Paniolo Pete

PANIOLO PETE

  BY:

  RJ KRAUSE

  PANIOLO PETE

  Copyright 2013 by RJ Krause

  Cover Art by Vila Design

  https://www.viladesign.net/

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author. Brief quotations may be embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  DEDICATION

  For Mom and Dad,

  Thanks for always believing.

  You are the foundation of my life

  For Dawn,

  Your editing skills and advice

  made this book a reality

  For Vimilani,

  My love, my life, my best friend and companion,

  I thank you for our future.

  Life is like a Hawaiian luau,

  the best part stays buried until

  the prayers have been said. PP

  PROLOGUE

  I reckon I’ll be snowed in up here on Mauna Kea for awhile in this old line shack, so I figure it might be as good a time as any to tell the story of Paniolo Pete. Every time I go into town people ask me about him. As I sit here watching the snow fall, I’ll write down what I remember about one of the greatest cowboys I’ve ever known and truly a man to ride the river with.

  I’m an old man now, and as you can probably tell, I haven’t had much schoolin’, and I ain’t no famous author. Matter of fact, all I’ve ever been good at is bustin’ horses. That’s how I got my name, Bronco Bill. So keep on reading, and I’ll tell you what I know about the legendary cowboy. Now some people claim that Paniolo Pete is nothing but a myth. After you’ve read the stories, you can decide for yourself whether or not Pete is real. I don’t reckon I can do more than just tell you what I’ve seen with my own eyes about the man known as Paniolo Pete.

  Chapter 1

  The Birth of a Legend

  I suppose many people might think Peter Monroe was born into good fortune. But judging from the Paniolo Pete I came to know, you never would have guessed it. He came into this world around the turn of the 20th century on a snowy afternoon in the dead of winter. All the neighbors on Boston’s Beacon Hill knew the day Peter Monroe was born. Mrs. Monroe was propped up in her four-poster bed surrounded by a mountain of quilts, while Mr. Monroe stood off to one side looking proud and somewhat bewildered over all the commotion. After all, this was upper class Boston society.

  There in the nurse’s arms was little Peter—red, wrinkled, and mad as all get out! He didn’t care about being the heir to the Monroe fortune. Nor did he care that his father had taken the whole day off from the bank to witness the birth of his first son. Heck, I doubt if he even much cared that his mama had given up her role as President of the New England Women’s Club just so he could be born. Like most newborn babies, all little Peter cared about was why he’d been taken from a nice, warm, peaceful place and put into these cold arms. I reckon that was about the most eventful thing in Peter’s life for the next twelve years or so.

  Peter was a good child who never got into trouble, never did poorly in school or disobeyed the rules. I guess you could say he never did much of anything. His childhood was one of following rules and trying to please his parents, especially his mama. Although he did well in school he wasn’t by any means the smartest in the class. He played sports but was never a star. He had friends but was never a leader. Shoot, I reckon the best way to describe young Peter is to say he was boring. All his decisions were made for him by someone else. Everything was neatly planed, from what clothes he wore to what his daily activities would be to what time he would eat dinner and go to bed. This was the way Peter’s life was for the first twelve years and he had no reason to believe anything would change.

  Then one day he met Mrs. Monroe’s seldom talked about brother, his uncle Nicolai Ramos. Nicolai, or “Nickel” as his friends called him was what you might call the black sheep of the family. He was a merchant sailor with loyalties only to the open sea, any ship that he happened to be sailing on, and his beautiful sister. Mrs. Monroe, or “sister dear” as Nickel called her, was the only family he had left. Anytime one of his ships happened to port in Boston Harbor, Nickel would make the long trek to the finer part of town known as Beacon Hill.

  Now a man like Nickel certainly looked out of place surrounded by all that wealth and finery, but he could care less. He loved his sister deeply and never failed to visit her whenever he was in port. With each visit he brought such exotic gifts as a blow-dart gun from New Zealand or a stone tiki god from Samoa or a shrunken head from Borneo. Of course, as soon as he departed these rather novel presents were promptly boxed and moved to a dark corner of the basement. But his last visit to Boston had been a long time ago, before Peter was born.

  One cold wintery day as Nickel approached the front gate of the Monroe house, he tried to smooth his long black hair as best he could and wipe some of the mud from his breeches. I imagine he always wanted to look respectable when visiting his sister’s family. When he figured he looked pretty good and was ready to start up the steps of the Monroe’s large brownstone, a carriage rolled by and splattered him with dirty, slushy snow. As fate would have it, that was the precise moment that Peter opened the front door to leave for his piano lesson.

  “Why don’t ya learn how to drive that big land dinghy yer callin’ a carriage?” yelled Nickel. “I’ve a good mind to put them thar harnesses round yer neck and visit my sister dear in a style becomin’ my Portuguese royal blood!” He was covered in mud and snow, hair hanging down around his shoulders, and as mad as any man Peter had ever seen.

  “What in the world are you lookin’ at?” he roared at Peter. “Have you no manners but to stand there gawkin’ at one of yer betters? Get over here boy, and help me repair some of the damage before I present myself to my sister dear.”

  To say that Peter was terrified and confused is putting it mildly. Never before had he needed to make such a decision. Here he was, expected to arrive at Mrs. Peabody’s for his piano lesson in ten minutes, and this wild stranger is demanding his help. What if he got mud on his own clothes or worse, on his music sheets? Mrs. Peabody would throw a fit and his mother would never allow him to go to his lessons again by himself. This was the biggest decision young Peter had ever had to make!

  He’d been trying for months to convince his parents he was old enough to walk the three blocks to Mrs. Peabody’s all by himself, without one of the servants to escort him. Finally, on his twelfth birthday, his parents reluctantly agreed to let him go alone, provided that he didn’t “dawdle” as his mother put it. He was allowed ten minutes to walk to his lesson and ten minutes to walk back home when it was over. Any broken rules and he would lose the privilege.

  Now Peter had a dilemma. To rush off to his piano lesson he would have to get past this wild man standing at the bottom of the steps. On the other hand, if he stopped to help the man, he’d be late for sure and bound to be in trouble with his mother. But before he had time to decide, Nickel came up the stairs and began brushing snow and mud off his waistcoat while ordering Peter to wipe off his back and legs.

  “You be about the right height for the low work, my boy, so I’ll worry about these upper areas. That’s a good lad. Put yer books on the ground and let’s get me cleaned up. My sister dear is about to have her day ruined, I suppose, by the likes of me!” With that, Nickel did the strangest thing Peter had ever seen. He tilted back his head and began to laugh out loud. Not a behind-the-hand giggle like hi
s mother or even the nervous chuckle that his father made. This was a deep down loud laugh that echoed throughout the neighborhood.

  “Excuse me sir, but people are looking at you,” Peter told him in a soft voice. And sure enough they were. There were stares from people passing on the street. Neighbors peered through their curtains or came out on their front porch to gawk. After all, this was Beacon Hill, one of the ritziest neighborhoods in Boston. Peter had never witnessed such a hearty laugh in his whole life.

  “So, what do I care if they look? It’ll do all these stuffy ‘nose-thumbers’ some good to hear a real man laugh!” declared Nickel, and he began laughing again. Well, you know they say laughter is contagious, and pretty soon Peter couldn’t help himself. He started out with a little giggle, but before he knew it, he was laughing so hard in every part of his body he thought he might shake right out of his new clothes!

  Just at that moment, a dreadful thing happened. The front door opened and there was his mother. “For heaven’s sake, Peter Monroe, what is all this about? You’re late for your lessons and Mrs. Peabody is expecting you. Stop this racket immediately! Whatever will the neighbors think?”

  Then turning to Nickel she scolded, “And you, sir, I would rather you deposited all that snow and mud elsewhere. If you can read the sign on the front gate, you will see that we do not accept solicitors. Please leave at once or I will be forced to call the authorities and have you arrested for trespassing.”

  Peter stood there witnessing this scene, feeling terrible that he’d let his mother down. No matter how hard he tried to please her, he always seemed to come up short. Now, as he stood there dumbstruck, not knowing what to do or say, a remarkable thing happened. This tall, rumpled, laughing man with muddy clothes and hair all over his face looked straight at his mother and grinned. “M’gawd! Call the coppers on yer only brother? Don’t you sound like quite the lady! I wonder what yer uppity neighbors would think if they knew Mrs. Theodore Monroe grew up on the back of a horse and shot her first bobcat before she was twelve!”

  “Nicolai, don’t you dare!” But before Annie Monroe could say more (much to Peter’s horror) she let out a gleeful squeal, grabbed the man in her arms and kissed him sound on the lips, mud and all.

  “Sister dear, you be a sight for sore eyes,” exclaimed Nickel. “I’ve seen rainbows over the Hawaiian Islands, sunsets on the South Pacific, and coral reefs off the coast of Australia. Not a one compares to the beauty standin’ here before my very own eyes! Of course, you be hidin’ it pretty good under all them fancy clothes and powder on yer face, but sister dear, yer even more beautiful than I recall.”

  “Nicolai, it is so good to see you! I’d given up hope and thought you were dead. I’ve missed you so much! Come, mi casa, su casa.”

  Peter was dumbfounded as he watched his mother and her brother walk arm in arm into the house. He’d never seen his mother act or talk that way. To think Anna Maria Monroe, the respected wife of the president of the Federal Bank of Boston had such an adventurous past. Peter had never thought much about what kind of life his mother had before she became his very own mama. I reckon most young boys just figure that the world didn’t exist before they were born. Suddenly, Peter’s head was flooded with all kinds of questions, but before he had time to give the matter a second thought, his mother turned to him from the open doorway.

  “Peter, you’ve ruined your suit. There’s not much point in you going to your lessons now. You look like a street urchin. Come on inside and meet your uncle, the very unrespectable Nicolai Ramos, a scoundrel known around all ports of the world as Nickel—a womanizer, a vagabond, and my only remaining family member besides you and your father.”

  It’s funny I suppose how one seemingly little event can change a person’s whole life, but that’s exactly what happened to Peter Monroe, later to be known as Paniolo Pete.