by J. Lee Butts
Boz and I rated a seat at the festivities just behind those of the brides’ and grooms’ families. As a consequence, we had to spend time the afternoon before at Hickerson’s picking out fresh outfits. Bought me a gray bib-front shirt, wine-colored bandanna, and bleached palm-leaf sombrero. Boz went for a fine-looking ready-made shirt, string tie, and leather-seated riding pants. His old canvas trousers had seen better days, long before we met. When Mrs. Hickerson finished decking us out with our spanking-fresh duds, we looked first-rate—if I do say so myself.
Even went so far as to spring for a serious scrubbing and shave at Delmar Clyde’s Barber Shoppe, Tonsorial Parlor, and Bath House. Turned out that, under a thick layer of Texas topsoil you could have plowed and used to grow a fine crop of cotton, my newly acquired trail running amigo was a right distinguished-looking gentleman. When scoured, barbered, trimmed of nose hair, slathered in tonic, and decked out in his freshly purchased trappings, Boz Tatum could have passed for a governor, a Texas state senator, or at least a gambler, or bawdy house owner. Swear to Jesus.
Handsome lady, named Mrs. Leota Louks, flooded the church with the wedding march from an imposing, hand-carved German pump organ. The grooms awaited their brides under the town’s remarkable arch. Ear-to-ear smiles decorated those young gentlemen’s freshly scrubbed faces.
The striking brides made a splendid double entrance, amidst ecstatic twittering from all the ladies in attendance. Numerous whispered comments reveled in the stylishness of high-collared dove-gray dresses, imported from New York City especially for the blissful occasion. I sat on the end of the pew next to the aisle, and when those girls swept past me, subdued moans of envy escaped some of the unattached men, and boys, nearby. Across the walkway, a ruby-lipped Martye McKee twirled her hair on a nervous finger, and made puckery-mouthed kissing signals at me. I tried to ignore her, but Lord God, she’d become a force in my life to be reckoned with.
Preacher Elton Jones had barely managed to get his final pronouncement of the bindings out, when the shooting started. Windows broke all around us. Men, women, and children dropped to the floor accompanied by splintered glass and screams of disbelief. The gunfire tended to be of a general nature, and seemed to come from all sides of the building at the same time. Glittery fragments flew in every direction like ice falling from a home’s eaves when the thaw finally comes after a brutal storm.
Course, I went to reaching and grabbing, only to realize my weapons hung from a peg in a small room just inside the church house door, where the bell ringer did his weekly duties. Couldn’t believe I’d allowed Boz to persuade me such silliness was a good idea, but the Reverend Jones had insisted no one be allowed in his house of worship with a pistol strapped around his waist.
Boz’d threatened to wear a shoulder rig he favored. But his raggedy coat looked out of place over his new outfit, so he discarded the idea. My partner pressed himself as flat to the floor as a ribbon snake and, under his breath, cursed like a drunken sailor about having been so stupid as to not keep at least one pistol hidden on his person. Don’t think he ever made such a mistake again.
In less than a minute, the town’s carefully crafted wedding celebration was reduced to splinters. Bullet-peppered doors dropped from their blasted hinges, and the walls took on the appearance of a foreign cheese that sports all them mouseyfied holes. Martye crawled to my side, placed her head in the crook of my arm, stared into my eyes, and made not a single sound. Her unruffled demeanor was impressive, to say the least.
Blasting and screaming died down after two or three minutes. The shooters finally retreated across Walnut Creek. Angry townsmen crowded into the church’s bell room for their checked weapons, then raced outside to nothing more than a lingering cloud of grayish-black dust and the sound of retreating hoofbeats.
Mr. Hickerson, and other members of the congregation and business community, stood unbelieving, and stared at their much-abused church like men stunned by a bad dream come true. The frenzied architects of the destruction had also stolen abundant amounts of the wedding party’s foodstuffs from the tables outside, then upset the painstakingly decorated counters, and trampled over them with their horses.
Hickerson shook his head. “How’d they manage to get so close, and no one saw or even heard them? Just can’t imagine.”
Leighton Bruce, owner of the only other real mercantile store in town, said, “Appears to have been carefully planned. Looks almost like a cavalry action. Stole their way up to the meetinghouse, pilfered all the food they wanted, then started shooting. Parishioners were so busy and excited about the wedding, no one noticed.”
Right soon, the cry went up from one of the other attendees, “It was that damnable Nightshade bunch. Sure as hell’s hot. They’ve been a-waitin’ for the chance to mete out a nasty dose of bloody revenge for Titus getting plugged.”
Stocky feller who wore a suit and vest he’d outgrown by more’n a few years said, “Time we cleaned out that nest of skunks. Whole family is like a bad tooth. You have to rip the sucker out by the roots, suffer for a bit, and then you can git on with the rest of your life. Snuff Jack Nightshade and, I’ll guar-awn-damn-tee, things’ll get considerable peaceful round these here parts.”
Rapidly growing crowd mumbled and nodded its collective agreement. Boz tried to calm ’em down. “You boys need to take a breath. ’Fore you know it, someone’s gonna say somethin’ he’ll end up regrettin’.”
Tall, thin, ropy-necked horse wrangler who worked for House Rickards yelped, “Well, by God, if’n ain’t no one else’s gonna say it, I will. Let’s braid us up ’bout three or six good pieces of oiled Kentucky hemp, and pay them evil sons of bitches a hot visit. If’n we let’em get away with shootin’ up our church, what’s next? Cain’t have such foolish behavior, by God.”
Boz grabbed me by the arm, and we pushed our way into the middle of the angry crowd. He had to yell, that time. A fractious buzz hovered over the irate assemblage like a hive of rudely disturbed bees. “That’s just what I meant. Want you boys to count to ten, breath deep, and start thinking straight again. Looks as though we can say, for certain, no one got hit during the shouting, shooting, and general mayhem. No missing animals have been reported to me. And, most important of all, your women and kids are all safe and sound. Right now, what we seem to have is little more than an unnerving prank, pulled off by a band of unknowns that have yet to be positively identified.”
The horse wrangler had felt the power derived from mouthing off in public and liked his newly found importance. “That ain’t gonna do, Ranger. Ain’t no man living can rub a feller’s rhubarb like this and be allowed to git away with such lawless disrespect.”
I held my hands up, and tried my own shot at putting a coat of oil in the water. “We haven’t said anything about letting whoever is responsible get away with this. Give me and Ranger Tatum a chance, and I can assure you those responsible will be brought to book.”
The stout chap in the tight suit felt left out of the action, and yelled loud enough for everyone within the range of a cavalry bugle to hear. “This bunch has been a-spoiling for an ass-kicking for sometime now. You Rangers have only been in town a few weeks. Look what has happened since you arrived and can personally bear witness to. We’ve had to deal with such shenanigans for years. Far as I’m concerned, it’s way past time for some harsh retribution for their rude behavior.”
Not sure where the voice of reason originated, but someone shouted, “Let the Rangers handle this. Leastways if they git killed, won’t matter much.” Didn’t care for the shouter’s final assessment of my importance in Sweetwater’s tiny world, but his short, sweet speech had the desired effect. Men began to nod and mumble and drift apart—good signs from any potential mob.
Hickerson brought the whole dance to an end when he stepped up between Boz’n me, and put his arms around our shoulders. “Friends, these are capable men sent by Captain Horatio Waggoner Culpepper in Fort Worth to handle this state of affairs. I say we stand aside and allow
them to do their job.”
A grizzled old-timer slipped through the crowd, and stopped in front of Boz. “Young fellers, this here sit-chiation ain’t gonna get better anytime soon. Might as well be aware as how most folks round here kinda like the suggestion about lettin’ Judge Lynch dole out a dose of oak-tree justice. Best take some sincerely offered advice and git this cleared up, soon as possible. If not, we’ll take care of it ourselves. Been a spell since I done any night ridin’, but behavior like what we’ve seen today can bring past deeds out of hidin’, right damned speedylike. Git my drift?” That time we nodded.
The still grumbling mob began to break apart, and soon most folks had headed for home. Martye caught me by the elbow, pulled me behind a live oak near a spot where the tables had been sitting, and just about kissed the tar outta me. Thought my lips would stick to her face when she finally broke loose.
She said, “You go out to the Nightshade place again, Lucius Dodge, be careful. I might not be around to keep you out of harm’s way, this time. Make no mistake about it, they’re a dangerous bunch and, given the opportunity, will kill you in a heartbeat. Don’t ever trust Nance. Turn your back on that woman, and you’ll likely end up deader’n Davy Crockett.”
“You needn’t worry ’bout me, little girl. Pretty sure I can take care of myself—no matter what comes my way.”
“Yeah, well, you keep right on thinkin’, and watch out for Nance Nightshade.” She pulled me closer and whispered, “The woman has witchy powers. Kind men can’t resist. Be aware. Keep you wits about, Lucius. If you don’t, she’ll kill you. Then, as God is my witness, I’ll have to kill her.”
12
“. . . I’LL KICK YOUR ASS. TILL YOUR NOSE BLEEDS.”
TOWN GOT CONSIDERABLE subdued after all the shooting and hell-raising. Small clusters of folks huddled in doorways, or under awnings, and muttered amongst themselves as Boz and me passed. Some pointed and offered hushed remarks to their neighbors behind trembling hands. Got me to thinking on how their actions had the power to give a man some right uneasy feelings, if he wanted to think on them long enough. Didn’t care to waste any real effort on it myself. Had to get ready for our ride out to Titus’s ranch. Not sure why, but a cold, lifeless image of Nance Nightshade kept weaseling its way into my brain. Disturbing thought, so I did my best to push the dreadful apparition aside.
Walk from the church really didn’t amount to much by way of distance, but seemed to take forever. Nothing like the inquisitive eyes of angry, agitated people convinced you ain’t gonna live much longer to slow time to something like molasses in a Vermont winter.
Once we made our way to the relative tranquility of the office, Boz and me spent close to an hour getting loaded and primed for what awaited us on Little Agnes Creek. First time I’d noticed a right grim aspect to my partner’s personality. His normal joshing around, and funning, disappeared. Found his gloomy attitude a shade on the worrisome side, but figured he’d perk up as soon as we confronted the Nightshades about their most recent slap in Sweetwater’s collective face. Just knew any kind of action would sharpen his wits and perk him up.
We’d stepped back outside and were about to get mounted when, to my absolute awestruck wonderment, the grizzled, ghostlike vision of Crow Foot Stickles ambled down the street. I would have recognized his ramrod outline from half a mile away in a blowing sandstorm. Man gave off all the confident grit of a desert in August, and glowered at the world from a bored countenance that resembled a thousand-year-old Arizona cactus. His platter-sized sombrero, crimped in a fashionable, but self-made, rustic style, along with the scarlet sash and heavy silver spurs, were set off by a studded gun belt and ivory-handled Richard’s conversion pistol in a belly-high cross-draw rig.
Crow Foot was something of an old-fashioned dandy, when you got right down to it, even if he heatedly refused to own up to a personal weakness for the kind of stylish splendor used to cover a body well past its prime. Kept his hair, chin whiskers, and mustaches free of vermin and well trimmed. Claimed the ladies liked them that way. Have to admit that while his arrival surprised the absolute hell out of me, I secretly rejoiced at the prospect of news from family and home he surly carried with him.
Drew his mule, Mildred, to a halt at the hitch rack, crossed a leg over his saddle horn, and went to cutting on a plug of his preferred chaw. He favored a local Lampasas brand called Uncle Jake’s Tejas Twist. And, while he rarely chewed in the presence of women, he was seldom without the stuff when in the company of men.
Crowfoot had no use for horses. More than once I heard him opine on the equine animal’s inherent skittishness, belligerence, thickheadedness, and underestimated ability to kill its poor stupid riders. “Give me a mule any day of the week,” he’d grumpily lecture. “Far better companions and a damned site more dependable. Ain’t never broke none of my bones a-fallin’ off’n a mule. But, by God, I’ve been bucked off, stomped on, run into fences, dragged, pitched into trees and barbed wire, and generally abused by damned near every hammerhead I ever threw a leg over.”
Have to say his confident, relaxed appearance stunned me to the point where all I managed to get out of my rubbery mouth was, “What in the hell are you doing here, you rapscallious old bandit?”
He smiled, pushed the tobacco into his mouth, and chomped around a bit till the wad found a favorite spot. “Yore mama done sent me to make sure her oldest remaining son ain’t gone and got hisself kilt, or somethin’. You isn’t daid or anything, is you, Lucius? ’Cause I’d be mighty sorry to have to go back to the Colinas and tell that sad, wonderful woman as how her wandering child done went and got his head shot full of holes, or worse.”
I hopped off the boardwalk and whacked him on the leg with my hat. “Hell, no, I ain’t deceased yet, you old horse thief. Step down, shake, and say howdy to my Ranger partner, Boz Tatum.”
Two best friends I could claim in the world at that moment circled each other like a couple of suspicious scorpions. Dance went on for about ten seconds before they finally decided a handshake wouldn’t cost either of them much of anything.
Boz said, “Didn’t catch your name, sir.” Kept his tone neutral. I listened for the slightest affront, but could detect nothing by way of a challenge. Good thing. Would have hated to see them go to spitting and gouging at each other. But such events did occasionally occur when men who were strangers met for the first time.
“Crow Foot Stickles is the name. Chicken wranglin’s my game. Leastways, seems as such since this here pullet flew the coop after his pappy went and got hisself shot deader’n Mad Sam Walker. Be a pleasure to report back to his mama that he’s still with us, and appears to be a-prosperin’ under the benevolent guidance of one of Tejas’ finest. Sure Miz Mattie’ll be pleased to discover he appears to be ridin’ on a gravy train with biscuit wheels.” Damned fine to hear him make light of his mission, and bring some cheer back to our circumstances.
Boz turned to me and, with a shade of testiness in his voice, snapped, “Didn’t you send the dispatch I had you write explaining where you were, and what had taken place in Fort Worth? Told you how important it was for your family. Thought I done a right fair job of stressing the significance of that particular note.”
“Honest to God, Boz, I posted the letter right before we left town for Sweetwater. It must have got delayed or something. Hell, Crow Foot probably hit the trail from Las Tres Colinas ’bout the time I dropped it in the mailbag on the Waco stage.”
“Ain’t seen, nor heard of, any letter. Leastways, yore mama didn’t mention one. Just said, ‘Crow Foot, find my boy and make sure he’s not been harmed. If’n he’s still living, make sure he stays that way.’ Brother Burl advised as how things are goin’ just ’bout as peachy as can be expected on the ranch. Tole me to say you shouldn’t worry if’n I was to locate you.”
“How did you manage to find me? Explained everything in my note, but never expected Ma would send you to look.”
“Figured One-Eyed Whitey and Raz would head for F
ort Worth. Only place worth stoppin’ ’tween Lampasas and the safety of the Nations. Soon’s word got around ’bout Bone and his two henchmen, knew you’d be right behind ’em. Good thing I happened to stop in and visit with some friends out at the Ranger camp. They tole me all ’bout yore hastified enlistment. But, hell, got me to thinkin’, and I reasoned as how you musta figured it’d be easier to kill Whitey and Raz if’n you had some law hangin’ off’n yore chest.” Boz and me both smiled at his unlettered ability to ferret out the real reason for my association with Company B.
“Don’t suppose you wasted so much as a minute’s worth of your time in Hell’s Half Acre, did you, old man?” Winked when I asked the question, because I already knew the answer.
“Well, now, Lucius, I mighta spent somethin’ of a thrillin’ interlude visitin’ with my good friend Gold Tooth Alice Crowder. She’s a fine woman what got forced into the life of the crimson Cyprian. An unfortunate circumstance I would gladly rectify were it not for the fact that it has befallen me to live the life of an ancient, rootless, broken-down rover and cowboy. Besides, the woman gives the best bath this side of St. Louis. And, by the time I made it to Fort Worth from the Colinas, I’d begun to feel a mite crusty. Ain’t nothin’ worse’n feelin’ crusty. In my more than humble opinion, that is.”
“Well, Crusty, you made Sweetwater just in time to help us out with a festerin’ problem,” I said. “We’re confronted with a family of miscreants named Nightshade that live a short piece outside town. Little more’n a few hours ago, they disturbed the town’s peace by bustin’ up a much-anticipated wedding. Shot so many holes in the church house, Boz claims the congregation might have to start using the building for a flour sifter. We’re fixin’ to take a ride out to Little Agnes Creek. Wanna string along?”
Crowfoot grinned, pulled his pistol, and started checking the loads. “Only thing I like more’n a hot woman on cool sheets is stompin’ the hell out of evil bastards what deserve it. Takes some pretty sorry sorts to break up a sacred event as hallowed as a wedding. Besides, I’ve been hearing ’bout this Nightshade bunch for two, or three, years now. Have friends who live a bit west of here over in Poolville. They’ve been grumblin’ ’bout cattle borrowin’ ever since ole Titus and his tribe arrived in these parts. Bet you they ain’t nothin’ like a few bullet holes to set them straight.”