by J. Lee Butts
Before I realized what he’d said, I blurted out, “You don’t have to explain, son. I understand.” That just kind of sat there between us, for a second or so, till my brain caught up with the conversation. “Did you say you’d been working on something special there, Junior?”
His entire face lit up, and one of those expressions that almost screamed how pleased he was with himself plastered itself over his smile. “I’ve been looking for an old friend of yours. There for a spell, feared he might have already passed on. But turns out he’s like you. A tough old bird who’ll probably still be around long after I’m gone.”
Well, that made about as much sense to me as watching a woodpecker trying to shoe a horse. “What the hell are you rambling on about, boy? Ain’t nobody alive now ’cept me. Of all Parker’s marshals, deputies, posse men, and other lawdogs from back during my time, Carl and me were the only two still around. Now, it’s just me.” Thought about that for a second or so and added, “At least, till a minute or so ago, I always thought I was the only one.”
Must have sounded a bit testy, ’cause his face got red, and he looked embarrassed for about a second. “I know, Hayden. But you’ve forgotten somebody.” He held his pencil by the eraser end and pointed over my shoulder, back toward the nurse’s station. I twisted so far around in the chair, Black Jack got irritated and jumped down just to get away from the discomfort. Took a second for my eyes to tell the rest of me what I saw. Couldn’t believe it at first, but there he stood. Poor son of a bitch was so old, he looked like the Dead Sea wearing cowboy boots and a raggedy-assed felt hat.
Hoisted my ancient carcass out of my chair, and the two of us stumbled toward each other like hundred-year-old babies trying to figure out how to walk for the first time. Have to admit, though, he still moved mighty damned good for a man in his late eighties.
We fell on one another’s necks and blubbered around for a bit. Don’t know where he came from, but a feller carrying an ugly box camera—topped with a shiny flashgun—started running around us. He must have popped off about a dozen of them damned eye-burning sizzlers. Neither of us weepers could say much of anything that made any sense for a bit, except how glad we were to see each other, and how great it was to still be alive. Then, of course, there was a lot of joshing around about how both of us thought the other one had already bought the ranch.
Finally, had to get us moving toward something like a rational conversation myself, after we staggered back to the porch and Junior helped us get settled into our individual nests. The boy’s photographer buddy had dwindled into a carefully selected shot every once in a while. Seemed to be trying for a postcard, portrait, or some such thing. Irritating little ferret was still burning up those eye-poppers when my old friend asked for a cup of black coffee. One of the nurses brought it to him, and smiled when he told her how pretty she was. Soon as she turned her back, a bottle of Kentucky’s finest popped out of his dress-coat pocket. He doctored that mug of belly-wash up to the point where I figured it’d probably grow hair on any saddle that survived the Seventh Cavalry’s debacle.
“Lucius By God Dodge. Would have sworn on big stacks of King James Bibles your mother dropped you next to a mesquite tree ten years before Moses got born, old man. You should have gone home to glory aeons ago. Hell, back in 1925, friends of mine from Austin told me a Mexican bandit shot the hell out of you in some out-of-the-way pimple down in south Texas called Poteet. Way I heard it, that hot tamale sent you straight to the devil so quick you never knew what hit you.”
With the kind of effort eight and a half decades can bring, he crossed his denim-covered right leg over his left, dropped his mangy hat onto the toe of his boot, and took a deep swallow from that beaker of wickedly doctored Folger’s. A smile of profound contentment spread over his leathery, crag-creased face as he savored the potent treat.
“Yes, sir, Tilden. That he did. Name was Jose Alphonso Guiterrez. Taco-bending son of a bitch went on a thievery-and-mayhem rip that lasted almost three months ’fore I caught up with him. Figured the Mexican bastard for a thief, not a murderer. Cornered his sorry ass in a stick-and-mud hacienda ’bout sixty miles south of Poteet out on the Frio. Thought he was gonna give it up and come in peaceable. Hell, he had his wife and kids there with him.”
He took a long pull from his cup, glanced at the boy and me—to make sure his audience was displaying the right degree of attentiveness—then went on. “Anyway, we kinda wrasseled around for a bit before I got him by the scruff of the neck and headed him toward a horse. Snaky son of a bitch pulled one of those double-action, hammerless Smith and Wesson pistols from somewhere under his serape, and put four .38 slugs in my crusty hide. Who’d have guessed it? I mean, a knife, you bet. Maybe even an ax or long-handled hoe. But a pistol warn’t part of that recipe. Guess he musta stole it from somewheres. Anyway, that south Texas pendejo managed to shoot the hell out of me afore I tore his ticket for a trip to a spot way south of Mexico. Egg-suckin’ hijo de puta almost kilt me. Hell, I was sixty-five years old, and still tougher’n most of them candy-asses carrying a badge down there. Been sheriffin’ for all them ungratefuls in Atascosca County for about five years at the time. Took me almost a year and a half to recover from them holes Alphonso put in me.”
He shook his head like he still didn’t believe it, took another sip from that cup of heavily doctored coffee, then went on like he’d never even slowed down. “Had to retire after that ’un. Living on a middlin’ horse ranch I inherited from my uncle over on the Sulphur River, not far from Texarkana. Been raising them spotted horses. All them little cowgirls love my Appaloosas. Your young friend managed to run me down over a month ago. I’ve got family here in Little Rock, and come up on the Flyer every so often. One of my daughters, and her brood, live over in The Heights right off Cantrell. Tried to make it up this way when Lightfoot and I first talked. Sorry I couldn’t get here ’fore Carlton passed.” He’d started with so much enthusiasm, but ended like it tired him out, or maybe memories of Carlton and the past just caught up with him all at once.
For several seconds, Cecil’s hoary ghost oozed up through the cracks in the floor and settled around our shoulders like an old shawl. But Lucius, who’d never been one to take a lot of time ragging around over the dearly departed, or any other departed for that matter, put Cecil behind us in a hurry.
“Heard you’ve been piling it on pretty scary for this whippersnapper of a reporter, Tilden. I still recall how good you got at telling this stuff as you put more experience under your belt. Judge Parker always said you made the best witness he ever had testify. But I thought maybe I should come over and make sure you don’t mislead the boy overmuch. Gotta watch him, son.” He flashed a sparkling smile and clicked what looked like a brand-new set of store-bought teeth at us. “Even when he’s telling the truth—it can be so fantastic most folks won’t believe him. But when he’s lying—it’s a sight and sound to behold. Think he learned it from being around Carlton for so long.”
“Looka here, Lucius, if you showed up to keep me honest, that’s just dandy. Ain’t nobody else alive that can remember, or for that matter ever knew, exactly what happened up on Big Cougar Bluff or over in Red Rock Canyon at Big Eagle’s nest. You can jump in any time you feel like I’m off the mark or your rusted-up old bones can stand the heat.”
He smiled, fired up a cigarillo, and said, “Wore my best boots, and they’s spurs in my duffel. So get it on, big boy.”
Guess Junior’s photographer finally finished his dance. He leaned over and whispered in the boy’s ear for a second, nodded, and bowed himself off the porch while Franklin scribbled like a madman. Suppose he wanted to get every syllable his two very own private antique man-killers said just in case they both did a Carlton on him and jackknifed off into the great beyond that night.
His pencil had almost set his paper to smokin’ when he said, “Where is Big Cougar Bluff? I’ve looked, boys, and it’s not on any map of Oklahoma I’ve seen so far.”
Lucius nodded,
stuffed his hat back on his head, and pulled at the brim like he’d tipped it and said, “Go ahead, Tilden, I’m just here to listen and keep you honest. Way I’ve got it figured, you’ll slip up pretty quick, and I’ll have to rein you in.” He sipped at the steaming liquid in his cup, made a smiling grimace of a face at us, clicked his shiny new teeth again, and looked happier’n a kid sittin’ in Santa’s lap down at Dillard’s Department Store.
Hell, I ignored him, and jumped right back into my story. “You won’t find Big Cougar Bluff on the maps, Junior. It’s nothing more than a steep spot over a bend on the Canadian really. Kind of thing some law-enforcement types today would probably call ‘locally known as Big Cougar Bluff.’ ’Bout twenty miles east and a little north of Red Rock Canyon.”
When Cecil and Billy finally showed up, they had this black-haired, hot-eyed gal named Judith Karr with ’em. Told us most of that wild-assed tale you heard from Carlton about their run-in with Wilson Bowlegs and his bunch of Sunday afternoon churchgoing picnickers. A slouched dunce named Bully May sat in the tumbleweed looking pitiful, and spent most of his time whining and complaining about what he called his “sitchi-ation.” But that didn’t stop him from offering up a heartfelt “amen” or “praise God” to every word that came out of Carlton’s mouth. The girl didn’t say much of anything, just sat and mooned around over Carlton like he was the only man living.
Didn’t know for some time whether he understood it or not, but little Miss Karr’s infatuation with Carlton beat anything I’d witnessed between a man and woman in all my years up till then. Remember thinking, at the time, that she’d have walked through fire and swallowed hot coals for him if he’d asked her. Truth of it all was that by the time that raid came to its bloody conclusion, she played a part in the festivities that none of us could have foreseen with a crystal ball, Gypsy tea leaves, or Tarot cards.
Billy’s feet hadn’t hit the ground good when he said, “Where the hell’s Handsome Harry? I’ve missed that prissy-assed Boston son of a bitch. Can’t wait to tell him about how much fun me, Carlton, and Judith had shooting the cannon at Wilson Bowlegs.” He jerked his gloves off, stuffed them into his pistol belt, and anxiously glanced over my shoulder for our missing friend.
Well, Lucius, Old Bear, and me just hung our heads and couldn’t say anything there for a bit. Charlie Three Bones couldn’t speak English anyway, so he didn’t count. I ended up having to be the one who told him and Carlton how Harry bit the dust, and all about our shootout with Brutus Sneed and those with him at Broken Hand’s place.
Billy chewed his bottom lip till it bled. Stingy tears carved pained trenches down his dust-covered cheeks. He’d known Harry longer than any of the rest of us, and I think the news of our friend’s death hardened the boy in a way like nothing that had happened to him before—or for a long spell after.
He even went to blaming himself for it. “Damnation, Hayden, I shoulda been the one what went with you.”
Lucius put a soothing hand on Billy’s skinny shoulder in an effort to comfort him. I said, “It wouldn’t have mattered, Billy. What happened out there just happened. There’s nothing anyone could have been done to stop or change it.”
But he wouldn’t let it go. “I’m better with a gun than Harry. If’n it had been me, none of them ole boys woulda cleared leather ’fore I blasted the hell out of ’em.”
All I could do was offer up as much comfort as possible with: “Maybe, Billy. But we can’t live the rest of our lives on maybes. Harry was a man, full grown, and he knew all the dangers in doing this job. He damn near bought it when we chased Saginaw Bob to Dallas and Tollman Pike shot him out of his saddle. Besides, it could have been any one of us. Like a good many before him, his carefully guarded ball of luck just came unraveled someplace close to where Brutus Sneed was standing. Same thing could happen to you, or me, tomorrow. Near as I can figure, living has always been the primary cause of dying, and the sooner we all accept that simple truth, the better off we’ll be.”
Well, our entire company was a pretty miserable bunch for the rest of the day. Billy stayed gloomy and morose for weeks after that. But by the time we got him, Carlton, and Judith set up for camp, and fixed a special spot for Miss Karr to take her ease, the initial shock of the thing had begun to wear off some. Honestly, though, I can’t recall Billy Bird ever mentioning Harry’s death after that. From then on he talked about ole Handsome like the man was still with us.
We waited till the next morning to go over our plans for Martin Luther Big Eagle and his crew of Red Rock Canyon bad boys. Old Bear said it would be best to let everyone get a good night’s sleep before we jumped into any heavy-duty discussions in that area. I trusted his instincts and, as always, it proved a good decision, although I’m not sure any of us slept very well that night, especially Billy Bird.
When a smoldering yellow sun got us up that morning, Judith Karr fixed the best breakfast we’d had since we left Fort Smith. That dark-eyed gal could make miracles with coffee, a slab of bacon, biscuits, and flour gravy. She even came up with a dozen eggs from somewhere. Carlton claimed she slipped away one night on the trail, and raided a poor unsuspecting farmer’s henhouse. Could tell he admired such independent methods in the girl. None of us cared much where those cackle-berries came from. We were just glad to get them.
Being as how Billy knew more than any of the rest of us about the canyon and the area around it, it naturally fell on him to get the ball rolling on how to go about our planned raid. He sat on a rock the size and shape of an inverted water bucket, picked up a tree branch about three feet long, and went to scratching in the blood-red dirt while the rest of us listened.
“This here is the Canadian.” A long line that ran from left to right in front of him followed the stick as he dragged it through the thick layer of dust at his feet. “About twenty miles west of where we’re sitting right now, and maybe five miles south of the river, you’ll find Red Rock Canyon.” He glanced around, and locked eyes with each of his attentive deacons for a second. “If you ain’t never been there, this is gonna be quite an education, boys. So pay strict attention.”
The stick snapped up and pointed at the wagon. “You can climb up on top of the tumbleweed and look west, and the only thing you’ll see is rolling hills, knee-high grass, and a few trees in the sheltered areas along ravines and creeks—mainly cedar, pecan, hickory, and some maple in those places. Actually, there’s more trees down in the canyon than anywhere between here and there. Fact is, we’ll be right on top of that bloody trench before we even know we’ve found it.”
He stood to emphasize what he said next, and even used his stick to point at each of us as he swung it around the circle. “I mean it, boys. If it was dark, and you didn’t know where this little sucker was, you could walk right off into it, and break your neck before you even realized you’d found it. This thing is just a crimson sandstone scar in the ground about a mile and a half long. It’s two hundred and fifty or maybe three hundred feet across at its widest, and anywhere from fifty to a hundred and fifty feet deep. Years back, some of the Plains tribes, like the Sioux and Cheyenne, used it as a spot to winter. Helped get them out of those icy northern winds blasting in from Canada. Then, for several years, forty-niners made it one of their favorite stopping places on their way to California. Cattle thieves, killers, and lawbreakers of every stripe know about it today, and head this direction every time they can’t think of any place else to run. Other parties of Judge Parker’s marshals have chased individual pieces of scum in there before, and it was considerably less than a picnic just getting them shook loose. Once a man gets inside, he can be harder to bust free than an Alabama tick. This is my third trip out here. But to be absolutely truthful, I don’t have any real clear idea what we’ll find tomorrow. All the rumors we’ve heard claim that Big Eagle has come up with something special in the way of fortifications down there. That’s why Hayden and Carlton brought the cannon.”
Held my hand up. “Any water in there, Billy?” I
hoped we could use a lack of supply against that band of thieving killers just in case things worked out to a waiting game.
“The canyon’s fed by crystal-clear springwater that supplies a sparkling creek. Runs right through the middle of the whole shebang. ’Less these ole boys have managed to get more stupid than usual, they don’t have to worry much about water, as long as they stay down there.”
We watched, wrapped in our individual thoughts on the problem, as he squatted again and continued to enhance his artwork in the dirt. He mapped that still-raw scratch on the earth’s ancient hide and its relation to the Canadian—along with the creek that ran through it, and what looked like hidden coves gouged into various places along its easternmost wall.
Lucius asked what had to have been the most obvious question. “How do we get down into this place?”
Billy pushed his hat back, leaned over with his elbows on his knees, and shook his head. “Well, that’s the problem, Lucius. Only entrance I know of is on the west side, and it’s a real snaky son of a bitch. I was down in there a couple of years ago, but neither me nor any of our feller marshals has ever really seen this so-called ‘fortress’ we’ve heard so much about. What we’re going on here is strictly based on recent rumor, fuzzy-mouthed legends, and probably a goodly number of downright lies. But I can tell you this. If Big Eagle has the entrance over here very heavily guarded—and there’s no reason to think otherwise—we’ll have to fight our way down that winding path to the gorge’s floor, before we can set the cannon up and do any damage to whatever they’ve got waiting for us.”
Old Bear sat beside Charlie Three Bones and translated the discussion as the two of them watched Billy’s diagram develop. They ragged it around a good bit before he nodded toward his friend, pulled his big bowie, touched the tip to a spot on the east side of Billy’s drawing of the chasm, and grunted, “My friend Charlie Three Bones and I agree. Your map is accurate—this spot in center is place for fort. Hard to get at, if it’s there, from any direction. But Charlie Three Bones says we might find open spot on canyon wall opposite this site. Maybe we shoot down on them from other side.” He jabbed at a spot along the west wall of our friend’s dirt map just south of the entrance.