The Killing Season (24 page)

“I'm more than two hundred dollars ahead!” he exclaimed. “You're bringin' me luck.”

“Whether you win or lose at the table isn't nearly as important as staying alive,” said Nathan. “The odds are always in your favor when you use your brains instead of your gun.”

Saturday morning, King Fisher and Nathan had just sat down to breakfast in a cafe when a stranger approached their table. Nathan believed he had seen the man before, and when he nodded his head, King Fisher relaxed. The stranger, dressed in range clothes, was about thirty and had a tied-down, butt-forward Colt on his left hip. He spoke to Nathan.

“You may not remember me, but I was with Captain Sage Jennings, at Austin. My name is Bodie West. The captain always spoke highly of you, and I wondered if you knew of his death.”

“I do,” said Nathan. “I last saw him at Fort Worth, and when I telegraphed Captain Ferguson to inquire about him, Ferguson sent me the bad news. Take a chair and join us for breakfast. This is my amigo, King Fisher.”

West nodded, dragged out a chair, and sat down. Nothing more was said until they all had first cups of coffee and had ordered their breakfasts.

“We suspected the Horrells had ambushed him,” West said, “but by the time we got our orders to question them, they had quit the territory. Yesterday, I got word they've all come back. But their outlaw kin, Clint Barkley, wasn't with them. Nobody's seen him.”

“Nobody will,” said Nathan. “I learned for certain he was the back-shootin' little sidewinder that ambushed Captain Jennings. I found him in New Mexico, and he'll stay there until judgment day. I promised Cap I'd find him, that he would pay.”

Without a word, West extended his hand, and Nathan took it. The ranger swallowed hard, and finally he spoke.

“We're obliged, and I say that in behalf of the State of Texas. The next time you're in Austin, I think we'll have something for you. Something from the captain.”

Breakfast was mostly a silent affair, and the ranger was the first to leave. Not until he had gone did King Fisher speak.

“Stone, I reckon I spoke out of turn last night, when I said you wasn't a born-and-bred Texan. You're as much a Texan as any of us, and maybe more so than some. It takes a big man to avenge a friend, and if I cash in with a bullet in the back, then I hope somebody cares enough to go after the varmint that done it.”

Nathan said nothing, ill at ease, wishing he had met the young ranger at another time and place. Leaving the cafe, they returned to the hotel, where Nathan bought newspapers from San Antonio and Austin. Reaching their room, Nathan stretched out on the bed with the papers. Uneasy with the silence, King Fisher spoke.

“You're the only hombre I ever rode with that bought and read newspapers.”

“It's a habit,” Nathan said. “When you're stuck in town, there's nothing to do except drink and play poker. I've never got my tail in a crack, reading newspapers.”

“If I had your luck,” said Fisher, “I'd give up everything except poker.”

“Here's something about Clay Allison,” Nathan said. “On January seventh, he gunned down a gent name of Chunk Colbert, in Colfax County, New Mexico Territory.”

“I've heard of him,” said Fisher. “He's said to be chain lightning with a Colt. He's got a horse ranch near Cimarron, almost on the Colorado line.”
¹¹

Finding nothing else of interest in the papers, Nathan slept until the afternoon. When he awoke, King Fisher was gone, and it was near suppertime when he returned.

“I got restless,” said Fisher, “and I've been out wandering about town. I reckon it's not too early for supper, if you're ready.”

Nathan pulled on his boots, belted on his guns, donned his hat, and they returned to the cafe where they'd had breakfast.

“Let's go back to the Alamo for some more five-card stud,” Fisher said. “I like your style and I'd like to watch you play.”

Nathan said nothing, finding the praise a little embarrassing. Supper finished, they left the cafe, Nathan first. He was barely out the door when a slug ripped into the door frame just inches from his head. The shot had come from a vacant store building across the street. Colt in his hand, Nathan headed for it in a zigzag run, King Fisher right behind him. There were no more shots. On either side of the vacant building there was open space all the way to the alley, and Nathan took one side while Fisher took the other. The alley seemed deserted and the back door to the building stood open, hanging forlornly on a single hinge.

“Damn,” said Fisher, “he could have ducked into any one of a dozen places down this alley. You got any idea who the varmint was?”

“Yes,” Nathan replied. “This is the last of the bunch that was ridin' me down, when you saved my bacon.”

“He's ain't got the sand to face you, then,” said Fisher. “Do you know the varmit by sight?”

“Yes,” Nathan replied, “and I don't aim to duck and dodge around while he stalks me. He's in this town somewhere, and I'm going after him.”

“By God,” said Fisher, “this is my kind of game. If you don't mind, I'll trail along, so's he don't plug you in the back.”

“He's that kind,” Nathan replied. “Come on.”

They visited every hotel and rooming house Fisher could think of, but found none that had rented a room to Jubal Wells.

“Maybe he's usin' another name,” Fisher suggested.

“Maybe he hasn't taken a room anywhere,” said Nathan. “He could be just prowling the streets, keeping out of sight, waiting for another chance.”

“Then let's give him that chance,” Fisher said. “We'll go back to the Alamo Saloon and have a beer or two. Just inside the back door, there's a storeroom. We'll go in there just long enough for you to take my hat and coat and for me to take yours. By then it'll be dark enough for an hombre across the street to mistake me for you. You'll ease out the back door of the Alamo and around to the front, keepin' in the shadow of the overhang. After giving you time to get in position, I will step out the front door. When this bastard cuts down on me, you blast him to hell and gone.”

“No,” Nathan said. “I appreciate what you're offering to do, but I won't have you swapping your life for mine. With a lamp on each side of the door, how could he miss?”

“Hell, we don't know that he'll fall for it,” said Fisher, “but I believe he will. There's nothin' to get excited about when somebody fires a shot, unless there's a dead body, and we shucked out from that cafe before anybody could call the law. Now, unless you've got a better plan, let's use mine. There's some risk for me, but a lot more for you, until you gun down this slippery coyote.”

King Fisher was dead serious, because the element of danger excited him. Realizing it was something the man actually wanted to do, Nathan agreed. There was always a chance that Wells could attempt another ambush before they were able to carry out Fisher's plan, but that, too, was part of the risk. Fisher walked behind Nathan, and Nathan entered the Alamo Saloon first. After one beer, they made as if to exit by the back door, but instead, went into the storeroom. There, they swapped hats and coats.

“Just be damn sure you allow me enough time to get into position,” said Nathan.

“I aim to,” Fisher replied. “I won't deny you the pleasure of saltin' down this coyote, if possible, but keep one thing in mind; with a sidewinder throwin' lead at me, it's plumb against my religion not to shoot back.”

“I'm not selfish,” said Nathan. “You're taking all the risk. If you can nail him before I do, then be my guest.”

Nathan slipped out the back door of the saloon, and keeping well within the shadow of the roof's overhang, made his way along the building's outside wall, toward the front. He reached his position, feeling certain he hadn't been seen. A killer would have his eyes on the well-lighted front entrance, and therein lay King Fisher's risk. His Colt ready, Nathan peeked around the corner, his eyes on the front entrance. King Fisher stepped out, and seeming to drop something, bent over. At that very instant, two slugs slammed into the wall, chest-high. Nathan's Colt roared as he fired at the muzzle flashes, and adding to it was the thunder from King Fisher's weapon, as, on his knees, he returned fire. It was over as suddenly as it had begun, and men boiled out of the Alamo Saloon. The sheriff, Owen Perryman, came on the run, and the first man he saw was King Fisher.

“Damn it, I might have known, with all this shootin' goin' on, you'd somehow be in the middle of it. You got some explaining to do, Fisher.”

“Maybe I'd better explain it, Sheriff,” said Nathan. “I've had a bushwhacker stalking me, and King just stepped out of the saloon wearing my hat and coat. He drew fire from the other side of the street, and if you're needin' somebody to blame for all this, have a look over there.”

The sheriff lighted the lantern he'd brought with him, and accompanied by a horde of men from the saloon, headed across the street. He returned almost immediately, followed by shouting men.

“Damn it,” Perryman bawled, “hold it down.” The shouting ceased and the sheriff spoke to Nathan. “He's dead as he'll ever be, with a pistol in his hand. From what I can see, there'll be no charges, if you're claiming self-defense.”

“That's exactly what I'm claiming,” said Nathan. “He'd already had one shot at me today, and my friend Fisher joined me in setting a trap for him.”

“By God, you done a prime job,” somebody said. “That hombre was drilled through his middle, three times.”

Nathan and Fisher got away before anybody got around to questioning them, taking a roundabout way through the back entrance of the Cattleman's Hotel, just down the street.

“It's been a while since I've had any excitement,” Fisher said, when they had reached their room. “But you saw how it was. I kill some skunk that's tryin' to kill me, and the law's there, Johnny-on-the-spot, ready to plant me in the
juzgado.
By God, if it gets any more civilized around here, I'll have to move the Pendencia ranch to the Mex side of the river.”

Nathan laughed. “I reckon this has ruined our Saturday night. We won't be able to go anywhere in town without having to answer questions I'd as soon leave unanswered.”

“No matter,” said Fisher. “When I can get shot at and live to talk about it and ride out sober with two hundred in poker winnings, I reckon it's time to go. There'll be other nights, other poker games, and we never even got to the women.”

 

Eventually, having been seen with King Fisher, Nathan was accepted in San Antonio and Uvalde. Despite his winning far more than he lost, Nathan Stone was respected for his honest game. When he won he didn't gloat and when he lost he didn't whine. On a third visit to San Antonio, Nathan and Fisher arrived in the early afternoon.

“I'd better go by the bank and stash some of this money,” Fisher said. “Then if I hit a losin' streak, I won't be tempted to try and recoup my losses.”

They had dismounted when a shot rang out within the bank. The doors were flung open and four men came out on the run, guns blazing. A slug burned King Fisher's horse, and the animal reared. Lead kicked up dust at Nathan's feet, chunked into the hitching rail, and ripped into a water trough. Drawing his Colt, Nathan went to his knees, while King Fisher bellied-down behind the water trough, and the two of them cut down on the bank robbers. Three of the men fell, one of whom had the sack with the loot from the robbery. The fourth man reached his horse and rode for his life.

“Damn,” said Nathan, wiping his sweaty face on the sleeve of his shirt, “a man can get ventilated in this town, just minding his own business.”

“Almost never a dull moment,” King Fisher said, “and the fun ain't over. Our amigo, Sheriff Perryman, will come gallopin' along just any time, now, and we'll have to explain all this to him. He'll likely try to arrest us as part of the gang.”

But when Sheriff Perryman arrived, the bank personnel were there, lavish with their praise for Nathan and King Fisher. While a teller had been wounded, three of the bandits had been killed and all the money recovered. Almost grudgingly, Sheriff Perryman turned to Nathan and Fisher.

“Good piece of work. Now you hombres go on about your business.”

Nathan and Fisher reined up at a little adobe hut just across the Rio Grande. A rider stepped out of a nearby log barn. His enormous sombrero shaded his face. His shirt and trousers were of rough homespun, while his
chaqueta
and
chaparreras
were of leather. King Fisher nodded to Nathan and they dismounted.

“Hola, mi amigo,
said Fisher.

“Buenos Dias, señor,”
the Mexican replied.

“Nathan,” Fisher said, “this is Pancho Gomez. Pancho, this is my amigo, Nathan Stone. He will accompany us in the hunt for
caballos.”

“Si,”
Pancho said.
“Bienvenido.”

Nathan and Fisher followed Pancho into the adobe hut, and he led them to the small kitchen where there was a crude wooden table with a bench on either side. A Mexican woman nodded to them.

“Nathan, this is Maria,” said Fisher, by way of introduction.

Following Pancho's lead, Nathan and Fisher took their seats at the table, while Maria brought each of them a heavy earthen mug.

“Doloroso,” Pancho said. “No coffee.”