottle,” one of the men demanded of the barkeep.

“Hell,” said another, “make that two bottles. Clint's buyin'.”

They all laughed. Nathan and Jennings studied the man who paid for the whiskey. Cotton Blossom growled again, louder this time.

“What's that damn dog growlin' at?” one of the men at the bar shouted.

“What does it matter?” Nathan asked mildly. “He's not bothering you.”

The exchange ended as sudden as it had begun, when four riders reined up outside. As the men dismounted, Captain Jennings groaned, for the evening sun glinted off the badges they wore.

“It's the law, by God,” said one of the men at the bar.

As the seven drew and cocked their Colts, the barkeep disappeared behind the bar. Despite the ranger's vow not to involve himself without invitation, Nathan could tell by the look in Jennings's eyes that he wasn't going to allow the foolish state policemen to walk into a trap without warning. At the thump of the lawmen's boots on the porch, Jennings made his move.

“It's a trap!” Jennings shouted. “Cuidado.”

As he shouted the warning, Jennings upended the table. But it wasn't much of a shield for two men, and Nathan seized the leg of a second table, dropping it on its side between himself and the gunmen at the bar. But the surprised lawmen hadn't acted swiftly enough. The Horrell clan had cut loose a veritable hail of lead that tore through the batwing doors. Running for the door, they fired at Nathan and Jennings, their slugs slamming into the wooden tabletops. But Nathan and Jennings returned the fire, wounding two of the men before they were free of the saloon. The seven had mounted their horses and were galloping away before the frightened barkeep crawled out from behind the bar.