by J. Lee Butts
“Well, Junior, he kept several hiding places located in different spots around the Territories. One of them, a double walled cabin, sat on a hill not far off the trail we took on our way back to Fort Smith. About a mile from the hideout, Deputy Marshal Louis Poteete stopped our little parade and asked Bix Conner for help. Bix, Quinten and Harry had all investigated one or more of Bryce’s atrocities. They jumped at the chance to help with his capture.”
“How did you feel about going after a man like Bryce?”
“At the time I didn’t know any more about him than I did about John Wesley Hardin. It didn’t matter to me one way or the other. I just saw it as a sterling opportunity to continue my education and a possibility for me to make it absolutely clear that given the chance I would act where others might not.”
Bryce couldn’t have picked a better spot to hole up. His cabin sat atop the only hill beside a fast running creek not far from a place now known as Red Oak, Oklahoma. He’d dug down three feet in the soft soil before going up with the walls. Occupants could stand upright and fire from rifle ports between the second and third rows of doubled logs. Gunfire couldn’t penetrate the fortress, and anyone trying to sprint up the hill from the sheltering timber below made a wonderful target, because all the trees and bushes had been removed.
Peterman said, “It musta taken him a year to move all that stuff. There ain’t so much as a twig left up there.”
“How long have you been at this?” Bix asked Poteete.
“There’s twenty of us, and we’ve been blasting away long enough to feel we might need a new direction. You got any suggestions?”
They chewed it around for almost an hour and no one came up with an idea that even sounded like it had any reasonable chance of success. During one heated exchange, someone mentioned that we might be able to use a cache of dynamite available at a local sawmill.
I listened till I got tired of hearing them argue and said, “Get the dynamite. When the sun goes down, I’ll snake my way up, plant it, and blow the door away. The concussion should give me time to get inside and do whatever has to be done.”
“Who’s this baby with the lightning bolt on his face, Bix?” Poteete sneered.
“I’m afraid I didn’t think to introduce you, Louis. Meet Judge Parker’s newest deputy marshal, Hayden Tilden. Hayden’s the man what killed Azel Stroud, Benny Stubbs, and Cecil Morris in that little Pecos promenade over in Pine Bluff awhile back. You remember that one, don’t you?”
The sneer bled off Poteete’s lips. “Well, I’ll accept your word that you’ll do what you said, Marshal Tilden. It shouldn’t take more’n an hour to get the dynamite.”
“Wake me up when it arrives.” I crawled under a wagon and pulled my hat down over my eyes.
I’d been lying there about ten minutes when I heard Bix and Poteete whispering. “Didn’t anyone think of this before?”
“Sure,” Poteete replied. “But no one was foolish enough to volunteer for such a maneuver. Your young friend carrying the big Winchester’s the first to say he’d actually do it. Hope it works. We’ve been here three days and two nights. I’m tired to the bone.”
Knew what he meant. My first foray into the Nations had drained me. Needed a good rest. Sleeping on the ground and eating Johnny Peterman’s grub for almost three weeks called for a bath and female company. Wanted to get back to civilization and Elizabeth. I’d known girls in Kentucky, but Elizabeth’s crystal blue eyes came to me more and more often in my dreams. Got to thinking a life with her would be about as much happiness as any man could wish for.
Fell asleep, but didn’t dream about Elizabeth. For some reason the image of my old friend Clovis Hickerson filled my reveries. Hickerson’s Gun Shoppe in Wolf Creek, Kentucky, lured me away from my work in the field at every opportunity before I left Cumberland County with my family. Learned to care for and use rifles like the iron-framed Winchester sleeping beside me under the wagon. I’d never taken to farm work and would sneak away to study at the bench of the only gunsmith within fifty miles of home.
My father served in the Union Army. Mother said he never seemed the same when he returned. He refused me the pleasure of guns and kept only two in the house—his old shotgun and the Navy Colt he carried during the war.
As I lay under the wagon, I dreamed of how I could have had a beautiful rifle in hand when Saginaw Bob Magruder appeared from the woods at Arkansas Post.
Learned everything I knew about weapons from Clovis, and he tried to give me his favorite Henry .44 the day before we left. My father wouldn’t allow it. In my dream that beautiful repeater lay across my lap when we were stopped on the Great River Road, and Saginaw Bob died when he pulled the pocket pistol from his Bible.
Snapped awake just in time to hear Poteete ask Bix, “Are you satisfied this boy can do what he said?”
“According to the letter Everett Lovelady wrote Judge Parker, that boy rubbed out three of the worst types we’ve ever seen since I became a deputy, and I can tell you he handled a dandy who claimed he was John Wesley Hardin about as calmly as a man on a stroll to Sunday school.”
Peeked from under my hat and watched him blow on a cup of steaming coffee as he glanced toward my makeshift bed. A few minutes later the sound of a horse galloping into camp rattled me completely awake. Bix came over and punched me on the arm.
“It’s here, Hayden.”
“This enough?” Poteete pushed five flame red sticks of explosives at me.
“One or two should do fine. Where are the caps and fuse cord?”
“Kept the caps in my shirt pocket. Didn’t want anything to happen to them,” said the runner as he gingerly handed them over.
“Anyone here got a watch with a second hand on it?” I asked.
A man from Poteete’s posse stepped forward. “My railroader’s watch has one.”
I took the watch, then cut off a piece of fuse about a foot long, placed it on the ground, and lit it. Made a mark in the dirt every five seconds next to the burned spot and had a fair idea of how much I needed to do the job. Got two sticks ready and gave the rest back to Poteete. The company of marshals and prisoners gathered behind the tumbleweed wagons near several smoky fires.
Bix walked me to the edge of the trees at the bottom of the hill. It had got pretty dark by then.
“Once you step out of these trees, Hayden, you’ll have to crawl almost a quarter of a mile to the house. Good thing we don’t have much moon, but I’d feel better if it’d cloud up a bit.”
“Yeah, well, you can’t have everything. Bix, when this is over, we’re heading for Fort Smith. No more detours.” The way I said it made my meaning as clear as a bell rung on an icy morning.
As we talked, most of the marshals filtered through the trees and stationed themselves in a line on either side of us at the base of the hill and waited.
“This might take a while. Don’t let this bunch get too anxious and start shooting at things they can’t see or identify. I don’t want to be carried off this hill with a bullet from Poteete’s pistol in me,” I said under my breath.
Waited another five minutes. Just as I crawled away from Bix, Harry Tate took up a spot on the other side of a pile of brush near us and lit one of the panatelas he favored. The cigar was about as big around as my little finger and seven inches long. I knew if he put some effort into the enjoyment of his smoke, he could usually waste about an hour. Figured he’d manage to get about halfway through it before I’d reach the cabin. Nothing blocked my way. Hill didn’t have enough timber on it to make a wooden nickel. Just a few blades of grass for cover. Guess no one saw me. Got lucky. Couple of clouds came up. Did my best north Kentucky, Shawnee sneak and the bunch inside must have been pretty tired too.
Found out later four of them had denned up in the cabin—Bryce; Fat Jack McNair; his partner, Bug Eye Taylor; and Gooch Bonds.
Marshal Conner carried a warrant for ole Gooch. We wanted him for sure and all the others if we could take them. The one called Bug Eye had one blue
eye and a big brown one that kind of bugged out. He’d killed several people, men and women, who mistakenly laughed close to where he happened to be standing. Ugly son of a bitch was real sensitive about that brown eye. Found out later, most men thought him insane. They were more afraid of him for that than for his peculiar appearance.
Well, I fumbled around in the dark for a good little while before I finally came upon the door to the place. Moved over to one side and pitched the first stick of dynamite up against it. Explosion blew the door across the room. Hit Gooch Bonds where he sat at a table in the middle of the cabin. Killed him dead as hell in a preacher’s bedroom. Concussion almost knocked me back down the hill. But the smoke and confusion gave me just the chance I needed to roll the second stick across the floor. It stopped under the table. Detonation turned it into a rocket.
Bix said the roof kinda puffed up like someone opening an umbrella. Then the table shot through and sent splinters flying for a hundred feet in every direction. Table had a lantern on it that spilled. Thing lit up like the ball from a Roman candle. Harry almost swallowed his cigar. Said it looked like a comet flying toward them. Landed on the side of the hill just at the edge of the falling debris.
Hell, thought for sure I’d killed whatever lawless bastards were inside. Went in as soon as I could. Splinters, dirt, and paper still fell like rain. Felt around in the dark and found two of them. Dragged them outside one at a time. Waited for Bix and Poteete to bring the rest of the posse up. Bryce came around just as Bix and Handsome Harry rushed up carrying lanterns and torches.
Bix said, “Hot damn, Hayden. This ’un here’s Bryce and that big ’un there’s Gooch Bonds. Hell of a job, son!”
Bonds must have weighed nigh on two hundred and fifty pounds. I had a terrible time getting him out of the rubble. Big ole door busted him up something frightful. Poteete and his crew dragged the other two out. They couldn’t hear for about an hour and bled from lots of cuts and scratches. Altogether, though, they came through getting blown up in fairly good shape.
Bug Eye Taylor suffered most. Impact of the explosion knocked that big ugly eye of his right out of his head. Johnny found it under their kindling box the next day. Poor one-eyed doofus carried that awful thing around in a little leather pouch till they hung him. He charged people a dime to look at it. Amazing how much money a man can make on a big brown eye.
Next morning, Bryce asked to talk with me. Johnny had him shackled to a rear wheel on the wagon. His broken nose and split scalp had covered his shoulders and neck with crusted blood. A piece of splintered wood, pulled from his right leg, left another large brown pool just above his boot top.
“I’ll just be royally damned. You’re the child what brung me to heel?” He shot me an angry, squinty-eyed examination from head to foot. Curled a split lip and spat at my feet.
I kicked it back at him. “That’s right. And instead of spitting at me, you ought to be thanking whatever God listens to scum like you that I didn’t lob that second stick of dynamite right into your lap. You’d be shaking hands with the devil right now if I could have seen you.”
He leaned back and let out a long ragged breath. “Well, young Marshal, I’d been awake for four days and just dozed off. Otherwise, I’da heard you a-coming. Them other dumb bastards couldn’ta heard the M.K.&T. from Kansas City if it’d gone right through the place. Bug Eye and Fat Jack couldn’t make a half-wit between ’em. Only one worth more’n a gob of spit was Gooch—and you done kilt him, you son of a bitch.”
“It could have all been avoided. Why didn’t you just give it up?”
“Give it up? You mean surrender? That’s rich. I ain’t never surrendered to nobody for nothing. And the first time I get a chance, I’ll get out from under this thing and kill you like a cur.”
I moved up as close to him as the smells of stale urine, gunpowder, burnt clothing, and sweat would allow and whispered, “Few weeks ago I watched six men all hang at the same time. When Judge Parker sets Maledon loose on you, I’ll be in the first row. Just before you soil your britches in front of several thousand decent folk, be sure and look for me.”
He swung at me with his free hand. Kicked out with his good leg when I danced away. “I’ll kill you, you scar-faced son of a bitch! Then I’ll kill your family. Then I’ll kill your dog and any cats you own.” I walked away, and he kept yelling. “I’ll remember you, boy. I won’t forget that big rifle or the crease on your face. I’ll come looking for you when I get loose.”
I strolled over to Bix, Poteete, and some others just as an argument pimpled up.
“Bryce and his bunch are mine and I want ’em!” Poteete yelled. He shook his finger in Bix’s face.
Conner grinned and acted like he was talking with a small child. “Sorry, Louis. You didn’t catch ’em. Hayden did. They’re ours.”
“Not on your life, Bix. Me and my men spent three days trying to roust these killers out and we’ll take ’em back to Fort Smith.”
“I think you might have to take that up with Marshal Tilden, Louis.”
“The hell with Marshal Big-Rifle-with-a-Reputation Tilden. I don’t give a personal damn what he thinks.”
Climbed on Thunder and urged her up between them. The Winchester rested across my arm. “You cornered them, Marshal Poteete, but you didn’t go in and get them. I did. They’ll stay with Marshal Conner and me. And that’s my final word on the matter.”
“Your final word on the matter my big, hairy behind.” He snatched at my reins.
Bix grabbed him from behind and pulled him back. His chin rested on the taller man’s shoulder when he said, “I never knew you for a fool, Louis. I’d let this go if I were you.” Poteete glared at me like his head might explode. Big purple veins in his neck jumped and twitched.
I bumped Thunder in the sides and pulled up next to Johnny Peterman, waiting in the wagon. “Get them going, Johnny,” I said. “A beautiful woman in Fort Smith needs to see me.”
We left Poteete and Bix standing there in the dust and headed our bunch out. What with the ten whiskey runners, Dangerous Dave and his two friends, and the Bryce bunch we led quite a parade.
The crowd made Johnny’s job more difficult by the minute. “’Bout all we need now’s a tuba player, someone to pick a banjo, a squeeze box, and a monkey, and we’d have ourselves a real honest-to-God hoot and holler carnival.”
Harry almost fell off his horse laughing. He kept saying, “That’s it, Johnny. Talk to us. Tell us about it. Maybe we can pass the plate later.”
Bix caught up in about half an hour. Pulled up beside Handsome Harry and me. “Poteete get over his fit?” Harry asked.
“Well, not entirely. But he’ll probably calm down in a year or two.” He smiled at his own joke. “He seemed to think you’re out to get yourself a reputation there, Hayden.”
“I just did what Judge Parker hired me to do. If a reputation follows, I can’t help that.”
“Don’t pay any attention to Poteete, Hayden,” Harry said. “He’s a hot headed windbag. You told him the exact way of it all. He and that bunch of never-sweats he calls deputies coulda been up there for a month, and Bryce would still be sittin’ in his shack picking his teeth.”
“I agree,” added Bix. “But Louis expects to hear a great deal more about the rifle-totin’ Mr. Tilden in the future.” He paused, then said, “Unless someone kills him pretty quick.”
“Jesus,” Harry mumbled. “That’s a sobering thought.”
The rest of our trip perambulated along uneventfully. The hard cases, chained to the wagon, seemed to lose a lot of their fire once they saw the great Morgan Bryce brought down. Local criminals like Dangerous Dave and Gooch Bonds were one thing—Bryce was something completely different. New stories about me got told with every step they took from the Bryce hideout to Judge Parker’s court.
By the time our prisoners reached that dungeon of a basement jail, my name got spoken in tones reserved for men feared and respected.
Spent most of my days for over a m
onth after that in Judge Parker’s court either testifying or waiting to testify. Honest to God, the man could put on a trial faster than any judge I ever saw. But no matter how fast he went, a trial took time, and all us marshals had to be available. Hated that part of the job.
First thing Elizabeth said when I walked into her store was, “Why, Mr. Tilden. I had a dream about you last night. You were standing under my window and talking about the moon and the stars.” How can you resist a woman who dreams about you and compares you to Romeo?
Took her out every time she was willing to go. She liked Julia’s and several other little restaurants. I remember sitting across the table one night and realizing that I loved the sound of her voice. I had never fallen in love with a woman’s voice before. Fell for hers like an anvil dropped in a well. ’Course I really enjoyed squiring her around town, too. Learned from Elizabeth how much pleasure can be had from being seen with the most beautiful woman in town on your arm. Don’t let anyone ever tell you any different. There’s just nothing like it.
We kept company often enough for her to make sure my sartorial needs got properly looked after. She advised me in the selection of a new suit. Said I’d make a better impression in court if I didn’t show up in my trail duds. When she finished, the Colt and badge were the only things that kept a lot of people from mistaking me for a banker or lawyer.
I appreciated what she did for me. Any man would. For the first time in my life grown men stepped aside when I walked down the street. Women blushed and smiled if I tipped my hat in their direction. In the beginning, their reactions embarrassed me a might. But it didn’t take long to get used to such respect. Elizabeth always believed those with any kind of reputation commanded a type of esteem and fear that showed itself in such displays of deference. Have to admit, I liked it. When we entered a restaurant or hotel, favorable treatment usually followed.
Fortunately I didn’t have to stick around for Morgan Bryce’s comeuppance. State found more witnesses willing to appear at his trial than any other before it. Man had managed to make a lot of enemies. Just before Judge Parker put him in the dock, Harry Tate stopped me in the hallway outside the U.S. marshal’s office.