The Killing Season (6 page)

“Pardner,” he said to the liveryman, “it's a bad day when a man can't saddle his own horse, but I've got a hurt arm. I have a packhorse and a packsaddle, too.”

“I'll take care of 'em,” said the hostler. “Glad you got the sidewinder that give you that hurt arm.”

He said no more, and Nathan rode out, the lead rope of the packhorse dallied around his saddle horn. To his relief, he found the Bullwhip Saloon open and the barkeep alone. Nathan bought a quart of whiskey, mounted the grulla, and rode north. Waiting until he was out of town, he drew the cork with his teeth and took a long pull from the bottle. He seldom drank whiskey, and the stuff threw him into such a coughing fit, the grulla snaked his head around and looked at him.

“God-awful stuff, horse,” he said. “Nobody but a damn fool would drink it for anything but medicine.”

Having ridden only a few miles, Nathan became dizzy, and the back of his hand to his forehead told him his fever had worsened. He reined up and took another long pull from the whiskey bottle. The sun was almost noon-high, and in his feverish state, he had no idea how far he had ridden. He had killed half the bottle of whiskey, and he dared not down any more, lest he become too drunk to stay in the saddle. He rode on, the westering sun seeming oppressively hot. Finally, clouds drifted over the sun and there was a light breeze from the northwest, touching Nathan's brow with cooling fingers. Relieved, he put the back of his hand to his forehead, feeling beads of sweat. His fever had broken. Kicking the grulla into a slow gallop, he rode on toward Fort Worth.

“It's good to see you again,” Captain Ferguson said. “It's been downright peaceful in Indian Territory lately. At least in the western half.”

“I hope so,” said Nathan. “I don't aim to ride there again, if I can avoid it.” Deciding honesty was the best policy, he told Ferguson of the attempted ambush in Waco.

“You've made enemies,” Ferguson said. “Why not have the post doctor take a look at your wound, and lay over a week until it heals?”

“I'll take you up on that. I can't saddle and unsaddle my horse, can't load and unload my packhorse, and it's a hell of a job gettin' my boots on and off.”

With time on his hands, Nathan hung around the post telegrapher. Having learned the code while with the Kansas-Pacific, he read all incoming messages without difficulty. Clint Barkley was still loose in Texas, the James gang was still robbing banks in Missouri, while Ben Thompson and his troublesome brother Billy were involved with a saloon in Ellsworth, Kansas.

 

Nathan grew weary of Fort Worth, and thanking Captain Ferguson for his courtesy, rode out the second day of April. Avoiding most of Indian Territory, he crossed the panhandle, forded the Cimarron, and rode to Dodge City, Kansas. The rails had reached Dodge in the fall of 1872, and when Nathan arrived there less than a year later, the town seemed overrun with gamblers, whores, confidence men, buffalo hunters, hidemen, and camp followers. Where once there had been a tent with cots, there now was a three-story hotel. Across the street from the hotel was a livery, and Nathan went there first. Unsaddling his horse and unloading the packhorse, he left instructions for the animals to be rubbed down and grained. Leaving there, he paused, amazed at how Dodge had grown. Cattle pens were strung out along the railroad track, and the bawling of cattle was a never-ending chorus. Just counting those alongside the track, Nathan could see no less than seven saloons. It being early afternoon, Nathan crossed to the hotel, Cotton Blossom following. Taking a room on the first floor, he paused in the lobby. Thanks to the railroad there were newspapers from Kansas City and St. Louis, as well as Dodge City's own weekly. Nathan bought copies of all three, continuing a reading habit he had acquired while tracking the killers who had murdered his family in Virginia.
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Gray thunderheads had rolled in from the west and a cooling breeze swept across the plains from distant mountains. Nathan's room was comfortable, and he decided to remain there until suppertime, reading the newspapers. Removing his hat, gun belt, and boots, he stretched out on the bed. He read the local paper first. It alternated between crowing about the town's progress while deploring the end-of-track and cattle town violence that had made it all possible. The paper reported that in the first six months of its existence there had been nine murders in Dodge. Nathan found more accounts of the James gang's thievery in the
St. Louis Globe-Democrat,
but little else to interest him. But when he turned to page two of the
Kansas City Liberty-Tribune,
what he saw brought him to his feet in a rage. Looking back at him was his own image. It was the etching prepared by the Kansas-Pacific, commending Nathan for his efforts on behalf of the railroad. But
this
advertisement was a reward notice, offering five thousand dollars for Nathan Stone, dead or alive! It was offered by the Limbaugh family and went on to accuse Nathan of murder, in the killing of Rusty Limbaugh, the year before. Nathan ripped the paper to shreds and sat down on the bed, his hands trembling. Cotton Blossom watched him, knowing something was wrong.

“Damn these people!” Nathan raged. “I did everything a man can do to get around killing the little varmint, but he wouldn't have it any other way. Come morning, Cotton Blossom, we're ridin' to Missouri. I aim to raise hell and kick a chunk under it.”

 

Nathan ventured out for supper that evening and for breakfast the next morning. He then turned in his room key, saddled the grulla, loaded the packhorse, and rode eastward, toward Kansas City. He followed the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe tracks, for that was the most direct route. He might have taken the train, but he had no assurance there would be a boxcar, and he needed his horses. First he would learn why the Kansas-Pacific had allowed the use of the etching in a death sentence reward notice. Then he would ride on to Jefferson City, to the state capital. There he would demand that the state's attorney general wire the sheriff of Springfield, where the killing of Rusty Limbaugh had taken place. Nathan had acted in self-defense, and since the state hadn't pressed charges, the Limbaugh family's reward should put them in violation of the law. Nathan had little doubt he would be vindicated, but that would be small consolation if some bounty hunter gunned him down before the wrong could be righted.

While Nathan was treated courteously at Kansas-Pacific, the nature of his complaint had him meeting with Miles Herndon, the railroad's attorney.

“You must understand,” Herndon said, “that the Kansas-Pacific had nothing to do with the etching being used in a reward dodger. The
Liberty-Tribune
created the etching to complement the story the Kansas-Pacific supplied. The etching belongs to the newspaper.”

“You're telling me this damn newspaper can use a likeness of me anyway it sees fit,” said Nathan angrily. “Even in an unlawful wanted poster that could get me shot dead.”

“That's what it amounts to,” Herndon replied, “and attacking the newspaper will get you exactly nowhere. If this reward has not been sanctioned by the state, then it's illegal, and as such, could and should be withdrawn. You would do well to contact the state's attorney general, requesting that he contact the sheriff in the county where the reward has been posted. If the law agrees you acted in self-defense, then a cease-and-desist order from the attorney general could be served through the county sheriff.”

Nathan left the attorney's office, convinced he had been given sound advice. However, he was a hundred and eighty miles west of Jefferson City, and Missouri was teeming with potential bounty hunters who would kill a man for a hell of a lot less than five thousand dollars. He bought a paper, replacing the one he had ripped to shreds. Placing it in his saddlebag, he began the long ride to Jefferson City.

“Ma'am,” Nathan said, “I'm not here to see an assistant to the attorney general. I want to see the attorney general himself.”

“Sorry,” said the prim gray-haired receptionist, “but the attorney general will see you only if circumstances warrant it. His assistant, Charles Atchison, will make that decision.”

After an impatient half hour, Nathan was shown to Atchison's office. He sat with hands clasped, looking at Nathan over the top of his spectacles. Nathan leaned on the desk, the newspaper under his arm.

“Mr. Atchison,” he said, as calmly as he could, “I need the help of the attorney general.”

“So does everybody entering this office,” said Atchison, unruffled. “I suppose you are going to tell me why.”

“I am,” Nathan replied, spreading the page of the newspaper with the wanted notice on Atchison's desk. Without wasting words, he explained events leading up to the shooting in Springfield, renewing his claim of self-defense.

“If there are no charges against you,” said Atchison, “then you are within your rights, demanding that this offer of a reward be withdrawn. It is indeed illegal. A telegram to the county clerk in Springfield should determine that. You are welcome to wait in the outer office.”

Uneasily, Nathan waited, considering the possibility that the sheriff in Springfield had yielded to pressure and made him a fugitive. Could Atchison, excusing himself to send a telegram, be summoning the law to arrest Nathan Stone? But within half an hour, Atchison beckoned Nathan back into his office.

“There are no charges against you in Springfield,” Atchison said. “Court records call the killing justifiable homicide. This office will issue an order to the sheriff in Springfield, and he will notify the parties involved that their offer of a reward is illegal, and is to be withdrawn immediately.”

“Suppose they refuse to abide by that order?”

“Someone will have to take them to court,” Atchison replied.

“You mean I—Nathan Stone—will have to take them to court,” said Nathan.

“Of course,” Atchison said. “The state will prosecute, but only when formal charges have been filed.”

“So if they ignore your order and refuse to remove the price on my head, it's up to me to file charges and take them to court. What will the court do, spank them?”

“Your sarcasm is not appreciated,” said Atchison stiffly. “Found guilty, there would be a severe fine. At least fifty dollars, I'm sure.”

“Then send your court order,” Nathan said. “I'll go on keeping my guns handy and an eye on my back trail.”

Nathan departed in disgust, returning to the livery where he had left the horses and Cotton Blossom. He had but one consolation, and that was that he had seen the notice of the reward only in the
Kansas City Liberty- Tribune.
But Kansas City was a “jumping-off place” for anyone heading west, and that damning reward notice might hound him wherever he rode. Nathan was only a few miles from St. Louis, and he decided to go there. While he was still miles away, he could hear the bull-throated bellow of steamboat whistles, and it brought memories of those pleasant days in New Orleans, with the McQueens.

Finding a livery, Nathan saw to the care of his horses. Then he and Cotton Blossom went looking for a hotel or rooming house. Nathan chose a rooming house not far from the riverfront, with several cafes and saloons nearby. He had no trouble finding copies of the
St. Louis Globe-Democrat
and the
Kansas City Liberty- Tribune.
These were a week later than the issues he had read in Kansas City, and he wanted to see if the reward notice appeared in either paper. First he fanned through the Globe-Democrat and then the
Liberty-Tribune
without finding the offending advertisement. However, in the Kansas City paper, he found a piece that grabbed his attention. One of the James gang had been captured and had sworn that neither the James nor Younger gangs had shot and killed Bart Hankins during the failed bank robbery of February 13, 1866, in Gallatin, Missouri. Now the Hankins family had hired the Pinkertons and had posted a ten thousand dollar reward. Hankins had been the first of seven men Nathan had tracked down and slain, keeping the oath he had taken on his murdered father's grave.
⁵

“Damn it,” said Nathan aloud, “the glory seekers were bad enough. Now this.”

At first he could see no way the Pinkertons could tie him to the killing of Hankins, but his mind wouldn't leave it alone. By God, there was a way! The Pinkertons had enough influence to gain access to military records and thus might learn the identities of the other men with whom Hankins had returned to Virginia. Six men who, along with Bart Hankins, had died by the gun of Nathan Stone. With Pinkerton persistence, there was more than enough evidence to establish a pattern. While all Hankins's companions had been gunned down while trying to kill Nathan, there was nobody but Nathan Stone who could swear that Bart Hankins had drawn first. It was time for a decision. For the next two weeks, Nathan allowed his beard to grow, leaving his room only for meals and to see that the livery was properly caring for his horses. Finally, the mirror convincing him his appearance had been sufficiently altered, he made the rounds of various saloons, sitting in on poker games, but avoiding high stakes. Only once did he encounter a hint of recognition. During a game of five card stud at the Emerald Dragon, a thin man in town clothes put down his cards and stared across the table at Nathan. Finally he spoke.

“Ain't I seen you somewhere before?”

Nathan laughed. “I doubt it. I'd remember an ugly varmint like you.”

His companions all howled with laughter, and the moment passed. Feeling a little more secure, having spent three weeks in St. Louis saloons, Nathan rode back to Kansas City. He had continued buying regular copies of the
Kansas City Liberty-Tribune
without again finding a reward notice with the etching of himself. Perhaps the attorney general's order had served its purpose, or perhaps the Limbaughs had just given up from lack of success.