Demon's Pass (29 page)

“That's a brilliant idea,” Hahs said. “Then, you sell it to the merchants for six times the invoice value.”

Talbot shook his head. “Unh-uh,” he said. “Then I'll sell it to 'em for whatever I can get for it, and believe me, it'll be a lot more than six times the invoice price.”

Hahs's eyes narrowed. “Why are you telling me this? I'm one of the local merchants, remember?”

“I'm tellin' you this 'cause I need you. I don't have enough money to make the deal on my own. You come up with the money I'll need to buy the merchandise, then we'll split the profit, fifty-fifty.”

Chapter 19

As the wagons rolled into town, Parker looked at the city with his eyes wide in wonder. Dominating the entire town was a huge building under construction, surrounded with scaffolding busy with workers. He was also impressed by the width and cleanliness of the streets, as well as the lack of saloons. None of the freighters had seen Salt Lake City before, and all were as enthralled by what they were seeing as Parker was.

The citizens of Salt Lake City seemed as fully interested in them as they were in the city. The railroad had not yet reached Salt Lake City, and the arrival of three wagons of manufactured goods from the East was always an exciting event. Even as Parker and the others were gawking at the sights of the city, they were aware that the sidewalks were filling with those who gawked at them.

“Parker, I've got an idea,” Clay said.

Out of the corner of his eye, Parker saw a young woman walking down the sidewalk. Unlike the others, she seemed totally uninterested in the arriving wagons. Instead she seemed bent upon some errand. He only saw her for a brief moment, but there was something about her that caught his attention. He twisted in his saddle for a better look, but she had already disappeared behind the door.

“Parker?”

“I'm sorry,” Parker said, turning back. “What did you say?”

“What is it, did you see something?”

“I'm not sure,” Parker said. “You said something about an idea?”

“Yes. Let's find a place in the street where we can park the wagons, then off-load enough goods that all of it will show. I think if we spread the merchandise around a little . . . let the people get a good look at it, we might whet their appetites.”

“Good idea,” Parker agreed.

 

“Good afternoon, Miss Stanley,” the pharmacist said when Elizabeth stepped into the apothecary. “What can I do for you this afternoon?”

“Dr. Cooley has made out a list of medicines he wants me to pick up for him,” Elizabeth said, handing a sheet of paper to the druggist.

“Very well,” the druggist said, taking his pestle and mortar down from the shelf as he looked at the list. “It'll take about half an hour. Do you want to come back, or wait?”

“I'll wait,” Elizabeth said. “He wants me to bring it to him as quickly as I can.”

“How is it working out . . . you working for Dr. Cooley?”

“I'm obliged to him for giving me a job,” Elizabeth said. She walked over to the window and looked out at the street. The last of the three newly arrived wagons was passing by in front of the drugstore at that moment. “There seems to be a lot of excitement in town today,” she said.

“Oh, yes. There always is excitement when fresh merchandise arrives from outside. President Young has managed to build quite a community here. We can supply our own food, clothing, and building material. But there are still things that make life pleasant that we can only get from back East.”

 

Clay, Parker, Jason, Tobin, and Pecorino backed the three wagons into a position so that they formed three spokes of a wheel. Then they began unloading the wagons and spreading out their goods fanlike, on the ground. It had the desired effect, for soon there were crowds of people drawn to the scene.

“What is this?” one man asked, pointing to an item.

“That's a washing machine,” Clay explained. “You open the top up here, add soap, water, and the clothes you want to wash. Then you close the top and start turning this crank. That causes a paddle inside to agitate the water, and the dirt comes right off the clothes. After that, you take the clothes out and run them through these rollers to ring them out. It's ten times faster, and ten times easier than a scrub board.”

“Well, what will they think of next?”

Someone pushed through the crowd with an air of self-importance. He stood there for a moment, with his hands on his hips, looking at the display.

“Something I can do for you, mister?” Clay asked.

“My name is Richard Hahs. May I inquire as to who is leading this party?”

“I'm Clay Springer. I'm in charge.”

“Mr. Springer, I wonder if you would care to come meet with our broker?”

“Your broker?” Clay asked in surprise.

“Yes. We—that is, the merchants of the city—have decided to have our dealings handled exclusively by one broker. That will greatly simplify things, don't you think?”

“That remains to be seen,” Clay said. “Where is your broker?”

“He's standing right over there, away from the crowd,” Hahs said. “He thought it might be better if you were able to negotiate without the interference of all the people who are slathering over your load.”

“All right, tell him I'll be over directly,” Clay said.

Hahs walked way, and Clay went over to tell Parker that he would be negotiating for them through a broker.

“A broker? What does that mean?” Parker asked.

“I think it means they are going to try and take the bidding away,” Clay said. “It's a way of getting the goods cheaper.”

“Oh. That's not good, is it?” Parker asked.

“It depends. If it means they want to pay a fair price without haggling, then it's just as well. It will save us all a lot of time. But if it means they are going to try and steal the merchandise . . .” He let the thought hang.

“What if they do try that? What can we do about it?”

“Oh, Martha, look at that Dutch oven! We must make Henry buy that for us,” a woman gushed.

Clay nodded toward the people who were examining the merchandise. “We don't have any worry,” he said. “Look at the way they are going through all this. If we can't make a deal with the merchants, we'll go around them and sell directly to the people.”

“Good idea,” Parker said.

Clay watched Parker return to the merchandise, then he followed Hahs to meet with the broker. The broker was a big man with red hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He was wearing a uniform of some sort, though Clay had never seen one quite like it.

“Are you the broker?” Clay asked.

“Yes. Talbot's the name. Colonel Talbot.”

“Colonel Talbot?” Clay pointed to the uniform. “I've done some time in the army,” he said. “But I have to confess, I've never seen a uniform quite like that.”

“No, sir, I don't reckon you have,” Talbot said. “Seein' as I designed this here uniform my ownself. I'm a colonel in the Righteous Militia.”

“The Righteous Militia?”

“We're sort of a private army, so's to speak,” Talbot said. “When the Indians give us trouble and there ain't no federal army around to help, why, we take care of things ourselves. And who might you be?”

“I'm Clay Springer.”

“You're speakin' for the merchandise?”

“Yes. I have a partner, but I can speak for us both. Now, I'll ask you the same thing. Are you speaking for the merchants?”

“Yes. And I'm prepared to offer you five thousand dollars for the entire load.”

Clay stared at Talbot for a second, then turned and walked away without saying a word.

“Hold on there, Mr. Springer!” Talbot called after him. “You aren't even going to make a counter offer?”

Clay stopped, then looked sharply back at Talbot. “You didn't come here to deal, you came here to steal,” he said. “And I'm not going to have anything to do with it.” Again, he turned and walked away.

“What choice do you have?” Talbot called after him. “I told you, I'm the broker. I'm the only one here that's going to make you any kind of an offer. None of the merchants are going to talk to you.”

“The merchants are out of it,” Clay said. “I'm going to sell directly to the people.”

“Talbot!” Hahs said quickly. “You can't let him do that! The merchants will hang us!”

Talbot followed Clay all the way over to the wagons. “Mister, I don't know how folks do business where you come from, but here we do a little honest bargaining.”

“Honest?” Clay said. “There's nothing honest about it.”

“All right, all right, I'll admit, maybe I did start the bidding too low. I'm willin' to give it another . . .”

“You!” Parker shouted, seeing Talbot for the first time. “You're the son of a bitch who killed my parents!”

Talbot looked over at Parker as one might look at a harassing cur dog.

“You're crazy, boy. I've never seen you before in my life,” Talbot said by way of dismissal.

“You're the one! You think I could ever forget you? You were with the Indians when they attacked our wagon.”

Talbot stared directly at Parker. It was obvious this cur wasn't going to just go away with a swift kick.

“Boy, I say you're lyin',” he said. “But even if you wasn't lyin', even if you was tellin' the truth, there wouldn't be nothin' you could do about it. That happened back in Kansas. We're in Utah now.”

“How do you know it happened in Kansas?” Clay asked pointedly. “The boy didn't say anything about Kansas.”

“Sure he did. He . . .” Talbot started, then, midway through his sentence, his hand suddenly dipped toward his gun.

“He's going for his gun!” Pecorino shouted, but his warning wasn't necessary. Parker was ready for him, and his own pistol was out and booming before Talbot could even bring his gun level. A stain of red spread across Talbot's chest. He wore a surprised look on his face, shocked by the fact that the boy he had left for dead out on the Kansas prairie had come back to kill him. He gurgled a curse as the blood rose in his throat, then dribbled from the corners of his mouth, matting his beard. He fell backward, his heavy body sending a puff of dust as he hit the street. His arms flopped out to either side of him, the unfired gun dangling from a crooked but stilled finger. It had all happened so quickly that the first indication any of those on the outside edge of the crowd got was the booming sound of Parker's gun.

Parker stood there for a long moment, the gun still in his hand, smoke curling up from the end of the barrel. He looked at Talbot's still form lying on the dirt street.

Talbot wasn't the first man he had killed. He may have killed, or at least participated in the killing of Arnold Fenton, when the outlaws hit the wagons. And he certainly had killed some Indians when they were attacked on the trail. But this was the first man he had ever killed face-to-face, and Parker wasn't enjoying the sensation he was feeling right now.

“Drop your gun, boy,” a voice said firmly.

Parker looked toward the sound of the voice and saw a man holding a gun pointed at him. The man was wearing a badge, and held a cocked pistol. “Drop the gun now!” he said again, this time with more emphasis.

“Sheriff, Talbot drew first,” Clay said.

The sheriff looked around. “Can anyone here vouch for that?”

“Yeah, I can. I seen it,” Pecorino said.

“Me too,” Tobin added.

“So did I,” Jason said.

“You all came in together, didn't you?” the sheriff asked.

“Yes, but that doesn't mean we aren't telling the truth,” Clay said.

“What about any of you folks?” the sheriff asked. “Any of you see what happened?”

The local citizens looked at each other and shrugged. Though none of them could validate Clay's claim that Talbot drew first, neither did any of them make the accusation that it was the other way around.

“What is going on here?” another voice asked. This voice was familiar to all of the citizens, and they turned toward him, silent in respect.

“President Young, evidently these gentiles had an altercation with Colonel Talbot. And this boy shot him.”

“Are you Brigham Young?” Clay asked.

“I am.”

Clay reached for his inside pocket and, as he did so, half a dozen guns were cocked. Quickly, Clay pulled his hand away, empty. “I have a letter for you,” he said.

“Who is the letter from?”

“It's from Colonel Alexander Doniphan,” he said.

Young held out his hand. “Let me see the letter.”

Slowly, Clay withdrew the letter, then handed it to Brigham Young. Young pulled a pair of glasses out from his vest pocket and put them on, hooking them over each ear, one at a time. He read the letter, then nodded.

“Colonel Doniphan was a friend to us, when we sorely needed a friend,” he told the others.

“He vouches for Mr. Springer, and asks that we deal with him fairly.”

“Perhaps that is what this is all about, President Young,” one of the merchants suggested.

“What do you mean, Mr. Thurman?” Young asked.

“As merchants, we authorized Colonel Talbot to act as our broker.” Thurman looked at Clay. “But maybe you didn't consider an offer of six times your invoice price to be fair.”

“Six times our invoice price?” Clay replied. “Is that the offer you told him to make?”