by J. Lee Butts
Now, I’ll freely admit that a considerate, well-brought-up Southern man wouldn’t have dared stare at that poor woman’s completely nude remains the way I did. But, hell, my job required me to examine the scene in the minutest detail just in case we caught the monster responsible for such a sickening act.
There was every possibility Carl, Nate, and me might find it necessary to testify at the bloodthirsty fiend’s trial so Judge Parker could condemn him to death after a fair and speedy trial. Then he could assign George Maledon the responsibility of stringing the murderer’s sorry ass up to the cross member on the Gates of Hell gallows in the little hollow down the hill from the courthouse in Fort Smith.
So even though I felt pretty sure One Cut Petey would never make it back to civilization alive, if either me or Carl had anything to do with it, I went ahead and rested the shotgun across my arm, then pulled my notepad out of my pocket. Started jotting down my observations. Just reading the things I had to write in that notebook had the power to make any normal, caring person sick as a slobbering, hydrophobic dog.
Truth be told, Nate was as right as spring rain. It proved damned hard to determine which of the women I’d had the misfortune to find first. Everything you’d normally expect to be inside a body was outside, strewn around the stall, even hanging from the walls like Christmas tree decorations. Perhaps even worse, she appeared to have been skinned. One particularly grisly trick involved intestines and the handles of a sodbuster plow. But I can’t go into that, or, to be more precise, I won’t go into it. Some things are just better left unsaid.
Felt Carl ease up beside me. Could hear his breathing coming in short, strangled gasps. “God Almighty, Hayden. Can this be real? Sweet merciful Father.” Then he made a gagging sound and staggered back outside.
All told, spent maybe another minute in there myself, then stumbled for the open air. Had to bend over, catch my breath ’fore I came damned near heaving up my own spurs. Just isn’t any point going into an overly detailed accounting of what we’d stumbled upon inside Harvey’s barn. Suffice it to say, the dead man’s unfortunate wife and, as nearly as we could determine, the girl from Beehive Creek both died in ways that defied the ability of sane people to understand or even find the proper words to describe.
Hour or so later, with a bloodred sun dipping low on the horizon, we dragged several of the rocking chairs down off the porch, built a campfire on the ground, and cooked some coffee. By then we’d cleaned the kids up. Seen to it they were fed. Both of them got drowsy and fell asleep just as soon as we’d filled their grumbling bellies with some food. We put ’em down on pallets made of a pile of patchwork blankets Nate dragged from the house and laid out on the porch. Figured we could keep a closer eye on the pullets that way, while we talked the dreadful situation over.
Lounged in the somewhat cooler shade of the sycamore tree growing near the west side of the home’s covered veranda—as far away from the barn as we could get. Tried to collect our thoughts but, you know, it’s hard to think on the kind of savagery that confronted us.
Carl held a two-foot piece of tree limb in one hand. He leaned over with his elbows on his knees and scratched in the dirt. “How we gonna clean this bloody hair ball up? Don’t know ’bout either of you, but I ain’t sure I can go back in that barn again. Given how long I’ve been working this job, thought sure I’d seen about all the hellish evil men could do. But I have to admit, this beats all I ever saw, or even heard tell of.”
“Ain’t no doubt in my mind how I feel about it,” Nate snapped. “I’d rather clean all the outhouses and slit trenches from here to Tucumcari—with a teacup and a spoon—than go back in there.”
After a second or two of silence, Nate added, “’Sides, how would we get ’em picked up? Mean, Jesus, they’re strung out all over hell and yonder. Organs and innards pretty much everwheres. Have to use a pitchfork, a garden rake, and a shovel to get those poor butchered women into a sack, or box, or whatever’n the hell we might decide to bury ’em in.”
Of a sudden, I noticed that Carl’s attention had shifted toward something on the eastern edge of Bosephus Harvey’s property. Without speaking, he stood. Had a look of concern on his face when he cast a squint-eyed gaze at a patch of cottonwood trees that grew on the banks of the shallow creek trickling along the base of the low, rolling hills that surrounded the house.
Carl whacked his leg with the stick, then used it to point in the direction he gazed. “Somebody’s comin’, Hayden. Heavily armed. Lookin’ damned mean.”
Three of us huddled up and watched as a lone rider eased from the leafy cover provided by the swaying trees. He reined up and sat a long-legged calico horse as though leisurely trying to decide whether to approach. Nervy son of a bitch eyeballed us for a spell, lit a cheroot, took a couple of puffs, then nudged his gaudy animal our direction at a slow, deliberate walk.
Something about the man seemed more than a little familiar. Tall, lean as chewed rawhide, decked out in a fringed leather shirt and huge palm-leaf hat, with twinkling flashes from Mexican spurs and three silver-washed pistols that highlighted his long-legged, muscular appearance. Man and animal were loaded down with multiple forms of death-dealing iron that included the pistols, a Winchester rifle, shotgun, and a massive bowie knife. Took me ten, fifteen seconds before I realized that, from a distance, the stranger could have easily passed for my Texas Ranger friend Lucius Dodge’s twin brother.
Nate grunted, lowered the barrel of his weapon, then said, “I know him, Carlton. Hired on as a deputy marshal several months ago. Name’s John Henry Slate. Think we met the day he signed up. Dangerous man if there ever was one, but seems friendly enough. Know one thing for certain, sure as hell wouldn’t want him on my trail.”
“Oh, I’ve heard the name,” Carl said. “Hear tell he’s sure ’nuff hell on wheels, Hayden. Texas boy. Tougher’n the back wall of a shootin’ gallery. He’n Bucky Starns was the ones who ran that murderin’ bastard Freeman Chillingsworthy to ground up on Talimena Mountain. Brought ole Freeman in a week or so ago. Judge Parker’ll hang him sure as death, taxes, and Texas.”
“Helluva catch. Way I hear it, Chillingsworthy would’ve murdered half a dozen people by now if’n he was still loose,” I said.
About then, Slate reined his colorful ride to a stop not twenty feet away. Reached up and thumped the brim of his hat in greeting. “Gents. Name’s John Henry Slate. I’m a deputy U.S. marshal out of Fort Smith. Trackin’ some damned evil men. Sign led me right to this very spot. Didn’t realize till I seen your badges that we might all be in the same kinda business.”
Nate heeled it to Slate’s side, held his hand up, and said, “Good to see you, John Henry. Might not recognize me. Nate Swords. We met in the courthouse the day the U.S. marshal swore you in.”
“Just be damned,” Slate said as he bent over and shook Nate’s extended hand.
Soon as they had exchanged a few ice-breaking pleasantries, Slate swung down in a single, fluid, athletic move. While he put on a good show of having relaxed, a practiced eye could easily tell John Henry Slate didn’t trust any of us any farther than he could throw his pinto horse. Man moved like one of those fancy-assed, New York ballet dancers, or maybe a big, dangerous, and extremely deadly cat.
He nodded toward our fire, then said, “That coffee I smell? Sure could use a decent cup of belly-wash. Have to admit I cain’t cook the stuff worth a damn. Feller I knew back in Texas stopped drinkin’ anything I brewed up. Got some of my coffee on one of his shirts. Damned stuff ate a big hole in it. Said I was the only man he’d ever known what could brew coffee strong enough to float one of those old five-pound Walker Colts.”
Well, his affable manner soon put us all at our ease. Got the impression Slate was one of those men who never really met a stranger. In no time at all, he struck me as being the sort who’d have just about anybody feeling like they’d known him all their lives in a matter of minutes after meeting him.
Dragged another of the rockers off the porch.
Pretty quicklike, the four of us had told a few jokes, exchanged a number of tall tales, and, in Carl’s case, told plenty of downright lies. About an hour into our get-to-know-each-other session, the sun went completely down. Carl fished a bottle of tonsil paint out of his possibles bag and juiced our coffee up a bit.
Slate doctored his own cup, took a sip, started flapping one arm like a big ole rooster, then made a series of comical sounds like “Clickety, click, click.”
“’S damned powerful stuff,” Carl offered.
Slate grinned, leaned over, and added some to my cup. “Genuine, hunnert’n-fifty-proof, stump-holler, jig juice, I’d wager.”
Nate grinned. “We took that stuff off’n a feller we caught introducin’ illegal liquor into the Nations down ’round Atoka. ’Member that ’un, Hayden?”
I nodded, then said, “That the crazy sunuvabitch we caught mixin’ snake heads in with his brew?”
Carl nodded. “Yeah, but that was another batch. This stuff here’s pretty good for bust head. Clean as a whistle. You can drink a tubful. Won’t even make your head hurt the next day. Plus, you can rub it on sore, achin’ muscles. Works like a charm. Been known to cure the festerin’ toe rot, too.”
John Henry Slate let out a snort. “Just be damned if’n I’m gonna rub anything on my achin’ ass that I can drink.” Set us all to laughing.
Sipped at my cup for a while, then turned to Slate and said, “When you first rode up, mentioned as how you’d tracked somebody all the way out here, didn’t you, John Henry?”
He swirled some of the coffee around in his mouth, then spat into the fire. “I did. Yes, indeed. Arvil Boston and his worthless brother Delbert. Followed ’em all the way up from Lone Oak over in the Winding Stair Mountains. Robbed a combination bank and mercantile operation down that way. Managed to kill hell outta the gent who owned the place in the process. Dead gent’s name was Marcus Flint. Either of you fellers know him?”
Carlton made a noise like a cornered bear. “Didn’t know Flint personal. But I’ve had dealin’s with both ’em Boston boys before. Pair of ’em’s lower’n a couple of rattlesnakes’ belt buckles.”
“All the sign got so confused once we arrived this afternoon, I couldn’t tell whether anyone else had thrown in with Blackheart and his bunch or not, Hayden,” Nate said. “Most likely wouldn’t have realized they had acquired new blood till we got back on their trail again.”
“Damned wonder we couldn’t smell ’em,” Carl said. “Sons a bitches ain’t had a bath since ’65. Last time we had ’em in Judge Parker’s jail, they stunk so bad it caused a riot. And hell, you know how bad the dungeon smells, but them boys stunk the place up so bad hardened criminals tried to kill ’em.”
We laughed at that one for a spell, but then the conversation turned serious when Slate said, “Speakin’ of smellin’ bad, does kinda reek a bit of death ’round these parts, fellers.”
Took all three of us to get the whole story out to the newest member of our posse about Blackheart, Harvey, and the dead women, and completely explain the problem of what we were going to do about the bodies. Once more, Nate and Carl both swore as how they’d never go back in the barn again.
Blanket of silence fell over the conversation for a spell. Surprised the hell out of me when John Henry said, “You fellers ever heard about how Vikings used to bury their honored dead? They’d put ’em in a boat full of straw and stuff. Some of their belongings, mementos of their lives, that kinda thing. Then set ’em adrift. Shoot fire arrows into the boat. Watch as the burning boat sank.”
“Ain’t got no boat,” Nate offered.
Slate pushed his hat back on his head and grinned. “Nope. Sure don’t. And that creek out back’s barely ankle deep. But here’s what we can do. Think we should carry the Harvey feller into the barn, lay him out beside the lady we think is his wife, then set fire to the whole shebang. Cremate ’em. Barn’s big enough the flames should reduce all those poor folks to nothing more’n a pile of ashes. Then we can just scrape ’em all up and bury everything. Even put up some crosses if you want.”
Couldn’t believe my ears when Carl said, “Well, it’s an idea all right. Ain’t never done nothin’ like that before, but in this particular instance might be something we’d want to consider. Just one question. What the hell’s a Viking?”
Thought for a spell we might wake the kids with all our hootin’ and hollerin’ at that one. Carl got to actin’ like a sore tail over the whole thing before we finally explained it all to him.
Could tell he was still kind of sensitive over his ignorance when he said, “Hell, I knew that. Just forgot. Vikings ain’t the kinda thing as comes up in everyday conversation, by God.”
Well, got pretty quiet after that. Nate doctored everybody’s cup at least one more time, maybe twice. After half an hour or so of sitting around the fire and mulling it all over, God help us, we did exactly what John Henry had suggested.
Slate carried a lantern into the barn, checked the remains of both women, and pronounced one of them as most likely being Mrs. Harvey. Said he based his considered opinion on the way the corpse was dressed. Claimed the one he decided on was dressed in a few remaining threads that were closer to what you’d expect an Indian lady who’d married a white feller to wear.
Couldn’t argue with such reasoning much, because none of us really wanted to do any of the examining ourselves. Me, Carl, and Nate had already seen all we really wanted of the blood-spattered massacre.
Four of us placed Mr. Harvey’s overripe carcass beside what was left of the lady John Henry picked out. Drove a pair of iron stakes into the ground beside the bodies so we could find them after the fire finally played out. Doused the whole barn with a five-gallon can of coal oil Carl found in a corner somewhere.
Watched as Nate pulled a match out of his pocket. Before he could strike it, I said, “Can’t anyone know what we’re about to do here, fellers. ’Cause no matter what our intentions, this’ll never play well back in civilization. Far as anyone other’n us is to ever know, all these folks were found intact. Buried ’em the same way. Want all of you to swear you won’t tell.”
“No problem for me. Swear I won’t tell nobody,” Carl said.
Nate and John Henry nodded their agreement, but I said, “That won’t do, boys. Gotta say it out loud. Do you fellers swear you won’t tell anybody how we disposed of these bodies?”
Nate held his hand up like he was testifying in Judge Parker’s court. “I swear, I won’t tell a soul.”
“Swear I won’t tell nobody,” Slate added.
Reached over and took the match from between Nate’s fingers. Scratched it to life on the butt of my belly gun. Thumped it at a spot I knew we’d doused pretty good with the coal oil. Thought for a second the match had gone out. Then it caught. Flame shot up the side of the barn’s dried, warped door, ran into the hayloft, and in a matter of minutes the whole shebang went up in bloodred flames that shot a hundred feet high.
Damned place burned all night long. Good thing we were down in that bowl-shaped spot or everyone within a hundred miles would have seen the fire. All the popping and crackling made so much noise, I wondered at how it didn’t wake the kids. Then the walls started to collapse. Ceiling fell in on tons of hay that dropped into the main stable area. Covered the bodies with flame and burning ash for hours. Fire got hotter than the hinges on Hell’s front gate.
’Bout the time the walls caved in, Carl slipped up by my side and said, “Damned amazin’ this conflagration hasn’t set the whole countryside alight, if you ask me. Wouldn’t take but one spark in all this grass and we’d have a helluva inferno goin’.”
Mountain of ashes stayed so hot we couldn’t get to the spot where our iron rods were sticking up out of the ruin until late the following afternoon. Wasn’t much left of those bodies. More than I’d expected, but still not much. Must admit it was a lot easier to clean up than what we’d started with.
Kids woke up right in the middle of everything. Nate and John
Henry did their best to entertain ’em. Wasn’t very hard. Tykes seemed more interested in digging in the dirt with spoons than watching grown folk burn down a barn. Given the situation, wished it were that easy to keep my mind occupied on something other than what we’d just found it necessary to do.
Shoveled everything we could recover into some burlap bags middle of the next morning. Buried those unfortunate folks under the sycamore just a few steps from where we’d cooked coffee the night before.
Made their final resting place look as much as possible like there were actual bodies laid to rest in that spot. Even brought piles of rocks up from the creek. Stacked them around the three-by-six-foot graves. Put up some plank markers. Even went so far as to add names, as best we knew them. ’Course we weren’t for certain sure about whether we’d got the right woman with Harvey, but, like Nate said, it didn’t really matter much.
Carl patted on the last shovelful of earth with his spade, then stood with his arm resting on the handle. Flicked a big drop of sweat off his nose, then said, “Reckon someone oughta send ’em off with a few good words, don’t you think?” Sure as shooting, he was looking right at me when he said it.
Nodded, swept my hat off, and placed it over my heart. Carl, Nate, and John Henry did the same, then bowed their heads. Kids were back to napping again, thank God. Out of nowhere, a right nice breeze came up about then. Set that big ole tree’s leaves to rustling. Sounded almost like music—a primitive, natural hymn provided at just the right moment.
“Lord,” I said, “must confess I didn’t know any of these unfortunate folks. Only met Mr. Bosephus Harvey shortly before he passed into your eternal care. Seemed as though he was as fine a man as you’re likely to run across in this wicked part of the world. Wish I could have met his wife. Very likely she was an exceptional woman, given the pair of wonderful children she left behind. Can’t say anything much ’bout this unlucky girl from Beehive Creek, other than she didn’t deserve to die the way she did. ’Course none of them deserved the horrific deaths that came for them.”