Guns on the Prairie Read online

  A common method was to bump into someone, hard, and then, while saying how sorry you were, you patted and smoothed their clothes while relieving them of their purse.

  His own favorite was to carry a jug of water around, and when he spotted a well-dressed mark, he’d intentionally walk into them just as he started to take a drink from the jug, spilling water all over.

  Old Tom and some others were friendly enough, but the streets were a dangerous place. He wasn’t the only one scrabbling to stay alive. The city was packed with immigrants, many of them barely getting by. And then there were those without anywhere else to live, and no family, besides. Street urchins, they were called. Like wolves, many roamed in packs, and like wolves, they were fiercely protective of the streets they roamed.

  Twice a pack had caught him unawares.

  The first time, it was late at night, and he was in a part of the city he’d never explored before. He was searching for a place to sleep when, without warning, he was jumped. Over a dozen sprang out of the darkness, but only a few of the older ones came at him with clubs. That was what saved him. If all of them had attacked at once, he’d have been overwhelmed. As it was, he’d barely escaped. Twisting and dodging, he’d taken blows to the shoulder, chest and arms, and then he was through them and ran with all the speed he could muster. Howling and yelling, the pack gave chase, but in the dark he was able to slip away.

  The next time was more serious.

  He’d been in the city a couple of years. He knew it like the back of his hand, and grew overconfident. He’d decided to spend the night in a seldom-used shed at the stockyards. He had slept there before, and wasn’t expecting trouble.

  Little did he know that a new gang had claimed the stockyards as their territory, and as he stepped up to the shack, he was suddenly ringed by boys bristling with knives and clubs.

  Their leader waved a knife and demanded money, “or else.”

  Every cent he had at the time, he’d come by the hard way. He decided he would be damned if he’d hand it over. He’d pretended to give in, nodding and saying, “Sure. Whatever you want.” He’d made as if to reach for his poke—and kicked the leader where it would hurt the most. Unfortunately, the leader had oysters made of lead and came at him in earnest, intent on relieving him of his life.

  He’d tried to flee and been shoved back by some of those who ringed him. He would have died, then and there, but the leader toyed with him like a cat with a mouse. As it was, he was cut four times. Not deeply, not to where the cuts were life-threatening, but they hurt and they bled, and he was sure he was a goner.

  In desperation he’d leaped at the older boy and gouged a fingernail into the boy’s eye. The gang leader shrieked and clutched at his face.

  The next was hazy. Somehow, he wrenched on the leader’s arm and got hold of the bloody blade. He attacked the circle, swinging wildly, voicing savage cries. To his amazement, they gave way, and he’d fled into the night.

  That was it for Chicago. He’d laid up for a week. By then he was healed enough to jump on a freight train headed west. He didn’t care where he ended up. One city was much like any other, or so he’d reckoned.

  Kansas City proved him wrong. Compared to the hustle and bustle of Chicago, it was downright lackadaisical. The pace of life was a lot slower, the people a lot friendlier. That the population wasn’t much over thirty thousand might have had something to do with it.

  He continued to ply his pickpocketing craft and took up gambling, in a small way. He made enough that instead of living on the street, he rented a room at a boardinghouse. He dressed better, and ate better, and might have stayed there forever if it hadn’t been for the Finch episode.

  Oliver Wendall Finch was a leading citizen. A banker, he had made his first million by the time he was forty, or so the story went. Now past sixty, he indulged his one vice—bucking the tiger—every chance he could. Finch happened to frequent the same saloon—the Frontier House—that the rider did. Why, he never could figure out. With all the money Finch had, it made more sense for him to spend his time at one of the luxurious gambling palaces.

  As curious as everyone else, he’d joined the onlookers watching Finch play one night, and noticed that Finch was a heavy cigar smoker. A lot of men were. There was nothing unusual in that. But it gave him an idea.

  At any hour of the day or night, a person could find a hawker selling virtually anything under the sun. Cigars included. Hastening out, he’d scoured nearby streets, and as fate would have it, found an elderly man selling cigars. He offered to buy every one, plus the tray the old man carried them in. The old man was reluctant. He had to offer twice what the cigars would have fetched—on average, two for fifteen cents—and throw in another couple of dollars for the tray.

  Then he posted himself outside the Frontier House, and waited. The moment Oliver Wendall Finch came through the batwings, he began bawling, “Cigars for sale! Get your cigars here! Finest quality!”

  The truth was, he couldn’t tell a good cigar from a bad one if his life had depended on it. He was taking a gamble.

  Finch stepped to a carriage and was about to climb on when he heard the cry and glanced over.

  Hoping against hope, he hollered, “Cigars! Cigars! From five cents to twenty-five!”

  Finch came over. “Twenty-five?” he said. “Let me see your selection, young man. What brands do you carry?”

  He hadn’t bothered to find out. The important thing was to lure Finch close. And now, as Finch reached toward the tray, he pretended to stumble and upended it onto Finch’s legs and shoes.

  “My word!” the great man had exclaimed. “Let me help you.”

  Together, they bent and collected cigars. They were so close that Finch didn’t think anything of it when they bumped shoulders. So close, that his hand darted in and under Finch’s coat and out again without Finch being the wiser. They finished picking the cigars up. Finch examined a few, produced a coin from a pants pocket, and bought a couple.

  He would never forget the feeling he had, watching the great man clatter off in the carriage, the great man’s wallet in his own jacket. The snatch had been flawless. Quickly setting the tray down, he hurried to his room at the boardinghouse to collect his belongings.

  He didn’t look in the wallet until he was ready to leave. Seated on the bed, every nerve tingling, he opened it and counted the thick sheaf of bills. Six hundred and forty-three dollars. For him, a fortune.

  Giddy with delight, rolling back and forth, he’d laughed until tears trickled from his eyes.

  A knock on his door brought his glee to an end. His landlady said that a constable was there to see him.

  He went out the window. His room was on the second floor. He dropped his bag, hung from the sill, and dropped. Fear lent wings to his feet, and the next morning, he bought a horse and took the road to Atchison, Kansas. He had a hankering to see Denver, but to get there he’d have to cross nearly six hundred miles of hostile-infested countryside. By his lonesome, he invited an early grave. So he sold the horse and bought a ticket on the Butterfield Overland Despatch. The man who sold him his ticket told him that the stage line might be shutting down soon because it couldn’t compete with the railroad.

  That was a shame, because he enjoyed the trip. Relay stations at regular intervals were welcome breaks. The food was tolerable, and he got to see a lot of prairie country.

  The other passengers talked a lot about Indians, but they didn’t see a single hostile the whole way.

  Denver suited him down to his marrow. It used to be known as Denver City until it was picked as the new territorial capital. Thanks in large part to the Pikes Peak gold rush and a silver boom in the high country, Denver became a hub of commerce and travel. It also, he soon discovered, was a hub of corruption.

  Saloons and sporting houses outnumbered churches twenty to one. Card sharps, confidence men, and ladies of ill repute
thrived.

  For a pickpocket, Denver was a feast of opportunity. But it wasn’t enough. He yearned for something more. Something that would reap the kind of money he’d gotten from Oliver Wendall Finch. He’d picked Finch’s pocket, sure, but he’d done it while impersonating a cigar hawker.

  Impersonation. That was where the big money lay. To that end, he came up with a scheme to fleece several of Denver’s elite out of a lot of cash. He thought his brainstorm was brilliant.

  He never expected to be lynched.

  4

  Federal Deputy Marshal Jacob Stone never knew it to fail. Liquor and stupid went hand in hand. He couldn’t count the number of drunks he’d had to confront in his long career. And a lot of them ended as this one was about to end: badly.

  Stone knew that Loudon was going to draw before Loudon did. He could tell by Loudon’s attitude, his tone. Men like Loudon did what little thinking they did with their six-shooters.

  Stone, on the other hand, prided himself on being a thinker. He’d often said that any man who toted tin should use his brain more than his six-gun. Unfortunately, in this instance, he was forced to use both. He drew his Colt even as Loudon raised that revolver from under the blanket, and shot him in the shoulder. At the blast, Loudon was knocked onto his back and his six-gun fell from fingers gone limp.

  Franks sat there in shock.

  “You shouldn’t ought to have tried that,” Stone said.

  Scarlet was spreading down Loudon’s shirt. He stared at the wound as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. “You shot me,” he bleated.

  “You point a gun at a deputy marshal, what do you expect?” Stone descended into the wash, keeping them covered.

  Franks found his voice. “You damned jackass,” he said to his pard. “You’re no gun hand.”

  Seemingly fascinated by his own blood, Loudon replied, “I don’t want to go to prison over raisin’ a little hell.”

  “You won’t,” Stone said. “You’ll go to prison for tryin’ to kill me.” He kicked the revolver out of reach, tossed Franks’s revolver to one side, and stepped back. “See to your friend.”

  “I’m no doc,” Franks said. But he knelt next to Loudon and gingerly probed the hole in Loudon’s shirt. “He’s bleedin’ bad.”

  Stone could see that himself. He could have saved himself some trouble and shot Loudon dead, but that was another thing about him. He never killed unless absolutely necessary. He’d much rather take them in alive. Even if it sometimes meant putting his own life in peril. “See if the slug went clean through.”

  “How do I do that?”

  Stone began to wonder if the pair had a brain between them. “Lift him up and look at his back.”

  “Oh.” Franks slid his hands under Loudon, partly raised his shoulder, and peered under. “Yep. There’s a hole on this side, too.”

  “Good,” Stone said. “Now untie one of the horses and pull out the picket pin you used.”

  “What do you want with a picket pin?” Franks asked in surprise.

  “To clean between my teeth.”

  Franks didn’t hide his confusion. “What are you talkin’ about? Picket pins are too big to use as toothpicks. How can . . .” He stopped. “Oh, you’re pokin’ fun.”

  “Pull out a pin.”

  Clearly puzzled, Franks did as he was told. He had to work at it. The pin was in deep. Finally he held it up. “There. You want me to climb on and ride for help?”

  “Sure,” Stone said. “I’m as dumb as you.” He pointed at their smoldering campfire. “Get that burning again, then stick it in there until it’s red-hot.”

  “The pin?”

  “No. Your head.”

  Muttering, Franks gathered some brush and added it to the tiny flames. Soon a fair fire crackled, but it wouldn’t last long.

  “Get to stickin’,” Stone said.

  Franks thrust the end of the picket pin in the flames. “You like makin’ fun of folks, don’t you?”

  “It keeps me entertained.”

  Loudon had clutched his shoulder and was gritting his teeth. He let out a groan, then said, “It hurts somethin’ awful.”

  “Bein’ shot will do that,” Stone said.

  “You’re a hard man, Deputy,” Loudon said.

  Stone felt no pity. The man had brought it on himself, and was too dumb to appreciate the favor he’d done him. “If I was, you’d be dead.”

  Franks had a bigger concern. “What happens once we stop the bleedin’? What do you aim to do with us?”

  “Take you to Ogallala and lodge you in their jail,” Stone replied. “After that, it’s out of my hands.”

  “I have pretty near fifty dollars in my saddlebags,” Franks said. “I don’t suppose you’d take it and let us go?”

  Stone stared.

  “What?” Franks said.

  “You expect me to take a bribe?”

  “Why not? I hear tell the law does it all the time.”

  “Not this law,” Stone informed him. For forty years, he’d enforced it the best he knew how. Never once had he stepped outside it himself. Yes, he knew of deputies who had, but they were few, and the bad apples were always weeded out. He’d done some of the weeding himself.

  “My pard is right,” Franks said. “You are high and mighty.”

  “Some gents,” Stone said, “shouldn’t be let loose without a keeper.” He motioned. “How hot is that pin?”

  Franks bent down. “It’s not red yet.”

  “I feel dizzy,” Loudon said, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He lay flat and forlornly gazed skyward. “I ain’t ever been shot before. It’s not like I thought it would be. It don’t hurt much. And the smell of my blood is makin’ me queasy.”

  “You’re still breathin’,” Stone pointed out.

  “Barely,” Loudon said, and mewed like a kitten. “I’ve never had a day start worse than this one.”

  “Pitiful,” Stone said.

  “Why are you pickin’ on me? Ain’t it enough that you shot me?” Loudon let out a gasp. “Lordy, I feel weak. I might pass out.”

  “Good,” Stone said.

  “That’s harsh,” Franks said.

  “He’d do us a favor if he did,” Stone said. “We don’t want him thrashin’ around when you stick that pin in him.”

  “When he does what?” Loudon said.

  “We have to stop the bleedin’, and Hebron doesn’t have a sawbones,” Stone enlightened him. “Usin’ a picket pin is a trick I learned in Texas in my younger days.”

  “You’re a Texan?” Franks said.

  “Born and bred. I never intended to end up in Nebraska, but here I am.”

  “A Texican. It figures.”

  “How so?” Stone said.

  “Everybody knows Texans are mean as hell.”

  “It’s not that so much,” Stone said, “as we don’t abide dumb.”

  “There you go again.”

  Stone sighed. They didn’t breed badmen like they used to. In the old days, hard cases were really hard. This pair were muffins compared to some of the outlaws he’d tangled with.

  Franks bent forward again and nearly put his forehead in the fire. Snapping back, he said, “That was close.”

  “Lord help me,” Stone said.

  “What are you on about now?”

  “I can’t wait to reach North Platte.” Stone was eager to be shed of these simpletons.

  Franks took the picket pin from the fire and held it up. “Is this hot enough, the tip a little red?”

  “It will do,” Stone said. “Unbutton your pard’s shirt, and get to it.”

  Franks looked uncertainly at Loudon. “Get to what exactly?”

  “Where are you from?” Stone asked.

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Where?”

 
Franks frowned. “I was born in Ohio, but I don’t see what that has to do with anything. I haven’t been back in pretty near fifteen years.”

  “I know a gent from Ohio,” Stone said. “He can actually think. So it must be you and not the state.”

  “You are damned hilarious.”

  “Open the shirt and stick the pin in the hole. And be quick about it before your friend bleeds to death.”

  Franks blinked and blanched. “Stick it in the hole?”

  “How did you two tree that town? Kittens are more fierce,” Stone said in mild exasperation. “Yes, you stick it in the hole to stop the bleedin’ and cauterize the wound so it won’t become infected. In case you haven’t heard, more people die of wounds than they do from bein’ shot.”

  “I know that,” Franks said. “But still.”

  Stone shrugged. “It’s up to you. He’s your pard. Do you want him to live or not?”

  “I think I hate you,” Franks said.

  “I’ll try not to let that hurt my feelin’s,” Stone said. “Now get to pokin’ or you’ll have to stick the pin in the fire again.”

  “Oh, Lordy,” Franks declared. “What a day.”

  He fumbled at the buttons and carefully peeled the blood-wet shirt back to expose the wound. It was still bleeding but not as profusely. When he picked up the picket pin, Stone stopped him.

  “Stick it in the fire again.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “No. You can stick it in him cold. It won’t seal the wound and won’t stop the bleedin’. But it should help any infection get worse, and with a little luck, you can bury him in a week or so.”

  “You’re the most peculiar lawdog I ever met.” Franks held the pin in the fire again. “Mind if I ask you a question while we wait for this to heat up?”

  Stone had noticed a boulder that suited him as a seat, and he roosted before responding, “So long as it’s not personal.”