Do or Die

Chapter Sixteen

Nebraska Territory

The swaying motion lulled Federal Agent William Shores into dozing off, as it had so many times. The sun was an hour higher in the sky when a slight jolt awakened him. He raised his head and beheld grass, grass, and more grass for as far as the eye could see. Shores was sick to death of it. Just as he was sick to death of being treated like an invalid. His fever was long gone, and he had regained much of his strength, but Red Fox insisted he was not yet recovered enough to ride. “What do you call this thing again?”

“Travois, Brother John. Many tribes use.”

Shores had to admit it was a great idea. The old Shoshone had chopped down a few saplings and fashioned them into a crude but serviceable platform. He had then lashed the two long poles on either side of the paint, climbed back on, and off they went. The claybank plodded along behind them, linked by a rope to the travois.

They had been traveling steadily south for days, making for the nearest settlement. Once there, Shores hoped to learn the latest news about the Hoodoos. “How much longer before we get to this place you mentioned?”

“Five, six sleeps, maybe more,” Red Fox answered. “Prairie big, Brother John. Your patience small.”

Shores was impatient all right. He was impatient to get back on his feet. He was impatient to find the Hoodoos and wrap his assignment up. He was impatient to part company with the old man. Most of all, he was impatient with the West and everything in it: the grass, the dust, the bugs, the sun, the sweaty smell of the horses, the worse smell when they used their hind ends for what hind ends were made for.

With nothing better to do, Shores twisted to his left. His saddlebags were on the travois beside him. Opening one, he rummaged inside for the drawings he had made of the symbols Mat-ta-vish had drawn in the dirt. He had not looked at them since he showed them to O. T. Quarrel, and he had no idea why he had an urge to look at them now.

There were two. They did not contain much detail, but there was no doubt what they were. One was a buffalo. Its horns and hump and overall shape were unmistakable. The other reminded Shores of a jellyfish, but that couldn’t be. Mat-ta-vish had never been anywhere near an ocean. Mat-ta-vish’s sister believed it was a star. So the two drawings translated into “Buffalo Star.” Shores had asked her if the name held special significance, but she was as puzzled as he was.

Shores eased partway onto his side so he could face Red Fox. “Did your brother’s wife mention the drawings he spent the last few moments of his life making?”

“Drawings?” The old Shoshone glanced down.

“These.” Shores handed the paper up to him. “I think they’re a clue of some kind. An important clue. Is there a place your people call Buffalo Star? Or could it be the name of someone?”

“Not name,” the old warrior said, the lines in his seamed countenance doubling. “Not Buffalo Star.”

“What do they mean then?”

“One be white buffalo.”

“What’s the difference? Buffalo, white buffalo—it’s all the same, isn’t it?”

Red Fox spoke slowly. “White buffalo special. White buffalo rare. To Indian, much good medicine.”

“What about the star? What does that mean?”

“Star mean star.”

“So you’re saying it’s Good Medicine Star?” Which made even less sense to Shores than the other. Maybe he was wrong, and the drawings had nothing to do with the Hoodoos. Maybe they were symbols with special meaning for Mat-ta-vish and no one else. He mentioned as much.

“No. Drawings be about bad whites. So must think like whites.” Red Fox pursed his lips in contemplation. “To your people, white buffalo be good luck. Like rabbitfoot soldier at fort have.”

“Carrying a rabbit’s foot for luck is a silly superstition,” Shores said. “So is thinking an albino buffalo is special.”

The old warrior leaned down and handed the paper to him. “Much whites not know.”

“You’re smarter than us, is that it? Look at you. Running around half naked. Using a bow and arrow. And you live in a dwelling made of hides. What do you know about the world that we don’t? Have you read the Bible? Or Plato? Have you ever been to Europe? Africa? Asia? Hell, your people know next to nothing about life. And the sad thing is, they know so little, they don’t realize how little it really is.”

If Red Fox was offended, he didn’t show it. “Indians know all need to know. How to hunt. How to skin animals. How to make clothes. Before whites come, Indian happy. Go where we want, do what we want. Now must live on reservation. Must wear white clothes. Must send children to white school. Cannot count coup, cannot raid enemies. Indian unhappy.”

“Don’t blame me. I wasn’t a party to the treaties.” Shores stared at the drawings. “Good Luck Star?” he said aloud, as baffled as ever. He shoved the paper into his saddlebags and lay with one hand under his head. He couldn’t wait to reach the settlement. If they had a telegraph, he would send an update to the assistant director and request the latest information on his quarry. It was probably too much to hope for. Just as it was probably too much to expect them to have a decent hotel where he could treat himself to a hot bath and a night’s sleep in a soft bed.

What was the settlement called again? Shores had to think a bit before he recalled the name the Shoshone had told him.

Painted Rock.

Colorado-Nebraska Border

Eli Brandenberg was plucking a chicken out by the henhouse when four riders appeared to the southwest. His dog barked to warn him. Placing it in the storeroom, he took his rifle and a telescope and went back out. He looked through the telescope and saw a big buffalo hunter doing the same. The other man lowered his and grinned. “I’ll be damned,” Eli said.

Eli had a jug on the counter waiting when Enos Howard barreled into the soddy like he owned it and clapped Eli on the shoulder near hard enough to knock him down.

“Eli, you scoundrel! It does this coon good to see your ugly self again.” Enos introduced his companions and told them to take a seat. “How about grub all around? And a pot of that coffee of yours that can float a horseshoe.” Eno’s eyes narrowed and he lightly touched the muzzle of his Sharps to one of Eli’s many bruises. “What the hell happened to you? Did an ornery horse try to stomp you to death?”

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

“It’s your face,” Enos said with a shrug. He uncorked the jug, crooked his arm, and gulped. “Lawsy! You still make some of the best corn liquor this side of Beulah land.”

“I try,” Eli said, somewhat appeased. “Where have you been keepin’ yourself? It’s been a year, almost a year and a half, since I saw you last.” He gave the three young ones at the table a once-over. “And since when do you take up with tadpoles? Have you given up the buffs to tend babies?”

“Be nice. They’re green, but they have gumption. We’ve partnered up on a special hunt.”

“I haven’t seen any buffalo in a month of Sundays. Time was, I’d see four or five big herds a year, but you buffalo hunters are killin’ ’em off faster than the cows can drop calves.”

“It’s buffalo runners, Eli. You should know that. And my buff days are over. I’ve got me a whole new line of work.”

“But you just said you were on a hunt.”

“Not the kind of hunt you think.”

Charley Pickett called out, “These tadpoles would like to have some food and drink, if you don’t mind. The lady here is hungry.”

Enos grinned at Eli. “You have to excuse the pup. He’s in love.” He ambled to their table, swung a chair around, and straddled it. “Overheard us, did you?”

“Every word,” Charley said. “It’s hard not to when you’re always bellowing like a bull.”

“Folks have been sayin’ I talk too loud since I was knee-high to a prairie dog. But I’m not one of those who talks as quiet as they live.”

Melissa had taken a brush from her bag and was running it through her hair. “I’m not sure I follow you.”

“Life was meant to be lived, Missy. Not like a mouse in a cage. But like a griz, the lord of all creation. Bears are hardly ever quiet. They’re always gruntin’ and snortin’ and growlin’ and rumblin’ and livin’ life the fullest they know how. They don’t do anything in half-measures. It’s full to the brim for them, and that’s exactly how I like to live. Full to the brim.”

Tony removed his cap. “The strange thing is, I understand what you are saying. Even stranger, I agree.”

“You? You could have fooled me. Until a few days ago, you were as quiet as a lump of coal and just about as lively.”

“I have had a lot on my mind. More than you can possibly suspect.”

“That’s the trouble with younguns nowadays. You think too damn much. It bogs your brain down in thoughts when you should be usin’ it to live.”

Tony said, “No one would ever accuse you of bogging down your brain.”

“Exactly. I leave the piddlin’ stuff for those who like to fret. Me, I take each day as it comes. I grab it by the horns and wrestle it to the ground, and then I put my foot on its neck and whoop like a Crow.”

“I haven’t noticed you doing much whoopin’ except when you’re drunk,” Charley commented.

“Hell, boy, you’ve yet to see me when I really hit the liquor. All I’ve been doin’ is what you might call sociable drinkin’.”

“In that case,” Tony was grinning, “you are surely the most sociable person I have ever met.”

Enos laughed and declared, “Will wonders never cease! You do have a sense of humor! Keep this up, and pretty soon you might even learn how to have some fun.”

Eli arrived. He had put his grimy apron on and was carrying a scuffed wooden tray with four glasses and a pitcher of water. “What would you folks like?” He rattled off the list of the foods and drinks he had available.

“Oh, I would die for some eggs!” Melissa declared. “I saw your chickens when we rode up, and I was hoping you would have some. With a little of that pork sausage you mentioned.”

“I’ll have to double-check the sausage to be sure,” Eli told her. “It’s been hangin’ in the cellar a spell. It was salted proper, but sometimes the meat turns. I’ll nibble a piece to see if it’s spoiled.”

“Thank you. That’s most considerate.”

Eli nervously shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Women always made him uncomfortable. The way they moved, the way they thought things out, they were so different in everything they did. It was spooky. He never knew what to say around them or quite what to do. Once he had tried courting a girl, but it hadn’t worked out. They would sit for hours without saying a word. Just sit there on her father’s porch, staring off into space. Finally he stopped going over to visit and hadn’t felt the need for female companionship since.

“I’d like a slab of venison,” Charley began. “Three or four baked potatoes, a mountain of pork and beans, half a loaf of bread with butter, and a pot of coffee to wash it down.”

“Is that all?”

“Eggs sounds nice to me too,” Tony said. “With the yolks intact, if you please. And toast and jam.”

“Just bring me a jug,” Enos directed.

Melissa stopped brushing her hair and wagged the brush at him. “You should eat too. Treat yourself. Who knows how long it will be before we find the Hoodoos.”

Eli, in the act of turning, stopped. “What do you have to do with those miserable snakes, girl?”

Enos grinned. “That’s who we’re after. You’re lookin’ at four genuine manhunters. We’ve been scourin’ all over creation for those buzzards and were hopin’ maybe you had word of which territory they’ve been seen in lately.”

Eli stared at each of them and made a sound reminiscent of one of his chickens being strangled. “Are you addlepated? Why, Big Ben Brody alone could take the four of you with one hand and both legs hogtied, and he’s the least dangerous of the whole bunch.”

“You let us worry about that,” Charley said.

Shaking his head at the buffalo hunter, Eli commented, “I’d expect such foolishness from these three. They’re so wet behind the ears, they’re drip-pin’ sap. But you should know better, Enos. You’ve been bloodied, and you’ve blooded more than your share. You’ll only get these tadpoles killed.”

“This was their brainstorm, not mine. When they first told me, I laughed till my sides were fit to split. And I still think they’re loco. But I gave ’em my word, and I’m with ’em until the end.”

“It’s the bounty, isn’t it? All that money has you droolin’? Of all the simpleminded silliness, this takes the cake.”

Charley’s jaw twitched. “When we want your opinion, mister, we’ll ask for it. And don’t insult the lady again, or you’ll answer to me.”

Enos gestured. “Now, now. Let’s not snip. I’m sure Eli didn’t mean anything personal. He’s only being considerate. Right, Eli?”

Eli was thinking. He still ached from the beating he had taken, and two of his front teeth were so loose they might fall out any day now. He had never hated anyone as much as he hated the Hoodoos. Hate so potent that sometimes, when he thought about what they had done, his head swam and his temples pounded, and he couldn’t hardly see for the red haze in front of his eyes. He spent hours day-dreaming about paying them back. About staking them out over ant hills or sneaking up in the dead of night and slitting their throats. He wanted them dead, stone dead, Brock Alvord most of all. Brock was the one he had always liked and respected. And look at what the man had done.

“Got a bee in your ear?” Enos prompted.

Eli slid a chair from another table over to theirs and sat. “What if I could tell you how you can go about settin’ a trap for the Hoodoos? A trap they would never suspect? It could mean the difference between your livin’ and dyin’.”

The four manhunters looked at one another, then leaned toward him. Charley Pickett said, “We’re all ears, mister.”

“Not so fast, boy. There’s a condition. If I help, you take me with you. I want to be there when you tangle with them. And I want to be the one who blows out Brock Alvord’s wick.”

Enos tugged on his beard. “What’s gotten into you, Eli? As I recollect, you never were much for spillin’ blood.”

“I have my reasons.”

“I suppose you also want a share of the bounty?” Enos said. “Seems to me, you callin’ us simpleminded is like the pot callin’ the kettle black.”

“The reward is all yours.”

Again the four manhunters looked at one another. Tony Fabrizio remarked, “I have never met a man who has no interest in money. Why else would you want to go along?”

“Ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no lies.”

Enos was frowning. “You worry me, Eli. It’s too much to ask you to explain, is it?”

Eli couldn’t if he wanted. The words would choke off in his throat. His humiliation ran bone deep. So did his craving for revenge. “Do you want to hear about me or the Hoodoos?” He did not wait for an answer. “I happen to know Kid Falon has taken a shine to a certain saloon gal and pays her a visit every chance he gets. I know where the saloon is. I know the name of the saloon. And wherever you find him, the rest of those bastards are bound to be.”

Enos was quick to see the possibilities. “We could lie in wait for ’em and pick ’em off like buffs from a blind.”

Eli nodded. “Five of us and five of them. We each choose one and blast away. All I ask is that Brock Alvord is mine. Do we have a deal?”

“And there is nothing you want in exchange?” Tony asked. “Nothing at all?”

Eli remembered a trading post he had stopped at on his trek west. The owner kept the pickled hand of a hostile who once tried to scalp him in a jar and displayed it for all to see. “I’d like Brock Alvord’s ears.”

“What in the world for?” asked Melissa.

Enos dismissed her question with a wave. “Who cares so long as he helps us find the Hoodoos?” He extended his hand. “We have a deal, Brandenberg. And you know me. I’m as good as my word.” He leaned toward Eli. “So tell me. Where is this saloon at?”

“Painted Rock.”

Northeast Colorado Territory

Ubel Gunther was not one to complain, but he had reached the point where if he never rode another horse for as long as he lived, it would be too soon to suit him. His lower back ached constantly, and his right foot was sore from where one of the pack animals had stepped on it when he was stripping the packs off.

Ubel’s associates were in worse shape than he was. Hans, Oscar, Rutger, and Arne were not used to riding for weeks on end. All four were as stiff-legged as brooms at the end of each day and could not sit down without wincing. Oscar was the worst. He needed to place a folded blanket between his buttocks and his saddle or he could not ride at all, and at night he had to lie on his side because sitting up straight was torment.

Most frontiersmen would have been amused at their expense, but Trask merely offered to make an Indian potion that would soothe their sore muscles. Ubel politely declined. To him, using the potion would be a sign of weakness, evidence he and the others were not tough enough to endure petty discomforts. Then, too, he did not trust anything “In dian.” That included the tracker.

Trask was not a typical breed. The ones Ubel had encountered at Radtke’s boarding houses and gambling dens were temperamental, explosive men who turned violent at the drop of an insult. Men who looked down their noses at everyone because everyone looked down their noses at them.

Not Trask. He was always as calm as the prairie when no wind was blowing. His self-control was superb. It was impossible to gauge his feelings by his expression. The man would make a great poker player, but by his own admission he never gambled. He also hardly ever imbibed strong spirits, another atypical trait.

Ubel prided himself on his ability to read people with the same ease he read a newspaper, but Trask baffled him. The times he tried to engage Trask in conversation, the tracker was as laconic as a Spartan.

Now, under yet another burning midday sun, Ubel brought his mount up next to the half-blood’s piebald. “How far behind them would you say we are?”

Trask answered without taking his eyes off the plain ahead. “The same as the last time you asked. About two days, a little less.”

“Can’t we push on and overtake them sooner?”

“Sure. And tire out our horses. So if they catch wind of us, they’ll leave us eatin’ their dust. If you’re not happy with how I do my job, say so.”

“Have I complained once this whole time? Your skill is everything we were told it was.” Ubel was mystified by Trask’s uncanny ability to read sign where there did not appear to be any. Their fifth day out, an afternoon thunderstorm disgorged a torrent of heavy rain, erasing the hoofprints they had been following. Or so it seemed to Ubel’s untrained eye. But Trask pressed on, and the next morning they came on the charred embers of a campfire made by Fabrizio’s party. Ubel never doubted the breed’s ability after that.

“They’ve been headin’ northeast for several days now. Makin’ for Eli’s, unless I miss my guess.”

“Where?”

“Not a ‘where’—a ‘who.’ Eli Brandenberg sells liquor and trade goods. He has the only waterin’ hole for hundreds of miles.”

“Is he a friend of yours?” Ubel entertained hopes of sleeping in a bed for a change. He would pay good money for the privilege.

“Hardly. He can’t stand Indians or breeds. I never buy supplies from him.” Trask rested his Spencer across his pommel. He always rode with the rifle in one hand, his reins in the other. “But he might know where Fabrizio is bound if you ask him real polite.”

“Leave that to me.” Ubel let a minute go by before he brought up what else was on his mind. “Have you given my offer more thought?”

“No need. My answer is still the same. I’m a tracker, not an assassin. I won’t take part in killin’. Told you that before we left Denver.” Trask looked at him. “I’ve been open and honest with you from the beginnin’, which is more than I can say about you. You fed me the notion we’re after a pack of city dwellers. But I know better. One is a buffalo runner.”

“A what?”

“A white who hunts buffalo. His buffalo coat leaves its imprint when he sleeps. So does the stock of his Sharps when he leans on it. All those empty bottles we found were his. He’s the one you must worry about.”

“I’ve met him,” Ubel revealed. “Enos Howard is his name. He’s a loudmouth drunk, nothing more. I did not think it was important enough to tell you, or I would have.”

“The name has a rep attached. That drunk can put a bullet through our skulls from a thousand yards away. Another reason we should be careful about how close we get.”

“All I care about, all my employer cares about, are Tony Fabrizio and his friend, Pickett. If the others don’t interfere, they can go their way in peace. If not, if this buffalo hunter tries to stop us, we will dispose of him. Sharps or no Sharps.”

“I admire a man with confidence,” Trask said. “You’ll need every ounce you have.”

Two days later they spied a sod structure in the distance. Ubel wanted to spread his men out and converge on foot, but Trask insisted on circling wide to search for sign. “Never go into a painter’s den without first seein’ if it’s inside,” was how he put it.

The tracker found hoofprints leading to the southeast. “It’s them. With someone else along. They lit out yesterday mornin’.” He was on one knee, running his fingers over the ground.

“If only we knew where they were heading,” Ubel mentioned.

Trask uncurled and stared off across the expanse of shimmering grass. “If they keep on as they are, there’s only one place they could be goin’. It’s a small settlement in the middle of nowhere called Painted Rock.”