Do or Die

Chapter One

Denver

Colorado Territory

Charley Pickett was about to pass the sorrel’s stall when it hiked its tail. Without thinking, Charley swung his broom and swatted it soundly on the rump. “Don’t you dare!” he hollered. “I’m sick to death of shovelin’ that stuff.”

The sorrel paid him no mind.

Charley was going to swat it again, but he heard someone near the front of the stable clear their throat. Fearing the worst, he slowly turned. “Mr. Leeds! I didn’t know you were back.”

“Obviously not.” Artemis Leeds was a broomstick of a man who always dressed in a starched suit and knee-high boots. One hand behind his back, the other tugging in irritation at his droopy mustache, Leeds frowned in disapproval. “Did my eyes deceive me, young man, or did you hit that horse for answering nature’s call?”

“I was just bein’ playful, sir. I didn’t really mean anything by it.”

Leeds came over, tore the broom from Charley’s grasp, and shook it at him. “How would you like it if I took this to your backside every time you lowered your britches?”

“I reckon I wouldn’t, sir.” Charley squirmed like a fish on a hook, afraid he was in for another of his employer’s long-winded lectures.

“Is it too much to ask, then, that you extend the same courtesy to the stock in our care? What if the gentleman who owns that sorrel had seen you instead of me? Why, he would be outraged. He would be well within his rights to thrash you within an inch of your life.”

“I’d like to see him try,” Charley blurted and inwardly cringed at his stupidity. The last thing he needed was to anger Leeds more.

“Just because you’re built like an ox doesn’t mean you can’t be whipped,” the stable owner noted and shook his head. “You’re much too cocky, boy. Mark my words. One of these days that mouth of yours will get you into more trouble than you can handle.”

“Yes, sir.” Charley hoped that agreeing would soothe Leeds’s ruffled feathers, but no such luck.

“I mean it. For someone who won’t see eighteen for another couple of months, you act like you’re God’s gift to creation. You seem to think shoveling horse manure for a living is beneath you.”

“I need the job, Mr. Leeds,” Charley assured him. Which was an understatement. The three dollars a week the skinflint paid was barely enough to keep from starving to death.

“Needing a job, boy, isn’t the same as wanting a job. I can’t help but wonder if you know the difference. Oh, you work hard enough, but your enthusiasm isn’t all I had hoped it would be.”

How enthusiastic could someone get about shoveling horse shit? Charley thought but kept it to himself.

“That’s the trouble with the youth of today,” Leeds pontificated. “They have no idea what the world is like. They think it owes them a living, when it’s the other way around.” He paused. “Do you know what the difference is between men like me and boys like you?”

Hot air, Charley guessed, but again he had the presence of mind not to share his opinion.

“A sense of responsibility. I was in the War between the North and the South, as I’ve mentioned a few times, and the lessons I learned are lessons you could stand to benefit from. Nothing is ever given to us on a silver platter. To succeed in life, we must carve our own niche. That’s the only way to get ahead, to become a prosperous businessman like I am.”

Charley glanced at the sorrel’s droppings and bit his lower lip.

“You can’t succeed at anything in life without wanting to. Without that enthusiasm I mentioned. You need to set your sights on something you desire more than anything else, then go after it, heart and soul. That’s the road to success in a nutshell.” Satisfied with himself, Leeds puffed out his chest and marched toward his office next to the tack room. “It’s almost eight. Clean up that mess, and you can leave a few minutes early. Use them to reflect on my words of wisdom.” He stopped in the doorway. “By rights I should fire you, Mr. Pickett, for hitting a horse we’re boarding. But I’ve always had a generous nature. I’ll give you another chance.”

The door closed. Charley muttered a few choice words and fetched the shovel. He scooped the pile onto the manure wagon and groaned when he saw how full it was. Tomorrow Leeds would want him to take the load out to a potato farmer who used it as fertilizer, and he would spend most of the morning up to his knees in the stuff.

Grabbing his coat, Charley stormed into the street. He was mad. Mad at what came out the hind end of horses. Mad at Leeds for paying him so little. Mad at the unfairness of it all. But most of all, he was mad at himself for leaving the good life he’d had on his parents’ farm in Kentucky to go it on his own.

Many a time Charley wanted to kick himself for being so stupid. His folks had always treated him kindly. Sure, his pa had worked him to death, or so he’d thought. Looking back, though, the hours were nowhere near as long and the work nowhere near as disgusting as the work he was doing now.

Charley had been a fool, plain and simple. He had soaked up the stories in Harper’s Monthly, the Police Gazette, and Leslie’s. He had read all the penny dread fuls he could get his hands on and listened to the tales of travelers. He had decided there had to be more to life than growing crops and tending cows. He’d craved excitement. He’d craved adventure. So one evening, he’d snuck off while his parents were in the parlor, and here he was.

Charley stopped and looked around. The street bustled with activity, with men on horseback and wagons, carts, and buggies. But their numbers could not begin to compare to the river of pedestrians who packed the street to overflowing.

Denver was busting at the seams. The city had grown to become the grandest between St. Louis and San Francisco. It was called the city of opportunity, the city of riches, but all it had been for Charley was a city of disappointment. Scowling, he shouldered his way along the boardwalk to the next intersection and took a right. He nearly tripped over a stray pig, and kicked it. Squealing, it darted out in front of a carriage and was nearly run down. “Serves you right,” he grumbled.

Peddlers and hawkers were out in force. A kid not much over twelve had set up a grinder and was calling out, “Knives to grind! Scissors and razors!”

Across the street, a black man bawled, “Charcoal for sale! By the peck or the bushel! Get your charcoal here!”

There were days when Charley thought maybe he should give up being a stableboy and take up vending. The only thing was, he never had been comfortable around crowds. Too many people made him nervous.

A boy in a bowler hawking newspapers was on the next corner. “Get your Rocky Mountain News! Hot off the presses! Read all about the riot in New York City! Thirty-three dead!”

Another twenty yards and Charley spied a girl peddling sweet potatoes. “Yeddy ho! Sweet potatoes, so! Best to be found!”

A lump formed in Charley’s throat, and he edged into the shadow of a store. Out of habit he removed his hat and nervously crumpled it in his big hands. He would have stood there forever admiring her, but the girl noticed him and smiled sweetly.

“Charley! You’re early tonight.” She held out a potato on a stick. “Hungry? You can have one for free.”

Charley’s tongue seemed to have swollen to the size of his shoe. Shaking his head, he croaked, “No thanks, Melissa. It’s awful kind of you, but you need money as much as I do.”

Melissa Patterson was bone thin and had straggly blond hair. No one would call her pretty by a stretch, but to Charley she was the loveliest girl in the city, if not all of creation. He had bought a potato from her once, and she had struck up a conversation in that warm and open manner she had, and before he knew it, he was stopping every evening just to bask in a few minutes of her company. “Call it my treat, then. Friend to friend.”

Charley took that as an insult. It implied he couldn’t fend for himself. Fishing in a pocket for a coin, he informed her, “I pay my own way, thank you very much. Here.” He accepted the potato, which was warm to the touch, and took a bite. As he was chewing, what she had just said sank in. “Am I your friend?”

“The best I have.” Melissa grinned and put a hand on his arm. “And I mean that from the bottom of my heart.”

Charley’s face seemed to catch fire. “Seen Tony?” he asked with his mouth full.

“Two blocks south, last I knew.” Melissa lowered her hand, and her grin faded. “Going to spend your night with him again, I take it?”

“He’s my friend too.”

“If you want my opinion, it’s a one-sided friendship. He lets you tag along because he needs your muscle to keep from having his head stove in.”

“He can take care of himself.” Charley had long sensed Melissa didn’t care for Tony, and he couldn’t understand why. They were both from New York. That gave them something in common. He would have thought they would hit it right off. And at first they had. But then she’d taken to treating Tony as if he had a contagious disease.

“You worry me, Charley. You truly do. It’s not the hands of a clock that count—it’s the gears inside that move the hands.”

Charley was sure she had a point, but it eluded him. “I don’t own a clock. I don’t even own a watch. The pocketwatch I had was busted on the trip out. It fell off the wagon, and a wheel ran over it.”

Melissa sighed. “You’ve got to learn to look past the outside of things, is all I’m saying. Don’t always take people at how they appear. Think of them as ponds or lakes.”

All Charley could think of was how confused he was. To hide the fact, he bit into the potato.

“All you see when you look at a lake is the surface. You never see what’s underneath. It could be a big old trout. It could be a water snake waiting to bite you. Remember that, and you’ll go a lot farther in life.”

“You know a lot about lakes and such for a city girl.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?” Melissa handed a potato to a customer and accepted payment. “I’m from upstate New York, not New York City. I was raised on a farm, just like you. I’d still be there now if my mother and father hadn’t died in that accident.”

Charley knew the details. How her folks had been coming home late one winter’s night from a church social, and how the wagon had overturned on an icy bend in the road, killing them. Melissa had been sent to live with an uncle but had run away after six months. Now here she was, alone in the world and barely scraping by, the same as him. “I never did understand why you left your uncle. From what you say, he had a nice house and plenty of land.”

“Uncle Thaddeus had the devil in him,” Melissa said and let it go at that.

Charley finished the potato. He wouldn’t mind staying longer and talking, but he was afraid of becoming tongue-tied like he usually did. “Well, I’ll be seeing you.” He shuffled off.

“Darn you, Charley Pickett!”

Charley turned. She was looking at him strangely. “What did I do now? I paid you, didn’t I?”

“Yes.” Melissa sighed, and her thin shoulders slumped. “It was nothing. You go on ahead and have fun. I just hope I get to see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow and every day.” Charley was rewarded with a smile that warmed him to his toes. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he ambled the two blocks to the corner of Walker and McCallister. Sure enough, a familiar voice pealed above the clamor of traffic.

“Fresh water! By the glass, the quart, the gallon! Get your fresh mountain water right here!”

Tony Fabrizio’s cart was filled with bottles of all shapes and sizes. He was a year or two older than Charley and wore faded street clothes and a rakish cap. With his dark hair, chiseled profile, and square jaw, he was just about the most handsome fellow Charley had ever met. Which made Melissa’s dislike of him all the harder to explain.

“Sold much water today, buddy?”

“Charley!” Tony grinned and clasped Charley by the shoulders. “Mio amico! Do I have a treat in store for us tonight!” He pulled Charley around behind the cart. “How would you like to eat at one of the best restaurants in the city?”

“Are they givin’ away free meals?”

Tony glanced both ways, then pulled open his jacket, slid a hand into a pocket, and flashed a roll of bills large enough to choke a mule. “I would say this is more than enough, si?”

Astounded, Charley blurted, “How in the world . . . ?”

Placing a finger to his lips, Tony said, “Never mind the how. Help me take my cart back to my place, and we will enjoy a night we will long remember.” He clapped Charley on the back, bent, and began pushing the water cart south. After only a few steps, he winked and asked, “How about you do me a favor and take over? I have been on my feet all day, and they are sore.”

Charley had worked hard all day too, but he didn’t mind helping. The cart was light as a feather. It amused him that Tony always asked for help. His friend had a fast tongue and faster hands, but he was as puny as a kitten. “You sure tire easy.”

“Think so, do you? We cannot all be slabs of muscle like you. The heaviest thing I lifted back home was a wine bottle. I am not able to throw a cow over my shoulders and walk off with it.”

Charley guffawed at the image. “You’re exaggera tin’. It has to be a real small cow.”

For some reason, Tony found that hilarious. “You amaze me sometimes. You truly do. You were fortunate to be raised on a farm. On the streets of most cities, you would not last two days.”

“I can hold my own when I have to.”

“Sure you can. All I am saying is that you are too trusting, too gullible. One of these days someone will stab you in the back unless you learn to read people better.”

“How to see inside them, you mean?” Charley let go of one of the handles to scratch his chin. “Melissa said the same thing to me earlier. It’s nice, the two of you lookin’ after me as you do.”

“How is Miss Nose-In-The-Air, anyhow?” Tony asked.

“Don’t call her that. She’s a sweet gal, and I like her.” In fact, Charley liked her a lot, more than he could recollect liking any girl, ever. When he was curled up in the hayloft in the stable at night, he often dreamed of Melissa and himself on a farm of their own. He was always so happy in those dreams, he could bust.

“I would never speak ill of any female.” Tony glanced into a store window at his reflection and adjusted his cap. “My sainted madre taught me that women work as hard if not harder than we do. They deserve our respect.”

“Have you written your folks yet to tell them where you are?”

“Do not start with that again. I told you before. I had to leave quickly, and the polizia might still be looking for me. They do not take killing as lightly there as they do on the frontier.”

Charley recollected the details. Tony had gotten into an argument with another man over a woman. One hot word led to another, and the two pulled knives. Tony had to defend himself, and in the fight, his rival was stabbed in the chest.

“Anyhow, you are a fine one to talk. When are you writing your parents? From what you have told me, they must be worried sick. You were stupido to leave them like you did.”

Had it been anyone else, Charley would have wal loped them for talking like that. As it was, he said indignantly, “I’ll make you a deal. You don’t talk about my folks, and I won’t talk about yours.”

“Accordo.”

They had gone six blocks when Tony had Charley wheel the cart down an alley and out the other side to a water trough. Grabbing an empty bottle, Tony dipped it into the trough until it was full, stuck a cork in the top, and replaced it in the cart.

“What are you doing?”

“Filling up for tomorrow. We will be out real late tonight, and I do not want to bother with it later.”

Charley’s lower jaw dropped. “All the water you sell is from a horse trough?”

“Why not? It is free. And this is the cleanest trough in town. The man who owns it fills it twice a day. He has his own well.” Tony dipped another bottle in. It made chugging sounds as bubbles rose to the top. “Now you know why I offer my customers a discount if they bring their bottles back.”

Charley picked up a bottle with a label that had a word he had never seen before: Perrier. “This here is supposed to be water from France.” He picked up another. “This says it’s from Maine. And here’s one from Maryland.” Charley read more of the labels. “Wait a minute. Why does this one say ‘toilet water’?”

Tony shrugged. “I take it where I find it.”

“But you’re cheatin’ folks!”

“Calm down. I make no claims other than the water is fresh. So what if it does not come all the way from France? All water tastes the same to one who is thirsty.” Tony held up a hand when Charley went to say something. “I do not do this for the fun of it. I do it because it is an easy way to make money. When I find a job more worthy of my talents, I will stop.” He corked the second bottle. “I am not hurting anyone, am I?”

“Well, no,” Charley conceded. “But it still doesn’t strike me as right.”

“You are just jealous I do not spend my days breaking my back like you do.” Tony grinned and tossed Charley an empty bottle. “Now get busy. The sooner we fill these, the sooner we feast on heaping plates of spaghetti.”

“Those noodles that look like shoelaces?” Charley shook his head. “For me it’ll be a big, juicy steak with all the trimmin’s.”

Tony was lucky enough to have his own apartment; rooms to rent were at a premium. It wasn’t much, a small room at the back of a house owned by an elderly couple, but he had his own entrance and could come and go as he pleased.

Charley parked the cart under an overhang, and they went in so Tony could spruce up. Tony owned a large mirror and not one, not two, but three hair-brushes. Charley couldn’t get over it. He didn’t even own a comb.

“I was thinking we should dine at the Crown Royal Hotel. They have their own restaurant, and it is rated one of the best in the city.”

“It also costs an arm and a leg.”

Tony patted his jacket pocket. “You are forgetting, are you not? Tonight we do as we please. The cost is no object.” He took a washcloth from a rung above a basin. “Here. You should clean yourself up. You have bits of straw in your hair and God knows what on your shoes.”

It was indeed a night Charley would long remember. The Crown Royal was everything everyone claimed, with gilt marble and glittering chandeliers. A waiter in a crisp uniform fussed over them like a mother hen. Charley had to chuckle when he discovered that every time he drained his water glass, the waiter promptly refilled it. He drank five glasses just to see the waiter come scurrying toward them with the crystal pitcher.

The food was delicious. Charley’s mouth watered simply staring at it, and the aroma of his sizzling steak set his stomach to rumbling like distant thunder. He cut a piece thick with dripping fat and forked it into his mouth. Someone moaned, and he realized it was himself.

“Quit making a spectacle of yourself,” Tony joked. His plate was heaped high with stringy noodles smothered in tomato sauce and ringed by meatballs.

“This beats McGuffy’s all hollow.” Charley was referring to an eatery where the food bore a strong resemblance to hog swill.

Tony ordered a bottle of wine. The waiter brought long-stemmed glasses and filled them, then stood back as if waiting.

Charley knew why. He chugged his, then set down the glass so the waiter could refill it.

“Not so fast, mio amico,” Tony cautioned. “Fine wine should be savored, not guzzled.” He sipped his. “That bottle set me back fifteen dollars.”

Doing the math in his head took Charley a few seconds. “That’s more than I make in a month. Shouldn’t you save some of your money? Or send some to your folks?”

“We had a deal, ricordare?”

“Sorry.”

“I am Italian, my friend, and Italians are passionate people. We live life day to day, making the most of every moment. Yes, I could save the money, but what enjoyment would that give me? I would rather spend it here and now on things I like. I would rather live.”

At moments like this, Charley appreciated how different they were and how much more worldly Tony was. He envied him and said so.

“Pick someone more worthy. My past is darker than most. There is much I have not shared.” Tony contemplated the wine in his sparkling glass. “I will never do anything great. I will never be rich or famous. The best I could hope for was to marry the woman I love, and that has been denied me.”

“Land sakes. You make it sound like your life is etched in stone.”

“It is. My people call it destino. Yours would call it fate. The threads of our lives were woven before we were born, you and I. There is nothing we can do to change them. Believe me, I have tried.”

Charley had never heard his friend talk this way, and it bothered him. “You’re wrong there. I may not be the smartest person on the planet, but I know we decide what we do, and no one else.” Charley mulled how best to express his sentiments. “Life is like a road. Each day is a new fork. We decide which to take and which not to take. Our fate is in our lap, no one else’s.”

“Interessante.” Tony glanced past Charley and stiffened. Suddenly bending at the waist, he whispered, “Let me do the talking. Whatever happens, it is not to involve you.”

Before Charley could ask what Tony meant, three men walked up to their table—burly, broad-shouldered men wearing suits and polished shoes, one with a diamond stickpin in his tie.

“Well, well, well.” Stickpin’s voice was like two rocks grating together. “All evening I’ve been trying to figure out how in hell I lost my roll. Then who should I see across the room at the most expensive restaurant in Denver? The water boy I always buy water from.” He leaned on the edge of the table and glared at Tony. “You made the worst mistake of your life picking my pocket. I’ve beat people to a pulp for a lot less.” His smile was ripe with menace. “So where do you want it? Here or outside?”