“When am I gonna get to see the judge?” Prosper asked the next morning when Deputy Myles brought him something that was supposed to serve as breakfast.
Myles grinned at him. It was not a reassuring sight. “Ain’t really got a judge. We’re just waitin’ for Buck Anglin.”
Prosper hid his shock. “He related to Mort Anglin?”
“Mort’s brother.”
“So that’s why you didn’t kill me,” the bounty hunter said more than asked.
“Yep.”
Prosper nodded. “How’s Marshal Bowden fit into this?”
“Cousin of Mort and Buck.”
“How about you?”
“Buck’s brother-in-law.”
“Regular family affair.” Prosper paused. “When’s Buck supposed to get here?”
“Likely tomorrow. Aimin’ to escape?”
“Wouldn’t you if you were in my position?”
“Reckon I would, but you ain’t goin’ anywhere, not with me and my two brothers keepin’ an eye on you.
“I don’t see ‘em.”
“They’ll be here directly.”
“Doesn’t look good for me, does it?” he asked sardonically.
“Nope,” Myles said with a malicious grin. And he laughed as he went back to the rickety table that served as a desk.
Prosper quietly assessed the lock and began to formulate the beginnings of a plan.
Just before noon one of Myles’ brothers came in and took a chair across the table from Myles. They chatted of matters that were of no concern to Prosper, though he kept his ear open to any mention of Buck Bowden’s pending arrival.
The brother left but returned around dusk, as far as Prosper could tell when the office door opened, with his other brother. The latter had a cloth-covered tray, which he carried toward the cell.
When he had heard the office door open, Prosper had eased his backup pistol—a .36-caliber Pocket Colt out of his coat pocket, grateful that those who arrested him had not thought to check for a backup. As the man neared the cell door, Prosper shot him in the throat. The man stumbled backward a couple of feet, then fell, dead. The tray and dishes on it rattled on the floor.
Prosper slammed the heel of his boot against the lock to the cell door. It snapped and the door opened a bit. Another kick fully opened the door. Prosper stepped through and shot Myles in the side of the head as he was turning toward the noise. It gave the other brother enough time to haul out his revolver and fire at Prosper, before the bounty hunter put a slug in the man’s stomach and another in his face. But the man’s one shot had hit Prosper in the meaty section of muscle just below the clavicle on his left side.
“Damn,” Prosper snapped. He figured the bullet went completely through and had not hit anything vital. It hurt like hell but he would not allow it to slow him too much. He quickly found his main revolver and checked to see that it was loaded and holstered it. He shoved the cap-and-ball Pocket Colt back in the coat pocket.
Prosper cracked open the door and looked out. Dark was fast approaching, and the street was nearly deserted. He slipped out and, keeping to the deeper shadows, headed to his hotel. He edged up to the door and peeked through the window. No one was manning the desk, and Prosper figured the man was temporarily occupied elsewhere. He slipped inside and hurried to his room.
He slipped off his coat and hurriedly sliced a few strips from the sheet and with considerable effort, sweat, silent cursing and will, managed to fashion something of a bandage to help stanch the flow of blood. He sat then for a few minutes, sweating, shaking and breathing heavily. He reloaded the Pocket Colt from the powder, ball, and caps in a box he always carried in his saddlebags. Finally he rose, slung his coat over his shoulder under the saddlebags. The two helped cover the makeshift bandage. With Henry rifle in hand, he headed out, hoping that if he strode across the small lobby that the man on duty would not recognize him. If he did, the bounty hunter would have to put him out of commission somehow if he was about to raise an alarm.
But he was lucky. The desk man was still away, and Prosper briskly walked out, turning toward the livery stable. It was full dark now, and he was able to see only because of the half moon and a blaze of stars. At the stables, he saddled and bridled his horse as quickly as he could being hampered by his wound. And then he was riding out of Hillsboro, heading northwest. He figured that if anyone wanted to chase him, they would likely think he headed toward Denver.
Through sheer grit he rode through the night and much of the next day, stopping at last in midafternoon along a stream bounded by cottonwoods and willows. When he dismounted, he was shaky from pain, blood loss, hunger, and exhaustion. Still, he forced himself to care for his horse and managed to eat some jerky before falling asleep.
He didn’t know how long he slept but it was daylight when he awoke. Slowly, he gathered some wood and built a fire. He cooked some bacon and made coffee and felt considerably better when he had eaten. He spent that night where he was, eating several times, and then rode out.
Just before dusk, he rode into Laporte, a small place but bigger and more decent looking than the forlorn Hillsboro. He stopped the first man he saw and asked, “There a sawbones in town?”
“Doc Carlson.” He pointed after raising a cocked eyebrow at Prosper, which the bounty hunter ignored. “About halfway up the street here, left side, next to the hardware store.”
“Obliged.” Two minutes later, Prosper was walking into Carlson’s office.
A voice called from somewhere in the back, “Be with you right off.”
Prosper plunked himself in a chair, leaning his head back, almost dozing. He jerked awake when someone asked, “Can I help you?”
The bounty hunter gingerly undid his make-do bandage. “Need you to take a look at this bullet hole.”
“Well, let me get your shirt off you so I can see what it looks like.” When Prosper had done so, Carlson said, “Well, actually, you have two bullet holes, one in, one out.” He seemed rather jovial.
“Is it bad?”
“Any gunshot is bad, Mr. …?”
“Elias Prosper.”
“Like I said, no gunshot wound is good, but you’re lucky enough that the bullet went clean through and hasn’t hit anything vital. Seems there’s some cloth in it, carried there by the bullet.”
“Is that bad?”
“It’s not good. If you had gotten here right away it wouldn’t be a problem. After several daysor moreI can still get the residue out. Have to knock you out though.”
“I’ll stay awake.”
“It’ll hurt like hell since I‘ll have to dig through the scabbing and such.”
“I’ll live.”
“You mind if I ask how you got it?”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“Something like this’ll be of interest to Marshal Digby.”
“Figured it would, though I was hopin’ to avoid it.”
“On the run?”
“Maybe.” When Carlson gave him a quizzical look, Prosper said, “I’m a bounty hunter. Got tangled up with some fellas, one who claimed to be a lawman. Reckon he was in that pissant town. Might be that folks there’ll put out some paper on me.”
“Best talk to the marshal right off. He’s an honest man, good lawman. If you’ve lived this long with this wound already, you’ll live long enough to take care of business before I get to work on you.” He grinned. “You might be less than sprightly after I’m done with you,”
“Thanks. I’ll go see to my horse, get a place to stay, talk to Marshal Digby, then come on back here to have you work your magic on me.”
“Some folks say I practice black magic,” the physician said with a laugh.
Prosper was glad Carlson had slipped the shirt off his shoulder rather than cutting it off. This way it didn’t look too bad, and he could cover it with his coat if need be.
“Two stables in town—Barnes’ and McPhee’s. The former is just down the street here, the latter at the north end of town. McPhee’s is a bit farther but Art’ll treat your horse right. Two hotels, both on Main Street. Can’t miss ‘em. Both are about the same as to quality. Also, there’s Mrs. Allison’s boarding house over on Prairie Street. She runs a nice, respectable place. Young widow who could always use the cash. Marshal’s office is right across the street from here. I’ll send someone to find him to let him know you’ll be by.” The last was more of a question than a statement.
“Be obliged.” Prosper rose. “Be back soon’s I can, unless the marshal throws me in jail.”
“I’ll be waiting, sharpening up my knives and such.” The doctor let loose another laugh.
Prosper shook his head and left. He pulled himself onto his horse and rode slowly down to Prairie Street and stopped at Mrs. Allison’s boarding house.
A tall, slender, attractive woman answered his knock. She looked taken aback at the sight of Prosper.
“Pardon me, ma’am. Doc Carlson says you run a good boarding house, and I need a place to stay.”
The woman started to speak several times but was unable to really say anything. A look of fright was deep in her gray eyes.
“I know I look a fright, ma’am, but I’ll not harm you. Still, if you’d rather I left, I’ll do so.” He turned to leave.
“Wait,” she said, voice quavering a bit, and Prosper turned back to face her. “If Dr. Carlson sent you, I think it’ll be all right. Room is fifty cents a day, seventy-five with supper, a dollar for supper and breakfast.”
“I figure you’re afraid to ask, but I reckon you’d like some cash up front?”
“Yes,” the woman answered.
Prosper handed her a gold eagle. “Should take care of more than a week, with the two meals. I might not be here for supper tonight or breakfast in the mornin’ after I see the doc to get some work done.”
“All right.”
Prosper smiled through the stubble on his face and was glad to see that she seemed to relax just a bit. “Mind if I put my gear in my room before I head to the stable?”
“No, please. Where are my manners.” She held the door open.
Prosper got his saddlebags and Henry and followed Mrs. Alison to the room. It had a good size bed with a thick comforter, and nightstand at each side of the bed, a small table with two comfortable chairs, a bureau atop of which sat a pitcher and bowl along with a towel and some soap.
“I hope you like it.” Mrs. Alison still sounded nervous.
“It’s a fine, fine room, Mrs. Alison. Tell you the truth, if all the rooms are this nice, you should be chargin’ folks more.”
Once more he wearily climbed into the saddle and rode to the livery stable, where he was greeted by Angus McPhee.
“My horse’s been ridden hard of late and not cared for as best as he should’ve been. I’m ailin’ some, so I’ve been somewhat lax. I got an appointment with Doc Carlson to see about getting’ fixed up. Doc says you’ll take mighty good care of the gelding here.”
“I will. Any idea how long you’ll need me to keep him?”
Prosper shook his head. “Can’t say.” He pulled out a double eagle an handed it to McPhee. “That cover me for a few days?”
“Yep.”
“Obliged.” Prosper trudged back down the street to the marshal’s office.
The door was locked but a lean, middle-age man wearing a badge came up a minute later. “Marshal Amos Digby,” the lawman said. “Doc Carlson sent someone to tell me you’d show up. Said you had some trouble somewhere.”
“I did. Figured I’d talk to you about it. Doc says you’re a good lawman, an honest one.”
Ain’t all lawmen honest?”
“I’d venture to say that there are some who would not pass an honesty test.”
Digby nodded. “That’s a fact. Makes us good ones look bad. Well, c’mon in.” He unlocked the office door and went inside.
Unlike the place in Hillsboro, this one looked the way a real lawman’s office should.
Digby took his seat behind his desk and indicated the chair across from him. When Prosper sat, Digby asked, “So, what’s your story?”