Lawdog: The Life and Times of Hayden Tilden

by J. Lee Butts

  LAWDOG

  The Life and Times of

  Hayden Tilden

  J. Lee Butts

  Beyond the Page

  Publishing

  LawDog

  J. Lee Butts

  Beyond the Page Books

  are published by

  Beyond the Page Publishing

  www.beyondthepagepub.com

  Copyright © 2001, 2014 by J. Lee Butts

  ISBN: 978-1-937349-85-1

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now know or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  For my wife, Carol, who continues

  to make my literary efforts possible

  THE WANTED ONES

  Just as Pa and I were discussing how to get our wagon out of the ditch, a preacher approached us and lifted his hand in greeting.

  “May the peace of God be with you and your family, sir. Where are you headed this lovely day?”

  “Goin’ to Texas by way of Little Rock. Mighty kind of you to stop, Reverend.”

  “Might I give you and your family a blessing from Scripture?” the preacher asked, pulling out a well-worn black Bible.

  “That’s right thoughtful, sir. We’d be most grateful.” Pa put his arm around my shoulders and bowed his head. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mother do the same. The Bible fell open in the minister’s hands, as if to a favorite passage. He raised his right hand to the page as though to trace the lines he wanted to read. Instead, out of the book he drew a tiny pistol. An ugly smile danced across his face.

  “What the he—?” Pa never got to finish his question. The preacher’s first shot hit my father in his left eye. I pitched out of the wagon and into the water. Pà had landed at the water’s edge and half floated there. I wanted to help so bad I thought I’d explode, but my limbs just froze.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Special thanks are extended to Michael and Barbara Rosenberg for believing in me. To Kimberly Waltemyer for making this all possible. And, finally, to the DFW Writer’s Workshop whose knowledge, experience, and weekly contributions are evident on every page of this and all my other work.

  Being a U.S. Marshal may appear to some to be a regular picnic, but we don’t want any of it.

  —Fort Smith Elevator, 1884

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  PROLOGUE

  BY CHANCE, I stopped at Hardin’s Grocery Store back in ’thirty-nine to buy myself a smoke. On the way out bumped into Caleb Spain. Arrested Caleb on a John Doe warrant a few years before I had to give up living by the gun. Hadn’t seen him since. He shook my hand and thanked me. Said his two-year stay in prison put him on the straight and narrow. Said I’d saved him from a life of evil doings, probably an early death and eternity in a fiery hell.

  It’s strange how the past can reach out and grab you like that when you least expect it. Nine years after I saw Caleb I’d managed to get to a point in my life where no one ever recognized me anymore. Living at the Rolling Hills Home for the Aged, here in Little Rock, can do that for you. Kind of liked it that way. But being a retired killer in 1948 hadn’t turned out like I expected. Course, I don’t think being a retired anything ever turns out like most people expect. Then a guy I didn’t know showed up at the home two weeks ago, and one name caused it all to come flooding back.

  Carlton J. Cecil and I were slouched in chairs out on the screened porch. The July mugginess always kept us staked out under one of the ceiling fans—day and night. Our checkerboard acted as a prop to disguise the never-ending naps that plague people too old and too idle for much of anything else. Snapped out of a dreamy doze just when this well-dressed young man walked up.

  He startled me enough to cause the ash to break off my neglected panatela. Senior nurse Leona Wildbank always said I’d set myself on fire someday if I didn’t renounce what she called a “pernicious addiction.” I steadfastly refuse.

  “Which one of you gentlemen is former Deputy United States Marshal Hayden Tilden?” the youngster asked. He sounded bored. Like one of those people who think they know everything. Above his head the fan twisted the blue-gray cloud from my smoke into a miniature tornado.

  “That old fart there. He’s the one,” said Carl, pointing a palsied ninety-two-year-old finger at me. He drew the ancient digit back to his mouth and gnawed at a newly discovered sprout on its nail with his two remaining teeth, then immediately snoozed off again.

  “Mr. Tilden, my name is Franklin J. Lightfoot Jr. I’m a staff writer for the Arkansas Gazette.” The lad’s suit and white shirt sparkled. His bright pink face glowed from a shave so close I marveled that any skin remained. Witch hazel sliced through the cigar smoke and tickled my nose. He was the cleanest man I’d seen since I arrived at Rolling Hills.

  “Well, I’m right pleased to meet you, Junior,” I said as we shook hands.

  “You can call me Frank, sir.” He leaned forward and stared hard like he wanted to slap me for being impertinent.

  “Be glad to. Why don’t you have a seat and tell the dozing Mr. Cecil and I what we can do for you this hot summer day, Junior.” I adjusted myself further down into my wicker throne and watched as he pulled up a chair.

  Didn’t get many callers. Don’t think Cecil ever had any. We’d both outlived almost everyone we ever knew. When you get to be as old as us, anyone who’ll spend five minutes talking to you is a novelty. I’ve had days when I caught myself talking to the potted plant next to Maybelle Bryant’s door. Been at it for almost an hour before I realized what I was doing. A red-faced writer from a local newspaper was like a Christmas package I couldn’t wait to unwrap.

  “Mr. Tilden, I’ve been assigned to write a piece on Judge Parker’s court.” He settled into a straight-backed, cane-bottomed instrument of torture rubbed fuzzy by decades of ancient, bony behinds. “During my preliminary research, I found your name linked with the capture or killing of some of the most infamous bad men Judge Parker’s lawdogs ever tracked down, including none other than Saginaw Bob Magruder. Given what I’ve read, I think I could honestly say you made quite a name for yourself.”

  Pulled sagely at my beard and said, “Never meant to do it, Junior.” The corners of his mouth turned down. “Just kind of happened, son. You know, I think most of us just kind of fall into things
during our lives. My career as a man hunter for Judge Parker was like that.”

  “Well, Mr. Tilden, my editor thinks there’s a market for the story of your days as a gunman. He feels the western novels and motion pictures of today portray a place that never existed. He’d like to publish your true life history, sir. Perhaps as a series of weekly chapters dealing with the various characters you arrested or exterminated. Wants to produce an authentic picture of your life. Not a soft-focus illusion like the autobiography Wyatt Earp and his wife put out. If it draws a large enough audience, might even be able to turn it into a book.”

  Franklin J. Lightfoot Jr. was something of a snotty twerp but buried under his superior-than-thou delivery I detected what bordered on a real interest.

  There’d been other offers like ole Franklin’s in the past. I’d just ignored all of them. Hadn’t seen one in about ten years though. So I figured, well, I’ll play along with this chicken wrangler and see where it leads.

  “Right flattering, Junior. ’Course, I’ve forgotten a lot of what happened back then—some of it simply because of the passage of time. I mean, Lord almighty, I am eighty-eight years old. Forgot a good bit because it just wasn’t the kind of thing I wanted to remember, but most because Judge Parker didn’t want anyone to ever find out about it.” Didn’t want the boy to know that I could recall damned near every minute of my life. Figured I’d just string him along for a while and see what happened.

  A befuddled look flickered across his face and he said, “I don’t understand. What do you mean? What’s the secret, Mr. Tilden?”

  Blew smoke rings at the ceiling and thought about that for a minute before I said, “Junior, sometimes the bad things we do are like spots we can’t fix on a hardwood floor. We just throw a rug over them and forget they’re under there. A lot of what happened in the beginning, especially with monsters like Bob Magruder and most of what I did when I worked privately for the Judge, was like that. I performed a special kind of job for the man.”

  The puzzled look stayed with him for a bit. “My paper hopes you’ll be willing to tell me about that period of your life—spots and all, black or white—even the monsters. Perhaps the two of us could pull back some of those rugs just mentioned and look underneath. Maybe we can tell a tale that’ll show how silly those Saturday afternoon cowboys Bob Steele, Ken Maynard, Gene Autry, and the rest, really are.” The seriously scrubbed boy was turning out smarter than I first thought.

  Going to confess here I never expected to live eighty years. Don’t think anyone ever does when they start out. Never figured on telling anyone my life story either. But eight more years on top of eighty can open secret doors in your past. Doors you always expected would stay closed.

  So I asked myself, right then and there, what could it hurt? With General Black Jack Pershing, Rolling Hill’s resident house cat, rubbing against my leg, I got to thinking. They’re all dead and in the ground now, anyway. I’m the only one left, and this snot-nosed boy might actually be able to get the thing published. Now, wouldn’t that really be something?

  Sat across the checkerboard from him and sailed off into one of those instant fantasies—the kind which come over people my age with little or no encouragement. You know how you’ll be talking to some old codger and they’ll suddenly drift away from you. I could see the seventy-two-point block type on the front page of the Arkansas Gazette . . . LAWDOG: THE LIFE AND TIMES OF HAYDEN TILDEN. Why not?

  So I asked, “How do you want to do this, Junior? You want me to write it all down or do we just sit here and talk it over?”

  “Why don’t we start right now? You tell me how it began. Then tonight, make some notes. I’ll come back tomorrow, and as many times as necessary, until you’ve finished.”

  “Well, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m pretty close to being finished right now. My health hasn’t been the greatest in the past few years. Bullet holes and age will do that, you know. Don’t trust doctors any more today than I did back in ’eighty. And to be absolutely truthful, the story of my life finished itself almost thirty years ago. Country just grew out of a need for men like me. I didn’t even notice it when it happened. Should’ve got a real big hint when those barn weasels in Wyoming hung Tom Horn. Didn’t. Same thing will happen to you, boy. History will slip by, and you won’t realize its full impact till years later.”

  He fished around in the pocket of his jacket, pulled a little pad of paper out, and licked the end of his pencil. “Just tell me what you remember,” he said as he started writing.

  Hadn’t thought about my past for a long time. Amazed myself with how much came back when I went to scratching around in those little gray folds in the back of my brain. Tried not to let on to Franklin J. Jr., but the name Bob Magruder exploded in my head like a box of dynamite and reopened massive wounds on my heart.

  1

  “THEY WILL SEND YOU TO HELL”

  A GOOD MANY of the other old gomers here at Rolling Hills look back on their pasts like no other time in history compared in beauty or glory. I may be seriously rubbing up against ninety years old, but I can recall the years that included most of their lives. And I’m here to tell you it was a dirty, dangerous, and downright deadly time. Anyone who says otherwise is the kind of fool who’d intentionally pick a fight with a skunk.

  I spent close to fifty years carrying a badge. It started in August of 1878 on the day Bob Magruder shot me in the face. That’s about as deadly as you can get and what caused the scar on my right cheek that runs up to the bridge of my nose. My eighteenth birthday had just passed—so long ago. Still get furious every time I run my finger along the piece of hard, pink flesh he left behind.

  My family’s wagon had just creaked to a stop, because of a tree across the Great River Road in Arkansas, when he appeared out of the darkness of the tree line. He rode a tall, coal black horse and dressed himself like a preacher. We could never have guessed his identity, how dangerous he was, or that three more just as bad hid in the bushes behind him.

  My father waved as the stranger came closer. Papa was a man of little education and a trusting nature and didn’t seem to notice the oddity of having a pastor just kind of grow up out of the ground in the middle of a godforsaken spot like Arkansas.

  “Maybe he can help us with the tree, Hayden.” He smiled and waved at the man in black again. The stranger acknowledged the gesture and kept coming.

  From inside the wagon my mother said, “I’m glad you stopped, Jonathan. Rachael needed a rest from the jostling. Do you think we can get down for a few minutes?” She moved to a spot behind and between us and whispered, “What’s a preacher doing all the way out here in the wilderness?”

  He reined his mount to a stop on the right just a few feet away from Papa. Clutched to his chest he carried a huge Bible. The leather cover showed heavy use, and the gilt-edged pages had lost much of their luster. He again raised his left hand in a gesture of friendship, but the smile on his lips twisted and gave him a look contrary to his outfit.

  “May the peace of God be with you and your family, sir. Where are you headed this lovely day?”

  “Goin’ to Texas by way of Little Rock. Have family in both places and hope to be as successful as my brother. He lives in the Cold River country of the great Lone Star State,” my father replied.

  “You’ve set yourself on a hazardous journey, friend. Arkansas and the territories still teem with wild animals and bad men. The woods are full of ’em. Both kinds.”

  “Well, my son and I can take care of anything that might come along. We’ve made it all the way from Cumberland County, Kentucky, with no trouble. But, just in case anything wayward takes place, I keep my trusty Greener down here in the floor.” He moved his right foot and motioned toward the shotgun nested below.

  “I don’t doubt you are capable, sir, but you must be careful. Up the road a piece is Winchester Township. I heard just yesterday from friends that a terrible man called Saginaw Bob Magruder and his gang were prowling about in these parts.
Story being circulated claims they’re on the run from a robbery that went bad in Mississippi. I’d be on my toes if I were you.”

  Didn’t like the look or sound of the man, but hated the idea of Papa and me having to move that tree alone, so I said, “Well, do you think you can help us with the tree, sir?”

  He glanced at the leafless obstacle. “You can get around on this side.” He urged his animal within arm’s length of the jockey box. “There’s more room than you can see from up there. But don’t try to go left. That bar ditch is deep. It rained all day yesterday. Filled ’er full. You could throw one of your oxen in there and lose it.”

  I snapped a quick glance at the muddy canal. “Maybe we can make town before dark, Papa. Be nice to spend the night in a town.”

  Turned back just in time to hear the preacher say, “I’d like to read a little passage of scripture for you, brother. I think a message from God will help you on your way.”

  “That’s right thoughtful, sir. We’d be most grateful for your blessings.” Papa put his arm around my shoulders and waited for God’s grace. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my mother bow her head and fold her hands in prayer. Couldn’t see Rachael. She’d been sick with malaria for most of two weeks and didn’t move around much.

  The man in black transferred the huge book from his right hand to his left. It fell open as if to a favorite and often read passage. He raised his right hand to the page as though to trace the lines he wanted to read. Instead, a tiny pistol magically sprang from the book. An ugly smile danced across his face.

  “What the h—?” Papa never got to finish his question.

  The preacher’s first shot hit my father in his left eye. Hair, blood, and bone splattered all over me. The second slug burned a bloody path across my right cheek and nose. If it hadn’t been for the convulsive response of my father’s legs, the man would have killed us both right then and there.