by J. Lee Butts
When he spoke, the words came out slowly, broken by his effort to remember the exact terms he needed. “Yes, I know you. You sent Peter Waxon and his family to the other side—on a raft of fire.” He waved toward heaven like he knew the place well. “Saw you do it. The dog followed, when you left. A good dog this one. The Waxon children loved him. He loved them. Dog cried much. His grief was great. You saved him from it. Such sorrow can kill people. I’ve seen it. Sometimes animals give up too. I was happy when he went with you.” The old man put his head against the dog’s neck. A single tear rolled down his leathery cheek and disappeared in the heavy fur.
“How . . . How . . . How could you know such things?” I looked to Harry for an answer, but he just shrugged and shook his head.
“You could not see me. I became invisible—like the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. I found the Waxons before you. Heard you arrive, then became the air, the smoke, the wind, the grass.” He waved at the heavens again, that time with both arms. “You tempted the dog with meat. You wept at what you found in Waxon’s house. Grown men should weep at such a thing. I liked your fiery burial. Waxon would have approved. His ancestors made the last trip the same way, I think.”
He threw the blanket off his skinny legs, stood, and stretched. His bony spine snapped into place like segments of a chain pulled tight. He was dressed in a loose homespun shirt, leather britches, vest, and moccasins. A knotted blue and white bandanna circled his head and kept a cape of gray hair out of his eyes. His thick belt held a Colt pistol, and an enormous knife, similar to a bowie, hung in a scabbard on his left side. Highly polished silver decorated the belt and matched the studs on the legs of his britches. Heavy bracelets protected each arm, and a clump of animal fur, attached to the knot in his bandanna, held several feathers that swung across his back as he walked. For some moments he stood at the stream’s edge and stared at the two dead men as if to make sure they hadn’t moved.
The rhythm and pattern of his speech never changed. He seemed in no hurry. “Followed you to Dodge. Found these men. Watched. Long time. Wanted to kill them. White people would’ve hung me. No matter my reason. Thought to kill them in their cabin. They slept little. Drank much. Missed the Dark Man. The one who dressed in black. He will not die as quick as these. His death will be long and hard. I look forward to his screams.” He turned, made his way back to the log and his blanket. “Saved this one for you. He’ll tell where the Dark Man went. We will find him. Have no fear. His time grows short. Many souls call for his death.”
Harry made motions at me like I should question the stranger. When I didn’t say anything, he took over. “What’s your name? Where are you from?”
“Daniel Westbrook was my white name. Long ago, long ago.” He answered absentmindedly into the air like we’d disappeared. “My family came west back in ’forty-four. Going to O-ray-gon. Papa said paradise on earth. Indians attacked my people not far out of Independence. Fourteen years old. They carried me away. Lived with the Cheyenne for a time. Others stole me from them—hard life for a time. Had to become one of them. Ended up with some Cherokee folk in the Territories. Over the years moved back and forth in both worlds. The Waxon family fed me when I passed. Gave me a place to sleep. Their children pleased an old man who’d lost his. Mrs. Waxon read the Bible. She learned at Indian school. Woman had a fine voice.” He pointed to the bodies in the grass. “Those men paid for her death with their lives. This one—and the Dark Man—will pay, too.” He pulled his blanket tighter about his shoulders. “My Indian brothers call me Daniel Old Bear.”
“You killed these men? No one helped you?” Decrepit as he appeared, I couldn’t believe he’d managed it alone.
He almost laughed. “They slept. I became invisible. Hid in the smoke from their fire. They could not see me. Could not hear me. They drank. Snored so loud they could not have heard buffalo stampede. Woke them with my friend Death. He walked beside me and took them away. He had followed them since they left the Waxons. You came here prepared to do the same. I did it for you.” He smiled, reached down, and jerked the gag away from the mouth of his captive. “Now—we will talk with this one.”
The whites of the killer’s eyes narrowed, and he spat at Old Bear. “Gimme my pistols. I’ll kill you and these other two at the same time.”
The old man smiled and leaned closer to his captive. “I have always admired bravery. Even from a child killer. We will see how brave you really are.” He turned to a bag lying beside him on the log and pulled a biscuit tin from it. Holes punched in the top of the box formed the shape of a five-pointed star. “My friend here came from Texas. Traded a good knife for him. Bet he’s hungry. No chance to catch a fat mouse lately.”
He popped open the tin and dumped the biggest spider I’d ever seen on the man’s chest. That killer’s eyes got so big I thought they were going to land on the ground right next to my boots. Handsome Harry jumped almost ten feet and pulled his pistols so fast his hands were nothing but a blur.
With both guns cocked and ready to fire, he snapped, “Well, by Godfrey. I’d heard of ’em, but that one’s the first I ever saw close up.”
I still couldn’t believe it. Never saw anything like it in Kentucky. The thing slowly raised two hairy legs and almost stood up on its back ones as Old Bear held his hand in front of it. Black and big as a potato, it followed the hand like a dancer led by a skilled partner.
I pointed and shook my finger at the thing. “It’s a spider, right?”
Harry holstered his pistols. “Yeah, but a very special kind. Mexican tarantula.”
The word had a powerful effect on Old Bear’s prisoner. “Ta-ran-tula? Tarantula? I don’t care what you call it. Just git it off me!”
“What’s your name, child killer?” Old Bear waved his hand back and forth in front of the huge creature. “Long as he can see my hand, he won’t move. Tell me your name.”
“Valentine Gibson, for cryin’ out loud. Now get that thing off me!”
“Not yet. Need to know more. Where is the Dark Man? One you call Preacher.”
“Went to Hays. I swear it. Paid us to watch these law-dogs and kill ’em when they came out of the cabin. Ain’t seen him since two days ’fore we laid for ’em.” Old Bear dropped his hand, and the beast took a hesitant step toward Gibson’s face. “Oh, Jesus! I told you what you wanted. Please, oh, God, please.” The hand came up; the spider stopped and waved at the old man again.
“Mexican who traded him to me called him el picador—the biter. Last time he came out of his tin house, nipped a man on his nose. ’Bout a week later, nose started to rot. Then fell off.”
Gibson’s eyes darted from one of us to the other. “Oh, God. Don’t let that thing bite my nose off. Honest to God, I’ll tell it all. Just get ’im off me.”
Old Bear leaned over and almost whispered, “Where after Hays?”
“What? Whaddaya mean?”
“Where did the Dark Man go, after Hays?”
“Not sure. Said something ’bout visitin’ friends here in the Nations. But I don’t know who or when he plans on comin’ back.” Big drops of sweat rolled into Gibson’s eyes. He tried to blink them away, but he wasn’t having any luck at it. I could tell he didn’t want to move much for fear that hairy critter would jump right on his face.
“Who killed the Waxons?”
“Magruder killed the man when he opened the door. Nate and Josh did the woman and kids.”
The hand came down again, and the spider took another step. Gibson made a sound like a horse being choked to death with a piece of barbed wire.
“You killed no one. Such a nice fellow.”
“Oh-h-h, I’ve kilt my share, but never an unarmed man or defenseless woman and kids. I didn’t know what Magruder was gonna do. Nate and Josh just went crazy. Started in on those folks with an axe. Awful—just awful. Oh, please, God, stop ’im. Marshals, don’t let that thing bite my nose.”
The gunfighter was near hysterical. Old Bear raised his hand; the bug stopped
again. Gibson had to have been staring almost directly into the creature’s eyes. It sat, kind of humped up, only a few inches from his chin.
Soon as he’d said Hays, I lost interest in much else he yelped. Knew I’d missed my opportunity at Magruder again, because there wasn’t a coon-dog’s chance Harry and I would be chasing out to points past Dodge. We needed to get back to Fort Smith.
Old Bear looked up. “You want to ask any questions before el picador goes back in his house?” Harry shook his head.
The old man let the creature climb onto the back of his hand. Gibson tried to shrink away as the wrinkled fist and its rider passed a few inches from his face. The box lid snapped shut and, faster than pigs after a pumpkin, the leathery hand reappeared holding that big knife over Gibson’s throat so tight beads of blood sweated off the blade.
Harry jumped toward them. “Hold up there, friend! You can’t kill him.”
The old man held the knife tightly against Gibson’s throat. “Why not? He’s told all he knows. Or all he wants us to know. We have no need of him. He should join those others. There in the bloody weeds.”
Got down in a squat, so the two of us were on the same level. “I know you want to kill him. I want to kill him. Harry wants to kill him, too. But we can’t. He has to go back to Fort Smith. Might be worth a lot of money, for all we know. If there’s posters on him, or any of those I printed up in Kansas, at least this trip won’t be a total waste.”
Old Bear looked me in the eye. Then smiled. “For you, Tilden. Because I saw you weep for the Waxons—I’ll let him live. For you.”
The blade gently slid across Gibson’s throat and left a tiny line of blood trickling into his collar. “Just a little something to remind you of our talk,” said the old man as he stood and moved to the far end of the log.
After I inked their hands, we buried Nate Stover and Josh Strieb right where they fell. Old Bear took buttons, pocket watches, knives, and tobacco pouches from the bodies. He hung them from the crooked crosses we put over their graves. I thought about reading from Shakespeare, but decided such a gesture would be wasted. Men like those didn’t deserve to go to the next world on the wings of great and uplifting words.
We each took a horse to lead and started for Fort Smith. Old Bear turned out to be a godsend. He kept us away from any contact with other men in the area and got us back home in record time.
Almost nine months had passed since my family had been murdered. I was tired to the bone and needed a serious rest. Couldn’t wait to see Elizabeth and decided the time had come for us to get married. I’d seen too much of the brutal and wicked in men, and, even though I tried to push it down, I hid a growing concern that something wayward might happen on the hunt that would keep me from ever seeing her again. When I stepped down off Thunder in front of the Hotel Pines in late April of 1879, I’d decided I wanted her as close to me as possible from then on.
11
“IT BE FULL OF GOLD COIN”
WAS BACK IN Fort Smith about a month, when I sprang the big question on Elizabeth. Took me that long to build up enough nerve. Fortunately the Judge didn’t have anything pressing for me at the time and, true to his word, no one questioned my idleness.
She made us a picnic lunch that day. We rode out past the cemetery and threw a blanket on the ground on a bluff overlooking the Arkansas. May had popped out all cottonwood blooms and azaleas. And honestly, if I closed my eyes right now, God could send me back there in a heartbeat as sure as geese have flat feet. Sometimes in my dreams, I can still smell those azaleas—and Elizabeth’s perfume.
She folded her red-checked napkin and laid it across her lap. “What are you thinking, Hayden? I’m very concerned. Ever since you and Harry got back from Dodge, your mind has been somewhere else.”
“You’re right. I’ve had some important things to think about.”
“I’ve seen this happen to other marshals. After they’ve been in the Nations for a while, they change. I’d hoped it wouldn’t happen to you. But I know how awful some of the things you have to see can be. Last week Bixley Conner made it back to town with that horrible man who had his way with the poor Johnson girl, then killed her before he threw the body in the Poteau River.” She placed her hand on mine. “If you need to talk about it, you know I’m willing to listen.”
Her blue eyes misted up, and I thought she might cry. For some reason, it had never really come down on me how deeply she cared. That afternoon by the river those blue eyes told me everything.
“It’s not what you think, Elizabeth. I’ve been trying to work up enough nerve to ask you if, uh . . . well . . . if you’d like to . . . well . . . you know. But I’d probably have to speak to your father first.”
She smiled and drew circles on the back of my hand with her finger. “Why, Marshal Tilden. Are you asking for my hand in marriage?”
For about thirty seconds, I couldn’t say anything. She had me hypnotized. Felt like one of those carnival chickens that get charmed and can’t move. My whole body tingled from the soles of my feet to those fine hairs on the back of my hand where her finger twirled. Then, her hand came up and caressed the back of my neck. Everything in my head exploded. My heart melted right down into my boots.
“Elizabeth, I’ve been pondering the first time we met. Remember when you dressed me in my western outfit and sold me that book of Shakespeare? Think I knew then. Every time we’ve been together since that day, I’ve wanted to say it, but couldn’t.” Held her hand and stared at the tiny blue veins. “I love you, Elizabeth, and want us to spend the rest of our lives together. Know it won’t be a buggy ride. This job doesn’t make being married easy for the women who have to wait for their men to come back from the Nations.”
Paused for a while to kind of let what I’d said settle in. She smiled, pulled my hand to her face, and kissed it. “I knew you were the one the minute you stepped across the threshold of Papa’s store, Hayden.” She rocked backward and laughed. Deep, musical, and, like her, beautiful. As though chastising a child she shook her finger at me and said, “I’m so glad you didn’t take two or three years to get around to this.”
Soon as the question passed my lips and she accepted, I lost control of the world as I knew it. The thing started out slowly, but like a locomotive with a drunken engineer, the passing of every day added to the speed and size of the upcoming event. The original discussion I remember involved a small civil ceremony. But from that tiny acorn, a huge oak of matrimonial sacrament grew.
About a week after the picnic. Judge Parker stopped me in the hall and said, “Hayden, I’d consider it an honor if you and Elizabeth would have the service in my home. It might not be the largest or finest residence in Fort Smith, but it’s big enough to accommodate the crowd I know will want to attend.”
I told Elizabeth, and she couldn’t have been more thrilled. “My goodness, Hayden. I’m so pleased the Parkers want us to get married in their home. I think that would be just grand.”
Honest to God, Handsome Harry started acting like he was my mother. He pigeonholed every deputy he could find and twisted so many arms it’s a wonder any of them could pull a pistol. He couldn’t have been any prouder of himself when he told me, “Every man in the field is gonna make a special effort to come out of the wilds and be here for the nuptials, Hayden. If they don’t show, they’d better have a good excuse. You know, like being gut-shot or having a horse fall on them.”
I asked Old Bear, who’d taken on the mantle of adoptive father, and a spot in the corner of my room at the Pines, if he’d seen many weddings. He puffed at his pipe and closed his eyes.
“Been married myself three times—two Indian, one white. Man should pay for his wife. Most desirable Indian girls bring many ponies. White women are far too independent for me. Most times use poor judgment when they pick husbands. One who married me perfect example.” He stood and put his hand on my shoulder. “Good to be married, Hayden. Young man needs a woman around. Elizabeth will be good for you.”
So, on a sun-drenched morning almost exactly one month from the day she accepted my proposal, Handsome Harry Tate, Billy Bird, and Daniel Old Bear stood beside me and watched as the most beautiful bride anyone in Fort Smith ever saw walked down the aisle of Judge Parker’s parlor and took my hand. She wore a dress so white it made me want to shield my eyes, but I didn’t. She stepped across the threshold on her father’s arm and her luminous face caused every man there to gawk openmouthed in disbelief. Lawmen, hardened by seeing the most awful side of their fellow man, stood in the back of the room in their dust-covered boots and wiped tears of envy from their eyes. Wives, mothers, and grandmothers remembered their time at the altar and wept for all the years that had slipped away since.
When Judge Parker finally said, “I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride, Hayden,” his living room exploded in a flurry of thrown hats and laughing encouragement. After the reception, we climbed into a buggy Elizabeth’s father had bought for us and raced from the crowd to spend our first night as a couple in a cabin miles from town. A hundred people ran behind, throwing rice and cheering. We spent a week out there in the woods. I think it was the happiest week of my life.
The day I got back, Mr. Wilton waited for me in the foyer of the Pines. He shook my hand, offered his congratulations, pulled me to a corner, and said in a low voice, “Judge Parker has a special project for you, sir. Time is of the essence. We have little information to help guide you. All we know for sure is that something dreadful happened at the Minco Springs stage station. A survivor made it to town yesterday and told a story so wild, Judge Parker and I found it hard to believe. I’ve already spoken with your friends Harry Tate and Billy Bird. They have everything ready for an immediate departure.” He placed his hand on my shoulder and squeezed. “Be aware that our informant identified Saginaw Bob Magruder.” Just hearing the name made me weak in the knees.