by J. Lee Butts
’Bout noon of the fifth day, we stopped in the tiny hamlet of Vamoose, located in an ancient stand of live oaks five miles or so south of the Canadian. Whole town didn’t amount to much more than a set of wagon ruts, decorated on either side with an illegal whiskey-selling operation that figured to be doubling as a whorehouse. Few doors away was a dry goods store owned by some feller named A.J. Overby. ’Cross the street a small blacksmith and stable concern. There were eight or ten other nondescript storefronts here and there, half a dozen or so clapboard houses, twenty-five or thirty canvas tents that people appeared to be living in, and, thank God, an actual grocery and mercantile store. Rugged, frontier community bustled with nervous-looking people who darted back and forth across their one and only thoroughfare like frightened rabbits running from a pack of redbone hounds.
John Henry leaned on his saddle horn and said, “We’re in need of bacon, beans, coffee, some sugar, hell, all manner of supplies, Tilden. Gonna have to slow down long enough to stock up ’fore we go any farther, or we’re gonna starve to death somewhere out there in the big cold and lonely. Can’t depend on me killin’ a pheasant or prairie chicken every day.”
Grinned and said, “Aw, that ain’t no problem for a big shooter like you, John Henry. Figured you’d keep us in game till we got back to Fort Smith.”
He chuckled, then said, “Nice of you to say such, but I’d feel a bunch better with some store-bought supplies in our saddlebags as well.”
’Course I knew he was right, so we drew our tired animals to a halt out front of a grocery store and mercantile operation that sported a bright yellow sign lettered in cobalt blue that proclaimed it as SIMON GLUCK’S STORE. Threw my reins over the hitch rail out front of the place just in time to hear the thunder of horses’ hooves coming up from the south. Glanced across my saddle. Be damned if I didn’t spot the murderous bastard we were chasing at the head of a party of at least nine or ten brigands. Band of killers bristled with weapons and were headed our way like grinning death its very own self.
Went to grabbing for my shotgun and rifle. Over my shoulder, I yelled, “That’s Zeke Blackheart and his bunch, John Henry. ’Pears he’s picked up some more men in his travels. They musta backtracked on Carlton and Nate. Look to have blood in their eyes.”
Words hadn’t even got out of my mouth good when I saw Blackheart pull a brace of pistols and motion for his men to spread out on either side of him. The pack of murderous animals came into town like a death-dealing scythe cutting through dry wheat. Soon as those killers passed the first tent, they started firing at anything moving. Screaming people went to running in every direction. Wounded horses squealed and fell at the hitch rails.
Cold-eyed, murderin’ scum couldn’t of been more’n sixty yards away when I pitched both my long guns onto Gluck’s low covered porch, jerked the reins loose, and slapped Gunpowder on his muscular rump hard as I could. Big sorrel couldn’t wait to get away from all the shooting. Jumped like he’d been fired from a cannon and headed for safety, anywhere it could be found.
I hoofed it for Gluck’s front door. Grabbed up my weapons on the way, then dove inside. Landed hard on my belly. Reddish brown dust and splinters boiled up around me in a thick, gagging cloud. Rolled onto one side and laid there for a second or two, and watched John Henry as he heeled it for shelter on the opposite side of the street. Could see that he’d managed to get both the big poppers off his own animal as well.
Right quicklike, he took a spot between a barrel of ax handles and a stack of used saddles in front of a hardware outfit. Only had an instant to think on it, but quickly realized that we’d have Blackheart and all his murderous thugs in a withering cross fire soon as they got to the spot where we’d been standing just a few seconds before.
Shotgun in hand, I got onto my knees about the time the lead-spitting line of killers swept into view right outside Gluck’s front entrance. Four of them evil sons of bitches turned toward me, just in time to find themselves looking down the barrels of my ten-gauge Greener.
Before them ole boys could think twice, I cut loose with a thunderous double-barreled blast that knocked three of them off their mounts. Hurt a fourth feller so bad, all he could do was flop around in the saddle like a corn-shuck doll. Two of their horses dropped right in their tracks. A third one let out a hair-raising, agonized squeal and disappeared in front of the roiling cloud of spent gunpowder that spooled out of the barrels of my smoking weapon.
Initial shots from my direction turned the entire party of still-mounted men toward me. Dropped flat on my belly as a storm of pistol fire riddled the fancy, beveled-glass windows on either side of Gluck’s entrance. Barrage of gunfire rendered his equally impressive doors to little more than splintered, flying shards of glass that fell on my back like shattered icicles. Pitched the shotgun aside and grabbed up my Winchester.
Bullets ripped holes in the floor that inched my direction. Hot lead gouged splinters out of the rough-cut lumber like the glistening sharp and deadly teeth of an advancing buzz saw. Over all the gunfire, I could still hear the shouting men and screaming women customers of Gluck’s behind me. Panicked folks knocked over loaded showcases, chairs, apple crates, and display boxes as they clamored in the direction of the hoped-for safety of a back exit.
About the time I felt my number was sure enough gonna be called by St. Peter, John Henry cut loose from the other side of Vamoose’s only thoroughfare. Two more of Blackheart’s men dropped out of their saddles and hit the rutted street like burlap bags of seed dropped from the bed of a passing freight wagon. Gunfire became random but unrelenting.
After my partner’s initial salvo, the dark, gray-black cloud of gunpowder hanging over the street got so thick I could barely make out the remaining horses, much less anyone riding them. Levered a shell and fired when I thought I had a chance of hitting something important. But I swear ’fore Jesus, those ole boys that were still in the saddle were peppering me with a withering storm of lead. Seemed not to even notice that someone behind them was now doing all the real damage.
Then, of a sudden, one of those crazy sons of bitches, a blazing pistol in each hand, took the reins in his teeth and rode his beast right through Gluck’s obliterated entryway and into the store, just like the animal belonged there. Dropped the Winchester and grabbed for my own handguns, but it was too late, and then some.
Horse reared up on its hind legs right there in the store. Rider was blasting everything and everybody he could lay an eye on. Knew beyond any doubt that whoever the man on the horse was, he’d spent some time riding with the bushwhackers up in Missouri, Kansas, or maybe Arkansas during the war. Only place a body could’ve learned to shoot like that from a crazed, bug-eyed, scared-slap-to-death, rearing jughead of a horse.
In a fraction of a second, I noticed that the skunk trying to kill me had four pistols strapped to his waist, a pair of pommel guns, and two more in holsters attached to the skirt of his saddle just behind the rear rigging ring. Christ, I thought, eight pistols. Son of a bitch can fire damn near fifty shots at me without stopping. Figured if I didn’t find someplace to hide, I’d sure enough be shaking hands with Heaven’s bearded gatekeeper and damned quick.
Only good thing I had going was the ever-growing, dense screen of black powder smoke that had collected between me and imminent death. Ripped off several shots at the rider. Couldn’t have been more than ten feet away, but missed him every time. Put at least one in his horse though—maybe two. Animal let out a pitiable shriek, stumbled, and damn near fell sideways in my direction. Felt bad about killing three horses, maybe four, but, hell, awful shit sometimes happens when you’re trying to bring down merciless killers bent on sending you, and everybody else in sight, to meet the Maker.
Turned to try and find something to hide behind. Well, suffice it to say, I was a day late and about twenty dollars short. Heard the gun go off, then felt a burning sensation in my right hip and, in considerably less time than it’d take fresh, shucked corn to go through a goose, real
ized that my leg wouldn’t support me any longer.
Dropped to the floor again. Rolled up under a table right in the middle of the store that was loaded down with all manner of odds and ends that a big-eyed shopper might find to his or her liking. Rider had somehow managed to keep his animal on its feet. Maintained a blistering barrage of gunfire focused in my direction.
Jars of jelly, canned meats, buckets loaded with a variety of recently picked vegetables, wooden boxes filled with fresh cackle berries—brown in one box, white in another—exploded atop the table over my head in a hailstorm of splinters as 255-grain, .45- caliber bullets plowed trenches in everything between me and certain death. Horse whinnied, screeched, slung hot black blood here and yonder, and clomped all over everything between me and the door.
Thought sure I’d seen the end. Had absolutely no place to run. Worst of all, knew the man pursuing me still had plenty of firepower left. Rolled onto my back beneath the table. Bucked myself up to flop from under my cover and make out the best way I could.
Cocked both my pistols, and was just before taking action I figured would surely get me killed, when I heard John Henry yell, “Drop them pistols, you son of a bitch.”
Well, the son of a bitch either didn’t hear or wasn’t listening. Pair of near-deafening shotgun blasts sent shock waves my direction that set up a curling wave of dust from the floor and blew it all toward me in a single gigantic swoosh of sandy grit. Heard a loud thud above me. Even bigger one right at my feet. Jelly jars, meat tins, and eggs went flying in every direction.
Figured I wouldn’t move for a second or two. Didn’t want John Henry to mistake me for one of the Blackheart bunch and blast me to Kingdom Come as well.
Then I heard my friend yell, “You in there, Tilden? Speak up. Where are you?”
“Here. I’m under the table.” Held one pistol-filled hand out and sort of waved.
“Ah. See you now. Come on out. Feller who was afflicting you has gone on to his just re-wards. Don’t think he’ll be botherin’ you anymore. Looks as how, maybe, we’ve got the whole bunch of ’em subdued.”
For several seconds, all I could do was lay there, sucking in air like a man who’d just been rescued from near drowning. Rolled over in the mess caused by blasted groceries with my eyes closed and whispered my sincerest thanks to a gracious and merciful God for letting me live a bit longer.
12
“. . . YOUR THIEVIN’ AND MURDERIN’ DAYS ARE OVER . . .”
CRAWLED FROM BENEATH my bullet-riddled, blood-sloshed shelter, grabbed the closest thing I could get hold of—edge of a shattered display case that had been home to several large boxes of cut-plug tobacco—and pulled my shot-in-the-ass self erect. First thing I noticed was a feller in the white shirt, black vest, and silk sleeve garters of a grocer. He slowly came to his feet behind the counter right in front of me. Figured he was most probably the stunned owner of the mess we’d just made, Mr. Gluck.
Bug-eyed feller cast a saucer-eyed gaze at the rampant destruction we’d visited upon him and his place of business. Another anxious, stunned-looking gent crept from behind a potbellied iron stove in one of the far corners of the oblong room. The pair of them couldn’t do much of anything except shake their heads in disbelief and mutter things like, “My, oh, my.” “Damnedest thing I’ve ever witnessed.” And, “Thank you, Lord, for lettin’ me live through this mess.”
Jackass who’d damn near taken my life lay flat on his back atop the table I’d been under. Surrounded by gobs of strawberry jam, broken eggs, and pickled cauliflower, he was glassy-eyed and bleeding from massive wounds in his chest and neck that pumped gouts of spurting gore. Lake of fresh blood soaked his gunman’s duster and dripped into a spreading pool on the floor below. His gore-soaked hands clutched at some of the more prominent holes in his person. Astonished me no end that the bold bastard still lived and was able to breathe—barely.
His wheezing mare had collapsed into a blood-and-froth-spattered heap right at the foot of the table. Appeared that the poor, gut-shot beast’s legs had simply gone rubbery slack, and then dropped from numerous wounds right where she stood. River of steaming, life-giving liquid gushed from the animal’s nose, and its tortured breathing came in short, snorted bursts and pained, raspy gasps.
John Henry stepped up, shotgun in one hand, pistol in the other. He placed the pistol’s barrel against the side of the wounded bangtail’s head, and blasted it out of its misery.
Feller I took to be Gluck shot me a confused look, pointed at the freshly dispatched hay burner, and yelped, “Jesus H. Christ on a crutch, what the hell am I supposed to do with a dead horse in the middle of my store? Good God Almighty.”
As John Henry edged his way toward me, he said, “Tells me plenty, mister, that you’re more concerned ’bout the horse than this shot-to-pieces feller all spread out on your display table like a slab of bacon.”
Gluck raised his arms to heaven in disgust. He was damn near yelling when he glared back at Slate and yelped, “Goddammit, I can move the dead man’s worthless, sorry ass, but the horse is a totally different, and considerably more problematic, matter. Have to drag the beast outta here most likely. Take a draft animal, maybe two of ’em, to do that. Not even sure there’s a draft horse within fifty miles of this godforsaken place.”
As John Henry holstered his still smoking pistol, he flashed an embarrassed grin, then said, “Well, don’t yell at me. Appears as how Deputy Marshal Tilden here shot the poor creature. All I did was put it out of its obvious misery.”
Gluck made some kind of unintelligible noise between a grunt, a groan, and an obscene epithet. He threw up his hands as though sickened by the whole mess and, cursing a blue streak, headed for the street.
Soon as the disgruntled storekeeper was out of sight, I leaned against the table, checked for spent rounds in my strong-side pistol, reloaded, then said, “Well, how’d we make out. Musta been one helluva fight out there in the street. ’Course, I was under this table a good bit of the time and probably missed most of it.”
John Henry flashed a toothy grin. “Mighty modest of you there, Tilden. Near as I can tell, you sent at least four of these murderin’ bastards on their way to a burnin’ Hell all by yourself.” He flicked a nod toward the man stretched out amidst Gluck’s destroyed display of canned vegetables and such. “You know the feller on the table?”
Hobbled a short, tortured course through all the trash, litter, and broken glass that surrounded the dead horse and the display table. Pulled the brigand’s hat away from his face, then said, “Just be damned. This here’s Elroy Black Jack Morris.” Slapped the corpse across the face with his own hat, then said, “You shot me, Jack. You crazy son of a bitch.”
“He wanted?”
“’Course he’s wanted. Man’s killed a wagonload of innocent folks all over the Nations. We’ve been tryin’ to catch him for over a year. Got a signed warrant for his arrest in my saddlebag.”
Slate glanced down at my side and pointed. “That your blood on them pants, Tilden?”
“Yeah. This mangy, murderin’ stack of hammered horseshit put one in my hip. Don’t think he did any real serious damage, but I am leakin’ some and it does smart a mite.” Pressed against the wound. Bit surprised to find that it was leaking a bit more than I’d thought.
John Henry nodded, then motioned me toward Gluck’s blasted-to-pieces front entrance. “Well, if you can totter on over thisaway, guess you’d best come on outside and get a good look at the whole story for yourself. You made one hellacious mess all by yourself, Tilden. My tiny contribution didn’t amount to much more’n a hill of beans.”
Limped out onto the boardwalk and into a scene straight out of the worst nightmares imaginable. Slate held his weapon in one hand and made a kind of all-encompassing, wandlike wave with the shotgun, then said, “Behold the result of your deadly handiwork, Marshal Tilden.”
Counted seven men I could see down in the street. They were scattered in all directions. One sat upright in stunne
d silence. Couple of others groaned and rolled around in the dirt puking all over themselves—just nothing to match a gunshot wound in the right spot to set a man puking. One or two of the obviously dead lay, unmoving, in odd, twisted positions and stared, sightless, at cottonball clouds floating overhead. Single biggest concentration of the fallen had dropped right in front of Gluck’s front step. Those three lay sprawled in the street near their gut-twistin’ cayuses—not a one of them appeared to have any more pulse than a pitchfork—deader’n a bunch of drowned cats, both men and animals.
John Henry made a second, but somewhat abbreviated, motion with the barrel of his big blaster toward a couple of the gang that I’d put down. “Them two fine-lookin’ gents yonder are Arvil and Delbert Boston. You musta dropped ’em with the very first blast from that shoulder cannon of yours. Not sure as who that third feller might be. Somethin’ nigh on a cupful of your buckshot hit him in the face. Might be somethin’ of a puzzler just identifyin’ the poor ugly son of a bitch. ’Less we can get some of these other sons a bitches to identify him.”
“What about all them boys over there closer to your side of the street? ’Pears to me we’re more or less about even on the overall score.”
“Hell, I don’t know any of these skunks, ’cept the Boston brothers, Tilden. But think maybe that tall feller, middle of the street, wearin’ the felt hat, one sportin’ the turkey feathers, might be Blackheart.”
Peered through the rising cloud of gun smoke and dust toward the center of the rutted thoroughfare. “Think maybe you’d be right about that. Let’s stroll on over and talk to ’im. ’Pears he’s alive, sittin’ up like that and all?”