8

Since Burt and Wease had gone east, Alonzo headed west. He wanted nothing more to do with them. And since water and game were to be had along the Platte, he stuck to the river. He knew that somewhere up ahead it divided into the North Platte and the South Platte, which were fed with runoff from the far distant mountains and a number of tributaries.

Alonzo reckoned that the next town he came to would, in fact, be North Platte. He didn’t know much about it other than it was a railroad town, and reputed to be on the wild side. He couldn’t remember if he’d heard it had a marshal or not, and hoped it didn’t. The less law, the freer he could operate.

Alonzo took his time. He enjoyed the cool air close to the water, and the breeze out of the northwest. He liked the wildlife. He wasn’t a country boy, by any means. Give him a city or town any day. But on occasions like this, when he didn’t have to worry about dying of thirst or hunger, he could relax and enjoy the scenery.

He was so absorbed in nature that when something began to nip at the back of his mind, he ignored it. Only when a pair of jays took raucous flight behind him did he recall that earlier several crows had done the same. He hadn’t thought much of it. Birds were always being spooked by one thing or another.

Now he wondered if maybe someone was following him.

Shifting in his saddle, Alonzo probed the woodland. He mustn’t forget he was in Indian country. The Sioux, or Dakotas as some called them, were particularly hostile to whites, and would scalp and kill any white man they caught. They could be brazen, too, in how close they’d venture to towns and forts.

Alonzo swallowed. The last thing he wanted was to tangle with hostiles. He was no Indian-fighter. For that matter, he wasn’t much of a fighter of any kind. He relied on his wits to get him out of scrapes, like that time in Denver with the Law and Order League. But they were tame compared to the Sioux, who could sneak up on a man as silently as ghosts.

Alonzo rode a little faster. He kept his hand on his Colt, which wouldn’t do him much good if he was attacked. He wasn’t much of a shot, either. When he thought about it, the only thing in the whole world he was really good at was impersonating others.

It was too bad he couldn’t do it for a living. A legal living, that was.

The river’s many bends and turns added to his unease. If someone was back there, they could close in at their leisure with little risk of being spotted.

Suddenly the natural wonders of the Platte weren’t so appealing.

The woods were thick, too, which complicated things. Alonzo’s woodcraft consisted of being able to start a fire—provided he had Lucifers or the old-fashioned way of starting a fire with steel and flint—and being able to tell north from south and east from west, provided he knew where the sun had risen or was setting. Daniel Boone, he wasn’t.

Spooky times like this, Alonzo reflected, would sometimes make him think of doing something else for a living. Something he wouldn’t be arrested for, like a store clerk or a bank teller. The problem was, the mere notion of spending the rest of his days in drudgery and boredom held as much appeal as being scalped.

Alonzo never had understood how so many folks stood such dull lives. Each and every of their days was the same as the one before. They got up at the same time, they went to work at the same time, they spent eight or ten hours at a job that had all the excitement of watching grass grow, and then they’d go home and eat their supper at the same time and go to bed at the same time, and the next day, start the same thing all over again.

It would drive him mad.

He supposed there were jobs that didn’t do that, but if so, he hadn’t heard of any that appealed to him. Being rich would be nice. The rich got to do howsoever they pleased. But rich called for a lot of money, and it was rare for him to have more than a thousand dollars in his poke.

He could try to save more, but he’d have to scrimp on how he liked to live. Namely, after each fleecing, when he was flush, he’d treat himself to a stay at a nice hotel and spend nights at a nice saloon, drinking fine liquor and playing cards.

His impersonations let him live high on the hog for a while. Not real high, but enough that the simple pleasures outweighed the risks of his profession. Except for moments like this.

Another bend came up, the river on his right gurgling quietly. Out on the water a fish leaped.

Simultaneously, there was the boom of a shot and the smack of lead striking the cottonwood that he was going around. Using his spurs, he hauled on the lead rope and plunged Archibald and the packhorse into a thick patch of timber. He only went a short way and drew rein. Palming the Colt, he waited breathlessly for some sign of the bushwhacker.

Alonzo’s skin prickled. That had been close. The shot sounded like a rifle. He wasn’t savvy enough about guns to tell, say, whether it was a repeater or one of the old buffalo guns.

The minutes crawled. As much as Alonzo wanted to get out of there, he held his impatience in check. Careless could get him killed.

Over half an hour must have gone by when Alonzo finally shoved his Colt into its holster and lifted his reins. There hadn’t been a hint of the shooter. Not so much as the snap of a twig or a bush moving when it shouldn’t. He figured—he hoped—that whoever took the shot at him had decided to go elsewhere.

His mouth going dry, Alonzo made for the trail. When sparrows erupted out of a thicket, his heart leaped into his throat.

Despite the screaming of the tiny voice in his mind to ride like hell, Alonzo held Archibald to a walk. He couldn’t hear much when going at a gallop, and he needed to rely on his ears as much as his eyes.

Another half an hour went by, and Alonzo was just beginning to relax again when an acrid scent tingled his nose. Smoke. His first thought was that it must be Indians, but no, they wouldn’t give themselves away like that. It must be whites, then. Eager for the company, since it might discourage his stalker if the killer was still back there, he brought his horse and the pack animal to a trot.

Pounding around yet another turn in the river, Alonzo abruptly had to drew rein.

Before him spread a wide clearing. In the middle a campfire burned, and beside it lay a man on his back, resting.

Alonzo thought that was strange. The man had to have heard him. Why hadn’t he sat up? Then he saw that the man’s shoulder was bandaged, and handcuffs were clamped to his wrists.

Before the significance could sink in, another man stepped out of the trees, holding a leveled Winchester.

*   *   *

Deputy Marshal Jacob Stone had been up at the crack of dawn, as was his custom, but he couldn’t get the early start he wanted. Loudon was the problem. Despite Stone’s best effort, Loudon’s wound had become infected and the man was doing poorly. Loudon had a high fever and was as weak as a newborn kitten.

Reluctantly, Stone stayed put. He was camped by the Platte River, and put water on to boil to clean Loudon’s wound. Yet again. It was all he could do. He didn’t have any medicine. There was a sawbones in North Platte, but they were three days out, by his reckoning.

Stone was sitting by the fire, drinking coffee and waiting for the pot to boil, when he heard the distant crack of a rifle. He was immediately on his feet, his own rifle in hand.

Moving to the east edge of the clearing, he listened. There was only the one shot. It could be a hunter, he reasoned. Or it could be trouble.

If there was one thing Stone had learned in his many years of wearing a badge, it was to never, ever, take anything for granted. Moving into the trees, he knelt and waited. Patience was one of his long suits, and he had knelt there he knew not how long when hoofbeats brought him off his knees into a crouch. To say he was surprised by the rider who came around the bend was an understatement. When the man on the bay drew rein, Stone stepped into the open. “Another deputy, by God.”

The man’s face was a blank slate. “What?”

“Your badge,” Stone said.

“What?” the man said again for some reason.

Stone tapped his own star. “What’s the matter with you? I’m a deputy marshal, like you.”

The man looked down at his vest. “Oh.”

Stone moved closer. He saw that the other deputy was young, his clothes remarkably clean. And plainly upset. “Are you all right?”

“I was shot at,” the young deputy said. His voice had changed, and he used a drawl a lot like Stone’s own.

Stone thought he understood. Being shot at would rattle anyone. Concerned, he looked back the way the deputy had come. “By who?”

“Don’t know. Could have been Injuns.”

Stone hadn’t seen any recent Indian sign. But that meant nothing. “I’m Jacob Stone,” he introduced himself. “Who might you be?”

The younger man seemed to collect himself. “Grant,” he said. “Robert Grant.”

“Well, Deputy Robert Grant, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Stone said warmly, and sobered. “Do you think whoever took that shot is after you?”

“No,” Grant said. “Leastwise, there hasn’t been any sign of anyone, and it’s been a while.”

“Come join me by the fire, then. I have coffee on, and you can tell me all about yourself.”

“There’s not much to tell,” Grant said a bit guardedly. Dismounting, he led his roan and his pack animal over. “What happened to that gent?” he asked, with a nod at Loudon.

Stone related the incident in Hebron, ending with, “He’s doin’ poorly, and I hope to get him to the doc in North Platte in time to save his life.” He paused. “Is that where you’re bound?”

“It’s closest,” Grant said.

“Let me have your cup,” Stone said, and when his new acquaintance produced it from a saddlebag, he filled it and indicated Grant should take a seat. It puzzled him that Grant appeared somewhat unhappy about the turn of events. Turning so he faced the east edge of the clearing, he sank down, placed his Winchester across his lap, and said, “I’m all ears.”

“I told you there’s not much to tell,” Grant said. “I’m a deputy, like you.”

Stone smiled. “You’re kind of prickly. Not that I blame you, bein’ shot at and all. But who appointed you?” It was customary for the marshals in each district to appoint their own deputies. In districts where lawlessness was rampant, there could be dozens, if not scores. “Hodder? It couldn’t be the marshal before him, Clyde Smith. You don’t look old enough to have known him.”

“I’m older than I look,” Grant said. “But it was Hodder.”

“How long ago?”

“What?” Grant said.

“How long ago were you appointed? Don’t take offense, but you look new to the badge.”

“It was, oh, two months ago, I guess,” Grant replied in a strange tone.

“Are you askin’ me or tellin’ me?” Stone said, and laughed. He remembered being green once. “What’s your assignment?”

Grant appeared confused by the question. “I don’t rightly have one. I’m just sort of wanderin’ around, learnin’ the territory.”

“That sounds like Hodder. Learn as you go,” Stone said. The marshal was a big believer in the old saying that experience was the best teacher. “It’s lucky you ran in to me.”

“How so?” Grant said. He hadn’t touched his coffee.

“We can partner up, and I can learn you the ropes,” Stone proposed. “You see these wrinkles?” he said, and pointed at his own face. “I’m not braggin’ when I say I know just about all there is to know about bein’ a marshal. I’ve been at it more years than anyone in the district.”

“I don’t know,” Grant said.

“Why wouldn’t you?” Stone said. “Hodder, himself, would say it’s for your own good. Come with me to North Platte, and after that, who knows?”

“I don’t know,” Grant repeated himself. “Maybe I should go back and try to find whoever shot at me.”

“What made you think it was Indians?”

“This is Sioux country, isn’t it?” Grant said. “Although it could have been one of those men I met this mornin’.”

“Who?”

“One called himself Burt and the other was named Wease. Burt was friendly enough, but I didn’t trust that Wease.”

Stone sat up, all interest. “Describe them, the best you can.” After the younger deputy complied, he nodded and said, “Grant, you’re about the luckiest lawman alive. That two-gun hombre was none other than Burt Alacord. His pard was Weasel Ginty. Everyone calls him Wease.”

“Should I know of them?”

“They ride with Cal Grissom. Alacord is quick as anything. Wease is a backstabber. Alacord would come at you straight-up, but Wease is just the sort of no-account to take a potshot and then skedaddle.”

Grant touched his badge. “All because I’m wearin’ this?”

“Sonny, that badge makes you a target for every badman there is,” Stone warned him. “Never let your guard down.”

“I won’t.”

“You know,” Stone said. “This is a stroke of luck in more ways than one. Grissom and his bunch must be close by. Once I get Loudon, here, to the sawbones, you and me should go after them.”

“Just the two of us?”

“Why not?” Stone said. “It gives us somethin’ to do, and I can teach you as we go.”

“Just so we don’t wind up dead,” Grant said.