The Dawn of Fury (60 page)

“Where ... am I? Who ... am I?” “Yer in my cave, an' yer my only son, Jed Whittaker. Who else would ye be?”

“I ... don't know,” Nathan said. “How did I ... get here?”

“I brung ye here. Me, Jeremiah Whittaker, yer pa. Found ye upriver a ways, after some Yankee shot ye out of yer saddle. They's a bad wound upside yer head. Lay back on yer good side an' I'll see to yer hurt.”

From a small brass-bound trunk he took a woman's petticoat and ripped a strip from it. This he soaked in the hot water and cleansed Nathan's wound. He then took a tin of salve from the trunk and applied some of the ointment to Nathan's wound. Another wide, folded strip from the petticoat provided a bandage. He then stood back to admire his handiwork.

“Be good as new in a week,” Whittaker said. “I knowed ye wasn't kilt in the war, like they said. Takes more'n damn Yankees to kill a Whittaker. I knowed ye'd come ridin' back. Damn it, why couldn't yer ma of lived to see it? That's Lillie's things back yonder in the trunk.”

“I don't know anything about any war,” said Nathan, “and I don't remember you or anyone named Lillie.”

“Ye been addled by that gash on yer head,” Whittaker said. “Rest up a spell an' it'll all come back.”

“Tell me about the war, about the past,” said Nathan. “Maybe that will help me to remember.”

“We had us a place up in Kansas, along the Cimarron,” Whittaker said, “an' yer ma throwed a fit when ye joined the Rebs. Then come that day in sixty-three, when we got word ye was dead. Lillie took sick an' she never was well again. She died, an' when the Reb deserters an' renegades took to raid-in' us, they was worse than the damn Yankees. I loaded as much as our mule, old Mose, could tote, an' I lit out down here. The blamed wolves got old Mose last winter.”

“The war ... what about the war ...”

“The war ain't never gonna end, Jed. That's why I'm so glad to see ye come a-ridin' home. It's a mite late in the year now, an' the first snow's a-comin' soon. But come spring, son, with ye sidin' me, we're takin' back our place on the Cimarron. Rebs or Yanks, we'll kill all the varmints.”

The snow came and they lived on deer and elk downed by Jeremiah and his Sharps. Nathan's wound healed but his memory continued to fail him. Try as he might, he could remember nothing prior to the time he came to his senses in Jeremiah's cave. Gradually he learned a little more about his surroundings. The black horse had to be taken beyond the confines of the cave and the river banks for grazing, and for a lack of grain, the animal grew gaunt. Despite Nathan's lack of memory, something stood between him and Jeremiah Whittaker, and he could never think of the old man as his father. Occasionally he wore the twin Colts, and as he handled them, his mind tried vainly to reach back into his past, to grasp some long-forgotten experience.

Despite the letter received from Nathan the past fall, Lacy Mayfield had begun to fear the worst. Nathan well knew of the terrible winters on the high plains, and she couldn't imagine him delaying his return this long, unless he was waiting for spring. While Lacy's success on the stage was exciting, and her future in Denver seemed assured, that wasn't enough. Her mentor, Eva Barton, had been accepted by a professional troupe and was only seldom in Denver. It was bitter cold outside, with snow drifted high and the promise of more. Lacy went into the Grimes kitchen and from the ever-present pot, poured herself some coffee. Ezra Grimes sat at the table, snow melting off his boots, nursing his hot cup of coffee. Beside the kitchen stove, where he spent more and more of the cold winter days and nights, lay Cotton Blossom.

“I brought the paper from town,” Ezra said.

“Thank you,” Lacy said. “At least we can read about places where there's something going on besides a snowstorm.”

“That's because news takes so long to get out here,” said Ezra. “Some of what you'll read about likely happened last fall.”

“Here's one,” Lacy said. “Ben Thompson was involved in a shooting in Austin, Texas last September. He's serving two years in the state prison. His brother Billy killed a soldier the same day, but escaped.”

“I've heard a lot about the Thompson brothers,” said Ezra, “and none of it's been good.”

“Lord,” Lacy said, “here's something that happened in Arkansas not even two weeks ago, on January sixth. The killer, Cullen Baker, was poisoned by his own father-in-law.”

“Josephine came into the kitchen and stirred up the fire in the stove. Cotton Blossom stood up, watching her expectantly. Ezra laughed, winking at Lacy.

“Josephine's done ruint Nathan's dog,” he said. “Every time you throw a chunk of wood on the fire, Cotton Blossom thinks the cooking's about to start.”

“I'll say one thing for him,” said Josephine, “since he showed up, I've never had to throw anything out.”

Milo Jenks's relationship with Laura Evans was short lived, for Jenks was a womanizer and a dandy who used his shared proprietorship in the Bagnio Saloon as a means of expanding his conquests. Evans soon found it in her best interests to dispose of him, and did so by paying him five thousand dollars for his share of the Bagnio. That suited Jenks, for his original investment had more than doubled, enabling him, as he saw it, to advance to a higher level in Denver's business and social order. He changed his name to Monte Juno, bought a struggling saloon and renamed it Monte's Hacienda. With the exception of beer, he limited his drinks to rye and bourbon, catering to patrons with an “educated thirst.” Contrary to prevailing custom, he eliminated the upstairs whorehouse and installed a gambling casino.

Jenks—now Juno—began dressing more elegantly than ever, attending the theatre, and tipping his hat to the ladies. Especially the pretty, unescorted ones. He would conduct himself like a gentleman, setting his ambition higher than the saloon girls and whores who had always been part of his checkered life. Once he had adopted this new standard, he began eyeing women boldly, and some who never knew Milo Jenks existed began showing some interest in this Monte Juno. But the girl who caught and held his eye appeared nightly on the stage of the Palace Theatre. He began his pursuit of Lacy Mayfield in mid-January and it was the last day in April before she finally agreed to see him.

Nathan often spent his days staring into the murky waters of the river, his tangled mind a confusion of names, places, and almost-remembered events. He no longer listened to old Jeremiah Whittaker and his recounting of a past that meant nothing. While he didn't know how he came to be in the old man's company, he had a feeling—and that feeling was growing stronger—that he was in no way related to Whittaker. He had gone through his bedroll and his saddlebags, sharing his provisions with Whittaker until they were gone. His hope of finding some means of identifying himself was short lived. There was the account—from an Austin newspaper—of a pair of outlaws suspected of a series of robberies, but there were no names. Was he one of those hunted outlaws? Then there was the watch. Was he in some way affiliated with the United States government? He had more than three hundred dollars in double eagles. Had he earned the money or stolen it?

Whittaker had become sullen as a result of Nathan's continued indifference and obvious inability to recall anything. There were times when the two of them looked at one another across the fire, one as hostile as the other. Whittaker did all the hunting, traveling afoot, refusing to ride the black horse. Nathan had grown thin, the result of a continuous diet of nothing but elk, venison, or an occasional wild turkey. Finally the day came when the old man didn't return from the hunt. Despite the lack of rapport between them, Nathan felt lost, and he slept little. He waited until almost noon of the following day before making a decision. He saddled the black, buckled on his Colts, took his bedroll and saddlebags and rode out to look for Whittaker. He rode east, following the river, and when he found Whittaker, the old man lay face down, his back bristling with arrows. His Sharps and ammunition were gone.

There were tracks of many unshod horses that led in from the north. The tracks continued eastward along the river. Whittaker had talked some about the Indians—the Comanches—and despite having been at odds with Whittaker most of the time, he found himself furious at the cowardly manner in which the old man had been killed. He slid the Winchester from the saddle boot with intentions of seeking vengeance, a question troubling his mind. Had he ever shot a man? In seeking his identity, he had practiced drawing the twin Colts, and his dexterity with the weapons now came to his defense. At some time in his life he had been forced to defend himself. If he must again use these weapons against men, was he not justified? He rode around a bend in the river and immediately it began to widen. He soon discovered he was riding along the north bank of what had become a substantial lake.
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Nathan reined up. The tracks of the Indian horses had been crossed and recrossed by other animals coming to water, meaning that the Indians might be as much as a day ahead. The wind had risen, coming out of the northwest, and the sun had been swallowed by a mass of clouds rolling in from the west. He might have time to bury old Whittaker, for there was a spade back at the cave beside the river. But Nathan never reached Whittaker's body or the cave. He heard the thump of hooves and the excited shouts of the men who straddled the horses. They were riding from the north, seeking to head Nathan off. While they weren't quite within range, those who were nearest were already loosing arrows. He counted at least a dozen, and shoving the Winchester back into the boot, he rode for his life. Seeing that he was trying to outride them, the Indians turned their mounts west, paralleling the river. The storm was all that saved Nathan. Thunder rumbled and the rain was whipped in on the wind in blinding gray sheets. Rounding the bend in the river, the black horse continued straight ahead, thundering into a stand of trees. It was dark as night and Nathan never saw the low-hanging limb. It swept him from the saddle and he was thrown flat on his back on stoney ground. Minus his rider, the black horse stopped, waiting patiently. When Nathan finally came to his senses, the rain had stopped and night was upon him. His head hurt like fury, and when he put his hand to the gash, he could feel the blood on his fingers. Dark as it was, he could see the black horse standing near, waiting.

“Black horse,” he said aloud, “what'n hell happened and where are we? For sure, it ain't Colorado. It's almighty warm for September, too.”

Leading the black, Nathan got out into the open where he could see the stars in a clearing sky. He was still wet from the rain, the wind was cold, and he felt like he hadn't eaten in days. He dug around in his saddlebags seeking food—perhaps jerked beef—and found nothing.