by J. Lee Butts
He paused, scratched at the stubble on his chin, and sipped at his drink. “Made a simple mistake in judgment by going back. I knew better. Titus was hunkered over a spot at the bar. Didn’t think he saw me. Tried to hobble around him. He kicked my crutch out from under me, and poured the contents of a spittoon over my hat. Screamed as how I was nothing but yellow Confederate scum. Said I should have died at Gettysburg. Told me, if I ever came back into Shorty’s again, he’d shoot me like a cur dog.”
Boz scraped a lucifer to life, fired his smoke, and said, “You believe him, Cap’n?”
“Oh, yes indeed, sir. Yes indeed. Have not one doubt in my mind the next time we meet someone will surely die. You see, Ranger Tatum, Titus has made the mistaken assumption that I’m afraid of him. Afraid he’ll do exactly as he threatened.”
I couldn’t let that one pass. Sounded right skeptical when I said, “You aren’t afraid of him?”
“Oh, hell, no, young Ranger. I have no fear of death. Saw more dying during the war than most people will in a lifetime. Prayed for my own death thousands of times since. Titus didn’t fight, you see. He ran. Been running since before ’61. I’ve often thought perhaps that’s why he hates me so much. I remind him of his cowardice. Hard thing to live with, cowardice.”
He lifted his whiskey tumbler and gingerly threw down the rest of the scorching contents. Placed his glass on the table, refilled to the lip, and watched as the liquid began to dance and jiggle about. Sound of thunder rolled our direction, swept under the batwing doors, across the floor, and up the legs of our table like a visitor whose shadow brings fear and hatred as well.
Whitecotton’s empty eyes darted over our shoulders in the direction of the doorway, then to the heavy glass window fronting the saloon. “You’re in luck, gentlemen. The object of all your inquiries has arrived.”
Boz and I turned. Four or five riders rumbled past the Texas Star. Made my skin crawl when the captain said, “God save the good people of Sweetwater. The Nightshades have come to town again. Let us pray for deliverance.”
Chair legs squealed against the polished floor as Boz pushed away from Whitecotton’s table. “About time we met these folks, Lucius.”
My partner didn’t say so, but beneath his seemingly calm exterior, I got the impression an explosion brewed. The kind of shattering flare-up that had a tendency to end in gunfire, death, and weeping women.
7
“HE’LL KILL ME RIGHT WHERE I’M STANDING.”
WE STOOD ON the boardwalk in front of the Texas Star, and watched as five men dismounted and tied their animals to the hitch rails in front of Shorty Small’s. The formerly teeming street had emptied of any other foot traffic. Women, kids, even the dogs had simply vanished like mist under a warming sun.
An uncommon quiet descended, and the morning’s light breeze slipped into the woods and hid. Watched as window shades in some of the shops and stores were lowered. Only person in evidence, other than us, was Lenny Milsap. Clouds of dust swirled around his constantly moving broom as he worked near Hickerson’s front entrance. He turned, spotted us, removed his raggedy cap, and waved.
Boz pulled each of his weapons and checked the loads. “Might want to give all yours a look too, Lucius. Better safe than sorry, I always say. Never know what might develop into a fight. Wouldn’t want to drop the hammer on an empty chamber at an unfortunate moment.”
A runty bulldog of a man I took to be Titus Nightshade led the group inside. A black felt hat hung down his back on a leather thong. His block-shaped head squatted on thick shoulders. Stringy gray hair hung down past the collar of a white shirt that had gone to a well-used pale yellow. He topped a rough-stitched leather vest off with a faded red bandanna the size of a pillowcase. Wore stovepipe chaps and sported work boots decorated with silver spurs. A brace of pistols finished out a costume his followers had tried to copy with varying degrees of success. Everyone in the group bristled with an array of weapons. One lanky drink of water wearing a palm-leaf sombrero sported fancy, bone-handled Colts.
Soon as they disappeared behind Shorty Small’s door, Boz stepped into the street. He silently pointed to the spot where he wanted me. I followed a few steps behind and to his left. Don’t know why, but that dusty, cow-country boulevard seemed a mile wide.
Our brief trek turned into one of the longest walks of my entire life. Hell, when you don’t know what to expect, time has the uncanny ability to turn into maple syrup in February, or double greased lightning. Just have to take it as it comes. But that morning, my education in such matters had barely begun. By the time we slid into the roughest-looking liquor-selling establishment in town, my whole body hummed like a picked banjo string.
All the riders had bellied up to the bar. Soon as Boz pushed the cantina door open, everyone inside stopped in mid-drink, and turned our direction. Boz whispered, “Just follow my lead, son. Gonna feel these boys out a little. See what’s what. Might get rough.” He stopped, and I almost bumped into him. Barely heard him whisper, “Actually, I’m pretty damned certain things are gonna get messy before we leave today. Be alert.”
I glanced from face to face and, for the first time, realized the fella wearing the palm-leaf sombrero was a girl. Shook me right down to the soles of my boots. Slim-hipped, dressed like a man, heavily armed, and a damned good-looking woman. She leaned against the bar, and held an empty shot glass in her free hand.
Young man about my age that could have passed as the pistol-toting good looker’s older twin said, “Well, well, well. Just what in the blue-eyed hell have we got here?”
The bulldog I figured for Titus Nightshade huffed, “Must be them Texas Rangers we done heard ’bout. You boys Rangers?”
Boz strode right up in the blockheaded feller’s face. Got so close, I thought for a second he was gonna kiss Nightshade right on the lips. Kept my place, hands on my Colt’s butts, and tried to look vicious.
“Name’s Randall Bozworth Tatum. And you are correct sir. We’re with Company B out of Fort Worth.”
Rough-looking jackass, who had no family resemblance to anyone else at the bar, stood beside the elder Nightshade. He hooked his thumbs in his pistol belt, puffed out his chest, and snorted, “We don’t be needing no goddamned Rangers round here. Why don’t you take your ugly asses on back to Fort Worth, ’fore I have to kick the shit out of both of you.”
The smart mouth’s audience started to laugh. Boz slapped that poor yammering fool so hard he would have only seen stars for the next week, if he had just let it alone. But as the flaming handprint started to rise on his cheeks, I guess something in the bullyboy’s brain snapped like a dried cottonwood limb. He made a half-assed reach for the gun in his belt. Boz pulled one of his, whacked the poor son of a bitch on the noggin, and reholstered so fast I wasn’t sure I’d actually seen what I saw. Pistol-whipped goober dropped like a felled tree, ricocheted off the foot rail, and slumped against the bar.
Titus Nightshade waved off the others in his party. He stared down at my partner’s left hand. Muzzle of Boz’s belly gun was pressed against Nightshade’s pecan-sized heart. Snatched both my weapons out, and covered everyone else soon as I realized what he’d done. Decided right then and there, my friend’s skill with firearms surpassed anything I’d ever witnessed, or imagined. Not only that, but he hardened my continually growing belief that Randall Bozworth Tatum knew absolutely no fear.
If looks could have killed, the fair-haired girl in the sombrero would’ve turned both of us to blackened smoldering cinders. She leveled Boz with a hate-filled glare. Her face turned the color of rising blood. Slender hands anxiously hovered over the bone-handled guns on her hips. Finely etched, pouting lips quivered. The pupils, in eyes so brown they appeared black, narrowed down on me like birdshot.
She yelled, “Goddammit, Pa, do something, or I will.” Sounded tough enough. But something around her eyes betrayed a softness she put out considerable effort to hide.
The old man didn’t even blink, and barely breathed. “You and Ja
ck stay still, Nance. This here Ranger feller ain’t no Sweetwater storekeeper, blacksmith, or farmer. He’ll kill me right where I’m a-standing. Settle down, or you’ll be buryin’ me tomorrow. Let it go.”
For about a second, thought I just might have to shoot Nance Nightshade. The realization startled me. Shooting a man was one thing, a woman something else altogether. Since stunningly good-looking blond women tended to be few and far between at the time, the thought of having to kill one confused the hell out of me. I tried not to let my perplexity show. Not sure how good a job I did.
Then, in a voice as calm as water in a rain barrel, I heard Boz say, “He’s right, missy. Give me the slightest reason and I’ll plug your ole man so fast, he’ll be bakin’ in Satan’s favorite oven before you can blink twice.” Then his lips curled back over his teeth like a hungry wolf’s and he snarled, “Guess you’re not quite as stupid as you look, Nightshade.”
Insulted, the old man gritted his teeth so hard it sounded like cracking walnuts. He raised up on his toes. Boz pushed him back down with the muzzle of his pistol. “Lots of rumors ’bout you and yours, sir.” Sir came out like an insult. “Hear tell you like to run roughshod over the fine God-fearin’ folks around these parts. Complaints filed with Captain Culpepper in Fort Worth tell a story of continual brutality, lawlessness, call-out gunfights, even horse and cattle theft. Been several robberies of Baynes Stage Line in these parts. Number of people here ’bouts feel you might have knowledge concerning those thefts.”
Gray-haired brigand shook all over. You’d of thought he had a killing case of malaria. “You suppose I give a good goddamn what these sheep think? If so, you’re stupider than you look, you badge-totin’ bastard. Besides, nobody can prove any of what you just said. Ain’t no witnesses ever gonna come forward and testify agin me, or mine.”
Boz grinned, and took two steps backward. “That might well be true. But my young associate and I are here to make inquiries about you, your family, and friends. Probably be strolling by your place on Little Agnes Creek for a visit in the near future. Better hope we can’t find out anything we can prove. Make one misstep, and I’ll haul you back to Fort Worth and jail, or hang you faster’n minnows can swim a water dipper.”
Boz motioned for me to move out behind him. “Come on, Lucius. Our business with these gentlemen, and the lady, is finished. Today.” He tugged at the brim of his hat and said, “Miss, good day to you. Mr. Nightshade, I’m sure we’ll talk again in the near future.”
Soon as we got outside, he hustled us back across the street to the Texas Star. Pulled at my sleeve and led me to an empty hitch rail. We leaned against it and he said, “Let’s roll a smoke, and see what happens when they come out.”
Minute or so crawled by before the smart-mouthed goober Boz had cracked on the head stumbled through the batwing doors with a friend under each arm to hold him up. The girl followed, carrying her wounded compadre’s hat. Nightshade came out last, and did the evil-eye routine on us. Took them about a minute to load up their wounded running buddy and get mounted.
The still-fuming girl peeled away from the rest of the group and came tearing over at us. Her father tried to stop her, but didn’t do any good at it. She reined up so sharp, dust and clods landed all over our feet. Still madder’n hell when she shouted, “You ain’t seen the end of this dance. Not by a damned site. Ain’t no one gonna get away with putting knots on the head of a Nightshade rider. I’m gonna personally see you bastards pay heavy for this.”
She glared at me for the longest. Like I was the one who’d buffaloed her friend. I grinned, and shrugged. That really ripped the lid off. Shook all over when she yelled, “Damn you, you self-righteous son of a bitch.”
Heard her father call out, “Come on, Nance. Let the matter go. We’ll have our turn. Sooner or later, everything that goes around comes back.”
Then, as God is my witness, angry gal tried to spit on us. Couldn’t get up enough moisture, I guess. Fact that she made the attempt was more shocking to me than anything else that happened that day. Boz chuckled as she kicked away, and caught up with her father and friends. He said, “Fiery woman. Fiesty as a bag of wildcats. Good-looking too. You might want to get to know her better, Mr. Dodge.”
I could not fathom such a suggestion. “Sweet Weeping Jesus, Boz. Nance Nightshade probably hates you, and me, more than any two people in Texas right this minute. Be willing to cover all bets she’d cut my heart out with a soup ladle, if she had half a chance.”
He laughed, and slapped me on the back. “Seen many a lifelong relationship start with more venom. Hell, boy, I could tell right off, Nance Nighshade thinks you’re downright irresistible.”
Got me to thinking he might be right. For all her piss and vinegar, that hard-to-detect softness around the lovely Miss Nightshade’s eyes stayed with me long after I’d pushed her blistering speechifying to distant corners of my memory.
8
“EZRA, GIT YORE GUN. . . .”
FOR THE NEXT two or three days not much happened. Lulled me into the mistaken belief that maybe Boz had thrown something of a real scare into ole Titus and his bunch—all of them except the old man’s wild-eyed gal, Nance, of course. By then, I had come to the conclusion Nightshade’s oldest daughter wasn’t afraid of much of anything in this world, and perhaps held little in the way of fear for most of the demons that surely inhabited Perdition. Then I thought, hell, Lucius, you’re spending way too much time chasing that girl around in your dreams and fantasies.
The days came, and the days went. Scorching heat let up a bit, and the weather got right pleasant for an hour or so every morning. Boz and me strolled around town like natives, and made an attempt at acting like actual lawmen. We visited nearly every business owner. Talked extensively with each of them about the problem those willing to express an opinion referred to as “the damned ruthless Nightshade bunch.”
Storekeeper Burton Hickerson had been bull’s-eye accurate in his assessment of the renegade family’s impact on his neighbors. Town folk despised the belligerent outlaw clan, and their ever-changing pack of worthless friends and cohorts. We tried, but didn’t find a single citizen who had even one good, or uplifting, thing to say about any of them—men or women.
I suppose a lady name of Shadle summed the town’s feelings up best when she shook her fan open, hid behind the lace trim, and in a voice burdened with compone and wisteria, whispered, “Trash. Worst kind of trash I’ve ever encountered in my entire life. Whole bunch ain’t nothing but an ugly blot on the South and Southern ways. I’ve not witnessed one act of kindness, or indication of any breeding, since the day they wobbled into town in their greasy, broken-down wagon. ’Fore God, they’re the least chivalrous assortment of men in my memory. And, Good Lord Almighty, the behavior of Dusky and those girls is nothing short of scandalous. Drinking in saloons. Wearing pants. Straddling horses like men. My, oh, my.”
She leaned closer and, in a hiss I could barely hear, said, “I’ve heard tell their shack over on Little Agnes Creek is nothing more than a house of ill fame. Dancing and carousing goes on all night long, sometimes. Fiddle-playing, whooping, and hollering you can hear all over Parker County. Lord help us if that benighted clan is the best Alabama has to offer. God save that poor, defeated state and all her pitiful inhabitants.” While fourteen years had passed since the end of what my mother always referred to as the Unpleasantness, feelings like those of Mrs. Shadle still ran strong and deep.
Boz said about the only thing we could do was listen to each individual’s complaints and nod like we understood their concerns. “We’ll just keep digging around. And hope we eventually find something serious enough to hang on some of the Nightshade gang. One of ’em will trip up, sooner or later.”
In our spare time, we became something akin to celebrities in the minds of Sweetwater’s army of youngsters. Boz loved to draw a crowd by handing out hard candy. Man exhibited all the attributes of a ten-year-old anytime sugar was involved. He formed a particular attachme
nt for Lenny Milsap, and the smile of a blue-eyed, sandy-haired waif named Eliza had the power to soften his leathery heart and light him up like kids’ sparklers on Independence Day.
After bacon, eggs, and coffee, on the third or fourth day, we dragged chairs to the boardwalk, in front of the sheriff’s office, and rolled ourselves a smoke. Morning had come up a bit cooler than usual. Boz allowed as how a stretch in the shade would be mighty fine. We could take in some fresh air before the whole town got up, started moving around and stirring up the dust.
Propped our feet on the hitch rail and pushed back for the utmost in comfort. Pulled our hats down over our eyes, and started out to snooze the morning away. Guess we’d only been there taking our leisure for a peaceful few minutes when a farmer, whose homespun pants came almost to his knees, rode into town and reined up right in front of us. A double-barreled 10-gauge shotgun rested across his animal’s withers.
Bobbed his head in a bashful greeting, removed a battered hat, and ran the sleeve of a grimy shirt across his face. Sounded almost apologetic when he said, “You fellers them Rangers folks been tellin’ ’bout?”
I glanced at Boz, and waited for him to take the lead. He squinted, thumped ashes from his smoke, and picked a piece of errant tobacco off his lip. Winked at me and said, “You are correct, sir. How can my young assistant and me be of help?” Winked with the other eye when he said assistant.
Plow chaser slid off his animal, and stood with the hat in one hand, the shotgun in the other. He resembled an Arkansas cotton farmer broken by fate, who’d come to visit greedy bankers and beg for a loan of money. Toes of his feet kept scrunching up like he was trying to grab hold of the ground. Remember wondering if he thought he might fall off Texas and fly over to the Nations, or something.