The Dangerous Land

by Ralph Compton

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve been doing a fair amount of business in towns along the Arkansas River and several other smaller creeks branching off from it. Lots of trade happening out that way from merchants either going to or coming from the Rockies. Last time I left my wagon in a livery, someone tampered with it. Could have been the last couple of times. I’m not certain.”

  “You were robbed?”

  “Nothing serious and no losses I couldn’t recoup quickly enough. It’s just made me wary of liveries. Might be the work of some bunch of small-time thieves or a dissatisfied customer looking to exact a refund with his own two hands.”

  “What was that talk of Indians?” Paul asked.

  “There’s always been troubles with the savages when it comes to anyone plying their trade or even riding for too long in their territory. Any mining company, railroad, or rancher will tell you as much.”

  “Of course.”

  “Being a man who trades with a large number of customers and covers a whole lot of ground in the process, I’ve run afoul of a few dangerous characters. Whether it’s just a small band of robbers, a tribe of redskins, or a few unhappy customers, they’re all accepted hazards of a man in my profession. I can take care of myself,” he said while flipping open his jacket to show the pistol holstered under his arm. “But it’s rarely come to that.”

  “Just tell me if you’re putting me or my store in danger,” Paul said.

  “I’d never do that. You’re a good friend and a better customer. The reason I prefer to do my business in the open these days is so I can see any trouble that might be coming along, whether it’s aimed directly at me or not. And precautions like the ones I’m taking are the reasons I’m still in business when so many of my competitors have long since gone. Besides, my cautions are only temporary. I’m heading out to Leadville from here and will stay there for a while. When I come back this way again, this little inconvenience will be nothing more than an unpleasant memory.”

  “Leadville?” Paul asked. “You have something lined up there?”

  “I’ll be conducting some important business at the Board of Trade. Should be quite profitable.”

  Paul did plenty of business with independent traders like Prescott. Unlike Prescott, however, most of those other traders only gave a damn about getting their money no matter how many bodies were left behind afterward. He’d been in business for himself long enough to know that a certain amount of risk had to be accepted once a man staked a claim west of the Mississippi River.

  “All right,” Paul said. “Let’s take a look at what you’ve got. But I expect a discount for the added risk as well as having to change locations.”

  “And here I was worried about outlaws robbing me,” Prescott groaned.

  Chapter 6

  Once he got to Prescott’s wagon, Paul felt silly for making such a fuss in the first place. It might not have been in a livery or within the fence line of the trading post, but it was less than a quarter of a mile away from the spot where his children were waiting. It was so close, in fact, that Prescott and Paul walked there without breaking a sweat.

  As soon as the back of the covered wagon was opened, both men carried on like every other time they’d met to conduct business. Prescott started with his easy sales first, displaying several items that he knew Paul would snap up. Once the clothing, dishes, and silverware were out of the way, he got to the more exotic items.

  “Believe me,” Prescott said as he rummaged about inside the wagon. “When you see how much ladies will be willing to pay for these, you’ll thank me for bringing them to you.”

  Once he got a look at the items in question, Paul said, “Looks like another corset to me.”

  “It’s these extra straps here that make the difference. See how they cinch in at three particular spots? That’s to increase and decrease blood flow to vital areas.”

  “Seems damn barbaric to subject a woman to that kind of torture.”

  “You might say the same thing about any corset,” Prescott replied. “The man who built this one is a professor from all the way out in Paris, and he swears his enhancements make a world of difference.”

  “How much?”

  “I’ve seen them sold for upward of twenty dollars. I’ll let you have it for fifteen.”

  “Just the one?”

  “I’ve got a dozen in stock.”

  “I’ll take ’em all for ten apiece.”

  “Thirteen,” Prescott countered.

  “Twelve, and I don’t even know why I’m bothering with the foolish things in the first place.”

  “Because you know you can pull in a healthy profit and you’ll be the only store for miles around with any in stock. Make it twelve and a half and you got a deal.”

  “Fine,” Paul said. “What about them sparking boxes?”

  “They’re around here somewhere. While I’m looking for them, why don’t you have a look at some tonics I’ve acquired? They’re good medicine instead of the laudanum-and-hops concoctions that you’ll usually find. Nothing but herbs, a few extraordinary spices from the Far East, and vitamin water. Doctors all through California swear by it to fight ailments from gangrene down to a fever.”

  “That’s a harder sell,” Paul said. “Especially since that sort of thing is available from the backs of dozens of wagons at any given time.”

  “Not for the price I can offer. Even after you mark it up for your customers, you’ll be able to compete with any traveling medicine show. Just take a—”

  A piercing cry shattered the crisp air that had blown in from the north. It was quickly followed by another shout as well as the thunder of hooves beating against the ground.

  “Damn it to hell,” Paul snarled. “I thought you said your trouble with the Injuns wasn’t that bad.”

  “It isn’t!”

  “Well, that sure sounds like a war cry to me.”

  Following Paul around to the front of the wagon, Prescott climbed up into the driver’s seat. “That doesn’t mean they’re after me.”

  “Well, it sounds like they’re kicking up a mess of trouble at that trading post, which is where my two young’uns are.” Having pulled himself onto the wagon as well, Paul reached beneath the seat for the shotgun kept there. “Get me there real quick or I’ll start running.”

  “No need for that,” Prescott said as he pulled the lever to release the brake. “These horses are well rested. Just be ready with that shotgun.” He then took hold of the reins and snapped them with enough force to send a loud crack through the air. The team of four horses dug their hooves into the dirt and got the wagon rolling. In a matter of seconds, they were pointed toward the trading post and headed there with building speed.

  Setting his eyes firmly on the small group of horses gathered outside Trace’s store, Prescott said, “If those Indians are after me, I’ll lead them away so you can get to David and Abby.”

  “Once they’re safe, I’ll—”

  “Just worry about them young ones,” Prescott snapped as his wagon rolled up to the northernmost edge of the trading post. “After that, I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

  Not wanting to waste another moment arguing, Paul jumped down from the wagon as soon as it slowed and moved away so it could roll on without him. Prescott snapped his reins and let out a loud noise that caught the attention of horses and men alike. There were only two riders in sight and they were most definitely Indians. Although he was no expert on the native tribes, Paul had lived in Colorado long enough to know a Comanche when he saw one. Seeing more than one wearing war paint was never a welcome sight.

  “Come on, you savages!” Prescott hollered as he drove his wagon down the path in front of the few structures in the trading post. “You want me? Come and get me!” In case that wasn’t enough to catch their eye, he followed up by firing one of his shotgun’s b
arrels into the air. Not only did the thunderous roar bring both mounted Comanches to him, but it spurred his team to move even faster than before. In no time at all, the wagon and both members of the raiding party were riding away from Trace’s store.

  Paul hurried toward Trace’s front door. The first thing he noticed was the shattered window. When he spotted arrows lodged in the door itself, he reached for the pistol at his side. Normally the old Schofield .44 only saw the light of day when it was being cleaned or if it was firing a few rounds into bottles placed atop a fence post. The only time he wore the battered holster strapped around his waist was when he was out for a ride like this one, and that was just in the event he crossed the path of a hungry wildcat or venomous snake. He drew the pistol now, praying his marksmanship wasn’t put to the test.

  His stomach was in a knot and his knuckles were white around the grip of his weapon as Paul stormed in through the front door. “David!” he shouted. “Abigail! Where are you?”

  He didn’t get a response right away, and those few seconds of silence were the longest he’d ever experienced. They were mercifully brought to an end when a familiar voice called out to him.

  “In here,” Dorothy shouted from the next room.

  As Paul turned and headed toward the dining room, he noticed the general disorder of things around him. His senses were too jangled to catch every detail, but items were scattered on the floor, tables were knocked over, and various liquids had been spilled to form dirty rivulets within the grain of the floorboards. Some of it stuck to the bottoms of his boots, nearly causing him to slip and fall. Inside the dining room, Paul couldn’t see much through the uneven barriers formed by all of the upended tables and chairs.

  “Where are you?” he shouted.

  “Kitchen.”

  “Can you come out, Dorothy? Where are my children?”

  Although there was no answer to his question forthcoming, Paul wasn’t drowning in more silence. From the room behind him came the crash of fragile items, glass jars, and heavy shelves hitting the floor. Paul reflexively turned to look into the main room of the store at a man who stalked down one aisle after pushing over a shelf full of expensive merchandise. He was a dark-skinned man dressed in buckskin britches. His chest was bare except for thick streaks of paint that had been applied to match the crude designs on his face. He wore a leather strap around one upper arm decorated with feathers, beads, and bone similar to the enhancements made to the rifle he carried.

  “Wh . . . what are you doing here?” Paul asked.

  The Comanche warrior stared at him with eyes that were somehow both fiery and cold. At the same time he was planning three different ways to put Paul into his grave.

  Paul raised his gun and did his best to keep his hand from shaking. “What do you want?”

  “Step aside,” the warrior said.

  Since he didn’t have much of a plan going in, Paul cleared a path for the Comanche while putting himself between the muscular figure and the dining room. As the warrior made his way toward the front door, he knocked whatever he could to the floor and pushed over any shelves that were still standing. He was almost close enough to open the door and walk outside when another door behind Paul was flung open.

  “That’s him!” Dorothy said as she emerged from the kitchen. “That’s the one who did it.”

  “Stay back,” Paul told her.

  “Don’t let him go,” she said frantically. Her face was wet with tears and a tickle of blood ran from a cut on one temple. “He was the first one to ride into town. He’s the one responsible!”

  “Responsible for what?” Paul asked through mounting frustration.

  “He . . . he’s the one who shot Abigail.”

  Paul turned to look at her again. This time, he noticed the bloodstains covering her apron. He didn’t need to think any more after that.

  He didn’t care that the warrior had the look of a bloodthirsty wolf.

  He didn’t care that it had been over a decade since he’d fired the Schofield at anything that didn’t slither or crawl on four legs.

  When he saw that blood and thought about his daughter lying wounded somewhere, Paul simply bared his teeth and charged.

  Chapter 7

  It was probably best that Paul was so enraged that he forgot about the pistol in his hand. Since the Schofield was rarely on his person, it simply registered as a heavy object to his racing mind as his body allowed instinct to take over. His decision to run straight at the Comanche rather than fire a shot seemed to puzzle the warrior as well. The burly Indian had been bringing his rifle to his shoulder and was caught halfway there by the time Paul got to him. Lowering his head, Paul wrapped both arms around the Comanche’s midsection to drive him toward the closest wall of shelves.

  Somewhere along the way, the Indian pulled his trigger. The rifle sent its round into a wall, and the explosive sound of the shot rang painfully within Paul’s ears. As he cursed at the Indian, his words sounded like a dull roar amid the piercing ring and rush of blood inside his head.

  The Comanche staggered backward until his shoulders bumped against a shelf that was only standing because it was built directly into the wall. Now that he had steadier footing while propped up between Paul and the shelf, the Comanche pulled an arm free, raised it high, and dropped his elbow down onto Paul’s back. The rifle wasn’t good for much at such close range, so he let it drop to grab Paul. In a matter of seconds, the Indian’s brawn won out over Paul’s rage and the Comanche threw the smaller man into one of the toppled shelves.

  Landing with a grunt, Paul winced as his senses rushed back to him. The rage was still there, but now it was tempered by fear and pain from all of the parts of him that ached from being so thoroughly battered. “I’ll . . . I’ll kill you,” he snarled.

  The Comanche barely flinched. “Stay down,” he said in a rumbling baritone, “or you will be the one to die this day.”

  Paul lay partially wedged between two shelves. His legs were sprawled, and when he attempted to get to his feet, his hands and feet skidded against various items that littered the floor beneath him. As he struggled, he was reminded of what was still clutched within his right hand. Gripping the Schofield tightly, Paul brought it up while pulling its trigger. The man who’d sold him the firearm had instructed him to squeeze the trigger instead of pulling it. Now he knew why. Not only did the pistol buck against his palm earlier than he’d intended, but his round punched through a stack of hatboxes several feet away from where the Comanche was standing.

  Although he reacted to the shot, the Comanche moved without a hint of desperation. Every move was clean and concise as he ducked down and moved to Paul’s left. His steps were so sure that he hardly even disturbed the mess on the floor around him.

  Paul kept firing as he struggled to pull free from the shelf and stand on his own two feet. Burned gunpowder stung his nose, and the only thing he could hear was his own frantic breathing and the quick thudding of his heart. Every gunshot was more muffled than the last until they too were lost in the cacophony. Once he’d gained enough of his senses to realize he’d wasted too many bullets already, Paul forced himself to stop shooting so he could use both hands to prop himself up. After a few slips, he finally managed to pull himself upright.

  The Comanche stood calmly in another part of the room. His posture was that of a wary predator, slightly hunched and ready to pounce. His keen eyes were locked on Paul’s, watching to see what the other man had in mind for his next move.

  Paul felt his blood run ice-cold. Even though he was the one holding a gun and knew he had at least another shot or two, he was at a distinct disadvantage. “You’re not taking these women,” he said.

  Furrowing his brow slightly, the Comanche replied, “What women?”

  “The ones you already shot.”

  “I shot no women.”

  “The hell you didn’t!” Paul roa
red as he raised his Schofield to send whatever shots he had at the Indian.

  That was all the Comanche needed to launch into motion. His head bobbed down and to the side along with the rest of his upper body to move in a swift, fluid rhythm. His legs remained steady beneath him as he darted across the room to circle around toward Paul’s left before closing in.

  Watching as if from a distance, Paul fired a quick shot as soon as the Schofield was pointed anywhere close to the Comanche. He got a bit closer than his previous attempts, which bought him another couple of seconds as the warrior kept moving to the side rather than straight at his prey. Knowing he was down to his last shot or real close to it, Paul sighted along the top of the Schofield’s barrel before dropping the pistol’s hammer again.

  The Comanche stood less than three paces away. His broad chest rose and fell with every measured breath and he held a knife in a loose, comfortable grip. Paul hadn’t seen him draw the blade from any scabbard and wasn’t about to give the Indian a chance to put it to use.

  “Drop that knife,” Paul demanded.

  The Comanche didn’t speak or make any movement that could be interpreted as a reply.

  Thumbing back the Schofield’s hammer, Paul said, “I’m warning you.”

  “You won’t shoot me.”

  “Why?”

  “You can’t,” the Comanche replied.

  “Don’t think I got it in me?”

  In a quick burst of motion, the Comanche sprang forward one step. The movement wasn’t enough to bring him all the way to Paul, but it was more than enough to cause him to pull his trigger out of reflex. Paul let out a startled grunt as every muscle in his gun hand tensed. His eyes even clamped shut a split second before he heard the hammer smack against the back of an empty bullet casing.

  The Comanche’s voice rolled through the air like distant thunder. “You already fired six rounds.”

  Paul steeled himself and prepared to throw the pistol at the Indian’s head. Before he could extend his arm far enough to make the toss, the man that had been his target was already in a different spot. Paul shifted his weight to adjust his aim. His arm snapped forward only a few inches before it was stopped by a grip that felt as solid as cast iron.