The Killing Season (13 page)

“He left here early this morning,” said Sheriff Harrington, “riding south.”

“He's a longtime friend,” Silver said. “I'd have liked to see him again.”

“Buy my supper,” said Harrington slyly, “and I'll tell you how that Limbaugh gal tried to shoot him, right here in Dodge.”

“Maybe I will,” Silver said. “Is Stone a friend of yours?”

“I like to think so,” said Harrington. “It was me that checked out the Limbaugh story and proved her a liar, sending Stone to the attorney general's office, in Jefferson City.”

“Come on, then,” Silver replied, “and let's have a steak.”

It was already dark when Silver and Harrington left the sheriff's office, and following supper, they lingered for another hour over coffee, talking. Silver found himself liking the sheriff, and not just because he had befriended Nathan Stone. Silver and Harrington had just left the cafe when they felt the earth shake.

“God Almighty,” said Harrington. “An earthquake.”

“An explosion,” Silver contradicted. “In the sky, to the south.”

They watched in wonder as an enormous ball of fire erupted into the heavens. Almost immediately there was a second explosion, and another sphere of fire joined the first.

“What in thunder could have caused that?” Sheriff Harrington wondered. “Not a damn thing out there but sagebrush, tumbleweeds, and flat prairie. And, of course, the Cimarron River, if you ride far enough.”

“I can think of only one possible cause,” said Silver, “and if I'm right, my reason for being here has just been eliminated. Tomorrow, I'll take some soldiers from Fort Dodge and ride south.”

Respecting Silver's position, Sheriff Harrington asked no questions.

Accompanied by a sergeant and four privates, Byron Silver reached the Cimarron just before noon. Nobody had any difficulty identifying any of the debris from the explosions.

“Winchester rifles,” said Sergeant Wilcox. “At least, they used to be.”

Riding on, they found the remains of three men, five mules, and two horses. Reaching the actual scene of the explosions, there was nothing but enormous craters in the ground. Half a mile south, there was an iron tire from a wagon wheel.

“Assuming that somebody escaped,” Silver said, “let's fan out and look for tracks.”

There was the remains of the wagon that had broken up. Silver had known the gunrunners had left St. Louis with three wagons. Splitting a third wagon's load between the two remaining wagons would have created impossible overloads. Silver rode on upriver for almost a mile, not sure what he was seeking. Near a small tree, he found horse droppings and there he dismounted. The droppings weren't quite a day old, and Silver slid down the sandy bank to the water's edge. There, in the wet sand, were the front paw prints of a wolf or coyote. Or of a dog. But Silver decided the prints weren't quite large enough for a wolf and were too large for a coyote. Mounting, Silver rode south until he reached sandy ground, and then he began riding a half circle until he crossed the trail he sought. There were tracks of two horses and the paw prints of the dog. Silver mounted and paused, his eyes turned toward the southwest.

“Vaya
con
dios,
Nathan Stone. I don't know the why of it, but your reckoning and sense of responsibility were ace-high,
amigo.”

The last few miles before reaching the town, Nathan followed the old Santa Fe Trail. The first building to catch his eye was a magnificent chapel, its gothic design reminding him of some of the cathedrals he had seen in New Orleans. Reining up, he admired the towering structure before riding on.
^6
6

“Cotton Blossom,” Nathan said, “I like the looks of Santa Fe.”

Finding a livery for the horses, Nathan and Cotton Blossom crossed a wide street to a hotel. The Spanish influence was everywhere, and Nathan was reminded of the south Texas border towns of Laredo and Brownsville. Other dogs wandered the streets, and Nathan spoke sharply to Cotton Blossom, lest there be trouble. Suppertime being several hours away, Nathan took a room for the night and bought a local newspaper, The New Mexican. After Cotton Blossom and Nathan had entered the hotel room, Nathan locked the door, shucked his gun belt, removed his hat, and tugged off his boots. He then settled down on the bed to read the newspaper. Most of the front section was devoted to local news, none of it of any interest to Nathan. A second section, however, dealt with other matters, including a growing resentment between sheepmen and cattlemen. A Spaniard, Armijo Estrella was running sheep, while a crusty old ex-Texan, Colton McLean, had cattle. According to the paper, the two had been at each other's throats for years, fighting over range, water rights, and apparently just for the hell of it. Now the situation was worsening, for McLean's riders were shooting at sheepmen, while Estrella's sheepmen were firing at cowboys. Estrella had been the first to bring in hired guns, and Nathan sat straight up on the bed, for there before him were the names of the Horrells! Much of the fighting had taken place near the little town of Lincoln, in southern New Mexico Territory, and Nathan vowed to ride there just as quickly as he could. He read the article a second time and then scanned the rest of the paper without finding any mention of Clint Barkley, and that bothered him. He might bring down the wrath of the entire Horrell clan without finding a trace of Barkley, but he had no other lead.

Nathan wasted no time. Asking directions, he rode directly to Colton McLean's spread and found it to be all he had expected. Riding down a winding lane for more than a mile, he reached a gate behind which stood two men with Winchesters. He reined up when one of them spoke.

“Who are you and what's your business?”

“Nathan Stone. I heard Mr. McLean might be hiring hands.”

“He might be,” said the second man, his eyes on Nathan's tied-down Colts. “Foller Jake on up to the house.”

By the time the gate had been opened and Nathan had ridden through, Jake was in the saddle. He held his horse back until Nathan was slightly ahead, and the two rode on to the ranch house that sprawled in a distant grove of oaks.

Nathan stood beside his horse while Jake entered the house. At the far end of the long porch, two hounds barked furiously. Cotton Blossom cast them a bored look and then ignored them. When Jake opened the front door and beckoned, Nathan entered the house. At the end of a long hall, Jake knocked on a door and was told to enter. McLean stood before a fireplace that used up half of one wall in the massive living room. His was the rough clothing of a cowboy. He hadn't removed his hat, and on his left hip was a tied-down Colt. He was gruff to a fault and wasted no time.

“Who told you I was hirin' riders?”

“You'd be a fool not to,” said Nathan smoothly. “Armijo Estrella's hiring.”

“Well, now,” McLean replied, his brittle blue eyes boring into Nathan's, “mebbe you'd ought to be talkin' to Armijo.”

“Mebbe I'd ought,” said Nathan, adopting the drawl. He took a step toward the door.

“Fifty and found,” McLean said, “and I supply your shells. Jake, show him to the bunkhouse.”

Nathan followed Jake down the hall, and they were on the porch before Jake spoke.

“Don't push your luck, mister. Mr. McLean don't take no lip. He'll talk to you after supper.”

Nathan said nothing. Mounting the grulla and leading the packhorse, he followed Jake to a distant bunkhouse. It being Saturday afternoon, the riders were preparing for a trip to town. Several of them nodded to Nathan, and nobody seemed overly curious.

“The barn's over yonder,” said Jake, pointing. With that, he departed.

Nathan unsaddled the grulla and unloaded the packhorse, toting his saddle and pack into the bunkhouse. He then led the two horses to the barn. After rubbing them down, he stalled and grained them. Returning to the bunkhouse, Nathan waited for call to supper. When the bell pealed, Nathan headed toward the cook's entrance to the ranch house. While the dining room had benches and tables enough to seat thirty men, there was only McLean, Nathan, and the Mexican cook.

“Set,” McLean ordered. “The Mex, here, is Squid. He swum ashore from a French merchant ship, lookin' for work and a place to hide. He's the best cook that ever drawed a breath, but he ain't worth a damn for nothin' else.”

Squid grinned as he brought in sizzling steaks from the kitchen. Nathan looked at the rancher, puzzled by the man's jovial attitude.

“Eat, damn it,” McLean growled. “Steak's gettin' cold.”

They were down to the coffee before McLean spoke again. “What do you think of the spread?”

“I think,” said Nathan, “if I was having gun trouble, I'd have kept some armed men in the bunkhouse.”

“What the hell for?” McLean demanded. “I'm here, and two of the boys are at the gate. How much sand you think a sheepherder's got, anyhow?”

“I see the Horrell clan's hired on with Estrella,” said Nathan, “and I happen to know they're a bunch of Texas killers on the dodge.”

“Are you after them? Is that why you're here?”

“No,” Nathan said truthfully, “I'm not gunning for the Horrells. I just happen to know they're a hairy-legged bunch who have worn out their welcome in Texas. If they're around long enough, some of them will have to be shot on general principle.”

To Nathan's surprise, McLean laughed. “You talk like a Texan,” he said.

“I've spent some time there,” Nathan said. “What do you aim for me to do?”

“Take your turn ridin' the range. You don't shoot at Estrella's riders unless they fire at you or try to stampede the herd. You don't bother the sheep unless the varmints are run on my range. Then, by God, you rimrock every damn one.”
⁷

“Estrella's trying to take land that belongs to you?”

“Well, hell, I ain't exactly got the papers on it, but my cows was grazin' that land when this damn Spanish
pelado
was on the south of the river, eatin' chili beans.”

“Estrella is calling your bluff, challenging your right to free range, then,” Nathan said.

“You're talkin' like them slick-tongued lawyers in Santa Fe,” McLean growled.

“You're defying the courts?”

“Hell, yes,” McLean shouted. “I took this land from the Injuns, when there was one of the varmints behind ever' tree and bush. You think I aim to lose it to this shirttail sheep nurse without a fight?”

“I understand your position,” said Nathan. “Have you considered leasing the land from the government?”

“A hundred thousand acres and more, at a dollar an acre,” McLean said. “If I sold ever' damn cow I own at prime, I couldn't afford that, and neither can Estrella. They ain't that much cold cash in all of New Mexico Territory.”

“So the answer is a shooting war between sheepmen and cattlemen.”

“I reckon,” said McLean, shrugging his shoulders. “The law says Estrella's got the same right to free range as I do, but it don't give him the right to get at the grass by shootin' my riders and stampedin' my cows.”

“That same law denies you the right to claim free range by gunning down Estrella's riders and rimrocking his sheep,” Nathan replied.

“By God,” McLean bawled, “I've had the law read to me backward and forward, and I ain't about to have it done by a varmint I'm payin' gun wages. If you ain't with me, then you're agin me. Saddle up and ride, 'fore I lose my temper.”

It was Nathan's turn to laugh. “I didn't say I was against you. I want to know where I stand, where the law's concerned. I'll side you as long as I eat your grub and take your pay, but I won't kill without cause. As I see it, you and Armijo Estrella are both outside the law, and you have the right to defend your herd and to retaliate as a result of attacks on your riders. If it comes to bushwhacking and back-shooting, then I'll ride on. I won't end up with a price on my head, just so your cows can eat free grass.
Comprende?”

“Si,”
McLean replied.

“Now,” said Nathan, “what do you know about this Horrell bunch that's hired on with Estrella?”

“They're trigger-happy,” McLean said. “There's five of the varmints, and last Sunday they got drunk and shot up a saloon in Lincoln. They threatened to shoot the sheriff and a deputy if anything was done.”

“So nothing was done,” said Nathan.

“Not a damn thing. I halfway believe Estrella's encouraging them to raise hell, givin' me notice that I'm in for it,” McLean said. “But these Horrells ain't the worst of it. I'd say Estrella's got a dozen
Mejicanos
he's brung across the river, ever' one wearin' a tied-down Colt and the look of a killer.”

“It purely sounds like a challenge,” said Nathan. “How many riders do you have?”

“You've seen 'em,” McLean said. “There's Hugh and Vance at the gate, the nine men who rode into town, and you. Twelve. So you're outgunned.”

“Maybe not for long,” said Nathan. “Dispose of the Horrells, and the odds are even.”

“But you're not after them.”

“No,” Nathan said, “but once they know I'm here, they'll be after me. I interfered in a fracas back in Texas, when they were shooting up a town and about to kill an innocent man. I wounded one and sent them all running with their tails between their legs. They're not likely to forget that.”