by J. Lee Butts
"Have you made any effort to behave, Johnny? I surely wouldn't want to send you back down to Huntsville for another stint of chopping cotton and picking peas for the state."
"Ain't going back to no damned prison. Done picked my last batch of vegetables. Do as I goddamned please now—and forever more." He took a whack at the bottle and slobbered, "And today it pleases me to kill the hell out of you, Dodge."
Always found it difficult, at best, to pull a pistol when sitting. So, I eased myself out of the chair as slowly as I could. "No need for such drastic measures on a hot day like this, Johnny. I'd rather not work up a sweat over nothing, if you wouldn't mind. Our business was finished a long time ago. Why don't you just get over it and move along," I said.
"Why don't you go to hell? Better yet, why don't I send you there? Get your sorry self out here in the street where I can see you, Dodge. Gonna enjoy blastin' a few holes in your worthless hide. Soon as you're dead, gonna cut your nose and ears off. Make myself a necklace out of 'em."
I stepped off the boardwalk and into the street. We couldn't have been more than ten feet apart. Hangtown Johnny was so saturated with bootleg nose paint I could smell him. Man could barely stand. Tried one more time to dissuade him from making another, and perhaps last, bad decision in a lifetime of them.
"Best thing for you would be to find a nice shady spot and sleep it off before this goes any further, Johnny. You're in no shape to swap shots with anyone today."
"Piss on you, Dodge. Soon as you're dead, think I'll do exactly that. Finish off this fine bottle of day-old hooch, then, once you're in the ground, I'll christen your passage to the other side. You'll hit Satan's front doorstep smellin' exactly the way you look."
"That's your problem, Johnny. Right now you're not thinking straight. Whiskey's burned up your brain."
"Had plenty of time for thinkin' in that 'ere prison cell, you badge-totin' bastard. Still cain't believe you and Tatum sent me down for killing that bag of puss George Talbot. Son of a bitch sold me a blind horse." He sucked down another slobber-drenched hit off his bottle and went back to his rant. "Then the motherless son of a whore wouldn't give my money back. I had to kill 'em. Tried to do it 'fore he told anyone what a fool he'd made out of me. Scum-suckin' weasel made me look stupid 'fore my friends."
I'd heard all I wanted. Have to admit I provoked him a bit with, "You are stupid, Johnny. I've known ten-year-old jackasses smarter than you."
Walnut-brained churnhead's eyes bugged. He made a sound like he was strangling and went for his pistol, but the tubful of firewater he'd consumed got between a liquor-logged brain and his hand. My first shot hit him in the left side just above the spot where he'd shoved the pistol in his belt. Spun him around like a kid's top. Lucky skunk surprised hell out of me when he sent one sizzling past my right ear.
Figured I'd best get serious, before he went and landed a lucky one somewhere in my hide. Put my next shot in his chest about an inch right of his breastbone. Massive chunk of lead knocked him backward three or four feet. Saw the soles of his boots when he flipped up and landed on his shoulders. Geyser of hot blood spurted from the hole. Be damned if the whiskey saturated no-account didn't sit up, take a swig from his bottle, and rip off another one that knocked the heel off my boot.
By that point, black powder and sudden death set screaming women and bawling kids to running in every direction. In the corner of my eye, I spotted Boz as he jumped from Gillam's porch with a flame-and-smoke-spitting pistol in each hand. He must have put half-a-dozen holes in Hangtown Johnny faster than I could count them. Poor shot-to-pieces fool flopped around in the street like someone was beating on him with a long-handled shovel.
When the thunderous blasting from Boz's pistols finally stopped, he turned and said, "You hit, son?"
"No, but for a man who's most likely bleeding hundred-and-fifty-proof gator sweat, ole Hangtown gave it a helluva try."
We ambled over to the body. Johnny still had the bottle in his hand. Honest to God, it looked like he was trying to take the last swig before going out.
"What the hell happened, Lucius?"
"Not sure, Boz. He was drunk, crazed, and mad 'cause we sent him to prison. Said he was gonna kill me, cut my nose and ears off, and piss on my grave. You know how the man was. Never could stop picking at a scab till he turned it back into a sore spot."
Boz holstered one of his weapons, and began reloading the other. "Got enough lead in him now to make a set of horseshoes. Hell of a waste, but some men just won't let a thing loose when they get to ragging around on bad memories. Gotta put this behind us, Lucius. Try not to dwell on it much."
"Needn't trouble yourself, Boz. He called death down on his own head, far as I'm concerned. Tried to talk the silly bastard out of pulling on me. Think he'd decided to die long before this morning."
Local constabulary strolled over and expressed some serious concerns about stand-up shootings on their city's main street. They held pretty earnest reservations about such matters. Didn't care for Rangers who rode into their nice quiet town and got into a pistol fight that scared hell out of everyone, from the mayor to the bar swamp in a nearby saloon.
Mayor bustled in on the conversation. He fumed, fussed, and blathered some too. Think maybe there was an election coming up. Citizens stood around and nodded their agreement to most of what he yammered on about. Typical kind of thing you come to expect from people who've just had the bejabbers scared out of them. But hell, the killing wasn't our fault.
Marshal finally came over to our side of the disagreement, after Boz thoroughly explained the situation. We managed to get out of town later that afternoon, but only after consenting to leave enough money to pay for Hang-town Johnny's interment. Mortician gave us what he claimed was a cut rate. Boz said later we'd paid enough to have a draft horse buried. Turned south at the first opportunity and headed for Nacogdoches. It was but a short ride of less than forty miles from there to our destination.
Boz and I'd started our Ranger partnership nigh onto eighteen months prior to the San Augustine raid. Over time, I'd learned that once he got himself away from civilization, he wouldn't return until absolutely necessary. Man drew an uncommon amount of strength from living in the wilds and sleeping under God's own roof on a bed of straw.
Didn't matter one way or the other where we slept. But Boz always tried for spots near a creek or river, in the hope that nights would prove a shade cooler and more bearable.
Weather went from hot to brutal hot once the sun was up, and usually turned cloudy in the evenings. Lightning-spiked blue-black skies invariably promised cooling rain that never came. Clouds disappeared after dark, mostly. The grinding buzz from locusts that droned deep into the night grew to a dull roar. Damned bugs had the ability to keep the weariest traveler from getting much in the way of sleep. On top of everything else, growing suspicions about our mission led me to spend most of my waking moments in preparation for gunplay more intense than anything Hangtown Johnny could have imagined on his best day.
Captain Culpepper bore responsibility for my marked uneasiness of mind. Boz added to it, one night, when we'd stretched out beside a free-flowing stream that actually provided some relief from our sufferings.
Racket from the locusts let up a bit and I asked, "Why'd you call Iron Bluff a hellhole?"
He let the question hover over us for a minute or so before he said, "May have been the wrong selection of words on my part, Lucius. It's not exactly the kind of town you'd normally bring to mind when you hear a place described in such a manner. Ain't none of the street-walking whores or brazen lawlessness that usually involves robbery, rape, senseless murder, and such. But make no mistake, son, there's been plenty of murder done there anyway."
"That doesn't make any sense, Boz. What's the difference between senseless murder and just plain murder?"
"Bad blood, Lucius, bad blood. See, 'bout ten years ago, a feller name of Bull Tingwell moved his brood onto a piece of land up on the Angelina, just north of town."<
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"Nothing wrong with that."
"Nope. Not a thing. Story I've heard people tell says he bought all the property available at the time. Then, he put his ranch buildings between the river and a family name of Pitt, who'd settled their plot back when Texas was still a republic."
"Well, now, that sounds like people looking for trouble."
"That it does. Ole Man Pitt and his bunch considered themselves akin to landed gentry. Kind of like lords of the Redlands. Highly refined bunch, according to the stories I've heard. They deemed Tingwell and his clan as less than human and closer to being the two-legged relatives of armadillos or skunks."
"Did the families not get along from the very outset?"
"Not for certain sure, Lucius. Just know that, 'bout a year after the Tingwells' arrival, folks from both sides started going at each other's throats—and haven't let up. State of affairs seems to have started out as bullying fist-fights between their kids that graduated to gunfire pretty quick. Most travelers, aware of the area's history, avoid the town. Rumors I've heard would lead a wary man to believe members of either bunch will grab up a stranger for consideration if no one else is available."
"You said there'd been killings."
"Well, both tribes started out with three sons. Oldest one of the Tingwell boys was a brute called Buster. Way I heard it, ole Buster took uncommon pleasure from beating the hell out of just about anyone he could latch onto. Seems he made it his mission in life to find one of the Pitt boys anytime he felt an urge to exercise a set of fists the size of ham hocks. Seems he was 'specially attracted to the oldest of the Pitt boys. Kid named Albert. Buster and Albert were only eight or nine years old when it all started. Sparrin' around went on for years and the older Buster got, the meaner he got."
"God Almighty, but I do hate a bully. Childhood bullies can stay with you for the rest of your life, Boz."
"Well, Buster didn't get a chance to stay in the hearts and minds of too many of those he'd beat the hell out of for very long."
"What does that mean?"
"Friends of mine, from over this way, told me he'd whipped the snot out of the whole county for most of his life. Paid special weekly attention to Albert Pitt. Then, someone caught Buster out on the Shelbyville Road a little 'fore sundown one afternoon, and put enough buckshot in his back to make a boat anchor, two or three anvils, and a plow. Reloaded—and shot him some more. Corpse was barely recognizable when his family went looking and found him a day or so later."
"Hot damn, Boz. Sounds like Albert Pitt had had all the ass-whipping he wanted."
"Generally accepted opinion expressed by most of Nacogdoches County at the time, Lucius. Not certain I believe it myself. If I heard all the stories correctly, Albert never evidenced the kind of personality, grit, or downright meanness necessary for a back-shooter."
Boz stopped the tale long enough to pull a cigar from his pocket and light up. Fished around in one of our supply bags and found a bottle, then poured us both a healthy dram and settled back into his nest.
Light from a glowing full moon, the size of a Number 10 washtub, played off the nearby water. Looked almost like midday, even under the monstrous, rustling cotton-wood where we'd dropped our gear.
"Don't know, Boz. Always felt you could push any man just so far. You hurt him enough and, eventually, he'll make you pay a heavy price for your pleasure."
Boz sipped at his cup, drew a lungful of dense smoke, and mumbled, "Maybe."
"Puts me in mind of a kid I knew in Waco who got similar treatment from a local bully named Pottsy Hancock. Poor boy put up with weekly beatings from Pottsy for two or three years. Finally, one day, the bully showed up ready for his fun, but the intended victim pulled a butcher's knife out of his pants."
"A butcher's knife? Strange weapon for a child."
"Damned big one too. Stuck it in Pottsy's thigh, just below his belt. Wounded jackass let out a yelp that sounded like a gut-shot panther. He tried to run. Damaged leg slowed him down considerable. Way I heard it, the kid poked him in the ass about twenty times. Ole Pottsy slept on his stomach for six months. Poor bastard had trouble going to the outhouse for more than a year. Never bullied another person, though, far as I know."
By that point, Boz'd laughed himself into a hacking cough. He sat up to take a medicinal sip from his cup and said, "Well, that might be true of your friend from Waco, but I still don't think Albert was the guilty party in Buster Tingwell's murder. Don't matter what I think, though. Three weeks after Buster bit the dirt, Albert floated to the surface of the Angelina River, right below the Tingwells' ranch."
"Murdered?"
"Coroner's inquest in Nacogdoches ruled his death an accident. Don't believe that steaming pile of horseshit either."
"Damn, Boz. What do you believe?"
He sipped, puffed, and mulled my question over for so long, I got to wondering whether he intended on ever turning loose of an answer.
Finally, my friend sighed, sucked down another stiff swallow of his drink, and said, "I've always felt Albert's brother, Eli, kilt Buster, and the two remaining Tingwell boys knew it. But were so afraid of Eli, they drowned Albert instead. Easier man to kill."
"Been getting worse over the years, huh?"
"Absolutely. Since Albert's passing, both families have hired a number of gunmen, and there's been several more killings. Their dispute ain't festered to a full-time feud yet but mark my word, it's simply a matter of time and place. Trust me on this one, Lucius. Steppin' in the middle of family feuds can get you killed graveyard dead plenty pronto."
He rolled over, crushed his smoke in the dirt, and pitched the remaining liquor out on the ground. "That's why we're gonna gather Toefield up from San Augustine's sheriff, and then go visit an old friend of mine who lives nearby. Need more'n the two of us if we want to go rattlin' cages around these parts."
San Augustine's Sheriff Cobb was happier than a two-tailed dog to see us. Even more pleased to get rid of his less-than-favorite prisoner. Didn't take long to understand why.
Toefield spent almost every waking moment whining about everything from his meals—". . . ain't never enough on my plate. You bastards is tryin' to starve me to death. Been weaker'n a baby lamb ever since I got locked up . . ."—to the number of trips he was allowed to the outhouse—". . . let me the hell out of here. 'Bout to explode. If 'n somebody don't get me to the facilities, I'll turn this cell into a real stink hole."
We thanked Cobb for his historic patience and sense of duty. Loaded Toefield onto the mule with our cash of stores. Course he didn't like it much. "Damnation, cain't you Ranger bastards afford another horse? Why in hellfire does I have to ride this bony-backed mule? Shit, this is hellacious uncomfortable. Ain't one of you boys got a blanket I can set on?"
Boz pulled his Winchester, leaned over, and rapped Toefield on the noggin with the barrel. He didn't hit the man with any real enthusiasm. Just enough of a smack to get his attention. Prisoner yelped like he'd been struck by a falling anvil.
Boz said, "Stop that racket. or I'll whack you again."
"You didn't have to hit me. You badge-carryin' son of a bitch."
Sure enough, Boz whacked him again. Bit more passion in that second lick. Raised a nice bump. Even bled some. Toefield rubbed at the knot while his lip quivered and his face twisted into a mask of feigned pain.
Barely heard Boz when he said, "I'm a right affable feller, Jack. Love peace and quiet too. You start with this pissin' and moanin' again and, I swear, you'll arrive in Fort Worth with so many bumps on that melon-thick head of yours, folks will think you've got some form of hideous new medical ailment." He turned and started to move us out, but stopped and said, "Oh, by the way. If you jackrabbit on me, I will kill you."
I tried like hell not to laugh—only partially succeeded. Toefield glared at me like he would have taken great pleasure in pulling all the hairs out of my nose—one at a time. The notion just made me laugh that much harder.
3
"POOR MAN'S A-LA
YING
ON THE BOARDWALK,
ALL BLOODY AND DYING"
BOZ LED OUR three-man parade east through San Augustine to an almost nonexistent village called Thorn's Corners. We headed off the road and into the piney woods, on the other side of a whitewashed church. Rustic house of worship was one of only five buildings in evidence. It sat next to a disreputable-looking saloon that appeared to have predated the church by a number of years. Suppose the odd proximity of religion and whiskey worked for the natives.
We must have gone another two miles before our guide stopped at a neatly laid-out log house, surrounded by equally well-kept Outbuildings and corrals. No flowers planted out front or any other evidence of a woman's presence, though.
A man the size of a Butterfield stagecoach stepped onto the porch. Long-barreled shotgun rested across his left arm. He shouted, "You fellers have business here?"
Boz yelled back, "Put your weapons away, Rip. It's Boz Tatum."
Smile like a barn door flashed across the man's face. He lowered his ten-gauge blaster and placed it inside the door. Few seconds later, he and Boz hugged and slapped one another on the back like long-lost brothers home from the Civil War. An abundance of laughter and friendly joshing around followed.
Good God, but the man was even bigger up close. Most folks considered me a nice-sized feller. Stood over six feet tall in my stockings back then. But Boz Tatum's friend towered over me like a brick, two-story Dallas bank building.
Boz said, "This youngster's my Ranger partner, Lucius Dodge, Rip. Lucius, shake hands with Ripley Thorn." My hand disappeared into Thorn's like I'd shoved it into a bushel basket.
"Friends call me Rip, Boz. You know that. Right pleased to make your acquaintance, Lucius. Anyone who can travel with a south Texas skunk like Boz Tatum has to be of exceptional breeding and tolerance." Thorn roared with laughter at his own joke, and poked Boz on the shoulder again.