Hard Ride to Wichita (14 page)

“I know what trail I'm on,” Luke said. “Until I get to have a talk with this Captain Granger, there isn't another one for me.”

“There's always another one, Luke.”

“Do you want to ride with me and Red or not?”

“I can find Granger on my own,” Carlo said.

“But you'll get there quicker if you know where he is.”

“What sort of help do you think I can offer anyways?”

“You're good with a gun,” Luke replied while ticking his answers off on his fingers. “You know Granger better than I do, so you know what we'll be up against when we get there. And if things take a turn for the worse, it can only help to have more guns on our side.”

“Doesn't it bother you to drag your friend into this when you could both wind up dead?”

“I didn't drag him anywhere. He does what he pleases.”

“He's a good friend. Don't treat him like he's got nowhere else to be other than where you need him.”

“You're just plumb full of advice,” Luke grumbled.

“I'll save my breath, then. To be honest, what I said wouldn't have made a dent in me either when I was your age. As far as your offer goes, I'll pass.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yeah.”

Luke started walking away. “If you change your mind, we'll be at Stormy's for another day.”

“Don't worry, kid. I won't change a thing.”

Bright and early the next morning, Carlo was up and brushing the stray pieces of hay from his shoulders, legs, arms, chest, and head. His horse stood looking as unimpressed as ever with his saddle and bags waiting nearby. Everything was packed, and if the need arose, Carlo could be galloping away in a matter of minutes.

“Hey there, Old Man,” Carlo said as he patted the horse's neck and sifted his fingers through his gray-black mane. “Hope you slept better than I did.”

The horse glanced over to him, nudged Carlo with his nose, and stuck it into his trough for a drink.

“We're not heading out just yet, but I want you to be ready. Hope you don't mind.”

When Carlo buckled the saddle and bags onto his back, the horse seemed to mind it as much as he minded anything else. Judging by the animal's lack of movement, he might not have been aware of the saddle or Carlo's presence whatsoever.

Once that was done, Carlo left the stable and crossed the street to have some breakfast at a little bakery that served its day-old biscuits and bread at a discounted price. The woman who worked there recognized him on sight and prepared a plate of biscuits along with a cup of honey.

“You're in luck,” she said with a gap-toothed smile. “These are yesterday's day-old biscuits, so you can have 'em for free. It was either that or I'd be tossing them out.”

“Three-day-old biscuits, huh? I suppose I'll take whatever luck I can scrape up. Much obliged.”

“A good man like you shouldn't have to scrape for luck.”

Carlo tipped his hat. “Thanks to the good graces of angels like yourself, I don't have to.”

The old woman smiled and headed back into the kitchen to finish baking the day's fresh cakes. Carlo took his plate to one of the small tables in the front corner of the bakery. His backside didn't even get a chance to warm the seat before the honey and biscuits were gone. After spending the last several days surviving on scraps and handouts, his belly was in a constant state of discontent. Wolfing down the breakfast helped take the edge off his hunger but didn't come close to squashing it entirely. He got up, brought the plate to the counter, and leaned toward the kitchen door.

“Anything I can do for you, ma'am?” he shouted.

“There's a stack of wood outside that could be brought in for my stove,” she replied.

Without another word, Carlo went out and circled around to the back of the bakery. Sure enough, there was a pile of wood there, which he carried inside and stacked next to the stove. It only took two trips, but the woman was so grateful that she offered him more to eat.

“No need for that,” he said. “You've been plenty helpful since I've been in town.”

“It's the least I can do for a fighting man like yourself,” she said with a beaming smile.

“I honestly do appreciate it.”

“I'll have something good for you tomorrow,” she assured him. “Just you wait.”

“I'm afraid I'll more than likely be leaving town today.”

“Then stay put,” she said as she started bustling about the kitchen to grab bread and cheese from a few different spots. She even went to her front counter to collect some bacon that she kept in short supply. “I'm making you something for lunch.”

“No, ma'am. You've been more than helpful. I couldn't.”

She reappeared with more speed than her little body seemed capable of producing. When she spoke to him, it was in a fierce whisper that could not be refused. “These are rough times for folks like us. Men like you need to do what you can to keep the spirit alive. You hear me?”

“Yes, but—”

“But nothing!” she interrupted. “It's your duty to fight and my duty to keep you fed and . . . well, that's about all I'm good for anymore, so just take what I give you along with my thanks for what you done.”

Carlo didn't have to wait long for her to put together some sandwiches and wrap them up for him. When she handed them over, he gave her his thanks and she gave him a farewell hug. Outside, the town was bustling with folks getting their workday off to a running start. Carlo looked down the street toward Westminster and started walking along the straightest route to the Eastern Trading Company.

After rounding a corner and walking along the boardwalk, he caught sight of Bickle's store. Carlo stood in front of a smaller place so he could watch for any sign that Bickle might be up to something. There were a few people standing around near the front of the Eastern Trading Company, but nobody struck him as familiar.

The wagons from the day before were no longer parked in front of the place. Once he got inside, however, Carlo had no trouble telling several large payloads had been dropped off. Every one of the store's shelves was full and there were even a few barrels situated near the front counter that bore large, freshly painted signs advertising new wares for sale at reasonable prices.

“These rugs are lovely!” declared a tall woman with flowing black hair. She wore a dress that seemed much too formal for that time of day and a hat that looked as if it might start flapping its wings to take off on its own.

Bickle stood behind the front counter, poking keys on his cash register and puffing his chest out like a peacock. “Why, thank you, Mrs. Havermeyer,” he said. “They only just arrived yesterday.”

“I hear there was a problem with your shipment when it arrived. Something about a robber?”

“Oh, I'd rather not discus that,” Bickle replied. “Rest assured, nothing was taken. In fact, there are even more of those fine broaches you like so much in this case. Have a look for yourself.”

“What about the candlesticks?” Carlo said as he approached the counter. “Don't forget about those candlesticks.”

Mrs. Havermeyer turned to look at him and was clearly displeased with what she saw. “Thank you, no,” she said as if she'd just taken a swig of lemon juice. “I'll just have a look at those broaches.” Whether she was truly interested in jewelry or just wanted to get away from a man who looked as if he'd spent the night in a stable, the finely dressed woman couldn't get away from the front counter fast enough.

“What are you doing here?” Bickle asked in a fierce whisper.

“Did you forget already? I'll have that money you owe me.”

“I told you I couldn't get all of it so quickly. Especially after you made me hand over so much to those two thugs.”

“Then I'll take whatever you've got,” Carlo said.

“Come back tomorrow.”

“That wasn't the proposition I offered. You were to pull together my money or as much as you could. Not spend your time painting signs and arranging broaches.”

“Oh, so that was the proposition you offered?” Bickle asked in a mocking tone. “Well, I think about as highly of that proposition as I did of the first one where you put that money in my hands to begin with.”

Carlo did not like the way Bickle was speaking or the confidence that grew with every smug word the shop owner threw at him. Although Bickle was a naturally grating man, the fact that he was suddenly brave enough to defy Carlo when he'd been a sniveling little toad the previous day meant something had changed. For some reason, Bickle thought he had an advantage. Carlo didn't have to wait long before that advantage showed itself.

“Get out of my store,” Bickle said. “If I see you in here again, it'll be the worst day of your life.”

Hearing footsteps knock against the floor behind him, Carlo turned to see two men emerge from a storeroom. He recognized them as workers who'd been unloading the wagons the day before. Today, however, the only thing they carried was shotguns.

“You really want to do this?” Carlo asked. “Looks like you just got everything straightened up and now you want to make another mess.”

“I've got a broom,” Bickle replied. “Now leave.”

“I will . . . just as soon as I get my money.”

Both armed men fanned out so they could take aim with their shotguns from two different angles.

“I heard from Granger,” Bickle said. “He is upset by not getting his money, but he doesn't have the slightest notion where it went. He's convinced you took it, and considering who you are, that's what anyone would think. That means you're still the one that has to answer for that money, and since you can't take it from me,” he added while motioning toward the two shotgunners, “you'd best put this town behind you and not look back.”

“Why don't I worry about what's best for me?” Carlo said. “And I wouldn't be so certain that I can't take my money back right here and now.”

Both of the other men were burly and thick with muscle. While they held their shotguns with confidence, neither had the look of anything but wagon drivers.

“I've got more hired guns guarding my money,” Bickle warned. “You'll never get to it.”

“We'll see about that.”

The shotgunners shifted on their feet, tightening their grip on their weapons and slowly bringing them up to take aim. Before they could get settled into something close to a firing stance, Carlo walked toward Bickle. Almost immediately, the shop owner became the panicked ninny from the previous day and wailed, “Shoot him! Shoot him!”

In one smooth motion, Carlo dropped to one knee while drawing the pistol from his holster. When he hit the floor, thunder exploded from a shotgun to tear apart one of the rugs that Mrs. Havermeyer had been admiring. The rug was hanging from a wooden rod above a table stacked high with others of its kind, and it billowed like a flag in the wind as buckshot ripped through its woven fibers. The air filled with even more smoke when one of the second man's barrels erupted noisily. As Carlo had hoped, both shots were well off their mark after being taken in a rush.

Mrs. Havermeyer screamed and ran away from the display of broaches, waving her hands in the air. She looked even more birdlike as her hat flopped on top of her head and she scurried in one direction after another.

Squeezing his trigger, Carlo sent a round through a stack of dishes next to the closer shotgunner. When they exploded, the burly man hunkered down and fired his other barrel into the rugs piled beneath the one that had already been blown apart.

“Watch where you're shooting!” Bickle hollered.

Even as another shotgun blast tore through the shop to chew apart the inventory a few feet to his left, Carlo couldn't help smiling. Bickle would not stop shouting about the damage being done to his store. Carlo's only regret at that moment was that he couldn't see the other man's face when he stood up to fire his pistol from the hip.

Both shotgunners were in the middle of reloading their weapons as Carlo stuck his head up like a prairie dog from its hole. Aiming roughly in one shotgunner's direction, Carlo made certain to hit the most valuable merchandise he could find. He sent a pair of rounds through some drinking glasses, which popped better than fireworks on the Fourth of July. He then pivoted to fire another two shots at a long glass display case in the general vicinity of the other shotgunner.

“What are you doing?” Bickle screamed. “I just got that case!”

One of the shotgunners stopped reloading and looked over to the man who was paying him to be there. Apparently he didn't take kindly to being considered less valuable than some pieces of wood and a pane of glass.

“I'm just here to talk with the owner of this place,” Carlo announced. “If he's the one that wants to be difficult, then he's the one that should get hurt. Anyone wants to clear a path for me, I'll give them this one chance.”

Mrs. Havermeyer was the first to go. Hot on her heels was the offended shotgunner. As those two headed for the door, Carlo removed the cylinder from his pistol, replaced it with a loaded one, stood up to his full height, and cocked the hammer back before taking aim at the shotgunner who'd held his ground.

“Just so you know,” Carlo said, “I've been missing you on purpose.”

That was enough to make up the second man's mind. He placed his shotgun on the pile of rugs on his way out.

“All right, Jordan. Guess that leaves you and me.”

“I don't have your money!” Bickle shouted from where he now hid behind a row of barrels filled with nails and other building materials.

“You've got to have some money in here. Just give me something to start making up for what you stole. Emptying Captain Granger's pockets wasn't a good idea. Dealing with me now will be a lot less painful than dealing with him later.”

When he spoke again, Bickle had crawled into the corner of his store that was filled with blankets and linens. “I already told you, Procci. Granger is convinced you took his money and ran with it. What else would anyone expect from a traitor?”

That last word bit into Carlo like a hungry mosquito. He fought back the impulse to answer back right away so he could narrow down the direction that the shop owner was headed. Following the sounds of hands and knees scraping against the floor, he circled around to catch Bickle just as he was about to make it to a locked back room.

Towering over the other man, Carlo held his pistol in an easy grip and said, “The only reason you're alive right now after what you just said is that I need that money. Now . . . tell me one more time how you don't have it.”

Bickle's mouth was open, but his brain was fast enough to keep anything from coming out of it. He got to his feet, slowly, and held his hands out where they could be seen. Pointing toward the unmarked door, he said, “What I've got is in there.”

“Good. Open it.”

With trembling hands, Bickle fished a key from his pocket, fit it into the door, and opened it. He walked inside and Carlo followed him. Since Bickle had been so liberal with his boasts and threats earlier, Carlo wasn't surprised to find another pair of burly men waiting in there for him. The first was the biggest one so far and he swung at Carlo's head as if he meant to knock it from his shoulders, through a wall, and out into the street. Carlo ducked while stepping to one side, allowing the thick fist to slam into the door's frame. Since the big fellow was leaning forward that way, Carlo pounded the side of his pistol into the man's stomach before grabbing his collar and pulling him face-first into the wall. The big man's chin thumped against solid wood and he slid down into a heap.