Ralph compton do or die, p.8
Ralph Compton: Do or Die, page 8
“I have enough not to poke my head where it can get chopped off. Or to sass someone who can carve me up into tiny pieces.”
“I would like to see you try,” Tony said flatly.
To forestall violence, Charley changed the subject. “Why did you give up huntin’ buffalo, Enos, when you were so good at it?”
“That’s Mr. Howard to you, pup. And why I do what I do is none of your damn business.”
“Would you tell me?” Melissa asked, placing a hand on his.
The frontiersman turned red, jerked his hand loose, and hunched in his chair. His arms were shaking. The bartender had barely set the bottle down when Howard snatched it up and glued his mouth to it. He chugged greedily, gulping a third of the whiskey in the bat of an eye. The color and the tension slowly drained from his features, and he sat back, smiling contentedly. “The Almighty’s elixir of life,” he said softly, tapping the bottle.
Tony shook his head in disgust and turned away.
It wasn’t hard for Charley to guess what his friend was thinking: that Enos Howard was as worthless as teats on a bull; that Howard would be of no help whatsoever even if he agreed to help; that, in short, Tony had prolonged his stay in Denver for nothing.
Out of the blue, Melissa bluntly asked, “Enos, does why you drink have anything to do with why you gave up hunting buffalo?”
Howard was about to guzzle more. He glared at her over the bottle, his lips wrapped around the mouth.
“You can hit me if you want,” Melissa said. “But I’m your friend, and I’d like to help you if I can.”
The frontiersman was a long time answering. He lowered the whiskey without taking a sip and sat with his beard bowed to his chest and his eyes half closed. “I hate you, gal,” he said at last. “You’re trickier than these two put together, but a hell of a lot more honest.”
“If you’d rather not talk about it, I’ll understand.”
Charley was anxious to hear what Howard had to say. Just then the front door opened; he glanced toward it and was seared by a bolt of lightning. It was none other than Ubel Gunther and two of the three men who had been with Gunther at the stable. Charley was sure they must know he and Tony were there, but they walked to the bar without once looking at their table. Careful to keep his back to them, he whispered to his friend, “Those are some of Radtke’s men!”
Tony had been glumly contemplating the floor. Now he took a swift look and shifted in his chair so his back was to them, too.
“What’s goin’ on?” Enos Howard asked much more loudly than he should.
“Quiet!” Charley whispered. “If those gents spot Tony, they’ll kill him.”
The buffalo hunter’s eyes lit like candles. “You don’t say?” He grinned at Tony. “What did you do, boy? Accidentally spit on their fancy shoes?” He swigged whiskey, exhaled loudly, and rose. “So you think I’m worthless? Think I couldn’t lick a ladybug if she had one wing tied behind her back?” Melissa began to say something, but Howard held a hand up. “Don’t deny it, Missy. I can see it in their eyes. And here’s where I prove them wrong.”
Charley watched, thunderstruck, as Howard walked to within half a dozen feet of Ubel Gunther and let out with a war whoop like those Charley had always imagined Indians made.
“Look out, world! I’m a he-bear from the high country, and I am on the prod! Who wants to put me to the test?”
Ubel Gunther turned partway around, his elbow on the bar. “You’ve had too much to drink. Sit back down before someone takes that bottle away from you and hits you over the head with it.”
Enos Howard deliberately took a long swallow and smirked. “I’d sure like to see someone try. How about you, pretty boy?”
Chapter Six
The last thing Charley Pickett wanted was for the buffalo hunter to draw attention. Ubel Gunther hadn’t noticed Tony or him yet, and Charley wanted to keep it that way. Gunther must have descriptions of them both.
It might be sheer coincidence Gunther was here. Right before Howard stood up, Charley had seen the bartender slip a poke across the counter to Gunther, who’d slid it under his jacket.
The two men with Ubel were ready to tear into Enos. They moved toward him but stopped when Gunther barked a command in a language Charley thought was German. The owner of the general store in the town near his parents’ farm had been German, and a nicer man Charley had never met.
Now that Charley thought about it, he realized Walter Radtke must be of German extraction too. Maybe everyone who worked for Radtke was.
“My name is Ubel Gunther, not pretty boy.” Gunther addressed Enos. “Go spout your drivel elsewhere. Or better yet, go take a bath. You stink worse than swine.”
Enos was upending the bottle and sloshed some of the whiskey over his chin when he suddenly jerked it down. “Now, that there was an insult if ever I heard one. And in this country, when a man airs his tonsils the wrong way, he answers for it. So set the tumbleweed to rollin’.”
The gauntlet had been thrown. The men with Ubel were eagerly awaiting the word to pounce. But all Gunther did was stand there.
“Are you implying I am a foreigner, you drunken lout? I’ll have you know my grandparents came to America seventy years ago. I was born here. I am an American citizen, the same as you.”
“Too bad the midwife didn’t drop you on your noggin.” Enos wagged the bottle at him. “Do you have any grit, pretty boy? Or are you fixin’ to talk me to death?”
Ubel said one word, just one, and his associates, as he had called them at the stable, were on Enos before Enos could blink. One swung a right cross that, had it landed, would have dropped Howard like a rock. But much to Charley’s amazement, the buffalo hunter ducked, raised his right foot, and stomped on his attacker’s instep. The man yelped and hopped backwards, swearing in German.
The other tough assumed a boxer’s stance and waded into the buffalo hunter with his fists flying.
Enos Howard was a marvel. He dodged. He weaved. He sidestepped. Charley had a hard time keeping up with who was doing what, they moved so fast. But he had the impression not one of the tough’s blows landed. Suddenly Howard spun, grabbed a chair, and flung it at the German’s legs. The man went down in a tumble.
“If you want something done right,” Ubel Gunther said. Hefting his cane, he stalked forward.
Howard’s Bowie leaped from its sheath. “I’m goin’ to carve that walkin’ stick of yours into kindlin’ and then do the same to you.”
The metallic click of gun hammers being thumbed back brought the fight to an end. The bartender had taken a shotgun from under the counter and was aiming it squarely at Howard. “That’ll be enough. Enos, I’ve warned you before about actin’ up in my place. Put that pigsticker away, or I’ll splatter your innards all over this room.”
“Tom!” Enos sounded stricken. “I thought we were friends.”
“We are, you dunce, or you’d see I’m doin’ you a favor. These men work for Walter Ratdke, who doesn’t take kindly to having his men rousted. Remember that fella found hacked into fifty pieces last winter?”
Howard’s disappointment was no sham. “I ain’t scared of Radtke, and I ain’t scared of pretty boy or his cane. Bring ’em all on, and I’ll buck ’em out in gore.”
“You heard me,” Tom said.
It was back down or be shot. Enos backed down. Instead of returning to their table, though, he moved to another on the other side of the saloon. “There. Happy now?”
“Delirious.” Tom lowered the shotgun but didn’t put it away. To Gunther he said, “This was none of my doin’. Be sure to tell Mr. Radtke that.”
“You are not responsible for the antics of every cretin who enters your establishment.” Gunther bowed toward Enos Howard. “Another time, perhaps, schwein?”
“I can’t wait, pretty boy.”
With a twirl of his cane, Gunther departed. The two toughs limped at his heels, their hatred of Howard transparent.
All smiles, Enos came back across the room. “Still think I’m not worth my weight in spit?” he demanded. “I swatted that pair like they were bed-bugs.” He swilled some whiskey, then patted the bottle. “I trust I’ve proven myself.”
Tony had faced his chair around now that Gunther was gone. “All you’ve proven is you have mush for brains. Baiting them served no purpose.”
“Didn’t it?” Howard sneered. “I kept their attention on me, didn’t I, so they wouldn’t spot you and the farm boy here? I did you a good turn, but you’re not man enough to admit it.”
“You didn’t do it just for us,” Tony responded.
“True. There’s nothin’ more fun than a good brawl. Last one I was in, up Wyoming way, we broke every piece of furniture in the saloon. Cost every coin I had to my name, but it was worth it.”
“I thought you were wonderful, Enos,” Melissa gushed. “But I’m still waiting to hear why you gave up buffalo hunting.”
Howard’s exuberant mood evaporated like dew under a hot sun. “Maybe another time, Missy. Right now we’ve got somethin’ more important to jaw about.”
“We do?” Charley said.
“As sure as I live and breathe.” Howard polished off another finger of coffin varnish and belched. “When are we headin’ out after the Hoodoos?”
Nebraska Panhandle
Agent William Shores of the newly created United States Department of Justice had made camp out on the plain. O. T. Quarrel had offered him the use of a bunk, but Shores had declined. His superiors were counting on him to wrap things up in short order, and he had no intention of letting them down. He prided himself on his ability to perform his job effectively and expeditiously, and he would treat this case as he had every other throughout his career.
Shores rode until close to midnight, then made a cold camp. He considered making a fire but opted not to. He was in flat, open country, and a fire would be seen from a long way off. Supposedly, there weren’t any Sioux in the area, but why tempt fate?
His saddle for a pillow, Shores wrapped himself in a blanket and lay on his side. His rifle was close at hand. He heard a coyote yip. Not far distant, another answered. Much closer, something snorted, and there was the thud of receding hooves. It was the same every night. Constant animal sounds, often sounds Shores couldn’t identify. Grunts and snarls and roars that made sleep next to impossible.
William Shores was not fond of the West. He would rather be sleeping in his four-poster bed under his own roof than on the ground in the middle of the godforsaken prairie. He wasn’t a country boy. Far from it. His childhood in Texas had been spent mostly in town, and his later years in Chicago had ingrained into him the belief that city life was the only life.
It was a question of what a person was comfortable with. Shores liked the convenience of walking into a restaurant and ordering a meal rather than having to hunt it, shoot it, butcher it, and cook it. He would rather deal with heavy traffic than a war party. And given his druthers, he would rather have to contend with a stray dog rummaging in his garbage than a stray grizzly interested in devouring him.
Shores rolled onto his back and stared at the stars. He had only himself to blame for his current assignment. When the assistant director had called him in and asked if he had much experience with horses, he’d bragged that as a kid he had ridden nearly every day and was as at home in the saddle as he was in a trolley. Now here he was, chasing his own tail all over the wilds, trying to find five of the worst killers alive.
On that cheerful note, Shores dozed off. He slept fitfully, awakening at the slightest noises, until about four in the morning, when he gave in to fatigue and slept the sleep of the dead. A feeling of warmth on his face roused him. The sun was half an hour high. He had wanted to head out before dawn.
“Damn,” Shores said and sat up. The first thing he saw was his hobbled claybank, munching grass. The second thing he saw was an Indian.
Shores came up out of his blanket as if fired from a catapult. His hand automatically rose to his Smith & Wesson, but he didn’t draw.
The Indian made no threatening moves. Hunkered on his haunches, his thin arms folded across his knees, he grinned and said, “How do, Brother John.” He was naked except for a breechclout and moccasins and had long grey hair that hung down to his waist. His oval face was ridged with lines, the stamp of seventy- or eighty-plus years. A quiver hung across his back. At his feet lay an unslung bow and a tomahawk. “How do, Brother John,” he said again as Shores stood gaping.
“Who are you, Indian? What in heaven’s name are you up to?”
The old Indian went on grinning. “In Red Fox tongue him be Ainga-bite-waahni-a. In white tongue him be Red Fox.” His English was heavily accented. “I come far find you, Brother John.”
Shores scanned the prairie. He saw no other Indians. A paint horse was thirty yards out, grazing. “Why were you looking for me? And why do you keep calling me Brother John? My name is Bill. Bill Shores.”
“As you say, Brother John.” Red Fox slowly unfurled, the bow in his left hand, the tomahawk in his right. He stuck the handle of the tomahawk under the top of his breechclout. “Red Fox hunt you. Know you hunt badmen, Brother John.”
“Didn’t you hear me? My name is Bill. Not John.” Shores had a hunch the old Indian wasn’t in full control of his faculties. “What badmen are you talking about?”
“Hoodoos, Brother John.”
“Will you quit calling me that?” Shores couldn’t get over how the old Indian had snuck up on him as slick as could be. Had it been a Sioux, his throat would be slit and his scalp would be hanging from a coup stick. Which reminded him. “What tribe are you from? And what’s your interest in the Hoodoos?”
Red Fox touched his scrawny chest. “Red Fox be Sho-sho-ne. Uncle to White Dove. Brother to Mat-ta-vish.”
Shores understood now. “You’re after the men who killed him.”
“White Dove say Great Father send Brother John. Say you hunt gizhaa men. I help. We hunt. We kill.”
“How old are you?”
Red Fox looked at Shores as if to say “why do you ask?” But he answered, “Red Fox be seventy-eight winters. I born winter ice break on river, four children drown.”
Shores recalled hearing somewhere that Indian tribes measured years in “winters,” with each winter known for a notable event. “I don’t know how to tell you this without hurting your feelings, so I’ll come right out with it. You’ve come all this way for nothing. Go back to the reservation. I don’t need your help, Red Fox. You’ll only get yourself killed, and the Great Father would be mad at me for letting you come along.” He smiled to show he had only the old Indian’s best interests at heart and bent to pick up his saddle blanket.
Red Fox didn’t move.
Shores threw the blanket on the claybank. He was conscious of the Indian’s eyes boring into his back as he saddled up, tied on his saddlebags, and stepped into the stirrups. “Give my regards to White Dove.” He applied his spurs, traveling west.
Presently hooves drummed, and the paint came up alongside. “Brother John go wrong way.”
Sighing, Shores reined up. “Pay attention. I’m not in the habit of repeating myself. You cannot come with me. Return to the reservation where you belong. I’ll deal with the Hoodoos in my own time and my own way.”
“Hoodoos that way.” Red Fox pointed southwest.
“And how would you know that?” Shores was trying hard not to lose his temper. He never had liked Indians all that much. Comanches had tortured and killed his grandparents when he was seven, and he would take the horrid images of their butchered bodies to his grave.
Red Fox spoke each word slowly, trying to be as precise as he could. “Gizhaa daiboo-a steal many horses from Mat-ta-vish. Take horses wooden lodge of White-Who-Likes-Lakotas. Then gizhaa daiboo-a go that way.” Again Red Fox pointed southwest.
The full import of what the old Indian was saying hit Shores with the jolt of a sledgehammer. “Wait a minute. Are you saying you can track the Hoodoos from the point where they left the ranch?”
Red Fox grunted. “Come get Brother John first. Make Great Father happy.”
Gazing heavenward, Shores silently mouthed “Thank you.” To the Shoshone he said, “I’m willing to let you join me on two conditions. One, you must do as I say at all times. Two, you will not take revenge on any of the Hoodoos without my permission. Do we have a deal?”
“Brother John not want Red Fox kill gizhaa daiboo-a?”
“Not unless I expressly say you can,” Shores stressed. “What do those Shoshone words mean? You’ve used them several times now.”
“Gizhaa daiboo-a mean not-good-white men.” Red Fox lapsed into deep thought for all of a minute. “We have deal, Brother John. But Red Fox say this. If gizhaa daiboo-a try kill us, Red Fox kill gizhaa daiboo-a.”
“Sounds fair to me,” Shores said. Especially since he would scrupulously avoid placing the old Shoshone in a life-or-death situation. “Let’s shake on it.” He thrust out his hand.
Red Fox stared at the proffered hand, then at Shores. “Brother John speak with straight tongue?”
“I am not Brother—” Shores began but stopped. What was the use? he asked himself. The old Indian would go on calling him that stupid name no matter what he said. “I always speak with a straight tongue.”
“Then no need shake.” Red Fox jabbed his heels against the pinto, and their trackdown commenced.
William Shores had never spent more than five minutes in the company of an Indian his whole life, and for a while he felt distinctly uncomfortable. It helped that the Shoshone was a tame treaty Indian, but even so, he couldn’t stop thinking about his grandparents and the legion of other incidents he had read or heard about.
The other’s silence eventually got to him. “Were you and your brother close?” Shores asked to break the monotony.
“We brothers,” Red Fox responded, his tone implying it was all the answer needed.
Shores didn’t give up. “How did Mat-ta-vish get so good with horses?” The general consensus was that Red Fox’s sibling raised some of the best horseflesh anywhere. Quarrel rated the paints so high, he had mentioned to Shores that he would gladly keep them for himself if it weren’t for his pact with the Sioux.
