Gun Work: The Further Exploits of Hayden Tilden
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Epigraph
Chapter 1 - “THE KNIFE, THURM. GIVE ME THE KNIFE.”
Chapter 2 - “. . . DIED OF THE CONSUMPTION . . .”
Chapter 3 - “HOBBLED AROUND LIKE A ONE-LEGGED CRIPPLE.”
Chapter 4 - “WELL, WE MIGHTA KILT THAT WOMAN . . .”
Chapter 5 - “. . . SKULLS STOVE IN WITH A DOUBLE-BIT AX.”
Chapter 6 - “. . . HAVE TO STUDY UP TO BE A HALF-WITTED IDIOT.”
Chapter 7 - “. . . BE PISSIN’ BLOOD FOR A MONTH WHEN WE GET DONE.”
Chapter 8 - “. . . THIS HERE’S A ROBBERY. BEST GO TO GETTIN’ YOUR MONEY OUT . . .”
Chapter 9 - “GONNA HAVE TO GET IN LINE FER SOME A THAT GAL, BUSTER.”
Chapter 10 - “NO WAY YOU COULD HAVE FORESEEN SOMETHING LIKE THIS.”
Chapter 11 - “. . . FIRED BOTH BARRELS INTO THE BACK OF JIMBO’S HEAD.”
Chapter 12 - “. . . GOT THAT NARROW-EYED, LAWDOG LOOK . . .”
Chapter 13 - “. . . KILT THREE PEOPLE WITH A DOUBLE-BIT AX . . .”
Chapter 14 - “HE’S A BACK-SHOOTING SON OF A BITCH . . .”
Chapter 15 - “ALREADY GOT A BEAD ON THE SILLY IDIOT . . .”
Chapter 16 - “NO POINT DIGGIN’ AT THIS PIMPLE.”
Chapter 17 - “HIT POOR BOO WITH THAT HATCHET . . .”
Chapter 18 - “COLTRANE BOYS DIDN’T KILL THE CASSIDYS . . .”
Chapter 19 - “GONNA BRACE ’EM INSIDE, OR CALL ’EM OUT?”
Chapter 20 - “BENNY GAVE YOU UP, BOYS.”
EPILOGUE
SHOT IN THE CABOOSE
Carl flashed a death-dealing grin. Hissed, “Them two snaky bastards in back’re already dead where they stand. Just don’t know it yet.”
Brought my hands up as though surrendering to the circumstances. Stood, then edged sidewise into the aisle. Thought for sure everything was going right well, till the feller fired a shot into the seat back right in front of me. Big gob of dust, wood splinters, leather seat covering, and horsehair padding flew into the air, then rained down on everything within three feet of where I drew to a quick, unflinching stop.
Thunderous ear splitter of a pistol shot inside the confines of that coach came nigh on to being deafening. The thought suddenly flashed across my mind that the crazy bastards who’d just stormed into our midst might well kill us all . . .
Praise for
J. LEE BUTTS
“A writer who can tell a great adventure with authority and wit.”
—John S. McCord, author of the Baynes Clan novels
“Lawdog should assume its rightful place beside other Western classics.”
—Peter Brandvold, author of Rogue Lawman: Border Snakes
“Lawdog has it all. I couldn’t put it down.”
—Jack Ballas, author of A Town Afraid
“J. Lee Butts is one fine Western writer whose stories have a patina of humor; nonstop action . . . and a strong sense of place.”
—Roundup Magazine
Berkley titles by J. Lee Butts
GUN WORK
HELL TO PAY
WRITTEN IN BLOOD
NATE COFFIN’S REVENGE
AMBUSHED
BAD BLOOD
A BAD DAY TO DIE
BROTHERHOOD OF BLOOD
HELL IN THE NATIONS
LAWDOG
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
GUN WORK
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For
My friend Diann Bellscamper:
Who rediscovered her past on the bookshelves of Wal-Mart.
And, of course, for
Carol
But for her dedication to my success, not a single word of
mine would have ever seen the light of day.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Special thanks to Kimberly Lionetti for keeping the ball rolling. And to Sandy Harding at Berkley for taking the reins and lettin’ ’er buck. Big sweeping wave of the sombrero to Linda McKinley for continuing to work for free in spite of numerous wounds suffered in a wrasslin’ match with her pet mule. And a special nod to Diane Estes, who reads my stuff and without fail always tells me how good it is.
“Tut! I have done a thousand dreadful things As willingly as one would kill a fly!”
—Shakespeare, Titus Andronicus, Act V, Scene 1.
“Friar Barnardine: Thou hast committed . . .
Barabas: Fornication? But that was in another country.
And besides, the wench is dead.”
—Christopher Marlowe, The Jew of Malta, Act 4, Scene 1.
“Women are like tricks by sleight of hand, Which to admire, we should not understand.”
—William Congreve, Love for Love, Act 4, Scene 3.
“How early murder is discovered!”
—Shakespeare, Titus Andronicus, Act II, Scene 3.
PROLOGUE
AUTHOR’S NOTE TO THE READER
THE FOLLOWING FEW pages constitute a restored version of interview notes
hand recorded by now-deceased former Arkansas Gazette reporter Franklin J. Lightfoot Jr. While the original rendering of this particular conversation is difficult to read at best, every possible effort has been made by the author to bring to life, for the reader, one of Mr. Lightfoot’s later meetings with former Deputy U.S. Marshal Hayden Tilden.
Although it cannot be independently confirmed, it is believed that when this meeting took place Deputy Marshal Tilden had recently celebrated his ninetieth birthday. Tilden was, at that time, still considered one of the most stalwart former members of Judge Isaac C. Parker’s cadre of two hundred valiant law enforcement officers. Men who had plied their dangerous, and often deadly, trade in the Indian Territories between 1875 and 1896.
The daunting task of renewing Mr. Lightfoot’s scribbled observations for publication was accomplished by way of an in-depth study and use of the man’s personal writing techniques. His methods are readily observable in other, more accessible question-and-answer sessions conducted with Marshal Tilden on any of a number of previous methodically chronicled occasions.
From all that can be legitimately determined, by way of thorough examination of the available record, this particular tale appears to have emerged from Mr. Lightfoot’s impromptu interview with Deputy Marshal Tilden on April 17, 1949, at the Rolling Hills Home for the Aged in Little Rock, Arkansas.
For those readers who might harbor a special interest, all of the prolific Mr. Lightfoot’s carefully crafted, wonderfully detailed, day-by-day memoirs, notebooks, and other pertinent historical papers are open to the public for examination through prior arrangement with the Arkansas State Historical Society’s Archives Division. Their offices are located on the grounds of the Old State House Museum at 300 West Markham Street in Little Rock, Arkansas.
FROM MR. LIGHTFOOT’S INTERVIEW, APRIL 17, 1949, AND NOTES
Stopped by to look in on my good friend Tilden. Raining to beat the band. Blue-black sky, thunder and pitchfork lightning abounded. Took a handful of Tilden’s favorite cigars and four half-pint bottles of rye whiskey with me. From past discussions I’ve determined that the old lawman hides the contraband in secret places all over his room. Claims that he only indulges at late hours of the night when the nurses tend not to be on the prowl. Not sure I put much credence in his declarations of restraint.
Found the old man and his cat, the formidable General Black Jack Pershing, napping beneath the concealing limbs of a potted plant on the retirement home’s sunporch. As always, the yellow-striped, notch-eared feline awakened as soon as I took a seat. Imperial-acting beast presented me with a sneering, disdainful glare that revealed a broken front tooth. Immediately jumped out of Tilden’s lap and prissed away with its fuzzy tail hiked in the air. Near as I’m able to ascertain, the cat refuses to have contact with anyone other than Tilden. Well, with the possible exception of nurse Heddy McDonald. Tilden and the cat appear much taken with the girl.
For a man of such advanced years—he’s eighty-nine or ninety now, I think (have always felt he lies about his age, so he could be older)—Tilden’s robust appearance still amazes me. Tall, muscular, and only a bit stooped, the man sports a leonine mane of steel-gray hair, droopy moustache, a stub-bled beard that gives him a rugged unshaven appearance, still has most of his own teeth, and looks at least twenty years younger than his true age (whatever that might be) would indicate.
Evidently women tend to agree with this observation. I’ve noticed he’s a particular favorite with many of the youngest and prettiest nurses. Seems as though attractive young women are often nearby anytime I stop in for a visit, including the stunning Miss McDonald. The old man appears to genuinely enjoy female company. He once told me that the average young woman tended to be far better company than any of the smartest men he’d ever met.
Took my usual seat and opened the conversation with, “Hope you’re feeling well today, Hayden.”
“Well as can be expected, I suppose, Junior. ’Course when you get to be nigh on ten years older than Methuselah, it’s hard to tell most of the time.”
“Have any particular aches, pains, or complaints?”
“Not really. Just the general everyday, run-of-the-mill ninety-year-old-guy stuff. Lack of serious female companionship, good drinking whiskey, and a decent smoke tend to make me dull-witted. The companionship’s the one that weighs on me the most.”
“Can’t help you with a woman. Although it does appear to me that you hardly lack for company in that area.”
“Well, all these cute little nurses and candy stripers are okay, but ain’t exactly what you’d call serious when it comes to the real, low-down, man-woman thing.”
Ignored his shaded inferences and offered him the loot. “Please take these by way of apology for my failings when it comes to supplying you with serious female companionship. Make sure they’re properly stored away from Chief Nurse Leona Wildbank’s prying, officious eyes. Sure she’ll joyfully confiscate the entire boodle if you don’t get it all stashed in your secret places as soon as possible.”
“Well, by God, Junior. That’s mighty nice of you. Gold-label rye whiskey and cee-gars. Damn right, I’ll take them. You keep an eye down the hall for marauding nurses whilst I hide these puppies on my person till I can make it back to my room.”
“Well, get to hiding. Right now the coast is pretty much clear. Don’t see anyone coming our way.”
“Stuff it all inside my shirt and pants pockets. Squirrel everything away, in my most confidential spots, later tonight. Wouldn’t do to go running down to my room right now. Inquisitive little gals get right suspicious when one of the inmates goes and does anything out of the ordinary, like getting in a hurry, you know. Really do appreciate this, Junior.”
“You’re quite welcome. Figured you might regale me with another of your stories by way of reciprocation.”
“Oh, hell, yes. That’s easy enough. Pretty cheap payment for this kind of booty. Be more than happy to oblige.”
“Want you to think about something while you’re working to stash all that loot.”
“Go on ahead, but keep your eyes peeled. Don’t want to go and let any of the nurses catch us. Sure would hate to have all this fine stuff you brought confiscated before I can at least enjoy some of it.”
“Was wondering, Hayden. Have you ever found yourself involved in a difficult and deadly situation that caused you to think you just might not survive?”
“Whiskey bottle’s not sticking out of my shirt is it, Junior?”
“No, sir.”
“See any of them cigars I shoved into my pants pockets?”
“No, sir. Think you’re safe. Nothing showing that I can detect. You just look a mite lumpy’s all.”
“Well, lumpy’s okay. Damn near all us ninety-year-olds look kind of lumpy somewhere. Old-age curse, you know. Really do appreciate you thinking of me, son. Hell, you’re just about the only person left in the entire world as makes such efforts on my behalf and, by Godfrey, I’m genuinely grateful for it.”
“Assure you, old friend, it’s my great pleasure.”
“Uh, now, what was the question again? Brain’s still a bit foggy from my recent nap. Your query’s already slipped away from me.” He leaned over, winked, and gave me a conspiratorial pat on the knee. “Soon as I get some of this rye in me though, bet I’ll be thinking a whole bunch better.”
“Difficult and deadly situation. Thought you might not survive. That kind of stuff. Remember?”
“Ah. Yeah. Well, let’s see. Involved in a damned bunch of them kind of circumstances over the years, don’t you know. More than one of them just like you described. Some downright awful.”
“I’d like to know about the fear factor as well, if you’re willing to talk about it, that is.”
“Ah, the fear factor. Well, see, anytime somebody gets to shooting at you there’s always a chance you might not survive. Chance for an accident tended to prove right worrisome for me. Been my experience that there’s more dead men in the ground what go
t killed by pure accident than there are them what died by a well-aimed, deliberately placed two-hundred-fifty-five-grain pistol bullet, delivered from the business end of a Colt’s pistol.”
“Uh-huh. I see. But that doesn’t exactly answer my question about fear.”
“Hmmmm. Yeah, fear. Being afraid. Well, gotta understand, there’s a hell of a difference between coming to the heart-thumping realization that the outcome of a blistering confrontation involving gunfire might not go well and heart-pounding, piss-your-pants, bug-eyed fear.”
“Okay. Let me see if I can be a bit clearer. Might work better for you if I put it this way. Have you, personally, ever feared for your own safety during the course of a gunfight?”
“Hmm. Not as I can recall at the moment. But, like I said, anytime the fur started to fly, always knew there was a chance I might not walk away from the scrap without a new leak or two here and there.”
“Must admit I’ve cheated a bit on you, Hayden. Some recent research at the courthouse in Fort Smith indicates that you and Deputy Marshal Carlton J. Cecil took part in a somewhat infamous gun battle down at Wagon Wheel in the Nations. That right?”
“Uh-huh. Yeah. That was a bad one all right. Hadn’t thought much about that particular dustup in a spell. Seems as how a man does tend to forget them bloody scrapes that he survives. Feller never forgets the ones where he gets hit though. Getting shot does hone a feller’s memory to a right sharp point.”
“Remember enough about the Wagon Wheel fight so that you can you tell me about it?”