Do or Die

Chapter Eleven

Painted Rock

Kansas

The settlement of Painted Rock owed its existence to two mistakes. The second was made by six families from Pennsylvania who believed they could travel from St. Joseph, Missouri, to Denver, Colorado, on their own. They refused to pay what they viewed as exorbitant fees charged by professional guides.

Their leader, Floyd Havershaw, a blacksmith, summed up their feelings best when he stood on a crate in St. Jo’s public square and declared, “How hard can it be? Kansas is as flat as a flapjack, and eastern Colorado doesn’t have a hill higher than I can spit over. I say we head due west and trust in Providence to watch over us.”

Two wagon wheels broke in the first ten miles. A week later, half their horses ran off one night when the livestock was left untended, and it took four days to gather them up. Jack Taylor broke his foot when he accidently ran over it with his Conestoga. And Floyd Havershaw nearly lost a hand when the anvil in his wagon shifted and fell on it.

According to Floyd’s map, they could shave a couple of hundred miles off their journey if they left the main trail and bore on a more southerly heading. Floyd had traced the map himself from an old book in the Scranton public library, so he had every confidence in it. They were supposed to strike the North Fork of the Solomon River after a few days but didn’t. Floyd told everyone not to worry, that they were sure to strike the South Fork of the Solomon River in a few more days, and they would follow it west. Only the South Fork wasn’t where the map said it should be either. That didn’t stop them. They took their bearings by the sun and forged on.

The first mistake had been made by Sam Stowe years earlier. A Civil War veteran, he took the tales of gold nuggets in the Rockies waiting to be plucked off the ground seriously enough to ride a mule from Indiana to Colorado. Sam was so convinced he would strike it rich, he sold all his worldly goods for the provisions he needed. When he reached the mountains and discovered the gold wasn’t waiting to jump into his arms, he became discouraged, turned right around, and headed for Indiana.

From another argonaut, Sam heard of a remarkable sight he hankered to see on his way home. As a small boy he had liked to collect unusual rocks. When he enlisted, he had two shelves crammed with everything from pieces of ruby quartz to marble to basalt. So when told about the mystery rock, he couldn’t resist.

Not far from the Colorado border, a secondary trail looped through northwest Kansas, passing near a boulder as large as a log cabin. Remarkable for its size, it was unique in another respect. Every square inch was covered by strange paintings. Who had painted them was a mystery. The emigrants certainly didn’t know. Nor did the Arapahos, the Kansa, or the Osage. The paintings had been there for as long as anyone in their tribes could remember.

Fittingly, the boulder became known as Painted Rock.

Sam found it without any problem, perched atop the north bank of a meandering stream. He spent the rest of that day and all of the next scrambling over it on his hands and knees, studying the figures and symbols. There were men with beaks and wings, animals with spear-shaped plates on their backs, enormous birds with buffalo in their talons. There were circles within circles and swirls within swirls. There were letters that did not resemble any letters known. Sam had never seen anything like it.

The following morning, Sam made his fateful mistake. He was preparing to depart and decided to clean his rifle. Only he forgot it was loaded. The slug tore off three toes and part of his foot. It wouldn’t have been so bad except he was sitting with his boots touching Painted Rock, and the slug flattened when it hit the boulder and ricocheted out.

Sam needed two weeks to heal to where he could hobble with a crutch. By then he had thought it over and decided the accident was an omen. He had fallen in love with the prairie in general and that spot in particular. Always a loner by nature, it was right in keeping with his character to build a cabin and stay. He bought several cows and other essentials from emigrants on the main trail and was set.

The Indians didn’t bother him. They watched from a distance as he spent every spare moment scampering over Painted Rock and decided that either his brain was in a whirl, which was their way of saying he was crazy, or he had been touched by the Great Mystery. In either case, it would be bad medicine to harm him.

Sam was content to live out his life a hermit, but it wasn’t meant to be. Floyd Havershaw and the six wagons from Pennsylvania showed up. The pilgrims held a meeting and decided they had gone far enough. The ground was fertile, the stream ran year-round, and game was abundant. Overnight, Painted Rock became a settlement.

Sam wasn’t pleased. He told them it was a free country, and they could do as they wanted, but they were to stay the hell away from his boulder or else.

Word of the new settlement spread. Most wagon trains stuck to the main trail, but now and again a small train or individual wagons rolled into Painted Rock to buy supplies. In addition to Sam’s cabin, it now boasted six frame homes, Floyd Havershaw’s combination blacksmith shop and stable, Jack Taylor’s general store, and Tom Shadley’s saloon, the Lucky Star.

The women of Painted Rock wanted the saloon shut down, but the men stood firm. When the women pointed out the settlement was too small to keep a saloon in business, the men assured them they were up to the task. When the women complained the men would stay out drinking to all hours, the men responded that the saloon was mainly for socializing, but to make the women happy they would close it every night at eleven.

All went well until Abigail Reece and Susie Kline arrived. They had been run out of Independence for lewd and lascivious acts the local newspaper would not dare print and were on their way to Denver to take up employment at a bawdy house. Painted Rock suited them better. Both ladies were long at the tooth, with Susie pushing fifty, but well preserved. Abigail looked fifteen years younger than she was and swore by Aunt Gertrude’s Facial Cream and Life Extender.

The decent women in Painted Rock protested when the two doves took up residence above the saloon. Their husbands made mention of Christian charity and promised the doves would share no more than drinks and talk.

No one in Painted Rock paid much attention to five strangers who stayed overnight from time to time. They looked like ordinary cowboys. Their white-haired leader said they were cattle buyers. The youngest favored pearl-handled Colts and often entertained the settlement’s children by setting up empty bottles on the bank of Painted Creek and putting on a show of speed and skill that dazzled his young audience.

The settlers had heard of the Hoodoos. Everyone had. But no one connected the five strangers who passed through every few months with the five notorious horse thieves until Abigail confided to Tom Shadley, the saloon owner, that the young one with the pearl-handled pistols was Kid Falon.

Shadley told Floyd Havershaw, and Havershaw called a town meeting. Every adult was obliged to attend, including Sam Stowe, who continued to resent the settlement and everyone in it and wished they would all come down with the plague and die.

“We have us a predicament,” Floyd began and related what he had learned but not the name of the person who had discovered the Kid’s identity or how she had discovered it. “The Hoodoos are wanted in four territories. They’re thieves and killers, and we’ve been harboring them. What do we do about it?”

“Why should we do anything?” Jack Taylor said. “They’ve never bothered us. They come, they drink, they sleep, they ride off. That’s it. I say let them go on doing as they please, and we’ll all live longer.”

Tom Shadley stood. “I, for one, wouldn’t care to rile them. We’ve all heard the stories about how many men they’ve killed. So long as they’re peaceable, why should we care who they are or what they do?”

“Bunch of yellow curs,” Sam Stowe groused. “Is this why you called me away from my stove and my supper? If any of you had a lick of gumption, you would do what any law-abiding citizen should do and send word to the army. In case you haven’t heard, your precious Hoodoos killed a couple of soldiers a while ago, and there’s a seven thousand dollar bounty on their miserable heads.” Sam rose and limped toward the door. “I might try to collect it my own self.”

“Sam, wait!” Floyd called in vain.

“Someone had better set that grump straight, or he’ll cause us no end of grief,” Tom Shadley said.

“I’ll try,” Jack Taylor offered. “I’m the only one in town he’ll talk to anyhow.”

Over an hour was spent debating how best to deal with the Hoodoos. The only decision they reached was to put off making a decision for another week to give everyone time to mull it over.

“There’s no rush,” Floyd said. “It’s only been three weeks since they were here last. Generally, they don’t visit us but once every couple of months.”

The very next day, the Hoodoos rode in.

It was early afternoon, and the five hard cases were caked with the dust of many miles. After putting up their horses at Floyd Havershaw’s establishment and paying to have their mounts fed and tended to, they repaired to the Lucky Star.

“Drinks all around,” Brock Alvord said as they lined up at the bar.

“Make mine a bottle,” Big Ben Brody commanded.

Tom Shadley had been taking inventory when they came in. He took inventory once a day just to have something to do. “Sure thing, Mr. Alvord.” Years ago Tom had learned the secret to keeping his customers happy was to always remember their favorite brands. It made them feel like they were important enough for him to go to the trouble. He selected two bottles and turned. “Here you go.”

The Hoodoos were as straight as rails and as stern-faced as temperance pushers. “Is something the matter?” Tom asked.

“How did you find out who I am?” Brock Alvord demanded. “I never told you.”

Kid Falon had his hands on his pearl-handled Colts. “I reckon if you know, everybody must know.”

“And here we thought they were as dumb as stumps and would never figure it out.” Curly Means laughed.

“Maybe we should clean out this two-bit town,” Jack Noonon suggested.

Brock Alvord took the bottles, passed one to Big Ben Brody, and opened the other. “How about it, barkeep? Should we be mad at you folks for tryin’ to trick us?”

“We only found out last night!” Shadley bleated. “And it doesn’t make any difference to us who you boys are. You’ve never mistreated anyone here. Fact is, I like you fellas.”

Curley Means grinned and nudged Noonan. “Did you hear that, Missouri? He likes us. Why don’t you hop over the bar and give him a big kiss?”

“Why don’t I cut off your carrot and shove it down your throat?”

Big Ben Brody roared, and the tension evaporated. The Hoodoos relaxed. Alvord poured drinks.

Tom Shadley mopped perspiration from his balding pate with his apron and thanked God for his deliverance.

Shoes clacked on the stairs. Down sashayed Abigail and Susie in their finest frillery. They had brushed their hair and splashed on so much perfume the entire saloon filled with the musky fragrance.

“Abby, darlin’!” Kid Falon hollered. Lifting her, he swung her completely around and planted a kiss on her full red lips. “Have you missed me? You’re all I’ve thought about since I left.”

“I’ll vouch for that,” Curly Means said.

Susie ambled over to Curly and contrived to rub her hip against his. “How about buying a girl a drink, handsome?”

Curly raised a finger to the brim of his hat. “Thanks for the offer, ma’am, but there are two things I never have any truck with. One is dogs. The other is anything and everything female.”

“How about you?” Susie said to Noonan.

“How about me?” Big Ben said. Bottle in hand, he looped a huge arm around her slender waist. “It’s about time the two of us were better acquainted.”

Kid Falon steered Abigail toward a table. “You and me need to talk, beautiful. I’ve been doin’ a lot of thinkin’, and there’s something important I want to say.” He held out a chair for her, then dragged his close enough that the two chairs touched.

Abigail gave a toss of her long red hair. A sad look crept into her blue eyes, and she said softly, “I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Huh? You don’t even know what I’m about to say.” The Kid lifted his voice to bawl, “Fetch us a bottle of our own over here, Shadley, and be quick about it!”

As soon as Tom scurried off, Abigail leaned forward and placed a hand on the Kid’s arm. “Do you have any idea how old I am?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Falon kissed her on the cheek. “You’re the prettiest filly this side of the Divide, and I have big plans for you and me.”

“Kid, listen to me.”

Falon took both her hands in his and squeezed. “I’ve never met a girl like you. That last time, when we spent all night in your room, was the best night of my life. I want more nights like that, Abby. I want them to never end. I’ve pondered it considerable, and I’ve decided I’d like to be your man permanent-like, if you’ll have me.”

“First off, I’m a woman, not a girl. Second, you don’t know a damn thing about me. Third, you should drink at a lot more troughs before you decide to hitch your horse to just one. Fourth, one night isn’t the same as true love. Fifth, and this is the most important, get it through your handsome head that I’m old enough to be your ma.”

“My ma ain’t that old,” the Kid responded. “Be sides, age don’t hardly matter. Curly says it’s the heart that counts, and my heart is fit to burst with how I feel about you.” Hope lit his young face like a flame flaring on a candle. “What do you say? We’ll rustle us up a parson and do this proper.”

“You’re loco.”

Kid Falon slid his hands off hers and frowned. “Don’t talk like that, Abby. I’ve never opened up to anyone like I’m openin’ up to you, and I don’t much like havin’ my face slapped.”

“Kid, Kid, Kid,” Abigail said tenderly and shook her head. “What am I to do with you? How can I make you understand? I’ve seen this sort of puppy love more times than I can count. I’m one of the first women you ever had, aren’t I? I made you feel good, real good, and you’re mistaking that good feeling for love. But it’s not. There’s a fancy word for it a drummer told me once. Infatuation. That’s what ails you. In-fat-u-a-tion.”

The Kid’s frown became a scowl. “I’ve had plenty of women. You hear me? Plenty! Don’t flatter yourself you’re the first. As for that infatted business, what the hell does a damn drummer know anyhow? All they do is jabber. Hell, if a drummer walked through that door right now, he’d be dead before he took two steps.”

“This one sold encyclopedias. He knew a lot about darned-near everything. Why, he could recite all the Presidents’ birthdays from memory.”

“Bid deal. So he could read. I can read too. I got as far as the sixth grade, and my teacher always said I was one of the smartest in her class. Smart enough to know when I care for someone, and when I don’t.” Now the Kid was glowering. “You’re lucky I don’t get up from this table and never talk to you again.”

Abigail reached for him, but he pulled away. “Please, Kid. Calm down. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Well, you damn sure did. I haven’t been this mad since that time a cowboy stepped on my foot at a dance and then had the gall to say I stepped on his. It was his fault, him bouncin’ around with his gal like they was tryin’ to stomp snakes.”

“You’re getting yourself agitated,” Abigail said.

“So what? I can agitate myself if I damn well want to.” Kid Falon looked around the room and hitched at his gunbelt. “I have me half a notion to kill someone just for the killin’.”

“Please, no.” Abigail glanced at Brock Alvord, but he was absorbed in a discussion with Tom Shadley. “Everyone would blame me for settin’ you off.”

“There won’t be anyone left to blame you for nothin’,” the Kid declared.

In her anxiety, Abigail clutched his arm. “You would kill women and children? I know you like to throw lead, but that’s despicable. How can you expect me to go on caring for a man who would do such a thing?”

“Then you do care!” The Kid clasped her to him and kissed her in a heated display of passion.

Abigail tried to pry loose, but the Kid swooped her onto his lap and nuzzled her ear. “What’s that scent you always wear? I swear, I couldn’t get it out of my nose the whole time I was away. Even when I was downwind of Big Ben after a meal of beans, all I’d smell was you.”

“I’m flattered.” Abigail stopped resisting, removed his wide-brimmed hat, and set it on the table. “But I still think you’re loco. It will never work. Not with the life you lead and the life I lead. We won’t get to see each other but for short spells.”

“Who says I aim to steal horses the rest of my life?” Kid Falon playfully ran a hand along her thigh. “And who says you’ll go on workin’ in saloons? As soon as we’re hitched, that’s all over. We’ll buy you a house, and you can cook and mend my clothes and do all the stuff other women do for their menfolk.”

“Oh, Kid.” Abigail chuckled. “I’m not the domestic type. Never have been, never will be.” She ran a finger through his fine hair. “I’ve always had a restless streak. It’s why I left home at fifteen and wound up workin’ at a St. Louis whorehouse—”

Kid Falon suddenly gripped her by the shoulders and shook her fiercely. “Don’t ever say that again. You ain’t no whore.”

“I’m not no preacher’s wife neither. Hell, Kid. You’re looking at me with blinders on. Don’t make me out to be more than I am. I’ve been around the racetrack enough times to curl your toes.”

The door opened, and in limped Sam Stowe. He was wearing his Union uniform and carrying a Spencer carbine. Two locals at a corner table saw him and blanched. “Hoodoos!” Sam cried and took another shuffling step. “Your days of thievin’ and murderin’ are over!”

Curly Means looked up from the game of solitaire he was playing and grinned. “Well, bless your Yankee soul! I could use some entertainment.”

Big Ben Brody lowered his whiskey bottle. “What rock did that snail crawl out from under?”

“Painted Rock, most likely,” Curly answered, and they laughed.

Not John Noonan. “If there’s anything I hate worse than a scum-suckin’ Yankee, I’ve yet to meet it.”

“Hoodoos!” Sam cried again, limping farther into the room. “I’m placin’ all of you under arrest!”

Tom Shadley looked fit to have a conniption. “Sam! What in God’s name do you think you’re doing? You don’t have the authority to arrest anyone. Take that rifle and get out of here before you bring trouble down on all our heads.”

Sam shook his. “I aim to lock these varmints in my root cellar and go for the army, and no one is stoppin’ me. Someone in this town has to show they have some sand.” He pointed the Spencer in the general direction of Big Ben Brody and John Noonan. “We’ll start with you two. Unbuckle your gunbelts and step away from that table.”

John Noonan swore. “This is plumb ridiculous. If you’re not careful, I’ll take that rifle from you and shove it up your ass.”

“I’d pay to see that!” Curly Means whooped and fished in his pocket. “Here you are! Ten dollars! But only if you do it with his pants on.”

Sam swiveled the Spencer toward the curly-mopped Hoodoo. “Quit your funnin’. None of you are takin’ this serious enough. I fought in the war. I killed my share. I’m not a man to be trifled with.”

“Oh, perish forbid,” Curly said and laughed louder than ever.

Brock Alvord turned from the bar. Pushing his hat back, he raised a half-full glass. “Listen, mister. We don’t want any trouble. Why don’t you lean that rifle against the wall and come have a drink with me?”

“All I want from you is your gunbelt.”

Tom Shadley came around the end of the counter. “Damn it, Sam. You’re being unreasonable. We told you not to do this.”

Sam Stowe trained the Spencer on him. “That’s far enough. I don’t trust you any more than I do these horse thieves. You’re nothin’ but a butt-peddler.”

“I am not!”

“Fart in my ear, why don’t you? How stupid do you reckon I am? You’ve been tail-tradin’ these two floozies to every man in Painted Rock except me. That’s what I get for lettin’ you folks settle here. There ain’t one of you with the morals of Old Scratch hisself.”

Kid Falon moved Abigail off his lap and stood. “I’ve listened to this coot long enough.”

Sam leveled the Spencer at him. “You’re the gunsman, ain’t you? The one who thinks he’s so slick. You with your silver-studded gunbelt and your hundred-dollar pistols and your whore on your—”

The Kid’s right hand was at his side one instant, holding a Colt the next. The revolver spat lead and smoke.

Sam Stowe was smashed against the wall, a ragged hole in his left shoulder. His finger involuntarily tightened on the Spencer’s trigger, and the rifle discharged.

Abigail Reece cried out, staggered, and gripped a chair to keep from falling. She stared at a scarlet smear spreading across her bosom and exclaimed, “I’ve been shot!”

“Abby!” Kid Falon swept her into his arms just as she collapsed. Her eyelids fluttered, and her full lips moved, but all that came out was a trickle of blood. “This can’t be happenin’!”

Susie Kline, Brock Alvord, and Curly Means rushed over. Susie grasped her friend’s hand and shook it. “Abby? Abby? Hang on! We’ll find someone to help!”

“Kid,” Abigail said, fixing her blue eyes on Falon. “For what it’s worth, I’d have said yes.” Then she gasped, stiffened, and died.

For a few moments, Kid Falon held her close. Then, his face as hard as granite, he gently laid her down. He drew his Colts with slow deliberation. With equal deliberation he advanced on Sam Stowe, who had slumped to the floor but was conscious. “And you called us murderers?”

Sam weakly raised a blood-drenched hand. “Didn’t mean—” he croaked.

“You son of a bitch.” The Kid sent a slug into Sam Stowe’s other shoulder. “You miserable rotten son of a bitch.” He shot Sam in the right leg, then the left. He shot Sam in both arms. He shot Sam in both knees. By then he was standing over the bullet-riddled veteran, and with the same slow deliberation, he placed the muzzles of his Colts against Sam Stowe’s eyes and squeezed both triggers.

The gunfire brought everyone in town. The men filed in, then stood back, aghast, as Kid Falon carried Abby to the bar and arranged her on her back with her hands cupped at her waist. “I should burn this whole place down!” he snarled. Instead, he drank himself into a stupor and the next morning had to be helped onto his horse by Brock Alvord.

Tom Shadley was at the hitch rail to see them off. “I hope you won’t hold last night against us, Mr. Alvord. Sam always was a contrary cuss.”

“See that the woman is buried. Have a headstone carved.” Brock flipped a gold piece to him. “We’d stick around for the funeral, but we have somewhere to be in a few days.” He gigged his horse, and all the Hoodoos but one trotted westward.

“The boss might be willin’ to forgive and forget, but I ain’t the type.” Kid Falon jabbed a finger at Shadley. “You’ll be seein’ me again, barkeep. You and the rest of these sheep. Count on it.”

Tom Shadley shivered.