The day was fresh, and the rain was drying fast as the sun was growing hot. By ten the freshness would go out of the air and it would turn sticky, like someone had poured hot honey over the woods and mountains. It was that time of year when the weather could change from one thing to another as quickly as a child can change its mind.
Choctaw, to my surprise, could still find sign of where our bunch had traveled. He said it was because they had those cows with them when they passed through. The cows had torn the earth up a lot. I looked. I couldn’t tell the difference from what the rain had done and what the cows and horses had done a few days back. As I said, I’m not a great tracker, though I can follow fresh sign all right, but Choctaw could follow a ghost in moccasins.
By late afternoon we come upon a white man walking. He didn’t walk like someone used to it. He was a heavy, bowlegged outfit of a man without a hat, and he was holding a hand to the side of his head. When he seen us he threw up a hand. “Hold on there, men. I been robbed.”
We got down off our horses and helped the man to sit on a fallen tree by the side of the trail.
“Who robbed you?”
“Three men,” he said. “One of them I knowed, so that’s why I think I’m alive. They gave him me to kill, and he took me off in the woods and said I’d wake up with a headache, and before I could ask him what he meant I woke up with a headache. I see two of each of you, by the way, but I doubt you is two sets of twins. And you got all them horses.”
“You’re going to need some bed rest,” I said.
“I ain’t far from my house if I can take the right trail.”
“There’s only one,” Choctaw said.
“Not the way I’m seeing,” he said.
“What’s your name?” I said.
“People call me Bump. Now that I got this lick on my head, that fits right nice. You got a chaw?”
Neither me nor Choctaw had a chaw.
“Smoke?”
Choctaw rolled Bump a cigarette, licked it closed, put it in Bump’s mouth, and lit a match to it.
Bump took a few puffs.
“Bump, who was it you knew?” Choctaw asked.
“Doolittle, that little shit. He used to work for me. He’s all right, I reckon, but he has a tendency to stray here and there, and now I’m mad at him, hitting me in the head like that.”
“He was supposed to shoot you,” I said.
“Yeah, well, that’s true, but I tell you, my head stays like this I won’t even be able to sort my socks. There’ll be too many.”
“What did they steal from you and when?” I asked him.
“I been walking all day…Well, I laid out some on the ground in some trees for a while. Yesterday near evening was when Doolittle hit me. They already had some cows with them when they come up on me, three, I think, and then they took my cows. Eight of them. And my horse. I was driving the cows on some green range. I don’t own it. No one does that I know of. I run them there now and then to give them a kind of spring tonic. Hell, they’re not prime cows or nothing. Just some old sagalongs. Some I was gonna butcher and smoke the meat; a couple are milk cows. I’ve had them awhile. I like my milk. They’ll need milking, too, and I told them that. You gonna steal them, I says, then you gotta milk ’em, otherwise they’re in pain, and in time they can quit giving milk. I don’t think they was listening. But I tell you, they don’t milk them, they’ll be bawling by sundown.”
“Any idea where they was going?”
He shook his head.
“I have an idea,” Choctaw said. “There’s a fellow named Chet Williamson on the other side of the bluff, two, three days’ ride at their pace with the cows. He buys stolen anything that can be made into meat. He’s a butcher. He’s good at buying what ain’t his and butchering what ain’t his. We all know he does it, but ain’t no one ever caught him red-handed. He buys cows low and butchers them right away and makes his money off the meat by selling high. He don’t ask much in the way of questions. Them rustlers need some quick money, is my guess, and they’re gathering cows and horses, which Williamson also buys, kills, and smokes and says is beef. He wants what you got, you’re quick in and quick out. By the time money has changed hands and he’s got the stock, Williamson’s sons go straight to the butchering. They’re all butchers, though I heard one of them likes to make brooms or some such horseshit.”
“Oh, hell,” said Bump. “They butcher them. Ah, shit. I hate that to happen to my milk cows. They’re like family. They’re the only family I got, actually.”
“Maybe we can get to them before they sell the cows,” I said. “Tell me about them.”
Doolittle we all knew about by now, and then he described one that Choctaw said was definitely Pinocchio Joe. Then Bump said, “And the other one looked like he had been caught on fire and it had been put out by a stampede. Not only was he ugly, he was also mean, and he was in charge. I thought him and the long-nosed one was at each other’s throats a little, on account of I think Long Nose thought he should be running things. Doolittle, he don’t care who runs things. He’s good to figure out what day it is and which hole to shit out of. He wasn’t much of a worker when he worked for me. I thought I might as well be honest about that.”
“That’s a note we’ll make,” I said. “All right, we’ll get you to your place then go after these assholes.”
“Hell with that. Go on and do your job. My place ain’t far, soon as I figure out which of the trails I see is really there.”
“We can set you on it,” Choctaw said.
“Just get my cows back,” he said. “Especially my milk cows.”
“We’ll do what we can,” I said.
We set Bump on the trail, and with his hand to his head, he went wandering along. Back on our horses Choctaw picked up their trail again, and we followed.
As we rode along, Choctaw said, “The cows are slowing them down quite a bit, and now that they’ve added some they’ll go slower still. We’ll catch up with them by nightfall is my figure. Not then, early the next morning.”
“Good,” I said.
“I want to remind you,” he said. “I only signed on to track.”
“When we find them, you can go back if you like.”
“Just so that’s understood that I can if I want to. I ain’t going to, just wanted it understood I’m my own man.”
“You’re sticking, then?”
“I think so, yeah.”
“When will I know so?” I said. “Something like that I ought to have a better idea of, considering the circumstances.”
“Yeah, I’m sticking.”
“I ought not look a gift horse in the mouth, but why?”
“You ain’t bossy like some of the others. Bass—damn, now, there’s a boss. I think him having been a slave taught him how to be a boss, too. He learned from his master. You know, story is he run off from being a slave, got clean free, and never went back. He was a good friend to his master is the story I heard, and they got in an argument over a card game, and Bass hit him and then run off and stayed run off.”
“Good for him,” I said.
“Yeah. But I think he did it not just because he was a slave but because he wanted to be boss. He likes being boss a little too much. Had his way, he’d have slaves.”
“But you’re fine with me?”
“You got an easy manner, Nat.”
It was all birdsong and roses right then, but we had yet to find them, and sometimes if you hunt bear, the bear wins. A thing I had solid in my mind as we rode along higher into the Ozark Mountains.
33
What I told you about how weather in that part of the country can change in the blink of an eye was coming true. The skies had darkened again, and not only was rain threatening to wet our heads, it was also threatening to darken our trail and wash it away. Choctaw had been able to follow it so far, but even he said another rain and he might not be able to stay on it, least not without some serious hunting here and there to pick up on it again. He sai
d that wasn’t a worry, though, as he was certain where they were driving them cows and he didn’t need to track them anymore.
It made sense, but then again you can make all kinds of guesses that can get your ass in a tight crack. I was hoping we wasn’t making one, and I was hoping it wasn’t going to rain before we come up on them, as that would make our business more difficult. That hope got wet not long after.
It began to drizzle, and then real rain came down. It was a cold rain, driven by wind that near slashed you out of the saddle.
As it was dark with cloud cover and rain, we wasn’t trying to follow sign anymore. We pulled on our slickers, and Choctaw headed us where he thought they might be going. By nightfall the rain was still going full blast, and it was very dark, and we come upon a huddle of trees, hardwoods that had broad limbs and full leaves, and we decided that was the place to camp. As we was preparing to do that, we seen a red glow about three hundred yards away. Sitting on our horses just inside the trees, we could see that it was a huge fire built into the front of a cave that was hollowed out of a rise of rock; the kind of caves that litter parts of the Ozarks. What we couldn’t figure was just how far it went back, but we could hear cows mooing in there, and a couple of the critters seemed distressed.
“That’s them that are in need of milking,” Choctaw said.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Well, I don’t reckon you plan on just riding in on them.”
“I don’t. This is as good a place out of the rain as we got. I say we get our horses fed and do some planning.”
We dismounted, leaving the saddles on in case we needed to ride quick, and led our horses into the thickness of the trees and put feed bags on their snouts and tied them to tree trunks. We stood there watching them eat, glancing now and then at that big warm fire and that large-mouth cave. Here we was, representing the law, and we was cold and wet, and there they was, representing assholes everywhere, and they was warm and dry. That alone made me want to shoot them.
It was then that we seen a figure coming across the clearing between the cave and the trees. I think he had been coming all along, but because of the rain and the shadows we hadn’t made him out. He was wearing a hat pulled down tight and a rain slicker.
“It’s a little fellow,” Choctaw said.
“Doolittle?”
“My figure.”
We moved through the trees, in line to where we thought he’d enter, and waited.
Our man edged into the trees and walked right between us, as we was hid up behind some elms. As he got past us, Choctaw stepped out and whacked him a good one in the back of the head with the Yellow Boy barrel, knocking him down.
“Aw, hell, that hurt, shit, damn it,” said the man on the ground.
“Shut up or I’ll give you another one,” Choctaw said.
“That hurt,” the man said.
“I reckon so,” I said. “You Doolittle?”
“Who wants to know?” the man said.
“A fellow that’s going to smack you again with this rifle,” Choctaw said.
“Yeah, I’m Doolittle. What have I done to you?”
“Breathe air,” I said. “I’m Nat Love, deputy marshal, and you are under arrest for theft and a bunch of stuff that would wear me out to list.”
“You ain’t got nothing on me,” Doolittle said.
“Let me think,” I said. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. I got papers on you and your friends.”
“They ain’t all that friendly,” he said.
“I also got word from Bump that you hit him in the head a lot harder than you just got hit.”
“Goddamn it, I knew I should have gone on and shot him. I liked him, though. That’s what my problem has been all my life, just like my mama told me. She said my good heart would lead to my downfall.”
“That’s one way of looking at it,” I said. “Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to tie you up and gag you.”
“Oh, hell, not a gag. I been gagged before. That’s just miserable.”
“Shut up,” Choctaw said.
“We will gag you and tie you up, or we can just go ahead and shoot you. If we shoot you, that will let your companions know we’re here, but on the downside for you, you will be dead.”
“I don’t like that side of it at all. Go ahead and gag me.”
We tied his hands behind his back with some leather strips, bound his feet, sat him up against a tree, tied a rope to the bind that held his hands, and wrapped that around the tree.
Choctaw said, “You are in luck, Doolittle, as I got some dirty socks that will fit right into your mouth. But let me tell you a thing or two. I seen a man gagged once that fought the gag so much he swallowed it, and that didn’t do him any good, I can assure you. You got to be still and wait for us to return or you might choke.”
“And what if you get killed?”
“That wouldn’t be good for you at all. We get killed, and your buddies get killed, too—or don’t know you’re here or don’t care—you’re going to be in quite a pickle, now, ain’t you?”
“I reckon I will be. But it don’t seem right I got to root for you fellows.”
“It is a confusion,” I said. “Why was you out here anyway?”
“Looking for a place to shit. At least I don’t have that problem no more. It’s all stove up inside of me now.”
“You can’t shit in the cave?” Choctaw said.
“I suggested it, but my pards was against it.”
“I can see that,” I said.
“So you came out in the rain to shit in the woods?” Choctaw said.
“I’m modest. They’re going to miss me, you know?”
“Maybe not soon enough,” I said.
Choctaw got one of his socks and some rags out of his saddlebag. You could smell that sock even with the rain and the wind blowing. It wasn’t pleasant.
“You really going to use that sock?” Doolittle said.
“I am.”
“Ain’t you got no clean ones?”
“I do.”
“So you’re just being mean?”
“I am. I used it to wipe a little cow doo off my boots when I changed socks yesterday, so there might be something in them you can chew on.”
Choctaw pushed the socks up close to Doolittle’s face.
“Oh, that’s smells terrible. I’ve changed my mind. Go on and shoot me.”
“Don’t tempt us,” I said.
Choctaw shoved the sock in Doolittle’s mouth and tied it in there with a couple bands of what was now wet rags. When he was done, he stood up from where he had been squatting and patted Doolittle on the head.
“Be good, little boy,” he said.
There wasn’t no choice but to go to them, as pretty soon they might wonder what happened to Doolittle. Way we decided to come at it was I’d go to the right, far around, and try and come along the line of rocks that led to the cave and surprise them at the mouth of it. Choctaw would cross the clearing off to the left side of the fire. We figured if they saw him at all before he was right on them, they’d think it was Doolittle coming back, though the problem there was Choctaw was considerable taller. I pointed this out to him, and he said, “I’ll hunker down.”
“Hunker good,” I said. “Give me about a five-minute lead before you start hunkering, though.”
I took my deputy marshal badge out of my pocket and lifted up my slicker and pinned it on my shirt and set out along the trees with my rifle in hand until I was far right of the cave. Then I took to a trot across the clearing, out of their line of sight, or so I hoped. I glanced back and saw Choctaw had started his way toward them. With all that rain and wind blowing, I didn’t think they figured it was anyone other than Doolittle until he was right up on them. I was close enough I could really hear them cattle in the cave now, and I could hear voices, but not what was being said. I felt pretty confident we had put the sneak on them, but as I reached the rock wall, I looked back and seen a surprising sight.
It
looked like a giant rabbit wearing a hat. Doolittle had somehow freed himself from the tree. Rope was rotten or the knot wasn’t good, I didn’t know, but there he come, his hands still tied behind his back and his feet bound. He was hopping up and down, right past Choctaw, who decided to go to one knee there in the clearing. I could make them both out from where I was, and since there was two of them, if the men inside the cave looked up, they’d see them both and know they couldn’t both be Doolittle.
Now, I got to give it to Doolittle; he could hop fast. He went right on past Choctaw and just kept on his mission. We could have shot him, but that wouldn’t have helped us none, as our shots would have announced us. I decided it was best I moved on toward the cave, and just before I started in that direction I seen Choctaw stand up from where he squatted and start out after Doolittle the Rabbit, most likely to brain him again with his rifle.
I hadn’t no more than pressed against the rock wall and started moving when shots rang out, and Doolittle the Rabbit caught one and stumbled but kept to his bound feet and went back to hopping. The gag had shifted, and he had managed to spit the sock out, cause he started calling out, “It’s me—don’t shoot.”
Instead of stopping fire, this seemed to draw it. Bullets ripped from the cave, and down went Doolittle, right on his face. Then them inside the cave took note of Choctaw, who had tried to widen his position, and I heard a shot and seen him toss his head back and yelp and fall to his knees, and then to his face.
I didn’t know the disposition of either him or the rabbit and had no choice but to continue on my path to the mouth of the cave. When I wasn’t no more than twenty feet from it, I seen a man step out of it, just past the fire that was raging inside the cave. The fire was hissing as the wind was blowing rain into the cave and into the fire; it was like someone was constantly spitting into it.
I knew the fellow standing there was Pinocchio Joe, because I hadn’t never seen a nose like that on anything outside of a possum. It stuck out and then hung down like a door latch at the tip.
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