A Bad Day to Die: The Adventures of Lucius “By God” Dodge, Texas Ranger (Lucius Dodge Westerns Book 1)

by J. Lee Butts

  Mention of ole man Nightshade brought an awkward silence. Hush lasted so long, Crow Foot finally snorted, “Well, hell, boys, did I snap a suspender, is my barn door open, or what?”

  “Titus got shot graveyard dead a couple of weeks ago. Pulled down on the wrong man,” said Boz. “Remaining family’s been fairly quiet, up till today. Have to figure the gunplay at the church was little more than their version of vengeance.” Boz thought a bit before he continued. “But blood will have blood. They ain’t finished by a damned sight, boys. Be willing to bet they’ve got something gory in mind, and given what we already know of their past history, the hooraw this morning amounted to nothing more’n a warning of things to come.”

  I assumed we’d said about all that was needed and started for Grizz. But Boz came up with an absolutely stellar idea that would never have entered my pea-sized brain. “Tell me somethin’, Crow Foot, how’d you like to be sheriff of Sweetwater, Texas?”

  Ole Stickles looked like a man who’d just been hit in the face with a wet saloon mop. “The hell, you say. Never been nothin’ like a peace officer afore. Did my share of Rangerin’ back when the Comanche was still runnin’ wild, but ain’t sure I’ve ever had any desire to carry a badge.”

  Boz slapped my old friend on the back, then squeezed his shoulder. “Most folks ’round here feel the Nightshades were responsible for their last lawman’s disappearance. Pretty sure I can get you hired for as long as we’re in town. Be mighty helpful and, what’s more, it won’t be anything permanent.” He grinned. “Whattaya say, old-timer?”

  “Oh, I guess that’ll be all right. Besides, probably impress them Nightshades if’n we all show up sporting a badge of some sort. Been my experience they ain’t nothing like the long, officious arm of the real law to get the undivided attention of bad folks. ’Sides, I know this bunch for thieves. They ain’t made no reputation as gunmen or killers as yet, has they?”

  “Not yet,” Boz said. “But after this morning’s dustup, won’t surprise me much when it happens. I had hoped Titus’s unforeseen departure from this life would make them give a bit more in the way of careful thought to their actions. Guess I was wrong.”

  We hashed the situation around for a few more minutes, then strolled over to Hickerson’s. Bore witness while Burton, as representative of the town council, swore Crow Foot in as Sweetwater’s newest high sheriff. Things were going along pretty good till our storekeeping friend said, “What’s your given name, Mr. Stickles?”

  A degree of hot surprise crept into Crow Foot’s voice. “Why?”

  Burton’s sheepish, nervous look darted to each of us in turn. “Can’t swear you in using a nickname, or nom de plume, as it were.”

  Crow Foot’s confusion went all the way to his boot heels. “Nom de ploo-me: What the hell’s that? Been accused of a lot in my life, but never of bein’ a nom de ploo-me.”

  “Just a French word for false name,” Hickerson said. “Gonna need your real, actual, and full name for town records and such. You understand, don’t you?”

  Crow Foot scratched most of his entire head. Started with the beard, went to his side-whiskers, mustache, then to the thick mat under his sombrero. He even dug around in his ears, for a bit, before letting the thing go. “Leander Gladstone Sanborn Stickles, by God. And, I swear ’fore Jesus, if one of you boys lets this particular cat out of the bag, I’ll kick your ass till your nose bleeds.”

  Came as such a shock to me, my comment kind of darted out of my mouth before I could stop it. “Damn, Crow Foot, if I had a ten-dollar name like Leander Gladstone Sanborn Stickles, think my chest might swell up so big I wouldn’t be able to walk down the street ’thout knocking folks off the boardwalk.”

  “That’s just exactly what I mean, goddammit. Never fails. Soon’s some smart-alec like you hears my real, actual, honest-to-God name, I usually end up in a fistfight. Spent the first twelve, or so, years of my life rolling around in my own blood over my mother’s favorite label. I got hung with a string of old family monikers and the discards of long-dead uncles. Hell, boys, the woman named my brother Aaron Jacob Stickles. Nice name. Jack never had a single giggling reference to the handle she threw his direction.”

  I could tell Boz suffered from a prodigious effort to keep from falling down laughing. He nervously suppressed the snigger, to a point, but couldn’t resist asking, “Where’d Crow Foot come from?”

  “My grandpap. He thought my gait funny. Said when I wuz a kid tryin’ to learn how to dance, I looked like a drunk crow. I liked the name he gave me a bunch better’n bein’ called Lee-ander or Gladdy-stone. And boys, if’n you want to git my dander up, all you gotta do is even think ’bout callin’ me Sandy. That particular handle is just so sissified, she has the power to make the hair stand up on my back. Call me that’un, and yore for damned sure in for an ass-kickin’.”

  Hickerson tried to hide stifled amusement, and his wife had her face buried in an apron. He coughed and pinned a six-pointed star to Crow Foot’s chest and said, “Well, Sheriff Stickles, I can assure you the secret is safe with my wife and me.” My old friend’s red-faced nod put the discussion to bed. We headed for our horses and the uncertainty of what waited out on Little Agnes Creek.

  13

  “WHAT THE HELL YOU LAWDOGS WANT THIS TIME?”

  THE RIDE OUT to what the citizens of Sweetwater believed was the Nightshade clan’s combination ranch house, hideout, dance hall, and gossip-reputed whorehouse ended up being noticeably less tense than I expected before Crow Foot’s appearance on the scene. Having another badge and gun on the raid elevated our expectations of success. My old friend’s presence helped greatly with my personal feelings of well-being. Could tell by his manner that Boz’s banjo string had also loosened up a turn or two.

  A rod or so off the Jacksboro Road, we stepped down while I drew a map in the dirt of the area around ole Titus’s rude dwelling. Boz said, “Since you’ve made one trip out this way already, you can lead us in. Crow Foot and me will hang back till we get to the creek. Then, I’ll take over from there. You remember anyplace along the way that could be used for an ambush, Lucius?”

  “Not much to hide behind till we get to the Little Agnes. Creek bank is pretty thick with blackjack oak, willow, and cottonwood. Have to come at the house from the south. Lazy stream is pretty shallow right now. Barely made Grizz’s knees at its deepest. Could go downstream, and sneak over there. Do a long circle, and come at ’em from the north. It’d take us at last an extra hour or so, but you might want to think on it.”

  Boz discarded that idea out of hand. “No need. They’ll probably be expecting us to do that exact thing, being as how it’s the opposite of your first visit. We’ll go at ’em from the creek, the way you did, Lucius.” Then he locked us in a steely gaze. “You boys keep sharp. Faced off with this type more times than I care to count. What we want out of this, more’n anything else, is to make it back to Sweetwater tonight where we can have a nice piece of beefsteak and a beer at the Texas Star. Once we confront ’em, put your hands on your pistols, get ready for a fight, and let me do the talkin’. Understand?” We nodded our agreement, and saddled up again.

  Don’t suppose it would have mattered how we approached the Nightshade den. Turned out exactly the way Boz expected. Whole clan was ready for us, and came pouring out of the house soon as we got on their side of the watery barrier. Place looked like an anthill some mean-assed kid had just stomped on. Did a casual count, and came up with fourteen of them. Jack and Nance headed up a bunch of folks that included at least five faces I’d not seen on my initial foray, or during their trip into town to retrieve ole Titus.

  All five of the new ones had the look of men that buckshot would roll right off their bare chests like water off a baby duck’s back. My heart went to beating pretty fast when I realized just how deep the hole we’d jumped into really was. I’ve lived a long time since that afternoon, but I’ve never seen that many children, under the age of twelve, so heavily armed. The red-faced, snot-nos
ed little shits carried pistols, rifles, and knives of damned near every sort I’d ever seen. And the worst thing was, those kids appeared anxious for the shooting to start so they could kill all of us.

  Lot of noise at first, but Jack and Nance finally shushed them down. Nance hooked her thumbs into her pistol belt and said, “What the hell you lawdogs want this time? Ole Man McKee and his bitch daughter lose some chickens?” Nervous snickers danced our way from the pack of kids. “That smart-mouthed little Martye been a-telling lies on us Nightshades again? Or did you fellers ride out just to socialize? Might as well know, we ain’t got no tea and cookies for the likes of you.” She locked me in a wicked gaze. “Or maybe you came miles out of the way to help us cook another pig.”

  Boz had stopped a few steps closer to the house than Crow Foot and me. He stretched forward in his stirrups and, when he spoke, I could barely hear him. No doubt about it, the man was as serious as cholera and real unhappy about being confronted by that many hostile guns in the hands of children.

  “You folks caused quite a stir in Sweetwater this morning. Scared the hell out of damn near everyone in town. Did a journeyman’s job of bringing a fine wedding ceremony, and reception, to a screeching halt. Damaged considerable property, and made off with most of the food.”

  Jack Nightshade yelped, “What in the blue-eyed hell are you mumbling about? We ain’t been off’n our property in damned near a week.”

  Little brother Arch bounced up to the front of the Nightshade litter, and stopped beside his older sibling. Nervy boy held a Winchester next to his leg. “Yeah. We been right here. Don’t know what you’re going on about. Ain’t seen nothing. Ain’t done nothing. Ain’t been nowhere. Why don’t you sons of bitches get the hell off our property, and leave us alone?”

  Nance must have noticed Crow Foot’s badge. She lifted a defiant chin in his direction. “Who the hell’s this newest law-bringin’ bastard. That looks like Charlie Fain’s badge you’re wearin’ there, old man. Where’d you get it?”

  She’d mouthed off and said the exact wrong thing to a testy old coot like Crow Foot. Boz might have warned him to keep quiet. Didn’t matter. Sounded like a grizzly from the back of a three-cub den when he growled, “You watch your quarrelsome mouth, girl. Don’t let all these wrinkles and scars fool you. One of you heathens starts anything today, and I’ll kill at least five of you before you can spit.”

  Boz turned in the saddle, and tried to glare him into silence. Didn’t make one whit’s worth of difference. Crow Foot had launched into a rant, and them Nightshade kids were about to learn one of life’s more important lessons: Never brace a man you don’t know.

  Old warhorse snapped, “Let me tell you somethin’, girl. You think paradin’ all these kids out here’s gonna cause me to hesitate if’n you start pitchin’ lead my way, you got another think comin’. I don’t care if half of you is still suckin’ at the teat. Bring a loaded gun up my direction, and I’ll send any, or all, of you to Jesus so fast your diapers will catch fire like a fresh-lit pine knot.”

  Jack’s face went scarlet and, for a spell, he looked like a man in the midst of a stroke. I thought his head might explode. “Damn you. This is the second time one of you lawmen has come on our property and threatened us. Ain’t nobody else around these parts had the nerve to show such brass.”

  Boz made a subdued effort to calm the situation. Cool as the bottom of a post hole, he said, “Well, son, you Nightshades have had your way here’bouts for some years now. Might as well get used to the fact that those days is over. The Texas Rangers have arrived. They’s even a new sheriff in town. Best get used to the fact that anytime something amiss takes place within a hundred miles of Sweetwater, we’re gonna be out here asking questions.”

  Crow Foot just couldn’t keep his mouth shut. “Yeah, and kickin’ your whole family’s collective ass, if’n we have to.”

  Jack quivered like a coon dog trying to pass a six-pound cannon ball. He turned to a bearded, lanky feller leaning against the door frame. Dressed in a coat and black felt hat, the stranger tore himself away from his resting place and pushed some of the kids aside. Entire clan immediately made a path, as the newest brigand in the mix moved to the front of the crowd. Heavy silver spurs chinked and jingled. He stopped between Nance and her brother. Pulled his inky frock aside to reveal a pair of handsome Smith & Wesson pistols.

  Nance and Arch grinned, as Jack got all Shakespeare dramatic and said, “Like you lawdogs to meet a good friend of our’n. This here’s Snake River Tom Runyon.” He turned and made a sweeping motion with his arm like a full-blown Eastern stage actor. “These here other boys are Tom’s traveling companions. All of ’em be associates of our recently assassinated father what got sent to heaven by that murderer from Sweetwater. Just stopped by to say howdy, and visit. Think maybe Tom and his friends might even be persuaded to stay over for a spell.”

  Pretty sure I’d never heard of Snake River Tom Runyon, at the time. Don’t believe Crow Foot had either. Leastways, he didn’t act like the introduction affected him one way or the other. Only sign Boz registered amounted to a slight stiffening of the shoulders, along with an ever-so-delicate move in the direction of his belly gun.

  Runyon grudgingly tipped his hat like a man who wanted to send us all to hell on an outhouse door. “Afternoon, Rangers, Sheriff. Mighty fine of you gentlemen to stop by and warn my good friends about the kind of worthless trash who’d shoot into a church house full of people.” He removed his hat and held it over his heart. “My dearly departed ole pappy preached the gospel. Just can’t abide anyone who’d do such a despicable thing. Unsettling, downright unsettling, if you ask me. Desperadoes, such as those, should be punished to the full extent of the law’s ability to do so.” Man had a voice that sounded like it came from just outside the gates to Satan’s playground. “Think you’ll have to look elsewhere fer them bad men, ’cause we’ve been right here all day readin’ the Bible, prayin’, and praisin’ God. I swear to Jesus.”

  Boz squinted hard. “Been a long time, ain’t it, Tom? Seems like only yesterday I put a bullet in your less than sorry hide over in San Angelo. Last time we ran you out of Texas, I heard you settled for the green hills and prairies of Montana and Wyoming. Done ventured out of your regular stomping grounds, ain’t you?”

  Runyon’s face went scarlet as he stuffed his hat back on his head. “Ain’t no reason to get temperamental, Boz. Me and the boys is just as innocent as newborn babes.”

  Tatum came damned near to laughing out loud, but he covered it up by coughing into his hand. “Hear tell, some folks up around Billings might want to talk with you about trains, stolen gold, and such. Even heard a scurrilous rumor that the city fathers of Casper, Wyoming, think you murdered several individuals who might not have been able to get themselves armed, or turn around in time to keep from getting shot in the back. Bloody events happened a number of years ago, but I’d be willing to bet the marshal up there would still love to have a sit-down with you.”

  The black-draped gunman threw Boz a contemptuous smile. “Just a pack of sorry damnable lies, far as I’m concerned. You know how it is, Boz. People make mistakes. Some see things that never happened. Knew a feller up in Cut Bank who swore he seen cigar-shaped things with blinking lights flyin’ ’round in the sky at night. Other folks think too much. Seems like everywhere I go them thinkin’ bastards are the ones what cause me the most problems. But none of that matters a damn, one way or ’tother, because there ain’t no paper out on me, or my boys, up in Montana, or here in Texas. We can go, and do, as we please. Right now, it’s our pleasure to visit with grieving friends—the Nightshades. Help them mourn the passing of a sainted father, gentleman, and good neighbor.”

  Boz snapped a glance my direction, and another over at Crow Foot. Creaking leather sounded like battlefield gunfire as he leisurely shifted in his saddle, and brought a hand around to the cantle and nearer his belly gun. Then, he turned a challenging frown on one of the strangers, mixed in with the clutch
of Nightshade children milling around on the porch. “That you a-hidin’ up there amongst the kids, Latigo?”

  Skinny wretch with a long scar on his scabrous face yelped, “Maybe. Maybe not. Ain’t got no reason to insult me like that, Boz. I ain’t done nothin’ to you. Lately.”

  “Lucius, Crow Foot. Meet Latigo Cooley. His real name’s Ernest Poorman. Ole Ernest never could accept what God made him, so he changed his name and set out on a life of evil doings. Two other deacons in attendance today include Jesse Dodd over on the left, and Leo Kershaw on the right. Neither one of ’em worth the gunpowder it’d take to fill a nit’s ass.”

  With that audacious insult, Jack’s smile vanished like spit on a blacksmith’s glowing forge. “Look here now, Tatum, I don’t care if you are a Ranger. You ain’t got no right to ride in here and insult my family’s friends.”

  Crow Foot laughed out loud. “If’n this is the best you can do for friends, son, you might want to invest some more time lookin’. You can outshine this bunch with a single visit to the docks of Houston. They’s an abundance of whores and killers down there who’d gladly call you friend, if the price proved agreeable.”

  By then, I’d reached the point where the rapidly growing tension had me wound up tighter than a knotted rope. Whole fragile jawbone session kind of popped like a soap bubble when the cantankerous clan’s loony matriarch stormed to the front steps and cut loose with a string of curses that would’ve made my mother cover her ears in shame.

  Dusky Nightshade shook her corncob pipe at us. Looked like a witch using the leg bone of a black cat, in some sort of hellish ceremony only performed at midnight when the heavens were laced with lightning. “Goddamn you lawmen,” she screeched, “and all them other sons of bitches like ye.”