The Killing Season by RALPH COMPTON Page A

Texas. The Taylors had retaliated and there had been another shooting fray in June. John Wesley Hardin had been involved in shootings in July. Once in Cuero, Texas, and again in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Nathan looked in vain for some mention of the Horrells, but found nothing. He did find a death notice for Captain Sage Jennings. The old ranger had been buried at Fort Worth with military honors. There was no mention of any survivors. How many an old frontiersman had died thus, alone, not even a next-of-kin to mourn his passing? Angrily, Nathan threw the paper aside, those few words roaming the shadows of his mind like harbingers of doom. Would that not be his fate, his life’s blood leaking into the sand of a lonely arroyo or into the dusty street of some lawless western town? Nathan returned to his room because the saloons wouldn’t open for another two hours. Cotton Blossom sat watching him reprovingly. The dog hated the saloons, but it rankled him, being left with the horses at the livery. Making the rounds of the saloons, Nathan saved Brennan’s until last. He would pause there only long enough to speak to Ben Thompson before riding out. Reaching the saloon, he found Thompson about to leave.
    â€œI got some business with a gambler name of John Sterling,” Ben said grimly. “I lined up some side bets with him, which we was goin’ to split, but the bastard won a hatful of cash and sneaked out without divvying.”
    Thompson stomped out of the saloon, Nathan following. In a nearby saloon, Thompson found Sterling, drinking with Happy Jack Morco, a local policeman.
    â€œYou damn tinhorn thief,” Thompson shouted, “you owe me money.”
    â€œI owe you nothing,” Sterling responded.
    Sterling swung at Thompson and Ben returned as good as he got. But that was when Happy Jack Morco bought in, drawing his Colt and holding it on Ben.
    â€œThat’s enough, Thompson,” said Morco.
    â€œIt looked like an even scrap to me,” Nathan said, his cocked Colt on Morco.
    â€œWho the hell are you?” Morco snarled.
    â€œA hombre that don’t like seein’ an unarmed man prodded with a gun,” said Nathan. “Put it away.”
    â€œI’m the law,” Morco insisted.
    â€œI don’t care a damn who you are,” Nathan said. “You don’t need the gun. Ben’s leaving. Aren’t you, Ben?”
    â€œYeah,” said Thompson, realizing he was up against the law.
    â€œYou’re in violation of the town’s gun ordinance,” Morco said, glaring at Nathan.
    â€œI have an understanding with the sheriff,” said Nathan. “Put your gun away and back off. Get moving, Ben.”
    Morco holstered his gun and Nathan began backing toward the door. Not until he was outside on the boardwalk did he relax.
    â€œDamn that Morco,” Thompson said angrily, “that was between me and Sterling.”
    â€œYou were about to play right into Morco’s hands,” said Nathan, just as angrily. “He wanted you to go after him. Then he could have jailed you for assaulting a lawman or shot you dead.”
    Nathan thought it was over, but by the time he and Thompson reached Joe Brennan’s saloon, Morco and Sterling burst in, Sterling shouting.
    â€œGet your guns, you damn Texas sonsabitches, and fight.”
    Ben Thompson was out the door on the run. Nathan remained where he was. He had no intention of being sucked into a gunfight with a lawman, even if the badgetoter was as biased and unfair as Morco appeared to be. On his way back, Ben was joined by Billy, his younger brother. Billy was staggering drunk and he had a shotgun. Billy stumbled, pulling one of the triggers, and a load of buckshot narrowly missed two bystanders.
    â€œDamn it, Billy,” Ben shouted, “let me have the scattergun.”
    Billy was too drunk to resist, and Ben took the weapon away from him, passing it to a bystander.
    â€œNow, you damn