Predators and Prey

by F. M. Parker

  “Suppose I am? It’d be expensive. I’d need more men than just myself.”

  “Hire as many men as you think you’ll need. There must be plenty who hate Mormons.”

  “Plenty. But I’ll want men who can travel fast and fight hard. I’d want mountain trappers.”

  “Then get them. Leave St. Joe at once, before the Mormons get too much of a head start.”

  “How long ago did your daughter leave?”

  “Eleven days. Her note says the Mormons will catch a steamboat upriver to Florence. There they will form a handcart company for the travel west to Zion. That means Salt Lake City.”

  “That’s a big lead. But men on horseback can travel more than twice as fast as the Mormons can on foot and pulling those handcarts. We can probably overtake them in ten days to two weeks. Easily before they make it to Fort Laramie in the Wyoming Territory.”

  “Then you’ll do it?”

  “First a question before I answer that. Are you sure you want the Mormons killed?”

  “I’m very certain. Kill every man.”

  “Even the male converts from Europe? I saw the Mormon camp before I went to St. Louis. There were twenty to twenty-five of them with the group.”

  “They are just as bad as the missionaries. Destroy them also.”

  “How about the kids, twenty or so, and the rest of the women?”

  “I don’t give a damn about them. Do what you want. There are plenty of husbands for the women here in St. Joe, if they would return. I just want my daughter back with me, and unharmed. Do you hear me, DeBreen? Unharmed!”

  “How do you propose that I kill so many people and not get hung for it?”

  Crandall eyed DeBreen steadily for a moment. “The nights are black on the prairie. Kill them then. Or catch a few of them at a time when they are separated from the others. I don’t think I’ve misjudged you. You’ll find a way to do the killing in a manner not to bring danger to yourself.”

  DeBreen’s mouth stretched into a grin as white and as dead as a bleached bone. He had only been badgering Crandall. DeBreen had no doubt of succeeding in his task. “It’ll be expensive,” he said.

  “Name your price.”

  “Five thousand dollars for me. Two thousand for each of ten men.”

  Crandall blinked only once. “Agreed,” he said.

  That’d been easy, thought DeBreen. He could easily get the men for a thousand dollars each. In fact, some of the men he could select would kill Mormons for nothing. DeBreen’s total pay could be ten thousand or more. Once this was completed, he would have enough money to build a gambling emporium here in St. Joe that would rival Bouchard’s in St. Louis.

  “Payable in advance,” DeBreen said.

  Crandall shook his head. “Half now and half when Ruth is safely back with me.”

  “Payment must be now,” DeBreen said. His voice had hardened. “When the killing is done, the men will scatter and not return to St. Joe for a long time. That’s the way I’m going to run the operation. They’ll want the money in their hands before they do the deed.”

  “All right. I also think they should not come back to St. Joe anytime soon. But there is one condition that must be met without fail. Nobody must ever know that I’ve hired you. Absolutely nobody. Make the killing of the Mormons seem as if a band of renegades slew them.”

  “People will want to believe that, for there are many who hate the Mormons and their ways,” DeBreen said.

  “When can you leave?”

  “I know the men I want. But it’ll take a little time to round them up, unless I’m damn lucky. But I can leave by tomorrow for sure. When can you have the money available?”

  “The bank will be open at ten o’clock today. Meet me at my office shortly after that.”

  DeBreen nodded. Without another word he strode from the Patee House. He was smiling. He had been wanting to kill some Mormons. Now he would be paid to do it. His smile broadened. He would also have the girl, Ruth, before he returned her to her father. If he ever returned her. He could tell Crandall she’d gotten killed in the fighting. Just the thought of possessing her made his blood race.

  21

  Sam fell in at the end of the line of people waiting in the ticket office to buy passage on the steamboat leaving in an hour for New Orleans. He had not discovered the river pirates in St. Joe. Perhaps the brothels and gambling parlors of New Orleans had drawn the men. If he had no luck in the coastal city, he would then travel back up the Mississippi to Saint Louis. In the fall, if still not successful in his quest, he would return to St. Joe and check the trappers as they outfitted and left for the mountains. He would never relinquish the search for his enemies.

  The line shortened as tickets were sold. Sam shifted his bedroll, his few articles of clothing wrapped inside, from one arm to the other and moved ahead. More travelers formed up at his rear.

  The rumble of the hoof falls of several galloping horses sounded from outside the street. A man shouted out in a loud voice, “Keep up! Keep up! The boat is about to leave the dock!”

  Sam froze at the call. A tingle ran up his back, as if a feather had been drawn along his spine. Hadn’t he heard that voice before? From a man with snow-white skin calling for help from the bank of the Missouri River?

  Sam whirled about and ran from the ticket office and onto the sidewalk. A block distant, a band of eleven horsemen dressed in buckskins were racing away along the street.

  A narrow lane opened up through the pack of running horses, and for a few strides the man who rode in the lead was visible. He twisted to look behind him at the riders following him.

  Sam recognized the big, black-bearded river pirate. At last one of the killers had been found and was in sight. Sam broke into a trot, his heart thudding against his ribs.

  The man must not escape. Sam threw his bedroll onto the sidewalk. He increased his pace to a run, the hard lump of the cyst pounding his guts with each step.

  The band of riders swerved off Main Street and onto Francis Street. They disappeared, running their mounts down the slope toward the Missouri.

  The blast of the northbound steamboat’s whistle cut the air before Sam reached Francis Street. He rushed on. The vessel was two hundred yards upstream when he pulled to an exhausted halt at the edge of the river.

  “Damnation,” Sam cursed. The man had escaped him, at least temporarily.

  He was surprised at the speed with which he had covered the distance to the waterfront. His strength was returning. His hand felt of the lump in his stomach. The cyst had not burst. He had been very lucky. However, it could rupture the very next time he exerted himself, and the poisonous corruption would flood out into his body and kill him.

  “Miss your boat?” asked a man who had stopped loading a dray with crated cargo from a pile on the dock and stood watching Sam.

  “I missed catching those men on horseback. Do you know where the boat is heading?”

  “To Florence. There’ll be another boat in the morning, early.”

  “Did you get a look at the riders? Do you know any of them?”

  “Yep. Recognized some of them.”

  “How about the big man who acted like the leader? Know him?”

  “That’s DeBreen. Why’d you want to know?”

  “Wanted to meet him in a bad way,” Sam said.

  “Any particular reason?”

  “Yes.” Sam did not elaborate. “Looks like I’ll have to go to Florence.”

  “And farther, too, I’d guess. DeBreen and those men with him were outfitted with bedrolls and grub and all had both pistols and rifles. I’d say they were bound west on the plains.”

  “I’ll catch them,” Sam said.

  “I don’t know what you want with those fellows, but DeBreen is a mean one. And DeBreen would only take along men with him that were equally ornery. A young fellow like you would be eaten alive by the likes of them. Steer clear of them, that’s my advice.”

  “How do you know that much about DeBreen?”


  “Last summer I saw him kill two men at Garveen’s Saloon with a knife. Sliced them up, easy as you please. And then this spring I was right here on the docks when he came in with two rafts loaded down to the waterline with furs. He paid me two dollars to haul them furs up to Crandall’s Fur and Hides. When I asked how he came by so many furs, he got downright hostile. Yes, sir, I know DeBreen firsthand. And I’ve heard a lot more.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like he does whatever pleases him out there, thievin’ and murderin’.” The man waved a hand, indicating the flat plains lying west of the river. “So take my warning and stay away from them.”

  “Can’t do that. You seem to know a lot about the folks of St. Joe. Who’s got the best riding horses in town?”

  “That’d be Orval Tomkins. But his prices are high as hell, one hundred and fifty dollars to three hundred a head. If I was looking for a tough mount that’d catch DeBreen, then I’d go across the river and trade. About half a mile below where the ferry lands, is a camp of friendly Sioux. You can see their tepees from here if you look close. They’ve got some good horses for only a small fraction of the cost for one of Orval’s.” The man looked knowingly at Sam. “The Sioux are partial to whiskey, so take some of that as part of your trading stock.”

  “I think I’ll go and see what Tomkins has,” Sam said.

  ***

  Crandall cursed under his breath as DeBreen and his band of trappers raced past on Main Street, in front of his place of business. He hurried to the doorway and stared after the men. Horses running on the street was not unusual, but DeBreen should have left quietly on a side street and drawn absolutely no attention to his departure.

  Crandall had thought the trapper was the best choice for the task of bringing back his daughter. He was a violent man, and the strands of his mind within their mental crypt were twisted into an evil, cunning fabric. But perhaps his intelligence was too much warped and drove him to reckless action. Crandall felt a surge of black doubt. Had he made a mistake in hiring the man? Would he ever see Ruth again?

  As he watched after DeBreen, a young man in buckskins ran from the steamboat ticket office and, tossing aside his bedroll, tore after the horsemen.

  Crandall did not move until the riders and the man on foot disappeared from view. Then he walked dejectedly back to his desk. For a very long time he sat and looked at the neat, precise script created by his daughter’s hand on one of his ledgers. He believed at that moment that he would never see Ruth again. He had released DeBreen to kill the Mormons, with no gain for himself.

  ***

  Sam walked up from the docks and turned along Main Street. He scanned the thoroughfare, looking for his bedroll. He spotted it in the arms of a boy, eight or nine years old, sitting on the edge of the sidewalk.

  “Looks like you found something that got left behind,” Sam said, coming up to the boy.

  “I saw you throw it down. Knew you’d most likely be coming back for it.”

  “So you kept it safe for me?”

  The boy bobbed his head. “That’s right. I’d been long gone if I was going to steal it.”

  “You look like an honest fellow to me,” Sam agreed. He took some coins from a pocket. “What would make an honest boy feel good?”

  “A dime would be nice,” said the boy. Then a wistful expression came onto his face. “But a quarter would be a whole lot better.”

  “Then a quarter it is,” Sam said. He handed the boy a coin. “And I’ll give you another quarter if you carry that bedroll and show me where Orval Tomkins, the horse trader, does business.”

  The boy jumped up sprightly. “That’s a deal, mister. Follow me.” He led off briskly, the bedroll over his shoulder.

  A few minutes later, on the edge of town, the lad gestured ahead at a large pole corral and a one-room office nearby. “That’s the horse trader’s place. But watch out for him. My dad says he’s a slippery one and will cheat you out of your rear teeth.”

  “I’ll watch out for him,” Sam said. He gave the boy the promised quarter.

  “So long,” said the boy. He took to his heels back toward the center of the town.

  Sam shouldered his possessions and went on toward the corral. A horseman in buckskins overtook and passed him. The man halted and dismounted in front of Tomkins’s office.

  The rider lifted a hand in greeting, and his steady black eyes surveyed Sam from a weathered, brown face. The man was neither young nor old, a seasoned man of the plains and mountains. “A fellow carrying a bedroll and walking toward a horse trader’s place of business might mean he wanted a horse.”

  “Well, it sure could mean that,” Sam replied.

  The door of the office opened and a fat man stepped out onto the stoop. “Howdy, gents,” he said.

  His eyes swept the pair, then came to rest on the man with the horse. “I saw you come first. How can I help you?”

  “Maybe not at all. I was just talking to this young fellow who might be needing a horse. If he does, we may strike a bargain and not need your services.” He held out his hand to Sam. “Name’s Mitchell.”

  “I’m Sam Wilde. Maybe we can do business.”

  “Now see here,” Tomkins said. “You can’t come to my place and then sell your horse to one of my customers.”

  “Are you one of his customers?” Mitchell asked.

  “Not yet,” Sam said.

  “That’s good,” Mitchell said, turning his back to Tomkins. “I’m quitting trapping and going back east to Pennsylvania. Going to get married. So I’ve got a horse to sell. He’s not been gelded but still he’s gentle. He’s a fast walker for every day traveling, and a fast runner when the Indians get pressing you close. He’s tough and has never been fed grain like the city horses. He can live on cottonwood bark in the winter and grass in summer. So he’s not spoiled and can survive wherever you can. Sam, what do you offer me?”

  “What do you want?” Sam asked. The reddish-brown horse was a fine-looking mount, with long legs and a deep chest. He stepped to the animal, caught its head, and pulled the big mouth open to check the wear on the teeth. About an eight-year-old, Sam judged.

  “I wouldn’t ride anything but the best,” Mitchell said. “Therefore I want top dollar.”

  “I probably don’t have what you would call top dollar. And I have others things to buy right away.”

  “I’ll make this a bidding game,” Tomkins said. “I’ll give you seventy-five dollars for the animal.”

  “Would you sell the saddle and bridle too?” Sam asked, ignoring Tomkins’s bid. Both pieces of equipment were well used but still quite serviceable. Actually the gear was better than new, for it was broken in just right to be comfortable to man and horse. A Sharps carbine hung in a leather scabbard on the saddle.

  “I’d do that. Without a horse they’re not much use.”

  “A hundred dollars for the horse and the gear that’s on him,” Sam said.

  “One hundred fifty,” Tomkins said.

  “Stay out of this, Tomkins,” Mitchell said. “Something tells me this young fellow needs the horse worse than you do. And I believe he’d take good care of him.”

  Sam placed his hand on the stock of the Sharps. “Is there a chance that you’d let the rifle go too?”

  “It’s a mighty fine weapon.” Mitchell checked Sam’s buckskin-clad body. “But where’s your rifle? You’ve been to the mountains, where a man’s got to have a gun.”

  “River pirates,” Sam said shortly.

  “You look puny, like maybe they might’ve punched a hole through you.”

  “Right through the middle.” Sam touched his stomach.

  “Did they get all your furs?”

  “Every one. And killed my five partners.”

  “I was robbed once, so I know the feeling. Do you know who did it?”

  “I found out just a few minutes ago.”

  “You’re going after them?”

  “Just as quick as I can get a gun and a horse.�
��

  “It’s bad to sell a horse you’ve had for years. It’s even worse to part with the rifle that’s saved your life many times. But I’m considering it. Take a closer look at it if you want.”

  Sam pulled the weapon from the scabbard. It was ,52-caliber, similar to the Sharps he had lost on the Missouri. All the metal surfaces were clean and lightly oiled. The gun came up nicely to his shoulder, and his eye fell naturally directly down the sights. He slid the rifle back into the scabbard.

  “Two hundred dollars for your whole outfit,” Sam said.

  “Make it two fifty and it’s yours,” Mitchell came back. “That’s still a good bargain.”

  “I know that it’s a fair price.” Sam knew the rifle alone was worth fifty dollars. I’ll pay it if that includes the powder and shot you got for the rifle, and the bullet mold.”

  “Those items go with it.”

  Mitchell handed the reins of the horse to Sam. “He’ll outrun most anything you’ll ever meet. And his step is as soft as the bounce of a woman’s teat. If you’re hurting inside like I think you might be, that’d be of interest to you.” He slid his hand lovingly along the animal’s neck and then over the stock of the rifle. His thumb hooked for a moment over the hammer of the gun. He sighed deeply. “Like parting with old friends.”

  Mitchell stepped away from the horse. “Kill the river pirates with my blessing,” he said.

  “I’ll surely try to do that,” Sam said. He reached for his wallet.

  ***

  “Sure I saw some men in buckskins,” the dockworker at Florence told Sam. “Eleven fellows looking like trappers came off the steam packet yesterday evening. They hardly waited for the gangway to touch the shore before they came riding off. I thought it strange that trappers were going back to the mountains in the spring.”

  Sam had just left the deck of the steamboat that had carried him upriver from St. Joe and stood holding his horse. He had asked his question of the first person he met in Florence who might have knowledge of DeBreen.

  “Was a thick-chested man with a heavy black beard leading the men?” Sam said.