Do or Die

Chapter Thirteen

Northeastern Colorado

Charley Pickett wouldn’t care if it took forever to find the Hoodoos. Over two weeks in Melissa Patterson’s company had increased his feelings for her to the point where he never wanted the search to end. During the day, he rode by her side as much as possible. At night, they stayed up late, staring at the stars and talking.

Tony left them pretty much to themselves. He had grown unusually quiet. When Charley asked why, Tony blamed it on the heat and the flies. Charley had a hunch there was more involved, but he did not badger Tony about it.

Charley was more concerned about Enos Howard. The buffalo hunter had fallen into a sulk. He wouldn’t speak unless spoken to, and he guzzled whiskey from the moment he woke up until the moment he passed out at night.

“What the dickens is the matter with you?” Charley had asked the evening before. “Why are you actin’ like you sat on a corncob?”

“You have eyes, pup, but you don’t see. You have ears, but they’re stuffed with wax.” Enos wet his throat, lowered the bottle, and sighed. “My big plan has unraveled. I’m not the man I used to be.”

“So you can’t shoot the moon’s eyes out. Your life isn’t over.”

“It might as well be,” Enos said forlornly. “My eyes should have cleared up by now, but they haven’t. I’m good out to about a hundred yards, but any farther than that and I couldn’t hit the ass end of a buff if my life depended on it.” He swilled more rotgut. “If it ain’t chickens, it’s feathers.”

“We change our plan,” Charley proposed. “Instead of you pickin’ the Hoodoos off from a mile away, we’ll sneak in close.”

Enos arched an eyebrow. “Get in close to Kid Falon? To hombres like Brock Alvord and Curly Means? Land o’ Goshen, boy, they’d splatter your brains without half tryin’.”

“Not if we take them by surprise. And that’s where you come in. You can see well enough to track. Once we find them, we wait until they least expect any trouble. With a little luck, we can take them without havin’ to fire a shot.”

“Did your ma drop you on your noggin when she was liftin’ you out of your crib? No one has ever taken the Hoodoos by surprise, and no one ever will. They ain’t like ordinary men. They sleep with one eye open. The smallest noise will bring ’em out from under their blankets with their six-guns blazin’.”

“Are you sayin’ it’s impossible?”

“I’m sayin’ if a toad had wings, it wouldn’t bump its butt when it hopped. I’m sayin’ if we had a lick of sense, we’d turn these nags around and light a shuck for Denver while we still can.” Enos held out the bottle, but Charley shook his head. “I don’t much mind committin’ suicide. With my eyes gone, I’m a waste of hide. But what about Missy? She’s young. She’s pretty. She has her whole blamed life ahead of her. It ain’t right to lead her into the valley of the shadow.”

“She made the same choice we did,” Charley said defensively.

“Choice, hell. She’s blinded by the money. The three of you think it’s the answer to your prayers, but all it will buy you is maggots eatin’ your innards. I’m sorry I ever agreed to this egg hunt. Now I’ll have your deaths on my conscience as well as my own.”

“We’re not going to die.”

“Mighty big words for someone who ain’t ever kilt a person. It’s not the same as squashin’ a bug. It sticks in your craw and festers and sores until some nights you wake up screamin’. One of those Blackfeet I shot wasn’t much older than you, and once a month, like clockwork, I see his shocked face and how he reached out to an older Injun who must have been his pa.”

“I thought you hated Indians.”

“What on earth for? The only ones I’m not fond of are the ones who try to lift my hair.” Enos gazed into the distance, but he wasn’t seeing the prairie. “I had me a Crow wife once, but she couldn’t stand my bellyachin’ and went back to her people. I’d take her for my wife again in a split-second if she’d have me, but by now she’s probably got a Crow husband and a passel of younguns more than half-growed.” He shook himself and glanced at Charley. “We’re tiltin’ at windmills, boy. Take my advice. Turn around before it’s too late.”

“Why don’t we put it to a vote?”

“The four of us are a democracy now, is that it?” the buffalo runner had said. “Hell, if that’s the case, let’s squat on this land and claim it as our own country.”

Charley grinned at the recollection and drifted back to ride alongside Melissa. It was her turn to lead the pack horses. “How are you holdin’ up?” At least once a day he asked her that to show how considerate he was.

“This is the happiest I’ve been since the deaths of my parents, and I owe it all to you.”

“Shucks. I haven’t done anything special.” Charley tried not to blush, but it was hopeless.

“This hunt was your idea, so you deserve the credit.” Melissa’s smile was honey and wine mixed. “You’re quite a man, Charley Pickett, and I hope you don’t mind my saying so.”

Charley swore he was going to float right up out of his saddle, he felt so light-headed. She had never complimented him so straightforwardly before, and he couldn’t think of anything better to say than “Thanks.”

Melissa wasn’t done. “One day you’ll make some woman awful happy. Call me a hussy, but I’ll wish it were me.”

Charley’s brain about shut down from shock. She couldn’t be hinting what he thought she was hinting. They hadn’t as much as kissed yet. Several times he had been tempted to plant one on her cheek, but his courage always deserted him. She was looking at him, her eyes wide, as if waiting, but his tongue had turned to lead. He was almost glad when Enos hollered back to them.

“We’ll rein up and rest in those cottonwoods yonder!”

Where there were cottonwoods there was often water, although in this instance they found none. Enos explained it was below ground, and if they dug far enough, they would strike it. But since their waterskins were nearly full, they forewent the effort.

Leaving Enos to nurse a bottle, Charley led Melissa and Tony off about fifty yards. He had collected a few dead limbs, and, breaking them into six-inch lengths, he jammed the pieces into the ground as targets.

“That should do us.” Backing off twenty paces, Charley drew his revolver, aimed carefully, and fired. The stick he had selected burst in half.

“Well done!” Melissa exclaimed, clapping. “You’re getting better and better every day.”

Pride gushed through Charley like hot water from a geyser. “I want to be able to do my part when the time comes.”

Tony was shaking his head and frowning. “Who are we trying to kid, mi amico? Kid Falon could put six bullets into you in the time it took you to shoot once. And I am worse than you.” To demonstrate, he leveled his revolver and fired. The shot kicked up dirt half a foot from the sticks. “See? I am horrible at this. I much prefer my stiletto.”

“My turn,” Melissa said. Her pistol gleamed in the sunlight like a jewel. Spreading her legs wide, she extended both arms and took aim. As always when she was intensely concentrating, the tip of her tongue poked from between her lips. She fired twice. At each blast, a stick dissolved.

Charley whooped and leaped into the air. “Did you see her, Tony? She could be a sharpshooter, this girl!”

“She did well,” Tony conceded. “Just not well enough. Not when our lives are at stake if we lose against the Hoodoos.” He looked at them. “And we will lose.”

Melissa asked, “Why must you always look at the bleak side of things?”

Tony corrected her. “I look at things as they are. Not as I or you or anyone else might wish them to be. In Naples, the city where I was born and raised, there are men much like these Hoodoos. They are called the Camorra. They rob and kill as they please and there is little the polizia or anyone else can do. No one opposes them because to do so is to ask for your last rites.”

“You can’t hardly compare them to the Hoodoos,” Charley commented.

“On the contrary, I can. Oh, the Camorra do not ride horses, and they use shotguns and stilettos instead of rifles and revolvers, but they are just as deadly. Everyone rightly fears them. They go where they please, do what they please. They have no conscience; they show no mercy. A list of those they have killed would be longer than my leg.”

“You carry a stiletto,” Melissa said.

Charley didn’t get what that had to do with anything. His friend wasn’t a cold-hearted killer. “I’m wearing a pistol, but that doesn’t make me an outlaw.”

Tony was staring at Melissa. “You think you know everything. But you are only partly right. Those who join the Camorra must swear a blood oath. An oath that binds them to the Camorra from that day on. They must never betray it, or they forfeit their lives. Nor are they permitted to leave the Camorra if they grow tired of the bloodshed. To protect itself, to keep its secrets, the Camorra assassinates anyone who tries.”

“Why would anyone want to join an outfit like that?” Charley wondered.

“It is a blood bond passed from father to son. A bond that must never be broken, or it brings shame on the heads of the entire family.”

Melissa was giving Tony a strange look. “So it’s impossible to quit once you’re in?”

“Those who want to leave have one choice. To flee the country. To travel as far and as fast as they can and pray the Camorra never learns where they are.” Tony gazed at the surrounding plain. “Even this is not far enough.”

Charley aimed at a stick. “Let’s keep practicing. We need to be ready when we find the Hoodoos.”

Tony muttered something, then said louder, “Has anything I have said sunk in? We can practice for a century and still not be ready. As Americans are so fond of saying, we are digging our own grave.”

Melissa tilted her head. “If you feel that way, why have you stayed with us this far?”

Tony nodded at Charley. “He is my friend.”

“That’s all?”

“What more is needed? In Italy, loyalty to one’s friends is almost as sacred as loyalty to one’s family. Charley stuck with me when my life was in danger. I can do no less for him.”

“Commendable,” Melissa said. “There is more to you than you’ve let on.”

“There is more to everyone,” Tony said. “And never enough space on a headstone for all of it.”

Nebraska Territory

Things had been going so well.

William Shores was confident it would not be long before he had the Hoodoos in his gun sights. The old Shoshone was holding to a pace that would wear out most people and came close to wearing out Shores. They were in the saddle from first light until the last glimmer of twilight. Breakfast consisted of jerky for Shores and a few dried roots for Red Fox. They never stopped at midday. Supper was usually rabbit stew, the rabbit courtesy of Red Fox.

The old warrior had a sense of urgency about him. He was eager to catch those who had slain his brother.

Shores didn’t mind. He was equally eager to finish up and go back to his old life. He missed it even more when along about the fourteenth day he made the mistake of spreading his blankets over a hole in the ground that was home to a legion of resentful ants. He woke up the next morning covered with them and with so many bites it looked like he had the measles. The bites itched fiercely. He couldn’t stop scratching until Red Fox prepared an ointment from a packet of herbs the warrior carried in a small leather pouch.

That very night a thunderstorm lashed the prairie for hours. The rain came down in sheets, and it wasn’t long before Shores was soaked to the skin. The next morning Red Fox broke the bad news.

“Rain wash away sign, Brother John.”

“We can’t just give up,” Shores snapped. He had tried to start a fire, but everything was too wet, and now he was huddled under a dripping blanket, his body cold as ice, his temper red hot. “Search around while I change into my other clothes.”

Grunting, Red Fox climbed on the paint and rode off. He did not seem the least bit fazed by the wet and the chill.

Stuffed into Shores’s saddlebags was the suit he had worn when he arrived in Cheyenne. As soon as Red Fox was out of sight, Shores pulled out the shirt, jacket, and pants, and his extra socks, and slipped into them. They were wonderfully dry, but he was still ice-cold, so he stood and paced, swinging his arms to increase the circulation.

It did no good. Shores’s teeth started chattering, and he couldn’t make them stop. The feeling of being cold alternated with hot flashes where it felt as if his skin were coated with burning kerosene. He was coming down with something, but he would not let a little sickness stop him.

Red Fox was gone over an hour. His expression was eloquent testimony to the success of his search. “I sorry, Brother John. No can follow bad whites.”

“We’ll keep heading southwest,” Shores proposed. “Sooner or later we’ll strike their trail again.” He was glad to get under way. He thought it would warm him, but by the middle of the morning he was no better. Quite the contrary. The hot spells were more frequent and lasted longer, and he constantly perspired.

By noon, Shores could barely sit in the saddle. He was as weak as a newborn kitten, and his mouth felt filled with cotton. His chin kept drooping, and he could not keep his eyes open.

Shores was suddenly conscious that the claybank had halted. He looked up, his vision swimming. The paint was beside the claybank. Red Fox placed a palm on his forehead.

“Brother John sick. Need rest. I make tea.”

“Forget it. We’ll stop when we usually do. The tea can wait.” Shores flicked his reins. The sea of grass around them rose and fell like the waves on the surface of an ocean. It had a nauseating effect. Bile rose in his throat, but he swallowed it down and moved on, holding his head high to show the Shoshone he was tougher than the old Indian thought. The prairie stopped heaving, and the dizziness lessened, and for a few minutes all went well.

Then Shores bent his neck to squint up at the sun. Something about the simple movement caused his head to spike with throbbing pain and his body to blaze as hot as the fiery orb he was looking at. The ground and the sky switched places.

Shores did not realize he had passed out until he opened his eyes. He was on his back, covered by one of his blankets, and his head rested on his saddle. “What—?” he murmured, his tongue as thick as a railroad tie. He was caked with sweat and could not stop shivering.

A shadow fell across him. Red Fox squatted. “Tea ready soon. Brother John rest. We stay until better.”

“Like hell. We’re wasting time.” Shores tried to rise, but he couldn’t make it onto his elbows, let alone stand. Groaning, he sank back and cursed. But even that took too much out of him, so he subsided and grumbled, “What is wrong with me anyhow?”

“Maybe ant bites. Maybe rain. Maybe both.” Red Fox turned to a small fire. On a flat rock beside it was Shores’s coffeepot. He lifted the lid, peered inside, and stirred whatever he was concocting with one of Shores’s wooden spoons.

“Been helping yourself, I see?” Shores was grateful for the old man’s help, but he resented the Indian being so free with his belongings. It occurred to him how ridiculously easy it would be for the Shoshone to stab him between the ribs and make off with the claybank and everything else. He slid his right hand up under his left arm to his Smith & Wesson. No matter how sick he became, he mustn’t relax his guard.

Shores closed his eyes, and when he opened them again the sky had darkened. He thought another thunderstorm was on top of them, but when he twisted his head to the west he saw that the sun had vanished from the sky. He had been out for hours. He also discovered they were in a hollow or basin of some kind.

Red Fox was squatting on his haunches by the fire, his thin arms folded across his spindly knees. The coffeepot had been slid back from the fire but was near enough to keep the contents warm. “Brother John, bear in winter, sleep same,” he said and smiled.

Shores didn’t find it at all humorous. They were squandering hours better spent in pursuit of the Hoodoos. Worse, it was his own body that had betrayed him. Him! Who had never been ill a day in his life!

The Shoshone was filling Shores’s tin coffee cup. He sniffed a few times, nodded in satisfaction, and slowly tilted the cup to Shores’s mouth. “Sip slow,” he cautioned.

Shores was unprepared for the harshly bitter taste. He coughed, and most of his mouthful dribbled down his chin.

“Again,” Red Fox said. “Sip slow but swallow quick.”

Once Shores got some down, the rest wasn’t so bad. He noticed no difference in his condition. Indeed, as the evening waned, he grew progressively worse. His fever climbed, his head throbbed, and every muscle in his body ached. The simple act of taking a breath became painful.

Shores drifted in and out of consciousness. Every time he glanced up, Red Fox was by the fire, watching him. Waiting for me to die, Shores suspected. But if that were the case, why was the old Indian going to so much trouble to help him. Or was he? Shores had a terrifying thought: What if the tea was poison instead of medicine?

Shores told himself he was being childish. There was no reason for Red Fox to kill him. But how much did he really know about the old man? Other than that Red Fox was Shoshone and the Hoodoos had murdered his brother? Supposedly murdered him, since it was entirely possible Red Fox had made the whole thing up. Maybe, just maybe, Red Fox was in league with the Hoodoos. Maybe, just maybe, the Hoodoos had learned he was after them and had sent Red Fox to do him in.

Beads of sweat trickled into Shores’s eyes, making them sting. He blinked to clear them, but that only made it worse. A hand brushed his forehead, and he nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Brother John burn up,” Red Fox said.

“Stop touching me,” Shores croaked. He tried to draw the Smith & Wesson, but he was too weak even for that. Helplessness ate at him like an acid. Regret ate at him too. Regret he had given up his comfortable job with the Pinkertons to take the position at the Department of Justice. Why couldn’t I be content with what I had? Ambition and restlessness were to blame for his plight.

Dimly, through his feverish haze, part of Shores realized he wasn’t thinking lucidly. It was normal for a person to want to better themselves. He shouldn’t fault himself for desiring to make something of himself. But the thought of dying here in the middle of the godforsaken wilderness was as bitter to swallow as the Indian’s tea. His parents, his friends, would never know his fate. He would lie in a shallow unmarked grave, provided the Shoshone bothered to bury him, or become a feast for scavengers. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair.

“More tea, Brother John.” Red Fox had refilled the tin cup. “Drink all. Then sleep more.”

“I’m tired of sleeping,” Shores griped, but that was exactly what he did. When next he woke up, it was the middle of the night, and he was worse than ever. His teeth were chattering again, so fiercely his jaw muscles hurt. His clothes were drenched, and it still felt as if he were being burned alive. The crackling of the fire drew his gaze to its dancing flames and to the hunkered form beside it. “Don’t you ever sleep?”

“You bad sick, Brother John. Must watch.” Red Fox filled the cup again. With water this time, not tea.

Shores’s throat was parched. He gulped it down and asked for a second and then a third cup. He wanted more, but the warrior advised against it.

“Too much and belly hurt.”

“It’s my belly,” Shores said but let it go. The old man had a point. He attempted to roll onto his side, but his body refused. The blood in his veins was molasses. He barely had the energy to pull the blanket up to his chin. He shut his eyes, and the very next heartbeat he was out to the world.

A hazy series of vague impressions filtered through Shores’s consciousness: of drinking more tea, of having his brow mopped by Red Fox, of drinking water, of the sun and the stars taking repeated turns above him. Whenever he opened his eyes, he had the impression an age has passed since the last time.

The sun was blazing when Shores struggled up from the bottomless depths of a black well into the bright light of a new afternoon. His mouth was as dry as a desert, but the fever was gone, and he wasn’t sweating as much. “Water,” he rasped, but nothing happened. He looked toward the fire, which had gone out, and saw no trace of his companion. “Red Fox?”

There was no answer. Alarmed, Shores raised his head high enough to scan the basin. The only horse in sight was his claybank. “Oh God.” Shores fought down panic and found the strength to prop himself on his elbows. The Shoshone was gone. The old man had deserted him!

Shores looked around. His Winchester was missing from its saddle scabbard. His rope was missing too. Red Fox had left the coffeepot, but his canteen was conspicuously absent.

Easing onto his side, Shores crawled to the coffeepot. One shake was enough to show it was empty. “Damn that scrawny red devil to hell!” Mad enough to chew nails, he threw the coffeepot down and wished he hadn’t when waves of vertigo resulted. He collapsed, his stomach in upheaval. In his current condition, he wouldn’t last long. He needed water, and he needed food . . . and a lot of both.

Hooves clomped to the north. Fearing he had been found by hostiles, Shores fumbled at his Smith & Wesson. He wrapped his fingers around the grips just as a rider appeared. Astonishment transfixed him like a lance. “Red Fox! You came back!”

The old Shoshone was holding the Winchester. Slung over his left shoulder was the canteen. Behind him, tied to the paint with Shores’s rope, was a white-tailed buck. “Brother John need meat.”

Shores removed his hand from his revolver and slowly sat up with his back against his saddle. He felt like a complete jackass. “I was worried there for a bit,” he admitted.

“I be fine,” Red Fox misconstrued. Hopping down, he untied the buck and let it plop to the ground. He drew his tomahawk, bent over, and set to work.

Shores absently scratched his chin. The amount of stubble puzzled him, and he asked, “How long was I out?” He figured two days, three at the most.

Red Fox let go of the tomahawk to hold up all his fingers and thumbs.

“My God.” Shores was flabbergasted. At the rate they were going, it would take a year to find the Hoodoos.