by J. Lee Butts
Waved him aside and said, “Get on back to the stove. Keep the water goin’, Jonah. Probably gonna need all of it later.” Thank God the man wasn’t inclined to argue. He vanished like a puff of befuddled smoke, and I turned my attention back to his struggling wife.
Now, there’s no way I’m going to claim talents I didn’t possess. Did what I could think of to do, based solely on experiences so far back in my past I could barely remember them. And I managed it all under something less than ideal circumstances.
Slid a damp hand under the blanket and felt around between Mary Two Wolves’ legs—not knowing exactly what I expected to find, or even much of exactly what I was supposed to find.
Twitching girl helped me a bunch when she said, “That’s the baby’s head. Think he’s in the right position, but it seems like maybe he’s stuck, or hung up, or somethin’.”
Well, now, that came as one hell of a surprise to an ignorant man like me. “Stuck? Hung up? How can he be stuck?”
She let out an agonized groan that sounded like it came from the tips of her toes, twisted the dress into a lumpy knot, then placed both hands on her mountainous belly and pushed. “Arggggh, God, I don’t know,” she spat. “Just doesn’t feel right. Nothin’ feels right. Might not ever feel right again till I die. Merciful heavens, it hurts.”
Ran shaky fingers around the exposed portion of the baby’s hairy noggin. “Near as I can tell, seems like he’s facin’ down. Is facedown the proper way?”
She wiped at her sweat-covered face with the dress, then pitched the garment onto the floor. “Guess so. Not sure,” she grunted. “Tell the truth, mister, this child’s been a problem ever since the night he was conceived. Once he got big enough, papoose’s fought me like a wildcat. Come nigh on to kickin’ me to death over the past few weeks.”
Tried my best to put a positive face on the situation when I offered, “Well, that’s a good thing, don’t you think?”
A tortured moan escaped her lips. “Woulda seemed so, but I ain’t so sure now. Thought he was ready to pop out when you and your friend rode up.” She groaned and clawed at the blanket beneath her sweat-soaked body. “Now it feels like he’s got his fingers buried in my womb and is clawin’ like a wildcat to stay inside. Wish to Jesus he’d make up his mind.”
Of a sudden, Mary Two Wolves went to huffing and puffing like one of those Missouri, Kansas and Texas Railroad line Baldwin locomotives sitting on the track next to a depot. She grabbed her knees, grunted, strained so hard finger-sized veins popped out along the temples on either side of her head, then set to squealing so loud the noise level almost made my eyes glaze over. She reached up and latched onto the hand I had resting on her knee and, I swear ’fore God, thought for a spell there she was about to reduce my knuckles to nothing more than a pile of powder.
Poor girl went through a hellish form of torment no man could conceive of on the worst day he ever lived. Baby crept out, inch by inch. Once the kid’s head was free, I had to hold it up ’cause I feared he might smother. Damned ignorant really, but that’s the way it happened. For what seemed like an hour of that particular effort, my arms felt like someone had tied all the muscles into the kind of knots sailors use to hold iron ships to piers.
The distraught husband ran back and forth between the bedroom and the kitchen in an effort to keep me in hot water. Time or two, he just stood at the door, wrung his hands like a wild man, or pulled at his hair like he just might tip over into madness at any second.
Was drenched in dripping sweat myself when, as much to get his mind off what was going on as anything else, I said, “Jonah, go outside. Tell my partner I need him to come in here right now.”
Couldn’t have been more than a minute later when John Henry showed up. He peeked inside like a kid that’d just been caught trying to sneak a quick glance inside his sister’s pantaloons and said, “Looks to me like you’ve got the situation well in hand there, Tilden.”
“Could be,” I shot back, “but I’m really tired. Would be greatly appreciated if you’d spell me for a bit.”
He grabbed the front of his shirt with one hand like someone else was wearing it and said, “Me? You want me to do what exactly?”
“Come ’round here on my end and take this kid’s head in your hands.”
He took a couple of tentative steps my direction, stopped, then said, “Take what kid’s head . . . whoa, Momma. What the hell’s that?”
“It’s the baby’s head, you ignorant wretch,” I said.
He got up close to me and kind of whispered, “Damnation, that sure as hell looks awful, Tilden. You reckon this kid is alive? Mean, sweet, merciful Father, he’s all gray like he’s been dead for a week. All pruny and wrinkled up like a piece of dried fruit. Just don’t look right, you know?”
“Aw, I think that’s just the way they all look at first. All wrinkled and off color. ’Pears to be okay to me, just ain’t all that anxious to come on out. Can’t really blame the little booger much for wantin’ to stay where it’s safe and quiet, but he’s gotta come on out and damned soon, ’cause I ain’t sure how much more of this treatment his mama can stand.”
With that single statement, the whole situation took a sudden and dramatic change of direction. Mary Two Wolves let out a long, slow sigh and appeared to suddenly relax all over. “There,” she barely breathed, “he’s ready.”
Of a sudden, that kid popped out of that gal’s insides like he had a steel spring attached to the bottoms of his tiny feet. Right behind the child, the afterbirth and all the other fetal matter came flopping out.
When the placenta and everything else plopped onto the bed in a gelatinous sacklike pile, John Henry jumped back, snatched his hat off, and yelped, “Shit, almighty. Seen animals do as much, but this is my first experience with a woman. Had no idea it was so close to looking ’bout the same as somethin’ that comes out of a cow.”
Grabbed the newborn up by the feet and smacked him on the bottom. Didn’t get any response. Whacked him again. Kid yelped, then went to bawling. Remember thinking that even if nothing else worked, he had a good strong set of lungs on him.
Jonah Matthews hit the door less than a second after the child first cried out. But he stood outside, twisting his hat with nervous hands, and refused to come in when I motioned for him to do so.
Exasperated, I laid the squalling little boy out on his back, reached over, and slipped John Henry’s bowie out of its scabbard. Grabbed a piece of fringe on his leather Texan’s shirt, then chopped it off before he could say anything. Tied off the birth cord, sliced the kid away from the afterbirth, then laid him out on his mama’s heaving stomach.
Mary Two Wolves wearily raised her sweat-drenched head and gazed at her fryin’-sized papoose. “My God, but he’s really beautiful, isn’t he? Don’t you think he’s beautiful, mister?”
“Yes, ma’am. He’s gonna be quite a ladies’ man someday, I’d suspect.”
John Henry slapped me on the back. “Damned fine work, Deputy Tilden. Damned fine. Did a much better job than I could’ve ever done. Don’t mind confessin’ my ignorance in such matters one whit. No sirree, Bob. Just gladder’n hell it was you she picked and not me.”
Took several more hours to get myself, Mrs. Matthews, and everything else cleaned up. Tried my level best to leave the place spick-and-span. Knew my wife, Elizabeth, would never forgive me if she found out later that I’d left a mess for those poor, emotionally wrung-out folks to deal with.
Held Mary Two Wolves up on her feet long enough for John Henry to change her bedding. Then we stepped outside while her husband helped the exhausted woman get into a clean nightgown. Once they’d finished getting her dressed and into bed again, came back and stared into the room from the doorway. With our hats in our hands, I explained why we’d stopped by their home in the first place. Surprised me no end when they readily agreed to take the Harvey kids in until their nearest kin could be located.
Still clearly unsettled, Jonah Matthews stood next to his wife’s be
d and held her hand. Wrapped in a piece of clean blanket, the baby rested next to its mother on the side of the bed nearest the wall.
Though obviously still very weak, Mary Two Wolves said, “We’d be more than willing to help out.”
“Yes, suh. Yes, suh, we would. We be owin’ you genna-mens a deep debt a gratitude fo’ yer he’p with our new son, suh,” her husband added. “My wife an’ me, well, we done be a-feelin’ as how takin’ dem poor, motherless chil’ren into our home will go a right fer piece to repayment of that debt. ’Sides, dem Harveys was mighty fine people. Dey was de kinda neighbors anyone out here in da wil’ places would want to have. We’ll be a-missin’ ’em, dat fo’ sure and certain.”
“Well, folks, you have my most heartfelt thanks,” I said. Pulled fifty dollars from my wallet and handed the whole sum to Jonah Matthews. He tried to refuse. Not very hard, but the man at least acted like he wasn’t going to take the money for a few seconds.
“That should help with the kids until their family can come claim them, Mr. Matthews,” I said. “You need any more than that amount, just send word to me in Fort Smith and I’ll see you get it.”
Stuffed my hat on, pulled at the brim, and nodded my good-bye at those fine folks. Had turned to head for the front door when I heard Jonah Matthews call out, “Wait. Suh. Please wait jus’ a minute.”
John Henry peered over my shoulder as I stood in the bedroom’s doorway and snatched my hat off again. “Is there something else, Mr. Matthews?”
“Well, suh, Mary done tole me as how while you was a helpin’ wid dis here chile of our’n, she done had a vision.”
“Vision?”
“Yassir. She say a spirit done come down from Heaven an’ visit wid her.”
“A spirit, you did say a spirit, right?”
“Yassir. Spirit of a departed chile. She say the spirit a blond-haired, blue-eyed little boy. He say as how you his daddy. Tell Mary how he had to go away from dis worl’ when he not very ole. Say a terrible sickness took him over to the other side. Say he miss you an’ his mama very much.”
Couldn’t believe my ears. ’Course I’d heard tales of such supernatural events, but nothing to compare with what Jonah Matthews had just implied had ever happened to me before. Not once. Couldn’t imagine that my long-dead son, Tommy, had managed to communicate with Mary Two Wolves. But there it was. Couldn’t deny it. Tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come out. Held my hat in my hands and twisted at the brim. Stuttered around some more. Felt like my whole body had suddenly been weighted down with iron.
John Henry must have known that Matthews had hit a tender spot with me. He cuffed me on the shoulder, then patted my back as though he understood my distress.
Barely heard her when Mary Two Wolves called out, “Mister, what did you say your name was?”
Stopped long enough to glance back and say, “Tilden, ma’am. Hayden Tilden.”
She turned and kissed her baby on the forehead. “Then we’ll name our son Hayden. Hayden Thomas Two Wolves Matthews. I hope you approve.”
“Thomas? You’ll name your child Thomas?”
“Yes. The spirit said that was his name. It’s a fine one, I think, and that’s what we’ll call our son—Thomas.”
Truth of an old saying from the Bible hit me in the gut and almost doubled me over. Just no way for us to know God’s great plan, or how he’ll choose to reveal it to each of us. To my great astonishment, He’d let a bit of divine wonderment come from the mouth of an Indian girl named Mary Two Wolves Matthews who’d just given birth.
John Henry punched me on the arm and grinned.
Have to admit, I was so surprised by the whole amazing experience that, for several seconds, I couldn’t think of anything to say. Toed at the floor and kind of shuffled around, then finally said, “You’ve done me a great honor, ma’am. Know if my son were still alive, he’d be pleased to know that he had a namesake. With God as my witness, Mary, I won’t forget what happened here, and I won’t forget you.”
11
“SONS A BITCHES EVEN SLAUGHTERED THE KIDS.”
JOHN HENRY SLATE and me hit the trail west as if all the horned, red-eyed imps of a sulfurous Hell had boiled up out of the fiery pit like a nest of red ants and were breathing their putrid breath down our sweaty necks. Pushed our animals to their absolute limit for almost three straight days. Fourth day, we began to slow down and run fresh sign along the easily followed trail Carl and Nate had left behind.
Zeke Blackheart had led his growing gang of thugs in a lunatic, zigzagged path that ran west along the Deep Fork of the Canadian, north for a spell, then south. None of their wanderings appeared to make any sense as we plowed across miles of prairie covered with thick, dry grass that grew up to our animals’ bellies.
Then, for a spell, we followed those skunks through rugged, deep, canyonlike, red-clay ravines and gullies until the track they’d left behind ran out and emerged amidst more grass-covered emptiness. The meandering trail suddenly veered north for a few miles, then dove south again as if the earth had somehow been propped up on a slant.
John Henry turned out to be a godsend. While I’d never claimed any great talent as a tracker, he had the same unerring ability that Carlton always exhibited when the chips were down. Man could literally follow water spiders across swift-moving rivers, or find the trails of scorpions across mud holes the size of a Texican’s sombrero.
Third night of the chase, I think, he surprised me with something totally unexpected. To be truthful, so many years have passed that these days it’s not real clear in my cankered mind exactly when it happened, but for some reason the event sticks with me as having occurred that third evening after dinner. We’d camped in a shady grove of weeping willows along the banks of Mad Bear Creek, couldn’t a been more’n a hundred yards from where the barely trickling stream joined up with the Canadian River at Seminole Bend.
We’d stretched out our tired, knotted-up, saddle-bruised bodies beside a good fire. I’d almost dozed off after chowin’ down on the wild pheasant John Henry had killed earlier that day. Man was a hell of a shot from horseback. Typical of all them Comanche-fighting Texas boys.
Of a sudden, my new partner rolled up on one elbow, stared through the flames of our campfire, and said, “Might remember as how I mentioned I ’uz searchin’ for Arvil and Delbert Boston when we first met up.”
“Yes. Do seem to recall you sayin’ as much.”
“Have to confess that the crimes them boys committed down in the Winding Stair Mountains ain’t the only reason I’m after ’em.”
“That a fact?”
“Yes. Yes it is. Actually came all the way up here from Waco lookin’ to see some justice done, Tilden. Joined up with the U.S. Marshals Service ’cause I figured it might be easier to find them boys. And, too, wanted the law on my side when we finally met up.”
His unsolicited confession brought my own situation into extremely sharp focus. The grinning ghost of Saginaw Bob Magruder, and the mindless murders of my entire family, flashed to life on the hellish tips of the flames that danced in front of my tired eyes. Parallels with John Henry’s experiences amazed me.
Took a deep drag off the panatela I’d lighted up after our meal. Blew a smoke ring the size of a wagon wheel, then said, “Well, I’m absolutely certain you’re not the only man carryin’ a badge in the Indian country that took on the awesome responsibility we’ve all shouldered for what he deemed good reasons.”
“Aim to send Arvil and Delbert Boston to a burnin’ Hell first chance I get, Tilden. Just wanted you to be aware that my plans for those men don’t include taking either of them back to Fort Smith for trial, once we catch up with ’em. Bastards rubbed out an entire family of mighty fine folks when they raided a ranch house over near Tascosa.”
“You knew the folks they murdered?”
“My brother, Alonso, his wife, Karen. Sons a bitches even slaughtered their three kids. May the Good Lord damn the whole bunch of ’em. Murderin’ slugs sure as hell di
dn’t want any witnesses tellin’ who’d done the sorry deed.”
Felt awful about having to ask the question, but it had to have an answer. “Well, then, why are you so certain the Boston boys are responsible for the killin’s?”
“Unfortunately for them boys, one of the children managed to hide out. Stayed alive to identify those murderin’ bastards. Seems the Boston boys had worked for Alonso for a few days, left, then come back to take whatever they could. Essie, my youngest niece, hid in the corn crib when the shootin’ started. Ten-year-old girl saw the whole, bloody, horrific massacre.”
“Well, damn. That’s just by-God awful.”
“Yeah. Poor child told me them killers turned that place upside down lookin’ for her. Just a God-sent miracle they didn’t find the girl and that she managed to live to inform the world about their ghastly deeds.”
Leaned into my bedroll. Propped my head up by putting one arm between me and my saddle. Stared up at the amazing array of stars that peeked down at me from between the weeping willow leaves that flittered back and forth on a soft breeze. Said, “You sure they’re with Zeke Blackheart and his bunch?”
“Followed ’em right up to the Harvey family’s front doorstep. Figure they’d been tryin’ to find Blackheart for weeks. Once he and his bunch went on a robbery and killin’ rip the likes of which no one in the Nations had ever seen, just made their search a bunch easier. Be willin’ to bet my Brazos River ranch, just west of Waco, that the Boston boys are riding with Blackheart right this minute.”
Man rolled back into his bedding and didn’t say another word. No need. He’d let me know where he stood, and I appreciated his frankness. Couldn’t blame him much for the way he felt. Hell, I’d harbored the same kinds of feelings myself on a number of occasions, and even acted on them. Couldn’t find it in myself to condemn John Henry Slate. Even gave serious thought to adding him to the Brotherhood of Blood. Knew Carlton would’ve approved. But the more I thought on the thing, the more I figured it best to wait and see how everything played out once we found the Blackheart bunch. Hell, John Henry could very well have changed his mind by then. Or maybe he wasn’t the man he appeared. Just never can tell when it comes to people. Not until the chips are down and the fresh, hot blood starts to run as freely as spilled buttermilk.