The Killing Season (51 page)

“The bastard shot me!” Ellis bawled, stumbling to his feet.

“The next time I shoot you,” said Nathan, “you won't be getting up. Mamie, you get up, get back to your wagon, and stay there. Cora, Winnie, and Eula, go with her. Now.”

The four hastened to obey, Mamie grabbing the rag that had been her dress, trying to cover herself. The five Dismukes stared sullenly at Nathan, Ellis holding a bandanna to his bleeding ear.

“Damn you,” said Tally, “we ain't payin' you fer this kind of treatment.”

“You're paying me to get you to Fort Griffin,” Nathan said, “and while you're with me, you travel under my rules, not yours. The next one of you I find hunkered over one of those women, I'll kill you. This is all the warning you're going to get.”

“Hell,” said Cyrus, “they ain't nothin' but whores, an' they drunk our whiskey.”

“I'm not interested in your opinions,” Nathan said, “and it's all I can do to stand you varmints cold sober. I think we'll get along better without the whiskey.”

Three quart bottles stood on the wagon's lowered tailgate. Nathan drew his Colt, and with a roar that sounded like a single shot, shattered every bottle.

“Damn you,” said Tally. “Damn you. Give us back our money. We ain't goin' nowhere with you.”

“Oh, but you are,” Nathan said. “I agreed to see you safely to Fort Griffin, and by God, I keep my promises. If I have to, I'll hogtie the whole damn lot of you, chunk you in the wagon, and drive it myself.”

“It's aways, yet,” Ellis snarled, “an' you got to sleep sometime. We'll git you.”

“I'm a light sleeper,” said Nathan, “and when you come after me, wear your burying clothes, because you'll be needing them.”

With that, he backed out of the circle of light cast by the dying fire and returned to his blankets. Empty was there, and he was thankful for the faithful dog's presence. There was no way they could approach him without a warning from Empty. He removed his gun belt, but kept one of the Colts in his hand.

 

The second day out of Dodge, they crossed the Cimarron River, spending the night at the very edge of Indian Territory's panhandle. Another day would see them in north Texas. Three more days, Nathan thought, and they would reach Mobeetie, where he would be rid of the four women. That would solve half his problem, for the Kilgores had avoided him. Leaving Mobeetie, he estimated he would be maybe a hundred and fifty miles north of Fort Griffin. Two more weeks of Kilgore silence and Dismukes hate.

Mobeetie had begun with a trading post catering to buffalo hunters, but the buffalo were gone. All that had saved Mobeetie from total obscurity was the establishment of Fort Elliott, one-half mile south of Sweetwater Creek and about a mile from Mobeetie.
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“I reckon this is Mobeetie,” Nathan said. “Mamie, Cora, Winnie, and Eula, this is as far as you go.”

Mobeetie consisted of a trading post, a saloon, and three slab-sided shanties. Of all the buildings, the saloon was the most impressive, and it was there that the four women reined up their teams.

“The rest of you are about a hundred and fifty miles north of Fort Griffin. We'll be staying the night at Fort Elliott, a mile or so from here.”

Fort Elliott was a new outpost, and seemed to justify the determination of the women who had relocated to Mobeetie. The buildings were long, rambling structures, built in a rectangle, in the center of which was the parade ground. Some buildings were frame and some were adobe. Offices were at the front, with enlisted men's quarters on one side and officers' quarters on the other. Dining rooms and kitchens adjoined at the back, and behind the post, along the creek, were tepees of Indians who were part of the outpost's personnel. While there was no stockade, there was a sentry on duty before the fort's offices. Nathan rode ahead of the wagons and reined up.

“I'm Nathan Stone,” he said, “guiding some folks south to Fort Griffin. We aim to stay the night somewhere along the creek. I reckon I'll say howdy to your post commander if he'll see me.”

“Go on in to the orderly room and talk to Sergeant Wills,” said the soldier.

Sergeant Wills greeted Nathan, heard his request, and knocked on the door of the post commander. He entered and returned almost immediately.

“Captain Selman will see you,” the sergeant said.

Nathan entered the office and the captain stepped around the desk to take his hand. Briefly Nathan told him of the eventual plan to establish a twice-a-week stage run between Dodge City and Fort Griffin.

“God knows, we'll welcome it,” Selman said. “As things now stand, the best we can expect is a once-a-month supply train from Fort Dodge. When do the stages begin?”

“I don't know,” said Nathan, “but probably sometime between now and spring. Right now, I'm working with the railroad, filling in the gap by guiding people from Dodge City into Texas. I just left four women at the saloon in Mobeetie.”

“Thanks,” Selman said wryly. “Given a choice, I'd consider swapping that saloon for Quanah Parker and the Comanches.”

“I reckon,” said Nathan. “Add women to the whiskey and gambling, and you have all the necessary elements to send a man straight to hell.”

“Or to the guard house,” Selman said. “We're at full strength, with close to five hundred men, and on any given Monday morning, there's maybe twenty percent of them in the stockade, charged with drunk and disorderly conduct.”

“I can see where you'd likely stand a better chance with the Indians,” said Nathan. “I just wanted to tell you why we're here, and to get permission to spend the night along the creek.”

“Permission granted,” Selman said. “You and your emigrants are welcome to take your meals at the enlisted men's mess this evening and in the morning.”

“That's generous of you, Captain,” said Nathan. “I accept, and I'll mention it to the others.”

Nathan mounted and rode back to the wagons, where he was greeted in stony silence.

“We'll take the wagons over yonder beyond those buildings at the far side of the post, and make our camp along the creek. Captain Selman has invited us to take supper tonight and breakfast in the morning with the enlisted men. I aim to be there, and I expect all of you to be on your best behavior. If there's trouble involving any of you, I'll have the captain lock you in the stockade and leave you there until you moss over.”

“We ain't eatin' with no blue bellies,” said Gabe. “We're goin' back to Mobeetie, to the saloon. That is, unless you're of a mind to try an' stop us.”

“I won't stop you,” Nathan said, “but I am going to warn you. Don't get involved in anything so deep you can't get out. If you aim to rear up on your hind legs like a man, be prepared to take whatever comes with the territory.”

The five of them glared at him defiantly, saying nothing. The Reverend and the Mrs. Kilgore kept their silence, regarding Nathan with as much distaste as the Dismukes clan. Nathan rode on to the creek, beyond the post. There he dismounted, unsaddled, and after the grulla had time to roll, he rubbed the animal down. From the sack he carried behind his saddle, he fed the horse a ration of grain and turned it loose to graze. Stretching out, head on his saddle, he rested. The Kilgores had followed, and made their camp well beyond his. Nathan watched approvingly as Kilgore unharnessed his team, allowed the mules to roll, and then rubbed them down. On the frontier, a man who failed to tend his horse or mule was a fool. The Dismukes didn't show, and Nathan decided they had made good their bid to visit the saloon in Mobeetie. He fully expected the lot of them to be roaring drunk when he saw them again. Nathan dozed until the bugler blew mess call. Empty followed him to the enlisted men's mess hall, lagging behind. Nathan waited until the soldiers had all been served before approaching one of the cooks on the serving line.

“Pardner,” said Nathan, “I'm guiding some wagons to Fort Griffin. Captain Selman was kind enough to invite me to eat with you gents tonight and in the morning. This is my dog. His name's Empty, and he purely lives up to it. Will you feed him, too?”

“If he can eat what Washington sends us, he's welcome,” the cook replied. He quickly won Empty's confidence with a tin plate of meat scraps.

Despite the military rations, Nathan enjoyed the meal. The soldiers were friendly, and he saw nothing wrong with telling them of the proposed stage run from Dodge City south to Fort Griffin. He spent a pleasant hour there, before going back to his place beside the creek, where his horse grazed. Several hundred yards away, cook fires were going before the Indian tepees. The Kilgores had already prepared their supper, and the fire had died down to coals. Suddenly there was a clatter of hooves, and astride one of the mules, Cyrus Dismukes rode in. Blood dripped from his nose and mouth, his shirt had been torn off, and his upper body was a mass of bleeding cuts. He fell off the mule, gasping, and it was a moment before he could speak.

“Them soldiers ... jumped us. They ... done kilt Lon, an' ... they're beatin' hell out'n ... the others ...”

Despite his vow not to become involved, Nathan couldn't afford to ignore the fight, since it involved the soldiers. By now, he knew the Dismukes well enough to doubt that such a brawl had engulfed them through no fault of their own. Such uncivilized conduct by the Dismukes might sour the military on other emigrants, making them unwelcome at the forts, and Nathan Stone along with them. Quickly he saddled the grulla and set out for the saloon in Mobeetie. He arrived in time to see Tally Dismukes emerge head-first through a window in a shower of glass. From inside there came the sound of bottles smashing, and a woman screamed. Nathan hit the ground running, and when he entered the saloon, a bottle shattered inches from his head, showering him with glass. Lon Dismukes lay on his back in a pool of blood, his throat slashed. The two remaining Dismukes were behind an upended table, while a dozen soldiers were advancing, some of them with knives in their hands.

“That's enough,” Nathan shouted. He drew his Colt and fired twice into the ceiling.

“Step aside,” said a voice behind Nathan.

Six armed soldiers entered the saloon. Quickly they disarmed their knife-wielding companions and backed them up against the wall. One of the military policemen turned on Nathan, pointing with the muzzle of his rifle toward the bloody Dismukes.

“Mister, do you know those men?”

“I'm afraid I do,” Nathan said. “They're on their way to Fort Griffin, and we stopped here for the night. I have no idea how this started. I came to break it up, because just this evening I met with Captain Selman, and I want no trouble with the military.”

Before it went any further, a barkeep came forward. Pointing to one of the soldiers, he spoke.

“He cut the man on the floor after the hombre come after him with a broken bottle.”

“You Dismukes heard the charge,” said Nathan. “What do you have to say?”

“He cut Lon without no cause,” Tally bawled. He pushed his way back into the saloon, limping, bleeding from numerous cuts.

“That's a damn lie,” some of the soldiers shouted.

“They're right,” the barkeep said. “The dead one wanted one of the women, but she was with one of the soldiers. They fought over her, and he lost.”

“Will that satisfy you soldiers,” Nathan asked, “if we call the killing justified?”

“Hell, no, we ain't callin' it justified,” Tally Dismukes shouted. “We ain't leavin' here till we git the bastard that killed Lon.”

“If that's the way you want it,” said Nathan. “I'm not involved in this. I'll let these men from the post put you in the stockade and the post commander can decide what to do with you. I aim to tell him that this entire affair appears to have been your fault, and I'm washing my hands of the lot of you.”

One of the soldiers had Tally covered with a rifle, while two others hustled Ellis and Gabe to their feet.

“Damn it,” Tally cried, “we're civilians. You can't lock us up.”

“Wrong, mister,” said one of the soldiers. “There's no law here except martial law, and that's us. Move!”

“Soldier,” said the barkeep, “there's another of the varmints. He run off.”

“He's there beside the creek, where they all should have been,” Nathan said.

“Stone, you Judas bastard, we'll git you fer this,” Tally shouted.

The three Dismukes were marched back to Fort Elliott, leaving the wagon where it stood. Nathan unharnessed the remaining three mules and led them back to the creek to join the one Cyrus had ridden. He was hunkered on the creek bank, washing the blood from his face and upper body. He stood up as Nathan approached.

“Lon started the fight in which he was killed,” Nathan said. “I tried to get the lot of you out of it by calling things even, but your daddy wouldn't have it. So all of you will be locked in the stockade until the post commander decides what to do with you.”

“No,” Cyrus cried, “don't let them keep us here.”

“Your daddy made that decision,” said Nathan.

Two of the soldiers came, and despite all his protests, Cyrus was taken to join the rest of the Dismukes. Less than an hour later, one of the soldiers came for Nathan.

“Captain Selman wants to talk to you in his office.”

Nathan entered the post commander's office and found the captain behind his desk, his face grim.

“Stone, I realize this isn't your doing, but I'm going to ask your help in resolving it. Like I told you, I have trouble enough keeping the men who are garrisoned here from killing one another, without civilian help from elsewhere. I'm going to turn this bunch loose in the morning on two conditions. One, I want them out of here at first light, and if they return, they're subject to being shot. Two, I have prepared a letter to the post commander at Fort Griffin, which you are to deliver. He is being warned of this incident here, and I am suggesting that these men—the Dismukes—be barred from the post in general, and the sutler's store in particular. God forbid that they should get their hands on any more whiskey. Does my decision meet with your approval?”