Predators and Prey Page 17

  “Hello, Brother Rowley,” Combers said to the man on the stoop.

  “Hello, Bishop Combers. Good to see you,” Grueling replied.

  Combers stepped past Orrin and went on toward the tethered horses.

  “Come in, Orrin,” Young called.

  “Your messenger told me that I was to come and see you immediately upon arriving,” Grueling said, advancing into the room.

  “That’s correct. Please be seated.”

  “I would’ve been here sooner, but I was in the Sevier Desert west of Fillmore after wild horses. The messenger had trouble finding me.”

  “I’m glad you have come,” Young said. “We have brothers and sisters that may be in danger and need protection. Please sit down and let’s talk.”

  Young studied the black-haired, strongly built man of forty or so. He knew of the man’s strength, as well as his skill with weapons. The prophet had heard of some of Grueling’s exploits, and that some of the people called him the Avenging Angel. His band of compatriots was known as the Sons of Dan. Young believed the man meant to do only those things that would protect the Church. But the time for chastising a member of the Church for some perceived wrong without the sanction of the proper Church official must come to an end. Orrin and his group of followers would soon be called to heel. The congregation numbered nearly one hundred thousand souls and controlled a huge land area. Some dissent from the strict teachings of the Church could be tolerated, but only within reason. The prophet would set those limits, not some self-appointed avenger.

  Grueling seated himself in the chair in front of the desk. He remained silent as the prophet began to sort through a stack of papers. He wondered what urgent matter would cause the Church’s president to send for him instead of using his regular helpers.

  Grueling had great respect for Young, who was the leader of the Church, powerful in all civil matters of the territory, and had been temporary commander of the Army of Saints that had marched out in 1857 to fight the Army of the United States. In addition, Young was the owner of many businesses, running the gamut from ranches and farms to gristmills, sawmills, barbershops, coal mines, a nail factory, and even the Salt Lake City Theatre and Social Hall.

  Young was a visionary, a nation builder who had declared the existence of the State of Deseret. His enemies said he was power hungry and a land grabber. The State of Deseret was an expanse of land comprised of nearly one sixth of the United States.

  His doctrine of Outer Cordon had a boundary that extended from the Columbia River on the north to the Gila River on the south, and from Fort Lemhi on the Salmon River, San Bernardino, California, Carson Valley, Nevada, to Grand Valley at Moab. His plan was to hold this Outer Cordon by making settlements at every canyon mouth where water flowed and the land was arable.

  In addition, there were many settlements in Canada and Mexico. The Mormons had bought many Indian children out of slavery in Mexico and returned them to their own people.

  In 1850, Young’s vision had been shattered. The United States government established the Territory of Utah, shrinking Young’s empire to but a tenth of what it had been before. A federal judge came to Salt Lake City to sit on the judicial bench. Young had given no outward sign of the sorrow he felt at the death of his dream. Grueling wanted to do what he could to help the saintly man protect the church and what was left of his State of Deseret.

  Young lifted a paper and looked at Grueling. “This message arrived from St. Joseph, Missouri, a week ago. By now there is a handcart company far out on the plains en route to Salt Lake City. Deacon Moeller has requested we send armed guards to escort these new converts safely here. Bad feelings are running high against us in St. Joseph and Florence. He fears white renegades may attack the converts. Or there may be trouble from the Indians. Though there have been no reports of attacks by them, who knows what may have happened during the winter that could set them raiding when good weather comes.”

  Young dropped the paper to the desk. “I want you to go and meet our new brothers and sisters and bring them unharmed to our valley. Let none of them be taken from us.”

  “When should I leave?”

  “Tomorrow. We must not delay longer. Go home tonight and rest with your family. Tomorrow gather twenty men. See that they are mounted on good horses and are well armed. Leave as soon as possible that day.”

  Grueling was pleased that he had time to see his wives and children. He had been gone for two weeks. Young knew of a man’s needs, for he also was very much a family man. The prophet had eighty people in his household. They were domiciled in a three-story house with twenty gables, called Lion House. It was located nearby.

  “I can get half that number of men from those I .know,” Grueling said. “But the remaining men may be hard to find. We’ll be gone at least forty, maybe fifty, days. The season for plowing and planting will be far past by the time we return. The men must get their crops in the ground and irrigated properly. Otherwise they will go hungry next winter.”

  Young noted that Orrin had made no mention of his own crops, which also must be planted. “Select the men who can ride and shoot the best. Tell them that I’ve ordered it. Also tell them their fields shall be plowed and seeded by their brothers, and they will be done before any others. Leave the information with their first wife as to what each field is to be sowed with. On your way out of town, bring the men by my office so that I may speak to them.”

  “Sir, what should I do if the handcart company is threatened or attacked by Gentiles? How much force may I use?”

  “Whatever force is required to halt the attack. Bring every convert safely to Salt Lake City.”

  Young saw the black eyes of the man grow hard like spheres of obsidian. It would be very dangerous to an enemy if Orrin Grueling were to fight.

  “Yes, sir,” Grueling said.

  “Thank you for being so ready to give your assistance,” Young said.

  “I shall always be ready,” Grueling told the prophet.

  Young watched Orrin as he left the office, and then he continued to stare at the closed door for a time. This was the first time the Church president had called upon the Avenging Angel for help. It must also be the last. Now that Young had acknowledged the existence of the group of men and its leader, he must destroy their organization. There was a very remote valley in the southern part of the Arizona Territory where he would send Grueling and his wives.

  With a sigh Young climbed to his feet. The banishment of Grueling would be a severe punishment on the man and the members of his family. And it was happening only because of Grueling’s dedication to the safety of the Mormon Church.

  20

  “Better ride with the winner,” DeBreen called, laughing and looking around at the throng of gamblers and onlookers gathered near him. He held his big hand high in the air and rattled the pair of dice cupped in his palm.

  He stood at the end of one of the crap tables in Bouchard’s Gambling Emporium in St. Louis. During the ten days since his arrival he had won steadily, four to five hundred dollars each night. But tonight alone he was five thousand dollars ahead, and the wild bird of luck was still perched on his shoulder with talons of steel. He would break Ivorson, the professional gambler who banked the craps game.

  DeBreen raised his head to view the entire gambling parlor. News of the grand opening of the lavishly furnished establishment had reached him in St. Joe. He had left at once, catching the train to Hannibal and then a steam packet for the short run down the Mississippi to St. Louis.

  The brick-walled Emporium was located on the waterfront with its hustle and bustle. Here it could catch the river traffic, and also the trade of the uptown people out for excitement along the docks. The building was huge, some two hundred feet long and half as wide, and with a ceiling twenty feet high it was supported by elaborately carved wooden columns. A dozen crystal chandeliers blazing with gaslight hung from the ceiling. A thick, plush wool carpet covered the floor.

  Bouchard had installed many ga
mes of chance—roulette, faro, blackjack, poker, craps, and others. All of the equipment was of the finest construction. He rented the games out by the week. Only the most well-known professional gamblers could acquire the right to spin a wheel or shuffle a deck in the emporium. The reputation of the gamblers as well as the opulent furnishings of the establishment, would make Bouchard a very rich man.

  DeBreen decided at that moment to build a similar gaming place in St. Joe. He needed only a few thousand dollars more. The way his luck was running, he might win the money tonight.

  DeBreen placed his bet of three hundred dollars on the line. Other gamblers quickly followed suit. He rattled the dice again in his hand and flung the ivory cubes across the table. They bounced back, tumbling and spinning. They came to rest, a three and four spot faced up. A wild, jubilant cry rose from the players.

  Ivorson’s face was stony as he reached out with his stick and, with its curved end, hooked the dice and drew them to him. He had lost seven thousand dollars in but a few hours to the loudmouthed man and to the other players riding on his luck. Should the losses continue to mount at the same rate, he soon would be bankrupt. He picked up the dice and tossed them back to the end of the table in front of the loudmouth.

  DeBreen’s laughter and his calls to the people around him was part of the pleasure of winning, but his mind was intent upon the game. He watched the table banker pay off the bets and then rake in and pick up the dice. Why had the man not simply shoved the dice toward DeBreen, as he had always done before? And what was that? Was there a slight, unnecessary bending of the man’s fingers?

  He looked at Ivorson. The gambler was rubbing his jaw and watching him. In the back of his eyes was the incipient grin of a joker who had pulled a trick. Bastard, thought DeBreen, you grin too soon. You should not try to play tricks with the king of tricksters.

  Without removing his sight from Ivorson, DeBreen pulled half of his last winnings from the table and picked up the dice. He shook them briefly and tossed them at the raised backstop at the far end of the table.

  Immediately DeBreen moved, shoving several players out of the way and lunging along the side of the table. Before the dice came to rest, he was opposite Ivorson and reaching for him. He caught the craps banker by the wrist in a viselike hold.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Ivorson growled. He tried to wrench free, but DeBreen held him like iron.

  “I just wanted you and me to see at the same time what comes up on the dice,” DeBreen said. “Now, let’s take a look at them.”

  He twisted his head and glanced down. Snake eyes stared up from the green felt of the table.

  “Hah!” DeBreen said. “That proves you palmed the dice and switched with loaded ones. You were afraid of my luck.”

  “You’re crazy. Let go of me.”

  DeBreen raised the man’s wrist and slammed them down on the sharp raised edge of the craps table. The man’s hands flew open.

  “God damn you,” Ivorson cursed in pain.

  “So the dice ain’t in your hands,” said DeBreen. “Then let’s search a little farther.”

  The players stood transfixed, watching the two men. Players at other tables ceased playing and turned. DeBreen saw Bouchard hurrying across the room toward the disturbance. Two of his armed bouncers fell in beside him.

  DeBreen jerked powerfully on Ivorson, pulling him onto the craps table. He caught the tail of the man’s coat and yanked it up over his head and down and off his arms. He ripped open the man’s right shirt sleeve.

  “Now ain’t that cute,” DeBreen said, pointing at a small pouch-like device made of leather and strapped to Ivorson’s lower arm. “A little trap with a spring closed mouth to hold the dice when there’re dropped in.” He tripped the spring and a pair of dice rolled out onto the table.

  “What’s happening here?” Bouchard demanded to know.

  “He cheated by switching loaded dice for the pair that had my luck in them,” DeBreen said.

  Ivorson’s eyes were murderous. His hand inched toward his vest pocket.

  DeBreen saw Ivorson’s movement and jerked the man the rest of the way across the table. The moment Ivorson’s feet hit the floor, DeBreen slapped him left and right, hitting savagely, rocking his head back and forth.

  “A fellow like you would need a hideout gun,” DeBreen said. “Let me take a look at that pocket. Ah, just as I thought,” he said, extracting a Derringer.

  DeBreen’s hand snaked out again. The openhanded blows on Ivorson’s face cracked like the firing of the little pistol.

  “Hold! That’s enough!” Bouchard said. “This is my place and I’ll do what’s necessary to keep all the games honest.”

  “Then do it,” DeBreen said testily. He tossed the Derringer to Bouchard.

  “Hold the cheat,” Bouchard directed his two bouncers. He faced the other people in the gambling parlor and called out in a voice loud enough for all to hear. “What should we do with a man who does not play honestly?”

  “Horsewhip him,” cried a man.

  “Run him out of town on a rail,” said a second man.

  “First tar and feather him,” called yet a third.

  A score of other suggestions for the type of punishment Ivorson should receive came from the crowd.

  “What do you say we should do?” Bouchard asked DeBreen. “You caught him.”

  “It’s simple. Shoot him,” DeBreen said.

  “We can’t kill him,” Bouchard said. “There’s law in St. Louis.”

  “I didn’t think you would,” DeBreen said in disgust.

  He scooped up his mound of chips and walked through the crowd to the cashier’s cage. “Cash me in. Give me half gold and half paper money,” he told the cashier.

  DeBreen pocketed his winnings and left the Emporium. He crossed the moonlit street and took up watch in the blackness of a recessed doorway. He leaned against the doorjamb. He would wait.

  ***

  The side door of the emporium opened and Bouchard’s two bouncers dragged Ivorson into the alley. One bouncer held Ivorson’s arms behind him while the second methodically struck him with his fist. The blows came swiftly, one to the stomach and then one to the face, and then repeated.

  DeBreen did not stir. The beating was thorough, but all the blows were designed to hurt and maim, not to kill.

  “I think that’s enough,” said the bouncer holding Ivorson.

  The second bouncer stopped slugging Ivorson. “All right,” he said. “Let him go.”

  The first bouncer released his hold, and Ivorson fell to the ground.

  “You shouldn’t have all the fun,” said the first bouncer. “I should get one chance at him.” He drew back his foot and kicked the fallen man in the side. “I think I broke one of his ribs,” he said with satisfaction.

  Both bouncers turned and entered the emporium. The door closed.

  A couple of minutes passed and Ivorson stirred. He groaned as he struggled to his hands and knees. He raised his head and looked around.

  “Please don’t hit me again,” he said through his bloody, broken mouth. He lifted his hand as if to ward off the man coming along the alley toward him. “I’ll leave town soon as I can walk.”

  “No need for you to do that,” DeBreen said. “You can die just as easily here.”

  He caught the gambler by the belt and collar. He hoisted the man from the ground and, holding him like a battering ram, made a charging run at the brick wall of the emporium. The gambler’s skull struck with a crunching sound. His body went limp.

  “There, that’s payment for breaking my winning streak,” DeBreen said. He walked from the alley, laughing. Bouchard and his bouncers would have some tough explaining to do as to why Ivorson had died after they had beaten him.

  DeBreen stopped by his hotel and packed his clothing. As daylight broke, he boarded a river steamer for the day-long trip up the Mississippi to Hannibal, Missouri.

  The train bound west was on schedule. DeBreen bought a ticket for St. J
oseph.

  Albert Crandall was seated in the end of the car reading a newspaper by the light from the oil lamps swinging from the ceiling. He nodded briefly at DeBreen and went back to his reading.

  DeBreen nodded back at the well-dressed fur buyer. Without a doubt Crandall had made a tremendous profit on the furs he had sold in the East. Trappers ran the risk of being killed by Indians, or freezing to death, or dying in uncountable other ways. Crandall only needed to sit in his warm office and reap the great reward. Come the next spring, DeBreen would take his own furs to the market in New York.

  The railroad coach was but half full. DeBreen selected a row of empty seats and lay down, stretching out as best he could. He slept away the entire journey to St. Joe.

  ***

  “DeBreen, I want the bastard polygamists dead,” Albert Crandall said, his voice a coarse, hate-filled growl. “I want you to kill every one of the Mormon missionaries, for they are the spawn of hell. They’ve tricked and enticed my daughter Ruth away from me and to that hell of a brothel they call Salt Lake City.”

  Crandall sat with DeBreen in a remote corner of the lobby of the Patee House. The train had carried the two men across Missouri during the night and had arrived in St. Joe in the early-morning daylight. Crandall had found the note from Ruth upon his return to his home. Her statements had staggered him. At first he could not believe that in a few short days she had been converted to an entirely new religion. She had left him, walking away from his love and the wealthy life-style with which he had provided her. Already she must be far into the wilderness of the great plains on the long trek to Utah.

  “Catch the Mormons before they reach Salt Lake City and bring my daughter safely back to me. I’ll pay you very well for your efforts.”

  “Why have you come to me?” DeBreen asked. Crandall had searched him out within an hour after the train had pulled in to St. Joe. Now the fur buyer sat clenching a wadded paper in his hand, probably the message from Ruth. A damn pretty girl. He could understand why the Mormons would want her.

  “I’ve made a judgment about your capabilities,” Crandall replied. “You are the man that could run the Mormons down and remove them from this earth.”