Do or Die

Chapter Seventeen

Painted Rock

Kansas

Tom Shadley was sweeping the floor of the Lucky Star when he heard riders ride up to the hitch rail outside. He thought little of it. Spurs jangled, and the door was shoved wide. Shadley glanced up with a smile on his face. It froze there, just as he froze with his broom in midsweep. “Kid! We weren’t expecting you back so soon!”

“I bet you weren’t,” Kid Falon said. He grinned at Susie Kline, drew his right Colt, and shot Tom Shadley through the head.

It was so quick, so unexpected, the dove never screamed. One second Shadley was alive and well and humming to himself, the next he was a lifeless husk with a bullet hole smack between his wide-open eyes.

The Kid stalked to the bar. Two locals hastily backed toward the wall, each as pale as paper. Twirling the Colt into its holster, Kid Falon helped himself to the bottle they had been sharing.

Into the saloon filed the rest of the Hoodoos. Curly Means went to Shadley’s body, said, “I’d like some redeye, barkeep,” and laughed. Brock Alvord walked past it, frowning. Noonan didn’t waste a glance. Big Ben, though, hunkered and went through Shadley’s pockets. The money he found, along with a folding knife engraved with a scantily clad woman, he stuck into his own.

Kid Falon jabbed a finger at the locals. “Round up everyone who lives here. Every man, woman, and child. Any who give you sass, we’ll fetch ourselves. And tell them we won’t be nearly as nice about it.”

“And have everyone bring their dogs,” Curly Means added. “On a leash.”

The oldest man nodded vigorously. “Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” The pair bolted like jackrabbits fleeing ravening wolves.

“Look at ’em go!” The Kid chortled and moved around the bar. “Belly up, gents. The drinks are on me.” To Susie he said, “Get upstairs and stay there.” Then his gaze alighted on Brock Alvord. “What’s eatin’ you? You look as if someone shoved a rifle up your ass and was fixin’ to squeeze the trigger.”

“We’ve crossed a line we can never cross back over. From here on, everything has changed.” Brock indicated a bottle of whiskey, and the Kid gave it to him. “Stealin’ horses is one thing, treein’ a town is another. No one will want to do business with us after this.”

“Get that from your crystal ball, did you? Hell, Brock. You’re gettin’ to be as squeamish as an old woman. When folks hear about that coot with the rifle who shot Abby, they’ll understand.”

Curly reached across the bar to grab a bottle for himself. “It’s not as if we’re goin’ to kill the females and the brats.”

“Who says we’re not?” Kid Falon asked.

Brock bent his head so the Kid couldn’t see his face and went over to a table to join Noonan and Big Ben. Noonan was honing the bone-handled knife. Big Ben was amusing himself by biting into a gold coin he had found on Shadley. “I need to know where you boys stand.”

“I stand behind whoever is top dog,” Noonan said.

Big Ben quit chomping for a moment. “You’re about the smartest man I’ve ever met, Brock, and I’d follow you anywhere. But this town did the Kid and the rest of us wrong. They’ve got what’s comin’ to them.”

The first to arrive was Jack Taylor, the owner of the general store. He took one look at Shadley and recoiled in stark terror. “Poor Tom!” Wringing his hands, he looked at Brock Alvord. “Why would you allow such a thing? We’ve always done right by the Hoodoos, haven’t we?”

Kid Falon pounded the bar and snapped, “Talk to me, not him! I’m the one who lost the gal he loved.”

Beads of sweat broke out on Taylor. “But we buried her decent, just like you wanted. Over by the creek where it’s shady. And Floyd carved the nicest headstone you’d ever want to see.”

“Did he carve one for the varmint who shot her?”

“Sure. But nowhere near as fine.” Jack Taylor smiled. And died. A slug from the Kid’s Colt cored his left eye and burst through the rear of his cranium. Taylor tottered like he was adrift on a wave-tossed raft, then collapsed in a heap.

Brock Alvord downed a third of his bottle in twice as many swallows. He looked at Noonan and Big Ben, but neither met his gaze. “All my effort, all my plannin’, all for nothin’.”

Again the door swung open, framing the muscular bulk of Floyd Havershaw, Painted Rock’s founding father. His shirt was off, and his hairy chest was slick with sweat. Clutched in his ham-sized right hand was his blacksmith hammer. “What’s all the shooting about?” He stopped as if he had run into a wall, and his arms slumped to his sides. “Lord Almighty, no!”

The Kid hopped up onto the bar and swung his legs over the front. “Been workin’ hard, have you, blacksmith?” He still held the smoking Colt. “Poun din’ your anvil so loud you didn’t hear us ride up?”

“You murdered them! My two best friends!”

“I’d give you the same, but I hear Abby would be proud of her headstone.” Kid Falon flipped his Colt into the air, caught it with a deft flick of his arm, spun the pistol forward, spun the pistol backward, border-shifted, border-shifted a second time, cocked the hammer, and shot Havershaw in the left knee.

Floyd cried out as he fell, his heavy hammer thumping beside him. A thin red geyser misted the floor until he clamped a hand over the hole.

Kid Falon slid off the bar and methodically commenced reloading. “You’ll limp the rest of your life, but it’s more than Abby can do, so count your blessin’s.”

“Bastard!” Floyd was red in the face, his veins bulging, his big arms twitching in a paroxysm of rage. “Put those guns down, you scalawag, and fight me man to man! I’ll break you in half!”

“Some folks don’t have enough brains to grease a skillet.” Kid Falon shot him in the other knee.

A howl was torn from Floyd Havershaw’s throat. Doubling over, he sputtered and shook, the lower half of each pant leg stained crimson.

Voices arose outside, among them that of the old man who had gone to do the Kid’s bidding. “We’re all here, mister! Is it safe for us to come in?”

“It’s a hell of a lot safer than if you don’t!” Kid Falon rejoined. “Hurry it up! I’m about to lose my patience.”

In they came, fear on every face, their movements stiff and awkward, mothers clasping children, sisters and brothers clinging to one another, the men with their heads bowed and their hands up. Three of the women broke into tears. So did many of the children. A little girl ran to Havershaw and threw her arms around his shoulders, crying, “Pa! Oh Pa!”

“Ain’t this touchin’ as hell?” The Kid drew his other Colt.

Curly Means was in motion. “Hold on there, pard.” He walked in among the townspeople, taking leashes from those who had brought their dogs. A mongrel with a leather collar growled and refused to budge until Curly kicked it in the ribs. Yelping, it allowed him to drag it out with the others.

“What is he going to do with Fluffy?” a boy asked.

“Hush!” his mother scolded him.

Kid Falon strutted across the room, and they drew back in fright. “My pard is fixin’ to do what I should do to all of you, only I’m too kindhearted.” He scanned their pale faces and focused on the old man.

“Go over to the general store and bring me all the rope you can find.”

“Rope?”

“I didn’t say daises.” The Kid fired into the floor near the old man’s feet, and the man was out the door in a flash.

Mrs. Havershaw looked up from her stricken husband. “You’re a despicable human being, young man! Someone should have hung you long ago.”

“Any volunteers for the job?” Kid Falon asked, and when no one replied, he had them take hold of the blacksmith and marched them outside and across the dusty street to the cabin that had once belonged to Sam Stowe. “This should do us.”

Brock Alvord, Noonan, and Big Ben came out to see what the Kid was up to. Big Ben became more interested in Curly, who had tied three of the dogs to the hitch rail and was fashioning a noose from his rope for the fourth. “You aimin’ to do one right after the other?”

“And end my hemp social too soon?” Curly’s grin was sadistic. “One an hour should be about right.” He bent to slip the noose over the black dog’s neck but it whined and pulled away. A stern “Stay!” rooted it in place, and the deed was done. Taking the other end, he climbed onto his horse, looped the rope around his saddle horn, and laughed. “It’s moments like this that make life worthwhile.”

“You are one loco hombre,” Noonan said.

“And damn proud of it.” Yipping lustily, Curly applied his spurs and galloped down the street. In the blink of an eye, the rope went taut and the dog was brutally jerked off its feet and dragged. It yelped and tried to stand, but the horse was moving too fast.

From over by the cabin came a high-pitched scream. The boy who owned the dog had his hands to his cheeks, his eyes wide in horror. “No! Let Fluffy go!” He started to run to the dog, but his mother grabbed hold of him and wouldn’t let him go no matter how hard he struggled.

Kid Falon ordered the citizens of Painted Rock to form a ring around the cabin and stand with their backs to it. He made a slow circuit, his Colts covering them, his grin as sadistic as Curly’s had been.

“What in blazes is he up to?” Big Ben wondered.

“Whatever it is,” Noonan said, “I sure wouldn’t want to be one of those settlers.”

Brock Alvord didn’t comment, but his expression showed exactly how he felt.

A howl pierced the air. Curly had reached the end of the street and wheeled his mount. The rope whipped like a snake, snapping the black dog like a bobber at the end of a fishing line.

Big Ben chortled. “That Curly sure is comical.”

Out of the general store trudged the old man, laden with coils of rope. Hastening to the cabin, he deposited them at the Kid’s feet. “Here you go, Mr. Falon, sir.”

“What are you givin’ them to me for, you old coot?” The Kid motioned. “I want you to tie all the ropes together to make one long one.”

Curly galloped past the saloon, swinging his hat and hollering like a drunken cowboy. The dog still had some life left; its legs moved weakly.

The boy who owned it was bawling.

“Shut that brat up,” Kid Falon growled at the mother, “or I’ll give him something to really cry about.”

Big Ben leaned against a post. “My pa used to say that to me all the time. He took a switch to me once too often, and I had to break his back.”

“You killed your own pa?” Brock Alvord had not liked his own father much, but he had never stooped to that.

“What do you take me for? I left him a cripple so his switchin’ days were over. Then I lit out and haven’t been home since.” Big Ben sighed. “I paid a fella once to write my ma a letter. But either he didn’t know his letters like he claimed, or she never got it, because she never wrote me back.”

Curly, cackling merrily, was galloping toward the huge painted boulder. Fluffy had gone limp and was flopping and bouncing like a wind-tossed tumbleweed.

Noonan casually observed, “We should be glad it wasn’t a hog that bit him. He’d sure wear out a lot of horses.”

Over at the cabin, the old man was going from one person to the next, looping rope around their necks, wrists, and ankles.

Big Ben Brody scratched his temple. “What in hell is the Kid makin’ that old geezer do? I never saw the like in all my born days.”

“It’s an old Injun trick,” Noonan said. “Tyin’ folks out under the hot sun and bakin’ them alive.”

Brock Alvord pulled his hat brim low and strode toward the cabin. “Kid, I want a word with you.” He nodded at the terrified inhabitants. “This ain’t right. Shootin’ unarmed men was bad enough. Makin’ the women and children suffer is takin’ it too far.”

“Abby was a woman, wasn’t she?” Kid Falon retorted. “But she wasn’t good enough for the uppity females here. She told me how they looked down their noses at her and wouldn’t even give her the time of day.”

“And the children?” Brock stared at a weeping girl. “What’s your excuse for hog-tyin’ them?”

“Since when do any of us need excuses? I can’t help it if you’re softhearted. Go drown your conscience in drink and leave me be.”

Brock looked the Kid in the eyes. “I can’t let you do this.”

“The hell you say!” Kid Falon declared and shot him.

Justice Department Agent William Shores was dozing in the saddle when the old Shoshone made a comment that penetrated his lethargy.

“There be Painted Rock, Brother John.”

Shores willed his head to rise and blinked in the glare of the afternoon sun. He was fit enough to ride, but he still did not feel like his old self. The sickness had sapped too much vitality. He hoped that after a few days of rest, of sleeping in a bed and eating three nourishing meals daily, he would fully recover. “I hope to God I can find a room to rent.”

Red Fox rose a few inches off the paint. “Some thing strange, Brother John.”

“What?” To Shores, everything looked perfectly ordinary. The settlement had a single dusty street, a few houses, a store, a saloon, and a stable. And over near a huge boulder stood a cabin. A cabin with a lot of people ringing it, women and children and a few men, their backs to the four walls. “What the hell?”

“Bodies,” the Shoshone said, pointing with a gnarled finger.

Now it was Shores who rose in the stirrups. He saw a man on his back not far from the cabin. In the middle of the street lay a black dog, its head twisted at an unnatural angle. At a hitch rail in front of the saloon five horses were tied. So were three dogs.

Red Fox reined in. “This bad medicine.”

“Spare me your superstitious drivel.” Shores clucked to the claybank. “Follow me.” The situation merited immediate investigation. Some of the people at the cabin had seen him, but none acknowledged the hand he raised in greeting. He went to call out, then saw that someone had trussed them up like lambs for the slaughter. Bringing the claybank to a halt, he drew his Smith & Wesson.

“You were right. Something is very wrong here,” Shores said for the old warrior’s benefit and swung down.

One of the women tried to move her arms as if to warn him to get out of there. Another was shaking her head at him. A boy with a tear-streaked face was gazing at the dead dog.

Shores walked to the dead man. The victim had been shot twice high in the chest, and when he fell, his hat had come off. His features betrayed great surprise. Shores stared at the man’s close-cropped snow white hair and trimmed white beard and was reminded of the description he had been given of Brock Alvord. What a coincidence, he thought. The man even had blue eyes like Alvord.

Gruff voices from the saloon alerted Shores the killer must still be in Painted Rock. Crouching, he crept to the near corner, then along the wall to a window. It was raised halfway, and the dingy brown curtains had been tied back. Raising his right eye to the sill, he spotted a big bearded man at a table glumly regarding two others over by the bar. One had curly hair that spilled over his ears. The other was barely old enough to shave and wore pearl-handled Colts.

“—no call to do that, damn it!” the curly-mopped man was saying. “He was the boss of this outfit, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“I ain’t forgettin’ nothing. But you seem to be forgettin’ that didn’t give him the right to butt in like he done.” The younger man leaned his elbows on the counter. Besides, who says we need him anymore? We know all his contacts. We know where the relays are. Why can’t we carry on without him?”

“And who’s going to lead us? You?”

“Watch your tone with me, Curly Means.”

Shores stepped back. “Curly Means?” he whispered and happened to glance at the name of the saloon: The Lucky Star. A keg of black powder went off in his skull. At last he understood the significance of Mat-ta-vish’s drawings. He also realized he was alone. Red Fox had disappeared. Good riddance, he told himself. He didn’t need the old warrior’s help anyway. Darting to the corner, he cat-stepped toward the rear. There had to be a back door. He would get the drop on them. Better yet, he would shoot them while their backs were turned. He wasn’t taking chances with a gun-shark like Kid Falon.

One of his spurs jingled, and Shores stopped, appalled by his carelessness. He swiftly removed both and set them in the grass.

Shores didn’t give the outhouse a second glance. Cocking the Smith & Wesson, he gingerly tried the latch of the back door. Metal scraped on metal, but not loud enough to be heard from up front. Cracking the door open, he peered down a narrow hall. It was deserted. He stayed close to the wall, where there was less likelihood of a floorboard creaking, and he slunk past a small kitchen to the doorway to the saloon.

Big Ben Brody was still at the table. Curly Means had found a jar of pickled eggs and was filling his belly. Kid Falon had his back to Shores and was saying, “Why do we even need a leader? We should each have an equal say. And each get an equal share. I never did think it was right of Brock to take an extra ten percent for himself.”

Tingling with suppressed excitement, Shores took precise aim at the center of the Kid’s back. He curled his forefinger around the Smith & Wesson’s trigger and was heartbeats from ending the Kid’s blood-drenched career when a hard object gouged him behind his left ear and a voice laced with a Southern accent warned, “I wouldn’t do that, mister. Not unless you’re partial to havin’ your head blown off.”

A hand came from behind and relieved Shores of his revolver.

Shores remembered the outhouse and wanted to beat his head against the jamb. Instead, he elevated his arms. “John Noonan, I presume?”

“None other.” Noonan shoved him into the saloon. “Lookee what I found, boys. This polecat was fixin’ to backshoot the Kid.”

Kid Falon spun and glowered. “Another pack rat comes out of its hidey-hole. I know just what to do with him.”

“Wait.” Curly Means was about to pop an entire egg in his mouth, but he dropped it back in the jar. Looking Shores up and down, he said, “This swivel dude ain’t no local. He’s store-bought from bottom to top.”

“That he is,” the Kid thoughtfully agreed and filled his left hand with a Colt. “Who the hell are you, four-flusher? And why would you want me toes down? I never set eyes on you before.”

Shores desperately tried to think of a lie they would believe, but his mind had gone as blank as a newly cleaned blackboard.

“Catamount got your tongue?” Noonan holstered his pistol and poked his hands into each of Shores’s pockets. “What does this say?” he asked, handing Shores’s identification to Curly.

Big Ben Brody rose and lumbered over. “Want me to break a few of his bones to loosen his tongue?”

“No need.” Curly grinned like a bobcat that had caught a chipmunk to play with. “What we have here is Mr. William E. Shores from the United States Department of Justice.”

“Never heard of him or it,” Kid Falon said.

“He’s some sort of federal John Law,” Curly explained. “Hails all the way from Washington, D.C. Looks like Brock was right. Gunnin’ down those soldiers made people sit up and take notice.”

“To hell with Brock, and to hell with this federal.” The Kid gripped Shores by the front of the shirt and hauled him toward the front door. “Mighty stupid, if you ask me, to come all this way to dig your own grave.”

Shores was tempted to grab for the Kid’s Colt, but he knew he would be dead before he touched it. The other Hoodoos were tagging along, and to them he said, “You owe it to yourselves to hear me out.”

“Did I say you could talk, four-flusher?” Kid Falon demanded and swung his left arm out and down.

Shores ducked, but he was much too slow. Excruciating pain nearly blacked him out. His knees buckled, but Big Ben Brody’s huge arms encircled him, and he was hefted like a sack of potatoes out into the street and dumped onto his hands and knees.

John Noonan said, “Any last words?”

Blood dripping down his face, Shores felt the muzzle of the Kid’s Colt pressed to his forehead. He braced for the blast and the black veil of oblivion but was granted a momentary reprieve.

“Hold on, Kid,” Curly Means urged. “I’ve got me a better idea.”

The people at the cabin were watching aghast, as if they knew what was to come. Shores searched for some sign of Red Fox but couldn’t find him. For all the old Indian’s talk about how he wanted revenge for his brother, when push came to shove, Red Fox had turned tail. Shores didn’t blame him though. The Shoshone had shown more common sense than he had.

Hooves drummed. Curly Means rode up, uncurling a rope as he came. “I’ve always wanted to do this with a human being.”

Shores wondered what the Hoodoo was up to, then noticed the black dog a few feet away. Its eyes bulged, and its tongue lolled limp in the dirt. The cause of death was self-evident: the middle of its neck bore the inch-deep imprint of a rope. “No!” Shores glanced at Curly Means just as a noose settled over his head. He reached up to tear it off, but Curly had already applied his spurs.

The ground rushed up to meet Shores’s face, and he was dragged down the center of the street. Dust swirled into his mouth, his nose, his eyes. Frantic, he clawed at the rope. Waves of pain washed through him. He couldn’t breathe. He could hardly see. Somehow he got his knees under him, but he was wrenched flat again. His lungs ached abominably, to the point where he thought they would explode.

Dimly, Shores realized Curly Means had turned and was galloping back the way they had come. He thought his neck would snap when his body suddenly whipped around.

The other Hoodoos were hollering encouragement.

Shores was ebbing fast. He had not had much energy to begin with, and the lack of breath was more than his body could endure. Again he heard Curly change direction. This time his neck would break; there was no escaping it. Thankfully, his consciousness faded, and his last thought before he pitched into the abyss was that this was a damn stupid way to die.