The Dangerous Land

by Ralph Compton

  “You want something to drink?” the server asked.

  “Water,” Paul told her through a mouthful of stew.

  “Be right back.”

  Once the edge had been taken off his hunger, Paul slowed down to savor each bite. The thick chunks of beef were tender from soaking up the broth and juices of the stew. The carrots were soft and the potatoes were hearty. After he’d stirred up some pepper that had settled at the bottom of the bowl, the entire dish became that much better. When the girl came back to set his water down, Paul’s mind drifted back toward the business that had brought him there.

  “Do you know many of the men who come through here?” he asked her.

  She shrugged. “Some.”

  “What about someone named Leandro Prescott?”

  After thinking for a moment, she shrugged again. “Doesn’t sound familiar. Why don’t you ask him?” she said while pointing toward the bar. “Everyone who comes along has to talk to him sooner or later.”

  “Much obliged.”

  “I’ll leave you to your meal. Should I bring another bowl?”

  As much as Paul wanted to take her up on the offer, he declined. There was still a job to do and he could no longer use starvation as an excuse for stepping away from it. He finished his stew, all the way down to the last savory drop of gravy at the bottom of the bowl, stuffed the final crumb of biscuit into his mouth, and approached the bar. Placing his hands flat on the freshly cleaned surface, he waited to catch the eye of the man working there before saying, “I’m looking for someone.”

  The bartender was a few years Paul’s senior with a round, friendly face. Stepping up to him while drying a shot glass with a white towel, he said, “Most folks who come here are looking for something. Care to narrow the field down a bit?”

  “His name’s Leandro Prescott. He’s a salesman who I believe comes through Leadville every so often.”

  Still working the towel until his glass sparkled, the barkeep eventually shook his head. “Sounds familiar, but a whole lot of folks come through this town and just about every last one of them walks down Harrison to visit these saloons. If you’d like to give me a little time here so I can ask around a bit, I should be able to find something out in regards to your friend.”

  “I can come back later, if that would help,” Paul offered.

  “You can come back tonight if you like. I should have heard something by then.”

  Paul sighed. He’d been in business long enough to know when someone was fishing for business of their own. If the bartender wanted some of what was in Paul’s pockets, he was welcome to it. He removed a bit of his money and placed it on the bar. “Will this help?”

  “I’ll take it, but it won’t change the fact that I need to ask around. If you stayed here and kept busy for a spell, I can do my checking now. If you want to come back later, I’ll check in later. I’m a busy man, mister.”

  “Do your checking now,” Paul said. “I’ll do a bit of gambling. Any games you can recommend?”

  Without hesitation, the barkeep pointed to one end of the room. “Janie over there deals a fine game of faro. She’s easy on the eyes as well.”

  And Paul figured she was also very talented at convincing men to drop more of their cash on a game with odds that were notoriously stacked in the house’s favor. But if the barkeep was only willing to go the extra mile for a paying customer, Paul couldn’t fault him for it. He took his money back, tucked it deep into his pocket, and walked over to the faro table with the attractive dealer.

  She had long dark hair that flowed down to cover a good portion of what was exposed by her off-the-shoulder dress. Ample curves, creamy skin, and a seductive smile made Paul want to agree to just about anything she had to say before she’d even said it. Naturally the first words out of her mouth were “Care to place a bet?”

  “I believe I would, although I’m fairly new to this game.”

  She smiled even wider while explaining the rules to faro to him in a soft, purring voice. Every time she referenced the table, she shifted her shoulders and extended an arm just a bit more than what was necessary to move her body in a slowly writhing display. By the time she was finished, she’d drawn two more players to the previously empty table. Paul knew more than enough about faro to play the game. He figured that listening to the rules and enjoying the show that accompanied the explanation were a good way to bide his time without losing a cent. Eventually, however, he had to place a bet. Once he saw the barkeep walking around to talk to a few other men while tossing the occasional nod in his direction, Paul was more than willing to gamble.

  Faro was a simple game that flowed fairly quickly. Despite knowing the odds all too well, Paul couldn’t help getting wrapped up in the process of bucking the tiger. He even won a hand or two, much to the admiration of the other players. Then again, those same men could very well have been appreciative of a fly landing on a wall just as long as their beautiful hostess saw fit to applaud. After a few more hands, the dealer leaned forward to have a word with Paul.

  “Looks like you’re wanted over at the bar,” she whispered.

  Paul looked over his shoulder to see the barkeep waving him over. “Much obliged,” he said while setting a fraction of his winnings on the table. “That’s for you.”

  “Come back soon,” she told him while pocketing the gratuity.

  As soon as Paul stood up, another man hurried to take his spot since it was noticeably closer to the dealer than any of the available seats at either end of the table.

  Approaching the bar, Paul asked, “What did you find out?”

  “See them fellows over there playing poker?” the barkeep asked while discreetly pointing to one of many round tables nearby.

  “Sure,” Paul replied without truly knowing which men the barkeep was referring to.

  “They know your friend,” the barkeep said. “Salesman. Comes through here once or twice a month. Not a lot of hair up top.”

  “That’s him. Any idea where I can find him?”

  The barkeep winced, set down the glass he’d been working on, and picked up another. “Bad news for you in that regard. He’s gone.”

  “Gone . . . as in out of town?”

  “Gone . . . as in dead.”

  Chapter 21

  A few minutes later, Paul stepped out of the Board of Trade and went to his horse. His eyes were glassy and he reached out to touch his horse’s side as if he needed support to keep from falling over. Red Feather strode over to meet him from where he’d been standing near the Tabor Opera House.

  “Did you have something to drink while you were in there?” the Comanche asked.

  “Yes,” Paul replied. “I needed it.”

  “Maybe you should have some cold water. Or stick your head into some. That always helps me.”

  “What? No. I’m not drunk. I’m just . . .”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Prescott,” Paul replied. “The man we came here for. The bartender says he’s dead.”

  Red Feather’s only reaction to the news was the subtle upward movement of one eyebrow. “How did he die?”

  “He was taken away by some armed men yesterday. They’re real rough types who meant to kill him.”

  “And what you needed was in the salesman’s wagon?”

  Paul nodded. “Yeah. I guess so.”

  “Then we are in luck. I found his wagon.” Quickly, Red Feather added, “I found a wagon that looks like it could be his. It is not far from here. Come and tell me if it is the right one.”

  Grateful to put the Board of Trade even farther behind him, Paul followed Red Feather down a narrow side street marked as St. Louis Avenue. Walking with buildings on either side, Paul felt almost as anxious as when he’d been trudging through the dense woods on the Comanche’s shortcut.

  “This man was a friend of yours?” Red F
eather asked.

  “Kind of. More of an acquaintance, really. We met every now and then to conduct business. Still . . . it’s something of a blow to hear that he’s gone.”

  Paul wasn’t certain how much longer he walked before stopping. Thinking about Prescott’s death made his head swim. When such grim notions eventually led him back to what might become of his children, he felt the ground tilt a few degrees to one side beneath his boots. The strong, steadying grip of a hand on his shoulder snapped him right back to the present.

  “You had too much to drink,” Red Feather said.

  “No. I’m fine.”

  “Then look. Is that the wagon?”

  Blinking away his last bit of queasiness, Paul spotted a lot that was about fifty yards ahead of them. The wagon parked there would have been impossible to miss, even through the daze that had nearly overtaken him. “That does look like the wagon,” Paul said.

  “We’ll go to get a closer look.”

  “Someone is probably watching it.”

  “Distract them,” Red Feather said. “If the owner is truly dead, then nobody should care too much if we see what’s inside before the vultures come to strip away whatever they can carry.”

  Although it was a distasteful comparison, Paul knew the Comanche had made a good point. “All right, then,” he said. “You keep watch and I’ll get a look inside the wagon. I think I remember what the bottle looked like that he used to clean my daughter’s wounds.”

  Both of them strode forward and Red Feather came to a stop several paces before reaching the wagon. Paul continued on, hopped the low fence surrounding the lot, and then took a quick walk around the wagon to see if any of the small doors on either side had been left open.

  No such luck.

  The door at the back of the wagon was sealed tighter than the others and didn’t even rattle when Paul took hold of the handle and pulled.

  There were no windows on the wagon, nor any other openings that he could see. Closing his eyes, he thought back to the times when he’d seen Prescott standing near the wagon to display whatever it was he’d been selling to the public or trading to him. Try as he might, Paul couldn’t remember there being any other way into the wagon that he hadn’t already checked. He was standing there, facing the rear door into the wagon, when he decided to go for broke. As a merchant, he’d quickly developed a seething hatred for thieves. As a father, and a desperate one at that, he was prepared to cross that line and several others beyond it if it meant seeing his children well again.

  Paul took a step back, placed his hand on the grip of his holstered Schofield, and set his sights on the handle of the narrow door in front of him.

  “What do you think you’re doin’ there?” a man shouted from the wide, squat building closest to the lot. He wore dark trousers held up by wide suspenders lying against the rumpled front of a white shirt that was yellowed beneath both arms. A bushy mustache covered his upper lip, and a mop of stringy dark hair fell to an even perimeter all the way around his head in the shape of an overturned bowl. “This here is private property,” he said. “Tell me what you’re doing!”

  “Nothing,” Paul said without taking his eyes from the wagon. “Just keep walking.”

  “If you mean to force your way into that wagon, you’d best think again, mister.”

  Paul turned toward St. Louis Avenue and saw Red Feather stepping into view. The Comanche silently plucked a dagger from one of the sheaths hanging from his belt. If push came to shove, Paul knew the dagger could be flicked through the air to find a spot just about anywhere within his target’s anatomy.

  As Paul tried to think of a threat that would be nasty enough to convince the other man to find somewhere else to be, he suddenly noticed the scattergun clutched in that man’s hands. “The man who owns this wagon . . . is a friend of mine,” was the best he could come up with.

  “What friend?” the other man asked. “That dog lurking about right over there?”

  Paul was ready to come to Red Feather’s defense by scolding the guard for suspecting another man solely on the color of his skin or the look of his clothes. It would have been a show since the Comanche was preparing to throw a knife into that same guard, but it would have at least been a righteous show. When he turned to get a look down the narrow street as if he had no idea what the guard was talking about, he saw two men instead of just one. Red Feather had found a shadow to provide some bit of cover while Hank walked straight toward the lot, head held high.

  “Hello again, Randy!” Hank called out.

  The man with the bad haircut and shotgun guarding the lot must have been Randy, because he replied right away. “I already told you to get your sorry hide out of my sight unless you can prove you’re supposed to be here!”

  “I was just looking for my friend,” Hank said. “And I see you’ve already found him.”

  “Any friend of that one . . . ,” Randy growled through clenched teeth.

  Paul raised both hands and backed away. “I understand. I’m leaving.”

  “Not fast enough.”

  Even if he was willing to concede to an angry man who already had a gun in his hands, Paul wasn’t about to scurry off like a scolded child. After a good amount of distance was put between them, Randy proceeded to circle around the wagon to make certain Paul hadn’t tampered with anything.

  Paul headed back down St. Louis Avenue toward Harrison, where Hank and Red Feather fell into step on either side of him. “That’s Prescott’s wagon,” Paul said.

  “You are certain?” Red Feather asked.

  “I’ve traded with Prescott plenty of times,” Paul said. “Drove my own wagon right next to that one and hammered out plenty of trades. I was certain the second I laid eyes on it.”

  “I could’ve told you that was his wagon,” Hank said.

  “You’ve met him also?”

  “No, but I asked a few questions over at the Monarch. Actually all I needed was one. Can’t recall exactly what it was. . . .”

  “It’s no wonder,” Red Feather snapped. “I can smell the firewater on your breath from here.”

  “All I had was one drink! Give or take.”

  Paul had been around enough drunks to recognize one, and Hank wasn’t too far gone just yet. “Is that why you went to that saloon?” he asked. “To ask about Prescott?”

  “Actually I went there for the drink,” Hank said. “While I was at the bar, I asked about something or other and dropped Prescott’s name in the process. All I wanted to know was if the name struck a chord with the barkeep or anyone else who might be listening.”

  “And did it?”

  “Oh yes! I barely got the words out when the barkeep and a pair of rough-looking idiots took notice. The barkeep knew where to find that wagon. Seems Prescott was spouting off any chance he got about a sale he was conducting of some sort of magnetic device that was supposed to help sniff out precious ores. When he didn’t get a nibble on that, he mentioned other trinkets and such until the barkeep had him tossed out on his ear.”

  “And what of the other two?” Red Feather asked.

  “Oh, they came along shortly after I was out here getting a look at that wagon. It’s locked up real tight, by the way. Front to back, top to bottom. Don’t even bother trying to bust in.”

  “Yeah,” Paul sighed. “I found out that much for myself.”

  They’d made it back to Harrison Avenue, where there were a lot more people about to swallow up the trio that seamlessly joined their ranks. Rather than head back to the row of nearby saloons, they worked their way toward the Chronicle’s offices. It was a bit quieter there and a pair of expensive black coaches was parked on the side of the street to put something of a barrier between that area and the rowdier section of town.

  “I was walking back to the Monarch,” Hank continued, “when them two ugly cusses from before pulled me aside t
o have a word with me. They said they knew where to find Prescott.”

  “I heard Prescott is dead,” Paul said to him.

  “Then someone forgot to spread the news, because these two seemed awfully certain he was still alive and well. Or . . . alive, at least. Dead’s probably not too far away from him.”

  Red Feather scowled and let out a short, huffing breath.

  Looking over at the Comanche, Hank asked, “What’s wrong with you? Looks like you just ate a stinkbug.”

  “You were very busy in the short time we’ve been apart,” Red Feather pointed out.

  “I went to a saloon, tossed back a drink while having a word with the barkeep, and then took a short walk down this way,” Hank said. “Unless you got yer feet covered in molasses, that shouldn’t take too long. Besides, I thought we were here to find the salesman.”

  Before Red Feather could continue the argument he’d started, Paul said, “He’s right. That is why we’re here. What did those men tell you?”

  Hank was still staring at the Comanche and didn’t stop until Red Feather muttered something in his native tongue while walking away from them. “They told me they were looking for Prescott as well and knew right where to find him. Only problem was that they needed an extra gun hand or two to get ahold of him. Seems he ain’t exactly traveling alone these days.”

  “I’ve never known him to have anyone else riding with him,” Paul said.

  “How well do you know this friend of yours?”

  “Like I already told you. He’s more of an acquaintance.”

  “Well, this acquaintance ran afoul of a few too many people the last time he was in Leadville and he soaked them for a whole lot of money.”

  “How much?” Paul asked.

  “They didn’t say, but it was supposed to be enough to make the job worthwhile even after it was split up.”