Guns on the Prairie

by David Robbins

  “Why do you keep doin’ what you do?”

  “I told you,” Stone said. “Not personal.”

  “What’s personal about that?” Franks rejoined. “I only ask because you look to be as old as Methuselah. Most would have quit before they got so many wrinkles. How come you stick with it?”

  “I like to travel and meet jackasses.”

  “I mean it. I’m really curious.”

  Stone suspected Franks was stalling in hope of turning the tables, but he answered honestly. “I had a friend once. My best friend in all the world. He was a lawman, like me. One day, oh, about ten years ago, he decided he’d worn a badge long enough, and it was time for him to buy a small house with a porch so he could while away the rest of his days in a rockin’ chair.”

  “Nothin’ strange about that,” Franks said. “Folks like to rock when they’re old. My grandma used to say it reminds them of when they were infants and were bein’ rocked by their mas.”

  Stone had never thought of that. It struck him as half-brilliant.

  “’Course, she was addlepated,” Franks went on. “How can anyone recollect bein’ rocked by their mothers when they weren’t even old enough to tell their fingers from their toes?”

  “There’s hope for you yet,” Stone said.

  “So your friend had his rockin’ chair?” Franks prompted. “How does that account for you not havin’ one of your own?”

  “About a year after he retired, his grandson went over one mornin’ and found him in that rocker, dead as a doornail, and stiff, to boot. The doc said his heart gave out, but I knew better.”

  “What did he die of, then?”

  “Uselessness,” Stone said, scowling at the memories being stirred. “We had a talk, him and me, not long before he passed away, and he mentioned how useless he felt. He didn’t have anything to do anymore besides go fishin’ now and then and sit in that rocker and rock.”

  “So you won’t quit because you’re afraid the same might happen to you?” Franks scratched the stubble on his chin, and nodded. “I reckon that makes sense. Everybody should feel like they’re of some use. I did, back in my cowboyin’ days. Then I got too big for my britches and took up with Loudon, and I’ve been pretty much useless ever since.”

  “I’m surprised you’d admit it.”

  “We are what we are,” Franks said. “No use tryin’ to hide it.”

  “Some of your grandma must have rubbed off on you.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  Stone had come to a decision. He’d long since learned to weed out the truly evil from the so-so. “When you’re done stickin’ him with that picket pin, you can go.”

  “Go where?”

  “Anywhere you want.”

  Franks’s jaw dropped. “Am I hearin’ right? You’re lettin’ me go?”

  “Provided you leave your pistol and your rifle and pay for the damages you and him caused.”

  Franks beamed, then scowled. “We don’t have much money. Not enough to pay for all that.”

  “You can work it out with Applebaum and the owner of the feed and grain,” Stone said, and wagged his Colt at him. “Mark my words, though. I’ll keep in touch with them—and if you go back on your word, I’ll hunt you down.”

  “I believe you.” Franks jabbed a thumb at Loudon. “What about my pard?”

  “He pistol-whipped Mr. Applebaum and tried to shoot me. He doesn’t deserve a second chance.”

  “Thank God I do!” Franks exclaimed.

  “Thank somebody,” Stone said.

  5

  BACK THEN

  The City of Sin. The Mile High Bordello. Queen City of the Plains. Those were a few of the nicknames Denver had earned in its short existence.

  He took the name Robert Grant. It had a nice sound to it, an honest sound. And easy to remember. “Robert” came from the first name of the most famous Southern general during the Civil War. “Grant” was the name of the most famous Union general, and later President. He also took a room at the Carlton. It wasn’t the most prestigious, but it had a reputation for quality and he wanted to give the impression he was a man of quality.

  The key to impersonations, he’d decided, was to make them as real as possible. No detail was too small to prevent people from suspecting he was a fake.

  The idea for his scheme came to him by chance. In order to better acquaint himself with the city, he bought a copy of the Denver Weekly Times. The main page had a story about how Colorado was expected to be admitted to the Union in the next year or so, and how there was talk of Denver becoming the state capital.

  An article on the last page interested him more. It was headlined “Where Is the Charity?” According to the journalist who wrote it, Denver was a city of two classes, the rich and the poor. Mansions were springing up right and left, thanks to strikes in the gold fields and the silver lodes. Savvy businessmen who catered to the needs of the hordes of the money-hungry were making their own money hand over fist. But a lot of people, the majority, barely got by. They lived hand to mouth. Hundreds could barely afford their next meal, let alone a roof over their heads.

  “Where is our sense of Christian charity?” the journalist asked. “Why do we let women and children go homeless? Why must a mother with a newborn plead for the money for milk on a street corner? Why must a miner who lost his legs in a mine collapse beg for the sustenance the rest of us take for granted?”

  The journalist went on to appeal to Denver’s well-to-do to open their pocketbooks and purses to those in desperate plight. What was needed, he wrote, were new charities that would work to feed and clothe those who, through no fault of their own, were in great need.

  Reading the account, he had his brainstorm. It was as if a keg of black powder went off in his head. Over the next several days, it was all he thought about.

  The impersonation he had in mind would be easy to carry off. And it wouldn’t cost much to get started.

  The next day he visited a printer. He had cards made up. THE DENVER BENEVOLENT ASSOCIATION, they read, along with his name and his address at the Carlton, in case anyone checked up on him. He liked that word, “benevolent.” He remembered it from the Sisters of Benevolent Mercy in Kansas City, nuns who served meals to those down on their luck.

  Wearing his suit and looking his very best, he started at one end of Larimer Square and went from business to business, introducing himself and asking if they would like to contribute to the poor and needy of their fair city. The money, he assured them, would go to feed and clothe those in desperate need.

  At the very first business he visited, a place that sold tools and the like, the owner offered to give him fifty dollars but said that he’d need a receipt for accounting purposes.

  Smothering his panic at his blunder, he patted his pockets and laughed and said, “Wouldn’t you know it? I left them in my room. There are days when I wonder if my head is attached.”

  “That’s no problem, Mr. Grant,” the owner said. “I always have extras. I buy receipt books by the dozen. Cheaper that way.”

  He’d never known there was such a thing. It was a godsend. Nearly everywhere he went, they wanted a receipt, too.

  By the end of the day, to his considerable astonishment, he’d collected close to five hundred dollars. That night, he spread the money out on his bed and threw a few bills into the air and silently laughed at how easy it had been.

  He didn’t overdo it. He went out once a week, always to a part of the city he hadn’t been to before.

  For several months all went fine. He lived well, ate well. He gambled now and then, but judiciously.

  Then one day he was strolling along Broadway and saw a bronzed plaque on a brick building. The Denver Businessman’s Club, it announced. He figured it was worth a try. Going in, he introduced himself and gave a card to the receptionist. Presently she escorted him down a l
ong hall to the manager’s office. A short, heavyset man named Owlsley pumped his hand and bid him take a seat, then went around a large mahogany desk. Owlsley was holding the card.

  “The Denver Benevolent Association? I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of your organization before, Mr. Grant.”

  “We’ve been around a while now,” he said glibly. “Our work with the poor is well known.” He mentioned several businesses that had contributed, adding, “The poor are in need of so much. Maybe your club would consider helping out?”

  “It’s not my club,” Owlsley said. “I merely run it for some of the wealthiest men in the city. The membership is restricted, you see.”

  “The Association would be grateful for anything they can give.” He patted his pocket. “I’ll provide a receipt, of course.”

  Owlsley sat back and tapped the card against his double chin. “If you don’t mind my saying, you seem a trifle young for your line of work.”

  “How old do you have to be to want to help people?”

  “It’s just that most your age seldom take much interest in the welfare of others. They are too involved in their own lives.”

  “I lived on the street once,” he said. “It taught me a few things.”

  “Indeed it would,” Owlsley said. He looked at the card and set it on his desk. “Tell you what. I’ll broach the subject of a donation with the members, and if they’re willing, make a generous donation. Come back in a few days and I should have your answer.”

  It sounded reasonable. He thanked Owlsley, shook his hand, and went out with visions of the largest donation yet swimming in his head. That night he visited his favorite saloon. He drank a little, gambled a little, and was on his way back to the Carlton by eleven.

  Halfway there, a feeling came over him. A strange feeling that he was being watched. He stopped and looked around, but the few people he saw weren’t paying any attention to him.

  He didn’t want to give the impression he was overeager, so he let four days go by before he paid another visit to the Businessman’s Club. The receptionist was gone a while. When she returned, she apologized. Mr. Owlsley was tied up in a meeting. Would he be willing to come back that evening, say, about nine o’clock?

  He thought that was a little late, but he agreed. He idled the rest of the day away, and at a quarter to nine, rapped the knocker on the club’s door. To his mild surprise, Owlsley, himself, opened it.

  “Mr. Grant! How nice to see you again. Come in. Come in. I have good news for you. Let’s go up to my office, shall we?”

  Only a single lamp was lit. The hall was plunged in shadow. Owlsley held the office door for him, and he went in and drew up short.

  Another man was behind the desk. A spindly man in expensive clothes, his hands resting on the ivory handle to a polished cane. He had graying hair and muttonchops, and a nose hooked like a hawk’s beak.

  On either side of him stood a pair of big men with broad shoulders, virtual living statues.

  “What’s this?” he blurted as Owlsley closed the door behind them and stayed where he was, effectively blocking the only way out.

  The older man reached to the desk and held up the card. “Robert Grant, is it?” His voice was an ominous growl.

  “That’s right,” he answered, smiling. “And who might you be?”

  “Have a seat, Mr. Grant.”

  He went on smiling as he sank into a chair, but the hairs at the nape of his neck prickled.

  “You’ve stepped in it, Mr. Grant,” the man said.

  Shamming innocence, he twisted to look at Owlsley. “What is this, Mr. Owlsley? Who is this man, and why is he treating me this way?”

  “Tell him, Owlsley,” the man said.

  The manager had broken out in a sweat. “You’re addressing Mr. Ebidiah Worthingon. His name might be familiar. He is the founder of the Lucretia Mine and Silver Company, perhaps the most famous in the territory.”

  “Perhaps?” Ebidiah Worthington said in that growl of his.

  Owlsley coughed. “Mr. Worthington is one of the wealthiest men in Colorado, if not the country. He, in fact, also founded this club, which I manage for him.”

  “Get to the point,” Worthington said.

  “Yes, sir.” Owlsley paused. “As a matter of course, I report all matters of consequence to Mr. Worthington. I mentioned to him that you had stopped by and asked how much the club was willing to donate to your cause.”

  “And as a matter of course,” Worthington mimicked Owlsley, “I had you investigated.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me, boy,” Worthington said. “I didn’t get where I am by letting others take advantage of me.”

  “I don’t believe this.”

  “Start believing it, boy,” Worthington said. “You’re in very deep trouble. You and your confidence scheme.”

  “I represent the Denver Benevolent Association—” he began.

  Worthington held up a hand. “Stop. Don’t insult me. You see, initially I planned to donate a thousand dollars. But I thought I should check on the uses to which the money would be put. Some charities raise a lot of money for worthy causes but very little of what they raise goes to the cause. Imagine my surprise when I learned that you, in fact, have no cause. All the money you collect goes to yourself.” His thin lips curled in a sneer. “As best I can determine, you simply had cards printed and set yourself up as your own charity. Your gall astounds me. Your greed appalls me.”

  “Greed?”

  “What else would you call it, Mr. Grant? If that’s even your real name, which I very much doubt.”

  “I just wanted money to live on. I didn’t take a lot from anyone.”

  “You took enough, you despicable cad,” Worthington said. He tapped his fingers on his cane. “What’s your real name, by the way?”

  He went to reply.

  “Bear in mind,” Worthington broke him off, “that if I sense you’re lying, these men next to me will break your arms and your legs and whatever else I want broken.”

  He barely hesitated. “Alonzo,” he said. “Alonzo Pratt. My folks died when I was young and I was raised in an orphanage until I escaped and made my own way in the world.”

  Worthington stared intently at him, as if trying to peer into his very soul. “I believe you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But if you think your little tale of woe will sway me, you have another think coming,” Worthington said. “What you have done is despicable.”

  “Killers and robbers do worse,” Alonzo said.

  “A killer simply kills someone. Robbers take valuables at gun or knife point. You’re far worse, in my estimation. You prey on the gullibility of others, on their good natures. You’re devious, Mr. Pratt. Much as Satan was when he preyed on Eve’s gullibility in the Garden of Eden.”

  “The Garden of Eden?” Alonzo repeated. He didn’t understand how the Bible had gotten into it. Not that he knew much about it, except from Sunday services at the orphanage and the little he remembered from his ma reading to his pa and him on occasion.

  “To be perfectly honest, Mr. Pratt, I think you’re a wretched human being.”

  “I can give some of the money back,” Alonzo offered, thinking that would show he wasn’t as vile as the man seemed to think. “I haven’t spent all of it.”

  “And the people you fleeced whom you can’t reimburse?” Worthington said, and shook his head. “No, returning some of the money is only a partial solution. You can be of much more use than that.”

  Owlsley, who had been silent a while, spoke up with, “I beg you to reconsider, Mr. Worthington.”

  “Who works for whom?” Worthington said. “You mentioned your objections earlier, when we discussed it. I am firm in my resolve.”

  “He’s just a boy,” Owlsley said.

  “Nonsense,” Worthi
ngton said, and fixed his flinty eyes on Alonzo. “How old are you, Mr. Pratt? The truth, if you please.”

  “Twenty.”

  “There? You see?” Worthington said to Owlsley. “He’s a grown man. An adult. As such, the consequences of his actions are on his shoulders and his alone.”

  “But to do that, sir,” Owlsley said. “The law would take a dim view.”

  “What law?” Worthington spat. “Crime is rampant. Corruption widespread. Vermin and vice are everywhere, and it’s high time we put a stop to it. That’s why I helped form the Law and Order League.”

  Alonzo stiffened. He hadn’t been in Denver all that long, but he was well aware of the vigilance movement. For years now, the League had taken it on itself to “arrest” suspected criminals and put them on trial. Upwards of twenty men had been hung.

  “I see that caught your attention,” Worthington said. “As well it should. You see, the League is always in need of examples, and you would be excellent in that regard.”

  “Excellent how?” Alonzo asked in confusion.

  “To those who might be inclined to follow in your footsteps,” Worthington said. “Who might be tempted to fleece honest souls as you’ve been doing.” He smiled and nodded. “Yes, you will do nicely. We’ll arrest you and hold a trial and then hang you from a streetlamp as a warning to others.”

  “You wouldn’t!” Alonzo gasped.

  “Oh, I assure you, we certainly would,” Ebidiah Worthington said, and he uttered a cold, spiteful laugh.

  6

  Alonzo Pratt never anticipated anything like this. He never imagined he’d become a target of the vigilantes. Not for the petty crimes he committed. He wasn’t a murderer. He didn’t even rob people. He swindled them, yes, but he saw that as different, and less apt to result in harm to them or him.

  He thought about that as the burly underlings of Ebidiah Worthington forcefully guided him out the rear of the club. Each had hold of an arm, and their grips were like twin vises. Behind them, Worthington’s cane clacked on the hardwood floor.

  “Behave yourself, now, boy,” the rich man said, “and you won’t be hurt. Well, until we get around to hanging you.” He chuckled.