Hell in the Nations: The Further Adventures of Hayden Tilden (Hayden Tilden Westerns Book 2)

by J. Lee Butts

11

  “THAT’S SMILIN’ JACK OUT FRONT”

  JUNIOR SNAPPED A quick glance up from his scribbling and zeroed in on Lucius. The old Ranger had just finished doctoring his coffee again. He snaked the bottle back to its hiding place, and stirred the contents of his cup with the index finger of a trembling right hand.

  “Is that the way you remember it, Mr. Dodge?” The boy winked at me as if to indicate he wanted my permission to include Lucius in the tale. I nodded and winked my total agreement right back at him.

  “Well, son, you are one lucky man,” said Lucius. “Anybody else, we’re talking Carlton J. Cecil here mostly, would probably have a hell of a lot of fun out of this story, by padding it up with all kinds of self-enlarging heroics and blazing bullshit. From what I understand, there’s still a good market for that kind of stuff. But I gotta hand it to old Tilden. He’s keeping you pretty much on the straight and narrow path. Can’t say as I’ve heard anything yet I’d strongly disagree with. But you know that’s to be expected. Heard more than one of them other Arkansas lawdogs say Judge Parker loved it when Hayden had to testify in his court.”

  The still-steaming cup rose to meet his smiling lips, and hovered there like a drunken hummingbird for a second, while he puckered up and blew whiskey-scented steam my direction. Before he partook of the treat, he said, “Yes, sir, I remember Carlton telling me, one time, the Judge always said if only one man worked the Nations whose word he could absolutely trust—that man was Hayden Tilden.” The cup lightly touched his lips. He sucked and slurped at the hot liquid a time or two before he sighed his approval, took a healthy gulp, then wiped his lips on his sleeve.

  Lightfoot glanced back at me, and ran his fingers through rapidly thinning hair. Found something he didn’t like and scratched at it for a moment and said, “There is one thing that really bothers me about this fracas so far, boys.”

  “And what might that be, Junior?” I knew from the way he squinted and stared at the ceiling fan that a seriously thought-out, but likely idiotic, question was about to follow.

  “Since hindsight is perfect, don’t you think that Big Eagle and his men were just a shade stupid to let themselves get hemmed up at the bottom of a box canyon the way they did? I mean, you know, it sounds like when it comes to stupid, that decision was the equivalent of going fishing with a shotgun.”

  Lucius kind of chuckled from somewhere deep in his belly, then back up through his chest till he laughed so hard he almost dropped his heavily spiked mug of go-juice. Good thing he didn’t. That stuff could have stood up on its own and walked around the sun porch.

  He coughed, wiped his chin with a bandanna he hauled from his hip pocket, and said, “Hell, yes, Mr. Lightfoot. No doubt about it. When it came to smarts, if that whole damned crew’s brains had been made out of printer’s ink, they wouldn’t have collectively had enough thinker power to put the dot over the first i in one of their own wanted posters.”

  Then, he made a flashy production out of lighting one of those long thin cigars he’d always liked so much before he continued with his rant. “See, you made the same mistake decent folk always do when it comes to bloodletters and bad men. Most people just naturally think thieves and killers are downright intelligent. Hell, boy, I’d be willing to bet that Hayden and me ain’t seen more’n two or three smart outlaw types between us. Guess maybe the most inspired thing Big Eagle and Smilin’ Jack pulled in Red Rock was sending that poor girl out for their water. We couldn’t shoot her, and even though we didn’t really believe they would carry through on their threats to rub her out, we couldn’t take a chance and grab her ourselves. After about the fourth or fifth day, she had to make that trip a half a dozen times, every morning and every afternoon. All we could do was sit behind our rocks and watch while Judith Karr ran out to meet her and talk a little.”

  Knew outlaw stupidity couldn’t be all my young reporter friend had on his mind, because he still looked like a dog lying in the yard with something between his feet he’d never seen before. “Where were their horses during all that initial shouting, shooting, and general mayhem?” he asked.

  Lucius motioned at me with his cigar like he’d talked all he wanted for a while and was inviting me to jump back in. “Now that’s a good question, Junior,” I said. “But you’re gonna have to wait a bit for a definitive answer. See, we wondered the same thing after we’d been at the bottom of Red Rock Canyon for little more than an hour or so. None of us could figure it out at first. But Birdie had to make so many trips every day, I got to figuring Big Eagle must have his animals inside the fort or behind it somewhere.”

  We put the final showdown off until the fifth day after Smilin’ Jack laid down the law about Birdie’s water-gathering. Almost started the fandango on the fourth day, but it took Carlton and Billy most of that one to get into a good position. They carried our box of Ketchum grenades, and made their way out of Red Rock and around to a spot on the east side of the canyon wall. Way we had it planned, when they finally settled in, they’d be directly above Smilin’ Jack and Big Eagle’s den of thieves like a pair of bomb-throwing guardian angels watching over us. The delay kind of lulled that bunch of low-life slugs into a false belief that they had us over a female barrel, and we’d eventually have to give it up, turn tail, and drag our failed asses back to Fort Smith.

  Carlton didn’t like leaving Judith a damned bit, but I finally persuaded him it would be better for the safety of both of them if he went with Billy. Personally, given the plan she’d outlined, I feared he might do something impetuous and dangerous enough to get them both killed if he stayed. We’d laid it on for Billy and him to hold off taking any action until they heard the first cannon shot, once our Pecos promenade got started. When Beulah spoke, they were to toss all those paper-tailed rockets over the edge as fast as they could, get back down to the canyon floor quick as their horses could carry them, and shoot the hell out of anybody they didn’t recognize along the way.

  Damn near broke my heart as I watched him and Judith say their good-byes. She took Carlton by the hand and led him to a shaded spot under a huge maple tree near the creek. Know they thought no one watched, and I probably shouldn’t have done it, but couldn’t help myself. Their parting reminded me of how much I missed Elizabeth, and her fears for my safety.

  An amazing thing occurred as they whispered their newly found love in each other’s ears. I saw one of those hat-sized orange and black butterflies land in Judith’s hair. Strange, because I’d not noticed any of them before that moment, and didn’t see another afterward. Somehow Carlton coaxed the thing onto his finger, then presented it to her like a living gift more precious than all the gold in California. Sunlight, filtered through a wispy curtain of mist and dust, formed a halo around them as they kissed good-bye. Others may think what they want, but I took it as a sign of blessing from a power far beyond anything most of us ever understand, and knew from the moment their lips parted everything would work itself out.

  They talked for so long, I began to think he might not go. But I guess she persuaded him it was the best thing for everyone concerned. Over the course of her numerous visits with Birdie Mae, she’d developed a close connection to Elizabeth’s unfortunate friend. And though it might have been wrong, I got the impression Judith felt a deep need to help the poor woman, even if such actions might result in the forfeiture of her own life.

  Took Billy and Carlton the rest of that day and most of the night to get to the spot we’d all agreed would be to our best advantage when the shooting started up again. Next morning, I spotted them through my long glass. They both waved a Ketchum to let us know they were ready for the dance to start.

  Judith strolled over and visited with Birdie Mae, the first three times she made the water runs that morning, like nothing was amiss. After her third trip, she slipped past me and said, “Get everything ready, Marshal. We’ll start this Arkansas shootaree the next time she comes out.”

  Lucius, Barnes, and Old Bear manned Beulah. They’d all seen eno
ugh to know as much about firing her as any of the rest of us, and I felt comfortable with the decision. So, at about one o’clock in the afternoon, Birdie and her escorts made their way around the south end of the stronghold. She had a wooden bucket in each hand and, even from a distance, had a bone-weary look on her that started with sagging shoulders and drooped downward in a wave of obvious exhaustion.

  Judith didn’t hesitate a second. She stepped from our wall of rocky cover and hurried toward the stream. Behind her back, tiny hands filled with pistols rested on her swaying hips. She made it to the creek at a point that might have been a little over a hundred feet from our position. It was as close as she could lure them in our direction and not arouse suspicion. Birdie and her guards ambled over to the spot Judith picked—and never gave it a second thought.

  While the obviously drained and agitated hostage filled her first bucket, Judith laughed, talked, and passed the time the same way she had on numerous prior occasions. Then, as I watched though my glass, both her hands came up at the same time. The guns were already cocked. For about half a heartbeat both those boys got a look on their faces like they had put their bucket down a well and pulled up a skunk. Before they were even able to twitch, that ironbound girl blasted those bandits quicker’n you could blow out a candle. Most men I knew weren’t that great firing from each hand at the same time. Judith made it look easy. Those boys were still on their way to the ground when she stuffed the pistols into her belt, jumped into the middle of that three-foot-deep stream, grabbed Birdie by the hand, and started pulling her toward safety.

  I turned to Barnes and yelled, “Let ’er rip.” He jammed a flaming wick into Beulah’s fuse hole. Before anyone in Big Eagle’s camp had a chance to blink twice, our Civil War holdover roared to life, and delivered the six-pound message Carlton and Billy were waiting for. Ball smacked into Big Eagle’s front wall just as Judith and Birdie Mae fell safely behind our pile of stacked shale and busted rocks.

  Never saw any of them Ketchums fall, but my glorious God, explosions ripped from one end of that log fort to the other so fast it even shocked me. Judith grinned as both women covered their ears.

  Think we had eight of them Ketchum-type bad boys. Guess they were so old, several didn’t go off. But at least five blew holes in the roof. A couple started instantaneous, quickly spreading fires, and even knocked a pair of gaping fissures in the massive front wall.

  Well, that’s when we found out where they’d hid their horses. ’Bout thirty seconds after Judith jerked Birdie to safety, at least ten mounted men poured from behind their wrecked, burning fortress and headed for the entrance in a dead run. All of a sudden, Big Eagle’s nest looked like an anthill some mean-assed kid had stomped on for fun. Those murderous bastards rode with the reins in their teeth and pumped a stream of buzzing death our direction from pistols in each hand. Since there was only about a hundred feet between our position and the rock walls, they went by us to our left in single file. Offered up a series of mighty inviting targets.

  Over a deafening den of racket from the combined screaming, shouting, and shooting, I heard Barnes yell, “Dammit, Hayden, that’s Smilin’ Jack out front!” All of us jumped up and fired their direction as fast as we could thumb ‘off. Three of their horses went down at the same time, and the four immediately behind stumbled over those. Pretty quick we had seven men on foot, some of them wounded. Two from the tail end of the parade managed to make it past the tangled pile of men and thrashing animals that heaved and flopped in every direction. Smilin’ Jack and that amazingly lucky pair of bandits who didn’t stumble got to the trees before we could drop any of ’em.

  Lucius started running and screaming at the same time. “One of them three sorry sons of bitches was W. J. McCabe.” The two of us made it to Hateful and Gunpowder at about the same time.

  Barnes tried to keep up, but realized someone had to stay behind. Heard him shouting directions at Old Bear and Three Bones to get all those wounded or dazed under the gun as quick as they could. Lucius and me kicked hell out of our animals, and headed for the canyon entrance.

  We boiled out of that hole in the ground like Mexican scorpions on the prowl. Lucius let Hateful have her head. Gunpowder and me had a tough time keeping up. Smilin’ Jack, W. J., and a fancy-dressed outlaw who wore a derby hat were about half a mile ahead of us going straight for sunset. They blasted through the grass on those rolling hills like a Kansas City fire engine.

  We chased ‘as hard as horses could run. Then, when things finally started to slow down some, that Indian-fightin’ Texican put them silver rowels to Hateful for one final spurt of muscle-burning energy. He tied his reins to the saddlehorn, snatched a couple of those Colt’s Dragoon pistols from their pommel holsters, and shot two of their horses from under them quicker’n small-town gossip at a Baptist church social.

  We pulled up to a clod-scatterin’ stop on W. J. McCabe and the derby-wearing feller. Lucius had ‘covered before they could get their wind back from the fall. He grinned and said, “Well, I got mine, Tilden. Yours is still running.” He waved in the direction of Smilin’ Jack, just as the man disappeared into the cover of a gully. Few seconds later he reappeared, but had slowed considerably as he fought for a path up the next hill about five hundred yards away.

  “You’re right about that one, Lucius. But he ain’t gonna be running too much longer.” Pulled the .45–70, stepped down, and flipped the peep sight up in the same motion. Stroked Gunpowder’s neck to get him settled, rested the rifle on my saddle, put some spit on the front sight, and while Smilin’ Jack struggled up the steep rise, I waited for about ten seconds to get a clear shot.

  By that point Lucius had his captives completely corralled and properly humbled. Pretty soon everything around me got about as still as a sack of flour. Just before I pulled the trigger, I whispered, “Owe you this one, Jack. Consider it a serious equine retribution from a horse named Thunder.” Winchester delivered a massive hunk of metal that hit that poor bangtail nag just behind the withers and knocked it sideways about a foot. Unfortunate beast landed on the hard ground like a village blacksmith’s anvil dropped from the roof of a barn. Got to hand it to Gunpowder. Big sucker didn’t even twitch when the rifle went off. He’d definitely done more than his share of hunting somewhere before we met.

  Lucius pushed his hat back with the barrel of one of his Dragoons and said, “Sweet Jesus, Tilden.”

  Sheathed the rifle, and jumped back on board. “Yeah, Lucius. Those are my sentiments exactly. But he had that one coming—in spades. Be back shortly.”

  Eased up on Smilin’ Jack real slow. Somehow he’d managed to get himself under the horse when it landed. He kept shooting off his pistol at any sound he heard, but given the man’s limited range of motion, he didn’t do much but damage the air in general.

  Stopped thirty yards from the belly side of his dead animal and shouted, “Better give it up, Jack. You know I’ll kill you—for damn sure—if you don’t stop all your indiscriminate blasting.”

  “You can go to hell, Tilden. I’ve got enough kat-ridges to hold you off for a week.”

  “You’ll be dead in exactly ten seconds if you don’t toss your pistol over to me, Jack.” For all his huffing and puffing, he got pretty quiet after my gritty threat. Counted off the time from ten. Told him I’d blow his brains out on one. When I got to three he cursed my mother, my father, all my living—and dead—relatives, Judge Parker, several former Presidents of the United States, and everyone else he could lay his tongue to. That streak of blue language by its lonesome should have assured his place in Satan’s banquet hall. Pistol came flying over his dead horse like a wounded bat when I shouted “two!”

  Slipped up on him afoot. Made certain he didn’t have any more weapons at hand. Afterward, it took me, Lucius, and both those other boys to get that poor dead hay-burner off the busted-up outlaw. Fall broke both Jack’s legs and mashed him up pretty bad. We scrounged around, and found enough limbs down in the gully to build a pole drag to get
him back to Red Rock. Man screamed and moaned every step of that short trip.

  Lucius and I felt certain he would never make it back to Fort Smith. Hell, I didn’t give a tinker’s damn whether he got back to civilization or not. More the sorry bastard suffered, the better I liked it.

  Barnes, Old Bear, and Three Bones had all Jack’s living friends shackled and chained by the time we made it to the canyon floor again. Amazingly enough, we’d only killed two of them. Martin Luther Big Eagle got himself blown into several fairly equal chunks when one of Carlton’s grenades hit the roof right above his head and scattered him all over about half his stunned cohorts. According to an introducing scamp named Parrot Head Johnson, he’d been standing not ten feet from Big Eagle when the explosion shot down through the timber and mud-covered roof like God himself had stepped on his unfortunate friend’s head.

  Johnson’s hands still shook when he said to me, “Damnedest thang I ever done seen, Mr. Tilden. Didn’t get to do no fightin’ back yonder in the Civil War. So, I ain’t got nuthin’ to compare it against. But I gotta tell ya, Marshal, it can sure as hell get a man’s attention when the feller he’s a talking with’s head disappears. I’m still thankin’ Jesus it didn’t fall on me.”

  Final count came to twelve captured—four of them wounded—two extremely dead, and most everyone with his share of cuts, bruises, scratches, and bloody wounds. Didn’t get anywhere close to the twenty or more Big Eagle had claimed the day we arrived. Far as I was concerned, it was just further evidence he rarely opened his mouth without lying. When Billy and Carlton made it back, we put the eight who could still get up and around to scratching in the wreckage, just in case they might have forgot about some of their companions. But they didn’t find anyone else.

  Most remarkable thing about that whole episode was the corral cut into the stone behind their stronghold. The room proved large enough to hold at least twenty animals, and couldn’t be seen from our position down by the pond. But I gotta tell you, it smelled mighty bad by the time we blasted them boys out of that place. Don’t take long for that many horses to produce enough meadow muffins to pile up pretty deep and odiferous.