by J. Lee Butts
“Yeah. This here wire tells as how under some fearsome duress, a few nervous, reluctant witnesses told the local Light Horse police that none other than Zeke Blackheart himself had personally shot the railroad’s representative for no apparent reason whatsoever—other than pure-dee, low-down, scurrilous, evil meanness. A blue whistler from the bandit’s Remington .44–40 pistol hit the agent just above the right eye. Splashed all manner of brain, bone, and gore over most of hell and yonder.”
“My God.”
“Several of them as beheld the unspeakable act claimed that the heavy aroma of bust-head whiskey could be easily detected on every member of that bunch of cold-blooded bastards. One God-fearing Choteau lady loudly proclaimed to investigators as how those thugs who got within ten feet of the group of terrified travelers smelled like they’d been saturated in the kind of giggle juice that would make a jackrabbit rear back on its hind legs and spit in a rattlesnake’s eyes.”
“If this bunch is loaded up on bust head, ain’t no limit to what they might be capable of doing, Carl.”
“Well, by God, you oughta have one a those multicolored, A-rab tents and be readin’ palms in a travelin’ carnival, Hayden.”
“Get on with it, for the love of Pete. Tell it all. Ain’t no point holdin’ back. Gimme the whole weasel, hair, toenails, and all.”
Carl flashed a toothy smile and jumped in with both feet. “’Pears as how two days after murderin’ the M.K. & T. station agent and Rogers Kelso, that selfsame pack of slavering, yellow-toothed dogs threw the switch on the Missouri Pacific Flyer about five miles outside Wagoner. Sent the hurtling engine and following cars onto a blind siding and directly into a chain of empty boxcars parked there.”
“Sweet merciful Father. Goes a long way to provin’ that Blackheart must, beyond any doubt, have a thing about railroads, if you ask me.”
“Fortunately, a quick-thinking engineer name of Beauchamp kept the train from derailing, but the wreck still made a hell of a mess. Some folks claimed they heard the thunderous crash two miles away. True or not, the collision turned three of the idle boxcars on the siding into an enormous pile of splintered kindling.”
“Can tell from the way your eyes are shining, Carl, that what I’ve heard so far ain’t nowheres near the end of this saga of murder and madness.”
“This here might well be studied at some time in the future as the damnedest crime spree I’ve ever heard tell of, Hayden. See, engineer Beauchamp fell under a heavy curtain of gunfire just as his train slammed into the first of the stationary cars. Once everything had settled out a bit, the robbers jumped on board and snatched the wounded Beauchamp and his fireman out of the bullet-riddled engine cab. Hustled both men down the track to the express car, where they were forced, under threat of death and at gunpoint, to try and talk the messenger into opening the heavily barred doors.”
“Be willing to bet everything I own they didn’t have any luck with that trick.”
“’Course not. And when the railroad’s distressed employees’ pleading efforts failed, Blackheart, with the assistance of two of his compatriots, set to blasting away at the immobilized express car. Dismayed messenger, a feller named Rufus Smoot, finally opened up for ’em. Ole Zeke hopped into the car, shoved his pistol barrel into Mr. Smoot’s ear, and forced the terrified man to give up the contents of the only safe aboard. At the exact same time, a pair of the other thieves strolled though the passenger car, smoker, and sleeper, taking everything they could lay wicked hands on of any value. Beat several of the guiltless travelers insensible with their pistol barrels as well.”
“Did the thieves get much?”
“Couple a thousand dollars, near as could be determined.”
“That the end of it?”
“Oh, hell, no. Once those evil bastards had possession of all that could be stolen, they rode up and down the tracks firin’ their weapons at the still-occupied cars with no regard as to who or what they might hit. Unfortunately for a good woman name of Mrs. Leotis Crump, one of those promiscuously fired bullets caught her in the spine. By the time the badly damaged, shot-to-pieces engine had backed up the bullet-riddled train all the way to Wagoner, Mrs. Crump had slipped over to the other side.”
“God almighty. Another viciously murdered innocent whose life was snatched away by the carelessness of men too crazed on cheap panther piss to care. Can’t remember a time in my tenure when the Indian Nations have seen such an orgy of criminal mischief. That is the whole animal, ain’t it?”
Carl whipped out tobacco and papers and set to rollin’ himself a smoke. “Yep. Leastways, far as anyone’s able to tell—right now. But, hell, Hayden, you know as well as me that there could be bodies all over the country between each of their bigger crimes. Once a bunch like this gets goin’, ain’t no tellin’ how many good and decent folks might end up dyin’.”
2
“. . . MURDEROUS DOIN’S AFOOT, AIN’T THEY, MARSHAL TILDEN?”
CARL, NATE SWORDS, and I had happened on the complete skinny about the Blackheart gang’s mind-boggling spurt of brutal murder and mayhem kinda by accident. We’d stopped over at the Cherokee Nation’s damned fine, brick courthouse and jail in Tahlequah. Figured on leavin’ a fugitive we’d chanced on, name of Luther Blind Wolf, in the care and custody of the Cherokee Light Horse police.
Luther raped and murdered a kindhearted woman who lived on her own farm over near the tiny community of Ten Killer in the Brushy Mountains. She’d fed the evil sack of scum, given him a job, a place to sleep, and treated him well for the damned little work he did while in her employ. He repaid that good soul’s kindness by delivering several crushing blows to her skull with a double-bit ax.
When we caught Blind Wolf, in a thick stand of cane along Ironwood Creek just off the Verdigris River, he still had possession of the dead woman’s distinctive palomino pony. Animal had been described to us in the minutest detail by a number of her distraught neighbors.
Well, we dragged the murdering skunk in so the Cherokee courts could decide his fate. Carlton figured as how the rape would probably get ole Luther fifty to a hundred lashes with an iron rod while tied to a tree. He had no doubt the murder would result in his brutal departure from this life at the hands of an Indian executioner. Hard to argue with the simple rightness of my good friend’s reasoning.
As dredged up from the foggy bottoms of my swampy brain—way I remember it all—we’d just stepped through the front door of the courthouse, on our way to the hitch rack, with every intent of heading our posse on back to Fort Smith. A Cherokee policeman of our acquaintance caught us about the time we made it to our animals. Chewy Birdsong handed Carl all those copies of the telegraph messages that graphically described the Blackheart band’s lethal binge of slaughter, carnage, abuse, and strong-armed robbery. Carl read them silently, then gave me his detailed rendition of the bad news.
Officer Birdsong stood nearby, shook his head, then said, “That M.K. & T. robbery and killing happened ’bout six hours ago, less’n twenty-five miles from where we’re a-standin’ at this very moment. God-awful, murderous doin’s afoot, ain’t they, Marshal Tilden?”
Handed the various messages concerning the Blackheart gang’s brutish acts back to Chewy after I’d scanned them just to make sure Carl hadn’t left anything out. Swept my hat off and wiped a sweaty forehead on my sleeve. “Indeed, Chewy. Yes, indeed. Murderous doin’s, for sure. Kind of vile wickedness that’s powerful enough to take a decent man’s breath away. Bet when this entire bloody tale hits the front pages of all the newspapers here in the Nations and those over in Fort Smith, there’s gonna be a serious public outcry for some kind of immediate, and lethal, retribution.”
Nate had listened in on the whole story, too. He’d looked over my shoulder and read along to get the official gist of what had occurred. “We goin’ after ’em boys, Hayden?” he said. “Just askin’ is all. Bein’ as how we’ve already been out in the briars and brambles, and a-livin’ by a campfire for nigh on three weeks, I�
�d just kinda like to get my head right if we ain’t gonna point ourselves on back toward Fort Smith.”
Motioned in the direction of a slat-seated wooden bench in a shady spot on the boardwalk right next to the courthouse’s front door. Said, “Carl, why don’t you boys have a seat over yonder. I’m gonna wire Mr. Wilton and Marshal Dell. See what those gents and Judge Parker think of this dance. Might take a spell to get an answer. Y’all take a load off. Roll yourselves a smoke. Take it easy till I have a definitive reply on this one.”
Birdsong shoved his hat off and let it dangle down his back on a silver-tipped, leather thong. Shook his head as though he bordered on being too weary to carry on with life, then followed me back inside the courthouse.
Didn’t take anywhere near as long as I first expected to get a sharply worded directive on how to handle that particular assignment. My company of lawdogs hadn’t even had time to finish their original smokes when I came back out with Mr. Wilton’s instructions. Handed his response to Carlton, propped my foot on the arm of the bench, then pulled a panatela from my jacket pocket. Fired a lucifer and stoked the tobacco to life.
By the time I’d inhaled my first puff of the sweet, heavy smoke, Carl passed our most recent communication from Fort Smith back to me, then said, “From what Judge Parker’s bailiff says in there, Hayden, ’pears to me like we’ve been approved for another job.”
Nate sat with his elbows on his knees. He picked the smoking cigarette off his lip, then shot me a scrunch-faced look. “Well, damn,” he said, and snatched a stick off the ground at his feet. He scratched around in the dust and said, “Lookin’ more’n more like MaryLou West’s gonna have to suffer without the pleasure of my company for a spell longer.”
Carl poked my knee with his elbow, then slanted a conspiratorial, corner-of-the-eye glance over at Nate. “Suffer? Poor gal ill, Nate? She real sick or somethin’? Undertaker gonna have to warm up his hearse?”
Swords took a puff off his stubby smoke and looked thoughtful. “Well, naw, nothin’ like that. Jus’, you see, fellers, that affectionate little filly does have a tendency to pine away, not eat, lose weight, and such when she cain’t see me on a fairly regular basis. Kinda like a pet dog’ll do. Sad. I’m tellin’ you, boys, it’s really a sad thing to witness.”
“Well, now, she wouldn’t get so lovesick as to pass away from lack of your frequent company and affection, would she, Nate?”
“Hard to say, Carl. Surely you remember that last time we went out for almost two months a-huntin’ for Thurgood Blodgett, don’t you?”
“Feller what beat his wife to death with a brand-new bucket a lard ’cause she used too much flour in his biscuits?”
“Yeah, he’s the one.”
“Hard to be a woman in the Nations, that’s for damned sure,” I offered.
“Well, when we got back from that rump-burnin’ chase, I swear the poor gal had damn near wasted away to a frazzle from lack of my lovin’. Sweet-natured little thang was to the point where I feared she just might blow away with any little half-assed breeze comin’ outta the west. Got me to thinkin’ as how I just might have to take off and spend some time over in Tennessee or Mississippi somewheres, a-searchin’ for her once I got back from our next raid into the Nations.”
“Sweet merciful heavens,” Carl grunted, then hopped off the bench. “Swear ’fore Jesus, Swords, you’re a bigger bullshitter than William Tecumseh Bird ever thought about bein’. And that’s sayin’ a mouthful. God Almighty, but sweet William could sure ’nuff stack the stuff deep, but he couldn’t hold a candle to you. You get to tellin’ these tales and I swear me’n Hayden would have a tough time gettin’ a notary to certify anything as came outta your mouth.”
Pulled a ten-dollar gold piece from my vest pocket. Handed it to Nate, then said, “Take our packhorse and go on over to the mercantile, across the street yonder, and buy us enough in the way of provisions for at least ten more days out on the trail. You know the drill. Me and Carl will wait right here for you.”
He hauled his long, stringy-muscled self off the bench, resettled those bone-gripped Colt pistols he wore backward in the Wild Bill fashion, then flipped the ragged butt of his still smoldering cigarette into the dusty street. “Should I get some lemon drops for you, Carl? Know how much you like ’em. Think you’re very possibly the only man I’ve ever met what could live on nothin’ but hard candy, bad coffee, and fatback bacon.”
“Have the clerk throw some in with whatever else you buy,” I said. “Maybe a few sticks of peppermint, too. Never know if we might need it. Now get along with you, Nate. We’ve got badmen to catch.”
He snatched the lead for our pack animal loose and ambled away. Carl waited till he was out of earshot, then said, “We ever gonna tell him about the Brotherhood of Blood, Hayden? Boy’s been with us on some pretty hairy cases over the past few months. ’Pears to me it’s time we brought him in on what we’re actually all about. That is, if the instructions you got back from Mr. Wilton are anything like I expect.”
Eased a second telegram out of my pocket and handed it to Carl. He glanced over the sheet and handed it back. “Well,” he said, “anyone who didn’t know ’bout the Brotherhood wouldn’t come away from reading that and suspect a blessed thing. But it seems damned clear to me. Murder of another one of our comrades in arms musta sure as hell lit a fire under somebody up in Fort Smith. Seems plain as the nose on my face that not a single living soul back there cares whether we bring Blackheart and his bunch in alive or not.”
“Been losing one or two deputy marshals a month lately. And that mess with Pink Butcher is still pretty fresh on everyone’s mind. Ain’t often one man manages to kill a deputy U.S. marshal, three of his posse, put bullets in five other men, and escape. But Butcher sure as hell managed to do it.”
“Yeah, and the stalwart Heck Thomas tracked that snake down and killed him deader’n Hell in a Baptist preacher’s front parlor.”
“Well, we’ll put on a show of making a concentrated attempt to bring the Blackheart gang in alive for suitable trial and hanging. If they choose not to come along, then we’ll damn sure kill ’em all. Now let’s get on over to the mercantile, then hit the trail quick as we can.”
Midway of the dusty street, Carl said, “Still didn’t answer my question. Gonna bring Nate into the Brotherhood?”
“Let’s wait and see how this chase shakes out. No doubt he’s a good man to have beside you in a pinch. Almost as good as Billy Bird. And in some ways he’s even better. Proved that during our raid down to Fort Worth when we dispatched Maynard Dawson, Charlie Storms, and the Doome brothers. We get done with Blackheart, promise I’ll figure out which way to go.”
Carl nodded, then said, “Sounds like a good enough plan. But think as how I’ll go on ahead and cast my vote right now. I say we tell ’im ’fore we have to get serious with Blackheart and his crew. Just knowin’ what we’re really a-doin’ might make a big difference. ’Course the fact that you’d be payin’ him some more wouldn’t hurt the man’s feelings none either.”
“Your vote is duly noted, Carl. But I think I’ll wait till the right moment to broach the subject just the same. Brotherhood of Blood ain’t the kinda thing you’d want to just mention in passing. Have to look for the right opportunity to bring such a subject up for consideration. Explain just exactly how you and I actually work. Maybe he won’t particularly care to hire on as a paid assassin.”
“Well, you could be right as rain about that, but I personally doubt it. See the same attributes in Nate I saw in Billy Bird. But however you wanna handle this hair ball suits me right down to the ground, Hayden.”
3
“BUSTER PERKINS SHOT HIM IN THE BACK . . .”
THE BLACKHEART BUNCH headed south from the scene of their robbery and slaughter near Wagoner. They’d been on the scout for about a day and a half, past that particular foray into heinous wrongdoing, by the time we could pick their tracks out of all the other confused sign working to keep their location a my
stery. But once a tracker of Carlton J. Cecil’s skill nailed them down, their trail proved more’n easy to follow.
Recall watching Carlton as he squatted over a confused set of tracks along the banks of the Arkansas. Glanced up at me and said, “Sure as hell ain’t makin’ no real effort to cover the direction they’ve picked to travel. Stupid buncha idgets might as well be pullin’ a grasshopper plow behind ’em.” He pointed toward the west side of the river. “’Pears as how they swam across down yonder, Hayden. Bet whatever we can make in re-wards on this raid, they’re headed for that den of vipers over at Beehive Creek. More liquor, and maybe even a willing woman waitin’ for ’em, if they can get there alive, I’d wager.”
Nate Swords grinned and said, “Beehive Creek? That a town, fellers?”
“Not really,” Carl said as he climbed back on his mount. “Not even sure you could seriously refer to the spot as a crude settlement. More like a campsite that comes and goes with the phases of the moon. Just a spot for outlaws, gunrunners, and whiskey peddlers to lay their weary heads for the night.”
“Place’s rougher’n a cobb, Nate,” I said.
“Yeah,” Carl continued. “And when it’s active, a body can gamble, buy the company of a willing woman, and maybe get a bottle of bust-head liquor. That is, if you don’t mind gettin’ your throat cut whilst you’re conductin’ your business, doin’ the big wiggle, gettin’ drunk, or sleepin’ the whole dance off.”
Sat my big sorrel gelding, Gunpowder, and gazed at the sluggish, muddy river as it churned its relentless way south. No one had seen a drop of rain in that part of Indian country in weeks. Water level of the Arkansas had fallen by several feet. Hadn’t been for the recent drought, crossing behind those outlaws might have proven a sight more than a bit problematic. As it stood, though, I figured we’d be on ’em again, like ugly on a caged gorilla, soon as we hit the west bank.