by J. Lee Butts
“Hayden, dear man, how wonderful of you to stop in,” she whispered as her lips brushed my ear. “Could you find nothing to do at home? No postholes to dig, animals to feed, or barns to clean out?” A playful grin danced across her lips and she dug at my ribs with her thumb.
“No, darlin’. I spent my morning visiting with Mr. Wilton.”
Her eyebrows knotted up and deep creases slashed across her forehead. “Ah. He brought another assignment, no doubt.”
“Yes. Unfortunately, I must leave early tomorrow.”
“I see. So I’ll have the privilege of dinner at Julia’s and a quiet evening at home with my husband?” She flashed a wicked grin and pulled my hand to her waist.
“I can’t think of a better way to spend my time than having a meal with the most beautiful woman west of the Mississippi.” Kissed her hand, then her forehead, and whispered, “This bud of love, by summer’s ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.”
She leaned heavily against me—her head buried in the folds of my coat—and said, “How can any woman resist a man who quotes Shakespeare, especially Romeo and Juliet.”
I felt sure my arrival at the ferry across the Arkansas would be well ahead of my new associates. Couldn’t have fired that shot any farther from the mark. They had been on the scene long enough to cook coffee and smoke half a cigar each by the time I made my appearance.
Barnes stood and offered me a cup of remarkably good up-and-at-‘juice that he called Reed’s Special Early Morning Belly Wash. Other marshals, jailers, and posse men turned out the kind of wake-me-up drink that could float a windmill wrench. Never could ferret out Barnes’s special recipe, but it sure was tasty stuff.
Carlton got a puzzled look on his face as he blew over the surface of the dark liquid in his cup. “What the hell is that?” He pointed to a spot behind me.
“That’s Caesar. He’ll tag along, if you don’t mind.”
Barnes rested his chin in his hand and studied the dog like he’d just discovered a whole new species of animal. “You sure that’s a dog, Tilden? Looks most like a little fuzzy bear to me. Ain’t never seen a dog that big before in my entire life.”
“Well, I think he’s a dog. Acts like one, most of the time.”
Carlton pulled his hat off and scratched his head. “What the hell does he act like the rest of the time?”
“My guardian angel. Don’t make any kind of move like you are about to do me harm. Several years ago—out in the wilds just this side of the Arkansas before you cross over into Dodge—he bit a Texan’s entire ass off.”
“Aw, go on with you. The whole thing?” Carlton turned away from the dog and held his hat over his own backside.
“Yep, took off the whole thing. Poor old boy never sat another saddle or drove another steer. Heard tell he shriveled up and died a few days later. You know, when you take off the most important part of a Texican, they don’t usually live very long.”
Barnes burst our laughing. People on the other side of the Arkansas must have heard him. Carlton got all red in the face, slapped his hat against his leg, and said, “Well, let’s get this traveling doo-dah parade and animal show on the road, boys. We’re losing time and money standing around here listening to lies about how dangerous your goddamned dog is. You don’t have any more surprises for us, do you, Mr. Tilden?”
“Haven’t seen him yet, but I’m fairly certain a friend of mine might be tagging along at a distance. He’ll probably come into camp later this evening, or maybe just be there when we wake up in the morning. Then again, he might not show up at all. I just never know for sure.”
Barnes kicked at the coals of their fire, then pushed the soot-covered coffeepot into his saddlebag. “Done heard ’bout your Indian shadow, Mr. Tilden. Old Bear you call him, I think. Goodly number of bad men from the territories sure do hate to hear it when you and that red gentleman set out on their trail.”
“Well, he isn’t really an Indian. Captured by them early in his life, lived with various tribes in the Nations off and on for almost fifty years, but he’s still white underneath all that time and previous education.”
Didn’t take us but a few minutes to get everything together, load onto the ferry, and hit the far bank of the Arkansas, where the only law in evidence was pinned to our chests. Barnes set a steady and easy-to-maintain pace. Thought he’d be in a bigger hurry, but we started south and west like we had plenty of time. Most of the morning no one spoke, but after we stopped for a bite to eat—and then struck out again—Marshal Reed seemed ready to talk.
He pulled up beside me on his monster of a sorrel once we got under way again, and I couldn’t resist the opportunity to get the conversation going with a little dig of my own. “You know, Marshal Reed, you can make fun of my dog if you like, but that’s the tallest horse I’ve seen in years. Most men could get a nosebleed from way up there where you are. Gotta be all of sixteen hands.”
“Almost seventeen, Marshal Tilden. Man my size needs an animal with some mass and muscle to him like this here big ole sorrel gelding. He’s powerful beyond describing and can run with the best of ’em.”
From behind us Carlton called out, “Don’t race with him, Hayden, unless you’re just determined to lose your money. Seen him take the poke of many a man seated on some little sprinter that was supposed to be a real dirt-burner. Ole Big Red there took them all down.”
“Well, pretty sure my horse Thunder here could give Big Red a run for your money, but we’ll wait and do it another time when we don’t have quite as much action in our futures.” I said it with a smile and tipped my hat in Barnes’s direction.
Reed chuckled and patted the sorrel’s neck. “Can save you the money and Thunder’s pride, Hayden. This red hoss would shuck the two of you right down to the cob in a full-bore two-mile race. And when it comes to stamina—I’ve not seen the animal yet that could hold up the way he can.”
Carlton pulled alongside on the black marshal’s right and said, “Well, when you two get finished bragging about these oat-burnin’ rubber necks, it’d be nice if we could talk for a bit about where we’re going. I know you’ve already got your mind made up, Barnes. Sure would like to be in on our destination.”
Barnes swung his head back and forth as he tried to keep us both included in his assessment of our situation. “Couple of days ago I talked with some gentlemen who’d been out in the Nations doing maintenance work for the M.K.&.T., Flat Thumb Chester Waits and Beadle Davis. They both be a-knowin’ Smilin’ Jack and Blocker. Said they seen them fugitives at Drink-water’s Store ’bout ten days past. Them bad boys were traveling in the company of at least two other men—Lawerence Westbrook and One-Eyed Bucky Stillwell. Paine and Blocker would be a double handful all by theirselves. With Westbrook and Stillwell added to the mix, it’s probably gonna be a real hair ball if we don’t handle it right. Ole Smilin’ Jack would take great pleasure in killing any or all of us, but that damned crazy Bucky Stillwell would laugh the whole time he was a-cutting our heads off afterwards.”
“Isn’t Drinkwater’s that place out near the foot of the Arbuckle Mountains about forty miles west of Tishomingo?” I threw the question up in the air. Either one of them could have answered, but Carlton jumped right in.
“That’s the one. But do you think they’ll still be there by now, Barnes?”
“Maybe not, but they’ll be back. Smilin’ Jack tends to set up shop in an area and stick close to whatever hideout he’s done wallowed himself down into till things get less hot. Be willing to bet they’re camped somewhere ’tween the Santa Fe Railroad tracks and Tishomingo, and are coming in to Drinkwater’s every so often for supplies and the like. Lot safer than visitin’ the Chickasaw Nation’s capital.”
Three days later, we’d camped a bit west of the Muddy Boggy when a scab-covered fellow who looked like a farmer rode up on a scrawny mule. Old Bear still hadn’t made an appearance yet, and I wasn’t sure if he was nearby. I’d got to the point where I thought I could
feel his presence, but never knew for sure till he turned up. The raggedy farmer slid painfully off the back of his bony animal and addressed us as a group.
“Ye’ns be them lawdogs from Fort Smith?” He had trouble getting anything much through split lips and a mouth crusted with dried blood.
“That’s right, but how did you know who we were?” I asked. We had avoided all the ranches, country stores, well-known watering holes, and railroad stops. So it came to me as something of a surprise that he’d found us so easily.
“Hell’s fire, they’s folks been a-watchin’ you boys ever since you crossed the Arkansas. Ain’t one of you lawmen leaves Fort Smith but the whole countryside don’t know of it. News travels ahead of you faster’n a Kansas cyclone. Bet they ain’t been ten minutes of the past two days that I couldn’t of found ye if’n I’d been in any shape to travel. Had to wait fer ye to come to me. The wife and me live ’bout two mile yonder ways.”
He pointed to the southeast, but did so with what appeared to be some pain. “Five day ago Smilin’ Jack Paine and three other’ns come to my place askin’ fer water and sech. Couldn’t very well refuse ’em. Knowed ‘fer bad boys. So I tried bein’ neighborly. Thought they’s gonna leave when they got what they asked fer. But then the wife came out’n the house. She’s a Chickasaw gal. Fine-lookin’ woman. I suppose that’s what they actually wanted ’stead of the water and sech. Anyway, they beat the red-eyed hell out of me and had their way with her. Thought we’uz dead ’uns sure as hell’s hot, but fer some reason only God can explain, we still be with the livin’.”
Carlton shook his head. “They’ve done this before, friend. Tonight, when you hit your knees, best heap a pile of thanks on that God of yours for watching over you and your wife.”
The battered plow-pusher nodded, mounted the skeletal mule, and led us to his home. Compared to what most people now call a house, it wasn’t much. Raw, rough-cut boards for walls and split shingles for a roof over a single room housed the entire family. Chickens, guinea fowl, cats, dogs, and several children occupied the same dusty, manure-splattered spots in his meager yard. Cows and a few horses grazed in fields that surrounded the sad place. Only thing I noticed that might have indicated a woman’s presence other than the kids was a patch of flowers at one end of the house under the only window.
Marshal Reed questioned the man closely along the way, and determined Matthew Conrad had legally lived in the Chickasaw Nation with his wife Sarah Little Crow for at least five years. But Barnes surprised me when he asked that I speak with the man’s wife. It turned out to be one of the most difficult question-and-answer sessions I ever conducted.
She was already seated behind a curtain of rough cloth hanging from the ceiling in one corner of the room. Her English was remarkably good. Guessed later that such knowledge had to have originated at local Indian schools before she met her husband.
We lawmen all filed in together. Barnes and Carlton waited by the door. Took my seat on a crude chair that creaked and complained under my weight. I addressed my questions to the coarse drapery.
“Mrs. Conrad, my name is Hayden Tilden. I am a deputy U.S. marshal and part of a posse from Fort Smith. Your husband informed us you have been brutally assaulted by men who stopped here about a week ago. Please tell me as much as you remember so I can write it down as your legal statement to me and the other two marshals present here.”
For what seemed a long time, no sound or movement emanated from behind the cloth wall between us. Then the most musical of voices, tinged with sorrow and humiliation, came to me through that piece of pitiful rag.
“I heard Matthew talking with someone and went outside. Four white men, bristling with pistols and knives, stood a few feet from the front door drinking from our water dipper and laughing. They all stopped when they saw me. I knew immediately what they intended.” She paused and, for at least a minute, the silence allowed the clucking and other barnyard noises from outside to creep back in on her confession. Thought I heard a sniffle and a soft, stifled cough.
“The one Matthew called Smilin’ Jack chased me back to this corner. He was on top of me so fast the possibility of resistance vanished with my dress and underthings. I could hear a commotion at the door. The others took turns beating Matthew. Thank God my children are too young to understand what happened. My husband fought them till I heard one of them say, ‘I think ye’ve killed him, Bucky.’ When Paine finished with me, the others filed in one at a time and took their turn. That one-eyed man was the worst. He smelled of stale whiskey, an absence of soap, and in the end—me.” She never spoke another word while we were all present.
Not a dry eye remained when I handed Matthew Conrad the sheet of paper and pencil. “Both of you must sign this. It is of the greatest importance that Mrs. Conrad put her mark at the bottom of the page. We will need it as evidence—if there is a trial.”
Didn’t amount to anything more’n a mouthful of wasted words. I’d already made up my mind. No matter how Barnes or Carlton felt about it, none of Smilin’ Jack’s bunch would live more than a few minutes once I found them.
The sad farmer disappeared behind her flimsy wall. We waited outside the shack for almost five minutes before he returned with the paper. She had signed her name in a beautiful and much-practiced script.
“Marshal, my wife would like to take a final word with you, jus’ you,” he said as he handed me the deposition.
Stepped back inside the cabin and waited a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. She had moved to the table in the middle of the room. Long black hair pulled over her right shoulder flowed down her chest to a tiny waist. A small, pure white flower behind her left ear cut through the darkness. Likely she’d picked it from the patch below her window. But for a bluish-purple bruise on her right cheek, her ordeal was physically undetectable.
Dark brown eyes searched my face. She sounded puzzled when she asked, “Are you the man who just spoke with me?”
I removed my hat, bowed slightly, and said, “Yes, Mrs. Conrad. Hayden Tilden, at your service.”
“Marshal Tilden, my husband says you will try to arrest the men who attacked me.” A single tear slid down her left cheek.
“You can be assured of it.”
“Thank you, sir, for your efforts on my behalf. But if it would be the same to you, I’d prefer you killed them. Until they are all dead . . . my heart will never know any peace.”
There was an awkward silence between us. I couldn’t think of anything to say. When I finally found my voice again, whispered across the room to her, “Don’t trouble yourself any longer, Mrs. Conrad. If there is any way under God’s blue heaven to accomplish the end of their sorry existence, you can sleep well tonight knowing I’ll do exactly as you wish. From this moment you may think of them as dead, until I have the opportunity to put them in the ground where they justly belong.”
She blessed me with a halfhearted smile, mouthed the words “Thank you,” and burst into heartrending sobs that racked her body and shook the table she leaned on. Her husband pushed past me as I stumbled through the door and to the company of my waiting friends. We ran from that place as fast as strong horses could take us.
I pushed Thunder harder than any time since we’d chased Saginaw Bob from the Wild Horse River country to Dallas. She seemed to get better the longer we went. In spite of the boasting about their animals’ prowess, Barnes and Carlton had to work to keep up.
The vision of Sarah Little Crow Conrad’s face floated before me—between that of my mother and sister—every step of the way to a spot about five miles south and east of Drinkwater’s Store. Men who could, and would, do such things to a woman now swarmed across the Nations like a carpet of ravenous locusts. The thought of it damn near made me sick.
Barnes brought us to a halt. “We’ll stop here.” He scratched Big Red’s ears, then patted the sweaty animal’s neck.
“Why quit now?” The fire of revenge for Sarah Little Crow’s depredation raged in me like a dead ced
ar tree put to torch, and the anger came though in my voice. “We can be there in thirty minutes and get this over.”
The huge black marshal and Carlton, who at the time could stand under a clothesline in a thunderstorm and not get wet, stepped from their animals, removed their saddles, and hobbled the horses to graze.
Barnes spread his blanket, reclined with his head against his saddle, then pulled his hat down over his eyes. “There be plenty of time, Hayden,” he said. “Bet them ole boys be around tomorrow or the next day or whenever we gets there.”
“What makes you think that, Barnes?” The question had a somewhat bitter edge on it that I regretted as soon as it came out of my mouth.
He lifted his hat from his face and said, “Because, Marshal Tilden, they be a-thinkin’ they’s safe.”
We’d barely had time to make camp when Carlton threw his saddle roll on the ground, pulled out a set of the most ragged, nasty clothing I’d ever seen, and began shucking what he had on.
They both smiled and winked as I shook my head in disbelief. “What the hell are you doing?” I asked.
“Little disguise, Hayden. Them boys know Barnes by sight, and I’d be willing to bet a year’s pay that if you strolled up to Drinkwater’s carrying your Winchester, they’d figure out who you are pretty quick too. Fortunately, Carlton J. Cecil ain’t nearly as famous or as good-looking as either one of you fellers, yet. These duds here and my ugly face should fool ‘if they’re still around. Once we know whether they’re about or not, plans for taking them should be easier and it’ll make the whole thing safer for all of us.”
I still couldn’t believe what he was about to do. “So you’re gonna dress yourself up like a broken-down drunk and just stroll up to Drinkwater’s like you belong there.”
“Thash it, Tildrink, my man.” His slurred speech was punctuated by a splash of homemade whiskey from a bottle he sloshed into the air and walked into as the drops headed for the ground. Before my disbelieving eyes, Barnes’s laughing companion transformed himself into the most pitiful-looking inebriate in the Indian Nations—and it took less than five minutes.