The Killing Season (27 page)

“I'm riding to town for some nails. Spikes, maybe. Then I'll rebuild this damn corral six rails high. Then I'm goin' on another horse hunt, and then if that black varmint knows what's good for him, he'll stay shy of rifle range.”

“I think I'll pass on the next hunt,” said Nathan. “It's about time I was ridin' on.”

“Ah, hell. I won't be goin' until the middle of July,” Fisher said. “I'm considerably bent, but I ain't broke. Stick around for the horse races on July fourth. With your luck, I'd like to just lay my bets alongside yours. What's the most you ever won on a horse?”

“Ten thousand,” Nathan said, “but I had to shoot my way out of town.”

“By God, I wish I'd been with you. That kind of money's worth fightin' for. If I had your luck, I wouldn't lift nothin' heavier than a deck of cards.”

“There are times,” said Nathan, “when I wish I'd never seen a deck of cards. Take a man's money—even in an honest game—and you may have to shoot him to keep it. How many men do you kill before they begin to haunt you?”

“I can't figure you,” Fisher said. “You got the golden touch with a pistol and with the cards, yet it bothers you to shoot them that's needful of it, and I get the feelin' you don't really like to gamble.”

“Some questions are best left unanswered,” said Nathan. “I reckon I'll stay for the race on July fourth. Maybe we'll both get lucky.”

Uvalde, only a fraction of the size of nearby San Antonio, outdid itself in preparation for the Fourth of July festivities. Indeed, it seemed as though all of San Antonio had turned out for the celebration. Pits had been dug two days before, and several tons of beef and pork was being barbecued. Two wagonloads of watermelons were on hand, as well as a coopful of roosters for a planned
carrera del gallo.
¹³

“I've never seen the like, for so small a town,” said Nathan, as he and King Fisher rode in.

“You ain't seen nothin' yet,” Fisher replied. “Every saloon, hotel, cafe, livery—even the whorehouses—throws money in the pot toward first-, second-, and third-place winners of the horse race. First prize has been as much as a thousand dollars. The fourth bein' on Saturday, the town will be roarin' all night tonight, all day tomorrow, and maybe most of tomorrow night. There'll be some high stakes poker games, too.”

Cotton Blossom normally shied away from crowds, but the odor of roasting meat was tempting, and he followed his nose to the source. Nathan and King Fisher went to one of the saloons where bets were being taken on the Saturday afternoon horse race. There were fifteen horses entered.

“I don't like to bet on anybody's horse until I've seen it,” Fisher said.

“I do,” said Nathan. “They'll generally be one as good as the other, or they wouldn't be in the race. It's the long shot that pays.”

There was a hand-printed poster on the saloon wall, near the bar. On it were names of the horses and the odds.

“Jumping Bean,” Fisher said. “Dead last on the list, and that's likely how he'll finish.”

“Maybe not,” said Nathan. “With a name like that, he sounds like a cow horse. Look at those odds. Twenty-to-one!”

“Yeah,” King Fisher said, “and there's likely a reason.”

“Pardner,” said Nathan to the man taking bets, “I'm layin' a hundred on Jumping Bean at twenty-to-one.”

“Your money,” the barkeep said, “but no payoff on second or third place.”

“I'm aware of that,” said Nathan. “Make it two hundred.”

“Place me a bet just like it,” Fisher said.

That drew some attention, wiping the grins off the faces of some, causing others to wonder if these two big spenders knew something others did not. After he and Nathan had left the saloon, King Fisher laughed.

“You could be a mite early with that,” said Nathan. “My horses don't always win.”

“Yeah,” Fisher said, “but when they win, they do it big time. With those odds, a win would put four thousand dollars in my pocket. I could lay off horse huntin' for another year.”

The race didn't begin until two o'clock. Nathan and Fisher took the time to load up on barbecue and watermelon. While Cotton Blossom didn't readily take to strangers, he was willing to make exceptions when they offered him food. Many of the diners were very young, and delighted in feeding the dog.

“After the race,” said Fisher, “there'll be some serious poker games in the saloons.”

“We may not be able to afford them,” Nathan said, “if Jumping Bean lives up to what everybody seems to expect.”

The horses were brought to the starting line almost an hour before the race was to begin, so that those placing bets could see the animals. Even though he already had his money on Jumping Bean, Nathan wanted to see the horse, and when he did, he wasn't disappointed. The horse was a bay, maybe fourteen hands, and even King Fisher was impressed.

“You was right about one thing,” said the Texan. “He's a cow horse, born and bred, stocky, deep-muscled, and sturdy-legged. I like that deep chest, low withers, and powerful hindquarters. He's got a thick neck, while his head's broad and short. He'll hold his own in a quarter-mile run.”
¹⁴

Suddenly there was a commotion where the barbecue was going on and a yelp from Cotton Blossom. When Nathan and Fisher reached the scene, Duro Ellison stood with his hand on the butt of his Colt, while Cotton Blossom inched closer, snarling.

“Cotton Blossom, no!” Nathan said.

Cotton Blossom ceased growling, but that wasn't enough for Duro. He forgot his Colt and turned on Nathan.

“Stone, your damn dog near took my leg off. What do you aim to do about it?”

“Nothing,” said Nathan, “unless he attacked you without cause. Did he?”

“No,” somebody shouted. “He kicked the dog. It wasn't botherin' him.”

“In that case,” Nathan said, “if the dog comes to any harm, Ellison, you'll answer to me.
Comprende?”

Duro Ellison said nothing. Nathan and King Fisher returned to the scene of the horse race, as the animals were being lined up according to their numbers. Jumping Bean was in the tenth position.

“Some free advice, amigo,” said Fisher. “Don't go turnin' your back on Duro Ellison. He's a bad apple, and his brothers, Paschal and Haynes, ain't no better. Any one of them would kill a dog—and likely anything else—just to see it die.”

“Thanks,” Nathan said. “I'll keep that in mind.”

There was some confusion at the start of the race. Accidentally or intentionally, the horse in ninth position broke to the left, colliding with horses seven and eight. As some of the other entries paused, Jumping Bean surged ahead. The rider—Mexican or Indian—was only a boy, and he rode without a saddle. The other riders spurred and quirted their horses, trying to box Jumping Bean, but the sturdy little bay was too quick for them. His rider gave him his head, using neither spurs or quirt, and the horse quickly took the lead. First by a head, by a length, then two lengths. Clearly a winner, he crossed the finish line to the cheers of a few and the anguished groans of many.

“By God,” King Fisher shouted, “you know how to pick 'em! Let's go collect our winnings.”

Reaching the saloon, Nathan and Fisher were greeted by good-natured shouts of congratulation. But some of the heavy losers were contesting the victory of Jumping Bean, and one of them was Duro Ellison.

“Somethin' went wrong at the start of that race,” Duro shouted, “an' I say it's got to be run again. Are we gonna let some Mex kid and his nag just ride away with a thousand dollars of our money?”

“Hell, no!” a dozen voices shouted. “Run the race again.”

But all their shouting died away with the roar of a gun. King Fisher stood with his back to the wall, a Colt in each hand. Just loud enough for them all to hear, he spoke.

“Mexican, Indian, or Chinese, the kid won the race fair and square. He earned the money, and I aim to see that he gets it.”

“You and who else?” somebody shouted.

“Me,” said Nathan, taking his place beside Fisher.

“They're right,” said one of the three judges, “and we're sticking to our decision. The winner had nothing to do with the fracas at the start of the race. If there's anybody of a mind to make trouble, we'll call in Sheriff Ward.”

“I'm already here,” the lawman said. “The race is over and the decision of the judges is final. If there's trouble, them that's the cause of it gets thirty days free room and board in the
juzgado.
Now break it up.”

The protesters left the saloon, and while there was no more talk, Duro Ellison cast a murderous look at Nathan and Fisher.

“Come on,” Fisher said. “There'll be one hell of a poker game goin' on at the Plains Saloon. We got a stake, and with your luck, maybe we can double it.”

“Or lose it,” said Nathan.

Fisher had been right. There were no less than three poker games in progress, with a line of men waiting their turn. Not of a mind to wait, Nathan and Fisher went on to the Eagle Saloon. There they sat in on a game, only to be interrupted an hour later by Sheriff Ward.

“Stone,” said the lawman, “you'd better come along. Your dog's near dead.”

Without a word, Nathan slid back his chair, and King Fisher started to follow.

“No, King,” Nathan said.

Sheriff Ward led Nathan to a big poplar tree near the area where the barbecue pits were. Beneath the tree lay Cotton Blossom, and at a distance, people had gathered. Nathan saw none of them. Cotton Blossom's lean body was wracked with convulsions.

“Some varmint poisoned him,” Sheriff Ward said. “Coyote poison, I reckon.”

Nathan said nothing, kneeling beside the stricken dog, and Sheriff Ward left them there. His eyes glazed with pain and the knowledge of approaching death, Cotton Blossom tried to drag himself to Nathan, but his hindquarters seemed paralyzed. Nathan knelt and placed his hand on the dog's head and Cotton Blossom closed his eyes. They didn't open again. Tears blinded Nathan's eyes, and when he finally got to his feet, a sympathetic woman he didn't know brought him a blanket. He nodded his thanks and spread it over Cotton Blossom. He then turned and walked toward the crowd that had gathered, and when he spoke, his voice was cold and his pale blue eyes colder.

“I want the two-legged snake that poisoned my dog.”

Nobody said anything. Duro Ellison was there, and he met Nathan's hard eyes with no expression in his own. Finally Sheriff Ward spoke.

“I reckon nobody seen what happened. There's nothin' we can do.”

“There's something
I
can do,” Nathan said. “I aim to find out who's responsible, and that skunk—male or female—is going to die. Slow. Now somebody fed him poisoned meat, and some of you saw it. Who was the last to feed him?”

“Mister,” shouted a boy of maybe twelve, “it was ...”

His mother clapped a hand over his mouth, but he broke away. “It was him!”

The boy had pointed directly at Duro Ellison, and those near him scrambled to get as far from him as they could. Sheriff Ward had his Colt drawn, and it was he who spoke.

“Stone, I won't have a shooting over a dog. Yours or anybody else's.”

“Sheriff,” said Nathan. “I'm going to kill him with my bare hands. There'll be no gunplay unless somebody tries to stop me. Now all of you back off.”

Duro Ellison outweighed Nathan by thirty pounds or more, none of it fat. Looking at Nathan, he licked his lips in anticipation. King fisher had joined the crowd and had taken a position near Duro's brothers, Paschal and Haynes They were armed, but had said or done nothing. Obviously they believed Duro could defend himself. Of the same mind as King Fisher, Sheriff Ward moved nearer to Paschal and Haynes. He had known the Ellisons all his life, and nobody fought one without fighting all three.

“Fists, then,” Sheriff Ward said. “I'll plug the first hombre that pulls a gun.”

It seemed directed as much to Paschal and Haynes Ellison as anybody else, and when the fight began, Duro Ellison started it. He rushed Nathan, who stepped aside and tripped him. He went belly-down, and somebody laughed. Duro got to his hands and knees and then to his feet, wiping dirt from his ruddy face on the sleeve of his shirt. He went after Nathan again, seeking a bear hug. This time, Nathan didn't step aside. Bringing a right from his knees, he missed Duro's chin and smashed his nose. While Duro didn't go down, he tottered, shaking his head like a wounded bull. Wary, he came after Nathan again, but changed his tactic. Nathan again stepped aside, but anticipating the move, Duro threw himself sideways, and the two of them went down in a tangle, Duro on top.

“Bust his head, Duro,” Paschal shouted.

It was exactly what Duro had in mind. He was astraddle of Nathan, slamming his head against the hard ground. Nathan could feel the gravel cutting into the back of his head, and Duro's big hands around his throat were cutting off his wind. But Duro Ellison had one thing working against him. Nathan Stone was in a killing mood, and his fury lent him the strength he needed. With a mighty heave, he humped Ellison off, reversing their positions. Gritting his teeth, Nathan slammed Duro's head unmercifully against the ground, all the while choking the life out of him. Nathan Stone saw nothing but the lean, tortured body of Cotton Blossom during the final minutes of his life.

“That's enough, Stone! That's enough!”