The Dawn of Fury by RALPH COMPTON Page B

to escape the bank, but he was well aware that his action had foiled a bank robbery. Mounting the black horse, he rode west at a fast gallop, Cotton Blossom loping along beside him. A clatter of hoof-beats told him he was being pursued. There hadn’t been enough time for a posse, so it had to be the outlaws. He looked back and there were six of them, the lead rider coming hard. They were already within pistol range, but a posse would be coming. They were going to ride him down. Nathan drew his Colt but thought better of it. Any gunfire would aid a posse that would quickly gun down Nathan Stone as one of the fleeing outlaws. The lead rider was gaining, and Nathan knew what was coming. He kicked free of his stirrups, and when the other man left his saddle, the two of them were flung to the ground in an ignominious tangle of arms and legs. Nathan fought free, rolled, and came up with his Colt. But so had his antagonist. It was a standoff, and they faced one another grimly.
    â€œGo ahead,” said Nathan, “but I’ll take you with me.” The rest of the outlaws had reined up. “Jesse,” Frank shouted, “leave it be. There’s a posse coming. Mount up and let’s ride.”
    â€œI been hit,” Bob Younger cried, “and I’m bleedin’ like a stuck hog.”
    â€œHell, no,” snarled Jesse James, “I ain’t leavin’ it be. This varmint got us the blame for a robbery and we ain’t got a dollar to show for it.”
    â€œWell, this ain’t no time to shoot him,” Cole Younger said, “with a posse on our tail. Bob’s hurt. Besides, since when has it bothered you what you was blamed for?”
    â€œSince the damn Pinkertons started raisin’ the price on my head,” said Jesse. “Just like they’ll be raisin’ it on yours.”
    â€œDingus,” Frank said, “that posse will be mounted by now. A shot will bring them on the run. Now, damn it, you mount up and ride, or the rest of us will leave you standin’ here.”
    Reluctantly, Jesse James holstered the Colt. He turned cold blue eyes on Nathan Stone and the look in them bordered on madness. When he spoke, his voice was almost inaudible, an evil hiss.
    â€œYou damn spoiler, if our trails ever cross again, I’ll kill you, whatever it costs me. That ain’t a threat, but a promise, and Jesse James keeps his promises.”
    The six of them mounted and rode away at a fast gallop to the southwest. Nathan mounted and rode due west, toward the Kansas line, where he had hidden the packhorse. His one hope was that the posse wouldn’t forsake the trail of the six outlaws to pursue him. While he had incurred the wrath of Jesse James, he decided it had been worth it. Unknowingly, the outlaws had drawn attention away from him, and the killing of Bart Hankins during the aborted robbery might become a mystery that would never be solved. Hankins, however, had known why he died.
    Taking no chances, Nathan rode at a slow gallop, concealing his trail as best he could. He could hardly blame Jesse James for his fury. The outlaws had taken the blame while Nathan had taken his vengeance. But there was yet a debt unpaid. If Nathan Stone and Jesse James met again, one of them would die.
    Indian Territory, from what Nathan had heard, was a desolate area where renegades on the dodge holed up. He doubted the James and Younger gangs would ride any farther into the territory than was necessary to lose the posse. Being from Missouri, they never strayed far from it. Nathan reined up and dismounted, resting his horse. There was no evidence of riders on his back trail.
    â€œCotton Blossom,” said Nathan to the panting dog, “we have a decision to make. Hankins is dead, but where in tarnation are the rest of the varmints? Where do we go from here?”
    While Nathan might be taken for an owlhoot in his own right, he had no fear of being recognized as a result of his brief