Smith's Monthly #4 Page 5

  And far younger.

  The local police were going to have a field day with this one. I wonder what happened to the actual landlady of this building.

  I walked across the street and up to the location of Jessie’s apartment. I knew for a fact the other agent was asleep. The two agents slept in shifts as they had been trained.

  Just to be sure, I planted a few small explosive charges along the staircase. Blinding charges. In case I missed a third agent, I didn’t want to be surprised and caught without a defense in this hallway.

  I entered the second agent’s small apartment very silently and put two bullets in him before he could even roll over.

  Then I went to his computer and sent the same coded message to my former employer.

  “The garbage has been taken out.”

  I moved another four million that was his payment to my accounts, then set his computer to self-destruct, along with all the cameras he had set up from that computer.

  Two down, one to go. This was a lot of trips to the curb.

  A lot of human garbage to haul.

  As I stepped into the hallway, I saw Jessie coming up the stairs.

  And my little voice rang out clearly.

  My former employer had already killed Jessie and had replaced him with a disguised agent as bait.

  Of course.

  This Jessie was smiling. The original Jessie never smiled.

  And this agent was pulling out a gun as he saw me.

  The tiny button in my left hand instantly triggered the string explosives across the stairs and I dropped to the concrete entrance floor.

  The small, but bright and violent, explosion sent the agent back as he fired and tried to catch his balance at the same time.

  His shots went over me and into the old wood siding behind me. I put two in his chest and another between his eyes before he could get off a third shot.

  He was dead before he hit the bottom of the stairs.

  My small explosions were also designed to start a heavy-smoke fire.

  I went down the stairs quickly, moving through the smoke and out into the street, my gun now hidden in my suit-coat pocket, but my hand on it.

  The day was warming up by the moment and the heat on the street was more than I had noticed the first time across.

  I pretended to cough and stagger to the far side of the street and the mowed lawns there, keeping my head down as neighbors came running.

  “Fire,” I said, pointing at the smoke now pouring out of the staircase of the building while keeping my head down and then again pretending to cough.

  I had to be really, really careful in case there was a fourth agent close by.

  Around me a dozen people were on their cell phones and two men were running at the building while another man was banging on apartment doors on the ground floor.

  The fire I had set wouldn’t spread, but they didn’t know that.

  “You all right, mister?” a woman asked.

  I didn’t want to look up, but I had to.

  I stood and nodded, taking a deep breath of the warm Portland afternoon air.

  The woman had a cell phone against her ear and as I looked at her and nodded, I saw a flicker of recognition cross her eyes.

  She was young and I had surprised her. She did not expect to be talking with me.

  Her hand went for her jacket pocket and I put one shot through my jacket pocket into her forehead.

  She slumped and I caught her, pulling her over toward the shade of a nearby tree, talking to her as if she had just grown faint from the heat.

  The wound in her forehead wasn’t bleeding much, so I pulled her medium length hair from her wig down over her forehead and sat her down on a bus stop bench and posed her with her head between her knees, talking with her all the time as if I was trying to calm her.

  I quickly slipped her gun from her pocket and put it in mine.

  Then I pointed to a young guy about twenty feet away standing watching the fire, holding his bike that he clearly had been riding.

  “She fainted,” I shouted. “She’s going to be all right. I’m going to get her meds for her. Watch her, would you?”

  The guy nodded, looking at her as I turned and went toward the Victorian house with my apartment in it.

  Walking quickly and still carrying my case, as if I was in a hurry to get her meds, I went inside and then through and into a back corridor. There I lost the coat and the brown hair and the slacks, switching them out for a pair of jeans and a light Levi jacket.

  When I ambled out the back door I had long blonde hair flowing out of the back of a Oregon Ducks baseball cap. Any sign of Nick Benson, the former engineer from Boise, was gone.

  I unlocked a used Jeep I had bought and parked a dozen blocks away as the sounds of police and fire sirens filled the afternoon air. I drove it to a Mongolian restaurant in Tigard, Oregon, about five miles outside of Portland.

  I parked the Jeep down the street from the restaurant near some suburban homes and behind a new Dodge minivan that I had bought as well under yet a different name.

  Then in the bathroom of the restaurant, I lost the Levi jacket and the long blonde hair and replaced it with gray hair pulled back under a plain gray baseball cap, different color contacts for my eyes, and padded shoulders in a sports jacket over the jeans.

  I collapsed the small suitcase I had been carrying and put it inside a brown backpack.

  I sat and ate, then paid with the credit card of my new name, Dan Curtis. After an amazingly good meal, I climbed into the mini-van and headed for Salt Lake City, going through Bend, Oregon, and across the desert.

  Salt Lake was where the identity of Dan Curtis was from.

  Two days later, Dan vanished there, never to be seen or heard of again.

  Driving my three-year-old Cadillac, I headed back to Las Vegas and my teaching job at the university. I was a tenured professor in prelaw and law enforcement.

  And I was a garbage man on the side, between semesters.

  I took out the human garbage.

  And sometimes that included other garbage men.

  What Came Before…

  Nineteen-year-old Boston native Jimmy Gray had been traveling with his parents and older brother, Luke, headed west to find a new home and new riches.

  Before even reaching Independence, they were attacked and robbed by Jake Benson and his gang. Jimmy’s parents were killed, his brother wounded.

  In one of the wildest towns in all of American history, Jimmy Gray, a sheltered, educated son of a banker from Boston, suddenly finds himself very, very much alone.

  But then through some luck, he finds other young men about his age and down on their luck who might be able to help him.

  Together, the five of them head west after Benson.

  PART TEN

  HEADED WEST AGAIN

  JIMMY FINALLY GOT HIS WISH to see a buffalo ten days out of Independence. It was May 7th.

  It had taken two days for the five of them to sell the wagon and equipment and buy three more horses. During the first days on the trail, Long had pointed out some plants that were poison, and others that were good to eat. It seemed to Jimmy that there was a lot to learn about Long. And he had a lot to teach them about survival in the west.

  Before they left, Jimmy had paid for three months in advance for Luke’s hotel room and food, and gave Doc Davis another payment for his services. Then he gave some money to Luke, enough for Luke to pay for a year in the hotel and supplies to get west next spring.

  Jimmy had left a few of the family’s most personal things with Luke in the hotel room, and had given his father’s rifle to Zach. He seemed to be the only one of them who wanted to touch it. Jimmy said it would come in handy for hunting. Everything else, Jimmy sold to buy camping gear and supplies that they packed on the extra horses and in their own saddlebags.

  After all that, he didn’t have much money left, but he didn’t tell anyone but Zach.

  The goodbye with Luke had been hard
for Jimmy, but after a few days on the trail, Jimmy’s mood had lightened and he had started looking forward to the adventure ahead.

  On Long’s suggestion, they didn’t push the horses, but instead just walked them along at a steady pace, often between wagons in the long trains. Jimmy had figured that Benson was only five or six days ahead by the time they left Independence. Considering the eighteen different legs of the trip that lay between Independence and Sacramento, and how far they all had to travel, that wasn’t very far.

  Zach had said that since Benson and his men didn’t have any money when they were chased out of town, more than likely they would join onto a train to find food and rob some unsuspecting family.

  So each night, they camped near a different train camp, not only for protection, but to get to know those in the train to make sure Benson wasn’t among them. The last thing they wanted to do was pass him without knowing it.

  For the first leg, which was about a hundred miles from Independence to the Kansas River ferry, the trail was packed with wagons and people walking. At times, the trail seemed more like a busy city street than the main wagon road west.

  But on the second leg, a two hundred mile stretch northwest across grasslands to the Platte River, the wagons seemed to spread out some, even inside the same train. It usually took a wagon about two weeks to make that leg, but they made it in six days, traveling at a steady pace, passing wagon after wagon, all with friendly faces waving at them as they went by.

  Jimmy was starting to get a better idea of the vastness of the country. As far as the eye could see, it was green grasslands and low hills. The air was clean and fresh, especially after a rain. The only real excitement they encountered during the first days out of Independence was getting across a couple of swollen streams. It was clear that wagons had been lost in those streambeds, from the looks of the ruined equipment scattered downstream. Some family’s dreams hadn’t lasted very long.

  When they reached the South Fork of the Platte River, the trail turned back westward and followed the south bank. The river was wide and brown and seemed to flow slowly and gently along. By this third leg of the trip, the wagons were really starting to spread out more and more, and sometimes it was impossible to tell where one company ended and another started. And there were more and more travelers in groups of two or three wagons, easy pickings for a man like Benson.

  At one point, C. J. asked Long about Indians in this area. Long had pointed to the north. “Pawnee territory. To the south is Cheyenne. We’re moving between them, so no problems.”

  Jimmy was glad to hear that, and glad even more that Long was with them. Not only did he know where the Indian territories were, but he had found some great roots that Truitt had used in some wonderful tasting stews.

  The next morning, Long pointed at a dried brown pile to one side of the trail. “Fuel for a fire,” he said. “Buffalo chips.”

  That had gotten them all excited and searching along the rolling hills around the river for any signs of actual buffalo. But they didn’t see any that day. However, Long was correct about the dried chips being great fuel for the campfire.

  Finally, on the tenth day out of Independence, a man from one of the wagon trains they were slowly passing came riding hard and fast back toward his wagon from a ridge to the south. “Buffalo!” he shouted when he got close enough.

  The cry went up and down the wagon train like a brush fire.

  “Looks like we might be eating meat tonight,” Truitt had said, smiling at Jimmy.

  Jimmy was so excited, he could hardly keep his heart from beating right out of his chest,

  “Can a rifle like this stop one?” Zach asked Long, pointing to Jimmy’s father’s rifle tied to his saddle bag.

  “In the heart, right behind the front legs,” Long said. “Two or three shots, maybe. But don’t shoot a bull. The meat is too tough. A small cow is the best.”

  Zach nodded.

  Then Long turned to Jimmy. “I will camp below that rock ledge with the pack horses until you return.”

  “Not interested in seeing a buffalo?” C. J. asked.

  “I have seen far too many of them,” Long said, then took the pack horses and moved slowly off toward the rocks.

  “Let’s go find some buffalo,” Jimmy said, smiling at his friends.

  With that, they headed at full ride toward the hill where the man had come from. Two other men were right ahead of them, and Jimmy had no doubt many others from the train would be following.

  As they crested over the rise, at first Jimmy couldn’t see anything different. Then it dawned on him that part of the shallow valley to his right was covered in brown instead of waving green grass.

  Buffalo!

  What looked to be thousands of them. The stories were right. It did look like a sea of buffalo.

  “Oh, my,” Truitt said, awe in his voice.

  Jimmy just stared. The buffalo were majestic creatures. Jimmy could see a number of larger bulls, and hundreds of smaller calves, grazing near their mothers. Even from a distance, he could tell they were bigger than any cattle he had ever seen. The bulls looked to be almost as big as their horses, not as tall but much wider.

  A half dozen men rode past the Wild Boys, heading for the buffalo, rifles out and ready.

  Jimmy glanced over at Zach. “Think you might be able to down one of those?”

  Zach looked stunned, but then he smiled and nodded. “My dad said I was the best shot he had ever seen. I just have to get close enough.”

  “Let’s go,” Jimmy said. “C.J., Truitt, we’ll try to cut out a small cow from the herd, let Zach get a clean shot.”

  “Right with you,” C. J. said.

  With that, Jimmy spurred his horse into motion down the hill toward the herd, following the men from the train. His heart was racing and he was having trouble catching his breath. Never, in all his life in Boston, did he think he would ever be doing something like this. What would his friends back there think if they could see him?

  What would Luke think?

  The buffalo were spooked by the men riding at them, and turned to run, in mass. The sound was almost deafening, louder than a train pulling into a station. And even on the horse, Jimmy could feel the ground shaking from that many large animals running at once.

  Jimmy led them to the right, while the other men went to the left side of the herd. He had his eye on one medium-sized cow that was on the edge of the herd. He pointed at it and beside him Truitt shouted, “Got it, boss!”

  Then C.J., seemingly completely fearless, did something that Jimmy would have never thought of doing. He took his horse into the herd, running with it, trying to cut the cow farther away from the herd.

  It seemed to be working until suddenly shots echoed through the air from the other side of the herd.

  The buffalo got even more frantic, running faster and harder.

  And the entire herd turned toward them.

  Jimmy found himself and his horse surrounded by buffalo, all running at top speed. He and his horse had no choice but to run with the herd.

  He didn’t dare stop.

  He tried to ease his horse sideways, but there was no place to go. He was completely penned in by stampeding buffalo that smashed against his legs and his horse.

  It was like riding while the ground around him was moving at the same time.

  To his left, C. J. was stuck as well, a look of total concentration on his face as he tried to keep his horse on its feet. Jimmy couldn’t see either Truitt or Zach, and hoped they were out of the herd and behind them.

  “Ease back!” Jimmy shouted at C. J., pulling his horse back just enough to slow him, but not turn him. He didn’t dare try to stop fast or turn. In the thundering of the herd, he could barely hear his own yell.

  As he slowed just a little, the buffalo started moving around him, running forward, opening up spaces as the herd started to pass him.

  C. J. glanced over and saw what Jimmy was doing, then started to do the same thing.
/>
  It seemed to take forever for the herd to pass Jimmy completely, but actually it must have only been a few seconds. As he made it into the open behind the herd, he let out the breath he must have been holding. He was sweating and his heart was beating so hard, it felt like it might explode.

  If his horse had gone down in that herd, he would have died a horrible death.

  He glanced around. Zach and Truitt were following a distance back, looks of worry on both of their faces.

  The herd passed C. J. and the four of them stopped and tried to catch their breaths.

  “I thought you two were dead for sure,” Truitt said, shaking his head and laughing.

  “I thought we were too,” Jimmy said. He held his hands on his pants legs so that the others wouldn’t see them shaking.

  “Let’s not do that again,” C. J. said, sweat pouring down off his face. He took off his glasses and tried to clean them, but his hands were shaking too much, so he gave up. “I think next time, I’ll just stay with Long and the horses.”

  “Great buffalo hunters we are, huh?” Zach said, then he laughed. After a moment, all four of them were laughing.

  Jimmy was just glad that all four of them were still alive so that they could laugh.

  PART ELEVEN

  A REAL HUNT

  SINCE THEIR FIRST EXPERIENCE with buffalo, they had seen a half dozen other herds before reaching the South Fork crossing. Some of the herds were smaller, some closer to the trail. But Jimmy’ great desire to see them had now worn off completely. He now had a huge respect for the big creatures.

  After spotting the third herd, Long had finally agreed, after much pushing from Zach and Truitt, to help them to get some meat for dinner. As far as C. J. was concerned, he never wanted to see a buffalo again and he said he would be glad to watch the horses.

  Long showed Zach a rock to sit behind with the rifle just down a shallow valley from the herd. “Shoot a small cow or large calf as it runs past. That will be more meat than we can carry.”