Do or Die

Chapter Seven

Colorado-Nebraska border

Eli Brandenberg was worried. The Hoodoos had stayed overnight at his place, something they had never done before. Kid Falon had spent much of it drinking and now was in a surly mood. Eli had to walk on eggshells around the little gunsman, which didn’t sit well with Eli’s nerves.

Then there was the grave business. Eli took it for granted the Hoodoos would do their own burying. But no. Brock Alvord had called him over after sunset, slid two dollars across the table, and said, “For the diggin’.”

Eli honestly couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You expect me to bury those buff boys?”

Kid Falon, who had been about to deal cards, glanced up. “Do you have a problem with that, you louse-ridden soddy?”

“No problem at all,” Eli lied, smiling to give the impression that burying bodies was something he did every day of the week and twice on Sundays because he loved it more than breathing. “It’s just that they’re both mighty big, and I’m kind of puny. I could use some help draggin’ them out.”

Brock Alvord might be a horse thief, but he wasn’t near as mean as the men who rode under him. “Ben, Noonan, give him a hand.”

It never ceased to amaze Eli how Alvord could boss around the likes of the sidewinders who rode with him, and they never seemed to mind. Kid Falon was the worst of the bunch, but the others weren’t daisies. Big Ben Brody, who hailed from Arkansas, was a bear in human guise. Brody wasn’t all that handy with a six-gun but he had been known to wrap his huge arms around gents he wasn’t fond of and crush them in a hug. John Noonan, the quiet one of the bunch, was from the backwoods of Missouri, and a deadlier man never lived. He was good with a pistol, rifle, and knife. It was said he had a habit of making love to women whether they wanted to make love or not. Curly Means had the sunniest disposition this side of St. Louis but would shoot a man in the back as quick as look at him. Curly also had a thing about dogs. It seems that when he was a boy, a dog had bit his leg clear down to the bone and left a scar that never healed. Ever since, Curly had amused himself by killing every stray dog he ran across, usually by dragging them by the neck until they were dead.

That men like these took orders from Brock Alvord was all the proof Eli needed that Alvord was as tough as they came. But there was more to it than that. Alvord had brains. He was smarter than most outlaws. His notion of stealing horses only from Indians was a stroke of genius, in Eli’s estimation. Then there was the business of their hideout. Everyone knew they had one, but no one knew where it was. Some claimed the Tetons. Others that it was off on the prairie somewhere.

But all that hardly mattered to Eli as he spent hours raising blisters on his hands. The ground was hard as rock, and once below the sod he had to chip away with a pick to make any kind of progress. He dug until well after midnight, then rolled the bodies into the holes and covered them.

Now here it was, eight the next morning, and Eli was fixing breakfast for his unwanted guests. His palms hurt like hell. Whenever he gripped the big wooden spoon to stir the hominy, he flinched. He was also making johnnycakes. He had eggs stored away, but he would be damned if he would share them. The same applied to his bacon.

The Hoodoos had spread out their bedrolls and slept on the floor. They were up early, although Big Ben Brody had refused to stir until Brock Alvord had upended a glass of water over his head. Brody came up wet and sputtering. Eli thought he would tear into Alvord, but all Brody did was grin.

“Sometime this year with that food!” Kid Falon barked. “We’re expectin’ company, and we want to be done when they get here.”

This was news to Eli. It explained why they’d stayed the night. But he would just as soon they mounted up and went elsewhere. Having them around was like having a pack of wild dogs move in. He never knew but when one of them might take it into their head to bite him.

Curly’s smile, it seemed, was carved into his handsome face. Strolling to the door, he opened it wide and breathed deep of the crisp morning air. “Do you know what’s better than bein’ alive?” he asked.

When none of the Hoodoos replied, Eli took it on himself to say, “No. What?”

“Nothin’.” Curly laughed and pushed his hat back on his thatch of curls. “When the time comes to have my wick blown out, I’ll be one mighty sad hombre.”

“You make it sound like a foregone conclusion,” Eli commented.

“Just because I steal horses for a livin’ doesn’t make me stupid,” Curly said amiably enough. “Wildcats like me don’t generally die in bed with their boots off. I reckon when my turn comes, I’ll go out with a smokin’ hogleg in my hand and a song in my heart.”

Eli grinned. That was another thing about Curly: He could say the strangest things.

“I envy you, Brandenberg.”

“Sure you’re awake?” Eli joshed. He didn’t see where his life was so great. Oh, he had a roof over his head, and he never went hungry, but that’s the most that could be said. “My life would bore you silly.”

“That it would,” Curly agreed. “But you’re not always lookin’ over your shoulder. You can go anywhere you want without havin’ to worry a lawman is goin’ to walk up behind you and put a gun to your head.”

Brock Alvord came to the counter. “That’s not the worst of it,” he threw in. “You don’t have every Indian in four territories after your scalp. And now that the bounty on our heads is so high, manhunters will be crawlin’ out of the woodwork.”

Kid Falon heard that last comment. “How do we know this soddy won’t try to collect the bounty for himself?”

“Why don’t we let Eli answer that?” Alvord said.

Eli had the johnnycakes heaped high on a plate, and he turned from the cookstove to carry them to the table. “It don’t make me no nevermind what other folks do. You boys have never done wrong by me, and I believe in lettin’ every man skin his own skunk.”

“I don’t trust you,” Kid Falon declared. “I have half a mind to put a slug in you just so you’ll know what you’ll get if you ever cross us.”

Brock Alvord rubbed his white Vandyke. “You’ll do no such thing. Eli’s is one of the few places we can come where we don’t have to sleep with one eye open. Throw down on him, and you’ll answer to me.”

Never in a million years would Eli have believed anyone could talk like that to Kid Falon and get away with it, but all the Kid did was scowl and slump in his chair. Eli suspected that Brock Alvord better be mighty careful. There might come a time when the Kid refused to back down when he was on the prod, and Alvord would be in trouble.

Curly Means sniffed a few times and hurried over. “Those cakes sure do set my mouth to waterin’. You missed your callin’, Eli. You should have been a cook.”

John Noonan produced his new bone-handled knife, jabbed the tip into a cake, and took a bite. “They’d be better with honey.”

“I’m plumb out,” Eli said, when in reality he had some stashed in a cabinet. “Sorry.”

Big Ben Brody stuffed two of the cakes into his mouth and chomped like a starved griz on a slab of meat. “My ma used to make cakes like these,” he said, crumbs dribbling over his lower lip. He looked at Alvord. “How soon you reckon before those red-skins get here?”

Eli started. “Indians are comin’ here?” If there was one thing he was scared of, it was hostiles. He couldn’t abide the thought of being taken alive and tortured to death. The things some of those heathens did were horrible beyond mention.

“Don’t wet yourself,” Kid Falon growled. “They’re friendlies. They got wind of our offer and had a whiskey peddler set up a get-together.”

“Offer?” Eli said, returning to the cookstove for the hominy.

It was Brock Alvord who answered. “We get the word out through scouts and whiskey Indians and the like that we’ll pay one hundred dollars for information on herds worth stealin’.”

So that was how they did it, Eli thought. Out loud he said, “Indians turn against their own kind like that?”

“Peel off their skin, and they’re no different than whites,” Brock said. “Down Arizona way, Apaches sign up as scouts to fight their own tribe. Indians are always squabblin’ among themselves. The Arapahos hate the Shoshones, and the Shoshones hate the Sioux, and everybody hates the Blackfeet.” Brock smiled slyly. “How do you reckon we found out about that Crow herd we stole not long ago? A Shoshone told us.”

“No wonder you’ve never been caught, Mr. Alvord. You’re as smart as a tree full of owls,” Eli complimented him.

“My grandpa used to say that brains in the head saves blisters on the feet. And my pa was always goin’ on about how a man can make more money usin’ his head than his back. I learned from them.” Brock helped himself to a cup from a shelf and filled it with piping-hot coffee. “They’d roll over in their graves, though, if they knew how I’d turned out. Pa had high hopes of me bein’ a lawyer or a doctor.”

“My pa wanted me to be a store clerk like him,” Kid Falon said. “He used to slap me silly whenever he caught me playin’ with an old revolver I bought. One day he slapped me once too often, and I shot him in the belly.” The Kid laughed. “You should have seen the look on his face when he died!”

Eli shivered, and not from the breeze wafting in through the open door. He went to close it and felt his heart leap into his throat. A stocky warrior was just outside, a Henry rifle cradled in the crook of an elbow. The warrior had painted himself yellow and wore what appeared to be a small stuffed prairie dog in his hair. “Brock! We’ve got company!” Eli hastily backpedaled behind the counter.

The Hoodoos acted as surprised as Eli. The Kid stood, his hands over his Colts. John Noonan and Big Ben also pushed to their feet. Curly Means was ladling hominy onto a plate and stayed in his chair.

“Sunset!” Brock Alvord declared, offering his hand white-man fashion. “We didn’t figure to see you until noon.”

Eli had no idea which tribe the warrior was from. His gut balled into a knot when Sunset entered, but that was nothing to the flip-flops his stomach did when four more Indians followed.

“What’s this?” Brock said. “I thought there were only goin’ to be you and your cousin.”

Sunset moved so the other warriors could file to the counter. All were carrying rifles, and all had knives. “My cousin and his brothers come. It is not safe for just one or two of us. Whites shoot at Indians on sight.”

“Can you blame them?” Kid Falon asked in ill-concealed contempt. He might have said more, but Alvord motioned for him to hush up.

“Have a seat,” Brock urged the yellow warrior. “We’d be happy to have you join us for breakfast.”

Sunset said something in his own tongue to the other warriors, then took the seat Alvord indicated. He sat stiffly, as one unaccustomed to chairs, and placed the Henry across the chair’s arms.

“Have a cake.” Brock handed him one.

After a nibble to test the taste, Sunset smiled and inhaled the johnnycake. Eli had more ready and set them on the counter. He stepped back quickly when a warrior’s bronzed hand almost brushed his. Being that close to them made him want to curl up into a ball and scream.

“Now then.” Brock Alvord turned a chair around and straddled it. “Suppose we get down to business. Sam Crotchet let on that you might know where we can get our hands on a herd.”

The name jarred Eli’s memory. Crotchet was a crusty old whiskey peddler who had been arrested twice for selling watered-down firewater to Indians but never learned from his mistakes.

“Maybe so,” Sunset said. “Crotchet say you pay one hundred dollars to learn where horses are.” He slid a palm toward Alvord.

“Not so fast. That’s not how this works. I wasn’t born on crazy creek. You give me the information, and if I think you’re talkin’ straight tongue, I’ll give you the money. But not before.”

“What stops you from cheating me?”

“That works both ways,” Brock observed. “Look. Crotchet told me you can be trusted. That you don’t hate whites like a lot of Cheyenne do. But if you’re worried about being buffaloed, we’ll call this off right now.”

Sunset digested that before replying. “I have heard of you, Hoodoo. For five winters you steal many horses from many tribes. I never hear you cheat anyone.”

“I’m not stupid. The first time I did, word would get out, and soon there wouldn’t be an Indian this side of the Divide who would want anything to do with me or my boys. So long as I’m honest, I’m trusted.”

A second johnnycake proved too much for the Cheyenne to resist. He ate slowly, thoughtfully, smacking his lips when he was done. “Very well. I will trust you. But if you trick us, my cousins and I will count coup on you.”

Kid Falon snickered and went to say something, but again Brock Alvord shushed him. “Let’s hear about this herd. Who owns it? Where can we find it? And most important, how many horses and what kind?”

“This many.” Sunset held up all his fingers and thumbs six times. “War horses, not travois horses. They belong to a Crow.”

Eli wasn’t much on Indian lore, but he did know they took powerful good care of their best horses, the mounts they used when they went on the warpath. Some warriors went so far as to bring their favorite war horse into their lodge at night so it couldn’t be stolen or set on by meat eaters.

“This Crow have a name?”

“To the whites he is Looks With His Ears. He belongs to the Kicked In The Bellies band.” Sunset then went on to relate where the band could be found. “They will stay there another moon, maybe two, then move on. You have until then to steal the herd.”

“Tell me about the horses.”

Eli didn’t listen to the rest. He was more interested in what the other Cheyenne were up to. Indians were big eaters, and these four were typical. They gobbled down the rest of the johnnycakes and held out their hands for more. “I ain’t got any,” Eli informed them more gruffly than he should have, and one scowled and fingered his rifle. “Hold your britches though.”

Some years ago, Eli had made jerked venison that didn’t turn out right. The meat had a rancid taste. He had stuffed it in a cabinet and forgotten about it, but now he took out the strip of deer hide the jerky was wrapped in and placed it in front of the four moochers. “Help yourselves.”

The meat had mold on it, but that didn’t stop the Cheyenne from biting off big chunks and chewing hungrily. Grunting, they grinned at Eli to show their gratitude, and he grinned back, thinking they had to be the biggest idiots ever born.

Brock Alvord and Sunset were talking and smiling. Eli assumed the palaver was going smoothly. So he was all the more stupefied when Sunset suddenly yipped like a coyote, leveled his Winchester at Brock Alvord’s chest, and fired. How Sunset missed, Eli might never have known had he not seen Kid Falon’s Colts streak above the table and blast in unison.

The Kid’s reflexes were so unbelievably swift that, having seen Sunset start to level the Winchester, he had drawn and fired before the warrior could squeeze off a shot. The slugs from his pearl-handled Colts cored Sunset’s sternum and smashed him and his chair back a yard, spoiling his aim.

The yip had been a signal for the other Cheyenne. They spun, firing as they whirled, working their rifle levers rapidly.

Big Ben Brody yelped and flung himself, and his chair, out of the hail of lead. Curly Means and John Noonan met it head on. Apparently they had expected treachery, because they were on their feet before the warriors turned, Noonan fanning his six-gun, Curly firing from the hip. Eli saw Noonan jolted by a bullet. Kid Falon and Brock Alvord were also blazing away, and it abruptly dawned on Eli that he was in the line of all that lead.

Eli dived for the floor and felt a searing pain in his right shoulder. He cried out, and his cry was echoed by one of the Cheyenne. Bodies thudded as more shots boomed. Then quiet descended.

“Stinkin’ vermin,” Kid Falon spat.

Cautiously rising, Eli peeked over the counter. The three warriors had been shot to ribbons. The Kid and Curly were reloading. Noonan was examining a wound low on his left side. Big Ben was on his knees, swatting at the clouds of smoke that hung in the air like acrid fog.

Brock Alvord looked fit to explode. He stormed over to Sunset, sank onto a knee, and gripped the Cheyenne by the throat. “Why?” he raged, shaking him. “Why the hell did you do that?”

Sunset wasn’t long for this world. Scarlet ribbons trickled from his mouth. Feebly, he attempted to draw his knife, but Brock angrily stomped on his wrist, pinning his hand.

“Answer me, damn your hide!”

Eli knew what the Cheyenne would say before Sunset choked it out.

“The bounty.”

Livid with fury, Brock stood, thumbed back the hammer to his six-gun, and shot Sunset in the forehead. He thumbed back the hammer a second time, but it clicked on a spent cartridge. Beside himself, he hiked his boot and stomped on the Cheyenne’s face again and again and again. When he stepped back, breathless, it was a pulped ruin.

“You know what this means, don’t you?” Curly Means said. “We can’t trust anyone from here on out.”

Eli straightened and was spiked by agony. He touched his shoulder, and his fingers came away sticky with blood. Dizziness assailed him, and he staggered around to a chair and oozed into it, his legs so much mush. “I’ve been shot!” he bleakly exclaimed. He envisioned being planted next to the buffalo hunters and groaned.

Curly ambled over. “How bad is it?” He had a folding knife in his left hand. Opening it, he carefully cut Eli’s shirt to expose the wound. “You must have been born with a four-leaf clover in your mouth.”

“I’m done for, and you poke fun?”

“Hell. You’ll outlive me and the rest of the boys put together. The slug missed the bone and went out your back without leavin’ much of a hole. You’re not bleedin’ that bad either. You were lucky.”

Eli didn’t feel lucky. He felt like he had been kicked by a mustang.

Noonan’s wound was a lot worse, but he dabbed at it with his bandanna, tucked his shirt back under his pants, and said, “I’m ready when the rest of you are.”

“Ready for what?” Eli said weakly, but no one was listening. The Hoodoos were gathering up their saddles and their effects, and Big Ben was shoving the few johnnycakes left into his saddlebags.

“You’re leavin’?”

Brock Alvord walked over. “I’m sorry, Eli. There might be a whole war party nearby. We can’t stick around and chance bein’ trapped in here.” He patted Eli’s good shoulder. “I’m sure you understand.”

Eli did no such thing. “What about me? I can’t fight off a war party by my lonesome! You owe it to me to stick and help out.”

Kid Falon’s right Colt blossomed out of thin air. “Foolish talk like that can get you planted. We don’t owe you a blessed thing, soddy.”

Brock shook his head. “Put that away.” He reached into a pocket and counted out one hundred dollars in United States notes. “I was fixin’ to give this to Sunset, but his loss is your gain. It should make us even.” Throwing his saddle over his back, he jangled out on the heels of his compañeros. They weren’t letting any grass grow under them.

Eli sat there. He trembled all over but not from fear. Throwing the bills onto the table, he struggled erect. “No sir! No sir!” Rage made him reckless. Clutching his shoulder, he shuffled to the doorway.

Over under the lean-to beside the corral, the Hoodoos were hastily preparing to ride out. Their horses were some of the best they had stolen in recent years, animals that could go forever and a day and not tire.

“Wait!” Eli stumbled toward them. “Take me!”

Kid Falon laughed. Big Ben Brody shook his head.

“Let me ride with one of you!” Eli grasped at a straw. “Drop me off at the first town you come to.”

“Pitiful,” the Kid said and forked an Appaloosa.

“Don’t do this to yourself,” Brock Alvord said in mild reproach. He was astride a magnificent blue roan.

“Do what?” Eli shouted and moved to block the lean-to entrance so they couldn’t abandon him. But it was twenty feet wide, and he was only one man. He snatched at Big Ben’s reins and had them ripped from his hand. He tried to seize Noonan’s bridle and was brushed off.

“You boys should be ashamed of yourselves,” Curly Means said. Grinning, he bent down with an arm extended. “Come on, soddy. You can swing up behind me. I don’t mind.”

“Thank you,” Eli blubbered, tears filling his eyes. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” He reached out with his left arm.

Instead of taking hold, Curly placed his hand against Eli’s face and shoved. Eli fell backward, collided with a bale of straw, and cartwheeled. He landed on his wounded shoulder. The pain that spiked through him was nearly unbearable. He heard their rough glee and made it to his knees.

Four of the five were already trotting southeast.

“You brought that on yourself,” Brock Alvord said. “Ridin’ double with one of us will slow the rest. We can’t have that, Eli.”

“But the Cheyenne!” Eli was crying and wanted to stop, but he couldn’t help himself.

Brock gave the prairie a quick scrutiny. “Maybe there aren’t any more. Get inside and bar your door. If none show by up nightfall, you’re safe.” He touched his hat brim and wheeled the roan.

“Not you too!” Eli begged and wrapped his hand around Alvord’s stirrup.

“Try to be nice to some folks and look at what they do.”

Eli never saw the boot that slammed into his cheek. He fell heavily and tasted dirt in his mouth. Dirt and the bitterest of bile, composed of equal parts rage and hate. His vision blurred by tears, he watched Brock Alvord ride away and gave voice to his turmoil. “I’ll get even if it’s the last thing I do!”