Lawdog: The Life and Times of Hayden Tilden

by J. Lee Butts

  Being one of the newest of Parker’s men, I wasted no time accompanying Mr. Wilton. When we entered the Judge’s private chambers, he stood, shook my hand, and motioned for me to sit.

  “Thank you, Mr. Wilton. That’ll be all. Please close the door so Marshal Tilden and I can talk in private.”

  Wilton said, “Yes, Your Honor,” and bowed himself out of the room.

  Two large windows in the wall behind the Judge’s desk hid themselves behind heavy drapes. A single lamp supplied the sparse light available. Strands of smoke from the wick floated toward the ceiling.

  The day Judge Parker hired me, nervousness kept me from realizing the size of the room. He had one of those red leather couches decorated with lots of buttons stationed along the wall beside the entry. A low table brimming with copies of the Fort Smith Elevator sat in front of it. Glass-fronted cases, six or eight feet tall and stuffed with law books, covered almost every available inch of wall space. The private library gave the room the feel of a place where important decisions got made. That feel was reinforced by numerous framed documents on the wall behind the Judge’s desk.

  He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk. “Before we begin, Marshal Tilden, I must ask you to tender your most faithful promise that anything said in this room today will remain here.”

  Couldn’t imagine what he meant or what he was getting at. We sat there staring at each other for several seconds, before I came to myself and said, “You have my promise, sir.”

  “Good. Very good.” He leaned back in his chair, but maintained a serious and official demeanor. “Harry Tate gave me a full report on your conduct during the unfortunate events surrounding Travis Teel’s demise on the Muddy Boggy. I have observed your progress with Marshal Bixley Conner and Handsome Harry with great interest.”

  “Do the best I can, sir.” I fiddled with the rowel on my spur.

  “You’ve surpassed all my most deeply held hopes for you, Hayden. Marshal Everett Lovelady’s trust and belief in you has proven well placed.”

  “Thank you, Judge Parker.” Felt uneasy with the situation to begin with. His compliments didn’t help much because I still didn’t know where he was headed.

  A moment of silence hung in the air as if he wanted the gravity of what he was about to say to thoroughly take hold. His piercing stare made me squirm deeper into my chair.

  “I have for some time now searched for a special man—a man capable of doing a very particular job. I believe you are that man, Hayden. You’re young, new to this business, dedicated, and a quick learner. Traits I feel necessary for what I’m about to propose.”

  Being somewhat limited in life’s experience, I was, of course, flattered by such praise from a man so powerful and famous. “You honor me greatly, Judge Parker.”

  “You do yourself the honor, young man. The conduct, skill, and willingness to perform that you’ve demonstrated for other, more experienced men speaks volumes for your future with this court. For those reasons, and because I believe you might well be the only man in my cadre of marshals who can do the job my way, I’ve asked you here today to take on a special assignment.”

  That almost rendered me speechless. “What kind of special assignment, Judge?”

  “One which requires hard decisions, quick action, and, most especially, unflinching loyalty to me.”

  By that point my confusion bordered on total. He could see he’d lost me, and immediately said, “Let me approach this proposition by telling you a little story. Get comfortable. This will take a few minutes, but, trust me, there’s a reason for it.”

  Screwed myself farther down into my leather throne just as he started. “Three weeks ago, in Strong, Arkansas, a one-dog town just north of the Louisiana state line, a nefarious killer named Comanche Jack Duer broke out of jail.”

  “Never heard of the man, Judge. Who is he?”

  He slid a stack of wanted posters across the desk. The roughly sketched face of Comanche Jack glared at me from the top page.

  “Jack Duer started his slide into lawlessness at an early age. A few weeks past his fourteenth birthday, he killed his stepfather after the man whipped him for not properly feeding the family’s flock of chickens. It was first reported that he beat the man to death with a shovel. Truth of the killing proved far worse than the legend.”

  “Worse?”

  “Oh, yes. Documents contained in this file indicate the stepfather had been a God-fearing man who just happened to have married a lady named Edith Duer and took on the responsibility of a son destined for the gallows.” The file folder with Duer’s name on it followed the same path as the wanted posters. The size of that stack of documents indicated a long criminal career.

  “A single killing must make but a small entry in a pile of paper this big.”

  “You’re very perceptive, Hayden. Before his stepfather’s death, Jack Duer fought with everyone in his hometown. Lied, and got caught in those lies. Cheated, and became known for it. Stole, and flaunted the pilfered items in the faces of the owners. Bullied older and younger children, and had been hauled in by the local sheriff for stabbing youngsters unthinking enough to stand up for themselves. According to court-recorded testimony, he set fire to several barns and once killed a cow because, and I quote from the record here, ‘I jest couldn’t stand the goddamned mooing any longer.’”

  “Couldn’t stand the mooing?” He smiled wryly at my amazement and continued.

  “You can read it all yourself later. Shortly after the cow killing, he took a double-bit axe to the stepfather and chopped the living man into four fairly equal parts. He then shot his mother and set the family home ablaze. Neighbors testified that he laughed like a thing insane as he rode through town setting fire to anything he could put to torch. Then he ran for the Nations and took up with one of the worst gangs of cutthroats you can imagine. Schmoker Pratt and his bunch.”

  “Schmoker Pratt?” I twisted in the chair as another fat file folder slid across the desk and stopped next to Comanche Jack’s.

  “Mr. Pratt matriculated at the knee of Bloody Bill Anderson. Duer couldn’t have found a more accomplished thief and murderer to fall in with. Schmoker took an immediate liking to the boy and made sure Duer rode at his side on raids into the far reaches of Texas, Nebraska, and Louisiana. Schmoker held a virulent hatred for Indians, especially the Comanche. He liked to conduct what he called Injun hunts after he’d robbed, raped, burned, and pillaged. Seems once his blood got up, he just couldn’t quell an obscene appetite for murder until he rubbed out at least one Indian. Jack Duer evidently enjoyed the insanity of the killing immensely. His apprenticeship proved a huge success.”

  “How long have these two men been at this kind of behavior?”

  “Years. More than any of us in the law enforcement business would like to recount. Duer became known as Comanche Jack because of the twenty-four scalps that adorn the back of a beaded leather coat he took from its owner—just before he skinned her alive. Those who’ve seen the coat, and lived to tell of it, say it gave him the appearance of a grizzly bear riding a horse.”

  “And he just escaped from jail? How’d he get caught?”

  “For reasons I’ve been unable to discover, Jack stumbled into Strong, Arkansas, afoot and in pretty sorry shape. Local sheriff recognized him. Sheriff had once seen Duer shoot a child to death during the robbery of a bank in north Texas. He made the mistake of throwing Duer in his jail and sending a telegraph bragging that he had the infamous Comanche Jack safely in hand.”

  “Why do you consider his telegraph a mistake?”

  “News of the capture swept through Fort Smith like a springtime twister. People threw Comanche Jack parties. Celebrated his seizure and prospective appointment with Mr. Maledon and the Gates of Hell. All happened during your last visit to the Nations. No one here had any doubt he would hang. I even had offers from a dozen Godfearing folk to take Mr. Maledon’s place on the gallows. Sadly, Schmoker Pratt heard of the capture, too.”

  �
�Pratt broke him out?”

  “In a manner of speaking. He sent a notorious stomper named Springer McKlugg, and his cousin Rhoney Oldman, to do the job. If I know Schmoker Pratt, he most likely told his henchmen they’d be stripped naked and dragged through cactus if they didn’t bring Duer back. So, they kicked the door to the jail down at about two in the morning three weeks ago. Only person with Duer at the time was the unfortunate sheriff. John Creed, the town mayor, telegraphed me that his man lived in the jail and kept a garden behind the building. Oldman and McKlugg dragged the poor wretch outside. Comanche Jack beat him to death with a long-handled hoe.”

  I tried not to appear dumbfounded by this tale of derangement and homicide. No two ways about it, the story appalled me. Covered my feelings about the whole thing with my newly acquired lawdog face. Learned the trick through careful observation of Bix Conner, Handsome Harry Tate, and Travis Teel. They called it “the stare.” Copied that and other mannerisms. Used them when they worked to my advantage.

  The Judge continued, “I’m told by informants in the Nations that these monuments to human depravity are currently celebrating Jack Duer’s recent pardon at a hole in the ground named Kingfisher Creek. It’s a jumble of shacks near a stinking little ditch so far down the Canadian it may be completely out of the Nations. I don’t care about that. I want these men caught or killed.”

  Couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. “You said ‘killed’ didn’t you, Judge?”

  “Caught or killed.” He stressed the word killed. “Whichever you can accomplish with the least trouble. This is the first in what I feel will be a series of similar assignments, Marshal Tilden. In the past, men with posters out on them have been caught by accident for the most part. 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.” His voice had a sharp, determined edge about it.

  Had to think that one over for almost a minute. “When I arrived here, you told me you wanted them all brought in alive if possible, didn’t you, Judge?”

  He stood and moved to the window on the left behind his desk. The heavy curtain kept the lighting in the room subdued. He pushed it aside with his finger and stared at the grounds of the former army fortress below.

  “Hayden, I want you to become the sword in my mighty right hand in the Nations.” He didn’t look directly at me. “No one must know of the exact agreement we make here today. No written contract will exist. After this meeting, all instructions will come from Mr. Wilton. He will, by his own means, present detailed background stories, wanted posters,, and files pertaining to new assignments at any spot designated by you for that purpose. The information might be presented to you verbally, as it was here, or merely in the written form you have before you. I’ll leave those details to Mr. Wilton. When you walk out of this office today, I hope you will have agreed to my offer. If you do not, details of this conversation must never go any farther.”

  I felt like a man holding a lightning rod in each hand who’d just been hit with a bolt big enough to cook a herd of buffalo in its own grease.

  He faced me and said, “I must speak to Mr. Wilton for a moment. Please take that time to consider my offer.” He started for the door, but stopped. “By the way, you’ll be paid one hundred dollars a month, and whatever you might be able to make through the posted rewards on the men you capture or kill. And, since I recognize how important it is to you, if Saginaw Bob should turn up you will also have my permission to drop whatever you might be doing at that moment to pursue him.” Then he disappeared into the outer office and gently pulled the door closed.

  Didn’t know what to do there for about ten minutes. But, in the end, I decided such chances rarely come around twice, and that passing on the offer would be the rough equivalent of drawing a straight flush and then folding because you lost your nerve.

  After an absence of about fifteen minutes, Judge Parker burst back into the room and returned to his chair. “Well, can I count on you, Hayden?”

  “Yes, Your Honor, you can.”

  “Good man. I knew you would make the right decision. The pictures that appear on those posters are the best we have. From what I’ve told you, it should be easy to spot Comanche Jack. Just look for that horrid coat of his. The others will most likely be nearby when you find him.” He pushed a map across the desk to join the other materials.

  “I’ve marked their approximate location in red. You can go alone, or take anyone who’s willing to accompany you. My advice is to pick one man, stay out of sight, move at night when possible. Don’t draw any more attention to yourself than necessary and go directly to Kingfisher Creek.”

  “If I have to kill these men, Judge, how can I prove who they were? Bringing a corpse back from such a distance might be nigh onto impossible.”

  He studied on that for a minute or so then rummaged in a lower drawer of his desk and pulled out a black bag. “Inside you’ll find an ink pad and a small roller. Ink the palm of each dead man, and press it to the back of his poster. I’ll take your word of its accuracy, and personally make certain that all bounties due you are paid forthwith.”

  “Well, guess that just about says it all. Have any suggestions on who I might ask to go along?”

  “I leave all such details in your hands, Hayden. But I will approve whatever decision you make and see that no questions are asked. Everyone around here has more snakes than they can stomp. No one will even notice what you’re doing. Now, go spend the evening with lovely Elizabeth. You can chase after this scum tomorrow.”

  He shook my hand vigorously and patted me on the back as he ushered me to the door. “Good luck, Hayden. Good hunting. And Hayden, do be careful.” I thanked him and the thing was done. Didn’t know it then, but the next six years were signed, sealed, and delivered.

  Thought a long time on who could help me run Comanche Jack to ground. Liked Bix Conner, Quinten Moon, and Handsome Harry. Respected them because I’d worked with them. They were worthy of any man’s trust. But I’d seen Billy Bird at work with his pistols. If two of us got caught in a tight, his blazing speed and deadly accuracy standing by my side would be a great comfort.

  Late that afternoon, I pulled him aside and told him as little as I could about my meeting with Judge Parker and my plans for the trip. He smiled like I’d flattered him.

  “I’ll go with you, Hayden. Proud to.” We shook hands on it and agreed to meet the next morning at the ferry.

  Elizabeth’s disappointment with my hasty departure was obvious. Gave her the bad news in the office of her father’s store. Surrounded by accounting ledgers, ink-stained bills, and stacks of coins, she held my hand and looked at the floor. “So soon. So soon,” she mumbled.

  After dinner, when she kissed me good night, I thought my spurs were going to melt. For about ten seconds she had me thinking of going back to the Judge and squelching the whole thing. ’Course, those thoughts didn’t have any serious chance of taking hold. Felt pretty certain the Judge had all but handed me an opportunity to rid the world of Saginaw Bob if I happened on him, and I couldn’t let it pass.

  Next morning, a new saddle hung on the gate to Thunder’s stall. The envelope with my name on it contained a short note that read: Hayden, I bought this from a drummer last week. It’s called the California model and it’s much lighter and more comfortable than your old saddle. I hope you like it. Elizabeth.

  Billy bragged about my new seat to the ferryman as we crossed the Arkansas. “You know, Charlie, wish I could find a woman who’d buy me somethin’ that nice. Never seen one like that afore. All that fancy toolin’ on the skirt, fenders, and stirrup leather really stand out there, Hayden. Better keep an eye on that one. Them Texas waddies spot it, you’ll never see it again.” He didn’t stop admiring it till after we got a day out of Fort Smith.

  We were considerable lucky with the weather. Warmed up slightly. Days weren’t bad at all and nights were right tolerable. ’Course, I never cared for sleeping on the
ground and hadn’t got accustomed to it during my campouts with Bix and Harry. Guess there’s probably lots of folks who think that anyone born and raised on a farm just loves rolling round on the ground any chance they get. Not me. Hated being dirty. Never went barefoot like my childhood friends and disappointed my father by not getting excited about those coon hunts he loved so much.

  Billy allowed as how it would be nice to have a dog along. “Big hairy dog can keep you right toasty at night, and, if you teach him right, he’ll bite the hand off’n anybody what touches you. Sometimes you don’t even have to teach ’em. They’ll do it anyway.”

  “You ever had a dog, Billy?”

  “Yep. Great big ’un. Finer animal never drew breath. Called him Snapper. Worthless poltroon named Sluggo Blevins shot ’im. Claimed the dog peed on his foot. ’Bout a week after ole Sluggo killed Snapper, he got into an argument with a short-tempered drunk sittin’ next to him in a two-holer behind a saloon named the Gold Rush, down in Texarkana. Feller shot ole Sluggo graveyard dead right in the middle of his business. I thank God nightly for the departure of that sorry piece of human waste.” He flashed a toothy grin.

  Three days into our westward march down the Canadian, I mentioned to Billy that I’d never had much use for handguns. “But I admire the level of skill you showed when you busted Jug Dudley out.”

  He grinned with pleasure at the compliment. “Some time and attention and you’d be just as good as me. It’s an easy trade to latch on to.”

  “I don’t know, Billy. The rifle’s served me right well.”

  “Yeah, but it ain’t worth spit in one of them up-close, nose-to-nose dustups. Back there in Black Oak, your big ole rifle caused that poor dumb cowboy some serious sufferin’. Near as we was to ’im, you needed a pistol or a shotgun.”

  Late that afternoon, he took the Colt I’d bought at Arkansas Post and dismembered the weapon on his saddle blanket. “I’m gonna take any burrs or rough spots down with my Arkansas stone. Then I’ll stick a tiny piece of leather behind the main spring down here where it screws to the frame. Makes the hammer easier to thumb back. Old hands call it ‘tuning the trigger.’ When we get back to Fort Smith we’ll get you a brace of well-seasoned pistols. This one’ll do in a pinch, and once I get it back together it’ll be a bunch easier for you to snap off a round or two.”