Read Online The Dawn of Fury by RALPH COMPTON - Free Book Online Page A

Nathan said. “You’re covered. Rein up.”
    He added emphasis to his words, cocking the Henry. “Now,” said Nathan, “wheel your horses around to face me, and keep your hands away from your guns.”
    The three turned to face him, their hands shoulder high.
    â€œI reckon,” Nathan said grimly, “the three of you have some good reason for following me.”
    â€œThis is free range,” said the man Nathan remembered from the saloon. “We can ride where we damn please, and we don’t owe you nothin’. Besides, we wasn’t trailin’ you.”
    â€œI don’t believe you,” Nathan said. “Using a thumb and finger, lift those guns and drop them. Then dismount.”
    Slowly they lowered their hands to the butts of their pistols, but the third man—the one farthest from Nathan—made a fatal mistake. He drew. Even as his finger tightened on the trigger of the Colt, a slug from Nathan’s Henry ripped into his belly, tossing him over the rump of his horse to the ground. The remaining riders carefully lifted their pistols and dropped them. Then they dismounted.
    â€œNow,” said Nathan, “the two of you start walking. Back the way you came.”
    â€œDamn you,” one of the men snarled, “it’s a thirty-mile walk, an’ we got no food or water.”
    â€œThen I’ll just shoot the pair of you,” Nathan said, “and solve all your problems.” He cocked the Henry.
    Without another word they lit out down the back trail in a shambling run. The only one of the trio who hadn’t spoken paused, and looking back, made a final plea.
    â€œAin’t you white enough to at least let us keep our guns? They’s killer Injuns in these parts.”
    â€œThen you skunks should feel right at home among ’em,” said Nathan. The Henry roared again, the slug kicking dust just inches from the man’s boots. The pair stumbled on. Nathan gathered the two discarded weapons and the Colt from the hand of the dead man. All the weapons he placed in the saddlebags of one of the horses. Gathering the reins, he led the three horses up the rise to where his own mount and packhorse waited. He had another two hours of daylight. He would ride another twenty miles before making camp. In the morning he would dispose of the trio’s weapons and turn their horses loose.

Red River. February 28, 1866.
    Nathan rode shy of the little village of Durant, Indian Territory, and crossed the Red River into north Texas. While he knew little about the state, he believed he was far enough west that he could ride due south and reach Dallas or Fort Worth. By now he was certain the Federals had taken control of the state government. A mounted, armed stranger would be immediately suspect. Even more so one who led a packhorse. With the military in control, he dared not let it be known he was on a manhunt, riding a vengeance trail. If he rode through towns where soldiers were garrisoned, he would undoubtedly be questioned, forced to reveal his reason for being in Texas. On the other hand, if he avoided the towns and the soldiers, there was little likelihood he would ever find the killers he was seeking. One thing never changed, whoever had control of the reins of government. There would be saloons, thimblerig men, and slick-dealing gamblers.
    â€œCotton Blossom,” Nathan said, “first big town we come to, I reckon I’ll mosey through some of the saloons. I can slick deal when I have to. If we find the tinhorns at work in the saloons, then I reckon old Nathan Stone can become a gambler. At least in the eyes of the Federals.”
    It was a questionable profession at best, but more than one man made his living riding from town to town, spending his life hunched over a poker table in one saloon after another. Nathan still had most of the stake his father had left him, and all the gold he had taken from the outlaws and renegades he