Predators and Prey

by F. M. Parker

  The baker could not help but smile at the expression of rapture on the girl’s face. And the beauty of her, for what could be more enchanting than a freshly scrubbed young woman with green eyes who just might possess his daughter’s soul within her.

  Caroline reached up and tucked her damp hair back behind her ears. The baker’s breath caught at the gesture. His daughter used to do that after a bath. The baker felt his certainty increase.

  Caroline finished eating. It seemed that the moment she swallowed the last bite, her eyelids began to droop. She tried vainly to hold them open. “I’m so sleepy,” she said.

  “Don’t fall,” said the baker. “I can have your bed fixed in a jiffy.”

  He hastened into the adjoining room and returned immediately. He spread a heavy comforter on the floor near the base of the oven.

  “Come and lie down,” he said.

  Caroline did as the old man bid, sinking down and stretching out. Her eyes closed tightly. She felt a cover being placed over her. She slipped away in the slumber of sheer exhaustion.

  “Rest well, my daughter,” said the baker.

  Caroline only mumbled. The baker smiled and picked up the lamp. He glanced once more at the girl who had fallen out of the storm and into his life. Then he silently left the room.

  As the night wore on, the storm intensified, strong winds driving heavy rains in off the North Sea. Caroline woke when a brittle burst of raindrops rattled noisily on the pane of glass in the front window of the bakery. She jerked to a sitting position. Was she dreaming? Was the warmth false and but a prelude to freezing to death? Her hand shot out in the darkness to press on the bricks of the oven, just to be certain they were there. The bricks were real and warm, and she was fully awake.

  She sank back down on the comforter and pulled the blanket up snugly under her chin. She said her nightly prayers, which she had neglected earlier when she had fallen asleep, thanking the Lord for his blessing this night.

  “Thank you too,” she said softly to the old bakerman somewhere out there in the darkness of the house.

  She slept.

  8

  The two rafts, heavily loaded with bales of furs, rose and fell as they swept downstream on the rolling waves of the swollen Missouri River. On the lead raft, DeBreen swung his sweep to halt the beginning spin of his craft. He scanned the flat plains on the west side of the river and the hills on the east side. The land was familiar.

  The gray smoke from the fires of St. Joseph became visible first, rising up in scores of columns above the bleak, leafless trees covering the hills. A mile later the city itself came into DeBreen’s view.

  “Stanker, let’s take the rafts in closer to land,” DeBreen called across the yellowish-brown stretch of water separating the two river craft.

  “Right,” Stanker replied.

  Both men worked the long arms of their wooden sweeps and in the next half mile had driven the laden rafts out of the swift current of the Missouri and into the sluggish eddies along the shore. They turned the clumsy crafts and, skimming the bank, drifted down upon the city.

  St. Joseph sprawled along the east shore of the Missouri for three miles. The city, though barely twenty years old, had a permanent population of nine thousand people. It had outgrown the cove’s flat land that had once been called St. Michael’s Meadow and now overflowed onto the surrounding hills. The large whitewashed homes of the wealthy were like late-winter snowdrifts upon the highland.

  More than twenty large steamboats were tied up at the two miles of rickety wooden docks that stretched along the river. Some of the steamboat captains had been unwilling to trust the docks to hold their vessels against the strong current of the Missouri and had run lines onto the land, where they were tied to the trunks of trees.

  A broad-beamed ferry, its decks full of wagons, draft animals—and men, women, and children—was pulling away from the shore. A second ferry, nearly empty, was docking. The railroad coming from the east ended at St. Joseph. Immigrants and traders, bound outward to the plains, organized their wagon trains on the far side of the river opposite the town.

  As the rafts floated past the landings DeBreen looked ahead, reading the signs stating the owners of the piers. At last he shouted at Stanker and pointed at a pier extending seventy-five yards or more along the shore. “That’s Crandall’s landing. Make for it.”

  Both men began to swing their sweeps. The blades bit strongly into the river water. Carried by the current, the rafts angled down on the dock.

  “Hammler, stand ready with the rope,” DeBreen said.

  “I’m ready,” replied Hammler, coiling the rope in his hand.

  DeBreen’s raft closed the gap and bumped the dock. Hammler instantly leapt ashore. He threw two quick hitches of the tie rope around a wooden piling.

  DeBreen stepped ashore and cast a quick look to see how Stanker was faring in landing his craft. As DeBreen looked, Stanker reached the shore and jumped onto the dock to snub the second raft down. It swung in to lie against the dock.

  “Well done,” called a man who had watched the landing from the high seat of his freight wagon. “Do you need any hauling done? I’m empty and available.”

  “I’ll give you two dollars to haul my furs up to Crandall’s,” replied DeBreen.

  “That’s a fair price and agreeable to me,” said the driver. He wheeled his team and brought the wagon alongside DeBreen’s raft, which lay closest.

  “Ain’t you DeBreen?” asked the driver.

  “Yes. Why do you ask?”

  “No special reason. Just thought I recognized you from that fight last summer in Garveen’s Saloon. You sure did slice those two fellows up real nice.”

  “That was a good fight,” said DeBreen. “Help us load the furs on your wagon.”

  “Sure,” said the driver. He climbed down over the front wheel of his wagon to the ground.

  The driver stopped and surveyed the bales of pelts stacked on the rafts. “That’s the biggest catch of furs I’ve ever seen at one time,” he said. “Did you fellows trap all of them yourselves?”

  “What the hell’s it to you?” DeBreen growled angrily. “I hired you to haul my furs up the hill. Now shut your trap and earn your two dollars.”

  “Yeah. Sure. I didn’t mean anything,” the driver hastily replied. He stepped aboard the raft, hoisted a bale of pelts, and carried it to the wagon.

  The four men quickly transferred the furs. DeBreen stalked off ahead up the slanting grade of Francis Street. Stanker and Hammler climbed aboard the wagon as it fell in behind DeBreen.

  “Pull up there in front of Crandall’s Fur & Hides,” DeBreen said, directing the driver. “Stanker, you and Hammler wait here until I see if Crandall’s buying.”

  DeBreen turned and looked along Main Street, lined with two-and three-story brick, stone, and wood-frame buildings crowding each other wall against wall. He checked the faces of the men moving on the sidewalk and the occupants of the red-and-white two-seat carriage coming from the waterfront. He had made enemies in St. Joe. That did not worry him, but it did make him cautious.

  He saw nobody he knew and turned back to Crandall’s. The huge building stretched for half a block along the street. The structure housed not only Crandall’s Fur & Hides but also his large general mercantile store. The remaining portion of the block was an open yard full of canvas-covered, Pittsburgh-built wagons. A large sign proclaimed it to be CRANDALL’S OUTFITTING COMPANY. The fur buyer was a prosperous businessman.

  ***

  Albert Crandall saw the men and wagon halt on the street in front of his building. He remembered the trapper DeBreen, a surly man given to fits of savage violence. He was a most difficult person to do business with; however, he always came back from the mountains with many furs. Tales were told that the man was a river pirate and murderer. Crandall believed it. No charges had ever been brought against DeBreen, but then what happened out on the plains or in the wilderness of the mountains had little meaning to the law, which had jur
isdiction only in the city.

  DeBreen pushed open the door and came inside. “Hello, Crandall,” he said.

  “Hello, DeBreen,” Crandall said, returning the greeting.

  “I’ve got a few bales of pelts to sell. Are you buying?”

  “I’m always in the market if there are good furs to buy.”

  “I’ve got the very best furs you’ll see come out of the mountains this year,” said DeBreen.

  “Then let’s examine them.”

  DeBreen started to turn around, then halted when he noticed the young woman working over ledgers at a desk on the far side of the room. He recognized Ruth Crandall, daughter of the fur buyer. She was even more beautiful than DeBreen remembered from the previous autumn. He felt the surge of hot blood that a desirable woman always sent through his big body.

  Ruth raised her head and saw DeBreen watching her. His wide, round head was cocked in her direction. The gray eyes, staring out from the deep sockets under the heavy black eyebrows, seemed to be prying into her. His body was tensed within his filthy buckskin clothing, as if he were ready to charge across the room and pounce upon her. The lust in the man was a palpable thing, ageless and frightening.

  Ruth hastily dropped her head. She dipped her pen in the inkwell and began to write in the ledger.

  DeBreen chuckled low in his beard. He enjoyed seeing women react to his thoughts alone, no word spoken. But now there were furs to be sold. Later the pleasures offered by St. Joe would be taken in great quantities.

  DeBreen called out the door to Stanker and Hammler, “Bring the pelts inside.”

  One hour slid past, and then another, as Crandall and DeBreen sat on opposite sides of a long counter top and inspected the pelts. They discussed the softness, density, and length of the hair of each skin, and the care with which the skins had been scraped of the flesh and then dried. They dickered over the value until an agreement was reached. Crandall kept a running tally sheet of the species from which the fur came, and the price.

  The last fur was sold and laid aside. Crandall added the prices on the tally sheet and recorded the total.

  “Your furs have brought twenty-eight thousand dollars. That is the largest amount I’ve ever paid for the winter catch of three trappers.”

  You mean, the work of ten men, thought DeBreen. He believed some explanation should be given to allay the suspicion of the experienced fur buyer as to why three men had so many furs. He said, “There were four of us. Gossard got killed. And we took several pelts from some Indians we came on to.”

  Crandall knew DeBreen was lying about taking part of the furs from Indians. Crandall’s practiced eyes had seen many thousands of furs, some skinned and cured by Indians and others by white men. The professional white trapper was the very best in taking care of his pelts. He thought all of DeBreen’s had received the handiwork of skilled white men.

  Crandall kept his face impassive and said nothing. He did not want to risk a violent confrontation with the man. To accuse, or even to hint that he was a thief, would bring an instant challenge to a duel. No one had ever won against DeBreen. Besides, Crandall did not care whether or not the furs were stolen.

  “I’ll write you a bank draft on the Merchant and Trader’s Bank, located just down Main Street. It’s still open and you can get your money today.”

  “Write the bank draft,” DeBreen said impatiently. “There’s whiskey to drink, cards to play, and pretty women to make love to.”

  ***

  “Hammler, your share is thirty-five hundred dollars,” DeBreen said. He counted bills and gold coins into the man’s outstretched hand.

  “I should get some of Gossard’s share,” said Hammler. “He can’t claim it from hell.”

  “Bullshit!” exclaimed DeBreen. “You’ve got what I promised you and that’s all you’re gettin’.”

  Hammler opened his mouth to argue with DeBreen. Then he saw the threatening expression on the big man’s face. “Oh, hell, I’ll be broke by the end of the summer even if I had all the money the furs brought.” He hustled off down the street.

  DeBreen and Stanker watched Hammler’s retreating back. Then Stanker spoke. “What do you want to do about him?”

  “Kill him,” DeBreen said. “We don’t need him anymore.”

  “I like the idea. I don’t want to get hung for something he might tell.”

  “Do you want to do it?” asked DeBreen.

  “Sure. I can use his money.”

  “Do it tonight.”

  “Okay.”

  “Good. Your share of the fur money is seven thousand dollars, plus a quarter of Gossard’s.”

  Stanker’s hand closed tightly on the money when DeBreen finished counting. “Now I’m going to find that widow woman and see if she’s still got my clothes saved for me.”

  “She’s probably thrown them in the street and taken up with another man,” DeBreen said.

  Stanker laughed. “Doesn’t make a whole lot of difference,” he said. “I’d simply cut the bastard into ribbons with my knife, slap the woman around some, and then everything would be back the way it was when I left.”

  ***

  DeBreen registered at the three-story, one-hundred-ten- room Patee House, located at Twelfth and Pennsylvania Streets. He retrieved his large leather-and-wood trunk from the hotel storage. Then, kneeling in the lobby in his dirty buckskin, he dug a black suit and hat from the trunk. He handed the clothing to one of the young bellhops.

  “Take this suit and get it pressed, and have the dents blocked out of the hat.” He flipped a silver dollar, and then a second, at the bellhop.

  The young bellhop expertly caught the coins.

  “One is for you and one for the presser,” DeBreen said. “Wait for him to finish, then bring everything back to me by the time I take a bath.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the bellhop.

  The trapper swiftly stepped forward, and his long arm snaked out to catch the bellhop by the shoulder. The bellhop winced in pain as DeBreen clamped a powerful hold on him.

  “You’ve taken my money. Now be back before I’m ready for my clothing or I’ll give you a thump on the side of your head that you won’t soon forget.” The trapper’s lips smiled, but his eyes didn’t. He released his hold.

  The bellhop rubbed his bruised shoulder. Then, clutching DeBreen’s clothing, he sped away at a trot.

  “Bring one of those portable bathtubs up to my room,” DeBreen told the second bellhop. “Fill it with five full buckets of hot water. Do it now.” He flipped the boy a dollar.

  DeBreen closed and latched the trunk. Hoisting it to his back, he went across the lobby and up the stairs to his room.

  He soaked in the large tub of hot water and lazily looked at the ceiling. He would spend a month, maybe two, in St. Joe. Then he would catch the train to St. Louis, or a river packet down the Missouri to the Mississippi and on to New Orleans. Either of those grand cities would provide entertainment for him until autumn, when he would return once again to St. Joe to outfit himself and head off to the mountains.

  The bellhop came with DeBreen’s clothing. He sighed in relief when he saw the trapper still in the tub. He placed the suit and hat carefully on a chair and hastily left.

  DeBreen dried his hard muscled body and dressed in the freshly pressed suit. He took a black shiny pair of boots from the trunk and pulled them on. The hat was set on his head at a jaunty angle. The dirty, torn buckskin shirt and pants, together with the worn moccasins, were thrown in a pile on the floor.

  He returned to the front of the hotel. “Go take the tub out of my room,” he told the first bellhop. “Burn the buckskin clothing.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the bellhop and went sprightly off toward the stairs.

  DeBreen walked out to the sidewalk. The day had ended while he bathed, and dusk was crowding in from the east to fill the streets. He went off toward Garveen’s Saloon, his shoulders squared and rolling in a swaggering, pugnacious motion. He laughed in the full knowledge of his str
ength and the joy of anticipation of the pleasures the night would bring.

  9

  The sun was a flaming fireball burning down on the flat prairie that stretched away from Sam Wilde without end in every direction. The yellow orb was impossibly close to him, hanging overhead within easy reach. He would knock the damn hot sun back into its proper place in the high sky.

  He started to lift his arm to strike, but it would not move. He strained mightily; still, he could not budge the arm from where it rested on the ground. Oh, hell, he thought, and ceased his effort to hit the sun.

  He stared around. He lay on the prairie on his back with the shriveled buffalo grass standing motionless all around. Strangely the blades of grass cast no shadow in the bright sunlight. Sam marveled at that oddity.

  His clothing was soaked with the sweat that boiled out of every pore of his skin. The salty brine was puddled in the sockets of his eyes, and he felt the sting of the salt on his eyeballs.

  Sam could not move the sun farther away, but he could at least turn to keep the sweat out of his eyes. He started to roll to his side. Instantly something caught him by the shoulders and pressed him back down.

  Sam struggled against the restricting force. But it was always stronger than he, increasing to match his strength, and then more.

  He felt the edge of a growing panic. He summoned all his energy and tried to rise. His shoulders cleared the ground hardly an inch before they were shoved down.

  “Easy, Sam,” a woman’s gentle voice said. “Don’t fight. You’re all right.”

  Sam halted in amazement at the sound of the female voice. There was somebody with him on the prairie. A woman who could talk but could not be seen.

  “Can you hear me, Sam?” The woman’s voice came again. “Lay still or you will tear open your wounds.”

  Sam began to chuckle at the thought of an invisible woman holding him down on the ground. Was he going crazy? His chuckle increased as he contemplated being an insane man.