Whoever those black wagons had been waiting for climbed into them and ordered the drivers to get moving. They pulled away and rolled down the street, leaving Paul with an unobstructed view of the saloons farther down Harrison Avenue. “I always warned Prescott about selling too many of those contraptions. You should let customers come to you for those and warn them properly. Talking them up too much and pushing them onto folks is asking for trouble.”
“It don’t seem as if he’s too worried about practicing good business,” Hank scoffed.
“These men who approached you. How many of them were there?”
“Two in the saloon. There was a third with them when they pulled me aside to have a word with me after I got a look at that wagon.”
“And they think Prescott is alive?”
“Yep. Only, it seems fairly certain that he won’t be that way for much longer. That’s probably what that barkeep you spoke to meant when he said Prescott was dead. These men who spoke to me seemed pretty capable, and with them after some salesman, I’d say the salesman doesn’t stand much of a chance.”
“Do you know where to find these gunmen again?” Paul asked.
“They’ll be playing cards for a bit longer in one of the back rooms at the Monarch.”
“Great. So go on over there and find out where Prescott is.”
“They will not tell you,” Red Feather said from a short distance.
Paul looked over to the Comanche. “Why not? Do you know who Hank’s talking about?”
“I do not know these men, but I can recognize them as hunters. Any man hunting another man . . . even if he is as clumsy and arrogant as most white hunters . . . will not be quick to give up their prey. They will be suspicious of anyone else trying to take it from them.”
“I gotta agree with the Injun,” Hank said.
Even though Red Feather didn’t like being called by that name, he let it pass for the moment.
Not knowing how close he’d come to getting swatted in the jaw by the irritated Comanche, Hank went right on talking. “Also, it seems these gun hands have some personal ax to grind with that salesman. It’s probably just some bit of money they were swindled out of, but they seemed mighty interested in getting it back themselves.”
“You don’t think you can trick them into telling you what we need to know?” Paul asked.
Hank looked at him and said, “You’re the businessman between the three of us. If anyone should know how to talk someone into parting with something they don’t want to part with, it should be you! Surely you know a few good lies to run by those men to get them to slip up.”
“I am a businessman. An honest businessman,” Paul clarified. “There’s a big difference.”
“Right,” Hank grunted. “The difference is one’s rich and the other’s poor.”
Red Feather chuckled at that.
Too focused to be offended by Hank’s offhanded comment, Paul did his best to think things through from different angles. After a few seconds, he said, “All right, then. Since those men are going to go after Prescott soon, we can wait outside the Monarch and when they come out we’ll follow them to wherever Prescott is.”
“And then what?” Hank asked. “We just step up and ask for a quick word with the salesman before he’s strung up by the gang that wants his head?”
“You don’t think they’ll agree to that?” Paul asked through a weak smile. Neither of the other two came close. Before he caught an earful from any of the other two, Paul said, “Then I suppose there’s only one way we can find out what these men have against Prescott while also finding Leandro himself.”
“Just so long as it’s not something that’ll get us killed in the process,” Hank warned.
“I say we meet with them at the Monarch and join up with the gunmen.”
Judging by the exasperated sigh that escaped Hank’s lips, that wasn’t a suggestion he liked very much.
Chapter 22
The Monarch was larger than the Board of Trade and had considerably less breathing room inside owing to the number of people milling about within the place. Situated at the hub of Leadville’s saloon district, the Monarch was alive with drinking, gambling, fighting, and flirting as everyone from gamblers, brawlers, and soiled doves plied their trade. Hank knew exactly where he was going as he navigated through the sea of humanity. In fact, several people he encountered knew him as well. Paul simply kept his head down and walked in the other man’s wake until they reached a row of doors along one wall near the bar.
“When we get in there,” Hand said, “just let me do the talking.”
“That’s the plan.”
“Yeah, but I just wanna make sure you don’t jump ahead by getting overly concerned with finding this fella or helping your kids. The best thing for you to do is keep your head right here where it belongs.”
“I’m not an idiot,” Paul snapped. “Do your part and I’ll do mine.”
“I just don’t wanna catch a bullet or a blade in the back.”
“And I do?”
“That’s the spirit.” Taking a deep breath, Hank rested his hand on his holstered Colt and then reached under his jacket to tap the .38 that was strapped beneath his left arm as if he was going to go in shooting. Rather than do the very thing he’d warned Paul against, he simply knocked on the door and waited.
It was answered before Hank had to knock again. The man who opened the door was a Mexican with a clean-shaven face, dark eyes, and a tussled patch of black hair sprouting at odd angles from his scalp. He was several inches shorter than both of the men waiting to be let inside the room and glared up at them as if waiting for that fact to be brought up so it could be violently answered. When he didn’t get an excuse to throw a punch, the Mexican asked, “What do you want?”
“You Hector?” Hank asked.
“Sí.”
“I was the one your partner met with a little while ago.”
“We met with a lot of men today.” Looking to Paul, he asked, “Who’s he?”
“He’s with me. We’re here to take the job that was offered.”
Sighing as if he was put out by the notion of having to open the door any farther, Hector stepped aside and waited for the other two to come inside. Once Paul and Hank stepped past him, he shut the door and pointed over to a large round table in the middle of the room. Seated at that table were only two other men. One had an olive complexion, a bulbous nose, stringy black hair with strands of gray, and a full beard. He looked to be somewhere in his early fifties and was occupied by the solitaire layout spread in front of him. The second man sat reclining in his chair with one arm draped across the backrest of a neighboring chair. The only thing in front of him was a black hat that had been placed on the table. His wide shoulders and thick chest spoke of a man built up through years of hard labor, and his callused hands had a similar tale to tell. His hair had probably been dark brown, but all that remained of it was a layer of closely cropped bristle covering his scalp. Thick layers of whiskers sprouted from his upper lip and chin to hang down low like a goat’s beard. Cold blue eyes stared over the table at the door as one hand drifted to his side to where a pistol was surely kept.
“Who’s he?” the man with the blue eyes asked.
Slapping Paul’s shoulder, Hank said, “This here is Georgie. He’s with me.”
“Georgie? Even he doesn’t look like he believes that.”
“Does it matter who we are?” Hank asked. “What’s in a name, right?”
“I suppose so. Both of you want to take the job?”
“That’s right.”
The bald man stood up. “Looks like it’ll just be the five of us, then.” He walked around the table and stood close enough to Paul to make it clear that he was bigger than him in every way.
“My partner was just looking out for me. The name’s Paul.”
Nodding slowly, the bald man extended a hand. “I’m Starkweather. You already met Hector. That one there,” he said while hooking a thumb toward the bearded man who was still playing solitaire, “is Bob.”
Bob looked up from his game just long enough to nod.
Sizing up the men in front of him, Starkweather asked, “You two know how to use them pistols you’re carrying?”
“Good enough to kill what I’m shooting at,” Hank replied.
“Fine, then. Let’s go.”
And without any further delay, Paul Meakes found himself in yet another of many professions he would occupy in his lifetime: hired killer.
Chapter 23
The five of them walked north up Harrison Avenue, leaving the saloon district behind. Starkweather, Hector, and Bob knew exactly where they were headed and had enough purpose in their strides to pull ahead of their newly hired reinforcements. It wasn’t until they passed the courthouse that Paul began to feel nervous enough to speak up. Even so, he made sure to keep his voice low so as not to be heard by the men who’d hired them.
“Do you think they truly mean to kill Prescott?”
Without hesitation, Hank replied, “Most definitely.”
“Shouldn’t we do something about it?”
“Yes, but now ain’t exactly the time.”
Paul might have been the one to bring them to this predicament, but some part of him hadn’t truly believed they’d get this far. So many times throughout his life, all he’d needed was some sort of wild-eyed plan just to get him moving long enough to think of something better. Oftentimes, better opportunities would present themselves, plans would be altered, and things would work out. And then, usually when it was most inconvenient, a man would be forced to live with the original plan that he’d hoped so desperately to change in the first place. This was the spot that Paul found himself in as he continued to walk behind two other men who looked every bit as if they’d killed at least a dozen men between them.
Quickly noticing that one of the other men was no longer walking in front of them, Paul looked around for the third gunman. Hector walked a few paces behind them, watching Paul and Hank closely while keeping his hand on the pistol holstered at his side. The only thing that gave Paul any solace was that he could see someone else following even farther behind the group of five gunmen.
“He still back there?” Hank whispered.
Doing his best not to let on that he’d spotted Red Feather shadowing them from several yards back, Paul replied, “Yep.”
“What about the Mexican?”
“He’s back there too.”
When they reached West Eighth Street, Starkweather rounded the corner and came to a stop. He waited until the rest of the group gathered around him before pointing up to the window of a building with two floors that was so skinny it looked as if it had been sliced off the side of another building. “The man we’re after is in there,” he said. “And he ain’t alone. There’s at least two or three others up there keeping an eye on him. We’ll try to get as close as we can without drawing any notice, but once they get a notion that something ain’t right, they’ll start shooting.”
“Will they know you on sight?” Paul asked.
“Yes,” Starkweather replied. “That’s why we brought you two along.”
“You think we’re just gonna stroll up there and draw someone’s fire?” Hank asked.
Clapping his hand on Hank’s shoulder as if they’d suddenly become old friends, Starkweather said, “It won’t be anything like that. You two will go and scout out the place. See exactly how many of them are up there, if they’re watching the door, that sort of thing.”
“Sounds pretty serious,” Paul said. “How much money does this man owe you anyway?”
“Don’t worry about that. You two just do what you’re being paid to do so we can do what we came to do. After all that’s over, we all go away with more money in our pockets.”
“What if we decide this is more than we signed up for?” Hank asked.
Bob wore a Smith & Wesson on each hip in a double-rig holster. He closed his hands around both firearms and took a step forward. In the space of that single step, he shifted from looking like a bearded man with a fondness for card games to someone who would fill another man with lead and not lose a wink of sleep over it. “See them ditches over there?”
Glancing over to a pair of ditches leading all the way back to a set of matching outhouses, Hank replied, “Yeah.”
“You try to back out now and you’ll bleed to death in one of them.”
“No need for that, Bob,” Starkweather said. “This is an easy job with a big payout at the end of it. These two will just run up to the second floor, go to room number six, and have a look-see.”
“What happens after that?” Paul asked.
“You let us do our work and meet us back down here. Does that sound so hard?”
“Not as such.”
“Good,” Starkweather replied. “Now get a move on so we can be done with this.” After saying that, he sent Paul and Hank on their way with a not so gentle shove toward the side door of the building they’d been watching.
Sensing the tension boiling within the man beside him, Paul whispered, “Keep calm and stick to our plan.”
Hank grabbed the door’s handle, pulled it open, and stomped inside. “This is a stupid idea,” he said under his breath.
“Only if we do exactly as we were told.”
“This was a bad idea. Why did I go along with this?”
“Because we don’t have many options, that’s why,” Paul said. “And because it’s obvious that Prescott has something valuable if these three men want him so badly. We needed to go after Prescott anyway. That’s why we’re here. Those men outside would have been coming after him no matter what. At least this way we know what we’re dealing with so we have a chance of getting ahead of Starkweather before things get too far out of hand.”
They’d entered a narrow room with coat hooks lining the wall on one side. Light from a few lanterns glowed in one of the other rooms farther inside, and the sounds of shuffling feet drew closer at a slow pace.
“They’re treating us like we’re idiots,” Hank said.
“Good. That means they think they’ve already got us right where we need to be and won’t be watching us as closely as they should. That’s a big advantage.”
“I suppose you’re right about that. So, what do we do about the rest of this mess we’re in?”
Paul grinned and gave Hank a pat on the back. “How about you come up with something and I’ll follow your lead?”
Although that had been meant as a joke, there wasn’t any time for a response or much of anything else to be added to it. Two men approached the small room and stood in the doorway. One held a lantern and the other had a shotgun. According to the small amount of light that was still casting wavering shadows behind them, there was at least one other person with a lantern that Paul couldn’t see.
The closest man with the lantern took half a step back so the one with the shotgun could move forward. “Who are you?” the shotgunner asked. “What are you doing here?”
“We’re friends of Leandro Prescott,” Hank replied quickly.
“So what?”
“So . . . we’re here to check on him. It’s been a while since he’s been gone and we’re concerned about his well-being.”
“Are you, now? What are your names? I’ll have a word with him and see if he’s heard of you.”
“I’m Paul Meakes. Go ahead and ask him about me. He knows who I am.”
“And what about this one?” the man with the shotgun asked as he nodded toward Hank. “He a friend as well?”
“I’m George Wesley,” Hank replied. “Me and Leo share a bottle of whiskey or two whenever he comes to Leadville.”
The shotgunner’s eye
s narrowed. “Stay put.” He then backed out and whispered a few words into the ear of the man holding the lantern. As soon as the shotgunner disappeared down a hall to tromp up some stairs, the man with the lantern drew a pistol from his holster and held it at hip level to point in Paul and Hank’s general direction. The other dim lights Paul had spotted bobbed closer until another pair of men moved in to get a look into the coatroom.
“Howdy,” Hank said.
None of the men responded. In fact, they looked in at him and Paul as if they were peering at a couple of mangy coyotes that had wandered in from the alley.
“Maybe . . . we should just leave,” Paul said.
The man holding the lantern and pistol shook his head. “You’ll stay right where you are, just like you were told.”
“We can always—”
Before Paul could finish his statement, the sound of a solid impact followed by splintering wood exploded from the front portion of the building. One man’s voice was raised to a shout, only to be quickly silenced by a gunshot. Two of the three men in Paul’s line of sight turned in that direction while bringing their weapons up to fire. One of them managed to pull his trigger before both were cut down by incoming lead. Voices bellowed from the floor above as heavy steps pounded to the stairs that would bring them to the first floor. The man with the lantern dived into the coatroom with Paul and Hank as another volley of gunfire tore through the hallway a few inches away.
“They friends of yours?” the man asked as he set his lantern down and pointed his gun at Hank. “Answer me!”
On the floor just outside the coatroom, the second man who’d been carrying a lantern groaned and tried to prop himself up on one arm. Before he lifted his upper body halfway off the floor, another gunshot drilled through him and shattered the lantern. Two large figures rushed past the door in the same direction as the first man who’d left to go upstairs. When the gunman in the coatroom tried to lean out and take aim at them, he was knocked out by a clubbing blow from someone else out there.
As soon as the gunman fell face-first to the floor, Bob stepped into the doorway still holding the pistol he’d used to knock the other man unconscious. Looking into the coatroom, he said, “Well, now, it seems hiring you two was a real good idea.”
The Dangerous Land Page 15
