by J. Lee Butts
Tied Thunder’s reins to a post near the back door. Checked both my weapons before I entered the building. Wasn’t much of a shot with any kind of handgun, but decided if I got caught in close quarters the weapon would be better than nothing. Pistol’s action was so stiff and awkward I swore not to even try it unless all else failed.
Levered a shell into the chamber of the rifle and left the hammer back. Pushed my way through the door of the colored entrance. The din of noise and smoke engulfed me like a shroud. Steak sizzled on a grill in one corner. Hadn’t eaten in a couple of days. My stomach started to rumble and complain. The smell of whiskey tickled my nose like cheap perfume.
Someone said, “Suh, you be in de wrong place. De white section be in yondah.”
Things got considerable quiet when I put the index finger of my left hand to my lips, then raised the rifle and cradled it in the crook of my arm. I guess the only thing that could have inspired more fear would have been Papa’s twelve-gauge Greener. But Magruder’s men took it when they murdered him.
A set of bat-wing doors divided the black and white sections of the bar. Peeked over and searched from face to face for someone I could identify. Sitting at a table not ten feet from the front door, the mule rider pitched money on the green felt and shuffled cards around. A half-empty bottle of whiskey was perched near his left hand. A tiny silver cross hung from his huge Texas sombrero and twinkled like the evening star. My mother loved that trinket. Papa gave it to her on their twentieth anniversary. In the chair to his right, and slightly behind him, sat a restless and noisy Benny Stubbs.
He said, “Come on, Azel. Let’s go get Cecil and find a place with some life to it. That gal I just left upstairs didn’t have no more energy than a lightnin’ bug in a pitcher of cream.” Stroud ignored Benny and went on with his cards.
“The Dew Drop ain’t showin’ me much fun, Azel. You can gamble anywhere on Barracue Street. Let’s get Cecil and go to the Hen House.” Benny leaned forward and pushed on his friend’s shoulder.
“Damn you, Benny. You want to go find Cecil, go. Quit a-punchin’ on me. It’s dee-stractin’.” The Texan turned and swatted drunkenly at his friend’s hand like it was a bothersome insect. “If you and Bob and Cecil want to spend your time with whores that’s your lookout. I want to play poker right here, right now. Leave me be.”
One of the gamblers—a man wearing a suit and a silk hat—lost his patience. “Mister, are you gonna play cards with us or pat-a-cake with your friend?”
The drunken Texas waddie took offense at being chastised. His right hand found the grip of the pistol strapped high on his side. “You shut your mouth, you Arkansas clodhopper. Play cards when I please. Talk to my friends when I please. You can keep your tater-diggin’ opinions to yourself. Gotta lotta nerve thinkin’ you can talk to a Texas man like one of your snot-nosed pullets.”
The gambler lowered his cards and said, “Just ease up, friend. No one here wants any trouble. We play poker. Thought you sat down for the game. Your friend’s making it difficult to concentrate.”
“Well, you keep to your cards, smart mouth. I’ll worry about Benny.”
Stubbs gave everyone at the table a snaggle-toothed, tobacco-stained smile and went right back to his nagging. The other players immediately folded their hands, quietly headed for the door, and left the two surly friends alone at the table. The Texians put their heads together and began to whisper back and forth. When they looked up again, the big ole .45-70 was grinning at them less than ten feet away. Muzzle on that gun looked like hell’s front gate.
“Uh, could we stop here for just a second? I have a few questions.”
“Dammit, Junior. The first part of my story was just getting going good. Grow a little patience, boy. Sweet Jesus, you people who just can’t wait from one minute to the next for something dramatic to happen irritate the bejabbers out of me. You ever given any thought to the possibility that sometimes the going is as much fun as the getting there? Can’t it wait?”
“No, sir, it can’t. What went through your mind as you approached those men? Your thoughts, for instance. Did you do a mental check of all the things a gunfighter needed to watch for before the battle? Assess the light or lack of it? Decide which man to kill first? Was it Stroud? What I’m trying to get at here is a feel for whether you did any of the things Randolph Scott, John Wayne, or the heroes of all those dime novels always did.”
“You said a few questions, Junior. You asked five of them at once. If you’d shut up long enough you might find out the answers. But since you can’t wait . . . I’d barely passed my eighteenth birthday when I stopped in front of Benny Stubbs and Azel Stroud’s table. My family’s murders were the first I’d seen. Never killed anybody. Never even shot at another person. Only shooting I’d ever done involved ducks, squirrels, rabbits, and deer. That night I was about as handy with a rifle as anyone who had to hunt to eat. But didn’t have a pissant-sized idea what I was going to do when the crunch came. Can tell you this: anyone who says killing a man for the first time comes easy is a primo liar or mad dog crazy like Magruder and his bunch. And any of them scribbling blackguards that write novels and think they’re entertaining by making readers believe gunfights involved quick drawing, fanning, or killing numerous men with one pistol—and other such nonsense—never saw a real one.”
I had my stinger out and was about to put bumps all over young Franklin’s head. He squirmed in his chair.
“Take a breath, Mr. Tilden. You’re going to seize up on me here if you don’t calm down.”
“Junior, only one thing set me apart from them others at the Dew Drop Inn and made me deadly. I’d already decided, when I stopped in front of their table, that they’d probably kill me. I walked straight up to those boys ready to die.”
“You expected them to kill you?” The surprise on the boy’s face carved deep creases in his forehead.
“Of course I did. Their business was robbery and murder. Mine was following a mule around cornfields. I knew full well my odds of survival bordered on a thousand to one. But didn’t care. It wouldn’t have mattered if they’d all four been at that table. In fact, I’d have preferred it that way. Having them all in one place at the same time would’ve been perfect, as far as I was concerned. But just for the sake of argument, if you’d been there and had time to bet on the outcome, who would you have put your money on?”
“The gunfighters, I suppose.”
“They weren’t gunfighters. They were thieves and killers—big difference, Junior. Those movie stars you mentioned earlier—and others of their kind—would have you believe that every man who carried a pistol back then was a gunfighter. That’s a real knee-slapper. From the time I hired on with Judge Parker till I retired in 1930, I might have met a little over a dozen men could be labeled real gunfighters. But Lord almighty, Arkansas and the Territories overflowed with thieves and killers of every kind. Including Magruder and his bunch.”
Benny Stubbs saw me first. He kind of glanced up from their whispering and got this goofy, squinty look on his face. Pushed his hat back on his head, leaned away from the parley, and pointed silently. His friend followed the direction of the finger and jerked back in astonishment to see the open muzzle of the Winchester.
Azel Stroud snarled, “What you want, boy?” My mother’s silver cross jiggled from the brim of his hat.
Benny snickered. “I think you best put that big popper down ’fore you gets hurt or it goes off and hurts one of us.”
Took one more step toward those bastards. No matter what happened I knew it would be impossible to miss from that distance. Pretty sure they realized at that very moment at least one of them was about to die.
A bartender behind me said, “Someone go get the law. Everett needs to stop this before this crazy farm boy does something foolish.”
Fear choked me down to the point where I was barely able to croak, “Anyone who goes through that door tonight will be buried tomorrow. These men have the crimes of murder and robbery to
answer for, and they’ll answer to me. Boys, my father, mother, and sister are waiting for you on the other side. I’ll send you to them for judgment. They will send you to hell.”
Recognition flashed across Benny Stubbs’s face. “Oh, I know you now. You’re that big farm boy from Kentucky.”
“I’ll just be damned,” whispered Azel Stroud.
He made the first move. His right hand darted under the table. Be willing to bet I didn’t have to shift the Winchester more than an inch to my right before I pulled the trigger and blasted him into the other life. He managed to get the pistol out of his belt, but, as he slumped forward on the table, the muzzle shifted toward his friend as it discharged. Slug hit Benny’s lower jaw and blasted the bottom half of his face into a bloody spot on the ceiling.
Benny made a strangled noise, kind of like smurggle-storrfel, and jumped to his feet just in time for my second slug to push his black heart out his back and knock a hole in the saloon’s plate-glass window.
Now, to that point, I’d been uncommonly lucky. Stood there amazed by the outcome of the whole thing, while Benny flopped down into his chair and twitched. Movement reflected in the glass behind him spun me toward the landing above the bar. Cecil Morris drew as I turned.
He hurried his first shot. It grazed my upper left arm. I didn’t even feel it. His second hit me in the leg. Felt that one all the way to my eyeteeth. If he hadn’t been drunk I’m pretty sure he’d’ve got off a third and deadlier one. But as I went down, I swung the rifle out at arm’s length. My only shot hit him dead center. He kind of crumpled up and sat down next to the newel post like he was tired.
I got sick and passed out. Woke up propped against the bar. A nice-looking man sporting a big handlebar mustache squatted in front of me. He rested my rifle across his legs and directed another man’s actions.
“Just a little tighter, Tom. All we want to do is stop him bleeding.” He put his hand on my shoulder and gently shook me. “You awake? Can you hear me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s your name?”
“Hayden Tilden.”
“I’m Everett Lovelady, son. I’m the Pine Bluff city marshal. The feller jerkin’ around on your leg is my deputy, Tom Spires.”
Everything about Spires looked square—head, shoulders, hands, and teeth. He flashed me a big gap-toothed grin. “How’re you doin’ there, Hayden?”
I told him I’d felt a damn sight better. He snickered. “Wish I’d been here when the shootin’ started. They’s a couple of people outside on the boardwalk almost got trampled by folks tryin’ to get out of here and away from you. Most of ’em stumbled over that big ole mule you killed with the shot that went through the winder. You’re the first mule killer we’ve had ’round here.” He laughed. “You’ll probably be in more trouble for killin’ the mule than for killin’ these boys.
“I knew two of these men.” Lovelady sounded like he was instructing a class of Sunday school students on the evils of crime. “Sorriest folks on the planet. That ’un still sittin’ at the table used to be Azel Stroud. Put him in jail twice up in Fort Smith. Last time I locked him up he’d almost beat a man to death with a stick of stove wood. The one up there by the newel post was Cecil Morris. His favorite pastime involved shootin’ greenhorns in the feet till they couldn’t dance anymore. Then he’d kill ’em. This other one is such a mess I don’t think his mother would recognize him.”
“Benny Stubbs,” I mumbled.
Marshal Lovelady took a glass of water from the bartender and held it in my direction. “What’d you say, son?”
“Stubbs. His name was Benny Stubbs.”
“Ah, yes. Well, you know, even his friends called him Benny the Idiot—crazy, stupid, and dangerous. It all makes sense now. I heard they were travelin’ together. Strange they’re so far east. Most of their mayhem takes place in the Territories. I’ve got posters on these men. You’re gonna have a nice sum of money coming. ’Course, if that bullet you took managed to break the bone, you might end up losing your leg. That’d be a heck of a trade.”
A bloody gurgle oozed out of Azel Stroud. Marshal Lovelady went to the table and leaned over the man. “Did you say something, Azel?” He listened for a moment and then said, “Wish you’d gone to Hot Springs, do you?” He put a finger to the man’s neck. “An amazin’ thing, Hayden. Your shot went through his upper left arm, came outta his chest over here, and lodged in the windowsill. And he still managed to stay alive—one tough ole boy. But thanks be to a gracious God, he’s totally dead now.”
2
“YOU COME HIGHLY RECOMMENDED”
FRANKLIN J. LIGHTFOOT Jr. excused himself and shuffled off to the men’s room. Carlton woke up when the boy’s pad dropped on the table.
He looked around like an old dog trying to figure out what had happened. “You run that young feller off?”
“He had to take a leak.”
He cupped his right hand over his ear. “Whadya say?”
Louder, I said, “He had to take a leak.”
“Oh, yeah? Wish I could take a leak anytime I wanted. Ain’t had that luxury in almost ten years. Never thought I’d miss bein’ able to pee whenever I wanted to. My twelve-year-old doctor says my prostrate gland is bigger’n an Irish po-tater. Can’t pee worth a damn. Just sit here and dribble.”
“Go back to sleep, Carlton.”
“Whaddaya mean he took a sheep?”
I yelled, “No, you crazy old fart. Go back to sleep.”
“Whad’d he want anyway?”
“Wanted to hear about my life.”
“I liked your wife. Fine woman. Can’t imagine why a young feller like him would want to know ’bout her, though.”
“Can’t pee or hear,” I mumbled to myself.
“Seen Leona lately?” He squirmed around in his chair and fumbled for the spectacles he’d left on the table.
“Nope, she hasn’t made her rounds yet.”
“Lord, but I do love havin’ that big-boned woman rub my achin’ back.” He glanced behind me and then around the porch, looking for Nurse Wildbank. “That big ole gal makes me wish I was sixty again.”
Every man at Rolling Hills finds Leona Wildbank just by-God-irresistible. Her Swedish beauty and reasonably good-natured disposition can melt the ice around the hearts of all us crusty old fuds like sunshine on fresh snow. Everyone needs something to dream about no matter how old they get. A looker like Leona’s as good as any. I couldn’t imagine what Carlton’s dreams must have been like.
Well, he sat there staring at me for about a minute. A fantasy-filled grin crooked its way across his face, and his head dropped back down on his chest again. That’s all it ever takes with Carl—one minute of near quiet and he’s gone.
“Let’s get back to Pine Bluff.” Junior snatched his pad up and began scribbling again. “Tell me about Everett Lovelady and what your stay with him was like.”
Took almost six weeks to get healed up enough so I could leave town. Everett contacted Horace Potts and determined the story about my family’s murders was true.
He also discovered local drunks had seen Magruder sneaking out of town just after I shot Benny, Azel, and Cecil. Seemed he’d spent his evening in the company of a lewd woman named Jenny Compton.
Everett said, “Ole Bob always liked them young whores. Jenny’s almost thirty, but when made up just right can appear to be closer to fifteen. Her sportin’ man passed her off for fourteen. Lord, that’s a heap of hilarity. Anyway, Bob believed it and was right in the middle of the act when you snuffed his pards. If I know him, he’s headed directly back to the safety of the Indian Nations. He loves the place and don’t usually get too far away from there ’less’n he just has to.”
He talked as loud as he could while a horse doctor tried to pull the bullet out of my leg. I passed out anyway. Let me live in one of his jail cells while I recuperated. Most likable man I’ve ever met.
We were sitting in his office the afternoon he said, “Got word Magruder and
his bunch have been identified as the ones who botched that bank robbery in Mississippi. Them posters I told you about on the three you killed are worth almost two thousand dollars. Should have the money in a day or two. You’ll be pretty well fixed financially for a man your age.”
“The money doesn’t matter, Everett. You know that. Got to find Magruder. Going to attend his funeral just like I did those others.”
“Hayden, I admire the sand it took for a man of your limited experience to face three known killers and rub ’em all out. Never seen anything like you gettin’ out of bed two days later and hobblin’ to see ’em planted. You’ve become something of a celebrity around here because of it. Borderin’ on local hero and legendary gunfighter. I’d like you to stay here and work for me. You don’t have to go after Magruder right now. He’ll turn up in the Nations soon enough.”
“He’s been gone almost two months. If I don’t get back on his trail soon, might not ever find him. Somebody else could kill him. Want to do the deed myself. Want to look him in the eye when he dies.”
“Oh, you’ll find ’im. Bob’s never been one to stay low for very long. His kind always shows hisself again. I could list several of his murders just as vicious as your family’s he did in the Nations. None of them kept him hid long. Besides, it’s comin’ on winter pretty soon. The Nations can be mighty rough in the winter. Bob’11 get out there somewhere in the Kiamichi or Winding Stair Mountains and den up like a hibernatin’ bear.” He leaned his chair back on two legs and blew smoke from his cigar toward the ceiling.
“I know the weather’s about to go south on us. And from what every loafer who comes through your jail says, things won’t get good again until April. To hear Deputy Spires tell it, Arkansas and the Territories have some of the worst weather on the planet. But I have to go, Everett. You know I do.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I can help you out some if you’re determined to stay the course on this thing. I’ve never asked you before, Hayden, but how old are you?”