Guns on the Prairie

by David Robbins

  It startled him, and it shouldn’t have. Stone had worn tin for a good many years. More than any other Federal lawman on the frontier. By all rights he should have handed in his badge and taken to a-rocking by now. In fact, his superiors had been putting pressure on him to either do just that or agree to a desk job.

  Stone would rather be shot. He couldn’t think of anything worse than sitting behind a desk all day, pushing papers. It would be a death in itself.

  For almost forty years now, in several jurisdictions, he had dutifully done his job to the best of his ability. He liked always being on the go, never staying in one place too long. Liked the sky over his head for a ceiling and the ground under his feet for a floor. He could no more sit at a desk all day than he could give up his pipe. It was his one vice, and the reason he’d stopped at the store—to buy tobacco.

  The owner came to the hitch rail and pointed at the ruin of his face. “Do you see, Marshal?” he practically wailed. “Do you see what they did to me?”

  Stone had to think to recollect the man’s name. “Mr. Applebaum, isn’t it? Looks like you stuck your face in front of somebody’s fist.”

  Applebaum was portly and balding. He had thick lips, which quivered when he was mad, and he was furious. Gripping the rail, he stabbed a thick finger at Stone. “Was that supposed to be funny? Why are you just sitting there? Didn’t you hear me? Go after them. They might still be out there.”

  “Simmer down, Mr. Applebaum.”

  “I’ll do no such thing. They deserve to be shot, those animals. Riding in here and doing the terrible things they did.”

  Stone was aware of others coming from all directions. The sleepy little hamlet was coming alive. “You need to stay calm,” he said politely. He was always polite, always courteous. Back in his day, that was how folks did. There was none of the sass and rudeness so common these days.

  “Calm, my ass,” Applebaum said.

  Stone bent forward, his gray eyes flinty. “And watch your language. There are ladies comin’.”

  “What?” Applebaum said. “Who cares about that? Look at my face!”

  Before Stone could reply, a heavyset woman who waddled when she walked came up and placed a pudgy hand on his leg.

  “Have you heard about them, Marshal? Have you heard what they did?”

  Half a dozen people ringed Stone’s roan, all of them talking at once. They stopped when he held up a hand and barked, “Enough! I’ll take you one at a time. After I climb down.”

  The woman waddled back, saying, “Well, I never.”

  Stiffly dismounting, Stone put a hand to the small of his back. Long hours in the saddle tended to bother him some. In his younger days, he could ride forever and not feel a thing.

  Stepping onto the boardwalk, Stone caught sight of his reflection in the store window. At five feet, ten inches, and spindly of frame, he was hardly imposing. His gray hair, and the gray on his chin when he didn’t shave, lent him a grandfatherly look. His hat, his clothes, were plain, his boots ordinary. Even the Colt on his hip was an over-the-counter model. There was nothing flashy about him at all, nothing to draw the eye except the badge on his shirt.

  The townspeople were looking at one another and some of them fidgeting as if they couldn’t wait to say what they had to. Up and down the street, more people were coming.

  “Suppose you give me the facts, Mr. Applebaum, and then I’ll point at each of you and you can each have your say.”

  Applebaum pointed at his face again. “You see this? The two of them did this. Beat me with their pistols. They must have struck me ten or eleven times.”

  Stone doubted it. Anyone hit that many times, their face would be pulped. “Two who, Mr. Applebaum? How about you back up and start at the beginnin’.”

  With an effort, the store owner composed himself, and coughed. “Very well. I apologize for yelling at you. But I’m terribly upset.”

  “We all are,” the heavyset woman said. “They took our town over and terrorized us.”

  “You’ll get your turn, ma’am,” Stone said. “Go on, Mr. Applebaum.”

  “It was yesterday, toward sunset, that they rode in. Two of them. Scruffy sorts. They hadn’t bathed in ages, and they were wearing guns. You know the kind.”

  Stone refrained from pointing out that on the frontier, guns were as common as teeth. “Can you describe them better? Did you hear their names?”

  “Franks and Loudon, I heard them say,” Applebaum said. “Franks is tall and has a scar. He did most of the talking. Loudon didn’t say much but he’s the mean one. The one who struck me when I didn’t move fast enough to suit him. Then Franks hit me, too.” He closed his eyes and shuddered.

  “Go on,” Stone encouraged him.

  “Well, they came into my store and looked around as if they were going to shop, but then they came to the counter and the one called Franks asked me if I had any liquor. I told him we don’t have a saloon, and he said that wasn’t what he asked. He looked at me and sort of bared his teeth and asked if I had any liquor. I told him I had a bottle of whiskey that I hardly ever touch, and he told me to fetch it. When I said it wasn’t for sale, that’s when he hauled me over the counter and Loudon hit me. Franks stood over me and asked where the bottle was, but I was so shocked, I couldn’t answer. So he hit me, too.”

  Stone frowned. He knew where this was going. He’d seen it before, more times than he could count. “They forced you to tell them and treated themselves.”

  “If by ‘treat’ you mean they drank the bottle dry, and it was nearly full, then yes,” Applebaum said. “They left me on the floor, and went around smashing things and turning my shelves over. You should see it in there. My store is a mess. They must have done hundreds in damage.”

  Stone turned and looked through the window. The place was indeed a shambles.

  “The more they drank, the more they carried on,” Applebaum was saying. “I don’t know why they picked on me. I hadn’t done anything.”

  “Men like that don’t need an excuse,” Stone said.

  The heavyset woman couldn’t curb her impatience any longer. “That’s not all they did. They came out into the street and began shooting at people, and laughing all the while.”

  “Did they hit anyone?”

  “No, but what does that matter? They were shooting at us. That was enough.” She pointed up the street. “They shot out the window to the feed and grain, too.”

  Stone hadn’t noticed the shattered glass when he rode in. But then, he was bone tired.

  “They demanded more whiskey, Marshal,” another man said. “Warned that they’d hurrah the town if we didn’t give it to them.”

  “And did you?”

  Yet another townsman spoke up. “I had a bottle I kept for special occasions. I gave it to them and pleaded for them to go and leave us be.”

  “And did they?”

  Applebaum answered. “They rode out to the wash north of town and made camp. Built a fire and sat there drinking, as brazen as anything. We know because Levi’s oldest boy snuck out and took a look.”

  “They might still be there,” the heavyset woman said. “You can catch them if you hurry.”

  Stone glanced skyward. The sun was only a few hours high. The pair might still be there, at that. Stepping to the roan, he swung back up.

  “Be careful, Marshal,” Applebaum said. “They’re dangerous.”

  Stone would have been inclined to think the pair had just gotten carried away, except that they’d beaten the store owner before they got their hands on his liquor. “I’ll have a talk with them.”

  “Talk?” the woman snorted. “You should arrest them. It’s indecent, what they did. Scaring people like that.”

  “Don’t forget my face,” Applebaum said.

  Some of the others started talking all at once.

  Stone reined
around.

  “The wash isn’t far, Marshal,” a man called out. “You can’t miss it.”

  Hebron fell behind him. He hadn’t gone a quarter of a mile when tendrils of smoke drew him to the east. He left the road, holding the roan to a slow walk. The smoke made it easy. When he was fifty yards out, he drew rein and advanced on foot, his hand on his Colt.

  The pair were bundled in their blankets, asleep. An empty bottle lay in the dirt between them. They’d had the sense to use picket pins for their horses but hadn’t stripped their saddles. The fire had burned low but hadn’t gone entirely out, which explained the smoke.

  Stone squatted on the rim, rested his arms across his knees, and studied the troublemakers. He had a long memory when it came to faces, particularly those who were wanted, and neither jogged his recollection. That was good. Hardened outlaws were more apt to resist, and he could do without the aggravation. Clearing his throat, he hollered down, “Mornin’, gents.”

  Neither so much as stirred.

  “Mornin’, gents,” Stone yelled a little louder. “Rise and shine. You’ve got some explainin’ to do.”

  One of them rose onto his elbows and sleepily looked around. “What?” he said thickly. “What was that?”

  “I said mornin’,” Stone said.

  Blinking against the glare, the man squinted up at him. “What was that? Who the hell are you?” He had straw-colored hair and was missing part of his left ear.

  Standing, Stone tapped his badge.

  The man sat bolt upright. “A lawdog!” he exclaimed, and glanced at his companion. “Loudon! Loudon! Wake up.”

  “You must be Mr. Franks,” Stone said. He stayed on the rim, his hand still on his Colt.

  Franks was struggling to collect his wits. He vigorously shook his head, and winced.

  “I hear you boys drank a lot last night,” Stone said. “Your noggin must be hammerin’ right about now.”

  “Well, hell,” Franks said. Jamming his hat on, he threw his blanket off. He’d fallen asleep fully clothed, with his gun belt on. Either his six-shooter, a Remington, had fallen out, or he’d set it beside him. He went to reach for it.

  “Don’t,” Stone said.

  Franks froze. “What is this?” he demanded.

  “I hear you pistol-whipped a man,” Stone said. “You and your pard.”

  Loudon picked that moment to roll over. He had black hair and close-set dark eyes, and was scowling. Smacking his lips, he gazed confusedly about. “What’s all the racket? What’s goin’ on?”

  “We have company,” Franks said. “A tin star.”

  That woke Loudon right quick. He, too, sat up, his blanket sliding around his waist. “Him?” he said, spotting Stone.

  “You see anyone else?” Franks said.

  “What is this?” Loudon said. “We didn’t do anything.”

  “The storekeeper’s face says different,” Stone replied. “So does his store. And there’s the matter of the feed and grain window, and shootin’ the town up.”

  “Well, hell,” Franks said. “We were just havin’ fun.”

  “That’s right,” Loudon said. “Sowin’ some oats is all we done.”

  “You sowed a little hard,” Stone said. “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to collect your things and come with me.”

  “Well, hell,” Franks said. It seemed to be his favorite expression. “Can’t we just agree to pay for the damages?”

  “We don’t know what they are yet,” Stone said, “and that’s not up to me, anyhow. It will be for the judge to decide.”

  “Are you arrestin’ us?”

  “Afraid so,” Stone said. He was watching Loudon, who had placed his hands flat on the ground close to his blanket and his hips.

  “Well, hell,” Franks said.

  “If it was only drunk and disorderly, I might be willin’ to let you go if you could pay the damages,” Stone elaborated. “But you had to go and beat Mr. Applebaum.”

  “We only hit him once,” Franks said.

  “Each,” Stone amended. “With your six-guns.”

  “All we wanted was a bottle,” Franks said. “All he had to do was give us one without any fuss. But he went and lectured us on the evils of drink.”

  “So you hit him.”

  “I wasn’t in no mood for no lecture,” Franks said. “I told him to shut up and he wouldn’t.”

  “That’s a poor excuse,” Stone said. “Now how about the two of you put yourselves together so I can take you back into town?”

  “Maybe we don’t want to go,” Loudon said.

  “I’m the law,” Stone said.

  “That don’t make you God Almighty, you old geezer.”

  Franks glanced at his partner. “Loudon, don’t.”

  “I hate high and mighty,” Loudon said. “I hate it more than anything.” He gave his head a vigorous toss, as if to fully wake up.

  “No, I say,” Franks said.

  “Do you want to go to jail? I sure as hell don’t. And I sure as hell won’t.” With that, Loudon jerked his hand out from under the blanket and pointed a revolver.

  3

  The rider reached the bedroom in several long bounds. Darting around the bed, he yanked the closet door open, crouched, and slipped inside. Long dresses filled half of it, and he slid behind them, leaving a gap so he could see out. He left the door open a couple of inches, enough that he could see the doorway and part of the bed.

  None too soon.

  Martha appeared. She was humming to herself. She crossed out of his line of vision, toward the chest of drawers. He heard a drawer scrape open. Whatever she was after didn’t take long to find. The drawer scraped again and she reappeared, about to depart. Unexpectedly, she glanced at the closet.

  The rider held his breath. She might remember that the door had been closed and wonder why it was open. But no, after a few moments she walked out, humming softly as before.

  The rider quietly let out his breath. The last thing he needed was to be caught. He prided himself on always getting away clean. Not that there hadn’t been a few times when he’d been lucky to make it out alive.

  He stayed put several minutes, just to be safe. Finally easing out, he crept to the door. From downstairs came the clatter of pots.

  On cat’s feet he descended and was out the front with Martha none the wiser. There was no sign of Sam. Hastening to the barn, he shoved the pouch into his saddlebags, brought Archibald out, and rode at a walk until he was sure he was out of earshot. Then he gigged Archibald to a trot, back to the hill and up it into the woods.

  His packhorse was right where he’d left it, dozing. Climbing down, he unbuttoned the uniform shirt and eased his left arm from behind his back. The arm was a little stiff from being bent behind him for so long, and he flexed it and moved it up and down. Satisfied, he shoved it into the sleeve, untied the lead rope, and got out of there.

  He had no doubt that if Sam Carson and his wife discovered the theft, Sam would be after him with a shotgun.

  “Let him,” the rider said to Archibald, and grinned. “That was pretty slick, huh?”

  The rider used his heels and held to a trot for about half a mile. That should be enough, he reckoned, that he could relax some, and he slowed.

  The day was sunny and bright. Butterflies fluttered about a patch of wildflowers, and songbirds warbled.

  “Yes, sir,” the rider happily declared. “Life is lookin’ good.”

  It hadn’t always. In his mind’s eye he flashed back to when he was ten, to that horrible day when his ma died of the consumption that had slowly been killing her for years. His pa went to pieces and took to the bottle, sucking the bug juice down as if there would be no tomorrow. Which, in his pa’s case, turned out to be the truth. In less than a year his pa was dead, too.

  The worst day of all was the day
of his pa’s funeral. His aunts and uncles brought him home and sat in the parlor discussing what was to be done with him. They didn’t know he was eavesdropping, didn’t know how it crushed him to hear them say that none of them wanted to take him in. One uncle flat-out said he wasn’t their responsibility. An aunt said that she already had four kids and couldn’t afford to raise another. Another aunt, a spinster, said that she’d never wanted children, and wasn’t about to change her ways because “the black sheep of the family,”’ as she called his pa, had drunk himself to death.

  The upshot was that they decided to put him in an orphanage.

  Four years. That was how long he was stuck there. Four years of pure hell. Four years of being switched for the slightest infraction. Four years of barely enough to eat, of threadbare blankets in the cold of winter, of hand-me-down clothes that never fit, of shoes that were either too tight or too loose, of lights out at eight and always up at five, of scrubbing and sweeping and not being allowed to visit the outhouse without permission.

  Was it any wonder he’d hated it? Was it any wonder that one day he decided enough was enough, and snuck out in the middle of the night? He hiked over ten miles to the city.

  Chicago. He hadn’t known much about it at the time, except that there were an awful lot of people and it would be easy to lose himself amid the teeming throngs. Nearly three hundred thousand, he would learn, and growing by leaps and bounds.

  It was a whole new world. A scary world. At first he scrounged in the trash and refuse bins in alleys for food. He slept in discarded crates, in empty houses, anywhere dry and somewhat safe.

  In time he graduated from refuse to thievery. He’d swipe fruit from stalls, snatch clothes from street vendors. He learned that other urchins were adept at picking pockets, so he became adept at it, too. His early attempts were clumsy, and only his fleetness of foot spared him from winding up behind bars. He might not have improved much if he hadn’t made the acquaintance of Old Tom, who was a master at relieving others of their valuables. Old Tom taught him the most valuable trick of all. Being quick was fine, and having a light touch was dandy, but the true secret to being a successful pickpocket was what Old Tom called “the art of distraction.” Which was a highfalutin way of saying you bamboozled your victim.