Do or Die

Chapter Five

Denver

Colorado Territory

“Maybe this is the wrong place, Melissa. Or maybe he’s left town.” After an hour of waiting for Enos Howard to appear, Charley Pickett had to be sure. He went to the bar and asked the bartender if he knew anyone by that name.

“Do I ever,” the man replied while pouring a drink for another customer. “That ornery coot practically lives here. If everyone sucked down rotgut like he does, the whole country would be bone dry inside of a week.”

“We were told he’s usually here by six o’clock, but it’s past seven.” Charley was afraid Tony would walk out if Howard didn’t show up soon.

The bartender wiped drops from the counter. “Every now and then he’s late. Usually because he’s sleeping off a binge the like of which would kill you or me.”

“You make it sound like all he does is guzzle the stuff.”

“That about sums Enos up. I never met anyone so anxious to drink themselves into the grave, and I see more than my share of drunkards.”

Charley glanced at the corner table where Melissa and Tony were waiting. Tony was staring at the wall clock, which wasn’t a good sign. “You wouldn’t happen to know where Howard lives, would you?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. I felt sorry for the old bastard one night and lugged him home when he was so booze blind he couldn’t take two steps without fallin’ on his face.” The bartender mentioned the address.

“Well?” Tony impatiently demanded as Charley came hurrying back. “Did I miss my ride with the freight wagons for nothing? Was she wrong?” The glance he cast at Melissa wasn’t flattering.

Melissa hadn’t spoken two words to Tony the whole hour, but now she made up for lost time. “Don’t look at me like that. This is where he comes, I tell you. Kincaid’s. I remember it real well because he went on and on about how it carries his favorite brand of whiskey. He told me to my face he never drinks anywhere else.” She stabbed a finger at Tony. “For this to work out, we have to try to get along. I’m willing to bury the hatchet for the time being if you are.”

“Sounds good to me,” Charley piped up. He would love for the two of them to stop bickering. In light of Melissa’s comments earlier at the tavern, he had been wondering about the cause of their spat, and he did not like where his thoughts were leading him.

“Maybe you are willing to bury the hatchet,” Tony told Melissa, “but a gentleman by the name of Walter Radtke will not. Every moment I stay, my life is in danger.”

Charley suddenly realized he had yet to tell his friend about Ubel Gunther’s visit to the stable. He deemed it best to do so later, when they were alone. If Melissa found out Tony had killed those two men in the alley, she might rethink her decision to join the hunt for the Hoodoos. And Charley dearly wanted her along.

“What exactly is that all about anyway?” Melissa asked.

Charley knew Tony wouldn’t answer, which was bound to make her mad, so he declared, “Enough of this sittin’ around. I found out where Enos Howard lives. What say we go there and see if he’ll listen to our proposition?”

Tony was on his feet and heading for the door before Charley stopped speaking. He held it open for them, and once outside, he pulled his cap low and turned up his collar.

The address was on the western outskirts of the city. They had to ask a Mexican leading a donkey if they had the right street since there were no street signs and the streets weren’t so much streets as dirt tracks. The Mexican asked who they were looking for, and when they told him, he laughed and pointed.

Melissa said, “That can’t be it.”

But it was. In the center of an otherwise empty lot stood the sorriest excuse for a shack Charley had ever set eyes on. Whoever built it hadn’t been too particular about how. Some of the planks overlapped, while others had gaps between them. The roof was only half done, and a faded strip of canvas with holes in it had been draped over the rest. A door, half shut, hung on a rusty hinge.

“Someone lives in that hovel?” Tony was skeptical.

Charley walked to the door. As he raised his fist, a terrible odor nearly made him gag. It was like the stink of rancid sweat, only ten times worse. He knocked and called out, “Mr. Enos Howard? We’d like a word with you, if you please.”

There was no answer. Charley knocked again, louder, and when that still failed to elicit a reply, he pushed on the door. It scraped across an uneven floor until the bottom snagged on a warped plank half an inch higher than the rest. “Mr. Howard?” The smell was worse, compounded by the reek of alcohol. Covering his mouth and nose, Charley stepped inside. “Are you home?”

A hideous rumbling caused Charley to spin to the right. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the murk and to distinguish a bulky form sprawled on a cot. The noise was repeated, a snore so loud it seemed to shake the walls. Charley inched closer. His foot bumped something that skittered across the floor, and, glancing down, he discovered the floor was littered with empty liquor bottles. And with smears and stains better left unexamined.

“Mr. Howard? Sorry to bother you, but we need to talk.” Charley poked what he hoped was a shoulder. Howard mumbled something, then snored louder.

Tony filled the doorway. He, too, had a hand over his nose and mouth. “Forget it, mio amico. This is a waste of our time.”

“Is Mr. Howard in there?” Melissa wanted to know. She was trying to peer over Tony’s shoulder. “Should I come in?”

“No!” Charley didn’t want her amid such filth. Angry they had put their hopes in a hopeless drunk, he poked Howard’s shoulder again, a lot harder. “Mr. Howard! Wake up, damn you!”

Without warning, there was an explosion of movement. Charley abruptly found his neck in the grip of iron fingers and the razor edge of a Bowie pressed against his throat. Foul breath fanned his nose. A craggy face filled his vision, half of it hidden by an unkempt beard. Howard wore an old buffalo coat so worn and filthy no self-respecting moth would touch it.

“Who the hell are you, pup? And what in hell are you doin’ in my livin’ room?”

Charley figured the buffalo hunter had to be drunk. The shack only had one room, livable or otherwise. But he dared not try to answer with the knife pricking his skin. He was saved by a holler from outside.

“Mr. Howard? It’s me. Melissa Patterson. The girl who sells you sweet potatoes all the time.”

“Missy?” Howard lowered the Bowie and gave Charley a rough push. Like a great grizzly rousing from its den, he lumbered to the doorway. Tony stepped back, his right arm held at an odd angle from his body. Howard ignored him. “Missy! What in blazes are you doin’ here?”

Charley stepped outside just as the buffalo hunter embraced Melissa in a great hug. She giggled and returned it, apparently not minding his stink or how he rubbed his bushy beard against her cheek. An intense emotion welled up in Charley, an emotion he had never felt before, one that made him want to take a plank and beat Enos Howard over the head.

“Speak up, gal. Why the visit? And who are these two cubs you’ve brought along?”

“Acquaintances of mine,” Melissa said. “I’ve told them what a marvelous frontiersman you are, and how you’re just the man we need for a certain daring enterprise from which we all stand to benefit.”

“You don’t say?” Enos Howard opened his coat and slid the Bowie into a beaded sheath. His clothes were threadbare buckskins with most of the whangs missing or cut partway off. Knee-high boots completed his wardrobe. One had a hole in it, and the other was cracked at the heel. He fixed bloodshot eyes on Charley and Tony. “You two don’t look as if you amount to much, but sometimes mighty puny spools hold a heap of thread.”

“Wonderful,” Tony said. “Simply wonderful.”

Howard’s brows knit. “What’s that supposed to mean, hoss? Are you one of those city loons who go around talkin’ to himself all the time?” Reaching under his coat, he scratched an armpit. “If’n we’ve got us some palaverin’ to do, I need my throat muscles lubricated. Which of you wetnoses has a bottle?”

“I don’t drink,” Charley informed him.

“Never?” Howard cocked his head and squinted at Charley as if Charley were a six-legged jackrabbit. “Don’t tell me you’re a Bible-thumper? I knew a coon once who got religion and gave up all the earthly vices that make this world worth livin’ in. Liquor. Women. Gamblin’. You name it. Walked around all day like he had a ramrod shoved up his ass.”

“I don’t think that’s any way to talk with a lady present.” Charley didn’t like this buffalo hunter much.

“What? ’Cause I said ‘ass’?” Howard winked at Melissa. “How about you, little Missy? Does it frazzle you to hear a feller mention the one part of your body you use more than your feet?”

“I find it cute how you talk.”

“Cute?” Howard roared with laughter and clapped her on the back so hard she nearly pitched onto her face. “You sure can tickle my silly bone, gal. You’re almost as hilarious as those temperance ladies.”

“Thank you. I think.”

Howard smacked his lips and gazed longingly off toward the center of the city. “I must have overslept. What say we go to Kincaid’s for my nightly libations? Your treat. You can explain what this is all about along the way.” He held out his arm like a gallant gentleman, and, giggling, Melissa took it.

The new emotion bubbling in Charley bubbled more fiercely. He hastened to Melissa’s side. “Is it true you used to be one of the best buffalo hunters on the plains?’

“On the continent,” Howard amended, yawning. “Buffalo Bill himself told me I was as good as him any day of the week and twice as good on Sundays.”

“But you never broke his record,” Charley commented, pleased to take the frontiersman down a peg.

Howard’s face clouded. “Heard about that, did you, pup? Cody claims to have kilt over four thousand bufflers in a year and a half. Four thousand two hundred and eighty, to be exact. If’n you ask me, he’s exaggerated the tally more than a handful. He always did sling bullshit better than anyone who ever lived. To listen to him, he pisses champagne and craps gold ore.”

Now it was Charley who clouded over. “I won’t ask you again to watch your tongue around Miss Patterson.”

“I don’t hear her complainin’,” Enos said and nudged Melissa. “Better watch yourself, Missy. This pup has taken a shine to you, or I’m the Queen of England.”

Charley’s anger mounted. “Quit callin’ me a pup.”

“Or what? You’ll huff and puff and get me all afeared of you? Mercy me, whatever will I do?”

To Charley’s dismay, when Howard cackled, Melissa laughed, too. “Since we might be workin’ together, we shouldn’t bandy insults.”

“Work? Hell, son, if that’s why you came lookin’ for me, you’re a loon. I haven’t done a lick of work in nigh on a year or better, and I don’t aim to do any for as long as I can avoid it.”

Melissa was as puzzled as Charley. “Then how do you make ends meet? How can you afford to buy potatoes and whiskey?”

“Anyone else, I’d tell them to go bite a porcupine, but since it’s you, Missy, I’ll let you in on my secret.” Howard lowered his voice. “Antlers, dearie. Deer antlers, elk antlers, antelope antlers, you name it. There’s this Chinese feller who’s willin’ to buy every one I find.”

Charley had been through Denver’s Chinese section a few times. It always fascinated him. A number of the buildings were exactly like the buildings in China, and everywhere he looked there were Orientals. Many worked on the railroad. Most had come to Denver by way of San Francisco.

“Wong is some kind of medicine man,” Howard was saying. “He grinds up the antlers, mixes ’em with herbs and whatnot, and sells the stuff to his own kind for whatever ails them.”

“You must shoot a lot of animals to get so many antlers,” Melissa mentioned, and she did not sound happy about it.

“Hell no, Missy. Dear and elk and the like shed them once a year. I’ve got me an old Injun who spends all his time lookin’ for antlers up in the foothills. I give him a bottle for every sackful he brings me. Then I take the sack to Wong.”

“How much do you earn?” Tony inquired.

“Enough to keep me in redeye for weeks at a stretch.” Howard licked his lips, then stroked his beard. His fingers trembled slightly. Swearing under his breath, he shoved his hand in a coat pocket.

Charley recognized the symptoms. Back in Kentucky, he had a neighbor who was uncommonly fond of liquor and, when in need of more, always came down with a powerful bad case of the shakes. “How would you like to make enough money to keep you in redeye for the next ten years?”

“Did somebody sell you a map to one of those lost Spanish mines?” Howard chortled.

Melissa cleared her throat. “We’re thinking of collecting the bounty on some wanted men and splitting it four ways. Equal shares for everyone, including you—provided you’ll throw in with us, of course.”

“Manhunters? You?” Howard erupted in a fit of glee. When he stopped, he glanced at Charley and Tony and began laughing anew so hard it brought tears to his eyes. “Lordy! I haven’t enjoyed a belly-buster like that in a coon’s age. Talk about flashes in the pan! What makes you lunkheads think you’ve got what it takes to be bounty chasers?”

Since Tony saw fit not to defend their honor, Charley took it upon himself. “We’d only need to collect bounty once. The men we plan to track down have a high-enough price on their heads that we can split it and still have plenty.”

“Who are these badmen, pray tell?”

“Maybe you’ve heard of them. They’re called the Hoodoos.”

Enos Howard acted like he had walked into a stone wall. He nearly tripped over his own feet, he stopped so suddenly. Utterly dumfounded, he gawked at Melissa, then Tony, then back at Charley. His mouth moved, but no words came out until, “The Hoodoos? Brock Alvord’s wild bunch?”

“The bounty on their heads is up to seven thousand dollars. I don’t know about you, but that’s more money than I’ve seen my whole life long.” Charley thought to add as incentive, “We’d each get one thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars.”

“You’d each get kilt, is what you’d get. Boy, that’s about the dumbest notion I’ve heard since who flung the chunk! What idiot came up with it?” Howard looked at Melissa, then at Tony, neither of whom met his gaze. Slapping his thigh, he exclaimed, “Don’t this beat all! It’s true what they say. You never can tell which direction a pickle is goin’ to squirt.”

Charley was trying to fathom how pickles were mixed up in it when the buffalo hunter nudged him.

“It was you, wasn’t it, hoss? You’re the grubber who thought this silliness up. The Hoodoos! You might as well go up against a pack of rabid wolves. The result would be the same.”

“They’re men, aren’t they? They put their britches on one leg at a time like the rest of us, don’t they?” Charley was mad again. “I didn’t expect this kind of talk from a buffalo hunter with your reputation. Why, you must have fought all kinds of men and beasts when you were in your prime.”

“First off, we call ourselves buffler runners, not hunters. Second, who in hell says I’m not in my prime?” Howard drew himself up to his full height. “I’ll have you know I can whip my weight in wildcats and beat a griz in a rasslin’ match. I am a two-legged twister, half-wolverine, half-snapper, and all grist and gristle. You won’t find another like me anywhere west of the muddy Mississippi.”

Tony rolled his eyes skyward. “And you say Buffalo Bill Cody likes to exaggerate?”

“Don’t rile me, pup,” Howard warned. “I’m hell with the bark on when I’m riled. Why, once I kilt seven Blackfeet with nothin’ but my Bowie and my bare teeth. They caught me in a box canyon, and I was plumb out of bullets so I lit into ’em man-to-man. I took two arrows in the shoulder and another in the leg, but when I was done, that canyon was runnin’ red with Blackfoot blood.”

Charley saw his opening. “Then huntin’ the Hoodoos should be a piece of cake for a man like you.”

“Those Blackfeet didn’t have guns,” Howard shot back. “And I was in a spot where they couldn’t get at me all at once.” Clasping Melissa’s arm, he resumed walking. “I’ve got to tell you, Missy, these acquaintances of yours have marbles between their ears.”

“It’s impossible then?” Melissa asked him

“Nothin’ is ever impossible, potato gal. One day Alvord’s luck will run out. A war party will catch the Hoodoos with their pants down. Or a sheriff will get up a posse that don’t know how to quit. Or an army patrol will be in the right place at the right time.”

Melissa nodded. “So it’s only impossible for us, is that what you’re saying, Mr. Howard?”

“It’s Enos. And don’t be puttin’ words in my mouth. I could track the Hoodoos clear to Canada if’n I was of a mind. Then all I’d have to do is keep my distance and pick ’em off one by one with my Sharps. At the Battle of the Chalk Cliffs, I dropped a Blackfoot chief at a range of a mile and a half, and I can do the same with the Hoodoos.”

“I heard it was three-quarters of a mile,” Charley said.

“Who was there, whelp? You or me?” Howard bared his yellow teeth like a dog about to bite. “Why, those Blackfeet were so far off, they weren’t no bigger than ants.”

Melissa plucked at his coat to get his attention. “I’m confused, Enos. First you say it can’t be done. Then you say exactly how it can be done. Which is it? Because if it can, I’d like you to consider our proposal. The money means more to me than you can imagine.”

Howard glanced down at his hands. They were shaking worse than before. Perhaps to disguise the fact, he tugged on his beard. “I truly would like to help you out, Missy. I’ll cogitate on it some over a drink. But I ain’t makin’ no promises.”

Charley wondered if Howard really would consider it, or whether he was only interested in the liquor. Little else was said until they reached Kincaid’s. They took a corner table.

Rubbing his hands in anticipation, Howard bawled, “Tom! A bottle of your best for me and my pards! And glasses for these younguns!”

“You’re not that old yourself,” Charley remarked. Forty, maybe forty-five, would be his guess. Howard looked older though, thanks to the battering his skin had taken from the sun and the wind.

“Old enough to know not to grab a sidewinder by the tail or a bull by the horns,” was Howard’s rebuttal. “I was your age once. And just like you, I couldn’t find my common sense without a magni fyin’ glass.”

Tony wasn’t trying to hide his growing irritation. “You’re full of wisdom, aren’t you, buffalo runner?”

“I have enough not to poke my head where it can get chopped off. Or to sass someone who can carve me up into tiny pieces.”

“I would like to see you try,” Tony said flatly.

To forestall violence, Charley changed the subject. “Why did you give up huntin’ buffalo, Enos, when you were so good at it?”

“That’s Mr. Howard to you, pup. And why I do what I do is none of your damn business.”

“Would you tell me?” Melissa asked, placing a hand on his.

The frontiersman turned red, jerked his hand loose, and hunched in his chair. His arms were shaking. The bartender had barely set the bottle down when Howard snatched it up and glued his mouth to it. He chugged greedily, gulping a third of the whiskey in the bat of an eye. The color and the tension slowly drained from his features, and he sat back, smiling contentedly. “The Almighty’s elixir of life,” he said softly, tapping the bottle.

Tony shook his head in disgust and turned away.

It wasn’t hard for Charley to guess what his friend was thinking: that Enos Howard was as worthless as teats on a bull; that Howard would be of no help whatsoever even if he agreed to help; that, in short, Tony had prolonged his stay in Denver for nothing.

Out of the blue, Melissa bluntly asked, “Enos, does why you drink have anything to do with why you gave up hunting buffalo?”

Howard was about to guzzle more. He glared at her over the bottle, his lips wrapped around the mouth.

“You can hit me if you want,” Melissa said. “But I’m your friend, and I’d like to help you if I can.”

The frontiersman was a long time answering. He lowered the whiskey without taking a sip and sat with his beard bowed to his chest and his eyes half closed. “I hate you, gal,” he said at last. “You’re trickier than these two put together, but a hell of a lot more honest.”

“If you’d rather not talk about it, I’ll understand.”

Charley was anxious to hear what Howard had to say. Just then the front door opened; he glanced toward it and was seared by a bolt of lightning. It was none other than Ubel Gunther and two of the three men who had been with Gunther at the stable. Charley was sure they must know he and Tony were there, but they walked to the bar without once looking at their table. Careful to keep his back to them, he whispered to his friend, “Those are some of Radtke’s men!”

Tony had been glumly contemplating the floor. Now he took a swift look and shifted in his chair so his back was to them, too.

“What’s goin’ on?” Enos Howard asked much more loudly than he should.

“Quiet!” Charley whispered. “If those gents spot Tony, they’ll kill him.”

The buffalo hunter’s eyes lit like candles. “You don’t say?” He grinned at Tony. “What did you do, boy? Accidentally spit on their fancy shoes?” He swigged whiskey, exhaled loudly, and rose. “So you think I’m worthless? Think I couldn’t lick a ladybug if she had one wing tied behind her back?” Melissa began to say something, but Howard held a hand up. “Don’t deny it, Missy. I can see it in their eyes. And here’s where I prove them wrong.”

Charley watched, thunderstruck, as Howard walked to within half a dozen feet of Ubel Gunther and let out with a war whoop like those Charley had always imagined Indians made.

“Look out, world! I’m a he-bear from the high country, and I am on the prod! Who wants to put me to the test?”

Ubel Gunther turned partway around, his elbow on the bar. “You’ve had too much to drink. Sit back down before someone takes that bottle away from you and hits you over the head with it.”

Enos Howard deliberately took a long swallow and smirked. “I’d sure like to see someone try. How about you, pretty boy?”