Guns on the Prairie Page 5

  Alonzo didn’t find it the least bit humorous. And he’d be damned if he’d let the old buzzard use him as an example. His mind fairly flew as he racked his wits for a way out of his predicament. “This is wrong, Mr. Worthington. Terribly wrong.”

  “You’re a fine one to lecture somebody on rightness and wrongness,” the great worthy responded. “You’re a cheat, and you deserve to be punished.”

  “Don’t you think stringing me up is overdoing it?”

  “Ah. You believe the punishment should fit the crime? That is the current rationale behind jurisprudence in our country, but the League doesn’t subscribe to that namby-pamby notion.”

  “Ah, yourself,” Alonzo said.

  “Keep a civil tone, Mr. Pratt,” Worthington warned. “I understand you must be feeling outraged right about now, which is perfectly normal. But don’t let your temper get the better of your tongue.”

  They were almost to the rear door. The hallway was in deep shadow, and Alonzo couldn’t see the faces of either of the hulks restraining him. He could see their necks, though.

  “You have only yourself to blame for how you will shortly leave this world,” Worthington prattled on. “You chose the life you live. No one forced you to go around duping honest souls out of their hard-earned money.”

  “I never hurt anyone.”

  “That’s not the point,” Worthington said. “The point is the principle of the thing. Without principles, Mr. Pratt, we’re no better than animals. Without principles, civilized society becomes no more than forced civility.”

  Alonzo didn’t know what that meant but he did know something. “You take a lot on yourself, you and your vigilante friends.”

  “And if we don’t deal with lawbreakers, who will? Crime is rampant in Denver, so much so, people clamor for something to be done. Well, the Law and Order League does something. We send misfits like you to your just reward.”

  “I’m a misfit now?”

  “Anyone who breaks the law refuses to fit in. Laws are instituted for a reason, and should be diligently followed.”

  “You’re breaking the law right now.”

  “Grasp at straws all you want. It won’t help you.”

  They reached the door, and the burly underling on the right opened it and led the way through, hauling on Alonzo’s arm. The other pushed. Not hard, but enough that to resist would be futile.

  Alonzo was startled to see a carriage waiting, a driver up on the seat. Once inside, his doom was practically sealed.

  Twilight had fallen and was giving way to the growing dark of night. Stars had blossomed, sparkling like faraway jewels.

  There were two short steps. The man in the lead didn’t bother glancing down. He was looking at the carriage. Thus, he didn’t see Alonzo suddenly thrust out a foot, catching the man about the ankles. With a snort of surprise, the man tripped and fell, and lost his grip on Alonzo’s arm. Quick as lightning, Alonzo spun and punched his other captor in the neck. He didn’t use all his strength. Even now, he refused to kill if he could help it. But he hit the man hard enough that he staggered back, gurgling, and clutched his throat.

  Alonzo bolted. He was out the door and down the steps before either could stop him. The driver yelled something but he didn’t catch what it was. Like a buck fleeing ravening wolves, he raced to a gap between the club and the next building and shot up it toward the street.

  “Stop him!” Ebidiah Worthington bawled. “Don’t let him get away!”

  Alonzo ran for all he was worth, his legs flying. He glanced back as he came to the far end and saw one of the men after him, but well back. Plunging out into the street, he sprinted into the growing night. Curious stares were cast his way. He didn’t care. He didn’t stop. He had to put as much distance as he could between him and his would-be abductors.

  Only when he had put several blocks behind him and there was no sign of pursuit did he slow to a walk to catch his breath. And to ponder. He was in a fix, and he saw only one way out.

  Ebidiah Worthington wasn’t about to give up. The word would go out. The other members of the League would be alerted, and every vigilante in the city would be on the lookout for him.

  Alonzo figured to hide out in his room at the Carlton for a while, and then realized that was the worst mistake he could make. Worthington had had him investigated. The vigilantes must know he was staying there. The Carlton was the first place they’d look.

  There should be time to collect his things, Alonzo reckoned. He would dash in, throw them in his bag, and be gone long before the vigilantes showed up. And then what? He shook his head. He would work that out later. The important thing was to get shed of Denver as quickly as possible.

  It was ten blocks to his hotel. Ten long blocks. He passed scores of pedestrians and those on horseback and a few in wagons. Every glance thrown his way caused his nerves to jangle. He never knew, but one of them might be a vigilante.

  He tried to calm himself, to tell himself it was too soon, they couldn’t possibly be looking for him yet. It did little good.

  The Carlton was lit up, the lobby as bright as ever. Crossing it, he felt terribly exposed. He saw a few faces he recognized but others he didn’t, and each of them was a potential threat.

  The desk clerk looked up and nodded in greeting. “Mr. Grant,” he said.

  Alonzo nodded back. He took the stairs two at a stride. Once in his room, he grabbed his carpetbag from under the bed. His possessions were few: the clothes on his back, a couple of extra shirts, a pair of everyday pants, suspenders, and his toiletries. And his pouch of money, which he’d hidden in the chamber pot he never used. He didn’t own any weapons. Until now, he hadn’t seen the need. That might change.

  Since the clerk might wonder why he was leaving when he was paid up until the end of the week, Alonzo went out the back. The dark alley was empty, and he was about to head down it when a pair of silhouettes appeared at the far end. Hoping they hadn’t seen him, he ducked around a refuse barrel and crouched.

  Footsteps crunched as the pair hurried in his direction.

  Coincidence, Alonzo hoped. Two men using the alley as a shortcut, nothing more, he told himself.

  “Do we go in or stay out?” a gruff voice said.

  “Our orders are to watch the back and make sure he doesn’t get away,” the second man replied.

  “You have your billy club?”

  “Of course.”

  “Use it if you have to. Mr. Worthington is most insistent. He wants this one. He wants him badly.”

  They came to the rear door and stopped.

  Alonzo scarcely breathed. The vigilantes must be incredibly well-organized to have gotten there so soon. He was only yards away, and if they spotted him, from the sound of things they would beat him senseless.

  “What’s this one’s name, anyhow?”

  “They didn’t tell me.”

  “Then how will we know him?”

  “He’s young and he’ll be on the run. He has black hair and blue eyes and is well-built. That’s all I know.”

  They fell silent.

  Alonzo wished they would go in. He couldn’t stay there forever. Other vigilantes might show up, or they might decide to look around. Even worse, the rest of the Law and Order League was probably spreading throughout the city, searching for him. He’d be hard-pressed to get away undetected.

  “I don’t like this waiting around,” one of the men complained.

  “We do as we’re told.”

  “Why not go in and see if he’s in there?”

  “Someone else will attend to that. We’re to cut off his escape.”

  “Then you stay here and I’ll go in. For all we know, he’s already gone and we’re wasting our time.”

  “We were told to plant ourselves and wait.”

  Alonzo risked a peek around the barrel. A short, square
-jawed man was pacing back and forth, the other, tall and sallow, had leaned against the wall with his arms folded. Their clothes were store-bought and plain, not the expensive kind that Worthington wore. Neither appeared as formidable as the pair at the Businessman’s Club. Still, he imagined they were armed.

  The man who was pacing stopped. “I’m going in.”

  “Damn it, Luke. You’ll get us in trouble with the big man.”

  “I didn’t join the League to please him, Campbell,” Luke said. “I did it because I believe in law and order.”

  “Same here,” Campbell said.

  “Then stay here while I go inside and check. If he’s flown the coop, we need to know right away.”

  “I suppose that makes sense,” Campbell begrudgingly said.

  Luke wasted no time going in.

  “Damn him,” Campbell said, straightening. Sliding a hand under his jacket, he moved so he faced the door and could see both ends of the alley. He didn’t pay particular attention to the barrel.

  Firming his grip on his carpetbag, Alonzo waited for his chance. It came when a loud noise out in the street caused Campbell to turn with his back to the barrel. Stepping out, Alonzo said, “Hey.” Campbell jumped and turned, and Alonzo struck him full in the face. Bleating in surprise, Campbell stumbled back, at the same time drawing a Remington pocket pistol from under his jacket. Alonzo hit him again and sent him sprawling against the wall. In order to keep from falling, Campbell thrust out both hands and dropped the pistol.

  In a twinkling, Alonzo snatched it up and pointed it.

  “Don’t!” Campbell cried. He shook his head to clear it while pressing as far back as he could.

  Alonzo didn’t shoot. For one thing, it would bring the other one on the run, and who knew how many more. For another, he wasn’t a killer. He’d never shot anyone in his life and didn’t intend to start. “You leave me be!” he said. “I won’t be hung for stealing a few dollars.”

  “Wait. What?” Campbell said.

  Holding the Remington steady, Alonzo backed away. “Don’t come after me or I’ll shoot,” he warned.

  “Mister, you’d better run like Hades,” Campbell said. “We’ll have thirty men out after you inside the hour.”

  “You do that,” Alonzo blustered, and wheeling on a heel, he raced to the street. A glance over his shoulder showed Campbell darting into the Carlton. He went to move to the middle of the street, the light from a window spilling over him, and the woman he was about to pass recoiled in fright.

  “My word! What are you up to, waving that thing around?”

  Alonzo realized he still held the Remington. “Sorry,” he said, and shoved the pistol into a pants pocket. It was heavier than he thought it might be and dragged at his pants, but it couldn’t be helped. He’d hang on to it. Better to have a revolver and hope he didn’t have to use it, he reasoned, than to not have one should he need it to preserve his life.

  He smiled at the woman to reassure her, and hurried off. He must leave Denver without delay. He recollected that Eastabrook’s Livery and Boarding Stable wasn’t far, and they’d have horses for sale.

  The city’s nightlife was coming alive, and a lot of people were out and about. Some were enjoying the cool night air. Others were bound for the theater or making the rounds of Denver’s saloons and taverns, or perhaps on their way to visit a bordello.

  Normally, Alonzo would hardly pay them any mind. Tonight, every passerby drew his gaze. He saw no flash of recognition, saw nothing to indicate the League was closing in.

  Lanterns hung on pegs glowed in the stable. An elderly man in overalls and a straw hat was shoving horse manure into a wheelbarrow and looked up as Alonzo came over.

  “What can I do for you, sonny?”

  Struggling not to give away the urgency that clawed at his insides, Alonzo said, “I’d like a horse. The best you have.”

  “To rent or to buy?”

  “Buy,” Alonzo said. “And I mean it about the best.”

  “Best how?”

  “I want an animal that can go fast and far.”

  “In a hurry, are you?” the man said, and chuckled. When Alonzo didn’t smile or grin, he set the shovel across the wheelbarrow. “Yes, I can see you are. Come out back. There’s a bay that might suit you. I call him Archibald.”

  “You name the horses you sell?”

  “Why not? We have names, don’t we? Do you want to see him or not?”

  To Alonzo it was silly, but who was he to quibble with the prospect of a noose being thrown around his neck? “I surely do,” he said.

  7

  THE PRESENT

  Four years. That was how long ago Alonzo had escaped from Denver with his hide intact. Since then, he’d wandered where whim took him, into the mountains now and then, out over the plains at other times. On his packhorse were a dozen sets of clothes.

  Outfits that let him impersonate a wide range of people.

  There was his Civil War outfit, which he’d just used to help himself to the farmer’s poke. There was his gambler outfit, his minister’s outfit, his own farmer’s outfit, his cowpoke outfit, and others.

  On this particular morning, encamped along the Platte River, Alonzo sat enjoying his first coffee of the day and listening to the birds sing in the trees. The river flowed peacefully past not a stone’s throw away. It was one of those moments when all was right with the world.

  Alonzo sipped, and smiled. He had over a thousand dollars in his saddlebags. He should take it easy. Go somewhere and just relax for a spell. Make the rounds of the saloons. Maybe visit a house of ill repute, as some called them. Although, truth to tell, he’d always felt uncomfortable doing that. Which was a bit peculiar, he reckoned, in that while fleecing others didn’t bother him one bit, paying for a night with a woman he didn’t know somehow embarrassed him.

  Chuckling at his own silliness, Alonzo pondered which outfit he should change into. He’d been using the soldier outfit for a while, and it was time to switch. After thinking about it and thinking about it he decided to don his lawman’s outfit. It was one of his favorites. He could do pretty much as he pleased and no one ever questioned him, thanks to the real, honest-to-goodness badge he’d come across.

  It had been only a couple of years ago. He was coming down out of the mountains below Leadville when he’d heard shots. He’d lain low a while, until he was sure the shooting had stopped, then warily gone on. When he came to a clearing and spied a body lying on its belly he’d almost gone around. Curious, he’d dismounted and cautiously ventured nearer. Whoever shot the man had appeared to be long gone.

  Alonzo rolled the body over and received a shock. Pinned on the man’s vest was a badge. A six-point tin star that read UNITED STATES DEPUTY MARSHAL. He’d recoiled in shock and almost run to Archibald and got the Hades out of there.

  A couple of bullet holes close to the vest showed how the law officer had met his demise.

  Alonzo had sat and debated what to do. He should report it. But he was many miles from a town or settlement. And whomever he reported it to might insist he bring them back to see the body for themselves. Worse, they might pry into who he was and what he was doing when he found the body. His background couldn’t stand much scrutiny. For all he knew, there were circulars on him.

  He’d finally made up his mind to bury the poor marshal—and to help himself to the marshal’s badge. It was a harmless thing with great possibilities. He’d never impersonated a lawman, and the prospects it offered filled him with excitement.

  The next general store he came to, he’d bought a shirt and pants and a brown broad-brimmed hat along with a matching leather vest to pin the badge to. The first settlement he came to after he’d donned the new outfit, the people there were so happy to see a lawman that they gave him free food and drink, and treated him grand. Later, he’d impersonated a lawman down in Kansas to colle
ct “emigrant taxes” from settlers. There was no such thing, but the settlers didn’t know that and his badge lent him authority.

  Yes, Alonzo now decided, it was time for his lawman outfit. He finished his coffee and set about the “transformation,” as he liked to call it. Stripping out of his army uniform, he folded it and placed it in one of his packs. From another he took his lawman’s duds, but he went for a dip in the river before putting them on. He always tried to bathe at least once a week. And, too, he wanted to try to wash some of the gray dye out of his hair.

  Not much did, so he used his bottle of brown dye to change the color. He had a whole collection of dyes. Anytime he wanted, he could change his hair to blond or red or black or about any color he pleased.

  He shaved his mustache. He never much liked them, and only grew one now and again as part of a disguise.

  Donning the outfit, he jammed on the hat, shrugged into the leather vest, and pinned on the badge. Grinning, he rubbed it a few times, then bent and picked up his gun belt. The only part of the lawman impersonation he didn’t like was having to always wear a six-shooter. Lawmen never went anywhere unarmed.

  Alonzo still had an aversion to guns. He’d still rather rely on his wits than sling lead.

  He had a well-worn gun belt and Colt he’d purchased at a pawn shop years ago, but hadn’t yet fired the thing. His pocket pistol was in one of his packs, and he hardly every took it out.

  Now, patting the Colt on his hip, he examined himself in his hand mirror and liked what he saw. He looked every inch the young lawman.

  His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten breakfast yet. He got his frying pan and some bacon and soon had the strips sizzling in their own fat. He was out of eggs, unfortunately, and aimed to remedy that at the next town he came to.

  He had flour, though, and some sugar, and he was a fair hand at whipping up biscuits. When they were done, he sliced them down the middle, placed pieces of bacon between the halves, and had a feast fit for a king.