The Killing Season (58 page)

“But not Harley,” said Vivian. “His wounds must have been terrible, but he wouldn't talk about them. A few days after he came home, I slipped away and found him bathing in the creek. His legs, from the knees down, were no more than skin stretched over the bone. There were scars all over him, with a large one on his back extending down to his left side.”

“Saber wound,” said Nathan. “God, I didn't have any wounds, compared to his.”

“I'm so excited that you actually knew Harley,” she said. “It makes me feel closer to him, just being with you.”

“We should get back to the Dodge House,” said Nathan. “We'll need to turn in early so we can get an early start in the morning.”

“I'm ashamed of myself, being such a burden,” she said. “I told you I could sleep on the floor in your room....”

“Enjoy the bed while you can, because we'll be sleeping on the ground, probably from Hays to the Dakotas.”

 

Empty growled once, just loud enough for Nathan to hear, and he was wide awake. His gun belt hung on the head of the bed, and quietly he drew one of the Colts. There was a soft knock on the door.

“Who is it?” Nathan asked.

“Vivian.”

He got up, not lighting the lamp, for he wore only his socks. Opening the door just enough for her to enter, he locked it behind her.

“I'm cold,” she said, “and I don't want to spend the night alone.”

He said nothing, and he could hear the whisper of cloth as the dress slid to the floor. She came to him, trembling, and he held her tight. Their lips met once, twice, three times, and when he turned back to the bed, she didn't hesitate ...

When Nathan awoke, the sun was streaming in through the window, and Empty sat by the door.

“My God,” Nathan said, “it must be noon.”

“We still didn't sleep much,” said Vivian. “It took a while for me to get warm.”

“It did, for a fact,” Nathan said.

“I don't care how long it took,” she replied, “because it was the first time for me.”

“But you said ...”

“My first time to do it because I wanted to,” she said. “I'll never sell myself again, if I starve.”

“Are you warm enough now?” he asked.

“Not really,” she said. “Are you going to stir up the fire again?”

“I might as well. We'll still reach Hays before dark.”

Vivian leaned forward, backward, and then from one side to the other. When they finally reached Hays—a distance of not quite fifty miles—the girl all but fell off the bay.

“Damn it,” Nathan said, “you told me you could ride.”

“I can ... could,” she said, “but it's been years. When Harley went to war, he took our only saddle horse. The Yankees took our mules.”

“I'll get us a room for the night,” said Nathan, “and then I'll rub you down with sulfur salve. At least you'll be able to sit down to eat, and by tomorrow you'll be able to ride again.”

Nathan stretched her out, belly-down, across the bed. He then rubbed sulfur salve into all her saddle sores, while she groaned. But after being out of the saddle for a while, the salve soothed her sores enough so that she could sit down and enjoy supper. When it was time to turn in for the night, Nathan again applied sulfur salve.

“I'm not going to be good company tonight,” she said.

“I'm not expecting you to be,” said Nathan. “I've never seen so many saddle sores at one time, in the same place. Most folks get used to it, after a day or two, but before we ride out of here, I'll get two more tins of sulfur salve.”

“I've never had anybody fuss over me like this,” she said. “I was twenty-four before I was with men, and I can't imagine any of them caring enough to rub salve into my sore behind.”

“They might have if you had been riddled with saddle sores,” said Nathan, “because you wouldn't have been able to lie on your back.”

She stiffened, and it took a moment for Nathan to realize what he had implied.

“I'm sorry, Vivian. I shouldn't have said that.”

“Why not? It's true. A whore makes her living on her back.”

“Damn it,” Nathan shouted, “you said you were putting all that behind you. If I'm not thinking of you in that light, why must you think of yourself that way?”

“I don't know,” she sobbed. “You've been decent to me since the day I met you, and I suppose I ... I just don't feel deserving of it.”

“Then you need to rid yourself of that feeling before you face your brother,” Nathan said, “unless you're prepared to tell him all you've told me.”

“Oh, God,” she cried, “I could never do that. Harley has always been so fiercely and unwaveringly proud; if he didn't kill me, he'd disown me.”

“Then Harley has some growing up to do,” said Nathan. “My little sister was raped and murdered by renegades when she was just sixteen, while I was with the Confederacy. If she had managed to stay alive, I wouldn't care what she had done, she would still be my sister.”

“When we find Harley—if we find him—I hope you'll stay with us for a while. He's in need of a friend, unless things have changed since I last saw him.”

“I reckon I'll be around for a spell,” Nathan said. “I haven't seen Bill Hickok in a long time. There was an unfortunate incident in 1871, when he shot and killed his own deputy, and as far as I know, he hasn't worn a lawman's star since. Bill's a hard drinker, and I get the feeling he may be nearing the end of the trail.”

 

Despite the sulfur salve, Vivian was stiff and sore when it was time to mount up and leave Hays. Nathan helped her to mount, and she groaned as she settled into the saddle. He stopped often, presumably to rest the horses, but mostly to allow the girl to dismount and walk out some of her misery.

“God,” she said, as they approached a swift-running creek, “if it wasn't February, I'd strip and jump in there.”

“The wind's out of the northwest,” said Nathan, “and by dark, it'll be downright cold. The next town will be North Platte, Nebraska, if my memory serves me right. It's maybe a hundred and seventy miles north. There we'll have us a bed for the night, and a chance to replenish our grub. If you do a lot of riding on the frontier, you have to develop a taste for beans, bacon, and coffee. There won't be much else, unless you take along a packhorse.”

“Until my backside gets used to this saddle,” she said, “everything else takes second place, including food.”

Despite Vivian's difficulties, Nathan estimated that their first day out of Hays, they had covered seventy miles. They made their camp near a spring, on the lee side of a hill, out of reach of the chill night wind. They remained dressed except for their hats and boots, combining their blankets for extra warmth.

North Platte was strictly a railroad town, owning its very existence and its survival to the Union Pacific. A westbound was departing as they rode into town.

“We'll find a livery and have the horses seen to,” Nathan said. “No larger than North Platte is, we can walk to the hotel and the cafes.”

“I'll be glad to walk,” said Vivian, “if my legs still work. Let's find the hotel first. I may just forget all about eating.”

But after resting, she changed her mind, as her misery had begun to subside. Reaching a cafe, Nathan arranged to have Empty fed. Being strangers in town, Nathan and Vivian drew some attention, most of it unwelcome. A man got up from a nearby table and approached. He was gray haired and wore town clothes, including a tie and boiled shirt.

“I'm Bradford Scott,” he said, “editor of the
North Platte Journal,
and I never forget a face. Haven't I met you before?”

“No,” said Nathan shortly.

“Ah,” Scott said triumphantly, “now I remember. An etching in the
Kansas City Liberty-Tribune.
You're Nathan Stone, the gunfighter.”

“I'm Nathan Stone,” said Nathan coldly, “and I don't claim any titles.”

“Ah, but you should,” Scott said. “You're a legend on the frontier. Tell me something I can print. Anything.”

“All newspapermen worry the hell out of folks who only want to be left alone,” said Nathan. “Now, vamoose, damn it.”

The rest of the patrons in the cafe had heard, and they all laughed. Except for one rider who had a Colt thonged to his right hip. He finished his coffee and left the cafe, but lingered outside, near the corner of the building. He waited until Nathan and Vivian left the cafe, and then issued his challenge.

“Nathan Stone, I'm callin' you out.”

“Not until the lady returns to the cafe,” said Nathan.

“No,” Vivian cried, “no.”

“Back to the cafe,” said Nathan, his voice cold and brittle. “Now.”

She obeyed, standing behind the door so that she could see through the glass pane.

Nathan's eyes never left those of his adversary, for they would warn him when the deadly moment arrived. Nathan judged him to be maybe nineteen. Maybe not even that.

“You're a fool, boy.”

“I'm not a boy, damn you,” the kid snarled. “I aim to beat you.”

“When you're ready, then,” Nathan said.

Nathan waited until the last possible second to draw, and his hand didn't move until the kid had cleared leather. Nathan fired once, and the kid stumbled backward. His Colt roared, the slug kicking up dust at his feet. For an agonized second, he seemed suspended, on his young face a look of surprise. Then he folded like an empty sack, his pistol still clutched in his hand. Swiftly Nathan ejected the spent shell from his Colt, reloading the empty chamber. In an instant, Vivian was by his side, weeping. Everybody, including the cook, spilled out of the cafe.

“Is there a sheriff in town?” Nathan asked.

“Otis Babcock,” somebody said. “Here he comes now.”

Babcock looked at the dead man and then at Nathan. Nathan said nothing, waiting.

“Who the hell started this?” Babcock demanded.

“The kid,” they all responded in a single voice. “He drew first.”

“Self-defense, then,” said Babcock, turning on Nathan.

“Yes,” Nathan said. “He pushed it.”

“I reckon I can't contest that, but I want you out of here, just as quick as you're able to saddle up and ride. You're bad medicine.”

“I'm also minding my own business and I have a room at the hotel,” said Nathan. “I've broken no law, and I'll be here for the night. Now, if you have another hombre aiming to gain himself a reputation at my expense, you can talk some sense into him or measure him for a pine box.”

With that, he took Vivian's arm and hustled her toward the hotel. Empty brought up the rear, knowing there had been trouble, not trusting these strangers. Most of those who had witnessed the gunfight were relating the details to those who had missed it. Scott, the newspaper editor, was in his glory. Nathan and Vivian reached the hotel, and when they were safely in their room, Nathan locked the door.

“My God,” Vivian cried, “what did he have against you? What had you done to him?”

“Nothing,” said Nathan. “He wanted to prove his gun was faster than mine.”

“But he was only a boy.”

“A boy with a gun,” Nathan said.

“That wasn't the first time, was it?”

“No,” said Nathan, “and it won't be the last. Not until I come up against the hombre whose gun is faster than mine.”

“You're living in the very shadow of death.”

“I reckon,” he said, “but it's better than the alternative.”

The wind had risen, and sleet rattled against the windowpanes. Nathan hadn't lighted the lamp, and he went to the window and looked out. Dirty gray clouds had moved in and the blackness of the night attested to the lack of moon and stars.

“There'll be snow before morning, Vivian. Unwelcome as I am in this town, I don't aim to ride out in a blizzard. Winter can be hell on the high plains, with the temperature dropping to forty below zero. We'll just have to make the best of it. Let's begin by getting to bed before it turns colder.”

 

The storm struck with a vengeance during the night, and by morning, the snow and the cold had an icy grip on the high plains. The wind howled mournfully.

“God, it's cold in here,” said Vivian. “My ears are like ice.”

“Imagine what it's like outside,” Nathan said.