by J. Lee Butts
“Shee you boysh sometime tomorrow or the nesh day.” He took a snort from the bottle and strolled off in the direction of the frontier mercantile, notions center, and watering hole where Smilin’ Jack and his bunch waited, if our luck held.
I turned to Barnes and said, “He’ll be all right out there by himself, won’t he? It is at least five miles, you know.”
“Needn’t be a-worryin’ yourself about Carlton. Better to harbor considerable concern ’bout any thang or anybody what he comes up against. He knows the way. Been there at least a dozen times. And don’t be fooled by his rough ways and sorry grammar. Out here in the wild places, the man’s smarter than a greased copperhead and meaner than an outhouse rat.”
Well, all that could have turned out to be true, and then again maybe not. At the time, I remember thinking we’d probably never see Carlton J. Cecil again. If we did, he’d most likely be dead. And if One-Eyed Bucky Stillwell had anything to say about it, we’d find the head and the body in two different places.
2
“MAN NEEDS KILLING AND DAMNED QUICK”
LIGHTFOOT FLIPPED THE cover closed on his pad and shoved it into his jacket pocket. “Sorry I have to leave in the middle of a semi-cliffhanger, boys, but another appointment down at the State House requires my presence for about two hours this afternoon. Be all right if I come in tomorrow morning around nine-thirty or maybe ten, Hayden?”
“Hey, you know it’s all okay with me, son. Show up whenever you want. Keeps us from having to spend much time talking to each other, faking a checkers game, or trying to make peace with Leona Wildbank every time we turn around.”
Carlton woke up when our friend stood. He cupped his palsied right hand over his ear and did his I’m-so-deaf-the-Second-Coming-probably-won’t-wake-me act. “What’d you say, Hayden?” His scraggly head bobbed around like an apple in a tub of water.
Raised my voice just enough to make him happy. “Said we’re always here, aren’t we?”
“Oh, hell, yes.” Then he mumbled off to himself for a second or two. “Cain’t go nowheres. Closed all the saloons and beer joints years ago. Ain’t seen a lewd woman in so long, done forgot what one looks like. By God, soiled doves, now there’s a phrase none of these young’ns get to use much, I’ll bet. My all-time favorite handle for a bawdy woman, though, was alley bat. That’s a good ’un.”
That night, after the staff got all us inmates in our respective cells, I slipped back out onto the porch. Figured if Ole bony-fingered death had plans to come for me unexpected, I would rather be in a place I actually liked more than my room. Being able to look at the night sky reminded me of sleeping on the ground in the Nations. Missed that part of my past life. No doubt about it, though, our veranda got cold after dark came in the winter, but the blanket off my bed could keep a hibernating grizzly bear warm.
Pulled a chair over to a corner where the nurses couldn’t see me, and lit one of the cigars I kept hidden in a stash above the ceiling panel over my bed. Night nurse Heddy McDonald caught me standing in the middle of my stony hospital cot one night as I fished out my loot. She promised not to tell on me. Liked her more than some of the others because of her thoughtful gesture that let me retain some of my independence, however tiny the amount.
Anyway, I sat in the dark, enjoying a rum-soaked Italian stogie called a Barotti Twist, which closely resembled a rotten tree root, and I saw them sneak Essie Bryant out. Leona did stuff like that, you know. Bet Essie had been dead all afternoon. Maybe even passed the night before. Couldn’t remember seeing her in at least a week. Guess it was altogether possible she had laid up in there for so long the smell got to somebody.
We had a terrible incident one weekend in August a couple of years ago when they forgot to check on lonesome Edgar Eastlake. Hell, he was younger than Cecil or me, but death came and got him and no one even noticed. Man had a case of the halitosis that could take paint off a Kansas barn door, and not many friends because of it. Carlton claimed a skunk got between Edgar’s teeth and died. More than once Carl yelled at Edgar and told him he should have his skunk surgically removed. He even left bottles of Listerine sitting around in Edgar’s room a time or two. Poor stinky-mouthed wretch’s mind worked kind of like a broken pocket watch, and he never could understand what Carl was ranting about or why big jugs of antiseptic mouthwash kept appearing on his dresser. Shameful thing for a poor old man like him to go out alone the way he did, though. He seemed like a nice enough sort—just cursed with a case of the feeble mind and a mouth that smelled like the bottom of a recently emptied chamber pot.
Anyway, Leona didn’t want us to see the dearly departed lugged out. So she would make the staff wait till about one or two in the morning and try to slip them past us. Said she didn’t want her little family—that’s what she called us—to get upset. Never could imagine what the woman thought we would be distressed about.
Most of us antique discards had seen more dead folks than Leona would in two lifetimes of working around one of these depots for used-up people. Some of those, feeble in mind, body, or both, even wanted the end to come. Life had worn them down to the nub, and the only thing left was the answer to the greatest of all questions. Every once in a great while, I got to feeling the same way myself. But not since the day Franklin J. Lightfoot Junior showed up. Cherry-cheeked boy made me feel like I could make it to a hundred. God almighty! 1960. Would that be a hoot or what?
Seriously doubt if it would be worth the trip, though. Between Carlton and me, we’ve seen about everything a person could imagine. The world can’t change enough between now and the sixth decade of this century to make it worth sticking around for another twelve years. Even if the answers to all our questions got revealed, how many ancient, decrepit, hundred-year-old people would give a big rat’s ass.
Back in my youth, death chased me all over Parker’s Indian Nations head down, horns out, kicking dirt in every direction trying to get in my face. Now, he creeps around behind potted plants, hides in old ladies’ comforters, and often stands by my bed when I sleep. I’ve awakened in the night and peeked at him through slitted eyes as he tried to dart behind my curtains. Saw the tricky bastard when he followed Essie out. He turned, smiled, and shook a skeletal finger at me. I was surprised by how old he’d become. For some reason I remembered him as being much younger.
“Carlton’s not coming out this morning?” Lightfoot asked, pulling out his pen.
“Afraid not, Junior. He had another one of those trying-to-die nights. Don’t expect to see him up and around for another week or so.”
“He’ll be okay, won’t he?”
“Oh, sure. He has one of these things he likes to call spells about once every two weeks or so. His diabetes puts him in bed pretty regular now. Course he don’t do a lot to help stop it. Man has all the table manners and eating habits of a rabid weasel.”
“Well, let’s get back to it. We were camped outside a place called Drinkwater’s Store, if I remember correctly.”
“You got it, Junior.”
“Oh, by the way, where was Old Bear?”
“Don’t know. Hadn’t shown up. He always came and went any time he wanted. Grew not to expect him till he put in an appearance, and most of the time he’d just materialize like a ghost. Usually when I needed him most.”
Barnes and I fished a shallow creek near our camp and just generally led the lives of layabouts for the next few days. Once farming made its brutal exit from my life for good, I readily assumed the mantle of one who had decided he would never drown himself in his own sweat—unless absolutely necessary. So, I took the lull in stride and used it to learn as much as possible about my new associate. We’d not had much chance to talk until then, and I learned pretty fast that, unless you asked him directly, Barnes Reed didn’t give out much information about his life and times.
“How long have you worked for Judge Parker, Barnes? Heard you signed up right after he got to Fort Smith.”
We were stretched out by our fire the first nig
ht after Carlton left. I’d noticed that although the Negro marshal liked to talk, it usually didn’t involve anything of any substance. Once he started on this horse thief, or a favorite gun, or land he secretly coveted, he hardly slowed enough to let me get a word in crooked. But even then, he revealed so little of himself I had to keep boring in on him to get what I wanted.
“Took a job with the Judge in ’75—July or August, as I remember it. He’d been in Fort Smith for near ’bouts three months.” His voice had the hypnotic power and depth to put a man to sleep. Knew I’d have to fight off the heavy eye to stay with him.
“What about your life before you took on a deputy marshal’s commission?”
He peered through the flames, studied my face intently. It felt as though he searched for some assurance that the things he revealed would be to a friendly listener.
“Started off like most black folk in the South. Be born in Arkansas, I think.”
“You think? You don’t know for sure?”
“Not for absolute certain. Not important anyway. Ended up living on a farm in north Texas near ’bouts the community of Gainsville.” He poked at the coals with a stick and threw me relaxed, friendly glances.
Stared across the crackling flames at his smiling, open face and remembered that my father never owned slaves. He felt it a practice beyond contempt. I always agreed with him wholeheartedly, but had to admit to my secret self I found the darker aspects of our national shame interesting because of my lack of knowledge on the subject. I suppose an inquisitive attitude about such things had its root in romanticized feelings toward warfare, chiefly the war of my childhood’s fancies.
Born in 1860, I had no memory of the death and destruction brought on by what my mother referred to as the Unpleasantness. So I made up my mind to simply plunge ahead and blurted out, “Did you have a difficult life as a slave, Barnes?”
Not sure anyone had ever asked him the question so directly. He thought it over for some time before he answered. “Not so difficult, I suppose. Not as thorny as some others when I spend a spell thinking on it. Bad times and mistreatment ain’t the point anyhow, Hayden. Was the being of the thing, don’t you see?”
Thought I knew what he meant, but wanted him to continue. “Sorry, but I don’t understand, Barnes.”
“Well, what I meant was, just being a slave was bad enough. The thing didn’t require beatings, poor food, or bad clothing. It was the being of the thing made me hate it—and Master Chauncey Ledbetter.” He quickly lapsed off into silence again and made me retrieve the thread.
“Ledbetter. I’ve heard of a family from Texas named Ledbetter. Well-known politicians and such, I think.”
“Yes. I became body servant to the family’s eldest son, Chauncey. We grew up together as children. For all the years of our early lives, I never knew a waking moment not linked to his. Owe a classic education money couldn’t buy to our shared experience. Sat next to him during instruction, listened, and kept my mouth shut about what I learned. Had it not been for my position in the Ledbetter house, I’d most likely still be illiterate and scratching out a meager living on a piece of hardscrabble, barren land somewhere in Arkansas. As you might have now noticed, I can lapse in and out of a cotton-patch version of grammar with the greatest of ease.”
“But you came to hate Chauncey Ledbetter?”
“Children grow up, Hayden. Most become their parents in spite of everything life presents them. They can’t help themselves. Chauncey turned into a young man given to the worst aspects of his brutal father’s personality. Year by year our relationship soured, and by the time the Civil War arrived, his conduct bordered on the unbearable.”
Rolled onto my back and stared into the inky darkness. Always felt closer to God sleeping on the ground. The great separation of earth and sky vanished when the blackness came. The whole of heaven seemed to press down on me like the love I’d left behind in Fort Smith. I’ve always believed that any night on the ground looking at a sky decorated with millions of flashing dots applied to the great void as though by God’s silver-tipped brush beat sleeping in bed by a mile.
“He fought for the South, didn’t he, Barnes?”
“Yes, and for a time, I fought with him at Chickamauga, Missionary Ridge, and Pea Ridge. Hellish places no one should have to have seen. But we made it out alive. All that counts in war—just getting home alive. Managed to stick with the man for another five years. But he finally stepped over the line one time too many. Guess you could say we had a difference of opinion and went our separate ways.”
“You ran away?”
“Well, in a fashion. Was a free man by then, you know. I decided to leave, and he decided to let me. Course all them knots I put on his head might have had something to do with his decision. First, he threatened to call out the night riders on me. So I hid out. Then when things got quiet, headed for Van Buren and laid low for a couple of years.”
“How’d you get into the criminal-chasing business?”
He relaxed into his bedding and, for a second or so, we stared at the night sky together. “Started out doin’ deputy marshal work in Van Buren back in ’72. Sony job that one. Mostly, we picked up drunks and tried to keep trash off the streets. You know, things like dead pigs and horse manure. In ’74 took a job as deputy sheriff for the county. Got to travel in the Nations some with the sheriff. Found out I had a talent for Indian languages. Speak enough to get by with several of them now. About a year later, worked myself into an assistant jailer’s job. Never really cared for the work much, but it beat dragging drunks in and picking up garbage.
“Then, in ’75, Judge Parker came to Fort Smith. His bunch of lawdogs was a whole new deal. Been working for him ever since, and can’t say I’ve regretted a minute of it. Enjoy the work. Like catching bad people and dragging their sorry hides to Judge Parker’s court for their just deserts. Jesus ain’t the only one what knows we’ve got some bad ones out here.”
Wanted to get a definite idea of how he felt about Smilin’ Jack and whether he had intentions of bringing the outlaw back alive, so I said, “You think Paine and his bunch will be as much trouble as Carlton claims?”
“Oh, yeah. They’ll fight. You can bet your grandpa’s Kentucky farm on it. Best get some sleep, Hayden. When Carlton gets back, things will start happening pretty fast and you want to be sharp. Smilin’ Jack’s kin to a rattler on his father’s side and a black widow on his mother’s. God reserved the man his very own rocking chair in Satan’s front parlor the day he got born. Lord willing, we’ll be the ones what send him to a much-deserved eternal rest.” He yawned, stretched, and rolled onto his left side.
For a long time the fire snapped, popped, and threw flashing sparks toward heaven. The horses stamped and snorted. Night birds called to one another like lost souls searching for safety, and every once in a while, a breeze brought me the smell of some kind of blooming flower. Then I heard Barnes mumble as though in his sleep, “Aim to see he gets where he belongs, Hayden. The man needs killing—and damned quick.”
Next day, after the noon sun passed over, Carlton strolled back into camp, danced a jig around our fire, and grinned like he’d just come in from an all-night social where the liquor was free and the women were easy. “You boys been fishing, I see,” he said, and grinned.
He picked through some of our leftover bream, poured himself a cup of Barnes’s coffee, pulled up a piece of broken timber for a chair, and went right into his report.
“Didn’t take much to fool them ole boys. Hell, I waltzed in there just like I owned the place and they didn’t even notice me. They’re all suckin’ on individual jugs of Who-Hit-John so hard, they barely had time to take a breath between swallers. There’s five of ‘now. Paine, Blocker, Westbrook, Stillwell, and”—he hesitated and stared at Barnes as though to give the last name emphasis—“Billy Standing Bull.”
Barnes groaned like a man in the throes of grief, pitched his coffee onto the fire, and rubbed his forehead with the back of his left hand. “
Well, the only way it could be any worse is if God sent Jesse James and Cole Younger over to Drinkwater’s before we get there.”
Carlton blew on the liquid in his cup, then said, “Oh, hell, Barnes it ain’t that bad. They don’t know me. They don’t know Tilden here, and if we play our cards right, we just might be able to catch ‘all without firing a shot.”
Sounded pretty good to me. “You really think we can take them so easy, Marshal Cecil?”
He threw his head back and laughed. “Oh, hell, no. I just said it to make you and Barnes feel better. Sure as we ride up to Drinkwater’s, they’re probably gonna blast the bejabbers out of us. Billy Standing Bull would most likely open fire just for the fun of hearing his guns go off.”
Well, after his comical but hard-nosed assessment, none of it sounded too good. We sat around and jawed it over till almost dark, and finally decided we’d move in on the place from three different directions and hope we caught them off guard. Barnes said the chances of such luck were damn slim and none, but it was the best we could do under the circumstances. I suggested we wait till the killers left Drinkwater’s and catch them out on the trail somewhere. Carlton didn’t like my idea. Said it’d be too easy for them to get away, what with five of them and only three of us. Having them all holed up in the store seemed like the best way to take the whole bunch at one time. Barnes agreed, but made the point that we needed to go in ready to burn up a lot of powder. Taken altogether, I didn’t like the sound of the plan a bit, and remembered feeling considerable better the time Billy Bird, Handsome Harry, and I walked in on those Texas boys down in Black Oak.
When I take the time to look back on the thing and give it any serious thought at all, guess I’d have to admit to myself we couldn’t have planned it any worse.