KID ON THE RUN
by Charlie Steel

Editor's note: Charlie Steel, tale-weaver extraordinaire, shares this interesting fictional piece about a young boy who, at first, has little hope in his heart. Charlie Steel believes that what one tries to accomplish in life is as important as what one achieves. Kid on the Run reflects that ideal. Sit back and enjoy this fast-paced, multi-dimensional tale as Charlie Steel, once again, entertains.

The Mississippi River ran along the edge of the busy city of St. Louis in a wide sweeping arc. It swept under and past the long rows of docks and the hundreds of steamers and packets that lined its banks. The War Between the States had just ended. It was a cold November and a shivering 11 year-old lad looked on at the men who labored to unload boxes and bales of supplies from the steamers into waiting wagons. The boy was poorly dressed and the clothes he wore were dirty, ragged and torn.

Otis Sutter stood and stared at the crates of molasses and can goods. He could smell the sweet syrup. He had just filled his stomach with water from a pump and he could feel it slosh as he walked away from the river. It had been days since he had eaten properly and his empty stomach twinged in pain. The chilling cold seemed to go right through him and some of it settled in his bones. He was beginning a cough and a fever. He was dizzy and light-headed as he walked back to the little wooden fort he had made in the alley between two warehouses. It wasn't more than a wooden box that he had hammered together with used nails, a shelter he had been living in for months and his only home. His precious few possessions were hidden there in a hole that he had dug under the fort and covered with a loose board. In it were two blankets, an iron skillet, a broken knife, a fork, a large piece of metal in which he burned wood to keep warm at night, a box of matches, a hatchet with a broken handle and bits of rags and cloth he used to stuff in the cracks to keep out the cold.

As Otis came down the alley he saw two angry men tearing away at his home. They turned and spied the boy and began to yell.

"Are you the one who made this here mess? Get on with you, boy. This is private property! We don't allow no bums!"

Otis stared in silence as the men wrecked the only shelter he had. He saw one of the men pick up the axe with the broken handle and began to smash the wooden boards apart. They broke the makeshift building into pieces and dragged the broken boards out of the alley and tossed them into a wagon. Everything the boy owned was now lost - even the blankets and rags, the iron he burned wood in, and the broken axe went into the back of the wagon.

"Get out of here, boy! We don't need no beggars living and stealing around here!"

The two men finished loading the debris into the wagon and then suddenly ran at the boy. Otis began a stumbling run. He managed to get some distance when he heard the men laugh. The boy turned and watched the men walk to the wagon, get aboard, and drive off into an opening in one of the warehouse doors. Otis stood and stared and then slowly walked away. The wind was starting to blow and with it came spits of snow and it was getting colder. The lad pulled up the collar on his coat in an effort to get warm but it did not help. He was without a heavy coat and gloves and his hands, ears, and top of his head were cold. If he didn't find shelter soon he was going to be in trouble.

The boy trudged along moving as quickly as he could to try to warm himself, but he was weak and the best he could manage was a slow shuffle. He came to a general store that was in the poorer neighborhood near the docks. The boy walked up wooden steps and opened the door with a frosted windowpane and stepped inside. Immediately he smelled coffee, peppermint, leather, oils, perfumes, and a myriad of other goods that commingled and remained in the air. It was delicious to the boy and his stomach rumbled. He felt dizzy relief inside the warmth of the store and naturally gravitated towards the large round potbellied stove in the middle of the room. The boy put out his dirty hands to feel the heat of it and then he heard the voice.

"You, boy! You dirty beggar! Get out! I told you to never come in here. Now get out with you or I'll thrash your hide!"

A little man with wire spectacles raised a broom above his head, came from behind the counter, and rushed at the boy. Reluctantly, Otis turned from the threat of the storekeeper and headed for the door. This he opened before the little man reached him and he closed it on the angry owner of the store. Instantly, the cold wind blew through the boy's thin clothing and he cringed and longed for the warmth he had left behind. The boy ducked his head and slowly made his way down the wooden steps, the wind pushing hard against all of his body. Otis made his way to the dirt road and then turned his back to the wind and walked with it towards the city.

Otis was so cold, tired, dizzy and weak he could hardly think. His toes in his father's large boots were freezing, so were his fingers, his ears, and his nose - his entire body shivered. This time the boy did not have the strength to go on and he felt that soon he would fall and lay to freeze along the road. No one wanted to help an orphan and no one in this large city had ever shown kindness to him or had come to his aid. He had found some odd jobs from time to time. But as he became weaker, dirtier and hungrier, wearing the same smelly clothes with no soap to clean them, no one would hire him. The boy walked on slowly, putting one foot in front of the other, with no thought of where he was going or what he was going to do. It was an effort to move now, and he was becoming numb all over with the cold and he felt so weak, so very weak.

* * *

Alfred Spire took the pint bottle from his inner coat pocket, pulled the cork, lifted it to his lips, and tilted back his head and hand to swallow the amber liquid. It burned all the way down his throat and entered his stomach where it instantly warmed and soothed the old man. He staggered along now, heading back to his little shack down the alley and behind the saloons, stores and warehouses that lay in the poor section by the river. It was getting dark and the wind was really blowing cold now and snow was collecting where it fell on the ground. It was going to be a bad winter storm and Alfred was thinking of his drafty little cabin with its warm potbellied stove and blanketed bed. The old man pulled up his coat collar against the cold, and the heavy buffalo coat lapels felt good against his freezing ears. Alfred hurried now and bent his head to walk with the cold wind that blew at his back. Suddenly, he tripped over something lying in the dark of the alley and he swore.

Bending and turning around, Alfred peered drunkenly down at the dark object lying in his path. The old man swayed back and forth trying to focus his eyes in the dim light. What's this? A bundle of rags? No. It looks like a body! Has somebody been stabbed or robbed and the body placed here to be out of the way? It won't be the first time.

The old man didn't want to get involved. He turned away; but as he did so, he heard a low groan. It was not the voice of an adult; it was the voice of a young person. Again the old man turned and this time he reluctantly bent down on one knee and felt at the ragged body.

"Mom," a faint voice drifted through the cold wind. "Mom, I'm so cold."

The old man recognized the voice of a boy. He felt the bundle before him with both hands. One hand found the upper body, and then traveled up to the head. The man's hand touched the boy's forehead in the dark, and it was on fire.

"This here's a very sick youngster, but how did he come here?"

Slowly the old man thought, his head cleared a bit in the rushing cold wind and suddenly he put both arms under the bulk of the body on the ground and lifted. There was nothing to the lad; he was light as rags. Gaining his balance, the old man creaked to a standing position, turned, and swayed with the bundle in his hand and walked to his shack.

The air was suddenly filled with white swirls of snow, blowing sideways in the swift cold wind. The old man couldn't see more than a few feet in front of him. He looked to the ground, now covered in white, and tried to follow the open path of the alley. Coming to the end of the alley and up against the back of a building, the man swayed and turned left, carrying the small body that was becoming heavier now. He made his way along the side of the building, and there came to an opening and then his little shack. Alfred struggled to the door and fumbled with the bundle still in both hands. He managed to lift the latch and the wind pushed the door open wide and it banged against something. The old man entered, staggered to a cot-like bed and, as gently as he could, let the bundle of rags down onto it. Then he rushed to the door and, pushing against the wind, managed to close and latch it. Picking up a board that leaned against the wall, he barricaded the door.

Please be sure to look for the continuation next month.

Those interested in reading more about Charlie Steel's work may visit www.condorpublishinginc.com or www.charliesteel.net.