Hard Ride to Wichita (19 page)

Although he turned on him with the same venom in his glare that he'd directed at Red, Carlo knew the name Luke had just called him wasn't meant as an insult. Having earned that title, Carlo couldn't see his way clear to punishing the one who'd thrown it back at him. “They may have some bigger fish to fry, but the men who rode under my commander's flag are every bit as infamous as the man himself.”

“Still seems like you'd be able to find your way on your own,” Luke continued. “You've done pretty well this far.”

“I found a town hardly anyone knows about in the middle of Kansas,” Carlo said with a humorless chuckle. “That's a long ways from freedom. Besides, what I meant to buy from Granger was more than a ticket on a boat. It was a clean slate. He's got dirt on men who have the means to wipe a man's name from official records. Once that's done, there's not much reason left for anyone to hunt me down. Trust me when I tell you that's worth the price I meant to pay.”

Dropping himself down next to the fire, Red sat hunched forward and said, “Could've come clean with this earlier.”

“Yes,” Carlo replied as he turned to look at him, “but something made me think it wouldn't go over so well.”

“He's come clean now, Red,” Luke told him. “That's the important thing. He didn't have good reason to trust us before just like we didn't have much reason to trust him. All that matters is that we're on level ground now. Ain't that right?”

“I suppose,” Red grunted.

“And we are on level ground?”

Red took his time to prod the fire beneath the coffeepot with a charred stick. He was still muttering to himself when Luke came over to take that stick away from him and swat him across the shoulder with it hard enough to snap the stick in two.

“Ow!” Red howled.

“Are we on level ground?” Luke repeated.

“Fine! Whatever you say!”

Turning to Carlo, Luke tossed his half of the stick and said, “I think that's about the best we're going to get for now.”

“I appreciate the effort,” Carlo said.

“So, we've done our scouting,” Luke said. “We've seen the men Granger has with him and it's a far cry from a typical army post. The captain is probably banking on his rank and station to protect him more than surrounding himself with a bunch of hired guns.”

“I'd say you're partially right,” Carlo admitted. “But those men we saw are more than just hired guns. They're professional soldiers, and if Granger has them with him, they must be real good at their job.”

“There still ain't very many of 'em,” Red chimed in. “Least, that's what you two said you saw when you snuck off.”

“Don't take this the wrong way,” Carlo said, “but one seasoned soldier is worth ten men who just have a gun in their hands and fire in their eyes. I've seen sharpshooters that could hold off a dozen riders for days just so long as he had bullets for his rifle and a good spot to fire from.”

“He's right,” Luke said. “We go in there thinking it'll be easy and we could be setting ourselves up for a fall.”

Carlo turned to him and said, “Good to see you've gotten some of your sense back.”

“I still don't see why you want to wait so long to do anything, though.”

“Let's just take some time to think it over,” Carlo requested. “We've been riding for a while and sleeping on the ground. If I have to eat more oatmeal and jerked beef, I'm liable to lose my mind. There's much better food to be had in Wichita and softer beds as well.”

Red's head snapped up. “And saloons.”

“Yep. Probably them too.”

Luke studied Carlo as he asked, “Are you just suggesting that to buy the time you're after?”

“Every fighting man performs better when he's rested and well fed. Right now we're none of those things.”

“I agree with that!” Red said.

“There's more scouting to be done,” Carlo continued. “In town, there's bound to be plenty of folks who have something to say about Captain Granger and his men. Every little scrap we can find out about them will help when the time comes to make our play.”

“And when will that be?” Luke asked.

“Are you really that anxious to put your neck on the chopping block?”

“It's not my neck with the ax hanging over it,” Luke said before turning and walking away from the fire.

It hadn't been long since Carlo had last been to Wichita. Although he hadn't let on to either of his young companions on this ride, he knew his way around town fairly well. Fortunately Luke's eye was drawn to a gunsmith's shop they found on their way to put up the horses for the night, and Red was drawn to almost every saloon he saw. The last he'd seen of that one, Red had been grinning back at a girl dressed in a filmy skirt and a bodice that was laced up tight enough to put her finest assets on prominent display. There had been a few words exchanged between Red and Luke, but Luke was willing to part with some more of Scott's money if only to stop being pestered for it.

“You need any?” Luke asked as if he were handing out drinks of water instead of crumpled cash.

“I suppose for expenses and such,” Carlo replied.

Only when he caught a few passing locals taking more than a casual interest in the bag he carried did Luke bother to cover what he was doing. He handed over some money without making a show of it and said, “We should arrange a time and place to meet up to figure out what to do next.”

“We know what to do,” Carlo told him. “Take a look around town and listen to what folks have to say about Granger and the men posted in that camp. Just don't be too obvious about it or you'll draw them soldiers straight to you. Understand?”

“Yeah, I understand,” Luke replied skeptically.

“I'd go with you, but it's best if we split up. That way, if word gets back to Granger that someone's been asking about him, it's only one or two men doing the asking. They won't be looking for all three of us if things go from bad to worse.”

Although Luke nodded, he did so reluctantly. “Remember that hotel we passed on our way into town?”

“Which one?”

“The one that was across from that saloon Red was all worked up about.”

“That doesn't help narrow it down very much,” Carlo said.

“It was a big place hosting a poker tournament,” Luke explained.

“Now I remember. I think that hotel was called . . . something about a horse. I know which one you mean.”

“Meet up with us tonight at that hotel sometime around midnight. That should give Red enough time to burn off some of the steam he's been building up.”

“I don't know,” Carlo said. “That kid can hold a lot of steam.”

“You don't have to tell me. I grew up with him. We'll meet up and go over what we found out when scouting.”

“Just remember what I told you. Keep your ears and eyes open for whatever you can find about Granger, but don't draw attention to yourselves while doing it. And be wary of men wearing an army uniform. They don't need much of a reason to drag you into a jail cell, and if they're one of Granger's, they'll need no reason at all.”

“Where are you going?” Luke asked.

“Other end of town. I figure you and Red have the saloon district covered well enough.”

Luke nodded and they parted ways. Carlo could tell the younger man still had his suspicions, but was biding his time before acting on them.

For the next hour or so, Carlo kept moving from one spot to another without paying much attention to where he was going. Instead he was more concerned with anyone else that might be tagging along from a distance. He knew Luke had it in him to try to follow him through town to make sure Carlo was doing what he said he'd be doing. There was also the chance that one of Granger's men was on his trail after having lost two of their number in the ambush just before Carlo, Luke, and Red had made it to Wichita. Carlo kept alert as he wandered the streets and didn't find anything to make him believe he was being followed. That made him feel a little better, but not much.

One of the places he stopped was a corner saloon that seemed inviting enough from what Carlo could see through doors that were propped open by an old milk jug. Of course, with all the trail dust collecting in the back of his throat, any place serving beer would have been inviting. He went inside, stepped up to the bar, and knocked on the wooden surface to attract the attention of a mouse of a man wearing a dented bowler hat.

“What can I get you?” the man asked.

Carlo asked for a beer and when it was given to him, he picked up the mug and drained half of it in one swig. Before he could lift his arm again, he felt a frail hand take hold of his wrist.

“Not so fast, mister,” the barkeep said. “You need to pay first. And if you're thinking of trying to get one over on me on account of my size, you should know I'm plenty strong enough to pull the trigger of the shotgun I keep within easy reach.”

Carlo set the mug down. “No need for threats. I'm just thirsty, not a thief. I got every intention of paying.”

“Good. Then I'll have the money for this drink.”

“This right here should cover it and the next few rounds,” Carlo said as he laid down the clay chip he'd taken from one of the dead bushwhackers outside town.

The barkeep looked down at the chip as if it had dropped from the back end of a mule. “That's not one of mine,” he said.

“It ain't?”

“You see anything around here to make you think I'd honor that?”

Carlo looked around at the sparse amount of decoration in the place, which mainly consisted of a few grainy photographs on the walls and signs spelling out the house rules for everything from gambling to spitting on the floor. “Well, where would I go to cash this in?” he asked.

“The Red Bison! It's a billiard room across town.”

“Just billiards?” Carlo asked.

Scowling, the barkeep said, “I ain't about to sing the praises of some other place. You gonna pay for that beer you drank or do I have to take what you owe out of yer hide?”

Digging into another pocket, Carlo took out enough money to pay for the beer he'd been given and one more. After he handed that over, the barkeep became a bit friendlier. When he was finished, Carlo stepped outside and looked up and down the street for any familiar faces. He found none and even as he made his way down the boardwalk, nobody seemed to take notice of him in the slightest.

Now that he was fairly certain he was alone, Carlo had some business that needed tending. This wasn't the first time he'd been to Wichita, but he wasn't exactly looking for street names or landmarks. Instead he took his horse from one stable to another, asking about prices and rates for different kinds of feed. The first place he went to was clean and had plenty of open stalls.

“These the best rates in town?” he asked the burly stable man.

“Damn straight.”

“Is it worth it?”

“We're the best in Wichita. Ask anybody.”

Carlo moved on.

The next place he found was a few streets over. It was a bit smaller than the first, and when he asked about prices for feed, he noticed the old man speaking to him losing interest by the second.

“There's a bigger place near here who offered some good rates,” Carlo said as a way to test the waters.

The old man shrugged. “Go where you please, mister.”

“A friend of mine put his horse up in a stable that was a lot worse than this one. Little place. What was the name of it?”

“Probably the Bar T Corral on the corner.”

“Could be it. Is that the smallest stable in town?”

“Only three stalls,” the old man said after spitting onto the ground between them. “Any smaller than that ain't hardly a stable.”

“All right, then. I'll be back.”

The old man hardly seemed to care when Carlo walked away.

It took some doing, but Carlo eventually found the Bar T wedged in between a butcher shop and a tobacco store. His horse was far from fussy, but even he began to fret when he got in the midst of those competing scents. Carlo stroked the horse's gray and black mane and coaxed him into the run-down structure that barely passed for a stable. As promised, there were only three stalls inside. Two were fit to host a horse, and the other was roped off where a gate should have been. Its back wall had been kicked out by an unhappy customer some time ago and was never repaired.

“What are your rates?” Carlo asked the man tending the place.

Rail thin and looking like death warmed over, the keeper chewed on a piece of straw and replied, “How much you got?”

“You serve quality greens?”

“No.”

“I've got fifty cents for the rest of the day.”

Shrugging, the sickly man said, “That'll do, I suppose.”

“I may be using the stall myself if I can't find a room.”

The keeper held out a filthy hand. “You pay yer money, you do what you please. Just like everyone else.”

“You get a lot of folks wanting to sleep in your stalls?”

“Just drunks and vagrants,” the keeper said while wandering off. “Any of you come around asking for breakfast and I'll toss you out on your ears.”

Before Carlo could ask about that, the keeper had shuffled out of earshot. He was either going to an outhouse or just finding someplace that didn't smell like dead pigs and cheap cigars.

Carlo had been able to see everything the stable had to offer by looking in through the front doors. Actually he could only look through one of the doors because the other was nailed in place and refused to budge. Despite his low expectations, the inside of the stable wasn't too bad. Most of the straw had been recently changed and the horse that was occupying one of the functional stalls seemed friendly enough. Carlo opened the gate to the second stall and led Old Man into it.

“Real good system you came up with,” said a gruff voice from the next stall.

Placing his hand on his holstered pistol, Carlo turned toward the man who'd spoken up and said, “I don't know what you mean.”

The man who stood up and brushed himself off was tall and slender with a narrow chin and scraggly mustache. His face was smeared with dirt and his clothes looked as if they might have been lying at the bottom of that stall longer than the man wearing them. He showed Carlo half a smirk and said, “The hell you don't know what I mean. It was your idea. Find the sorriest excuse for a stable in whatever town we were meeting in and wait there like a vagabond.”

“Only when we're on the run,” Carlo replied.

“And when aren't we on the run?”

“Lately . . . not too often.” Carlo extended a hand across the low wall separating the two stalls. “Good to see you, Frank.”

“Where you been, Carlo? I waited for you in Topeka for three days and you never showed.”

“I was headed that way but got sidetracked.”

“Marshals?”

Carlo shook his head. “Bounty hunters. Five of 'em.”

Frank let out a low whistle. “They're stepping up their game. Most I ever had on my tail at once was three.”

“That's just because my head's more valuable than yours,” Carlo said with a grin. “Always will be.”

“If they're in the market for the smelliest scalp in Kansas, maybe,” Frank was quick to reply. “Haven't seen you for the better part of a month! What kind of trouble have you been getting into?”

“Same as the rest of you, I reckon. How many of us are here?”

“Just me for now, but a few stragglers are on their way.”

“How'd you know to come here?” Carlo asked. “I tried sending word to you to meet me here, but never got a reply.”

“Where'd you send it from?”

“Some little hole in the wall called Wendt Cross. It's a few days' ride from here.”

Frank's eyes were sharp as an oiled blade. They studied Carlo intently as he said, “Last we heard, you'd be found in that town near the Missouri border if things took a turn for the worse. How come you never showed? More bounty hunters?”

“Same ones I already mentioned. They ran me so far from where I was supposed to go that I couldn't exactly double back and risk leading them to the rest of you.”

“I suppose that was a good notion,” Frank said.

Carlo slapped Frank on the shoulder and laughed. “Unless you and the rest enjoy fending off a bunch of bloodthirsty killers who'd stab you in your sleep just as soon as they'd look at you, it was a good notion indeed. I'm just glad you tracked me down. How'd you manage that?”

Although Carlo was still smiling, Frank didn't appear to be in such high spirits. “We crossed paths with a pack of bounty hunters that had been tracking us since we left Missouri,” he said. “Had a word with them over a long couple of nights. Well, long for them anyhow.”

“Yeah. I bet it was.”

“Worked them over the whole time. Some of the others hurt them real bad. Once two of them died, the others were willing to talk.” Narrowing his eyes until his gaze became as focused as sunlight through a magnifying glass, Frank said, “None of them mentioned seeing you.”

Carlo knew better than to make a move toward his gun, but the muscles in his arm and hand flexed in preparation for a quick draw. Frank was a good man and a loyal partner, but he was also smart and deadly with any shooting iron he carried. “There's prices on our heads, Frank. All of our heads. That's a lot of money, which means plenty of men looking to collect.”

“Sure,” Frank said in a cool, detached tone. “But what are the odds that anyone, even someone as stupid as most of the bounty hunters we find, would forget an ugly cuss like you riding a horse that's older than the dirt beneath its shoes?”

Finally allowing his gun arm to relax, Carlo balled up his fists and put them up to stand in a sloppy fighting pose. “I told you to never say a bad word about my horse! Don't make me beat the tar out of you like I did back in Leavenworth.”

Frank defended himself against Carlo's halfhearted attacks while cracking a smile of his own. “You got in a few lucky shots in Leavenworth only because I was drunk.”

“So, was that true, what you said about those bounty hunters?”