Hard Ride to Wichita

by Ralph Compton

  “There’s more to it than that.”

  “All right,” Carlo replied. “I paid this man more than I owed to Stormy. We get that money back, you take her share back, I take the rest, and we go our separate ways. Sound good?”

  Luke looked over to Red, got a noncommittal shrug, and said, “Sounds fine to me.”

  When they reached the corner, it was as if they’d stepped out of a dreary tunnel and back into the aboveground world. There were people to be seen instead of just rats and dogs. The buildings weren’t as close to falling over, and most of the windows in sight weren’t busted.

  Carlo had just found his stride when he realized he was walking all by himself. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “If you think I’m doing all this walking alone, you’re mistaken.”

  “Jordan Bickle,” Red repeated. “Why does that name sound familiar?”

  Luke was thinking as well but arrived at his conclusion in no time at all. “He’s the owner of the Eastern Trading Company.”

  Red snapped his fingers. “That’s where I heard it! That fella watching our horses mentioned it!”

  “The Eastern Trading Company? Are you sure?” Carlo asked.

  “That’s what we were told,” Luke said. “We’ll start there.”

  Carlo blinked a few times, glanced around at the rest of the street, and then shrugged. “Let’s go and see if that information you got was accurate or not.”

  “Why would an old stable hand lie about something like that?” Red asked.

  “If I need to answer that question,” Carlo replied, “then you need all the help you can get.”

  Chapter 14

  The Eastern Trading Company wasn’t hard to find. Luke only needed to ask more than one person about it because the first had been too drunk to point in the right direction. The second local only had to wave toward a nearby corner. By the time the three men had walked halfway there, they could see the large building situated behind piles of lumber and other supplies that were too large to be moved inside. Three wagons were parked in the street directly in front of the place where half a dozen burly men worked to unload various other items packed in crates, sacks, and bundles wrapped in paper and twine.

  One man who wasn’t unloading a wagon or carrying something into the store was being very noisy about overseeing the process. He had a moon-shaped face that was reddened from the labored breaths he was spewing and a plump body wrapped in sweat-stained clothes. “You there,” he called out to one of the workers. “Bring that over here and set it down.”

  The man at the receiving end of that order was half the size of the moon-faced man and carried a stack of no fewer than five small crates. He was more than happy to set them down near the front of the store so he could stretch his back and wipe his brow.

  “Is this the shipment from San Francisco?” the moon-faced man asked.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Bickle.”

  “Get a pry bar.”

  The worker went to a wagon and scrounged for the tool. When he tried handing it over, Bickle looked at him as if he’d sprouted horns.

  “Well, go on and pry it open!” Bickle snapped. “You don’t think I’m just going to sign for something like this without checking it first?”

  Surely the worker had some things in mind he wanted to say, but he kept them to himself as he levered the top crate open.

  The crate was about twice as long as it was wide. Despite its only being around a foot deep, he had to remove a few more slender pieces of wood that were used to keep the contents from shifting during shipment. When he was able to reach a little deeper, Bickle smiled and removed a slender brass candlestick from the crate as if he were handling a newborn child.

  “Look here,” Bickle said. “This is some of the finest craftsmanship this side of the Atlantic Ocean.”

  When the worker started reaching out toward the crate to see a sample up close, his hand was promptly smacked aside.

  “I said to look here,” Bickle said. “Look! Not touch. Now go get a hammer so you can seal this up again.”

  “Seal it up? It just needs to go inside that door.”

  “And I don’t want anything to happen to my merchandise before it gets to where it needs to be.”

  The worker glanced at the door, which was less than three paces away, and then back to the stack of small crates. Instead of arguing with the man who was already flushed with anger because someone had almost touched a candlestick, he shrugged and went back to the wagon to retrieve a hammer.

  Bickle put the candlestick back in its crate and carefully set the thin wooden support slat on top of it before replacing the cover. He took a step back and grew impatient with the worker’s progress in a matter of seconds. The longer he stood by and watched the other workers move back and forth, the more anxious he became. When one of the workers actually nudged the stack of crates as he walked by, Bickle grabbed the open one on top and clutched it to his chest so he could walk it into the store himself.

  When he turned toward the doors that were propped open, he got a look straight down Westminster Street. That was a busy part of town on most days, but he made it a habit to examine every face that came along. After all, the entire town and the world beyond were filled with potential customers. When he saw one of those faces, however, his first thought wasn’t what he could sell to the person attached to it.

  “Hey there, Jordan!” Carlo said as he waved from the street. “I see you’ve got some roots in town after all.”

  Bickle wanted to run. His feet were more than happy to comply and his arms started to ditch the load they were carrying before his greed kicked in to overpower it all. He fumbled with the crate and frantically searched for a direction he could go that was unobstructed. The store’s front entrance was filled with workers on their way to pick up another load. The street behind him was blocked by wagons. Directly across from the store was a row of smaller shops and a bank. A farmer driving a cart down the street was moving slowly enough to pose the least of all threats. At least, that’s what Bickle came up with before running in front of the cart while clutching his precious merchandise.

  “Look where you’re goin’, you bleedin’ fool!” the farmer in the cart shouted as he pulled back on his reins.

  After running a scant couple of yards, Bickle was already sweating profusely. He veered to one side before hopping onto the boardwalk and shoving past a young couple and a little girl dressed in a bright yellow skirt. “Mr. Bickle?” the young woman said after narrowly escaping being knocked over by the large man. “Is something wrong?”

  He twisted around to find Carlo stepping onto the boardwalk about twenty yards behind him. “That man . . . he . . .” Before he could come up with anything else to say, panic swept through him and he bolted in the opposite direction.

  Carlo strode down the boardwalk but wasn’t about to start running just yet. Judging by the grin on his face, he was enjoying the spectacle of watching Bickle stumble and sputter like a broken windup toy.

  The couple escorting the girl in the yellow dress weren’t the only ones who’d taken notice of the frantic shopkeeper. A few of the other folks walking nearby tried to question Bickle, only to get a few hastily spat syllables in response. Some of the curious locals looked around for the source of Bickle’s frenzy, and when they couldn’t see a maniac with a gun or a pack of wild dogs, most of them shrugged and went about their business. One had a keen enough eye to pick out what had caused Bickle’s distress and stepped in to assert himself.

  “Just what do you think you’re doing?” the man with the little girl in yellow asked.

  Having been stopped by the young fellow, Carlo started moving by without a word and was blocked once again.

  The man stepped in Carlo’s path and asked, “Is there a problem?”

  “This doesn’t concern you, mister,” Carlo said. To emphasize his point, he reached down
to pat the holster at his side.

  The sight of the gun so close to Carlo’s hand was enough to take the wind from the local man’s sails. Since Bickle had already hurried out of sight, the man stepped back to gather up his family and glare sternly at Carlo.

  “Good day to you, now,” Carlo said as he gave the family a polite nod and followed in Bickle’s wake.

  • • •

  The shopkeeper had ducked into one of his competitor’s establishments, a small place stuffed to the rafters with finery of all kinds. Bickle was immediately recognized by the old woman behind the counter, who stood up from her stool behind the cash register to greet him.

  “I thought I told you not to come in here bad-mouthing my wares!” the old woman yapped.

  “Shut up, May!” Bickle said. “I’m just passing through.”

  “What’s that in your hands? Did you take that from one of my shelves?”

  Bickle kept moving toward the back door while shouting, “It’s mine!”

  “Put it down!” she hollered. The old woman was still shaking her cane at the rear of her store when the bell above her front door jangled again.

  Luke stepped inside and took a quick look around. “Did a man just come through here carrying a box?” he asked. “Thick around the middle. The man, not the box.”

  Hearing that, she turned around to set her eyes on Luke. “You’re after Jordan Bickle?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “He went out that way,” she said while pointing to the back door with her cane. “When you get him, bring back the box he stole from me. There’ll be a reward in it for you.”

  Luke tipped his hat and hurried through the store. “I’ll do that, ma’am. Thank you.”

  When he got outside, Luke couldn’t see where Bickle had gone. Before picking what seemed to be the likeliest direction the other man might have chosen, he stood still and listened for a second. In that short stretch of time, he heard a few clumsy footsteps scraping against the dirt, followed by a wheezing voice and the thunk of something hitting the ground. Smiling since those noises came from the direction he would have chosen anyway, Luke ran to find the portly shop owner stooping down to pick up a candlestick from the box he’d dropped.

  “No!” Bickle sputtered. “Nononononoo!” He grabbed the candlestick, cocked it back as if he meant to throw it, but shoved it back into the box and kept running.

  The back end of the row of shops was a crooked collection of small porches, outhouses, and sheds. Even the buildings themselves were irregularly shaped with some jutting out several feet past their neighbors and others tucked in so far that they hardly looked like anything at all. Compared to the side facing the street, which was flush with the boardwalk, the back end looked as if it had been cobbled together from spare parts.

  Now that he’d cleared the end of the building next to the old woman’s place, Luke could see most of the row that ended at a wide alleyway. Bickle was huddled against another short building and hidden from sight by anyone who emerged from the old woman’s store. If he hadn’t been so fidgety, Bickle might have been able to stay put and let Luke pass him by. Instead he raced for the alley and Luke had no trouble following him.

  Somewhere along the way, Bickle stepped in a rut and turned his ankle too far in one direction. His entire body jerked to one side, causing the box of candlesticks to rattle noisily. Sheer desperation and panic kept him moving as breath churned in and out of him like steam through a piston. When Luke saw Red emerge from the alley ahead of the shop owner, he slowed to a stop.

  Bickle saw Red as well and must have been completely overcome by fear because he finally parted with one of his candlesticks by throwing it at Red. His aim was dead-on because the piece of merchandise sailed straight for Red’s face.

  Reflexively, Red threw up both arms to cover his head. Although he blocked most of the impact, a corner of the candlestick struck through to scrape against his cheek. “Ow!” he hollered.

  Blocked in on two sides with a building on another, Bickle rummaged in the crate to fish out another candlestick. “Don’t come any closer!” he warned as he raised his makeshift weapon.

  “You don’t even know who we are,” Luke said.

  “I know who sent you!”

  “We aren’t here to hurt you.”

  “Speak for yourself!” Red said. “You ain’t the one that got hit by a damn pipe or whatever that was!”

  Luke held out both hands to show they were empty. “You never gave us a chance to explain ourselves. I gather you’re Jordan Bickle?”

  “You . . . you know who I am!”

  “Just take it easy,” Luke said. He made an effort to fight back the impulse to charge at the man he’d been chasing and hoped Red would keep his temper long enough to do the same. When Luke took a step forward, even though it was slow and easy, Bickle reacted as though he were facing a tribe of wild Apaches.

  Lobbing a candlestick at Luke, Bickle started running in the only direction that wasn’t blocked. That took him into a wide lot filled with the skeletal remains of at least half a dozen wagons and rusty carts. The ground was uneven and scarred, which meant Bickle had a difficult time taking one or two steps without stumbling. Every move brought a yelp of pain, but he kept on running.

  Luke ran after the fleeing store owner until he felt a hand slap down onto his shoulder. Carlo’s grip was just strong enough to pull him back. His other arm was already raised so he could take aim with the pistol in his hand. After sending a single shot through the air, Carlo lowered his gun and walked forward in a leisurely stroll.

  Bickle let out a surprised shout, turned to look at the source of the gunshot, and promptly tripped over a wheel rim that was partially buried in the dirt. He hit the ground on both knees, dropping the crate in his hands and sending the remaining candlesticks rolling in several different directions.

  “Sorry about all of this,” Carlo said.

  Scrambling to collect his prized items, Bickle shot back with, “No, you’re not!”

  Striding forward while allowing his gun arm to hang at his side, Carlo replied, “You’re right. I could have watched you waddle around like a fat rooster with its head cut off all day long.”

  “Joke all you want, Procci. You can’t just fire at a man without answering for it.”

  “Who will I answer to? You? The law?” Now that he was standing less than two paces away from him, Carlo looked down at the store owner as if he were doing so from the top of a mountain. “You wouldn’t be foolish enough to lie to the law, now, would you?”

  Clutching some of the candlesticks close to his chest, Bickle said, “I won’t have to lie.”

  “You don’t have to say anything at all,” Red said as he approached with his Smith & Wesson in hand. The spot on his face where he’d been hit was red, and blood trickled from a small cut in the middle of it. “You try to make any trouble for us and it’ll be the last thing you ever do.”

  “Shut up, kid,” Carlo barked.

  Luke knew that Red’s instinct would be to do anything but remain quiet, so he stepped in before any mistakes were made. Holding out a hand, he met his friend’s angry gaze and gave Red a look that told him to back down. Reluctantly Red complied.

  “What do you want?” Although Bickle was trying to sound calm when he asked the question, he did a terrible job. He tried to cover the fact that his hands were shaking by keeping them busy placing the candlesticks back in the crate he’d been carrying.

  “I just want to have a word with you,” Carlo said.

  “Is that why you brought a couple of gunmen along?”

  Without even knowing it, Luke straightened a bit when he heard that.

  “If you think these boys are gunmen,” Carlo said, “then you’ve led a real sheltered life.”

  “Then who are they?” Bickle asked. “And why are they chasing me . . . while car
rying guns?”

  “They’re chasing you because you ran away, you fool!” Carlo said. “You don’t need to concern yourself with them. I’m the one talking.”

  Forming his mouth into a tight line, Bickle put some fire into his eyes as he defiantly said, “Fine. You want to talk? Say whatever you want to say. Just be quick about it. I’ve got a business to run.” Once again, he did a terrible acting job.

  Carlo took another step forward and then hunkered down so he was closer to Bickle’s level. “You do have a business to run, don’t you? That’s something you didn’t mention when we first met.”

  “We were meeting in regards to a different matter,” Bickle replied. “My other affairs weren’t important.”

  “See, now, that’s where I disagree. You lied to me. You told me that you were in a different line of work altogether.”

  Bickle shrugged. “That’s not necessarily a lie. A man can be in several different lines of work.”

  “What’s any of this got to do with—” Red started to ask before he was cut short by a backhanded swat on the arm from his friend.

  “I wanna hear this,” Luke whispered. “Just keep watch for anyone trying to barge in on us.”

  “You don’t tell me what to do,” Red snarled.

  “We’re both keeping watch. Let’s just make sure we don’t let anyone sneak up on us.”

  Grumbling to himself, Red stepped outside Luke’s reach and turned so he could watch the alley. Luke faced the stores in the other direction while also angling himself to watch Carlo and Bickle from the corner of his eye.

  “I said not to worry about them,” Carlo said in a tone that cut through the air like a knife. “Don’t make me say it again.”

  Bickle moved the crate to one side as if he’d only just realized it wasn’t his biggest concern at the moment. “I didn’t tell you about my trading company,” he said. “I didn’t tell any of those men about it. I don’t need those kinds of men knowing about something like that.”