The Killing Season (21 page)

“When I can,” said Nathan. “They'll search the town, and the sooner I can get away from here, the better. When Jubal Wells and his amigos see Myra, Jamie, and Ellie, they'll know I've been here, and this is where they'll take my trail.”

“Lak hell,” Granny Boudleaux said. “They see nobody but me, and I tell them I never see you, never hear of you.”

“Bless you, Granny,” said Nathan. “When I can safely ride back this way, I will.”

 

Nathan rode east, shying away from the Rio Grande and the border. His pursuers, he suspected, would be sufficient in number to ride him down in rough country, and below the border, he had no friends. Instead of running ahead, Cotton Blossom lagged behind, because Nathan had been watching his back trail and the hound had picked up on that. There was no evidence of pursuit at the end of the first day, but Nathan kept his supper fire small, extinguishing it well before dark. He spread a blanket on the ground, and while it was still light, cleaned both the Colts and the Winchester.

 

Without Jamie knowing, Levi Puckett had seen him when he had ridden in to learn the mood of the town for Nathan. Puckett had then followed the boy back to Granny's place, and the next morning after the shooting, that was where the fifteen vigilantes came looking for Nathan Stone. Granny Boudleaux tried her best to keep them off Nathan's trail, but it only seemed to make them all the more certain.

“You don't have to lie to us, old woman,” Jubal Wells said. “We know he was here.”

They rode away—fifteen strong—in the direction Nathan had gone.

“Oh, damn it,” said Jamie, “he didn't even get one day ahead of them.”

Myra Haight said nothing. She strained her eyes into the rising sun, watching the dust cloud grow smaller, knowing that Nathan was somewhere ahead of them. He was just one man, and there were fifteen killers on his trail. Knuckling the tears from her eyes, she turned back to the house....

 

Jubal Wells, Ike Puckett, and Levi Odell rode at the head of the band of killers they had recruited in El Paso. They were in high good humor, with most of them being more than a little drunk. Artemus Stewart had been more than generous with money for food and supplies, and the vigilantes led three packhorses, one of them almost totally loaded with quart bottles of whiskey.

“I got it all figgered out,” Levi shouted to an attentive audience. “It ain't the drinkin' that kills a man, it's the soberin' up. So you just don't never sober up.”

“By God, that ain't nothin' but the truth,” said Ike, “and we can stretch old Stewart's bounty hunt out for as long as his money lasts, stayin' drunk all the way.”

“Stone's got a dog with him,” Jubal said. “Let's be looking for dog tracks.”

“Hell,” one of the newly hired riders cackled, “I'm so drunk I can't see hoss tracks.”

“No more whiskey in the morning, then,” Jubal said. “Save it for after supper, so you can sleep it off. This ain't no shorthorn we're after. He could double back, belly-down with a Winchester, and ambush the hell out of us.”

There was grumbling, but they couldn't deny the logic of what Jubal had said. Reaching a spring, they unsaddled and made camp for the night. The wind had a chilly bite, and far to the west, a gray band of clouds had swept over the setting sun.

“By this time tomorrow night,” somebody predicted, “there'll be rain. Then we got no hoss tracks, dog tracks, nothin'. How do we know we're still on his trail?”

“We don't,” said Jubal, “but have you ever knowed it to rain all over Texas at the same time? We ride on till the rain lets up, and then we circle till we find the trail again. Damn it, don't none of you jaybirds know nothin' about tracking?”

Nathan arose at first light, built a small fire, and prepared breakfast for himself and Cotton Blossom. He loaded the packhorse, saddled the grulla, and rode out, reining up on the first rise. There he surveyed the back trail and found no sign of pursuit, but Stewart's band of vigilantes would be coming, and it would be they who determined Nathan's course of action. He would stay ahead of them, and over the course of a week or two, attempt to wear them out. If that failed, it meant old man Stewart wanted him dead, whatever the cost, and Nathan would take the offensive.

By noon, the thunderheads had moved in from the west on a rising wind, swallowing the January sun. When the rain came, it was cold, but Nathan rode on, taking advantage of the daylight. The farther he rode during the storm, the farther his pursuers would be riding blind, seeking to pick up his trail. With darkness just minutes away, he reined up beside a creek at the foot of a steep slope. There was enough of a rock overhang to provide shelter to Nathan and Cotton Blossom. Others had sought shelter here, and someone had thoughtfully gathered some firewood. Nathan built a small cookfire, extinguishing it as soon as possible, so there would be fuel for a breakfast fire. It promised to be a perfectly miserable night, as the storm grew in intensity.

 

“Damn it,” said Byler, “we should of rode on until we found some shelter 'fore we laid up for the night.”

“You ain't likely to find a hotel any closer than San Antone,” Jubal said. “If a little rain bothers you, maybe you should of stayed in the saloons in El Paso. It ain't too late to ride back, and that goes for any of the rest of you.”

“I ain't bothered by the rain,” said Connolly, “but I'd as soon be ridin', as settin' here like a half-drowned rooster.”

“By God, you'll be a dead rooster,” Ike Puckett said, “if you ride blind into Stone's camp. It ain't likely he'll ride on in a storm like this.”

“Not the least bit likely,” Jubal agreed, “and there's nothin' he'd like better than for us to come stumblin' after him through the rain, not knowin' where he is.”

“You don't know ever‘thing, Wells,” said Mayberry, who was still drunk. “When the rain's done, we still won't know where the hombre is, till he starts makin' tracks again. He could hole up and us be right on him, 'fore we know he's there.”

“I ain't denyin' that,” Jubal said, “with all of you owl-eyed. No more whiskey except at suppertime, and the next scutter that ends up falling-down drunk gets booted out.”

 

Nathan was three days out of El Paso before he eventually sighted the dust of the men following him. Lest they learn how close they were, he built his fire in daylight, with brush along a creek to dissipate the smoke. He then rode on another ten miles before he made camp. Waiting until it was dark, he left his packhorse picketed and rode back to scout the enemy camp. It was time he knew just how many men were on his trail. The wind was out of the west and so he was downwind from his pursuers. He left the grulla far enough away so that the animal wouldn't nicker and reveal his presence. Never knowing what might develop, he took his Winchester. The bunch had obligingly established their camp near a creek, along which there was abundant growth, and Nathan crept along it from the north. Cotton Blossom had crept on ahead, and when the dog didn't double back, Nathan was reasonably sure none of the vigilantes were on watch. He easily identified the troublesome trio from New Mexico, Wells, Puckett, and Odell, and counted twelve more men he didn't recognize. There were three loaded packsaddles, proof enough that Artemus Stewart was sparing no expense. The coffeepot hung over the fire from an iron spider, and that gave Nathan an idea. It never hurt to keep the enemy on the defensive, seeing to it that they slept uneasily, never knowing for sure where their adversary was. He waited until Levi Odell tipped a whiskey bottle and fired, shattering the bottle in Odell's face. His next shot sent the coffeepot flying, while a third and fourth sent the horses galloping in a mad run down the creek. He then retreated, while pandemonium broke loose in the camp. Men cursed, rifles and Colts roared, and several men who had sought the safety of darkness were drawing fire from their companions.

“Damn it,” Jubal Wells roared, “hold your fire.”

“Help me,” Odell whined, “I'm bleedin' to death and I can't see.”

“The hosses is gone,” somebody shouted. “Let's go look fer 'em.”

“It's so dark you can't see your hand in front of your face,” said Ike Puckett. “We'll have to wait for mornin'.”

It was the truth, for clouds had moved in, hiding the moon and stars. Nathan reached his horse, mounted, and rode back to his own camp, knowing he wouldn't be followed. In a showdown, they might surround him or ride him down, but in a war of nerves, he had a definite edge. All he had to do was stay ahead, ride back under the cover of darkness, and just worry the hell out of them.

 

Nathan's pursuers spent an uneasy night, awaking to a chill west wind and a mass of low-hanging clouds that promised more rain. Nobody was in a mood for breakfast until the horses had been found, and they set off on foot. With the cold wind at their backs, the animals had drifted more than two miles. Breakfast was late, for they had but one coffeepot, and some of the men had to wait for a second pot to boil. Before they were finished with breakfast, a drizzling rain had set in. Some of the men who had been into the whiskey the night before were sorely in need of some “hair of the dog,” but Jubal Wells was in an even more vile mood than those with hangovers. In silence they mounted and rode out, wet, cold, and hating one another. More than one man silently vowed that Nathan Stone would pay, but there would be unpleasant surprises ahead beyond anything their limited imaginations might conceive.

 

As the drizzling rain swept in, Nathan Stone laughed. While there was little shelter in east Texas, one man could find a rock overhang, the undercut bank of an arroyo, or some means of sleeping dry. Fifteen men, however, would have no dry bed, perhaps no fire, and unless they had another pot, no coffee. As Nathan rode on, the rain became more intense. His pursuers had barely found his trail following the first rain, and now they were about to lose it again. Adding to their woes, after last night they would be forced to take turns standing watch, for they knew not when Nathan Stone would visit them again. Reaching a spring at the foot of a rise, Nathan reined up. There was a blowing rain out of the west, for the wind had risen. Nathan found shelter on the lee side of some rocks and built his supper fire. When he had eaten and fed Cotton Blossom, he put out the fire, saving some of the wood for the morning. He then rolled in his blankets with a square of canvas over them as protection from the blowing rain, and slept soundly.

Half a day's ride behind, however, his pursuers had no shelter, and for a lack of dry firewood, were chewing on jerked beef.

“Damn such weather,” Ike Puckett growled. “I'd give a day's pay for some hot coffee.”

“I'd give a day's pay if I didn't have to listen to all this crying,” said Jubal Wells.

“Well, hell,” Kendrick said, “with old Stewart footin' the bill, we should of bought us a tent. If I'd of wanted to set on my hunkers in the rain, eatin' jerked beef, I could of joined the Union army.”

“If it'll make you feel better,” Wells snapped, “I'll cut your pay to eight dollars a month and you can make believe this is the Union army.”

Under cover of darkness, an overcast sky and continuing rain, Nathan again visited the vigilante camp. He ventilated the spare coffeepot and with some well-placed shots, again stampeded the horses. By the time the men on watch got their Winchesters into play, Nathan had already done his damage. While confusion reigned, he mounted his horse and rode back to his own camp. Twice he had shot up their camp, and either time, he could have killed two or three men. He had nothing against them, and he still hoped that if the trail proved treacherous enough, most of them would give up the chase. His shooting had been close enough until they had to know he had spared them. But how much longer could he continue to spare them? The weather cleared up, and after the tenth day on the trail, all his pursuers were still there. Obviously, some of them would have to be hurt or killed, to make believers of the rest. On the eleventh day, an unexpected opportunity presented itself in a most unusual manner.

Having seen no threat from the men on their back trail, Cotton Blossom had taken to ranging far ahead. On this particular day he doubled back, growling. The sun was several hours high, and if there was danger ahead, Nathan wanted to face it before dark. Picketing the packhorse, he rode warily ahead, following Cotton Blossom. After not more than two miles, Nathan heard a dog bark. Reining up, taking his Winchester, he dismounted. There was a rise ahead, and using underbrush for cover, Nathan crept to the crest of it. Below, he couldn't believe his eyes, for there was an Indian camp. For the time and place, they almost had to be Comanche. Obviously, they planned to remain there for the night, and in Nathan's mind, a devious plan was taking shape.

Returning to his horse, he rode back to his picketed packhorse. There he waited until he could see a distant plume of dust that told him his pursuers were almost within striking distance. Leading his packhorse, he rode north until he was sure the animal would be safe. He then rode back to the rise that overlooked the Comanche camp. He counted probably thirty Indian braves. Shucking his Winchester from the boot, he fired four times among the Indians, careful that his slugs didn't find human targets. His shooting had the desired effect, for every man with a horse lit out toward the brush from which the shots had come. Nathan kicked the grulla into a fast gallop, back the way he had come, toward the pursuing vigilantes. Once he had some brush and undergrowth between him and the Comanches, he rode north. Before the Comanches reached the point where Nathan had changed directions, they were able to see the oncoming vigilantes. With a blood-chilling whoop, they galloped ahead.