Charley let himself into the livery through the rear door. He climbed the ladder to the hayloft and walked over to his blanket. Spreading it out, he lay on his back with his hands under his head and gave the problem more thought.
Sleep came grudgingly. Charley tossed and turned, his mind plodding like a tortoise. It had to be four in the morning when he finally dozed off, and he was supposed to be up by six to open the stable. He was relying on the crowing of a rooster down the street to wake him, but fatigue took its toll.
Faint pounding roused Charley from a vague dream. When he opened his eyes and saw shafts of sunlight streaming through cracks in the plank wall, he scrambled down the ladder and raced to the wide double doors. Lifting the heavy bar, he lugged it to one side.
“About time, young man.”
Charley was so relieved it wasn’t his employer, he smiled and declared, “Mr. Parmenton! Off on your buggy ride early today, are we?”
“Early?” Parmenton consulted a pocket watch. “It’s three minutes past seven, I’ll have you know. I could have been to Cherry Creek and back if I had left at six. Prepare my buggy and be quick about it.”
Most mornings Leeds was there by eight, but today he was late. Charley had time to feed the horses, sweep the center aisle, and shovel droppings into the manure wagon. He was spreading straw when in stormed the stableman.
“It’s an outrage, I tell you! This sort of thing can’t go on!” Mr. Leeds shook a newspaper as if he were throttling it. “How can we expect decent people to move to Denver with atrocities like this happening all the time?”
“Sir?” Charley had seldom seen Leeds so fired up.
“Haven’t you heard? There was a double murder last night! Right in the street! Two unsavory characters no one will ever miss were stabbed to death. But if the Kansas City and St. Louis newspapers pick up the story, it will tarnish Denver’s image no end.” Leeds shook the newspaper at Charley. “And why in thunder are you standing there loafing? Didn’t you notice the manure wagon is full?”
“You told me to never leave the stable unattended.”
Leeds puffed out his cheeks like an agitated chipmunk. “Don’t throw my own words back at me. Hitch up the team and run the wagon out to Klimek’s. Don’t dawdle either, if you know what is good for you.”
For once, Charley didn’t mind. It would give him more time to ponder. The smell was atrocious, as always, but the view, as always, was spectacular. To the west rose emerald foothills, footstools for the towering Rockies. Snow mantled a few of the highest peaks, but in a few weeks the last of it would melt off, and the peaks would be bare until winter. To the south was Pike’s Peak, and to the northwest loomed Long’s Peak, which was higher but nowhere near as famous.
Once across the bridge, Charley had the road virtually to himself. Farmland stretched for as far as the eye could see. Thanks to an extensive irrigation system, the arid land was being transformed into an Eden.
Ziven Klimek had been a potato farmer in the Old Country, so it was only natural he took it up again in the New World. His sprawling farm was the largest in the territory, and Klimek ran it with European precision. Field after precisely arranged field radiated outward from the sprawling house Klimek had built for his new, and considerably younger, wife.
Charley never knew exactly where the old farmer wanted the manure delivered. One trip it might be a plot to the north, the next trip a field to the east. Finding Klimek was a chore in itself, as the man, for all his years, had the energy of a yearling and never stayed in one spot too long.
Today Charley was lucky. He had passed through the gate and was only a quarter mile in when a booming hail caused him to bring the team to the halt. “Howdy, Mr. Klimek!”
The potato farmer had his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows and his thumbs hooked around his suspenders. “Master Pickett! What have you brought Ziven today?”
“The usual.” Since manure was all Charley ever delivered, he couldn’t fathom why Klimek always asked the same question. “Where do you want it dumped?”
“Ziven show you.” Klimek swung up onto the seat with an agility belying his years. He pointed. “That way. And do not let your wheels get too near the water ditch.”
“How have things been?” Charley asked to make small talk.
“Life is good. Ziven grow corn now. Sugar beets too. You ever taste sugar beets, Master Pickett?”
“My ma used to grow them in a garden out back of the house. She also had cauliflower and cabbage, and the tiniest peas you ever did see.” Charley smacked his lips, his mouth watering. “There’s nothing more delicious than a sugar beet though, when it’s cooked just right.”
Klimek nodded vigorously. “True, true. You watch. Sugar beets will be big. Bigger than potatoes. Bigger than corn. Bring Ziven lots and lots of money.”
“You like making money, don’t you, Mr. Klimek?”
“What kind of question is that? With money a man can do anything. Without money a man can do nothing. It not matter of ‘like.’ It matter of ‘need.’ You understand need, Master Pickett?”
“I’m beginning to,” Charley acknowledged.
Klimek encompassed his farm with a sweep of his brawny arms. “This is rich land. Good land. One day many farmers will be here. Many families with children. No more Indians on warpath. No more murders like last night. No more badmen like those Hoodoos.”
“Hoodoos?” Charley had heard the word before but couldn’t recall where.
“The horse stealers!” Klimek rasped. “Master Pickett not hear? They kill three cavalry troopers a while ago. Kid Falon, he kill two himself. But you wait. They get caught, they get hung.” He rubbed his palms together in glee. “Soon all badmen gone. Soon everyone live safe.”
Charley was thinking of Kid Falon. It was said the Kid was a genuine two-gun terror. Falon had fourteen gunfights to his credit, and that didn’t count Indians and Mexicans. A fellow Charley met in a saloon claimed to have seen Kid Falon draw and was willing to swear on a stack of Bibles that the Kid was as fast as Wild Bill Hickock, the prince of the pistol eers. Charley had his doubts, since Wild Bill was generally considered the premier shootist alive and according to Harper’s had slain well over a hundred men.
Klimek was still talking. “Government must stop Hoodoos. Must stop all outlaws. Pay more bounty. Use army. Anything.”
“The government is offering a bounty for the Hoodoos?”
“Where have you been, Master Pickett? Bounty was one thousand dollars. After soldiers killed, bounty now seven thousand. Highest in territory.”
Seven thousand dollars. Charley had never had more than thirty dollars to his name his whole life long, and that only on one occasion, after he scrimped and saved for years to go West. Seven thousand was enough to last years. It would be a great stake. Not just for him but for Tony . . . and for someone else besides. An idea took root, and Charley grinned at his brainstorm.
“Why so happy, Master Pickett?”
“You’ve just given me the greatest idea I’ve ever had. The answer to all my prayers and then some.”
Ziven Klimek was no fool. “If that idea be what Ziven think, forget idea. You no sheriff. You no gun shark. You horse-shit boy. Go after Hoodoos, and they will kill Master Pickett dead, dead, dead.”
Chapter Three
“Yeddy ho! Sweet potatoes, so! Best to be found!”
Charley Pickett heard Melissa at the same instant he saw her. Not as many people were out and about in the middle of the day, and traffic was light. He brought the manure wagon over next to the boardwalk, wrapped the reins around the brake, and hopped down. He was so worried, he forgot himself and gripped her by the arm. “Melissa! Have you seen Tony?”