Do or Die

Chapter Nine

Nebraska Panhandle

To William Shores it seemed as if a million buffalo were stampeding toward the wallow in which he was crouched beside Red Fox. His first impulse was to dart to the claybank and burn the breeze, but as he spun, Red Fox gripped his arm.

“No, Brother John. Buffalo catch. Buffalo kill.”

Shores tore loose but stayed rooted where he was. The old warrior was right. Outrunning them wasn’t an option. The herd was bearing down on them faster than he would have thought possible. The rumble of their hooves was a continuous tremendous din. A huge cloud of dust blanketed them like fog, a cloud so thick that Shores could see only the foremost hairy ranks.

“There be smarter way,” Red Fox declared. Vaulting onto the rim, he spread his thin arms wide.

“Get down here, you fool! You’ll be trampled!” Shores snatched at the Shoshone’s ankle, but Red Fox stood firm.

“Watch, Brother John. Watch and learn.” Red Fox threw back his head and began to sing.

To Shores it was utter lunacy. Even if the buffalo could hear the old man over the drumming of hooves, which was doubtful, they weren’t about to stop. To them he was nothing, a frail human twig to be crushed under their heavy hooves. They would plow Red Fox under their grinding hooves, and his bones would join the bleached legion already dotting the prairie.

Again Shores tried. “You’ll get yourself killed!”

Red Fox sang louder.

The claybank was snorting and prancing. Fearful it would bolt, Shores seized hold of the bridle. The Shoshone’s paint showed no alarm whatsoever, but Shores grabbed its rope reins anyway. It would serve the old man right to be stranded afoot in the middle of the prairie, but Shores couldn’t bring himself to let that happen.

Shores tried not to think of the buffalo or their wicked, curved horns. When he was a boy growing up in Texas, he had had occasion to see what those horns could do. Buffalo had been a lot more numerous back then, and the big herds had pushed far to the south. An uncle who was enormously fond of buffalo steak had taken Shores hunting a couple of times. Shores didn’t get to do much other than camp chores, but on their second outing, another hunter, a neighbor of his uncle’s who always liked to joke and laugh, had made the mistake of getting too close to a wounded bull and paid a fatal price.

The horrid image was seared into Shores’s memory: the sight of the man thrashing about in a pool of scarlet, screaming and blubbering, his forearms pressed over what had once been his stomach. One of the bull’s horns had shredded the flesh like wet paper, creating a cavity large enough to fit a watermelon in, and the neighbor’s innards had come oozing out.

In another heartbeat, the herd was on top of them. Shores almost cried out as a hedgerow of broad, massive heads swept toward the north side of the wallow. Too many to count, an unstoppable force no man or beast could withstand. Red Fox would be smashed aside. Then it would be his turn.

But at the instant of certain death, at the moment when Shores believed Red Fox would fall under a grinding array of battering hooves, the herd parted as cleanly and completely as the Red Sea had for Moses, and instead of breaking over the wallow like waves on a shore, the buffalo parted to the right and the left, missing Red Fox, and swung wide.

All Shores could do was gape. He stifled a mad urge to shuck his Winchester from its saddle scabbard and blaze away. It sobered him to think that in the greater scheme of things, man amounted to no more than the specks of dust that floated before his eyes. Specks which were part of the choking cloud that swallowed him like the Biblical leviathan swallowed Jonah. In the blink of an eye, he couldn’t see his hand holding the reins or the buffalo nor Red Fox. He couldn’t hear the Shoshone either for the near-deafening din.

Something brushed against him, and Shores jerked back, thinking it was a buffalo. But it was only the claybank, as terror-struck as he was. Dust choked his nose, his lungs. His eyes watered uncontrollably. He erupted in a coughing fit, his pounding heart fit to burst.

Then, as spectacularly as it had begun, the stampede swept to the south. There had not been thousands. Several hundred at the most. The rumbling of the herd’s passage gradually faded, and the dust slowly thinned.

Shores straightened. His ears were ringing, and his mouth had gone bone dry. He tried to swallow and swallowed dust. Wheezing, he touched a hand to his chest, overjoyed to be alive.

A second hand was placed next to his. “Brother John all right?” Red Fox was caked with dust. So much so, not a single patch of bare skin showed, and his grey hair was now brown. Yet he was having no trouble breathing.

“I’m fine,” Shores croaked, swatting at his clothes. “I kept your horse from running off.” He handed over the reins.

Red Fox’s teeth were a bright flash of color. “Climb on. We ride fast or be rubbed out.”

Shores thought his ears must be clogged. “What are you talking about? The buffalo are gone. You saved us from the stampede.”

“But not save from cause.” Red Fox hurried to the south rim. “Come, Brother John. Please.”

Confused, Shores stumbled after him. He’d swear the dust had seeped into his joints and muscles, making him as sluggish as a snail. “Listen, you’re not making any sense. We should rest a bit, clean ourselves off. I have a canteen, and I’m willing to share the water.”

“Not drink water if dead.”

“I wish you would stop talking in riddles. Granted, you’re handicapped by not knowing English that well, but I’m willing to take the time to listen if you’ll take the time to express yourself clearly.”

Red Fox gazed to the north and immediately swung onto the paint. “You not hurry, you die.”

Shores was losing his temper. “And just who in the hell is going to kill me?”

“Them.” The old Shoshone pointed.

Approximately two hundred yards out were eight warriors. Six were armed with bows and arrows, two with rifles. They wore their hair differently than Red Fox and were considerably stockier and more muscular.

“Who are they?” Shores asked.

“Some call Lakotas. Some call Sioux. Same, same. Sioux fight Shoshones, Shoshones fight Sioux. Only one thing Sioux hate more.”

“What’s that?”

“White men.”

Piercing whoops accented the old warrior’s point. Shores forked leather and applied his spurs. In Cheyenne he had been assured the Sioux were much farther north this time of year. Apparently someone had forgotten to tell the Sioux. He glanced back to gauge whether the warriors would try to overtake them right away or chase them into the ground and was amused to see one of them nocking an arrow to a bow. The range was far too great. Or so he assumed until the shaft left the string and arced in a precise trajectory that ended with it embedding itself in the earth less than five feet behind him.

“Damn.” Shores had heard tales about Indian prowess with a bow. Claims they were taught to use one when they were barely old enough to hold it. Claims a grown warrior could unleash ten to twenty shafts in the span of a minute. Claims of incredible accuracy when firing from horseback. He had chalked them up to the usual frontier penchant for hot air, but after the attempt he had just witnessed, he was willing to admit he might have been hasty in his judgment.

Another shaft was loosed, this time at Red Fox. It missed, although not by much. The Shoshone reacted by laughing and taunting their pursuers.

After that, the Sioux concentrated on trying to narrow the gap. Shores and the Shoshone concentrated on increasing their lead. They did, but not by much.

Shores remembered hearing that grass-fed mounts lacked the stamina of grain-fed animals, and he was optimistic his claybank could outlast the mounts of the hostiles. As for the paint, if it tired and lagged, Shores didn’t know what he would do. He needed Red Fox’s help in tracking the Hoodoos, but he would be damned if he would sacrifice his life for an old Indian. Hell, he doubted he would do it for another white man. Not if it meant falling into the clutches of dusky demons who delighted in inflicting unspeakable tortures.

Red Fox’s cry brought Shores out of himself. He didn’t know what to make of the forms dotting the prairie ahead. Then it hit him: They were buffalo. The herd had stampeded itself out and was milling about.

Red Fox smiled and shouted something, but Shores didn’t catch what the old man said. He thought the Shoshone would veer east or west, but to his consternation Red Fox reined toward the center of the herd.

Madness, Shores thought. Then he realized that by mingling with the buffalo, they might shake the Sioux. But it had to be done just right, and the chance of a mishap was high.

Red Fox started whooping and hollering and waving an arm. Shores followed suit. But the buffalo were slow responding. They had just run miles and were tired, which made them less prone to spook . . . until a bull snorted and bobbed its immense head, and, like a shaggy, churning wave, the entire herd galvanized into motion and resumed stampeding.

Shores and the Shoshone were in among them within moments. Shores had buffalo to the right, buffalo to the left. Their driving hooves hammered the ground like anvils, almost drowning out the grunts that came from all sides. Their musty, sweaty scent was overpowering.

A horn came perilously close to ripping open the claybank. Shores had never been so scared. Not even when he was eight and he’d gone down into the root cellar and was confronted by a coiled rattlesnake. Not even when he was twenty and a criminal he had cornered in a darkened room pulled a knife on him. He was so scared, he couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything other than ride and hope to God he made it out alive.

Dust was everywhere once again. Shores glimpsed Red Fox grinning that inane grin of his. He glanced down into the dark eye of a buffalo and saw the eye blink. It made his skin crawl. Why, he couldn’t say. Maybe it was fear. Or maybe it was being so close to creatures he had no business being this close to. Their size, their power, their strangeness chilled his soul.

Shores lost track of how long they ran with the herd. It seemed hours but couldn’t have been more than five or ten minutes. Then Red Fox yipped and motioned and reined to the east, toward where the herd was thinner. His breath catching in his throat, Shores did likewise. He had to trust the old Indian’s judgment. This was far beyond the realm of his own experience, far beyond anything he had ever done or ever contemplated doing.

The buffalo let them pass unhindered. None of the great shaggy heads turned to rend and rip.

Shores glanced back but couldn’t see the Sioux for the dust. Which meant they couldn’t see him either. He glanced toward Red Fox, but now the Shoshone was also lost amid the billowing cloud.

Panic nipped at Shores, but he fought it down. They had been veering east, so he continued east. At least, he hoped it was east. It was hard to be completely sure.

Tense seconds ensued. Shores was about convinced they had become separated, when the dust parted and he saw Red Fox galloping through the last of the buffalo. Another few moments, and Shores was in the clear. They raced eastward for another half a mile without slowing, then drew rein.

The herd still thundered south. Nipping at its heels like a pack of wolves, visible at random moments, were the Sioux.

Red Fox smiled and made a comment in his own tongue.

“What?” Shores asked.

“Stupid Sioux,” Red Fox said and laughed.

Shores didn’t share the old man’s glee. Their search had barely begun, yet twice this day he had been delivered from what he took to be certain death. What next? he wondered. And couldn’t suppress a shudder.

Denver, Colorado Territory

Artemis Leeds had just finished renting a buggy to a handsome young couple who wanted to take an afternoon ride along Cherry Creek. He was out in front of the stable, watching to gauge how the young man handled the rig, when something jabbed him in the side hard enough to make him wince.

“I told you we would return.”

“Mr. Gunther, I presume,” Leeds said without turning. “Do us both a favor and leave before I report you to the police.”

“For what? Talking to you?”

“You and I have nothing to discuss.” Enough people were passing by that Leeds was confident Gunther wouldn’t lay a hand on him. He had half a mind to march off to the Chief of Police and lodge a formal protest, but instead he turned and entered the livery. “I don’t care to have you set foot on these premises again.”

Leeds thought that would be the end of it. He heard hinges creak and turned to find Gunther’s two associates closing the double doors. Gunther, smirking, had that polished cane of his across one shoulder. “Didn’t you hear me?”

“Oh, my ears work fine, stableman. It is you who did not hear me yesterday when I said I need to find the boy who works for you. But I will give you one more chance. Where is he?”

“He never came back,” Leeds bluffed. “If he has the nerve to show up after all this time, I’ll fire him. I can’t abide shirkers.”

“And I can’t abide liars.” Gunther strolled closer. “You see, an acquaintance of ours has gotten word to us that he saw the boy and several others in this very stable this morning. I would have come sooner, but I was off looking for one of your employee’s friends, an Italian named Anthony Fabrizio. You know him too, do you not?”

“I don’t keep track of all of Charley Pickett’s wayward acquaintances.” Leeds saw the man called Hans lift the heavy bar. “What does he think he’s doing? It’s not closing time. Put that down!”

Hans paid no attention.

“You do not seem to appreciate the seriousness of the situation,” Gunther said. “My employer, Mr. Radtke, is most determined to find Fabrizio and Pickett. Most determined.”

“You say that like it should be important to me.”

Gunther took another step. “It never ceases to amaze me how some people refuse to listen to what others are saying.”

“I’ve heard every word you’ve said.”

“Ah. But did you listen to them? I have given you fair warning, stableman, but you won’t heed. You have only yourself to blame for what happens if you do not answer my next question truthfully.” Gunther paused. “Where is Charley Pickett?”

Leeds had put up with all he was about to. “For the last time, how should I know where the boy is, you overbearing, arrogant son of a—”

Gunther swung his cane. The thunk of the ivory knob striking Leeds’s jaw was quite loud. Leeds collapsed, groaning, and sprawled on his side. “Hans, Oscar, pick him up,” Gunther directed, and his two beefy subordinates seized the stableman’s arms.

Leeds was conscious, but barely.

“Now then,” Gunther said. “We will try this again. I didn’t hit you hard enough to break your jaw, although I easily could have. You need your mouth to talk. You don’t, however, need your knees.”

Never in his life had Leeds felt such pain. He cried out, or tried to, but Hans clamped a thick hand over his mouth. Tears filled his eyes, more from frustration and outrage than the blow.

“When you are ready to tell me, you have only to nod.” Gunther hefted the cane. “Bear in mind, I can do this the rest of the day if I have to. I can break every bone in your body one by one. Or do far worse. You will talk, whether you want to or not. Hold out as long as you can, but the information my employer needs will be mine. So, what will it be?”

Leeds would be hanged if he would cooperate. But neither did he care to be hit again. “What will you do to Charley when you find him?” he stalled.

“He is not our main interest. It is Fabrizio we want most. He stole from Mr. Radtke and must be made an example of. A man in Mr. Radtke’s position cannot allow a slight like this to go unpunished.”

“You won’t harm Charley?”

“Your devotion to your stableboy is commendable but misplaced. Are you aware that he and Fabrizio are killers? Yes, that’s right. The two men murdered in an alley the other night, both of whom worked for Mr. Radtke, were killed by your precious stableboy and his friend. And Mr. Radtke is a firm believer in an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.”

Leeds refused to believe it. He could never imagine Charley killing anyone. Tony, maybe, but he didn’t know the other boy that well. “How do you know it wasn’t the buffalo hunter who’s to blame?”

Gunther blinked. “Who?”

“That buffalo hunter friend of theirs. He’s as wild and woolly as they come. And he carries a Bowie knife.” The newspaper article, Leeds remembered, had mentioned that the men in the alley were stabbed. He thought that by confusing Gunther and the others, he might induce them into lowering their guard, and he could break free. He had a derringer in his office, and he was not averse to using it.

Gunther appeared shocked. “The lout from Kincaid’s! He baited us deliberately! And I never caught on.”

“What?” Leeds was having difficulty focusing with so much pain coursing through him.

“I was played for a fool.” Gunther’s whole body shook with the severity of his anger. “The others must have been at Kincaid’s too. They will pay for this insult.” He poked his cane against Leeds’s chest. “For the last time, stableman. Will you tell me where they are?”

Leeds held his chin high. “Do your worst. I’ll never break.”

But he was wrong, dreadfully wrong, and two hours later, when the handsome young couple who had gone for a buggy ride along Cherry Creek returned, they found his broken, bloody body with a pitchfork stuck in its chest.

Kincaid’s normally did light business until six, when most of the regulars began flocking in. The time was five minutes till by the bronze clock above the mirror, and Ralph Kincaid was towel-drying the last of a batch of glasses he had washed in the kitchen basin when he sensed rather than heard someone come up behind him. “Eddy, is that you? I expected you to deliver those Saratoga chips this morning.” Kincaid turned. “You!”

Ubel Gunther had one hand in a pants pocket and was twirling his cane with the other. “We need to have a few words, Mr. Kincaid.”

Kincaid glanced at the two slabs of muscle flanking Gunther and debated trying to get past them to reach his shotgun out under the bar. “The kitchen is off limits to the public,” he said, hoping his voice did not betray his nervousness.

“Surely you jest. Mr. Radtke has a one-eighth interest in your establishment, does he not? Which would make me a fellow employee.” Gunther grew somber. “How much can you tell me about that buffalo hunter who had the audacity to pick a fight with me yesterday?”

“Enos Howard? He’s harmless except when he’s drinkin’, and he’s generally always drinkin’.”

“Let me be the judge of how harmless he is.” Gunther came closer. So did the other two. “Share with me all you know about him. Or must I have Hans and Oscar persuade you?”

Ralph Kincaid was no fool. “Where should I begin?”

Walter Radtke’s office was a monument to luxury. A mahogany desk was the centerpiece. The rest of the furniture was black walnut and rosewood. Plush wine red carpet covered the floor. A serpentine-back sofa with a half-lyre armrest sat against one wall. It too was red.

Red was also the color of Walter Radtke’s face when he was mad, and he was mad now. His jaw muscles twitched as he stared at his top lieutenant. One of his huge hands wrapped around the base of a gilded desk lamp, and he started to lift it as if to throw it but then set it back down. “No one does what they did to me and gets away with it. No one.”

“They must be miles out on the prairie by now,” Ubel Gunther said.

“I don’t care if they’re halfway to St. Louis!” Radtke slammed his hand onto his desk. “If word of this insult got out, my competitors would see it as a sign of weakness. A man in my position cannot afford to give that impression.”

Gunther placed the tip of his cane on the carpet and leaned on it. “Eventually they will tire of their silly hunt.”

“Which could be weeks from now. And you have no guarantee they will return to Denver. They could go anywhere.” Radtke shook his head. “No, waiting for them is not an option.”

“Then what?”

Radtke drummed his fingers. “I want you to take Hans and Oscar and two others and go after them. Find them. Kill them.”

“As always, I will obey. But I must point out that tracking is not among my many skills.”

“Hire a tracker. Frontiersmen are as common as flies in this city. There is bound to be one competent enough. Pay him well to get the job done, and spare no expense in buying provisions and the best horses. You should overtake them with no difficulty.”

“Just so I am clear on this, you want the girl killed too?”

Radtke thought before answering. “Her we can put to better use. A year in one of my boarding houses will teach her to choose her friends more carefully.” He jabbed a finger at Gunther. “The thing I want most, the thing you must bring me without fail, is Tony Fabrizio’s head in a sack. I want it as a keepsake.”

Gunther smiled. “You don’t want the heads of Pickett and Howard?”

“Them?” Radtke hissed in contempt. “Do as we usually do. Chop them into small pieces and leave the pieces for the coyotes and the vultures.”

“Consider it done.”