The Killing Season (17 page)

“Damn it,” Hatcher said, “one of 'em pretended to be sick, and I got too close. They snatched my Colt and near busted my skull with the muzzle of it.”

Hatcher would say nothing more, and Nathan left the jail. He rode on to the livery and inquired about the horses of the fugitives.

“They stuck a pistol in my face and took their horses,” the hostler said. “They rode out toward the east.”

 

Having broken jail, the Horrells and Clint Barkley rode out as though returning to the Armijo Estrella sheep camp. But as soon as they were out of sight of town, Barkley reined up. Facing the surprised Horrells, he spoke.

“This is as far as I go. You damn Horrells are a jinx.”

“Merritt and his missus ain't gonna like this,” said Martin. “What you want us to tell them?”

“Tell them to go to hell,” Barkley said. He rode south, toward El Paso and the Mexican border.
⁸

When Nathan reached the place where Barkley and the Horrells had parted company, he paused for only a moment before following the single set of tracks that led south.

“I may be wrong, Cotton Blossom,” he said, “but I'd bet my saddle Clint Barkley and the Horrells have split the blanket. It's about time the chicken-livered varmint quit hiding behind the Horrells.”

Nathan rode carefully because Barkley would expect pursuit. Knowing they were stalking a man, Cotton Blossom loped ahead, wary of danger. Nathan estimated Barkley had not more than a three-hour start, which meant he wouldn't catch up with the outlaw before dark. To ride at a fast gallop was out of the question, for at any time, Barkley might double back and attempt an ambush. Cotton Blossom had been down enough trails to know that a rider doubling back meant trouble for Nathan Stone. If Barkley left the trail, mounted or afoot, Cotton Blossom would turn back to meet Nathan. With Cotton Blossom scouting ahead, Nathan had only to stay out of rifle range. An hour before sundown, Nathan reined up beside a spring. He unsaddled the horses and quickly prepared supper for himself and Cotton Blossom. Dousing the fire, he moved well away from the spring. Near where the horses were cropping grass, he stretched out, his head on his saddle.

“Cotton Blossom,” Nathan said, “I'm counting on you. He may come after us.”

Barkley, Nathan decided, would ride all night, attempting to outdistance pursuit, or he would resort to bushwhacking. Being hunted was hell on a man's nerves, as Nathan could testify, and he fully expected Barkley to come hunting him in the darkness. He wouldn't be hard to find, for in the still of the night, keen ears could hear the horses cropping grass. While Nathan knew he could depend on a warning from Cotton Blossom, he found himself unable to sleep. For the sake of comfort he had removed his gun belt, but in his hand he held one of the deadly Colts Captain Sage Jennings had given him. Nathan dozed, and when he suddenly awoke, he wasn't quite sure what had disturbed him. Then he knew. In the starlight, the horses stood with heads raised, having ceased their rhythmic cropping of grass. Cotton Blossom growled low, slipping silently into the shadows. Nathan lay still, hardly daring to breathe, aware that any movement might draw fire. The sound, when it came, only the keenest of ears could have heard, for it was the snick of a hammer being eared back. Nathan rolled away from his saddle barely seconds before slugs tore into the ground where he had been lying. He returned fire, shooting at muzzle flashes, but a frantic sound of running feet told him he had missed. Seizing his gun belt, he sprang to his feet and went after the bushwhacker. Then there was only silence, and having nothing to guide him, Nathan took refuge behind the trunk of a huge pine. It was a risky situation. While he could goad Barkley into shooting and revealing his position, he didn't know where the gunman was. But again Cotton Blossom served him well. There was growling, a scuffle and cursing, but before Nathan could reach the scene, there was a yip of pain from Cotton Blossom and blazing gunfire from the darkness. A slug whipped past Nathan's ear while a second one tore into his left thigh. Firing at the muzzle flash, he emptied one Colt with a drum roll of sound. He had the second Colt ready, but there was no need for it. There was a soft sound somewhere ahead of him, but a low whine identified Cotton Blossom. He waited until Cotton Blossom reached him, and placing his hand on the dog's head, he felt a gash that still oozed blood. Cotton Blossom had been struck with the muzzle of a Colt or the butt of a rifle. Nathan's own wound was bleeding as he could feel the blood running into his boot. He had waited long enough, and he limped toward the shadow that was the body of Clint Barkley. He lighted a match and found that the outlaw had been shot twice.

“Captain Sage Jennings,” said Nathan, a lump in his throat, “this yellow-bellied, backshootin' coyote could die a hundred times and it wouldn't even the score. But it's all I can do,
muy bueno companero.”

Returning to the spring, Nathan kindled a small fire and put on water to boil. He must attend to his own wound and to Cotton Blossom's. Taking strips of clean muslin from his pack, he tied a strip above his wound, seeking to stop the bleeding. When the water had begun to boil, he soaked some of the muslin and washed the dried blood from Cotton Blossom's head wound. He then soaked clean cloth in disinfectant and placed it over the wound.

“Lie down and keep that in place,” he said, “so the medicine can do its work.”

Nathan then removed his trousers and cleansed his own wound. The lead had missed the bone, but there was a ragged, bloody exit wound that continued bleeding, despite all his efforts. Finally he took mud from the spring, and after applying a heavy coat to the bleeding wound, wrapped it tight with muslin.

“We'll ride out at first light, Cotton Blossom. I reckon we're still a long way from El Paso, and I'm needin' a doctor.”

 

When Nathan awoke at first light, he knew he had made a mistake. He should have ridden all night, for his left leg was stiff, swollen, and so painful he could barely stand. He boiled water, washed off the mud, and applied disinfectant. Quickly he prepared breakfast for himself and Cotton Blossom, finding that the dog's wound probably wasn't as serious as he had at first thought. His own wound, however, was a different story, and he could almost feel the fever engulfing him. He removed from his pack a quart bottle almost full of whiskey, and hating the stuff, downed as much of it as he could stand. The rest went into his saddlebag. With difficulty he loaded the packhorse and saddled the grulla. Unable to put all his weight on his left leg, he mounted awkwardly from the offside. The horse watched him curiously, wondering what had come over him.

Nathan rode south, and with the sun beating down, it seemed unseasonably hot. But it was the fever, and although Nathan had consumed most of the whiskey, it seemed only to have made him drunk. Near sundown, reaching a fast-running creek. Nathan tried to dismount. His wounded leg wouldn't support his weight, and having drunk most of a quart of whiskey, Nathan fell. His head struck a rock, and with a groan he relaxed. The sun dipped below the horizon and twilight came. The horses cropped grass while an anxious Cotton Blossom waited, but as the first stars winked silver from a deep purple plateau. Nathan Stone lay unmoving....

 

Far into the night Nathan awoke, his teeth chattering. His head throbbed like the beating of a drum, almost in time with the ache of the wound in his swollen thigh. There was no more whiskey, and hungover as he was, Nathan never wanted another drop of the stuff. He crawled to his horse and seizing a stirrup leather, managed to get to his feet. He again had to mount from the offside, failing three times before he was finally in the saddle. His head reeling, he tottered from side to side, knowing he must ride on. Knowing that if he again fell from the saddle he might die where he lay. He looped the lead rope of the packhorse around his saddle horn and headed the grulla south. The animal chose its own gait, pausing to graze along the way. Nathan slumped in the saddle, unknowing, uncaring. When he again lifted his head, the last star had winked out and the eastern horizon swiftly was changing from gray to dusty rose. Somewhere ahead a horse nickered and Nathan's grulla answered. The distant horse nickered again. Weary, thirsty, the grulla trotted ahead.

“I'll milk the cows, Ma,” said fifteen-year-old Ellie Wells, “but it's Jamie's job to feed the horses. I whacked him on the head but he wouldn't get up, and he cussed at me.”

“I'll tend to him,” Myra Wells said wearily. Jamie was thirteen and inclined to laziness when Jubal Wells was away, but it was the only peace Myra knew, for Jubal was forever swearing at the boy. Except for the guzzling of rotgut whiskey, she reflected, Jamie was already acquiring his father's bad habits. She was about to go rip the covers off Jamie when Ellie came running to the house.

“Ma,” Ellie cried, “there's two horses back of the barn. One's carrying a pack and a man's riding the other. He's all slumped over like he's asleep or sick. There's a dog with him and he growled at me.”

“Stay here,” said Myra, “while I wake Jamie. Turn the ham when it's ready and break half a dozen eggs into that bowl.”

She took a tin cup, and dipping it into a wooden bucket of cold water, prepared to do exactly what she had been threatening to do. The door to Jamie's room consisted of only a feed sack curtain, and she peeked in, not wishing to embarrass him if he was out of bed and getting dressed. But he was snoring, the blankets over his head. With a sigh, Myra took hold of the blankets and ripped them off. Like Jubal, Jamie wore no nightshirt and took the cupful of cold water on his bare hide.

“Damn it all to hell,” he exploded, leaping out of bed.

Myra seized him with her left hand and with her right, laid her open palm on his bare behind with a force that sounded like a pistol shot.

“Ow,” he bawled. “Damn it, Ma ...”

Myra swatted him again, but he barely felt it, for an even greater indignity had fallen on him. His sister Ellie was peeking around the curtain, enjoying his predicament.

“Ma,” he cried in anguish, “I ... I'm ... get her out of here.”

“I told you to tend the ham,” said Myra.

“The ham's done,” Ellie replied, “and I took it off the stove.” She smiled at Jamie and stayed where she was.

“We'll leave you alone,” said Myra, “if you think you can get dressed quickly. There's a stranger at the barn, perhaps sick or hurt. We may need your help.”

“I'll hurry,” he said miserably, hunching over in an attempt to cover his privates.

“Shame on you,” said Myra, when she and Ellie had returned to the kitchen, but there was no rebuke in her voice.

Ellie laughed. “I reckon he won't take a chance on that happening again,” she said.

Jamie emerged in overalls, flannel shirt, and brogan shoes. His eyes were on the floor, his face was red, and despite herself, Ellie laughed. Jamie swallowed a mouthful of swear words, bit his tongue, and said nothing. The three of them headed for the barn. The two horses stood with their heads down, while Nathan Stone slumped over the saddle horn.

“He's been hurt,” said Myra, her eyes on Nathan's bandaged left thigh. “Ellie, loose his feet from the stirrups. Jamie, you help me get him off the horse.”

Once the girl had freed Nathan's left boot, he would have fallen off the offside had not Myra and Jamie caught him.

“We must get him to the house,” Myra said. “Jamie, you take his feet.”

“Pa's goin' to raise hell,” said Jamie.

“He's been hurt,” Myra said. “Helping him is the Christian thing to do.”

“There's nothing Christian about Pa,” said Ellie, “or that no-account Ike Puckett and Levi Odell that he rides with.”

Myra Wells said nothing, for it was the truth. Three years before, her husband had been killed by Indians. Left with two children, she didn't hesitate when ex-buffalo hunter Jubal Wells had asked her to be his woman. Wells had moved them to a godforsaken hard-scrabble spread in southern New Mexico, fifty miles north of El Paso. Immediately, Wells had become partners with Ike Puckett and Levi Odell in the selling and trading of horses. Occasionally, the trio drove horses to the Wells place, where they would remain for a few days before being driven away and sold. The last bunch had been gone only four days when a sheriffs posse rode in, seeking stolen horses. Since then, Jubal Wells and his companions had brought no more horses to the Wells corral, and that had pretty well told Myra where they were getting the horses.

“He's awful heavy, Ma,” Jamie panted. “Let's put him down and rest a minute.”

They lowered Nathan to the ground, and Cotton Blossom crept as close as he dared. After a brief rest, Myra and Jamie took up their burden and continued on to the house.