Ralph Compton - Do or Die

Along about two in the afternoon, a couple of buffalo hunters rode up. There was no mistaking their profession. They wore buffalo coats and buffalo hats and had greased their hair with buffalo fat. Whenever Eli stood too close, he caught a whiff of an odor that reminded him of the south end of a northbound buffalo. They paid for a bottle and sat at the other table.

Eli didn’t pay much attention to which of the five long ropes asked the hunters if they wanted to sit in on a friendly game of cards. He thought maybe it was Curly Means, who was the friendliest cuss around when he was sober and there weren’t any dogs in the vicinity.

Engrossed in his lice-picking, Eli wasn’t paying a lot of attention to the gum-flapping. The buffalo hunters were on their way east after an extended stay at a boarding house in Denver where the ladies “were as plump as ripe plums and as sociable as schoolmarms,” as one boasted.

Only Brock Alvord, Kid Falon, and Curly Means joined in the game. Big Ben Brody leaned his chair against the wall and was soon snoring loud enough to be mistaken for an earthquake. John Noonan was sharpening a bone-handled knife he had acquired somewhere.

All seemed well until Eli heard Kid Falon say, “If you two stunk any worse, I’d swear I had my head up a buffalo’s ass.”

“This from a runt who took his last bath in horse piss,” a buffalo hunter rejoined, and both hunters laughed.

The Hoodoos weren’t nearly as amused. Particularly Kid Falon, who, as Eli recollected, prided himself on taking a bath once a month whether he needed it or not.

“I’d take that back, you bucket of fat, or learn to breathe dirt.”

The hunter so addressed pulled his heavy coat aside to display a Remington revolver. “I’d be a heap more polite, midget, when addressin’ your betters.”

Eli tried to head off trouble. He scurried around the counter and loudly exclaimed, “Gentlemen! Gentlemen! There’s no call for insults. We’re all here to have a good time, right?”

Kid Falon looked at him with eyes as cold as winter snow. “My notion of a good time is blowin’ out the lamps of jackasses who prod me. Are you volunteerin’?”

“No, never,” Eli hastily assured him.

“Then go on back to squishin’ your seam squirrels and leave us men to conduct our business.” Kid Falon pushed his chair back. “Now then, gents. What was that about you bein’ better than me?”

“Don’t push us, boy,” the second hunter warned. “We’re not greeners. We’ve tangled with Comanches and come out on top. We’ve outfought the Sioux and put the fear of dyin’ into a Blackfoot war party. And we’ve beat the tar out of more blowhards like you than there are blades of grass outside that door.”

“Is that a fact?”

Brock Alvord and Curly Means rose and stepped away from the table, Brock saying, “Don’t expect us to take the big jump over this, Kid. That leaky mouth of yours will earn you windows in your skull one day.”

The hunter with the Remington developed an interest in Falon. “Why did he call you ‘Kid’?”

“Most folks do.”

Curly Means was grinning from ear to ear. “His Christian name is Alphonse Rudolph Falon. Which shows that his ma and pa had a better sense of humor than most, or they were drunker than an Irishman on St. Patty’s day when they named him.”

The second buffalo hunter put two and two together. “You’re Kid Falon?” His complexion grew several shades lighter.

“I didn’t know who you were when I called you a runt,” said the first.

Never for a second taking his icy eyes off the hunters, the Kid slowly stood and pushed his chair back with the sole of his boot. “Whenever you’re ready to dance, start the fiddlin’.”

“Hold on!” The hunter with the Remington was ready to eat crow. “We’re not loco. We ain’t about to tangle with the likes of you. If it’s all the same, we’ll back on out and leave you be. What do you say? No hard feelin’s?”

“I hate cowards,” Kid Falon said.

“Please, Kid.”

“Those were your last words, bucket of fat.”

Eli was watching for it. Like everyone else, he had heard tales about the Kid’s speed. About how the Kid was chained lightning and then some. And here he was, about to witness it for himself. But just as the Kid’s hands moved, Eli blinked. The next he knew, his soddy thundered to two shots, and the buffalo hunters were flung to the dirt floor, chairs and all, bullet holes smack between their eyes.

Kid Falon never gave them another glance. He sat back down and began replacing the spent cartridges. “Drinks for everyone, Eli. The bucket of fat has a poke on him, so he’s buyin’.”

“Right away.” Eli scampered to obey, delighted at the thought of the story he could share with all those who stopped by his place from then on. His only regret was that the buffalo hunters hadn’t been emigrants.

Chapter Five

Denver

Colorado Territory

“Maybe this is the wrong place, Melissa. Or maybe he’s left town.” After an hour of waiting for Enos Howard to appear, Charley Pickett had to be sure. He went to the bar and asked the bartender if he knew anyone by that name.

“Do I ever,” the man replied while pouring a drink for another customer. “That ornery coot practically lives here. If everyone sucked down rotgut like he does, the whole country would be bone dry inside of a week.”

“We were told he’s usually here by six o’clock, but it’s past seven.” Charley was afraid Tony would walk out if Howard didn’t show up soon.

The bartender wiped drops from the counter. “Every now and then he’s late. Usually because he’s sleeping off a binge the like of which would kill you or me.”

“You make it sound like all he does is guzzle the stuff.”

“That about sums Enos up. I never met anyone so anxious to drink themselves into the grave, and I see more than my share of drunkards.”

Charley glanced at the corner table where Melissa and Tony were waiting. Tony was staring at the wall clock, which wasn’t a good sign. “You wouldn’t happen to know where Howard lives, would you?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. I felt sorry for the old bastard one night and lugged him home when he was so booze blind he couldn’t take two steps without fallin’ on his face.” The bartender mentioned the address.

“Well?” Tony impatiently demanded as Charley came hurrying back. “Did I miss my ride with the freight wagons for nothing? Was she wrong?” The glance he cast at Melissa wasn’t flattering.

Melissa hadn’t spoken two words to Tony the whole hour, but now she made up for lost time. “Don’t look at me like that. This is where he comes, I tell you. Kincaid’s. I remember it real well because he went on and on about how it carries his favorite brand of whiskey. He told me to my face he never drinks anywhere else.” She stabbed a finger at Tony. “For this to work out, we have to try to get along. I’m willing to bury the hatchet for the time being if you are.”

“Sounds good to me,” Charley piped up. He would love for the two of them to stop bickering. In light of Melissa’s comments earlier at the tavern, he had been wondering about the cause of their spat, and he did not like where his thoughts were leading him.

“Maybe you are willing to bury the hatchet,” Tony told Melissa, “but a gentleman by the name of Walter Radtke will not. Every moment I stay, my life is in danger.”

Charley suddenly realized he had yet to tell his friend about Ubel Gunther’s visit to the stable. He deemed it best to do so later, when they were alone. If Melissa found out Tony had killed those two men in the alley, she might rethink her decision to join the hunt for the Hoodoos. And Charley dearly wanted her along.