by J. Lee Butts
I grabbed Rip by the arm and pulled him away. Said, "That's enough. Bet you two could go on for hours with this meadow muffin-pitching contest."
He and the shopkeeper laughed even harder as Rip shouted over his shoulder, "Sorry, Horace, didn't even get to mention as how all the corn in Gonzales County's done went and popped off the stalk."
We stumbled into the middle of the street, giggled like kids, and were headed for the church when Hardy Tingwell just kind of appeared, about forty feet in front of us, as though he'd suddenly burst out of the ground like a fast-growing stalk of stinkweed. Meanest Tingwell alive swaggered toward us, both hands clasped around the walnut butts of his pistols.
"Done come to kill you boys," he shouted.
"Who the hell's this?" Rip whispered.
I said, 'Tingwell's only remaining son, Hardy. Think you might have seen him briefly when we visited their ranch. From what I've heard, he's two shades meaner than the devil, and deadly with those Colts."
Thought at first the boy had to be drunker than Cooter Brown to brace the two of us in such a manner. In less than a heartbeat, it became patently obvious that he was stone-cold sober, looking to do murder. His solemn clearheadedness contributed to a situation that was even more dangerous than I'd first believed.
Rip tried some soft-glove diplomacy when he said, "Think you have the advantage on me, mister. Name's Rip Thorn. Who might you be?"
"Your murderin' friend knows who I am, you enormous gob of greasy spit. But just so you'll understand who kilt you, my name's Hardy Tingwell, you son of a bitch. Been waitin' to open court on you bastards for almost an hour. Done found all you Ranger jackasses guilty of the foul murder of my brother Morgan, and aim to carry out sentence right here, right by-God now. Death, that's what I says. Death to all of you."
Made what I thought was a calming motion with my hand and said, "Need to cool off, Hardy. Neither of us had anything to do with your brother's passing. Fact is, he brought about his own departure from this earth with some amazingly stupid behavior."
Tingwell's upper lip peeled back in a toothless sneer as he shouted, "That's a black damnable lie, and you know it. If 'n you boys hadn't showed up looking for that red-haired whore, Morgan would still be alive. Gonna have to 'fess up to your sins, Dodge."
Rip said, "Your brother stole the lady. Imprisoned her again her will. If she hadn't protected herself, he would most likely have swung for what he done. Know if I had anything to say about it, he'd a been broke-necked and purple-tongued long before she had a chance to shoot him."
"Piss on you, you egg-suckin' dog. Slab-sided pork butts like you make damned fine targets, Ranger. Gonna take great pleasure blasting craters in your lard ass."
Personally felt ole Hardy had signed his own death warrant when he called Ruby a whore. Stood and waited for him to make a move with his pistols, so I could blast the hell out of him. Knew the first move would come when his eyes narrowed just a bit, but the setting sun made it a mite hard for me to see his eyes very well. Was in the process of figuring I'd have to depend on something else for a tell, when he jerked both his monstrous Smith and Wesson pistols.
"Damn you—and all those like you," he screamed.
Felt hot lead chew a hole in the air near my left ear. Heard at least one round make a strange thumping noise from Rip's direction. Had my belly pistol out faster than double-greased lightning. Ripped off as many shots as I could before I had to get my hip gun into play as well.
Hardy yelled, "I'll kill the hell out of both you sons of bitches. Gonna string your guts on fence rails."
Snaggle-toothed nitwit might have had all the brains of a flour sifter, but he'd been smart enough to start the fiery dance from a fairly safe distance. It's always been my experience, if you're in a hurry and under considerable duress, pistol fighting at more than ten paces is a fairly iffy proposition. Surest way to kill a man in such a contest is to be as close as possible, take your time, aim, and blast the offending party out of his boots. Better yet, carry a rifle or a shotgun. It's always a lot easier to hit any target with a Winchester, or Greener, than the best handgun made.
A Smith and Wesson Schofield model is a deadly accurate weapon, in the hands of those who remain calm and deliberate. Hardy Tingwell proved to be neither. Dim-witted goober was a serious user of the spray-and-pray method. He simply put as much lead in the air as possible, and hoped to God he managed to hit something. His past efforts had most likely worked on locals, but not on us.
Concussion from the combined muzzle blasts of five or six blazing hand cannons set up a cloud of red dust that mingled with a heavy curtain of spent black powder. Gritty screen made the ability to see our attacker mighty tough, after about the first dozen or so shots. Figured we hadn't done much damage, because ole Hardy kept ripping off more rounds. Damned near everything he sent our way sounded like it hit Rip. My friend made too inviting a target.
Several seconds into the disagreement, I got the feeling someone I couldn't see might be involved in his efforts at our assassination. Bullets seemed to fly past my head from a number of different directions. When my hat flew off and dropped to the ground, about three feet to my right, I knew for certain at least one more shooter was behind us. Turned toward Rip, dug my toes in, and pushed him sideways.
We landed near the lip of the boardwalk. Four to six inches of overhanging lumber, and a rapidly rotting water trough, offered a small margin of shelter. The reddish-gray cloud bank had Hardy firing at a spot in the air, where he thought we still stood. I crawfished around so I could see back toward the Matador.
"You hit, Rip?" I yelled over my shoulder.
"Yeah. But don't think the poor shootin' dung weevil has done too much damage yet, Lucius."
Had barely got myself settled when a feller poked his head from the alleyway between the hotel and Breedlove's store. Sent several well-placed shots his direction. Most splintered big chunks of wood from the building's framing as close to his bobbing noggin as I could get them. By then, I'd burned up all the powder in both pistols and had to go for the one in the holster snugged against my back. Set the back-shooting scum on his heels.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Boz hop from the jail's porch with a flame-spitting Colt in each hand. He walked directly toward the back-shooter's hidey-hole and fired a shot for every step he took. By the time he got to the middle of the street, the gunfire stopped as suddenly as it began. Got quiet enough for me to hear my wounded friend's ragged breathing.
Waited a second, or so, before I crawled over to help Rip. He'd rolled onto his back and held one saddlebag-sized paw over a spot in his upper chest; and at the same time, tried to cover a second hole in his lower right side with the other.
"How bad is it with you, friend?" I asked.
"Oh, had worse, Lucius. Gotta admit the one he put down low really pains me some. Hope it ain't so, but feels like the sorry skunk punched a hole in my gut."
Boz ran up, dropped to one knee beside his good friend, and said, "He ain't killed you, has he, Rip?"
"Don't think so, Boz, but he done went and hurt me—pretty good."
Boz jerked at the tail of Rip's bloody shirt. Ugly ragged hole, the size of my thumb, leaked life from a spot about two inches above the big man's gun belt. Boz ripped a chunk of the shirt away, wadded the faded material up, and stuffed it into the hole.
"Go get Doc Adamson, Lucius, and for Christ's sake hurry." The concern in Boz's voice shocked me into action.
12
"BASTARDS DO GET LUCKY"
THE ENTIRE HARDY Tingwell-led dustup took place but a few doors down from the doctor's office. Sawbones appeared through the drifting haze like an angel sent down from heaven about the time I'd taken my second step. Damn near ran into him.
People poured from the doorways of every shop and saloon to gawk. We moved Rip from the street to a leather-covered table in Adamson's office. Sawbones wouldn't let me, or Boz, stay while he tended our wounded amigo. Agitated physician forced us outside. Our
strenuous objections at being excluded carried no weight. The doc proved right forceful when confronted with an emergency situation.
We found a place to sit on the boardwalk a few doors down the street. Boz said, "You see who did this, Lucius?"
"Hell, yes. Leastways, I saw one of them well enough to identify him. It was Hardy Tingwell. Crazier of the Tingwell bunch confronted us where Rip fell. Cussed us, drew first, and fired the opening volley. Happened damned quick. Got mighty hot before you stepped in and put a stop to it. Think if you hadn't got to the shooter behind us, we might've been looking up from the bottom of a newly dug grave tomorrow morning."
About then Ruby ran up, threw herself down beside me, and wept like a baby. She clung to my neck and kept saying, "God, I thought they'd killed you. I thought they'd killed you."
Took some serious talking before I finally got the girl calmed down enough to walk her back to the jail. Once we got inside, I thought she'd never stop kissing me. Course I didn't object much.
"Boz told me not to go outside, but I couldn't stay back here and not know what happened to you, Lucius."
"I know, darlin', but you needn't worry. Don't think any of these local badmen could hit a bull in the ass with a Napoleon cannon."
She rested her head on my chest and said, "Yes, but bastards do get lucky. Like the one who shot Rip. You know the old saying. Sometimes even a blind pig will find an acorn."
"Yeah, well, Hardy Tingwell is about as near being a blind pig as anyone walking upright can get when it comes to handling a pistol. Soon as I can locate his sorry self, I'm gonna see to it he spends the next few years in the state penitentiary for attempted murder of a Texas Ranger. Either that, or kill him deader than a fence post."
Ruby didn't like it one little bit when I made her stay inside. She said, "Morgan's dead. I don't have anything to fear now. No reason for me to hide any longer."
"Don't be too sure of that, darlin'," I countered. "His father and brother want revenge. They pointed the open muzzle of it at Rip and me today. Next time, they might come for you. Whole family's nuttier than your grandma's fruitcake. Just can't predict what they might try next. Woman-killing don't seem too far out of question for folks as loopy as these."
She did eventually calm herself enough for me to run back down the street and check on Rip. Doc said, "Man's got the constitution of a longhorn steer. Bullet hole up high wasn't as bad as it first appeared. Didn't hit anything of any great importance. Bounced off one of those conchos on his vest. Nick in his lower left side went all the way through. Have it plugged up now. If the bleeding stops, he'll be fine. Should the wound fester, he could yet die from blood poisoning. Pray for the first one, boys."
Boz stayed with Rip. He said, "You'd best keep a close eye on Ruby, Lucius. I'd be willing to bet my father's ranch Bull will kill the girl the first chance he gets." His dark assertion sounded mighty ominous to me. Took his advice. Stuck close to the jail for the next few days.
Turned out Rip had more hard bark clinging to his big ole self than we had any right to expect. He started getting better by the following morning. In spite of some blood loss, a right scary prognosis from Adamson, and the ever-present possibility of lethal infection, he sat up and demanded something to eat late that afternoon.
Two days after being shot, he'd pulled himself from the bed, and claimed he was more than ready to ride out and bring Hardy Tingwell to book for his crimes. Took Boz, me, the doc, and Ruby to get him back into bed with the promise that he'd do as told until his life was no longer in jeopardy.
Once the dust settled some, Boz and me talked about going out to the Tingwell place and dragging Hardy back by the scruff of the neck ourselves, or just shooting the hell out of him. Being as how there were only the two of us left, we had to discard any plans like that. Boz sent word to Captain Culpepper as to our predicament. We asked for some reinforcements, but true to form, the captain simply wired back and informed us of the reality we faced.
Boz held the telegram out to arm's length and read, "Am unable to send you boys any assistance at this time. Have similar situations just as pressing in several other equally dangerous areas. Should the state of affairs deteriorate further, wire me immediately. Militia may be your only salvation. Remain certain you will find a way to bring about a suitable resolution to the problem. Good luck. Signed, Captain H. W. Culpepper."
"Damn, Boz. We're kind of hanging out in the breeze with our drawers down around our knees, aren't we?"
My friend dropped the message on Marshal Stonehill's desk. He sat for some time in deep thought and stared at the paper. Pushed it around with the tip of his finger as though he'd found a new form of bug that, while interesting, tended toward a state of creepy-crawly ugliness he didn't care for.
"You're right, Lucius, appears like we're totally alone and way out on a limb here. Awful part of the whole ugly shebang is that no matter how this mess turns out, we'll end up gettin' blamed if it goes bad."
We decided it best to stick close to town and hope the situation didn't get any worse. Two or three days passed and everything stayed pretty quiet. Course, such serenity tends toward lulling a man into a false sense of security.
Rip kept getting better. Ruby and I kept getting closer. Boz kept getting more nervous with each passing minute. Then, late on the afternoon of the third day, just about dusk, I found out why.
We'd settled into a pair of cane-bottomed chairs out on the boardwalk for what we hoped would be a peaceful evening of cigar smoke and manly bullshit. I'd almost snoozed off when I heard Boz mutter, "I'll just be damned to a smoldering, maggot-infested Hades. What new form of hell-sent devil have we got visiting with us now?"
Pushed my hat to the back of my head and glanced to the end of the street where he stared. Man on a pinto pony that looked tired enough to drop in its tracks came swaying into town. Feller wore a flat-brimmed black hat pulled low on his brow, faded-blue cotton shirt, large blood-red bandanna, and black canvas pants. Pair of silver-plated, bone-handled Colt pistols hung from a double-row cartridge belt that held a line of shotgun shells and a second row of .45-caliber pistol ammunition. Heavy, gold-inlaid English Greener rested across his saddle. Mahogany stock of the weapon appeared to have been polished to a high shine. An unlit cigar dangled from beneath his long droopy mustache. Red dust fogged up around him like he'd ridden straight from the gates of Hell.
Boz moaned, leaned forward, and rested his head in his hands. "Jesus Christ Almighty have mercy. As my grandfather always liked to say, just when you think it can't get any worse, it sure as hell does."
"You know him, Boz?"
"Yes, indeed. Think every lawman in Texas knows who he is, even if they've never had the pleasure of meeting the man face-to-face. His name's Ignatius Claude Winters. Few friends he ever had, who still count themselves among the living, call him Icy."
"You're just foolin' with me, right? Icy Winters? For real and true? Shotgun Winters? Highest-paid assassin living? Hear tell his name gets mentioned with almost every well-known murder for hire in the West."
"In the flesh. He could well be the meanest, most dangerous son of a bitch in Texas, Lucius. Personally, can't call to mind any man as bad. He's a perambulating dealer of death and destruction. Gonna be interesting to see which way he jumps—Tingwell or Pitt. We should be able to surmise something useful by the saloon he picks to tie up in front of."
"Quincey Tull, a friend from over Waco way, said Winters comes into a town, visits the saloons, pool halls, and barbershops, announces his presence, and offers to kill anyone you'd like to have dead for three hundred dollars. Is that true, Boz?"
"I've heard the same tale for years myself. It's true enough that bodies usually start poppin' up in ditches within a week or so after Icy's arrival—most of 'em shotgunned from behind. Be willing to bet my horse we'll have dead Tingwell or Pitt riders turn up in a matter of days, maybe even hours."
"We've got a full plate of problems without a skunk like him making more."
> "True enough. You know, I once spoke with a reputable gent from over in Uvalde who claimed to have been getting a shave the morning Icy made one of his offers. But as far as I know, nobody has ever been able to prove such accusations. Good many folk with murdered relatives have tried. Think he spends about as much time in court as most crooked lawyers and easy-to-buy-off judges."
"Isn't he the one folks over in Comanche were absolutely certain murdered their sheriff?" I asked.
"Well, that's what they thought. And your rendition is the tale what gets told anytime that particular killing is mentioned. But thinkin' and provin' are about as far apart as where we are from a full moon. Unfortunately, as was the case with all the other murders attached to his name, nobody in Comanche seen nothin'. He's one hell of a hard killer to pin down."
We watched with newly focused interest as Winters guided his stringy mustang to the front of the Matador, climbed down, and swaggered inside. Arrogant assassin rode right by us on his way to the saloon. Passed within thirty feet of our spot on the boardwalk. Never so much as acknowledged he'd seen us.
"Well, Boz, he picked the Tingwell crew's cow-country cantina. What do you think it means? Is he here to work for Bull, or to kill anyone who rides for the old man and has guts enough to show up at the Matador today?"
My friend slapped a dusty leg with his hat and said, "Don't know. Could be either one, I suppose."
"Thought you said we would be able to tell something from the saloon he picked."
"I've been wrong before, amigo."
"Not a very comforting assessment, ole son, given our situation. I mean, look at who's riding for Tingwell. John Roman Hatch, Casper Longstreet, and today, Icy Winters shows up and heads into the Matador. Our situation, as Cap'n Culpepper called it, seems to have got a lot worse in the passage of about two minutes."
Boz lowered his head, shook all over like a wet dog, and said, "Suppose we're gonna have to stroll over and talk with the murderous skunk for a spell."