Free The Killing Season by RALPH COMPTON Page B

don’t know who you are, mister,” Nathan said aloud, “but I don’t aim to ride across Indian Territory with you on my back trail.”

CHAPTER 4
    Reaching the bottom of the slope, Nathan dismounted and removed his Winchester from the boot. From much experience, Cotton Blossom knew this was gun work and remained with the horses. Nathan crept up the rise, keeping within the cover of underbrush and thickets. When he had a good view of the farthest slope, he bellied down, cocked the Winchester, and waited. The rider was bearded, and while Nathan couldn’t be sure, he felt like he had seen this man in the cafe in Waco.
    â€œThat’s far enough,” Nathan said. “You’re covered.”
    â€œYou don’t own this territory,” said the stranger. “I got as much right here as you.”
    â€œPilgrim,” Nathan replied, “you’ve been on my back trail since I left Fort Worth, and whatever your reason, I don’t reckon it’s in my best interests. Using just your thumb and finger, ease out that Colt and drop it. Then step down from your saddle.”
    The response was what Nathan had expected. The stranger rolled out of his saddle on the offside, drawing his Colt as he went. He fired three times beneath the belly of the horse, but the slugs ripped the air over Nathan’s head. He fired once, and his slug caught the gunman in the chest, slamming him on his back. Nathan was up and running, kneeling beside the dying man.
    â€œWho are you, and why were you trailing me?”
    â€œI ... ain’t ... talkin’.”
    â€œEl Gato,” Nathan said, playing a long shot. “You were with El Gato, one of the two varmints that escaped. You murdered my wife.”
    â€œWe all ... had ... her,” he said. “Ever’ damn one ... of us ...”
    He tried to laugh, but it was choked off. Nathan had been about to smash his face in with the butt of the Winchester, but it was too late. The outlaw was dead. Unsaddling the man’s horse, Nathan set the animal free, leaving the dead man where he lay. The buzzards and coyotes were welcome to him. Returning to his horses, Nathan mounted and rode on. Unbidden, his mind drifted back to that terrible night in Indian Territory when he had found Mary dead after having been violated by El Gato’s outlaws. Nathan had gone after them with a blazing Winchester, killing ten. He had accounted for the eleventh man in Waco, and now he had gunned down the twelfth and last in the wilds of Indian Territory. But there was no elation, no joy, only the empty realization that gunning them down could in no way compensate for all he had lost. Then, from the forgotten past, drifting over the lonely years, came a Bible verse his mother had taught him.
    â€œVengeance is mine,” saith the Lord.
    â€œThat makes sense,” Nathan said aloud. “Kill a man once, and he’s lost to you. Throw the varmint into the fire and let him fry forever, now that means something.”
    He rode on, unsatisfied, but knowing his limitations. He had avenged Mary in the only way he knew how.

Dodge City, Kansas. July 6, 1873
    Arriving in the late afternoon, Nathan found himself looking forward to a bath, town grub, and a clean bed. Checking in at the hotel, he bought copies of the St. Louis Globe-Democrat and the Kansas City Liberty-Tribune. As Nathan left the hotel lobby, the desk clerk studied the register and then looked at the clock. His relief would arrive within the hour. Then he would talk to Sheriff Harrington....
    Following his bath and a change of clothes, Nathan headed for a cafe. Having been there before, the cook recognized Nathan and Cotton Blossom.
    â€œSteak cooked through,” said the cook, “sided with onions, spuds, pie, and hot coffee.”
    â€œThat will do for starters,” Nathan said. “After feedin’ Cotton Blossom and me, you may have to close up and restock. We’ve been on the