by J. Lee Butts
“Figurin’ on goin’ back to Texas anytime soon, John Henry?” I said.
“No plans right now, but you’ve been around long enough to know how life is. Anything can happen, and usually does. A man moves from place to place in an effort just to get by. Often wish I could light on a single spot the way you have. Find me a good woman like Elizabeth. Maybe have some kids of my own. Ranch a bit, raise a few blooded horses, that kind of thing. But, hell, right now it’s nothin’ but a dream.”
More’n once he showed up carrying a bucket of cold beer from a saloon he favored, named Tilly’s, down on the north end of Towson Avenue. By then, I’d taken up a cane and could get around reasonably well. We’d sit out on the porch of an afternoon, in a nice shady spot, talk about politics, horses, women, religion, and such. Drink beer and watch my son Billy crawl around on the pallet his nanny laid out at my feet.
John Henry Slate was right fine company on a slow-moving day when you might want a friend over just for a bit of idle chitchat and an icy brew. He commented, time and again, on how he envied me the relationship with my wife and the smiling, gurgling, thumb-sucking child he often bounced on his knee. Number of times I remember him muttering, “Lucky man, Tilden. Might be the luckiest man I’ve ever met.” ’Course, he was right. And on more than one occasion he spoke wistfully of his home place near Waco and an aged father who now there lived alone.
Noon would come around and sometimes, if we asked just the right way, John Henry would stay over to eat with Elizabeth and me. Could tell she was right taken with the man. Wasn’t the first time I’d noted him as one of those fellers women see something in that none of us other hairy-legged types can seem to understand. Not for a single instant did I ever envision the tragedy unfolding behind the man’s friendly, open manner and twinkling eyes. Hurts and burns like sulfurous Hell to even bring what eventually happened to mind these days, but it’s still there. Can’t ever be erased.
See, one morning, about five or six weeks into my convalescence, I’d hobbled out to my favorite spot on the porch and eased into the most comfortable chair—the one whose wicker seat had worn down and begun to collapse a bit. Remember throwing my pillow onto the chair and thinking at the time that maybe my good friend John Henry might still be in town. That he’d stroll on by for a game of checkers, a beaker of cold beer, and an afternoon of friendly fellowship and discussion.
Had just lit me up a nickel cheroot. Glanced up the road that led south into Fort Smith and saw a rider coming. Knew without even thinking twice it was Carlton. Could identify my old amigo from a mile away just by the way he sat his horse. Soon as he rode up into the yard, I knew from the slope of his shoulders something had gone amiss.
Climbed off his hay burner and jingled up the steps. Snatched off his hat like a man who wanted to apologize for some hidden sin. Flopped into a chair facing me across the table where I like to sit my coffee cup. He nodded and said, “Got some bad news, Hayden. Real bad.”
Rolled the cane back and forth between my feet. “Kinda figured as much, Carl. Watched you ride up. Looks almost like you’re carryin’ the weight of the whole world. Helluva burden for a man.”
Slapped his hat onto the toe of one boot, pinched the bridge of his nose. Squinted hard at me, then shook his head. “Sure as hell feels exactly as you’ve so aptly described, Hayden. Been thinkin’ ’bout it. Worried over how I’d tell the tale all the way up here from the marshal’s office. Still ain’t real sure how to go about the thing.”
“Just spit it out. No point beatin’ ’round the bush.” Of a sudden, I had the darkest kind of feeling rush over me. Felt as though pale Death, his very own bony-fingered self, had slipped up behind me and stealthily slapped a skeletal hand on my shoulder.
Said, “This don’t have anything to do with Elizabeth, does it, Carl? Stood right over there by the steps, not more’n three hours ago, and watched her ride off to the office. Said she’d be at the bank all day. Ain’t nothin’ happened to my wife, has it?”
Stricken, apologetic look swept over his careworn countenance. He sat up straight and waved my agitated concern away. “Oh, no. No. Assure you my visit ain’t got nothin’ to do with Elizabeth. Nothin’ a’tall.”
“Then, what? What’s the problem?”
As though still under considerable duress, he finally blurted out, “John Henry Slate ever say anything to you ’bout a lady friend a his by the name of Holly Bankhead?”
Considered his question for several seconds, then shook my head. “No. Near as I’ve been able to tell, he has a number of lady friends. Man appears to draw women like honey draws bees.”
“Well, sure ’nuff looks like he had one in particular he favored. Gal he met who worked a spell down at the Double Eagle Saloon. Seems she quit her job some weeks back. Moved in with John Henry ’bout two minutes after the pair of ’em got together for the first time. You might not know it, but he rented a house out on the east end of Rogers Avenue. Gal was livin’ with ’im.”
“So? ’S all news to me. Never even heard him mention Holly Bankhead, or the house. You keep talkin’ in the past tense. Like somethin’ awful’s happened. Go on and get to it, Carl. Gonna get gray-headed, croak of old age, at the rate you’re goin’.”
He leaned forward, rested his patched elbows on the table. Locked me in a stern gaze and said, “Sometime after midnight, last night, John Henry came in from a quick run down to Poteau to pick up a prisoner. Near as anybody can tell right now, he dropped his man off at the courthouse jail, went straight home, and caught little Miss Holly in bed with a gamblin’ feller name of Grantland Betts who worked at the Double Eagle.”
“Jesus.”
“Sure ’nuff. Caught ’em in the act. In flagrante delicto, as Handsome Harry Tate used to say. Kilt ’em both. Shot hell out of ’em right there in the bed. Pair of ’em was nekkid as jaybirds. John Henry emptied a Colt pistol on ’em. Made a helluva mess.”
Stared into Carl’s troubled eyes. Knew he still hadn’t told me the whole story. “That it? That the whole weasel—teeth, hair, eyeballs, and all?”
He slumped back into the chair and steepled knotty fingers under his stubble-covered chin. “No. Unfortunately, that ain’t the worst of the whole doo-dah, not by a long damned shot.”
“Knew it. Got the impression from the way you’re actin’ there was something even worse than a double killin’ comin’.”
Carl dropped his hands into his lap and blurted out, “In spite of the late hour, word of the murders got around town pretty damned quick. Within an hour of the shootin’s, the Fort Smith city police department came to the U.S. marshal’s office lookin’ for help. One of the few men on the scene at the time was DuVall Petrie. He hoofed it outta the courthouse like his feet was on fire. Caught John Henry somewheres down near the river tryin’ to hire a boat to ferry him across to the Nations.”
“You don’t mean . . .?”
“Yep. Killed DuVall in a pistol fight next to one of the wharfs, then disappeared. Ain’t nobody seen hide nor hair of ’im since. Way we’ve got it figured, he either swam that hammerhead of his over to the Nations, or managed to pay somebody to ferry him across. Hell, you know as well as me, all you gotta do is flash a little money at the right person and they’ll do damn nigh anything. Throw more’n ten dollars at mosta the snaky bastards workin’ the river, and they’ll eat a raw alligator gar, stem to stern, and let you watch.”
Couldn’t believe my ears. Felt like the bones in my neck went soft. Closed aching eyes. Let my hundred-pound head loll onto the back of the chair. Sharp, piercing pain shot across a scrunched forehead. “Damnation, Carl. You’re certain about all this? He killed a fellow deputy U.S. marshal?”
“Spent most of the night and this mornin’ checkin’ it all out ’fore I came up here to tell you. Way I’ve got it figured, Judge Parker’s bailiff is gonna contact you sometime today. Set you loose to run John Henry down.”
For almost a minute, I felt as though my entire life had drained right into the s
oles of my boots. The thought of having to go out after a man I’d grown to genuinely like, and even admire, repelled my ever-present sense of justice and fair play. But I knew Carl had hit the bloody nail right on its square-cut head. My special arrangement, as the judge’s secretly appointed assassin, would most likely require that I take the despicable job. The ugly thought flashed across my mind that a vengeful God had finally called payment for all the blood I’d spilled in the past. Made me sick to my stomach. Thought for several seconds I was just about to puke my guts up.
Coughed, rubbed a hand across my flushed forehead, then cleared my throat. Even then, I found it hard to speak. “Marshal already got men out after ’im?”
“Damned gang of ’em. You know how the judge feels ’bout them as would murder his deputies. And, God help the boy, what he done is worse—one deputy marshal killin’ another. Sweet weepin’ Jesus, Hayden, I ain’t never even heard of such a thing. Never even imagined it could happen. Bad enough we have to worry ’bout bein’ rubbed out by them out in the Nations as have joined forces with the Devil. Can’t imagine bein’ kilt by a fellow deputy marshal. Beyond the pale—just by-God beyond the pale.”
Turned away from my friend and gazed out over the river. Couldn’t get my mind around the problem. Shook my head like a dog with a tick in its ear. Muttered, “He won’t come back, Carl. No matter who the judge sends, John Henry won’t come back to Fort Smith alive. Soon as Du-Vall Petrie’s dead body hit the ground, he had to have known his fate was sealed.”
Carl shook his head, groaned, and stared at his hands.
“With a slick-talkin’ Texas lawyer, he might have a chance of gettin’ sent up for life, times two, on them other killin’s. And Judge Parker could very well let it happen. But he won’t give an inch, or let Deputy Marshal Petrie’s murder pass—gonna have to have payment in blood for that one. Shit almighty. John Henry’s a dead man and just don’t realize it yet.”
“I know. But I been thinkin’, Hayden. Cursed thought, but I figure it’s better if’n you and me go out after ’im than have folks as don’t even know the man track ’im down and bring ’im to book.”
“He won’t come back for us either, Carl. Gonna be a fight to the death when we finally run the man to ground.”
Of a sudden, I got tired. Tired right to the bone, and some deeper. Felt as though I couldn’t have stood, even if I’d wanted to. Sky and earth whirled around my chair in a jumbled spasm of cosmic grief and disbelief. Leaned over, rested my head in my hands, and came damn near to weeping. Wanted to upchuck my spurs, but couldn’t. Seemed as though the good Lord had put too much on me at one time, and the burden came nigh on to breaking my heart.
As if from a great distance, like the bottom of a deep well, I heard Carl say, “Just surpasses all understanding how a woman could be the root of such tragedy. Can’t begin to imagine why a man’d let one get under his skin enough to lead him into three killin’s. Just baffles hell outta me, Hayden. You understand it?”
Seemed to be talking to the unlimited depths of Heaven when I said, “No. I can’t comprehend this mess either. But you know, Carl, I fear there’s a demon inside all us men. A demon that’s hot and deadly, who could easily lead any one of us to commit heinous acts equally as unfathomable, should we ever be confronted with a similar set of circumstances.”
“You know, I’ve met them as say they already know exactly how they’d react in any given set of conditions. Say they’d never be driven to unsavory acts by a particular state of affairs.”
“They’re lyin’ sons a bitches, Carl. Either that or they’re so full of themselves they can barely stand to be in this world with other people.”
“Well, I can feel the call a-comin’. We’ll be the ones what have to bring John Henry to book. Whole situation’s got me so down in the mouth I could eat oatmeal out of a churn. Ain’t gonna be easy, no, sir, this ’un ain’t gonna be easy, Hayden.” Carl shook his head, stared off into the distance as though distracted, then added, “Have to kill John Henry. My, oh, my. What’s our world a-comin’ to?”
15
“I’M BEING SENT OUT TO KILL THE MAN?”
COULD HAVE EASILY waited for an official summons from Judge Parker’s special private bailiff, George Wilton, to meet with him in his office for a discussion about the terrible situation concerning John Henry. Knew beyond any doubt he’d call on me sooner or later. Decided against lingering on tenterhooks of dread. Had Carl help me get loaded into my cabriolet and drive me into town.
Wilton’s graying pork-chop whiskers twitched with expectation when he glanced up from piles of legal papers stacked atop a highly polished mahogany desk. Spotted me standing in the doorway of his paneled office. Waved me inside. He placed a pen, freshly loaded with ink, into its rest. Leaned back in a tack-decorated, Moroccan leather chair, and motioned me to a near identical seat across from him.
“Please sit, Marshal Tilden. In truth, I was just about to send for you. Appears you’ve become something of a mind reader, amongst your other rather astonishing talents.”
Lowered myself into the welcoming comfort of the overstuffed chair he’d proffered. Watched the elegant gent run a nervous palm from a sweaty forehead to the back of a hairless pate. Then he placed one elbow on his chair’s well-worn arm and rested a whiskered chin against his clenched fist. Man appeared tired. Careworn. Concerned and, in my considered estimation, completely wrung out.
Dropped my hat on the floor, pulled a pair of nickel cheroots from an inside jacket pocket, and leaned forward in an effort to tender him one. He waved my offering aside, reached for a cedar-lined humidor on his desk, and flipped the top open. The polished, gold-trimmed, ebony box overflowed with apple-scented, maduro panatelas.
“Have one of mine, Marshal Tilden,” he said, and flashed a tight smile. “’Specially rolled for me in Cuba. Had them shipped here from New Orleans. Mighty fine smoke. Can’t raise tobacco like this in the United States. Won’t find a bite in a single one of ’em. All milder’n a bunch of fifteen-year-old lapdogs.”
Within minutes, a thick cloud of the world’s finest, most aromatic cigar smoke filled Wilton’s office, wrapped around shelves crammed with thick legal tomes, and gathered in a dense, fragrant layer next to the ceiling. After several deep, clearly satisfying puffs on his rootlike stogie, he rose, strode to the open door, and gently pushed it closed. Holding the cigar in front of him, as though it were a treasured jewel to be taken out and admired only on special occasions, he made his way back to the desk and roosted on the only uncovered corner. Knew his simple act of studied familiarity was the man’s premeditated way of putting me at my ease.
“I assume you’ve heard the terrible news about Deputy Marshal John Henry Slate?” he said.
“Unfortunately, yes. Yes, I have, sir.”
He let a thin trail of smoke curl around his face and head, sniffed at the pungent aroma occasionally, and took another puff before saying, “As you well know, Judge Parker views the killing of one of his deputy marshals with the utmost sadness. To have one dispatched by a fellow badge carrier has sent the man into a state of sorrow and depression unlike any I’ve witnessed in all my years of working with him. And while he’s equally distressed by the two murders that precipitated DuVall Petrie’s unfortunate passing, it is the death of one of our own that is of utmost concern to him.”
“Can well imagine, sir.”
He turned, and quickly moved to the heavily draped window behind his desk. Using a single finger, he pushed one panel of the thick, plush curtains aside. Knew from previous visits that his office overlooked the shallow hollow on the south side of the courthouse where Judge Parker’s twelve-man gallows stood. Wondered if he could see the gaunt-faced ghosts of men who’d died there.
He stared down toward hangman George Maledon’s Gates of Hell and said, “You know, Marshal Tilden, it is a betrayal of trust unlike any other for a man to take the same sacred oath of office that you, and more than two hundred others, have sworn, then brutally mu
rder one of his fellows.”
Knew such an admonishment was forthcoming, but still felt as though I’d been sledgehammered in my gut when he said it. Could do nothing but concur with his rather pointed assessment. “Indeed, sir. I’m bound to agree completely. Deputy Slate’s actions can only be deemed unforgivable.”
He glanced at me from the corner of one dark, hooded eye, nursed his smoke a bit more, then swiveled his attention back to whatever he could observe from the window’s elevated vantage point. “We do not expect John Henry Slate to return for trial, Marshal Tilden. His reappearance in Fort Smith, after having committed such a heinous crime, would be intolerable. Is my meaning quite clear, sir?”
Squirmed in my seat, both hands glued to my knees. Wilton noticed the pause before my response and turned to face me. Threw him an anxious nod, then said, “This is very difficult for me, sir. As you may be well aware, John Henry and I have, of late, become friends. The man has unflinchingly stepped into imminent danger and saved my life. Not once, but twice. Weren’t for him I’d be dead—times two. Very likely buried in an unmarked grave somewhere out in the Nations. I like the man, sir, and must admit that I am deeply conflicted about being sent out on this particular mission.”
A look of concentrated concern etched its way across Wilton’s near ebony face. He swept from his station at the window, stopped near my elbow, and patted me on the shoulder. Then he whirled about and resumed his creaking, leather-covered seat behind the desk. “While I do sympathize with your position, Marshal Tilden, I must remind you of your pledge to Judge Parker when he first approached you with the conditions of your special place in the hierarchy of men under his command. You, and you alone, enjoy his blessing in matters that require the application of death-dealing force.”
“Oh, trust me, I remember his words as though he spoke them mere minutes ago, sir. He said, ‘I want you to take on the job of finding the worst of the worst, and bringing them back or killing them on the spot. I don’t care which.’”