The Dangerous Land

by Ralph Compton

  “He wasn’t taking orders from me,” Paul said. “But he was helping me.”

  “Obviously,” Teller said. “Was he the one shooting through the window back at the lawyer’s office?”

  “Yes.”

  “I guessed as much.”

  “How did you know?” Paul asked. “Did one of your men see him?”

  “Quite the opposite. None of my deputies saw him and they were looking for any riflemen posted on a rooftop or such. The fact that he went unseen and also managed to pick off his targets from a distance at such a difficult angle all point to a Comanche. Damn fine hunters, whether they’re carrying a bow or a rifle. From my experience, they’re no good with pistols. What do you say to that?”

  “I say it’s never a good idea to judge any large group of people in such a sweeping manner.”

  “Very true,” the sheriff replied. “Now comes the question that’s really stuck in my craw. How’d you get an Injun to work with you when you’re also riding with a scalper at your side?”

  “That’s another long story.”

  “But I imagine it’s an interesting one.”

  “Hey!” Hank said from his seat. “Are you two talkin’ about me?”

  “Why?” the sheriff hollered back. “Were your ears burning?”

  “Hank’s just trying to help me,” Paul said. “And so is . . . so is the Indian.” He’d almost called Red Feather by name. But the sheriff was correct about these being dangerous lands. The tribes already had plenty of trouble, and having killers like Starkweather after them for some measure of retribution was no way to repay someone who was fighting for his children’s lives.

  “If that’s the case,” Teller said, “then I’ll buy him a drink. Hudson, bring this over to Mr. Adley over there.”

  The young deputy approached the desk. Having nearly been shot in the back and then held at the point of Red Feather’s blade, Hudson was justifiably shaky. His hands didn’t tremble as he carried the glass of whiskey that the sheriff had poured, but the sheen of sweat on his brow reflected his nervousness well enough.

  “That’s more like it!” Hank said once he got the whiskey in his hand.

  “Now I’ve got a question I’ve been meaning to ask,” Paul said. “Are we still under arrest?”

  “That didn’t seem to keep you from doing what you pleased a little while ago after the shooting stopped,” Teller pointed out.

  “I wasn’t going far,” Paul said. “As I already mentioned, I’ve still got business to conduct away from this town.”

  “Well, you did step in on my deputy’s behalf, so you’ll be free to leave in the morning. In the meantime, I’ve got a secure place for you and your friend to spend the night, seeing as how those killers could still be out there somewhere.” Teller hooked a thumb toward the next room. The door was open, so the jail cells within could be seen.

  “Are you serious?” Paul asked.

  “Call it protective custody.”

  “I call it a heap of bull dung!” Hank shouted.

  “You can call it that too,” the sheriff said, “but them cots are still where you’ll be laying your heads this evening.”

  Chapter 27

  Strangely enough, Paul slept better on that cot than he had in a while. There was something restful about being in a spot where there was only one thing to do while he was in it. His thoughts were still troubled and lingered on his children, but that couldn’t be helped. For that short stretch of hours while all his choices were taken away, he could allow himself to just stop and take a breath. He dreamed he was lying on a raft being swept down a long stretch of white water. When he opened his eyes again, he could still hear the rushing sound that had filled his head.

  Wind blew through the back room of the sheriff’s office and went all the way out one of the front windows to create a hollow roar. Paul sat up amid the grating creak of his cot and looked through the bars into the next cell. Lying there curled in a tight ball was Hank, snoring loudly and adding another part of the churning rush of wind that had filled his hectic dream. Walking to the cell door, Paul touched one of the bars, which was enough to cause them to swing an inch outward. With a harder push, the door swung all the way open and filled the back room with the screech of rusty hinges.

  “What’s that?” Hank groaned as he flopped over and reached for the empty holster at his side. “Where . . . oh. That’s right.” He got up, scratched, and cleared his throat. “You couldn’t sleep either, huh?”

  “I slept fine and so did you.”

  “I did?”

  “Yeah,” Paul said. “If not, you were just snoring to make noise and even you’re not that inhospitable.”

  “Guess I did nod off for a spell. You think we’re free to go?”

  “You’re free to go now,” someone shouted from the next room.

  Paul walked out there to find one of the deputies sitting at the sheriff’s desk. He was one of the older of the bunch and even had five or six years on Teller himself. Looking up at Paul from behind the newspaper he was reading, he said, “That’s what the sheriff told me. So long as you didn’t try to leave before sunup, you could go and it’s well past that.”

  “What about our guns?” Paul asked.

  “Collect ’em on your way out,” the deputy said. “Sheriff Teller couldn’t have armed men sleeping in his jail. Wouldn’t look right.”

  “Yeah,” Hank said while stretching in the next room. “Wouldn’t want to give the drunks and vagrants the wrong impression.”

  The deputy flipped the page of his Chronicle. “Exactly. You won’t be able to take that dead salesman’s wagon with you, though. Speaking of which, Sheriff Teller would like you to leave that key here.”

  “Fine with me,” Paul replied while digging the key from his pocket. “Before I go, I’d like to take one last look inside since I’ll be able to see what’s in there much better than I could last night.”

  “Suit yourself,” the deputy said. “You can walk over there and have your look. Your guns and horses will be waiting here when you get back.”

  Hank stomped forward while hitching up his pants. “We’ll take them now because they’re our property! Just because you’re the law around here don’t mean you can steal from us whenever you like.”

  The deputy didn’t have anything to say to that. He simply stared at his paper until it was time to once again flip the page.

  “I don’t mind going,” Paul told Hank. “I’ll be right back and I won’t need my gun just to look inside a wagon. The walk will do me some good. Could do you some good as well.”

  “I should probably stay here to make certain our things aren’t trifled with,” Hank said while glaring at the deputy.

  “Now I really think you should come with me. Let’s go.” Before Hank could protest again, Paul grabbed him by the collar and dragged him along much as he’d dragged David to church on several sleepy Sundays.

  As soon as they were outside, Paul let him go and asked, “What’s the matter with you? Those lawmen showed us a courtesy by putting us up for the night and turning us loose.”

  “Not like they’re a bunch of saints. You saved one of their lives last night and the Injun saved some more of them by covering all of us with his rifle.”

  “They still could have kept us locked up for any number of reasons. The least of which was that we happened to throw in on the wrong side of that fight.”

  “Wasn’t that the plan?” Hank asked. “It’s not like we were going to step out of line once things went sour.”

  “I know. Even if I was the one to come up with the idea, it still never sat right. I’ve carried a gun before but never had to use it so much as I have over the last few days. More and more, I’m being reminded that I’m still a businessman that’s been away from his store for too long.”

  “Could’ve fooled me,” Hank said a
s he slapped Paul on the back. “You handled yourself like a real man when the lead started to fly. I’ve got to admit I was also pleasantly surprised by how well that Comanche held up his end. Speaking of the redskin, where did he get to anyway?”

  “Probably watching over us right now. You might want to watch what you say when you’re calling him anything but his name.”

  “Eh, he’s used to it. If he was so offended, he would’ve stuck a knife in me already.”

  They’d made it to Harrison Avenue and could see St. Louis Avenue a bit farther down. The saloons might not have been as crowded as they were the night before, but even in the morning hours they were still seeing a good amount of patronage. The more he walked, the more cheerful Hank became. When they got close enough to the Monarch, he sniffed the air like a dog following the scent of fresh meat. “They serve a good breakfast in there,” he said. “And some of the finest coffee in the Rockies.”

  “What about griddle cakes?” Paul asked. “It’s been too long since I’ve had griddle cakes.”

  “Of course they serve griddle cakes! At least, I think they do. If not, the ladies that’ll bring you your coffee will make you forget all about ’em.”

  “First I need to get a look inside that wagon. After that, if there’s time, we can stop for some breakfast.”

  “Still trying to do right by those law dogs?” Hank groused. “Forget about them. They’re probably sleeping the day away like usual. No need to make nice with them and no need to fret so much about the Injun.”

  “What do you have against lawmen?” Paul asked.

  “In my line of work, me and them don’t tend to see eye to eye. Even when we do, they take it upon themselves to run me out of town after I did their jobs for them.”

  “I don’t think lawmen’s jobs include killing Indians.”

  Judging by the smug grin and humorless grunt of a chuckle that came from the back of Hank’s throat, he didn’t quite agree with that statement. Even so, he wasn’t about to argue the point any further. “Guess I gotta admit the lawmen here have been friendlier than the last time I came through this town.”

  Paul was about to ask what had happened on that last visit to Leadville but decided against it. He doubted he truly wanted to know all the details, and the lot containing Prescott’s wagon wasn’t much farther ahead.

  From a distance, the man sitting in one corner of the lot looked more like a giant sack of something that had been left to rot in the sun. When he got to his feet and stomped toward the fence, Randy was already sputtering and angrily shaking his fist at the two approaching men. “I’m glad you came back! Saves me the trouble of calling the sheriff to collect you from wherever you been hiding.”

  “We’ve been hiding in the sheriff’s office, you idiot,” Hank replied. “Better than the pigsty that you obviously slept in.”

  Too riled up to continue fighting with Hank, the caretaker shifted his focus to Paul and said, “You’re the one that trespassed on my property and busted into that wagon!”

  “I may have trespassed,” Paul replied, “but I didn’t break into anything. I had a key and I still do.” He extended his hand to show Prescott’s key to Randy while making certain not to get it close enough for it to be snatched away.

  “That don’t prove nothin’!” Randy snarled.

  “Then tell it to the sheriff,” Hank said as he put himself between the wagon and the angry caretaker. “Right now this man’s the closest thing to that wagon’s rightful owner, so you can step aside and let him pass.”

  There was plenty more back and forth between those two, but Paul ignored it as he walked through the gate, approached the wagon, and fit the key into the rear door. Now that there was sunlight flooding inside the wagon, Paul could see nearly everything within the cramped confines. It was even worse than he’d guessed when he was fumbling in the shadows the night before.

  The floor was littered with paper labels and pages torn from ledgers. He checked the cabinet Prescott had mentioned to find it littered with broken glass and soaked with the liquid that had been spilled. Just to be thorough, Paul continued looking through the rest of the cabinets. Not everything was broken. He found several jars of various powders, a few jugs of syrup, several dry goods including sugar, wheat, and oats, and plenty of dyes. There were also many different samples of all the contraptions that had captured Prescott’s imagination. When he came upon those items, Paul stopped what he was doing.

  Seeing those devices, many of which didn’t come close to performing the functions for which they’d been built, reminded him of his friend. Prescott had been an accomplished salesman, but when he described those contraptions, he did so with a flair and spark in his eye that could only be genuine enthusiasm. He loved those cockamamie devices, and even if they worked halfway, he saw it as a small miracle. On more than one occasion, he and David had stood outside that wagon, watching one of those contraptions sputter and rattle, laughing joyously at the loud display. They would laugh even harder at the machines that shook themselves apart or exploded in a cloud of black smoke. All the while, Paul and Abigail had looked on while shaking their heads.

  Now Prescott was dead.

  And Paul’s children . . .

  “Stop!” Randy shouted from outside the wagon. “I said stop! I’ll get my shotgun!”

  “Go ahead and get it, you ape,” Hank shouted back as he approached the open door at the back of the wagon. “Threaten me with your shotgun and see what happens. I guarantee you won’t like it!”

  Paul drew a quick breath and swiped at his eyes with the back of one hand before Hank stuck his head inside.

  “This one’s getting uncooperative,” Hank said. “You find what you need?”

  “There’s nothing here,” Paul said. “Let’s go.”

  They left the wagon and its angry caretaker behind them.

  On their way back to the sheriff’s office, Paul and Hank stopped in for breakfast. The griddle cakes were almost good enough to bring Paul’s spirits back out of the shadows.

  Chapter 28

  When Paul and Hank arrived back at the sheriff’s office, Teller himself was there to greet them. “Took you long enough,” the lawman said as he walked around his desk and toward a tall cabinet in one corner of the room. “I thought maybe you’d left town before I had a chance to wish you well.”

  “Not without our horses,” Hank said.

  “Very true. Did you find anything worth seeing in that wagon?”

  “No,” Paul replied. “And I won’t be needing to see anything else. What will happen to that wagon from here?”

  “It’ll be kept safe until we can find the salesman’s next of kin. Would you be able to help in that regard?”

  “He used to mention a sister every now and then. I believe she lives in Wyoming. I can check on it and send word back to you, but that will have to wait until I’m through with my business in Colorado.”

  Teller unlocked the cabinet and opened it. Inside, there were several rifles and shotguns held within a wooden rack as well as an array of pistols hanging from pegs and resting at the bottom of the wooden container. Among the pistols were Paul’s Schofield and Hank’s Colt. The sheriff took one of those pistols in each hand, spun them so the grips were facing outward, and offered them to their owners.

  “Here you go,” Teller said. “As promised.”

  Paul placed the wagon key on the sheriff’s desk and then took his pistol. When Hank reclaimed his weapon, he immediately asked, “What about the .38?”

  “I have only two hands, Mr. Adley.” The sheriff turned and picked up Hank’s second pistol so he could hand it over.

  When Hank took the gun without another word, Paul asked, “Don’t you have something to say to the sheriff?”

  Glaring at him, Hank said, “I ain’t one of your kids.”

  “Then stop acting like one.”

&nbs
p; Hank sighed, faced the sheriff, and said, “Much obliged.”

  “There, now,” Paul said to complete the illusion that he was having a conversation he’d been through countless times before with David and Abigail. “Was that so hard?”

  Muttering curses under his breath that the Meakes children hopefully wouldn’t learn for some time, Hank left the sheriff’s office.

  “Your horses are out back,” Teller said.

  Paul nodded. “Your deputy already told us. I’d like to thank you for putting a roof over our heads for the night.”

  “Well, I couldn’t exactly let you charge out after those gunmen in your state of mind. You only would have gotten yourself killed. Also, I owed you for your help in the middle of all that shooting. Still do.”

  “I’m sure you’ve saved a person or two in your day. Consider this some small amount of repayment.”

  Sheriff Teller didn’t seem to quite know what to do with that. Obviously he wasn’t accustomed to receiving compliments and waited for a few seconds for some barbed words to go along with this one. When they didn’t come, he nodded and gave Paul a simple thank-you.

  “I don’t suppose you’d have more detailed instructions on how to get to that Territorial Mining site?” Paul asked.

  After locking up the gun cabinet, Teller went to his desk and picked up a folded piece of paper. “Already drew you a map. These are two of the biggest sites that came to mind. There’s bound to be plenty more throughout the Rockies, but this should give you a fairly good start. From what I hear, that mining company hasn’t heeded any requests to stop what they were doing, and when fines come along, they just pay them. Because of that, I’d guess any one of their sites should suit your purposes just as well as another.”

  Paul took the map from the sheriff and gave it a quick look. “Am I reading this right? The closest site is only about five miles from here?”