The Dangerous Land

by Ralph Compton

  Prescott’s eyes were still open, so Paul slid them shut. That same hand drifted down from Prescott’s face to his vest. The pocket was over the salesman’s heart and Paul couldn’t help noticing how the other man’s torso felt more like a lump of hardened clay instead of anything vaguely resembling a man. He took the key and stood up.

  “You can arrest me later,” Paul said. “I’ve got business to tend to.”

  “Now just wait a second,” the lawman said.

  As Paul headed for the stairs, Hank shoved past him to step in front of the lawman. “You saw what just happened,” Hank said. “We stepped in to help turn the tide of this fight. We even saved the life of one of your young men downstairs, who I’m guessing is a deputy.”

  “We’ll sort that out soon enough,” the lawman said. “Right now I need to see exactly who you men are and why you’re here.”

  Paul had reached the top of the stairs by now, and as he began his descent, he could hear the men behind him shuffling for position. He’d passed a young man on his way to the stairs but walked easily past him. That man wore a stunned expression on his face that reminded Paul of soldiers who’d barely survived their first walk across a battlefield during the War Between the States.

  “You heard that man’s last wishes,” Hank said. “He wanted to give over that key, and that’s what he did!”

  The lawman said something in response to that, but Paul was at the bottom of the stairs by then and couldn’t make out the exact words. Several sets of boots thumped toward the stairs behind him, but one more rifle shot through the window caused them to retreat. After that, nobody tried to stop Paul when he marched out of the building and headed straight down Harrison Avenue.

  As he walked in the cool night air, Paul tried not to think about everything that had happened that night. Whenever echoes of gunshots crept into the back of his mind, he pulled in a deep breath or concentrated on the crunch of his boots against the ground as he continued to take one step after another. He must have been quite the sight himself, because the people he passed on his way to St. Louis Avenue looked at him as if they’d just discovered a specter haunting their town.

  Whenever a door would slam or a shutter would be pushed by the wind to slap against its window, Paul was startled into reaching for the holster at his side. Nobody was out there trying to take a shot at him, so he quickened his pace toward the lot where Prescott’s wagon was parked.

  As soon as the wagon was in sight, Paul heard footsteps rushing to catch up with him. He spun around to see the young deputy who’d almost been shot in the back by Bob. Before that man could get within spitting distance of Paul, he was swept aside by a figure that moved so quickly it might as well have been a gust of wind. It wasn’t until the young deputy was slammed against the wall of a building at the corner of St. Louis Avenue that either he or Paul could get a look at who’d so easily gotten the drop on him. Red Feather gripped the front of the young man’s shirt with one hand and held a knife in the other.

  “You’re not going to stop me from getting into this wagon,” Paul announced.

  The young man was rattled but managed to keep his voice from wavering when he said, “I wasn’t going to try. The sheriff just wants to make sure you didn’t try to leave town before he had a chance to talk with you.”

  “I’ll be right back. Just stay put.” As he approached the wagon, Paul had no doubt the young deputy would be rooted to his spot like a butterfly pinned to a specimen board.

  The key in Paul’s hand fit into the lock in the wagon’s rear door. After opening that, he kicked a set of steps that folded down to allow him to climb inside. The wagon was dark apart from a bit of light from the moon that allowed him to see blocky cabinets built into the walls on either side. Running his hand along them, Paul counted over to the correct cabinet and opened it. When he reached inside, something sharp and cold bit his hand. After all he’d been through thus far, Paul wouldn’t have been deterred from his task if every cabinet in that wagon was filled with rattlesnakes. He kept feeling around in there, only to be cut some more.

  Ignoring the pain, he moved his hand enough to realize there were no bottles or vials inside. Paul worked his way through all the cabinets, most of which were empty. He then went back to where he’d started, grabbed one of the small things that were in there, and climbed down from the wagon. Once outside, he could see well enough to confirm what he already knew.

  “Did you find what you needed?” Red Feather asked.

  “Broken,” Paul said as he tossed a jagged shard of glass to the dirt at his feet. “They’re all broken.”

  Chapter 26

  The cuts on Paul’s hands weren’t much more than scrapes. One or two sliced deep enough to cause some biting pain, but that was nowhere near enough to distract him from the despair that closed in on him from all sides. Heavier than any sadness was the frustration of thinking he was so close to returning victoriously to his children only to be turned away yet again. He sat in an uncomfortable chair in the sheriff’s office, looking down at his bloodied hands, thinking what he should do or where he should go next. Unfortunately the more he thought about it, the murkier everything became.

  Paul was shaken from his daze when Hank sat down in the chair beside him as if he’d been dropped into it from the sky. Leaning all the way back while stretching out his legs, Hank let out a heavy sigh and pressed his palms flat against his eyes. “Law dog wants to have a word with you.”

  “Tell him to get stuffed,” Paul grunted.

  “I did. Several times. He doesn’t like it too much. He also doesn’t stop asking questions. It’s your turn to be raked over the coals for a while.”

  Paul leaned his head back and then looked over to Hank. “I want to thank you for what you’ve done.”

  “I already told you, I owe you.”

  “And you repaid me by walking into that gunfight. Not only that but you helped keep us both alive to walk out again.”

  Hank shrugged. “Just doing what’s right. Besides,” he added with a smirk, “if that Comanche finds out I lied to his chief about being your partner from the start, I’ll probably get skinned alive. Leaving you before this matter is settled might tip my hand.”

  “But you can leave any time you want,” Paul insisted. “I’ll cover for you if Red Feather has any questions.”

  “Only questions you need to worry about right now come from that man right over there,” Hank said while pointing to a desk on the other side of the room. “By the way, if it comes up, we’ve known each other for three years.”

  “Got it.”

  Paul stood up and walked across the room. There were only two other men in there with him and Hank. Any other deputies were cleaning up the mess from the shoot-out or checking on the men who’d been taken to see a doctor. When he got to the desk, Paul sat down in the chair that Hank had been using.

  The man who sat across from him was the fellow who’d done most of the talking back at the shoot-out. His thick black hair was in need of a trim, as was the mustache that was less than an inch away from taking over the lower portion of his face. Small, sharp eyes watched Paul’s every move from beneath iron eyebrows. “You want something to drink?” he asked.

  “Some water might be nice,” Paul replied.

  Reaching into a drawer, the man pulled out a half-full bottle and two glasses. “I was thinking of something a bit stronger. Looks like you could use it.”

  “Hey!” Hank shouted from his spot on the other side of the room. “You didn’t offer me any whiskey!”

  “That’s right,” said the man with the bottle in his hand. “Now shut your mouth and keep it that way!”

  Hank did as he was told but clearly wasn’t happy about it.

  “We never got a proper introduction,” said the man with the bottle as he poured a splash of whiskey into each glass. “I’m Sheriff Teller.”

 
At first, Paul was going to refuse the drink. Then he realized the sheriff was correct and that he could use it after all. “Paul Meakes,” he said while picking up the glass. He took a long drink and closed his eyes as the firewater worked its way through him. He hadn’t been much of a drinker over the last few years, but the last few years hadn’t been quite as taxing as the last few days. The liquor he drank from that bottle calmed him better than an old friend by loosening knots that had been tied in his muscles and nerves. After another swallow, he was able to take an easy breath.

  “Care for another?” the sheriff asked.

  “Better not. Thank you.”

  “According to what Hudson said, I should be the one to thank you.”

  “Hudson?”

  “He’s the deputy that nearly got bushwhacked by that man you shot,” the sheriff explained. “If you hadn’t stepped up when you did, there’d be one more coffin to bury. There’s too many already after tonight.”

  “What happened back there anyway?” Paul asked.

  “I was gonna ask the same thing from you. I suppose I can start, though. The short of it is that a few days ago, Leandro Prescott came to me asking for protection. His life was threatened and he was convinced the men that approached him weren’t just full of smoke. I had one of my men keep an eye on him and he was there when one of those killers walked right up and took a shot at Prescott.”

  “Why would someone want to shoot Prescott?”

  “He told us it had something to do with Territorial Mining,” the sheriff replied. “That sound familiar?”

  “Only from what Leo said to me before he died. I’m guessing you heard it?”

  “I did. What are you and your friend doing in Leadville?”

  “I’m here to have a word with Prescott on a pressing matter,” Paul said. “I thought he’d poisoned my children. He told me it was the water used in his tonic.”

  Sheriff Teller nodded. “I also heard you say your children were running fevers, sweating, shaky on their feet, and such?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Lots of other folks as far away as Denver have been having the same symptoms. With a good amount of doctoring, most of them feel better in a week or two.”

  “Perhaps if they drank it, it’s not as bad,” Paul said. “My children had the poison spilled directly into their blood.”

  “Good Lord. How’d that happen?”

  “It’s a long story, Sheriff. To be quite blunt, I’m sick of telling it. All I know is that their lives are in danger. You said most of those people who were sick got better. Not all?”

  “That’s right. Some of them . . . well . . . didn’t fare too well.”

  “You mean they died.”

  Now it was the sheriff’s turn to take a drink. “Yeah. They died.”

  Recognizing something in the other man’s haunted expression, Paul asked, “Did you lose someone in particular?”

  “Almost. My sister damn near died, but she pulled through. Just barely, though. Thought I was gonna lose her for sure.”

  “That’s where my children are,” Paul said as he leaned forward. “Right on the verge of being lost. I came all this way because a doctor back home said if he got a look at whatever made them sick, he could work out some sort of cure or antidote or something.”

  “A few other doctors tried something like that,” Teller said. “Doctors in Denver and Colorado Springs, I believe. They never found much of anything.”

  “Well, the doctor tending to my young ones seemed real certain he could mix something up that could help. Since that’s all I’ve got to hang my hat on at the moment, I’m doing my level best to get him what he needs.”

  “Hudson told me you took a gander inside Prescott’s wagon.”

  “Yeah,” Paul said. “Someone had already gotten in there and broken every last bottle of what I was after.”

  “Must have been those same killers who stormed that lawyer’s office where we were keeping Prescott hid away. How’d you come to be there at just the right time to keep Hudson from meeting his maker anyhow?”

  Paul told the sheriff how he and Hank had wound up throwing in with Starkweather. “I just wanted to find Prescott,” he said. “If he was in trouble, I thought I could help, and if he was just conducting business with those men, I thought I could at least get a word with him about that tonic.”

  “After all that thinking you say you did,” Sheriff Teller said, “you should have thought some more before joining up with the likes of Starkweather.”

  “I didn’t really join him,” Paul explained.

  Teller chuckled. “That’s right. You pretended to join him and then shot one of his men. Trust me, that ain’t a real good thing in his eyes.”

  “I didn’t guess it would be.”

  “Do you know who Starkweather is?”

  “Beyond what I’ve seen in the last few hours?” Paul said. “No. But I suppose you’re going to tell me.”

  “I only wish I could have told you before. Starkweather is wanted for at least twelve killings in nearly as many states. Anyone who knows him will be quick to add that there’s probably plenty of other killings he’s taken part in that just ain’t common knowledge.”

  “Sounds like the sort of man who’d charge into a building and shoot it full of holes.”

  “More like he’s the sort of man who’s good enough with a gun in his hand that he charged into a building outnumbered three to one, kept me and my men cornered, and managed to put down his target without a whole lot of trouble. I’m not exactly proud to admit it, but if you hadn’t been there, Starkweather or his men might not have had a casualty among them.”

  “I’d wager he’s gone now,” Paul said.

  Teller nodded. “You’d be right about that. He got what he was after.”

  “Do you know why he wanted to kill Prescott?”

  “To keep him quiet. Your friend the salesman was blamed when some of the folks who drank his tonic got sick. Once word started coming in from Denver that it had to do with the water instead of his so-called medicines, Prescott was mostly off the hook. Of course, there was still the matter of him swindling some folks with that cheap tonic of his, but that’s something for another time. In the end, Prescott decided to do the right thing and testify to a judge about what he saw when he was gathering his water and the offers made by Territorial Mining for him to keep his mouth shut about what they were doing.”

  “Prescott was a good man,” Paul said. “He would have done the right thing no matter what.”

  Sheriff Teller nodded solemnly. “I believe that’s true. We did our best to keep him alive. It’s a shame it wasn’t enough.”

  “So it’s chemicals from that mining company that are poisoning the water?”

  “That’s what Prescott said. I’ve seen a few big mining operations do their work and it’s never a pretty sight. They blast holes in the ground, use currents of water to rip into the sides of mountains. All that machinery kicks up smoke and spits out all manner of grease or oil. They’ve got chemists testing the purity of what they find, and when they’re done, Lord only knows where they dump their leftovers. It’s not a lot, but it’s potent.”

  “Acid’s like that,” Paul grumbled. “Doesn’t take much of it to do a good amount of damage.”

  “Well, there’s nothing good about what Prescott saw.”

  “Can’t you do something to Territorial Mining for having him killed?”

  “Sure,” Teller said, “if I had proof it was them. Proof that’d stand up in court, that is. All I’ve got is the body of that man you killed, and though he’s also wanted for murder, there’s nothing that proves he was here to kill on the order of Territorial Mining.”

  “Where is Territorial Mining anyway?” Paul asked.

  “Just about anywhere there’s ore to be dug. The company was founded i
n Virginia or somewhere out in the Appalachians, I believe. They’ve got interests all across the country and some in Mexico.”

  “If they were spread out so far, wouldn’t the entire country be getting sick by now?”

  “Could be this is just the start of it,” the lawman said. “Could be their operations in the Rockies are just messier than the rest. Only ones who know for certain why this mess is here instead of anywhere else is that mining company and they don’t seem overly fond of sharing their motives with the likes of us.”

  “I suppose not.”

  Sheriff Teller drummed his fingers on his desk. At first, it seemed he was studying the label on the bottle of whiskey he’d produced from his bottom drawer. Then he said, “Who else have you got with you? Apart from that scalper over there, I mean.”

  “Scalper?”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t know who your friend is. Hank’s not just some affable fellow who decided to go along with you to visit Mr. Prescott. He hunts Indians for a living. Hasn’t been at it very long, though.”

  “You know him?”

  “Any lawman who shares territory with the tribes had better know what scalpers are in the area,” Teller said. “Even if they get paid by the army, they’re still killers.”

  “So are bounty hunters,” Paul said.

  “And good lawmen should keep track of them as well. But men like Hank over there are different from bounty hunters. They stick to certain areas. The dangerous lands. Men like him stir things up even worse than they already are.”

  “Why are you asking me this?”

  “Because Hudson told me he was jumped by an Indian while he was following you to Prescott’s wagon. He says the Indian seemed to be taking orders from you.”

  From the moment he’d stepped foot into the sheriff’s office, Paul had been waiting for someone to mention Red Feather. He thought it would have happened right away, but since the Comanche had practically vanished after releasing the young deputy, he figured there was always a chance that Hudson was neglecting to bring up the matter to salvage some of his reputation. Now that the subject had been broached, Paul was somewhat relieved. When Sheriff Teller spoke of the Comanche, he displayed more curiosity than hatred or disgust.