KID ON THE RUN
Part 3
by Charlie Steel

Editor's Note: Join us in the continuation as Charlie Steel continues to weave this fictional tale where an old man tends to a sick boy, and they both find healing in the process.

Still, none of this seemed to be doing any good. The lad was failing fast. Then Alfred recalled Indian remedies he had learned when he lived with the Cheyenne. He made a sweat bath by building a tent of robes around the bed and then heating and laying hot rocks on the floor under it. By pouring water over them, billows of steam rose up. He did it over and over again. The steam and intense heat entered the boy's lungs and cleared the congestion enabling him to breathe again. Alfred went out and purchased chickens. These he cut up and made into an herbal broth. The boy would not eat so Alfred held the lad's nose. When he opened his mouth, the man put in spoonfuls of the nutritious liquid. Time and again the boy coughed it up, or it went into the bedding, but with great patience the old man got some of the broth down into the boy's stomach.

Early in the morning of the sixth day, the boy opened his eyes and had his first lucid moment. There, standing before the lad, was the newly washed face, groomed beard, and combed hair of the now sober Alfred Spire. The old man stared down at the lad and gently smiled.

"There you are, lad. Would you be wanting something to drink or eat?"

"Where am I?" asked the boy.

"Don't worry, you be safe in the cabin of Alfred Spire. I be your friend, boy. You were sick, and now you are better. Please take some of this good soup, lad. It will make you feel good. You have been a long time without it."

The boy was too hungry to refuse and greedily he swallowed spoonful after spoonful of the nutritious soup. He drank half a cup of coffee and fell into a deep and restful sleep. After that, the boy began to recover and his coughing and congestion became less. In two weeks he gained weight and looked snug and fit in the store-bought clothes Alfred had purchased for him. In that time there was much occasion for the two to talk. The old man told Otis Sutter of how he came to know his life story. Then the old man shared his own.

"Boy," said Alfred as he and Otis walked along the docks, watching the stevedores loading and unloading the packets. "I know what you been through - losing your folks and all. You see, lad, long ago I walked just about the same path you be walking now. I, too, was an orphan - a bit older than you be - 14 it was. I lived with my ma and pa on a little ranch out on the Great Plains. We didn't have much but we worked hard and were pretty happy - that is until that morning a band of renegades attacked. My ma, she died first - but, my pa, he tried to save me. He told me to run; hide in a deep arroyo. Then, he took the only horse left in the corral and jumped on him bareback - he rode past the renegades and they follered after him. They ran him down and shot him - then they burned the ranch after taking what little we had that interested em."

Alfred cleared his throat and brushed his eyes with his sleeve. He looked at the boy and saw he was crying too.

"I hid in that arroyo all day and that next night - morning came and a Cheyenne hunting party rode by. They often watered their horses at our well. Pa always let them be and my ma, well, she always seemed to find a pan of sweet cornbread that she left out on the fence post when she seen them coming. Them Cheyenne, they saw the smoke - and they came looking to see what happened. It was Broken Limb who saw my tracks and found me. He took me to his lodge and I lived with his family. It was there I came to know the western lands and the way of the Indian."

Alfred was silent for several minutes. He hung his head, looked down at the dock beneath his feet and spoke slowly. His voice was low and sad.

"I did a horrible thing - and I can't never forget. Something that was betrayal to my Cheyenne family. I began to slaughter buffalo, not to feed the tribe, but for sale. I left my friends and hunted for hide traders. I grew rich at it. Finally, sickened by the killing, I sold out. I had hid away my money, and slowly slipped into drinking. Did that for nigh 20 years."

The old man put his arm around the boy's shoulders and looked down into his large sad eyes.

"Lad, it was not until I stumbled over you that night, cold, sick and laying in the alley that I had reason to think of someone other than myself."

Otis reached out and took Alfred's hand. He placed his own small hand flat against the older man's larger gnarled one. He looked up into his face.

"Mr. Alfred, you being with the Indians and all, do you reckon we could become blood brothers?"

Alfred's voice failed him but he shook his head yes. Even though the boy was still weak and sick, Alfred performed the blood brother ceremony of the Indian. They both cut their fingers with a sharp knife and intermingled their blood. Their lives were bound - old man and young - innocent and experienced - they were blood brothers.

A few months later, Otis Sutter and Alfred Spire mounted saddled mustangs and rode across the prairie away from St. Louis. Behind them, each had a pack horse loaded with supplies. Both were heavily armed and dressed in new buckskins. They headed for the spires of the Great Rockies and the Colorado mountains.

"Ahh, this is the way to live, lad," exclaimed Alfred. "In open country."

"Pa and I often talked of going further west. Even Ma wished for her own cabin and land."

"I am sure your folks were good people, Otis."

"Alfred, I want to thank you for this - for all that you have done for me. If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't be here. When I was alone, I often longed to join my folks."

"And now, lad?"

"With you, life is good again."

"For me, too, Otis. Now cheer up. I've got to teach you to be a frontiersman - even if it kills you."

"I guess you got a right. After all, you already saved my life once."

Together, the old man and the boy laughed. Dust rose up behind the horses of the two travelers. A stranger from a boat on the river watched their slow passage as they disappeared into the distance.

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