The Dawn of Fury (43 page)

“Mr. Lambert tells me you're considering applying for a position as a deputy U.S. marshal. I suppose he has told you what it involves and the legal stipulations.”

“He has,” said Nathan. “I've never deserted from the army and I'm not wanted by the law. To be honest, I've been making my living as a house dealer. A man gets almighty tired sleeping days and spending his nights in saloons.”

“I can appreciate that,” Corbin said. “Based on what you've told me, I am prepared to swear you in as a Deputy United States Marshal.”

Nathan placed his hand on the Bible and repeated the short oath as the judge spoke the words. When it was over, Corbin took a silver badge from a desk drawer and handed it to Nathan. He again extended his hand and Nathan took it.

“There are no assignments at the moment,” said Corbin, “but that's subject to change at any time. Your time is your own as long as you're available when you're needed.”

“I have a room at Ma Dollar's,” Nathan said.

Russ Lambert was waiting, and Nathan grinned, flashing the star that he held in his hand.

“Pin it on,” said Lambert, “so's the owlhoots have somethin' to shoot at.”

 

Weeks passed, and five times Nathan Stone rode after thieves and killers. Only one escaped, fleeing into Indian Territory. Eight men were returned to Fort Smith, six of them alive. Nathan earned almost a thousand dollars in bounties, but that wasn't what he sought. Not until the first of June was his patience rewarded. He was at Ma Dollar's, awaiting orders, when Judge Corbin sent for him.

“Nathan,” Corbin said, “we just got word by telegraph that Cullen Baker's killed a man in Cass County, Texas. As usual, he's expected to ride across the Red and hole up in Arkansas. You have an admirable record as an officer of the law, but don't take any chances. While I don't encourage killing, I'm arming you with execution warrants for Baker and Snider. As for any others, you'll have to use your own judgment. Good luck.”

Nathan rode out within the hour, leading his packhorse, Cotton Blossom loping on ahead. They were perhaps a hundred and fifty miles north of where the Red crossed the line from Texas into Arkansas. From a map in the judge's office, Nathan had discovered that Baker wasn't more than a day's ride from his crossing of the Red, while Nathan must ride hard to reach the same point in two days. Nathan had ridden through that part of the country when he had first come to Fort Smith, and there were brakes along the Red that would conceal a tribe of Indians. Taking the advice of Russ Lambert, Nathan had removed his badge, carrying it in his pocket. It was a sensible precaution for a lawman seeking wanted men, lest he be gunned down on sight. Nathan rode until long after dark, stretching the first day as much as he could. The next morning, after a hurried breakfast, he rode out at first light.

“Cotton Blossom,” Nathan said, “you run on ahead and keep your nose to the ground. I can't afford any surprises.”

While the hound didn't understand Nathan's specific words, he possessed an inherent distrust of strangers. If he saw or heard other riders, he would consider them enemies until Nathan had passed judgment. Nathan's second day on the trail would be short, as he had planned, and as he neared the Red, he slowed the gait of his horse. From what he had learned about Cullen Baker, the renegade wouldn't ride far north of the river. He was likely to hole up under an overhang where he couldn't easily be found, with an eye to defense. Nathan' best—and perhaps only—possibility lay in cutting Baker's trail. With that in mind, he found a shallow place and crossed to the south bank of the Red. There was one thing of which he wasn't sure, an element that didn't set easy on his mind. He didn't know exactly
where
Baker would cross the Red. Nathan estimated he was at least a dozen miles east of the Texas-Arkansas line, and one thing in his favor had been the recent rain, for it would be all but impossible for a rider to conceal the trail left by his horse. Unfortunately, clouds sweeping in from the west promised more rain, and unless Nathan found the trail he was seeking before dark, it would be rained out before the dawn.

Nathan rode west along the Red, all too aware of his own trail. Suppose he had miscalculated? Suppose Baker and his friends reached the river at some point
behind
Nathan? Being on the run, Baker would be immediately suspicious of fresh tracks, and the hunted would become the hunters. Nathan reined up, his unease, the premonition of impending disaster, was growing stronger by the minute. If the outlaws were trailing
him,
he dared not backtrack. Instead, he must take cover and gain whatever advantage he could. But there
was
no adequate cover, except possibly along the river, for the banks were high. He would have to lead his horses down. But there was no time. A horse nickered and his own answered. Nathan rolled out of the saddle, taking his Winchester with him, only to have a slug kick dirt in his face.

“You're covered, pilgrim,” said a cold voice. “Leave that rifle on the ground an' git up. Don't use the hoss fer cover, neither.”

Nathan considered his options. He was a dozen yards from the river bank. If they killed the horse, its body would offer him little protection, for one of the killers could quickly flank him. Vainly he tried to see his foes, for until he could, he had no target. His chances were small, at best, and unless he coaxed the outlaws into the open, none. Leaving his Winchester on the ground, he got to his knees, then to his feet.

“Smart hombre,” said the unseen gunman. “Now step out from behind that hoss.”

“Why should I?” Nathan countered. “When I do, how do I know you won't shoot me?”

“You don't,” said the voice. “You'll just have to trust me.”

There was laughter, and Nathan learned there were at least three men. He might have a small chance, even against such odds, but not without being able to see them. He tried one last desperate ruse.

“You have the guns,” Nathan said. “I'll move when you step out where I'm able to see you. It don't take much of a man to hide in the brush and shoot from cover.”

“By God,” said the first voice, “I don't need no cover. Nobody says I'm less of a man an' goes on living.”

“Damn it, Baker,' said a second voice, ”he's got law wrote all over him, and he's just jawin' to save his hide.”

“All the more reason fer me killin' the scutter,” said Baker. “Curry, you an' Snider just hunker down here in the bushes, so's you don't git hurt.”

Nathan's heart sank. If Curry and Snider remained out of sight, then he hadn't a chance. Baker was fast. Almighty fast, and even if Nathan outdrew him, Baker's companions could shoot Nathan from cover. Somehow he had to get them all where he could see them.

“That's right, Baker” Nathan taunted. “Let them hide there in the brush. After I gun you down, they'll be that much closer when they run for their horses.”

“You mouthy varmint,” said Snider, “even if you're good enough to take Baker, I'll kill you.”

“Nobody's faster than me,” Baker snarled. “Side me if you got the sand, but if either of you pulls iron ahead of me, I'll kill him and pistol-whip you.”

Despite Baker's arrogance, Snider and Curry had been shamed out of hiding. When Baker stepped out, they were with him. Baker was to Nathan's extreme right, Snider to his left, and Curry facing him. They had fanned out so that there was no possible way Nathan could take them all. By some miracle, he might get two of them, but the third man would surely kill him. There was no point in sacrificing the faithful black horse, so Nathan stepped clear of the animal. But Nathan had an edge. A snarling, clawing Cotton Blossom darted out of the brush, and the very moment Baker's hand touched the butt of his revolver, the hound sank his teeth into the outlaw's left leg. Baker's shot tore into the ground and he began beating Cotton Blossom with the revolver.

Snider and Curry were taken by surprise, but they recovered quickly. Snider had his gun clear of leather when Nathan put two slugs through his belly. Curry got off a shot and the lead tore through Nathan's right thigh, just above the knee. Nathan stumbled backward and went down, allowing Curry's second slug to go over his head. From flat on his back, Nathan shot the outlaw once in the chest. Despite Cullen Baker's reputation and big talk, the deal had gone sour. Baker was running toward the brush and his waiting horse. Nathan fired twice, but Baker was hunched over, zigzagging. The wound in Nathan's thigh was bleeding badly, and only by seizing the stirrup leather of the black horse was he able to get to his feet. His first concern was for Cotton Blossom. He hadn't actually seen Baker's reaction to the dog's attack, and he feared the shot from Baker's revolver had struck Cotton Blossom. With difficulty he got down on his knees. The dog's head was bloody, but on closer examination, Nathan found he had been knocked senseless by the heavy muzzle of Baker's revolver. Nathan had begun carrying a quart of whiskey in his saddlebag for just such a need as this. He removed it, along with some yard-long lengths of muslin. Some of these would cleanse and bind his own wound, but first he soaked some of the cloth with whiskey and cleaned the nasty gash on Cotton Blossom's head. The dog's eyes were open, but he lay still, aware that Nathan was trying to help him. When the blood had been wiped away, Nathan poured whiskey into the open wound.

“Sorry, old pard,” said Nathan. “It burns like hell, but it's all I have for either of us. It'll have to do till we get back to Fort Smith.”

There was a chance Baker might return, but Nathan thought it was more likely the outlaw would ride a few miles and then lay in ambush. By morning, Nathan wouldn't be able to stand on his wounded leg, and the whiskey might not stave off infection. Baker had escaped, but Nathan didn't feel like risking the loss of a leg by pursuing the outlaw. He was satisfied, having accounted for Tobe Snider, one of the seven men he sought. He was a hundred and fifty miles south of Fort Smith, in a cold, drizzling rain. If he rode all night, stopping only to rest the horses, he would be there by early afternoon of the next day. Nathan found the horses belonging to Snider and Curry, took time to unsaddle the animals, and then set them free. He then went through the pockets of the dead outlaws, but found only a few gold coins, no identification.

“Hombres,” said Nathan to the dead men, “I'm goin' to do as much for you as you'd have done for me. Good luck with the buzzards and coyotes.”

Cotton Blossom was on his feet, but he was weak, and there was no prowling ahead. He loped along beside the packhorse as Nathan began the long ride to Fort Smith.

Upon returning to Fort Smith, Nathan had given up his badge. After ten days of rest, his wound healed, he was at the livery, loading his pack horse. The rest had restored Cotton Blossom's enthusiasm, and he too seemed ready for the trail.

“Sorry to see you go, Nathan,” Russ Lambert said. “That means the rest of us will have to work harder for the same money.”

“I have a hankering to ride back to Texas,” said Nathan. “Maybe I'll meet Cullen Baker again, if somebody else don't get him first.”

“I expect you'll have to stand in line,” Lambert said. “The man just don't make friends easy.”