Guns on the Prairie

by David Robbins

  “You’ve killed your damn horse.” Willy was glaring at the mare, his fists balled. “Now we’ll have to ride double.”

  “I didn’t—” Jenna began, and got no further. To her disbelief, he stormed into her, swinging. She tried to avoid him but she was too weak, too woozy. He punched her on the cheek, on the temple. Once again her mind darkened, and the next she knew, she was on her knees, blood trickling from a gash in her cheek, feeling new waves of pain.

  Willy stood over her, his right fist cocked, his face red with rage. “I should bust your teeth!”

  “Is this what you call love?” Jenna spat. She couldn’t help herself. Fury rose in her gorge like lava in a volcano.

  “You don’t know nothin’,” Willy said, and hit her again.

  Jenna was knocked onto her side. She tasted blood in her mouth and knew one or both of her lips had been pulped. She wished she had a gun or a knife. “You miserable sack of scum.”

  More blows descended, and a boot caught her in the ribs. Then there was nothing, for how long, she knew not.

  Suddenly Jenna’s eyes were open, the sun hot on her face. Judging by the sun, she figured she couldn’t have been out more than ten or fifteen minutes.

  Willy was pacing and muttering to himself. He kept looking to the southeast.

  Clearly, he was worried about their pursuers.

  The mare had stopped thrashing and whinnying and breathed in great gulps, her nostrils flaring with each breath.

  Jenna had to try twice to speak. She managed to wet her hurt lips, and swallow. “What are you waiting for? Put her out of her misery.”

  Willy stopped pacing and glowered. “Do you see what you’ve done to us?”

  “My mare,” Jenna said. “She’s in pain.”

  “Whose fault is that?” Willy swore and looked away.

  “You have to shoot her,” Jenna said. It was all they could do. They had no means of setting the broken leg, and it wouldn’t support the mare’s weight if they did. Otherwise, the poor horse would die a lingering, agony-racked death that might take days.

  “Like hell I do.”

  “Please.” Jenna tried being reasonable. “You know you do. You can’t let her suffer. It’s inhumane.”

  “You’d better learn here and now that I only do what I want to do, not what you want me to.”

  “She’s hurting!” Jenna cried.

  “Not my doin’,” Willy said, and jabbed a finger at her. “You hit me. Damn near broke my jaw. Then you tried to get away, and look.”

  “Don’t take it out on my horse,” Jenna said. “I’m begging you.”

  “Beg all you want. Why should I bother? I’m havin’ second thoughts about you,” Willy said. “You’re not all I figured you were.”

  “Forget about me and deal with my horse.”

  “Shut up.” Willy turned his back to her.

  It took considerable effort but Jenna made it to her knees. “Give me your revolver. I’ll do it.”

  Willy uttered a bark of a laugh. “Not likely.”

  “I promise I’ll only use it for her,” Jenna said. “I give you my word I won’t shoot you.” As much as she yearned to, the mare was more important.

  “No.”

  “You’re despicable.”

  “I’m tired of your name-callin’,” Willy said. “Not one more, or else.”

  Marshaling all her strength, Jenna stood. A sharp pang in her head caused her to bite her lip to keep from crying out. Taking a faltering step, she held out her hand. “I’m asking politely. Let me shoot her and I’ll give your revolver right back.”

  “I don’t trust you.”

  “Then take your rifle and cover me,” Jenna suggested. “Stand behind me, and if I try anything, you can shoot me.”

  “You want her dead that much?”

  “Haven’t I made that plain?” Jenna looked at her poor horse. The mare was quaking as if she were cold.

  “Listen,” Willy said, “even if I let you, there’s somethin’ else. A shot can carry for miles.”

  “You’re afraid my father might be close enough to hear?”

  “I’m not afraid of anything,” Willy snapped. “And it’s the Sioux I’m thinkin’ of. We don’t want a war party breathin’ down our necks. Not if we have to ride double.”

  Jenna saw there was no budging him. Not unless she did something drastic. “How about this. You shoot her for me, and from here on out, I’ll do whatever you say, no arguments whatsoever.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “You’ve been around me long enough to know that when I give my word, I keep it.” Jenna took a deep breath. “As much as I hate saying this, I’ll do whatever you want from here on out. I vow to you before God and all that’s holy.”

  A wicked gleam lit Willy’s face, and his mouth twisted in an ominous sneer. “Well, now. This horse of yours has done me a favor.” Drawing his Colt, he turned to the mare and extended his arm. “I’m lookin’ forward to tonight.”

  Jenna did some quaking of her own.

  28

  Just when Alonzo Pratt thought things couldn’t get any worse, they did. The old lawman had seen through his impersonation. To be honest, Alonzo was surprised he’d been able to pull off the deception as long as he had. The prospect of being disarmed, though, didn’t sit well with him. “I’m no threat to you.”

  “You admit it, then?” Deputy Jacob Stone said. “I’m right, and you’re not a lawman?” He held out his left hand. “I’ll have that pistol, if you please.”

  “Think about this,” Alonzo said. “We’re in the middle of Sioux country, and we’re after the worst outlaws in the territory. What use can I be to you without my revolver?”

  Stone wagged his hand.

  “If I’d wanted to harm you, I had a million chances to do it,” Alonzo reminded him. “I’m not Willy Boy Jenkins. I’m no killer.”

  “What are you, exactly?” Stone said.

  “I pretend to be people I’m not in order to trick others out of their money,” Alonzo confessed.

  “A confidence man?” Stone said. “You’re damn good at it. You had me fooled for the longest while.”

  “You’ve had other things on your mind,” Alonzo said, “and you were shot with that arrow, besides.”

  “True,” Stone said.

  “And it was me who looked after you when you were out to the world,” Alonzo reminded him. “I could easily have put a slug in you or slit your throat, but I didn’t.”

  “That’s true as well.” Stone pursed his lips in thought. He looked at the revolver in his hand, then lowered it. “All right. You’ve made your point. It wouldn’t do to have only one of us armed if hostiles jump us or we catch up to Cal Grissom’s bunch.”

  “Thank you,” Alonzo said sincerely.

  “Don’t think I’ve gone soft,” Stone said gruffly. “I haven’t. I’m bein’ practical. Once we’ve rescued Miss Grissom and we get her to North Platte, I’m still arrestin’ you. You have to answer for your crimes.”

  “If you say so.”

  About to turn to their horses, Stone paused. “Why do you do it, son? An intelligent hombre like you? Why not hold a real job? One that won’t get you thrown behind bars?”

  Alonzo shrugged. “I started doin’ it almost by accident and stuck with it because I was good at it. And I never really hurt anyone. I’m not like Willy Boy Jenkins or those others.”

  “Still, it’s stealin’.”

  “I admit it’s wrong,” Alonzo conceded. “But my conscience never bothered me enough that I considered quittin’.”

  “It’s a shame,” Stone said. “You’re not a bad person. I’d sense it if you were. Seems to me you’re misguided more than anything.”

  “What I am,” Alonzo said, “is worried sick about Jenna.”

  “Make
s two of us, so let’s fan the breeze.” Stone took a step, and stopped. “What’s your real handle, anyhow? I doubt it’s Robert Grant.”

  Alonzo told him.

  “Well, Mr. Pratt, this is your lucky day. I usually clap handcuffs on lawbreakers.” Stone grinned to show it was a joke.

  As he climbed on Archibald, Alonzo gave silent thanks that the old lawman was being so reasonable. He liked Stone, he truly did, and he suspected that Stone liked him, as well. But he wouldn’t let Stone arrest him. When the time came, he must find a way to thwart him.

  * * *

  Jacob Stone had a lot on his mind.

  Saving the Grissom gal was his top priority. After that came dealing with her pa’s gang. And after that came dealing with young Mr. Alonzo Pratt.

  Pratt’s gall amazed and amused him. To impersonate a lawman took sand. Not that Pratt had shown much grit in their clash with the war party. Yes, Pratt killed some of the Sioux, but only because it was them or him. Pratt didn’t like violence, and went out of his way to avoid it.

  Stone believed the younger man when he said he was no killer. It was one of the reasons Stone let him keep his six-shooter.

  Over the course of his many years bringing lawbreakers to justice, Stone had learned a few things about human nature. One was that some folks were willing to break the law, but only to a certain point. There was a line they wouldn’t cross. With a lot of them, that line was murder. They might rob, they might cheat, they might do a lot of illegal things, but they’d never, ever willfully take a life.

  Alonzo Pratt was one of those.

  Then there were the other kind. Those who never drew the line at anything. Those who regarded murdering someone as no different from stepping on a bug. They were the true killers. Men like Willy Boy Jenkins, Ira Fletcher, Tom Kent, and Weasel Ginty.

  The Prussian was a bit of a mystery. Stone had heard tell that Spike Davis, or whatever his real name was, once shot a townsman when the gang was riding off after a bank robbery. But the Prussian had been returning fire.

  That left Cal Grissom and Burt Alacord. Stone wouldn’t categorize them as outright killers. Grissom and Alacord only shot someone when they had to, and in the former’s case, if reports were to be believed, that had only been a couple of times in his entire lawless career.

  Stone grinned. Here he was, making excuses for a notorious outlaw.

  Next he’d take up knitting or join a sewing circle. He almost laughed at his silliness. Instead, he knuckled down to riding hard. Dawn found them still on the outlaws’ trail, the tracks plain enough that a ten-year-old could follow them. With no rain in prospect, sticking to them posed no problem.

  Stone found himself thinking about the girl. She’d broken the law, too, and had to be brought in. It was a shame, her being so young. And all because she wanted to be with her father after all those years apart.

  Here I go, Stone thought, making excuses again.

  He never had liked arresting women, though. It went against his grain. He’d been raised to regard females as special. As different from men. As better. It wasn’t true, of course. There were bad women just as there were bad men.

  Jenna Grissom wasn’t a bad person. She was a victim of circumstance. Her love for her pa had led her to stray from the straight and narrow, and now look. She’d been taken captive by a gent with no more conscience than a rattler.

  Stone felt sorry for her. And for Alonzo, too. The young ones these days did a lot of stupid things. They should know better. Or maybe the young were always scatterbrained, and he’d just never paid it any mind before.

  One thing was certain.

  The worst of this affair was yet to come.

  * * *

  Tom Kent was the quiet one of Cal Grissom’s gang. The only one who spoke less was the Prussian.

  Kent didn’t talk much because he never had much to say. He didn’t have opinions about everything, like some of the others. All he cared about in life was having money to spend, and his knives.

  Kent bought them on a whim from an Italian merchant who set up shop in New London. They were throwing knives, and the Italian had taught Kent the basics. The rest Kent picked up on his own. He had a knack for it. The knives became as much a part of him as his arms and his hands.

  The first man Kent killed was a drunken sailor, in a row. The sailor had pulled a derringer, and Kent put two knives into his chest before he could shoot. He’d had to flee New London one step ahead of the constabulary, which had proven to be a godsend in disguise. It brought Kent west, and to a way of life that fit him like a glove.

  Kent never would have thought it. He’d lived near the sea as a boy, and loved the sea so much that he signed on with a whaling vessel. Not to specifically hunt whales so much as to be at sea.

  One terrible day Kent was washed overboard during a fierce storm. That his shipmates were able to haul him in and save him was little short of a miracle. He’d swallowed so much water, he came within a mouthful of drowning.

  So much for the sea.

  Kent had taken to spending his nights at waterfront dives, drinking more than he should. That’s where he got into the fight with the sailor.

  Kent didn’t stop running until he was west of the Mississippi River. He joined a party of men heading for Denver and the distant Rocky Mountains, and they set off across the prairie. Along the way a strange thing happened. He fell in love with the vastness of it all. The prairie stretched on forever, a sea of grass as vast as the real seas he had sailed on whaling vessels. The wide open spaces, as they were called, appealed to him as much as the wide open ocean.

  On reaching Denver, Kent lived pretty much hand to mouth. He took up with some rough characters, and one thing led to another. He never set out to become an outlaw, yet that was how events unfolded. And now here he was, a member of the Grissom gang.

  Kent had never had it so good. He never wanted for money, and in fact, he’d saved over four thousand dollars from his share of the robberies they committed. A wad of bills thick enough to choke a dolphin was secreted in his bedroll.

  Kent looked up to Grissom. He’d do anything for the man. So when they stopped to rest their animals and Burt Alacord mentioned that they were a couple of hours behind Willy Boy and Grissom’s daughter, Kent stepped forward.

  “I have an idea, Cal.”

  Cal Grissom had been a study in despair all day. He’d squatted and was glumly gazing off into the distance. “About what?”

  Kent motioned at the setting sun. “It’ll be dark in less than an hour. If we don’t catch up to Willy before then, he might change course during the night and give us the slip.”

  “What do you propose?”

  “I’m the smallest and lightest out of all of us,” Kent brought up. He barely stood five feet in his stocking-feet and didn’t weigh more than a hundred and ten pounds.

  “You’re damn near a midget,” Burt Alacord said, and laughed.

  Kent grinned. He was used to Alacord’s good-natured ribbing. “Put me on the fastest horse we have and I’ll overtake them before dark. We know they’re riding double since we found that dead horse, and that will slow them.”

  “Jenna’s mare,” Cal said, frowning. “But just you alone?”

  “You don’t think I can take Willy Boy?” Kent said, and patted the knives at his waist. “You’ve seen me with my blades.”

  “All things being equal,” Cal said, “a knife is no match for a six-shooter.”

  “Not if I was stupid enough to walk up to him and let him draw on me,” Kent said. “I’m not that dumb. Once I’ve caught up, I’ll wait for dark and slip in close and put my knives in him before he knows what’s happening.”

  “It could work,” Burt said to Cal.

  “Ja,” the Prussian said.

  “Better him try than me,” Weasel Ginty said. “I’m no match for Willy Boy and I know it.
”

  Cal gnawed on his bottom lip. “You think I should let him?” he said to Burt Alacord.

  “We were lucky not to lose their trail in the dark last night,” Burt said. “We might not be as lucky tonight.” He nodded. “Yes. I reckon you should.”

  “You’d have to be careful as can be,” Cal said to Kent. “It’s my girl we’re talking about. If anything happened to her . . .”

  “It won’t be on account of me,” Kent assured him. “I won’t do anything that will place her in harm. Trust me.”

  “If I didn’t, you wouldn’t be riding with me,” Cal said, and stood. “All right. Take my bay. It’s the fastest and doesn’t tire easy.”

  “I’ll take good care of it,” Kent said.

  Cal placed his hand on Kent’s shoulder. “I’m counting on you, Tom, like I’ve never counted on anyone.”

  Kent coughed and declared, “I won’t let you down.”

  The bay was several hands higher than Kent’s sorrel. Once in the saddle, he had the illusion he could see for miles. He nodded grimly at the others, then said to Cal, “I’ll fetch her back safe and sound.” With that, he used his spurs.

  Kent liked to ride. The rolling gait of a horse reminded him of the rolling pitch of a ship. And unlike some of the others, he could go all day and all night and not be bothered by stiffness or cramps. Maybe his size had something to do with it.

  To the west, bands of red and yellow splashed the horizon. A flock of crows rose and were silhouetted against the sun.

  Kent thought of Willy Jenkins, and how Willy had betrayed Cal’s trust. He’d never liked Willy much. The boy put on airs and acted like he was the cat’s meow. Kent had no compunctions about killing him. Not that he’d take any delight in it, as he had with a few others. It had to be done, was all, for Cal’s sake.

  The bay was superb. The horse flowed over the ground as if it had wings on its legs.

  To the south Kent spied large dark shapes that might be buffalo. There had been no sign of a herd, so maybe it was only a few bulls. He understood that the males stayed to themselves until mating season.