The Killing Season by RALPH COMPTON

his throat ...
    Regret to inform you Captain Sage Jennings died two weeks ago.
    â€œI swear before God, Cap,” Nathan gritted through clenched teeth, “I’ll gun down Clint Barkley if I have to follow him to the gates of hell and go in after him....”

CHAPTER 5

Ellsworth, Kansas. August 14, 1873
    Nathan took a room at a boardinghouse, and leaving Cotton Blossom at the livery with the horses, set out to make the rounds of the saloons. He could think of no more likely place to begin his search for Clint Barkley. The third saloon he entered—which was Joe Brennan’s—he found Ben Thompson running a game of monte. Thompson flashed him that twisted grin he reserved for his few friends. Thompson had shed his frock coat, and as far as Nathan could see, the deadly little gambler wasn’t armed. Aware of his obvious “nakedness,” he seemed embarrassed.
    â€œThis is one of the few towns where I’m on good terms with the law,” Thompson said. “Sheriff C.B. Whitney’s a friend of mine. He has a gun ordinance. He’ll be asking for your irons.”
    â€œHe can ask till hell freezes,” said Nathan. “My guns go where I go. I’m looking for a killer name of Clint Barkley. He may also use the name of Bill Bowen.”
    â€œIt’s unlikely he’d linger here, then,” Thompson said. “He wouldn’t be comfortable with the sheriff’s gun ordinance. About all I’ve seen looked to be soldiers and railroad men.”
    Ben’s brother Billy entered the saloon as Nathan was leaving. The younger Thompson either didn’t recognize Nathan or didn’t consider him worthy of recognition, for he didn’t speak. Nathan noted with approval the hotheaded little varmint was unarmed. Long before Nathan had made the rounds of the saloons, he encountered the sheriff. He was an older man, but he still spoke with authority.
    â€œI’m C.B. Whitney, sheriff of Ellsworth. Are you aware there’s a gun ordinance?”
    â€œI am,” Nathan replied. “I’m Nathan Stone. Are you aware there may be men in this town who would like nothing better than catching me unarmed?”
    â€œI’m considering that,” said Whitney. “I’ve been reading about you in the newspapers. I’m not one to meddle in a man’s business, but under the circumstances, I need to know how long you aim to be here.”
    â€œProbably not more than another day,” Nathan said. “I’m looking for a killer. His name is Clint Barkley, and he sometimes calls himself Bill Bowen. He back-shot a friend of mine in Texas. He carries a tied-down Colt, dresses like a cowboy, and might hire on with some ranch. He’s an aggressive, short-tempered little varmint, remindin’ you of an overgrown banty rooster.”
    Whitney laughed. “I know the type, and I reckon him and me would have had words if he’d been through here. Keep your irons. I’m trusting you not to use them unless it’s shoot or be shot.”
    Nathan nodded. It was a fair offer, and the old sheriff was leaving himself open for criticism by making an exception to the town ordinance. After a fruitless day in the saloons, Nathan stopped by the livery for Cotton Blossom and they went to supper. There being little else to do, Nathan turned in for the night. Ellsworth was looking less and less like the kind of place Clint Barkley would hole up.

Ellsworth, Kansas. August 15, 1873
    When Nathan and Cotton Blossom went to breakfast, Nathan stopped at the mercantile and bought three newspapers. One of them was a weekly, from Dodge City. Nathan went through the Kansas City and St. Louis papers first, finding little to interest him. But the Dodge City weekly had news from Texas, and although it was weeks’ old, Nathan read it all with interest. The Sutton-Taylor feud was raging in Texas. William E. Sutton had shot up a party of Taylors in April, near Cuero,