Gun Work: The Further Exploits of Hayden Tilden

by J. Lee Butts

  17

  “HIT POOR BOO WITH THAT HATCHET . . .”

  SWEAR I MUST have been a lot more worn down by the previous week’s events than I thought when my head hit the pillow that night. Plunged into the pitch-black well of deep sleep, and guess I didn’t even so much as twitch for about an hour or so. Then, I tossed, turned, and spent the rest of that night plagued by a nightmare that never seemed to end.

  Can’t say as I remember all that much in the way of details about the unearthly vision. Can recall as how it had something to do with being pulled into a sucking, howling, bottomless pit by a grasping, vinelike morass of human arms—women’s arms. Then, about half a second before I felt like a calamitous ruination was most assuredly descending upon me, a thunderous pounding at the back of my dozing brain snapped my more-than-willing eyes open quicker than Heaven’s golden gate could slam shut on hated Judas.

  Blinked myself to something akin to wakefulness just as the shadowy figure of Nate Swords, dressed in nothing but a pair of balbriggans and run-down boots, stumbled across the room. Pistol in hand, he caught his toe on something, swore, then jerked the door open.

  Sounded right snappish when Nate said, “For the love of sweet Jesus, it’s the middle of the night, Bob. What the hell you want?”

  Bob Evans stood in the doorway and went to yammering like an escapee from the lunatic ward of one of those hospitals for the criminally insane. But none of what he was saying seemed to make any sense.

  Sat up. Shook a mess of nightmarish cobwebs out of my head. Climbed out of the bed as Nate moved to a nightstand. He turned the wick up on a kerosene lamp to put a bit of light on the situation. Honest to God, in that lantern’s flickering, reddish-yellow glow, Deputy Town Marshal Bob Evans had all the outward manifestations of a man who’d just seen a ghost. Or maybe something real that had proved way beyond his ability to understand it.

  “Hurry. You fellers need to hurry. Don’t have to be fully dressed,” Evans said and sucked air as though drowning. “Just get yourselves decent. Come on. Have something you’ve gotta come see.”

  “What?” Carlton growled and rolled to a sitting position on the edge of the couch where he’d been sleeping. He ran a hand through a head of thick, matted, red hair and said, “What on God’s earth could you need to show us at this time of the night, Bob?”

  Carlton pushed both elbows backward until I heard his spine make cracking noises, then added, “Hell, feels like I just got to sleep a few minutes ago. Now you come bustin’ in here running off at the mouth like a man who’s left the better part of his brain out in the hall somewhere.”

  Evans’s dark-eyed, panic-stricken glance shot from one of us to the other, as if he were looking at ghoulish specters straight out of Beelzebub’s sulfurous pit. “Swear ’fore Jesus, there’s just no point trying to describe what I’m here for. Get yourselves dressed. Right now, dammit. Hurry. Hurry.”

  Well, we couldn’t work fast enough to suit him. In fact, none of us had managed to get ourselves anywhere near completely outfitted, when he said, “That’s enough, for the love of sweet Mary. Come the hell on.”

  Still working like a field hand at getting my pants up, as I followed ole Bob up to the third floor in my sock feet. Hadn’t gone far when I realized that he was leading us toward Daisy Cassidy’s digs. Couldn’t really see much. Just no way for me to get a decent look around the man’s sizable bulk in the narrow, poorly lit hallway.

  Had to push our way past several of the city policemen we’d seen in Sam Farmer’s office when we first arrived in town. Seemed as though every lawman in Fort Worth, and a good many of their closest friends, had wedged themselves into that jam-packed passageway. Couple of spots were so choked with milling, mumbling people we had a real problem getting by.

  Finally, Nate, Carl, and I bunched together on one side of the open door to Daisy Cassidy’s room. Evans backed up against the opposite wall as far out of the way as he could get.

  Heard Nate suck in a ragged breath. Carlton coughed and backed away from the horrific sight Evans’s calculated side-long move revealed.

  Blood-soaked scene came near stunning me to the bottoms of my bootless feet. Hadn’t laid my eyes on anything quite so horrific since the time Dennis Limberhand led us all over hell and the Indian Nations looking for those murderous Crooke boys.

  Boo Higgins and Carter Dillworthy sat in chairs opposite each other beneath the ghoulish glow of a couple of flickering wall sconces. Higgins had the seat on the far side of the hotel room’s door closest to the street below. Man sported the bloody-handled head of a hatchet buried in his skull just above the right ear. Better part of the leaked brain matter and oozing body fluids that sizable hole in his busted noggin had released rested on one shoulder. Stuff was pooled up in a shimmering glob of reddish-gray viscera the size of a number-three grain scoop.

  Just right of where a trembling Bob Evans stood, the vacant-eyed Carter Dillworthy sat bolt upright and stared across the narrow hallway at his butchered friend. Near half the massive blade of a knife protruded from Dillworthy’s upper right chest. Crude, wooden handle of the big sticker sported the emblazoned words MIGHTY OAK. A glistening river of sticky blood ran from the ragged wound, saturated that side of his shirt and the waist of his pants. Then, the grisly stream coursed over the edge of the ladder-backed chair’s woven seat and dripped into a growing puddle on the hotel’s carpeted floor.

  Carlton slapped me on the arm, coughed again, and pointed at Higgins. “These killings must’ve happened mighty fast, Hayden. Appears to me as how neither one of these sad wretches had much of a chance to move out of harm’s way ’fore he got sent to his Maker.”

  “Poor jokers evidently trusted whoever did this,” Nate said and stared at the ceiling. “Nobody in his right mind would sit still to be murdered in such a fashion, unless he knew and trusted the person what done the deed and let ’em get close enough to pull off such an atrocity.”

  More to myself than anyone else, I said, “Then again, they could’ve just been asleep, or almost asleep, when the attack occurred. Might not have been paying strict attention. Maybe they were bored and someone just snuck up and caught them flat-footed, unawares.”

  A clearly distressed Bob Evans snaked out a tentative hand and placed it on Carter Dillworthy’s shoulder. As Evans started to speak, the brutally stabbed Dillworthy’s head jerked up. Man sucked in a tremendous lungful of air, then groaned.

  “Sweet Jesus,” Evans squawked, snatched his hand away as though he’d just touched liquid iron, and jumped back a full step.

  The wooden-handled knife, jutting from Dillworthy’s body, rose and fell with the rapid heaving of his chest. “Wha . . . Wha . . . What the hell?” he said and made a hesitant, awkward, grasping move toward the blade.

  Evans quickly stepped forward, grabbed Dillworthy’s hand, and pushed it aside. Wild-eyed jasper had assumed the appearance of a man completely baffled, when he said, “Don’t touch it, Dill. Don’t dare touch that pigsticker. Might make the situation even worse’n it is now. Doc’s on his way. Should be here soon. Maybe he can get the damned thing free and not do too much more in the way of damage.”

  Dillworthy stared down at the knife like a baffled child. “Yeah, but . . .”

  Evans patted his friend’s shoulder. “No. You go pullin’ a blade that size loose now and you might well bleed slap out, right where you’re sittin’.”

  Dillworthy’s stunned, buglike gaze rubbered up to Evans, then from one of us to the other, back down to the knife, and finally landed on Higgins. “He’s d-d-dead, ain’t he, B-B-Bob?”

  Evans nodded. “Sure as hell seems so. ’Course we thought you were a goner, too, Dill. Would be something of a shocker if ole Boo was to go and sit up. Snatch that hatchet out of his own head. Such a sight would sure ’nuff send me to church Sunday morning, and that’s a fact.”

  Leaned over to a point where Dillworthy could see me and said, “Who did this to you, Carter?”

  Took some doing, but wi
th a gurgling froth oozing from one corner of his mouth like an ever-widening, pink river of bubbles, he said, “That d-d-damned gal. Was sittin’ here tryin’ to keep my eyes open, you know. B-B-Bored slap silly. Of a sudden, she jerked . . . the door to the room . . . open. Come a flyin’ out . . . like some kinda b- b-broom-ridin’ banshee.”

  “Daisy Cassidy? You mean Daisy Cassidy?” I said.

  “Yeah. Gal jumped into the hall . . . like a b-b-branded bobcat. Hit poor Boo with that hatchet . . . quicker’n a b-b-body can spit.”

  Glanced at Carl and Nate. They both looked dumbfounded and shrugged.

  “You’re certain?” I said.

  “H-H-Hell, yeah. Happened so fast I d-d-didn’t even know what she’d done ’fore she was on me like st-st-stink on cow flops with this here knife.” He gingerly slid an inquisitive finger up and down the blade’s rough hilt. “S-S-Shit. Little gal went and stabbed the bejabberous h-h-hell outta me ’fore I could even react. Who’d a thunk it?”

  A clearly unsettled Bob Evans patted his friend’s shoulder again. “God forgive us, but we thought you were deader’n a drowned dog, Dill.”

  Like a chicken charmed by a snake, Dillworthy gazed at the knife’s hilt, as it rose and fell with his labored breathing. “M-M-Me, too. She musta hit somethin’ as p-p-paralyzed me, Bob. Couldn’t get my b-b-breath, doancha know. And then, Lord G-G-God help me, I couldn’t m-m-move. Felt as how I’d been turned to stone, or somethin’. Still havin’ trouble b-b-breathin’.”

  Evans stared at his badly wounded friend and shook his head in bug-eyed disbelief.

  Dillworthy tilted a wobbling head back against the wall and groaned. Sounded a thousand miles away when he said, “Tell you true, boys, they was . . . a time or two there, th-th-thought I’d already gone on up to Heaven. Swear ’fore Jesus, I seen my gr-gr-grandpap. That old man’s been d-d-dead n-n-nigh on thirty year. Then you touched me, Bob. Felt like some kinda hot, nerve-tinglin’ spark shot through my whole b-b-body when your hand hit my shoulder. Sure ’nuff brung me b-b-back from wherever’n hell I’d went.”

  Didn’t look around when I heard Nate say, “The kids are gone, Hayden. Ain’t a sign of ’em in the room.”

  Squatted down in front of Dillworthy. “You have any idea where the Cassidys were headed, Carter?”

  “Know exactly where they were g-g-goin’, Marshal Tilden,” he said.

  “You’re certain?”

  Dillworthy’s head bobbled around on his neck as if it were mounted on a piece of spring steel. Thought for a second he’d passed out. But then he appeared to snap back to reality and hissed, “P-P-Pretty sure that gal thought she’d gone and k-k-kilt me. Heard the pair of ’em whisperin’ back and forth as they went sneaking off down the hall. They was arguin’ ’bout what to do and where to go.”

  “Arguing?”

  “Yeah.” He took a long, gurgling breath to steady himself, then added, “Seems the boy, M-M-Matt, wanted to scoot on back to the Nations. But that gal, that D-D-Daisy Cassidy, she told her little brother they had to get on down to Turnbow’s w-w-wagon yard, find some horses, and hoof it on to Morgan’s Cut, quick as they could.”

  “Morgan’s Cut?”

  “Y-Y-Yeah. Out on the Brazos. Half-assed, jerkwater wide space in the Abilene stage road. ’Bout forty miles west of Fort Worth. Not much there. Only one saloon. And it’s a damned disreputable joint where the dregs of humanity hang out. Couple a stores, if they’re still up and r-r-running. Cross-roads meetin’ place for the low, and them as are goin’ lower, more’n anythang else.”

  “Why the hell would she say something like that?” Carlton wondered. “Better yet, how’d she even know about a spot like Morgan’s Cut?”

  Dillworthy moaned, wagged his head back and forth like a sick dog. Thought sure he’d said all he could. But then, between hisses and slobbers, he added, “Heard her say as how they had to get their hands on some horses. Hit the trail ’fore anybody f-f-found out what they’d gone and done. Needed to get there . . . quick as they could . . . meet up with somebody . . . name of Coltrane.”

  “You’re certain that’s what you heard? No doubt in your mind?” I said.

  Dillworthy’s eyes rolled up in his head. Violent jerks racked his body several times. One shudder hit him so hard felt sure he might go and fall right out of the chair. Thought for a second or two he would pass out again, or get called to the great beyond before he could finish telling us what we needed to know.

  Several seconds of ragged breathing and more moaning passed before the cruelly stabbed man gasped as though strangled, then hissed, “Certain as a man with n-n-nigh on five inches of sharpened steel stickin’ outta his chest can be, Marshal.”

  Nate looked incredulous when he said, “You heard ’em talking? You actually thought you were dead and still heard ’em talkin’? That what you’re sayin’, Dill?”

  Dillworthy blinked fifteen or twenty times real quick, like he’d lost control of his eyelids and couldn’t stop them flapping. Looked some confused, lost, but said, “Yeah. They ’uz only . . . a few feet away. Heard everthang. Swear ’fore Jesus . . . swear it.”

  Nate held a hand up as though to slow the conversation. “Okay. Okay. Don’t get your balbriggans all knotted up.”

  More than a bit wild-eyed by then, Dillowrthy snapped, “Even heard what all my . . . g-g-good friends and b-b-boon companions said . . . later when they finally showed up.”

  Man closest to Dillworthy let out an audible gasp, then stared at the hallway floor.

  “Yeah. Y’all ’uz millin’ around and talkin’ ’bout how I ’uz crow bait. How I’d done gone . . . and sh-sh-shook hands with eternity and all. G-G-Give up the ghost. Quit this earth. Deader’n Hell in a Baptist preacher’s . . . b-b-backyard. Whole time . . . I ’uz just screamin’ like a son of a bitch inside. Nobody could hear me. God Almighty, nobody could h-h-hear me. It were awful.”

  Didn’t have the slightest idea what to say to that. So I got to my feet and turned to Evans. “Have any idea how long ago this all took place, Bob?”

  Evans ran one hand up under his hat and scratched. “Oh, couldna been much more’n half an hour, Marshal Tilden. Little longer, maybe.” He pointed a shaking finger at Higgins. “I sent poor ole Boo, there, up to spell Hardy Forrest—maybe forty-five minutes ago. Had another man who ’uz supposed to relieve Dill, but he didn’t show on time. He come up late and found both of ’em all butchered up like this. Damn near scared him slap to death. Wouldn’t even come back up here with us. Still down at the office blubberin’ like some kinda escaped loony, I suppose.”

  “God Almighty,” Carlton said. “You mean this poor son of a bitch might’ve been sittin’ here for near half an hour, or more, the way we found him? With that big ole knife juttin’ outta his chest and all?”

  Evans knuckled a stubble-covered chin, shrugged, then nodded. “Sure as the devil’s an awful thought, ain’t it? But, yeah. Guess that’s the way of it.”

  Carlton shook his head, then toed at the carpet beneath his feet and stared at the floor. “Damn. Thought I’d seen some strange stuff over the years we’ve traveled together, Tilden, but this here takes the by-God cake. Woulda swore that man was stone-cold dead when we walked up.”

  Dillworthy coughed. Spotty stream of spittle and blood trickled out of the corner of his mouth and onto an already gore-covered shirtfront. “Ain’t n-n-none of you boys any more surprised that I’m alive th-th-than me,” he said, flashed a weak grin, then coughed again.

  Nate rubbed the back of his neck. Shook his head, then said, “Oh, I dunno. Couple years ago heard tell of a feller what got hisself shot up through and through the chest, was over in Okmulgee. Everbody what looked him over declared as how the poor fool was deader’n a pitchfork handle.”

  “His name was Reggie Crawford,” Carlton offered.

  “Yeah, Reggie Crawford,” Nate said. “Talked with folks from around those parts who claimed as how they listened for a heartbeat, felt for a pulse, even held mirrors up to h
is toothless mouth. Nothin’. Middle of July at the time. So, they went and put ’im on top a slab of ice in the nearest icehouse. Covered the poor feller head to foot with a layer of straw and horse blankets. He laid there for nigh on two days.”

  “Think I remember hearin’ ’bout this one myself,” I said.

  “Most probably you did, Tilden. It’s a well-traveled tale,” Nate continued. “Anyhow, way I heard it told, the poor joker come conscious in the dark. Colder’n Hell with the fires doused. Sat up and went to screaming like a lunch whistle at a sawmill. Scared the bejabberous hell outta people outside what heard ’im. Even so, somebody finally got up nerve enough to open the icehouse door. They got him out. Warmed him up, patched him up, and last I heard, he’s still alive and kickin’ to this very day.”

  “Yeah,” Carlton said, “that’s all well and good, but can testify from personal knowledge, if you put the poor goober’s scrambled-up brain in a horned toad, it’d jump around in circles, backward.”

  About then, a short, dark, intense-looking gent wearing a threadbare, pin-striped, three-piece suit, white shirt, short-brimmed hat, and carrying a black leather bag pushed through the crowd and muscled his way up to the scene. Snatched his pince-nez glasses off, got in Bob Evans’s face, and said, “Need to move some of these people the hell and gone out of here, Bob. Sweet merciful father. No way I could possibly help anyone with all these gawking ignoramuses clogging everything up from here to halfway down to the street. Go on, Bob, get them the hell out of my way.”

  Evans tipped his hat. Said, “Sure ’nuff, Doc. I’ll move ’em on down to the other end of the hall. Maybe then you’ll have enough room to work and can keep ole Dill from pass-i n’ on.”

  I figured as how our presence was no longer needed. So, we scurried back to our room. Got ourselves fully dressed, then hoofed it downstairs. Stood around in the El Paso Hotel’s bar for another thirty minutes or so. Had a stiff drink while we waited.

  Well, it surprised the hell out of everybody in the place when the doc came down leading Dillworthy by the hand like a small child. Personally must admit, I found it unimaginable that the poor, stabbed-up joker was still alive and could walk at all. The doc had him bandaged from neck to waist, like one of those Egyptian mummies in a traveling carnival you could see back in them days for a nickel. Dillworthy did stumble some now and again, as though he just might not make it to the hotel’s front entrance.