by J. Lee Butts
My new quarters, while spartan, appeared right cozy for such temporary accommodations. Two cots, one on either side of the entrance, a camp table at the rear, and several large chests in one corner made up the only furnishings.
Spent about half an hour getting situated. Don’t think Tatum stopped talking the whole time. He had a way of filling a person’s ears up. Followed Grizz and me to the corral, and yammered like someone who hadn’t conversed with another living human being in years. Man loved the sound of his own voice. Seemed to me everything he said simply led to another gruesome tale of death and destruction. He’d fought in the Civil War all over Texas, and most of the Southwest. Near as I could tell, Boz had killed blue-bellied Yankees by the score, and slaughtered Comanches, Apaches, and the Kiowa, along with just about every other kind of “red devil” I’d ever heard anyone mention.
Soon as I dropped my saddle, he said, “Let’s amble over to Alfonso Esparza’s den fer a spell. Just a few steps further down the river.”
“Who’s Alfonso Esparza?”
“He’s the feller what’s gonna fix you up with a solid silver badge.”
We picked our way through the huckleberry bushes and scrubby trees, for about fifty yards past The Viper’s Nest, to a clearing around a neatly kept stick-and-grass hut. The shelter appeared to have been erected as near as possible to an anvil attached to a tree stump and a small forge nearby. A Mexican man, of indeterminate age and the color of baked red clay, sat in the doorway on a three-legged stool. Tobacco rolled in a corn shuck dangled from cracked lips. He made no effort to stand, slowly removed the homemade cigar from his mouth, and flashed a brilliant, toothy smile.
“Buenos dias, Señor Boz. Como está?”
“Muy bien, mi amigo.” They shook hands, but Esparza still made no attempt to rise.
Tatum turned to me and said, “Need you to make my young friend a badge, Alfonso.”
“Qué?”
Tatum struggled with the interpretation. Finally he pulled his vest back and pointed at the heavy star pinned to his own chest. “Ah, una emblema. Una estrella plata. Exactamente. Comprende, amigo?”
Esparza’s face lit up. “Sí, sí. Una estrella de plata. Necessito una moneda de ocho reales.”
Tatum made motions at me. “Give ’im two eight-real coins, Lucius. He’ll turn one into a silver star for you. The other’n pays fer his efforts.”
Glanced into the hut, as I handed the money over. Reminded me of the bunkhouse at Las Tres Colinas. A well-worn hammock dangled from one corner, ready to be stretched out for an evening’s siesta. A variety of tools lined the walls—everything from horseshoe tongs to heavy hammers. No additional clothing, or anything like personal amenities, in sight. Place was neat as a pin, and the packed dirt floor appeared swept.
Boz hooked a thumb over his concho-embellished belt. “Alfonso can fashion damned near whatever a man might possibly desire out of an eight-real coin. Made this here belt for me. He does right fine work with horses too. Hammers out shoes, mends saddles and bridles. Mighty handy with all other kinds of leatherwork as well.” He placed his hand on the Mexican’s shoulder. “His repair work on a broken pistol or rifle is, far and away, better than any of Colt’s traveling gunsmiths. He can tune a pistol so’s all you have to do is breath on the trigger. Man of many parts. Right, my friend?”
Alfonso puffed at his cigar and grinned. “Sí, amigo. Un hombre de muchos partes.” Got the impression the aged peon could probably speak English about as well as he understood it. Just didn’t want to, for one reason or another.
“Mañana, amigo?” Boz asked.
The old man squirmed on his stool and eyeballed the coins. “No Señor Boz. El dia siguiente. Muy ocupado hoy.”
Tatum nodded. “Day after tomorrow’s just dandy. Adios, my friend.”
He turned away from the blacksmith’s coarse throne and started back for our tent. I followed and said, “He didn’t appear all that busy to me.”
Boz shook his head and chuckled. “Well, Alfonso tends to work on Alfonso time. Think his clock, along with his notions on what he wants, or doesn’t want, to do is a mite different from yours or mine.” He laughed and slapped his leg. The man really enjoyed his own jokes. He said, “Let’s take a siesta, amigo. Wanna put my poor ole bruised self down for an hour or so afore supper. Some of these knots Peaches put on me are beginning to hurt a bit. ’Specially the ones on back of my head. Bet he left some ugly marks on my ribs too.”
I fully intended to spend the rest of the afternoon lazing in camp chairs out front of my new home. But Tatum went right to sleep and made noises that reminded me of a hibernating bear. Put me to walking the cooler areas around the riverbank, till I found a restful spot and settled in for a nap of my own.
Long ’bout sundown Boz came back to life, found my hiding place, and led me over to the kitchen for the evening meal. Cookhouse seemed closest to being the most permanent structure I’d seen that day. A pair of chuck wagons sat cheek by jowl to a canvas-roofed log building of about ten by twelve feet. Spotted a brick oven built into one end. A likely enough place to prepare a meal, but the victuals provided damned sure couldn’t compare to my mother’s cooking.
Hash slinger was a feller named Noah Biggerstaff. All visible evidence indicated he rarely missed a meal, and probably spent right smart of every day sampling his own efforts. Honest to God, the man had a belly the size of a flour barrel. Several Mexican helpers spooned a variety of good-smelling but highly suspicious-looking stuff for anyone holding a plate and with nerve enough to try some.
Boz pushed a wooden dish into my reluctant hands and said, “Don’t worry, Lucius. Long as Noah’s grub don’t bite back, you can probably eat it. But if anything wiggles, or winks at you, just flip the offensive piece out on the ground. One of the dogs’ll take care of it for you.” He grinned like a man having the time of his life, and turned to the cook. “I’m hungry enough to eat a boiled armadillo, Noah.”
Biggerstaff ran a greasy hand across the front of an apron that could stand alone, thumped at something clinging to the edge of the pot he stood behind, and snapped, “Well, we ain’t got no goddamned armerdillers tonight, Boz. Yer gonna have to settle fer a couple pounds of beefsteak, covered in chili made from yestiddy’s beefsteak, a dozen or so tamales, big spoon of frijoles, and a handful of corn fritters doused in black-strap molasses.”
Tatum elbowed me and winked. “Should keep me till tomorrow morning. Course I do get to hankering for a little something to smooth the edges off my appetite around midnight. Got any of your world-famous sucamagrowl cooked up?”
Biggerstaff kept shoveling food and pointed to the end of the serving table without looking. “Swear to Jesus, Boz. You’re worse than a kid about sweets. They’s a bucketful of ’em down yonder. Don’t take ’em all. Last time you et so many, rest of the company didn’t hardly get none. No more’n six, you hear me.”
Hated to show my countrified ignorance, but they’d left me in the dirt. Leaned over and whispered, “What the hell’s sucamagrowl, Boz?”
“Ain’t for certain sure. Kinda like biscuit dough fried in sugar, vinegar, and cinnamon, I think. Don’t know exactly what he does to ’em. They’s a bunch better’n sugar tits, though. Damned fine stuff. But if Noah Biggerstaff actually believes I’m only gonna take six, then he’s about half as smart as a wooden Indian.”
Once we’d near’bouts filled ourselves to overflowing, Boz led me around camp and introduced me to most of a hundred other fellers. That’s when I discovered each company of Rangers consisted of seventy-five men, commanded by a captain and two lieutenants. Right difficult for my pea-sized brain to keep track of that many folks. Couldn’t have told you one of their names ten minutes after we met.
Tatum near wore me out, roaming from fire to fire. Man nipped at the bottle of anyone who offered, and made sure I got some too. Swapped tall tales with those who’d listen. Even sang a couple of songs with some boys who had a fiddle, mouth organ, and tambourine. Learned, right
away, that in spite of his reputation as an Indian fighter and Texas Ranger, Boz Tatum had the worst singing voice this side of the fiery pit. Didn’t keep him from performing with a goodly amount of gusto, though.
When we got back to The Viper’s Nest, Boz lit a lamp and said, “Sit down and write your mother a letter, son. Best she knows what you’ve done got yourself into so she won’t be any more worried ’bout you than necessary.”
Being as how we’d had a snort or three that evening, I can’t recollect exactly what I said in my badly scribbled note. But I’m fairly certain I penned something like:
Dear Mother,
Am still in pursuit of Whitey and Erazmus. Have enlisted with Company B of the Texas Rangers. Will return to Las Tres Colinas, and real employment, once I’ve brought Pa’s murderers to book, or killed the evil sons of bitches outright. Tell Burl to be strong. I will return as soon as I am able. I remain,
Your loving son,
Lucius
Boz read over my missive and said, “You done good, young feller. We’ll post her first chance we get.”
Guess we cashed in an hour or so before midnight. Slept right well, in spite of skeeters the size of frying pans buzzing outside my net. Woke up once. Boz sat on the edge of his cot slapping at the bugs and popping them sugary biscuits in his mouth like beer nuts in a Fort Worth saloon.
At exactly nine o’clock the next morning, according to my two-dollar silver-plated Ingersoll pocket watch, the entire company fell into military formation, and watched as me, and them other recruits, mounted up and formed a line in front of the officers’ pavilion. The captain strutted out, dressed in a splendid red coat and black hat sporting a white feather that grew out of the top and hung over the brim.
Boz told me later, “Wag only wears that red thang when he’s a-swearing new men, or going to a dance and wants to impress the ladies. Do declare the man suffers from the worst case of vanity I’ve ever run across.”
The lieutenants brought everyone to something that approximated attention. Soon as all the attendees got quiet, Culpepper read the oath of allegiance to the state of Texas, and had us newcomers sign our names. Just as easy as that, we were proclaimed as officially enlisted for the next twelve months.
Quick as the fleeting ceremony ended, Boz and Ben Beaumont came over and shook my hand. Beaumont said, “We’ve decided to put you under the capable wing of your friend, Ranger Tatum, Lucius. Not a better man in Texas to learn from. Pay attention, what he has to teach you could very well keep you alive.”
Boz did a toe-in-the-dirt, aw-shucks act, and said, “Well, I owe this boy my life, Ben. Hadn’t been for him, ole Peaches McCabe would probably have turned me into little more’n a greasy spot on the floor in the White Elephant. Gonna be my pleasure to have young Mr. Dodge ride with me a spell. Oh, I have something for you, Lucius. Picked it up this morning.”
He dipped into his vest pocket and came out with a spanking-new silver star. Pinned the shining symbol of my newly acquired authority to my vest and said, “Alfonso tends to work faster if you give him a bit more incentive. Wanted you to have this soon as you got sworn, and he agreed when I laid a few more reales on him. Now you’re a Ranger, for damned sure.”
I had not considered the burden of the work until Tatum pinned that badge on me. Felt the weight against my chest. Suddenly I realized just how much responsibility I’d taken on. Course I’d ridden with Rangers in the past when the Comanche got on a killing rip. But most of those red devils had been exiled to the Nations and the frontier situation from Fort Worth to the New Mexico border had civilized up dramatically.
By and by, the notion came to me that Ranger Randall Bozworth Tatum had managed to make me a part of the Great Lone Star State’s glorious history. I didn’t get long to contemplate my newly found revelation.
Lieutenant Beaumont’s counterpart, a man only a few years older than me named Bedford Pickens, strolled up and said, “Captain Culpepper wants to talk with you boys right away. Think he might be about to send you out on your first real assignment, Dodge. If I know him, boys, this dance’s gonna be a dandy.”
5
“. . . HORSE AND COW STEALING, STREET SHOOTINGS AND SUCH.”
I’VE NOTICED OVER the years, as how a man’s mind has a tendency to erase good times and populate his waking thoughts with the horrors he often had to confront during life’s long journey. Such was the case with the “dandy” of an assignment Captain Culpepper had in mind.
I champed at the bit to get back on the trail of Whitey and Raz again. But the events that awaited us, less than a hundred miles from Fort Worth, would pull me away from that mission and remain hidden from the general public for decades. Seventy years later, when most of what Boz and me accomplished together has been relegated to places so deep in my memory I have trouble bringing them to mind, the brutishness and blood of Sweetwater is as vivid as an open wound.
When we reported for our initial mission together, Beaumont sat on Culpepper’s left, Pickens on his right. The trio looked about as serious as men who’d just been informed they suffered from gangrene and would each have to part with a leg, an arm, or something even more valuable. We had no way of knowing at the time, but the events of the few minutes spent with our superiors that morning were merely the beginnings of what would eventually become a long list of celebrated Boz Tatum and Lucius Dodge outings.
The captain cleared his throat and roared, “For some months now, I’ve been in receipt of one letter after another from a storekeeper over in Sweetwater. Gentleman name of Burton Hickerson feels the town has serious problems. Truth is, I’m about to get tired of having to read through a seemingly endless litany of whining complaints. His entreaties have become more strident with each missive. Latest communication, received yesterday, runs some eight pages, and is witnessed by almost fifty of the hamlet’s three hundred permanent residents. Those folks claim to suffer at the mercy of an outlaw family headed by a gentleman named Titus Nightshade. Think you boys should take a ride out that way. See what you can discover.”
“Whattaya think we’re a-gonna find, Cap’n?” Boz asked.
Bedford Pickens leaned into the conversation. “Mr. Hickerson’s catalog of individual grievances is a long one, boys. Charges of horse and cattle theft, terrorization of citizens in the night, and call-out street shootings seem commonplace events with this bunch. Not much of a way for us to tell exactly what you can reasonably expect to run up against. So, best be ready for almost any eventuality.”
Boz cocked his head to one side. “Want us to look for something in particular, Cap’n?” He put a fair amount of stress on the word particular. “I mean anything other’n the horse and cow stealing, street shootings, and such.”
Evidently Culpepper didn’t want to discuss vague possibilities. Man stuck to the specifics. “You catch anybody stealing livestock, Boz, drag ’em back to Fort Worth soon as you’re able. Otherwise, the God-fearing citizens of Sweetwater just might indulge in a little extra-legal cow-pasture justice of their own. I think everyone in Texas saw enough lynching before, during, and immediately after the war. Hell, I was a shirttailed kid back in ’62, in Gainesville, when vigilantes hung nigh fifty folks in less than a week. You and Dodge gotta nip any such brutish behavior in the bud. I don’t want the governor dragging me down to Austin to explain how such a thing happened on my watch. Can I make my feelings any plainer on this matter, boys?”
Boz shook his head, so I did the same. “Want us to read all them letters?” he asked.
Culpepper studied on Boz’s query, for a second or so. “No, shouldn’t be necessary. Probably better all round if you got the story firsthand.”
Didn’t waste much time messing around camp once we had our marching orders. Stopped by The Viper’s Nest long enough to grab our war bags and saddle up. Boz broke open one of the chests sitting on his side of the tent and handed me a brace of Colt’s Dragoon pistols in pommel holsters.
“They’s loaded and primed, Lucius. Throw ’em on G
rizz. Never know when you might need some more firepower.”
Being as how I could barely walk with all the guns hanging on me already, I tried to give them back. “I’ve got my hip pistols, and the one at my back, along with the Henry. Carrying a bowie the size of a meat cleaver on my belt, and a six-inch toothpick in each boot. Got a steel-headed war ax tied to my saddle. Don’t think I need any more weapons, Boz.”
“But you just never know, do you, son? Always better to have one you don’t need, than to need one you don’t have. With five pistols you can rip off near thirty rounds and never stop to reload. Besides, tough to match these big ole Dragoons in a horseback gunfight. Your Henry’s a fine weapon, but I ain’t seen a man yet could fire one from a running horse worth a damn—lest he was part Comanche, or some other such land moccasin.”
Never is easy to argue with sound reasoning. But his gift presented me with a touchy problem. Game as Grizz was, the stringy mustang always got a bit testy when made to carry even a few ounces more than he liked. Between the added iron, extra food, cooking utensils, and camp gear Boz wanted to take along, I finally suggested we buy a mule. He liked the idea, and that’s the way the thing shook out.
Boz said, “I know a dealer who likes to hang around Hugh Dugan’s wagon yard on West Weatherford in Fort Worth. Bet he’s got exactly what we need.” So, we hoofed our way by the place, and arrived about the time this picture-taking feller name of Swartz got his box camera set up in the middle of the street.
He came running over soon as we stepped down, handed both of us a calling card, and said, “Gentlemen, I am a photographer, illustrator, and publisher of Souvenir Views of Fort Worth. Would you be willing to pose for me this morning?”
Boz grinned and winked. “Why not. My young friend and me could very well be the best-looking Rangers in all of Texas. Might as well let you preserve our native handsomosity for the sake of future generations. Hell, maybe a wealthy, semi-attractive widder woman who owns a saloon will see us. You have to promise to send ’em our way, if any come askin’ ’bout us. Jest point ’em toward Company B’s Ranger camp. We’ll take care of things from there.”