Ralph Compton: Do or Die

A shout warned Mat-ta-vish his absence had been discovered. He came to a thicket, sank onto his belly, and wriggled into its depths. There he lay on his side, his heart pounding in his chest.

The brush crackled and popped. Several times the Hoodoos passed near him. But it was too dark for them to track, and they dared not risk using torches.

Once the one called Ben stopped right beside the thicket, muttering something about “stinkin’ lousy Injuns,” then stomped off.

Soon Mat-ta-vish heard them ride toward the north end of the valley, and his heart grew heavy with sorrow. They would find his horses in the meadow and be long gone by dawn.

Crawling into the open, Mat-ta-vish sat with his knees tucked to his chest. It helped lessen the discomfort. He began to sing his death song. But he could not stop thinking about the Hoodoos and how he would dearly love to repay them in some measure for their cruelty.

The idea that came to him made Mat-ta-vish smile despite his pain. It was not much, but it was the best he could do. Whether it would do any good depended on who found him and how observant they were.

His strength fading rapidly, Mat-ta-vish groped for a stick, and when he found one, he used it to draw in the dirt. He had loved to draw when he was younger, and one of his favorite pastimes was to paint symbols on lodges with paints he made himself. His people did not have a written tongue like the whites, but they had something similar. Something that might come back to haunt the Hoodoos.

Mat-ta-vish sang louder as he drew.

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.