by J. Lee Butts
Entire troop of Fort Worth’s grim-faced police force followed along behind. Narrow stairway made it some difficult, as they lugged the hatchet-brained corpse of Boo Higgins down all wrapped up in a bedsheet. Creeping bloodstain on the upper end of the sheet made it right obvious that his demolished skull was still leaking right smart, though. Saw several people in the hotel lobby cover their faces with a kerchief and turn away. Can’t say as I blamed them much. Was right gruesome.
Carlton leaned against the hotel’s bar, took a sip from his drink, then under his breath, said, “Gets home to you right quick when a fellow lawman bites the dust, don’t it? Bet every one of Marshal Sam Farmer’s boys is silently thanking whatever god he prays to that he wasn’t sittin’ where Boo Higgins was earlier this evenin’. Know for sure I’m gladder’n hell it weren’t me.”
Half finished drinks in hand, we trailed Fort Worth’s party of hurting lawmen out into Third Street. Stood beneath the hotel’s veranda and watched as they disappeared up the sparsely peopled thoroughfare and slowly bled into the receding darkness.
Smoldering, square-cut cheroot, that looked like a rotten tree root, dangled from Nate’s lips when he said, “We gonna follow along with ’em to the city jail, Hayden?”
“Nope. We’ve got other, far more important fish to fry, Nate.”
Carlton slapped the grip of his belly gun, said, “Best get ourselves on down to Fletcher Turnbow’s place, Hayden. If that old man’s still alive, it’s sure ’nuff gonna surprise the hell outta me.”
Can’t imagine why, but such a thought hadn’t so much as crossed my mind. Of a sudden, though, I felt the urgent need for the three of us to get down to the wagon yard quick as we could heel it. Sat our empty glassware on the edge of the hotel’s boardwalk and struck out for Turnbow’s outfit like a trio of scalded dogs.
Along the way I said a silent prayer for the old man’s safe deliverance from an evil he could not have imagined.
18
“COLTRANE BOYS DIDN’T KILL THE CASSIDYS . . .”
FOUND FLETCHER TURNBOW all balled up in a knot. Laid out in the corner of one of his horse stalls. Blood spattered all over hell and yonder.
“Good Lord, looks like somebody hit the old man in the head with a hay sickle,” Carlton said through a tight-lipped grimace.
Nate reached into the stall’s feed box and brought out an ax handle decorated on one end with a gob of hair and blood. Held it up. “Nope. Be willing to testify as how they used this right here on the old feller, Carl.”
Dragged Turnbow out into the centermost open area of his barn. Hit him with a splash of cold water from a pail Carl found. He woke up and started coming back to life. Struggled and fought with us, at first. Old coot fisted Carlton in the eye before we could get him calmed down. ’Course we knew Fletch didn’t mean to do it, but Carl yelped like a kicked dog anyhow. Did his very own share of swearing. Danced around the barn, one hand cupped over a split brow.
Second or so after he popped Carl, Turnbow hopped up on wobbly legs. Codger was so bowlegged he couldn’t have caught a pig in a water trough. Fists out like a sparring, bareknuckled prizefighter, he went to bouncing around on those saddle-warped legs of his. Cussed a blue streak that could have peeled red paint off a New Hampshire barn. His muddle-headed, anger-laced profanity made that musty barn’s air crackle and smell like sulfur.
Bug-eyed, slobbers dribbled down the geezer’s stubble-covered chin, when he screeched, “Kick your collective asses, by God. Yessir, sure as hell will. Want some? Come on and git some. Whip the whole damned bunch of yuh like a pack of yard dogs. Run all of yuh back under the porch, by God.”
Took considerable doing, but we finally got Fort Worth’s premier hostler calmed down a bit. Had to spend almost five minutes talking to him like he’d reverted back to early childhood and needed his diaper changed.
Tried to clean him up with a piece of rag and some water, while he sat on an empty, wooden nail keg and tongue-lashed the entire seen and unseeable world. Think he had just about wore out every method of blasphemy privy to God and mankind when he said, “Swear to Christ, Marshal Tilden, a body cain’t trust a solitary soul these days. World’s goin’ straight to a festerin’ hell on an outhouse door, you ask me. Can’t even trust a good-lookin’ woman or little kids anymore. Never can tell when one of ’em might go an’ jump up and try to kill the hell out of you. Would lead a feller to believin’ we’re in the final days ’fore the Rapture comes.”
“Straw-haired girl with the face of an angel do this to you?” I said.
Turnbow looked surprised and a bit puzzled, but nodded. “Well, kinda. Woke me up out’n a sound sleep, Tilden. Went to bangin’ on my door like my barn was on fire or something. Hell, I ’uz dreamin’ ’bout painted women of loose virtue and looser underwear,” Turnbow said and dabbed at the wound on the side of his head. “Still pretty groggy when I opened the door, I guess.”
“Have a dark-haired boy looked like he might be part Injun with her?” Carlton said.
“Yeah. That she did. But he didn’t say mucha nothin’. Not at first, anyways. Just kinda hung back in the shadows and looked sulkified. All red in the face. Acted like he might go and bust out cryin’ just anytime.”
Nate leaned against a stall rail, pulled the makings, and set to building a hand-rolled. Puffed it to life, then said, “Attack you right off?”
“No. No. They both come inside. Gal said as how Marshal Hayden Tilden, from Fort Smith, had said I ’uz supposed to provide ’em both with a proper mount. Said they needed the horses fast as I could get ’em saddled. Said as how they had to be on their way quick as possible. Made out like you were gonna explain it all for me when morning come.”
“You believe her, Fletch?” Carlton said.
“Hell, no, I didn’t believe her. Told both of ’em as much, too, by God. ’Course, soon’s I went to questionin’ ’em that really ripped the rag off the bush. Words hadn’t even got outta my mouth good and that boy started acting like he’d had some loco weed in his last bowl of porridge. Ranted and raved like some kinda madcap. Girl tried to calm him down. Then, she went and pulled a sack fulla money out’n this big ole canvas bag she ’uz a-totin’.”
“Sack full of money?” Carlton said, as though amazed.
“Yeah. Yeah. Looked like some kinda bank bag, maybe. Bet she had ten thousand dollars in that poke, if’n she had a penny. Said if I couldn’t see my way to doin’ as you’d requested, she’d buy the horses. Pay fer ’em with cash money. Long as I could get ’em saddled and have the two of ’em on their way in ten minutes or less.”
Nate grinned. “You get the job done, Fletch?”
Turnbow dropped the bloody rag into his lap, then fingered at the gash over his ear. “Hell, yeah, I got ’er done. Not quite as quick as she wanted, but I got ’er done. Walking them animals to the door to get my money, when that boy popped up in front of me with a stick of wood in his hand. Swung at me and missed.”
“Missed?” Carlton said.
“Yeah. But then he chased me back yonder to the stall. Hemmed me up and whacked me on the noggin. Felt like my head split open all the way down to my ass crack.”
I shot a quick glance over at Carl and said, “Get our fan-tails out and ready to go. We need to be on their trail before they can manage to do any more damage to unsuspecting citizens they might happen upon along their path.”
Refocused my attention on Turnbow, as Carl and Nate raced to our mounts. “Thinking right yet?”
“Guess so. Kid made one helluva dent in my noggin though.”
“What’s the quickest route to Morgan’s Cut, Fletch?”
Still fiddling with the slash over his ear, when he pointed in no particular direction and mumbled, “Just head on back up Main to Weatherford. Turn due west. You’ll hit the old Abilene stage road. Morgan’s Cut’s thirty-five, maybe forty miles out. Can’t miss it, really. Spot where the Brazos crosses over the road. Wide, washed out spot there. Known to flood for no apparent reason t
here. Dangerous at times. That where you think they’re goin’?”
“Yeah. Pretty sure. Put the spur to our animals, might even catch up with them before they can get there.”
“Well, they ain’t got much of a head start on you. Might’ve even done you a favor that’ll help.”
“How so?”
“Give that boy a big blaze-faced plug named Digger. Animal’s right rear shoe’s cracked and needs replacin’. Was gonna fix it today. Should be a snap to track ’im. Kid pushes Digger too hard, that shoe’s gonna come a-flyin’ off.”
Patted the old-timer on his shoulder. “That’s good to hear, Fletch. I’ll put Carl on their track. Lot better at reading sign than me. He’ll run them down. Now, are you gonna be all right?”
Turnbow flashed a tight, snaggletoothed grin, then nodded. “Take more’n a kid with a stick of wood to keep me down, Marshal. Be goin’ like a barn burnin’ by tomorrow mornin’. Garn-teed.”
“Sure you don’t want me to talk with Bob Evans and have the doctor come on down this way to check on you?”
“Oh, hell, no. Don’t trust no sawbones any farther’n I could throw the two horses them kids made off with. I’ll be fine. Just need to take a few minutes to collect myself’s all.”
As I turned and started away, Turnbow added, “You catch that gal, Tilden, tell her she owes me a hunnert and six dollars for them horses, saddles, and such. Sure would like to have my money.”
Razor’s edge of sunlight sliced across our backs as we stormed out of Fort Worth and hit the Abilene Road. Green, hilly landscape, typical of east Texas, falls away pretty quick once you get a few miles west of the area around Hell’s Half Acre. Earth flattens out. Quickly becomes browner and more barren. Not much in the way of greenery except stunted bushes and the rare tree, here and there. Rode like red-eyed demons straight from the fiery pit, till the horses began to complain.
When the light got good enough, Carlton and Nate scoured the heavily traveled path looking for sign of our prey. Took near an hour of concentrated effort before they managed to pick Digger’s trail out of the cobweb of tracks that confronted them in the baked soil.
Going along at a pretty good clip, an hour or so later, when Nate drew us to a stop atop a small rise in the road. Quarter of a mile away, only live oak more than ten feet tall grew within a few steps of the roadway. Appeared to me as how travelers often stopped there to seek respite from a sun that seemed to have the power to auger right through a man’s Stetson and on into his skull.
Nate pulled his long glass. Snapped the five-segment scope out to its entire length, scanned the area in every direction. Handed the fully extended glass to me and said, “Look yonder, Hayden. Base of the tree.”
“What is it?” Carl said.
Put the glass up to my eye. “Appears there’s somebody sitting on the ground with his back to the tree, Carl. Horse not far away. Animal’s standing hipshot. Got its right rear hoof up. Damn. Think that might well be Matt Cassidy down there, boys.” Handed the glass back to Nate. “Whoever it is, Cassidy or not, he sure as hell ain’t moving around much. Best kick on down and check it out.”
“We goin’ in hot?” Carl said, then pulled and cocked a pistol.
“Sure as shootin’. Shotguns and rifles probably best,” I said and freed my sawed-off Greener from its bindings. “In the immortal words of Billy Bird, it’s always better to be safe than sorry.”
Guess we hadn’t advanced much more than a hundred yards when Nate reined us to a halt again. Said, “Well, he still ain’t movin’. And I don’t see anyone else around. Either of you?”
Me and Carl agreed as how we didn’t. So, we kicked hard and thundered up on the scene like a heavily armed twister. Didn’t take long to see why the boy hadn’t moved around any.
Stepped off Gunpowder’s back with my shotgun in hand. Three of us spread out and crept up on Matt Cassidy at the same time. Maybe ten paces away when Nate stopped dead in his tracks, gagged, and almost lost everything he’d had to eat for breakfast and the tubful of victuals he’d scarfed down the day before.
Pool of sticky, blackened blood saturated the ground for two feet around the Cassidy boy’s narrow behind. Someone had sliced the kid’s stomach open from one side to the other. Pile of innards lay in a greasy heap between his outstretched legs.
Carlton kicked at the dirt and looked away. “Jesus,” he said. “Ain’t this a god-awful mess.”
Eased up as close to the kid as I cared to get. Hit one knee and damn near fell over backward when he looked up at me. Face drained of color and twisted in pain, tiny rivers of tears streaked their way down his filth-encrusted cheeks.
Most pitiful thing I’d ever heard when he pawed at that mound of guts with useless hands and gasped, “Tr-Tr-Tried to fix ’em. Tried to pull ’em b-b-back. Cain’t get ’em back inside where they belong.”
Behind me, heard Carlton say, “Sweet Lord Almighty.”
Waved at the kid with one hand. Said, “Don’t, Matt. Don’t do that. You’re just making a bad situation a lot worse.”
He held up a mess of his own entrails, shot a desperate, fleeting look my direction. “Can you p-p- put ’em back? Please. Oh, p-p-please, God. Can you p-p-put ’em back, Marshal?”
In spite of myself, shook my head and looked away for a second. “No. No, Matt. Think you’re beyond human help. Not sure anyone could put you back together, son. Not now.”
An agonized, wrenching groan oozed up from somewhere in the boy’s thin, empty chest. “She’s crazy. Nuttier’n a bag . . . of roasted peanuts. Said sh-sh-she didn’t have n-n-no more use for me and opened my stomach up like she was guttin’ a calf.”
Nate eased up next to me. Dropped a canteen on the ground near the butt of my Greener. “Not sure we should give him water in such a condition, but I brought it anyway.” He squatted next to me and looked at everything he could see, except the butchered remnants of Matt Cassidy.
Opened the canteen and handed it to the boy. “He’s way past helping, Nate. Don’t think a little water will hurt anything.”
Cassidy kid took several long gulps. Still going at it when I took the water away from him.
“Daisy? Your sister?” I said. “She did this? She’s the crazy one?”
He wiped bloody lips on a nasty shirt-sleeve. “Yeah. She d-d-done for me all right. Sure ‘nuff. But sh-sh-she ain’t my sister. I ain’t Matt Cassidy. Ain’t . . . nobody named Matt Cassidy. Name’s Jacky White. Lived on the farm next to the Cassidy place.”
Didn’t see him but felt Carl behind me when he said, “You there when the Coltrane boys kilt the Cassidy family, son?”
No answer for a time. Thought maybe the boy had passed over. Of a sudden, he sucked in a long ragged breath. Said, “Coltrane boys didn’t k-k-kill the Cassidys. D-D-Daisy done it. Well, actually, Daisy . . . and me. We done the sorry deed.”
Carlton grunted like he’d been slapped across the face.
Nate shook his head and stared at the ground.
“Daisy? You’re sure?” I said.
“We were together in one of her pa’s fields when the Coltranes came. Doin’ . . . well, sure you can guess at what we ’uz doin’. Spent most of our time together doin’ each other.” He groaned, closed his eyes, groaned again. Called on a god that evidently had other things to take care of.
“You were out in the fields, doing whatever you were doing, when the Coltrane boys came by the house?” I asked.
He grunted, nodded, then said, “Got back ’bout a minute . . . after they left. Daisy had some kinda fit . . . found out her pa’d run ’em off. Gal’s m-m-murderous addled in her thinker box. Has a th-th-thing for that Jesse. Called me Jesse . . . in my ear . . . when we was a-doin’ the big . . . wiggle, you know.”
“God above. No. We didn’t know that. Any of it,” Carlton mumbled. “You’re sayin’ the gal’s insane?”
“Hell . . . yeah. She grabbed . . . an ax. Went in the house . . . kilt her ma and baby brother. Come outside dripping blood. Scare
d me . . . sl-sl-slap to death. Handed me a p-p-pistol. Said I should k-k-kill her pa. He was out in his sorghum patch. God help me, I tr-tr-tried to get out of it. Daisy wouldn’t listen. Made me do it.”
Sounded unconvinced when Carl said, “She killed her mother and brother, then you shot Matthew Cassidy?”
“Had to. She said . . . we’d never again do any of what we’d been doing . . . if’n I didn’t kill her pa the way she wanted. So, I took the pistol. Walked down to the field. Sh-sh-shot him in the head. Looked . . . right surprised a-layin’ there . . .”
Nate sounded more than a bit angry when he snapped, “Why are you here, boy? We thought the Coltrane brothers did the killings sure as Hell’s hot.”
“ ’S what Daisy wanted people to think. She’s chasin’ Jesse. Cain’t think of nothin’ else. Bird-doggin’ his trail. . . . Daisy says he’s a-waitin’ for her . . . at Morgan’s Cut. Said they had previous made plans. If’n he come by and m-m-missed her, she was to head for Morgan’s Cut, out west of Fort Worth. Even give her a map. So . . . we k-k-kilt her family . . . took all the money hid under the floor of the house . . . and headed out.”
“She told quite a tale so you two could stay in Fort Worth, didn’t she?” I said.
“Yeah. Quite a tale ’bout how she’d b-b-been mistreated. She actually believed Jesse would come. Not sure why . . . b-b-but she believed it. Believed it till you marshals . . . showed up. Then, she went m-m-murderous crazy again. Jesus . . . I’m cold.”
Gutted boy’s eyes rolled to the back of his head. A pinkish, gray froth poured from both corners of his mouth. Went to flopping around like a beached fish. Seizure proved so violent, we had to jump back and move away to keep from getting sprayed with all the flying viscera. Guess he flailed around for near a minute before finally getting still again.