by J. Lee Butts
Don’t believe any of us really rested well that noisy night. Next morning, think everyone woke up feeling like men who’d slept on the floor of a saloon where a bunch of waddies had played tenpens all night long. Then, beneath a stark, cloudless, crystalline blue, typically Texas sky, we loaded our red-eyed, groggy selves back onto another M.K. & T. coach, and chugged on down to Waco.
Claimed our animals at the depot. Led them off the boxcar, got saddled and loaded up in the middle of one of the busiest rail yards I’d ever seen. People, animals, freight wagons of every size, shape, and description surged back and forth like ocean waves lapping at sandy beaches during a hurricane.
“How many railroad lines they got comin’ into this yard?” Nate wondered aloud as he threw a California-style saddle on his animal’s back.
Jerked my cinch strap up tight, then said, “Think there’s three of ’em, Nate. Waco and Northwestern, M.K. & T., and the St. Louis and Southwestern. Hear tell the town’s one of the busiest shipping hubs in Texas. Got nigh on twelve thousand people living here these days. Can brag of the biggest red-light district south of Hell’s Half Acre—place called the Reservation. So many saloons and gamblin’ houses that locals and cowboys passin’ through from the south often refer to the town as Six Shooter Junction.”
Carl climbed aboard his horse and got settled. Came near having to yell when he said, “Busier’n hell on a Saturday afternoon all right. Where we gonna start, Hayden?”
Took some effort, but I was barely able to get myself aboard Gunpowder. My ass still pained me considerable. Felt most like somebody was jabbin’ me in the rump with a sharpened knitting needle. Hadn’t been in the saddle more’n a minute when I got to wishing I’d brought Elizabeth’s fringe-trimmed New York pillow along.
Said, “Let’s just follow the rest of the traffic into town. Keep an eye peeled for the local constabulary’s office. Gotta be a sheriff, marshal, or chief of police around here someplace. Keep in mind, boys, that there are times when these local Texican law enforcement types are just as helpful as they can be, and other times they’re just obstinate as a halfwitted, one-eyed Missouri mule. Let’s not make any enemies first jump outta the box ’less it just can’t be avoided.”
Directed my comments at Carl mostly. He just pitched me a rueful grin, shook his head, and mumbled, “Ain’t no problem for me, by God. You know how I feel ’bout hardheads and horse’s asses, Hayden. I can get along with Satan, long as he’s reasonably civil.”
“Well, that’s just exactly the problem. Seen you get right brusque a time or two when a native lawman, for whatever reason, just didn’t want to cooperate with us.”
He stared at his hands. Studied crusty fingernails as if they were the most important thing in his life at that moment. “Ain’t no good excuse for any kind of rude behavior, by Godfrey. ’Specially when we’re looking for a man wanted in a triple murder.”
“True, but I’d rather not set a fire under any of these folks until we can figure out just exactly what kind of esteem the locals have for John Henry and his family. Understand?”
Carl twisted his head to one side as though to say, “Horseshit,” then nodded.
“No problem for me,” Nate offered, “long as none of ’em wanna try’n take a dump in my hat. Stuff has a tendency to make my hair all stinky.”
Nate led the way. Carlton laid back and rode next to me. Could tell he was concerned and wanted to make sure I didn’t overtax myself. On at least one occasion, he leaned over in the saddle and said, “Other than bein’ concerned about my manners, or lack thereof, you doin’ all right, Hayden?” ’Course I wouldn’t have told him how bad I was hurtin’ on a bet.
All too typical of most Texas towns of the time, Waco appeared to have grown up in the most slapdash way. Wagon yards, dance halls, parlor houses, saloons, liquor stores, lines of crib shacks, and various other types of sporting establishments that appealed exclusively to those of the hairy-legged persuasion were scattered at odd, unpredictable intervals along the bustling city’s main thoroughfare.
A number of the two- and three-story structures I saw did not appear to have been in place for more than a few weeks at the very most. Their coarse, unfinished exteriors still seeped streams of sticky, aromatic sap. In stark contrast, here and there, a busy cantina or false-fronted mercantile, grocery, bank, law office, or other establishment with some age on it wore a garish, near blinding coat of yellow, pink, green, or turquoise blue paint.
We trailed an unbroken stream of wagon-and-people traffic from the rail yards along a wide, dusty, rutted thoroughfare into town. Busy city seethed with people that skittered about from every conceivable direction, like they were angry bees that had boiled out of a tree-bound hive after some honey-hungry bear had pawed around in their nest. Throng got so confused and knotted in places, it proved right difficult to keep moving at times.
Sat in one spot for nigh on five minutes while a couple of irate bull-whackin’ teamsters pounded each other bloody for the amusement of all those who couldn’t get around them. Never did figure out what the fight was all about. Didn’t matter anyhow. Between the gambling, shouting, and sympathetic drinking inspired by the fisticuffs, the rowdy crowd thoroughly enjoyed the impromptu entertainment.
Constantly shifting tide of people and animals had stirred up a powdery cloud of dust that rose from the ground like a curtain and floated all the way up past the roofs of two-story buildings. Dense, gritty veil drifted back and forth, carried from one side of the street to the other, depending on where the greatest concentration of human activity was centered at the time.
Every other business available to the human eye was a saloon, bar, tavern, gambling house, liquor outlet, or parlor house. Drunks wallowed in the doorways and on the boardwalks, or stumbled about in the unrelenting traffic. Saw one feller covered in bluebottle flies and appeared dead, laid out between a horse trough and the boardwalk. Swarms of hard-eyed soiled doves called out from the open windows of buildings, alleyways, and covered porticos that fronted most of the gambling joints and booze halls.
Outside one place, named the Continental Bar and Saloon, caskets filled to overflowing with ice displayed three bullet-riddled corpses. Sign tacked to the wall above the dead men admonished the inquisitive passersby that such a fate awaited all those of LOW CHARACTER AND WEAK MORAL FIBER.
Feller with a box camera on a tripod cut loose with his flash powder as we eased by. Photograph he took was of several duded-up inebriates who stood in front of the dead men, smiled, and held up rifles and pistols as if they’d killed the poor pasty-faced bastards in the coffins. Puff of flash powder set my mount to crawfishing in an effort to get away from the light and noise.
Carl glanced over at me and said, “’Pears as how the law’s a bit on the loose side ’round these parts. You’d never witness such a sight in Fort Smith. Judge Parker might hang six at a pop, but he’d never allow a display like this ’un here.”
“Don’t call this place Six Shooter Junction for nothing, from the look of it,” I said.
Of a sudden, Nate waved, then pointed off to our left. He’d spotted the sign we were looking for. Reined our animals to a set of hitch rails outside a whitewashed storefront building with a sign over the door that designated it as the city marshal’s office. Heavily barred windows distinguished the spot as a jail.
No farther than we’d traveled from the depot, thought I was gonna pass out when I tried to raise my leg in an effort to step down from Gunpowder’s back. Stabbing pains shot from my knee all the way to my waist like Satan himself was poking at my tender behind with a rusty pitchfork. Carlton hopped off his animal and hustled over to help me, but stepped aside, gritted his teeth, and frowned when I pushed him away.
Hobbled up to the open entrance of the marshal’s office. Bright red, six-inch letters on the wooden sign nailed to the doorframe admonished those who entered to WIPE YOUR FEET ON THE MAT BEFORE YOU COME INSIDE.
Took my time. Made sure I’d cleaned up before step
ping into the office’s well-swept entryway. Carl and Nate stomped their boots, then trailed me inside.
Shiny desk on the right, just a few steps past the open door, had not a single thing atop it—except a brass plate mounted on a piece of wood with the name HORACE SPENSER engraved into it. Well-stocked rack of rifles, shotguns, and other weapons hung on the wall behind the desk. All the firearms I could see appeared freshly cleaned and oiled. Entire interior space looked and smelled as if recently painted. Iron-barred gate leading to the cell block sparkled. Could hear men incarcerated behind the gate yelling back and forth from one of the cells to another.
Morose-looking feller, sporting the bleary-eyed, red-nosed countenance of a practicing drunk, pushed a broom around a table and set of chairs in the far corner. Several surly-looking men who wore star-shaped badges lounged there. They eyed us like we smelled bad or something. Broom pusher stopped, leaned on the handle of his man-powered dirt mover, and stared at us as though shocked that we’d had nerve enough to invade his just swept, personal, and restricted space.
A pinch-faced, hook-nosed popcorn fart loaded down with pistols was seated behind the desk. He glanced up, then frowned. His nostrils crinkled around the edges as though I’d just limped up and thrown a steaming, fresh pile of horse manure into his lap. Slouched back in his chair, he eyeballed us like we’d interrupted the conduct of passing the plate during worship services.
Tried my utmost to sound gracious when I said, “Afternoon, sir. Are you Marshal Spenser by chance?”
Sullen jackass pushed back in the chair till it bumped against the wall. He chewed a splinter of wood from one corner of his twisted mouth to the other. Glowered at me as though a tumblebug had just rolled into his private kingdom and left a sticky trail from the door’s threshold right up onto his immaculate desk.
“Marshal Spenser’s outta town at the moment, gents.” Word “gents” came out sounding as though he’d just detected something irritating stuck back between his tonsils and was forced to hock it up. “Left me in charge durin’ his absence. I’m the chief by-God deputy here’bouts. You can tell me whatever’n the hell you thought you needed to discuss with him. Just what kinda goddamn business you jaybirds got with the marshal?”
Knew as soon as he stopped yammering that the stupid son of a bitch might as well have got up out of his chair, walked around me, stood on tiptoe, and slapped hell out of Carlton, then pissed on his feet.
From behind me, and as friendly as he could have managed it, my friend snapped, “You gotta name, Mr. Chief by-God Deputy? Or do I have to come around that desk, snatch you outta your chair, then beat it outta your insolent ass?”
Inaudible groan rumbled around in my chest. While I agreed with him, I wanted to turn around, snatch his hat off, and smack Carl on the back of head like a smart-mouthed kid.
Mr. Chief Deputy’s eyes glazed over, then damn near crossed. A rush of hot blood climbed from beneath his shirt collar, crept up a chicken-fleshed neck, and reddened his stubble-covered cheeks. Took about two seconds for him to look as though Carl had slapped him so hard his long-dead grandpa could feel the handprint.
Rustle of movement at the table in the corner went quiet, and damned quicklike. Sound of pistols being drawn and cylinders rolling to a hot charge when fully cocked tickled my ears. Knew without even bothering to glance over my shoulder that Nate had taken care of whatever problem he perceived as coming from the other deputies.
Insolent Mr. Chief by-God Deputy clawed the wood splinter out of his mouth, then flipped it across the room toward the cell house door. The jittery floor sweeper rushed over and snatched it up.
“Just who’n the hell you jaspers think you are?” the evil pipsqueak snapped. “Gotta lot of hard bark growing on your sorry asses to come strollin’ in my office, all bold as brass, talkin’ the kinda shit that can get a man kilt, and pullin’ pistols on my assistants.”
Eased our bona fides from my jacket pocket. Slid them across the desk. “Name’s Hayden Tilden—Deputy U.S. Marshal Hayden Tilden. Gentleman holding pistols on your ‘assistants’ is Deputy U.S. Marshal Nathan W. Swords. Out-spoken gent on my right, and behind me, is Deputy U.S. Marshal Carlton J. Cecil. We serve at the pleasure of Judge Isaac C. Parker, who’s in charge of the Federal Court for the Western District of Arkansas.”
Mr. Chief by-God Deputy leaned over. Pushed the leather pouch of papers back my direction without so much as looking at them. Then he slumped backward, squirmed in his chair, made a gargling sound like he wanted to spit, and said, “Well, I don’t particular give a good god—”
Carl snorted, “Hold on there, bud. My good-natured friend, Marshal Tilden, a gentleman and a scholar, was kind enough to answer your questions. Think it’s time you told us just who’n the hell you are. Get started on another smart-mouthed rip, I’ll be forced to stroll over there and kick your bony ass till your nose bleeds.”
Arrogant city deputy almost went apoplectic. Thought the man’s eyeballs would pop out and bounce around atop his spotlessly clean desk. As though being strangled, he finally gasped, “Name’s Tater, by God. Deputy City Marshal Dudley Tater.”
Nate Swords let a muffled snicker escape.
Tater hopped out of his seat—pretty good trick for a man his size, being as how he was loaded down with a Colt Cavalry-model hip pistol, equally massive Smith & Wesson cross-draw weapon, and a short-barreled sheriff’s gun mounted at his back. Man had enough iron on him that we could’ve used him for a boat anchor. Went to shaking his finger in Nate’s direction.
“Ain’t funny, by God. Ain’t nothin’ funny ’bout my name. Been Taters in Texas ever since the very beginning.”
Of a sudden, I noticed a barely discernible hint of derisive guffaws coming from the group of other deputies. Somebody mumbled, “Ain’t that the God’s truth.”
Someone else whispered, “Damned lotta taters ’round these parts, for sure.”
Thought Tater would have a stroke. He glared over my shoulder at the men in the corner, then yelped, “You sons a bitches best watch yerselves. I’m in charge here, by God. Marshal Spenser gets back, yer dumb asses’ll be in a sling fer certain sure. Put you on my list, by God.”
Heard someone else say, “Aw, shit, Dud. Please don’t put nobody on yer goddamned list. Fer the love a God, just ask the man what’n the blue-eyed hell he wants, then let these federal boys git on their way.”
Tater glared at me as though he’d like to snatch my nose off and jam it up my behind. “’Cause evertime any a these federal boys show their faces, it ain’t nothin’ but a pain in the ass. Got our hands full right now. Busier’n a buncha chickens drinkin’ water out’n a pie tin. We cain’t help you bastards, no matter what you want.”
Carl snapped, “Yeah, we saw three examples of how hard you boys are working just down the street. Looked to me like them poor bastards, all iced down in caskets a-gettin’ their pictures took, mighta got themselves rudely lynched. Would tend to make a man wonder just exactly where you local lawdogs were when the sorry event occurred.”
“Them boys tried to rob one of our banks. Did a damned poor job. Shot a clerk to death in the process. Waco Vigilance Committee stepped in. Took care of that particular problem. Caught ’em fellers over on the Brazos when they tried to get away. Strung ’em up yestiddy.”
Shook my head, then said, “Look, Deputy, I don’t care one way or the other what happened with the dead men on display in Waco’s main thoroughfare. If you could just point us to the family of a man named John Henry Slate, we’ll be on our way and outta your hair.”
Tater didn’t miss a beat. He tapped a nervous finger against the buckle of his pistol belt. “Don’t know nobody named John Henry Slate.”
Behind me I heard, “I do.”
Turned to see a chubby, red-faced boy, who sported a moustache the size of a full-grown weasel, holding his finger up like a kid in school. He wagged the finger back and forth. “Old feller name of Slate lives out on the Brazos few miles north and west of town. Use
d to raise some horses. Think he got hurt ’bout five years back. Don’t do much these days ’cept sit on his porch in a rocker. Seems like I remember someone a-sayin’ as how he had a son named John Henry, but I don’t think anybody’s seen the son in nigh on a year.”
“Ranch fairly easy to find?” Carl said.
Fat Boy nodded. “Can’t miss it. Just follow the street outside goin’ north. It’ll turn into a single-rut country road that runs right along the river. Slate place is a couple a hundred yards off the road, ’bout six or seven miles up. Cain’t miss it. Ole man’ll be sittin’ on the porch.”
Snatched up the sheaf of documents and stuffed them back into my jacket pocket. Tipped my hat and said, “Appreciate the help, gents. Hope we didn’t cause too much of an interruption in your busy day.” Motioned Carl toward the door. We waited on the boardwalk until Nate had backed out and holstered his weapons.
Big grin creaked across Nate’s face when he said, “Them boys came nigh on messin’ their pants when I pulled down on ’em. Not sure they’ve ever dealt with anything quite like us, Hayden.”
“Probably not,” I said.
Carl stepped off the boardwalk, leaned against the hitch rail, then fished makin’s from his vest pocket and started himself a cigarette. “What we gonna do now?” he said.
Snatched Gunpowder’s reins off the wooden rack. “Gonna ride out to the Slate ranch. That’s what we’re gonna do.”
Struggled to get mounted again. Eventually had to give up. Let my friends help me into the saddle. As we eased away from the Waco city marshal’s office, remember thinking that I hoped to God John Henry wouldn’t be at his father’s place when we arrived. Killing him was one thing, but killing him in front of his father was something else altogether. Made my heart hurt just thinking about it.
17
“SONS A BITCHES FEARED JOHN HENRY . . .”
WHILE DUD TATER had showed himself a purebred horse’s ass when it came to cooperating with fellow law enforcement officers, his friendlier cohort gave good directions. We pushed our animals out of town along Waco’s double-crowded main thoroughfare and, in no time at all, found ourselves riding beneath a thick canopy of trees that grew in wild profusion along the west bank of the Brazos.