by J. Lee Butts
For the first time since we’d met, Boz looked absolutely thunderstruck. Got to give him credit, though. He recovered mighty fast. “Calm down, Mrs. Nightshade.”
“You can go straight to hell, Ranger. Don’t be a-tellin’ me to calm down.” She waved the pipe dismissively as if to rid herself of things she didn’t want to see. “Yore kind has been a tribulation on my family for longer’n I can tell. Persecuted us fer untold years back in ’Bama. Got to the pint where we couldn’t even cook up a batch of home brew, once in a while. Alabama dirt farmers even complained ’bout our fiddlin’ and dancin’. Sweet Jesus, life ain’t worth livin’ if’n you cain’t fiddle ner dance. Came to Texas to git away from yore type of jackass. But did we? Hell, no. Now, you’ve stood by and ’llowed one o’ them snake-fornicatin’ bastards from Sweetwater to kill my Titus.”
Crazy woman’s hair-covered upper lip quivered. She got all misty-eyed for a few seconds. Wiped away a tear and snapped back to life. “Come out here accusin’ my sons, daughters, and their friends of crimes ’gin that same bunch of shit-eatin’ dogs. I want all of yen’s off’n my property, and be damned lively about it. Don’t come back till ye can prove such broke-brained charges.”
Got to hand it to Boz. He didn’t flinch. Let everything quiet down again. Then, real low and real slow, he said, “We’ll leave when our business here is finished, missus, and not a second sooner. So far, we’ve not had anyone come forward to say for certain they saw you Nightshades hoo-raw the wedding. But, believe me, if and when we do, we’ll be back. In the meanwhile, should I so much as hear of someone stealing fleas off any of your neighbor’s dogs, you can count on seein’ me so fast it’ll make your head spin.” He started to turn away, but stopped and added, “Next time I have to come out here, you’d best be prepared to give up someone for the jailhouse. ’Cause I’ll be taking one, or more, of you back with me. Anyone not understand what I just said? Any of you who didn’t hear me?” Whole bunch milled around, picked at their clothes, and toed the porch planks like a gang of embarrassed kids who’d been caught behind the barn looking in one another’s britches.
Boz eased his horse back two steps and said, “Let’s get on back to town, boys. Ain’t nothing else for us here. You go first, Lucius. Crow Foot will follow, and I’ll come over last. Soon’s you get on the other side, son, pull your rifle. They’ll be less inclined to act if they’re already under the gun.”
So, that’s how the mouthy confrontation finally shook out. We took our time crossing Little Agnes Creek, but whipped ’em good once we’d achieved some degree of safety. Slowed down as soon as the Jacksboro Road came back into sight.
Crow Foot got to cackling like a crazy man, and soon we’d all took a turn hooting and slapping our legs. He snorted, “Damn, boys. That’s about as intense as I’ve seen in a spell. Them’s some right testy folks. But, you know, I never felt like they really intended on doin’ anything other’n run off at the mouth.”
“Is that a natural fact?” I snapped. “Scruffy, tree-dwelling jugheads scared the bejabbers out of me, Crow Foot. Thought for sure they might go to pitching lead just any second. Especially after ole Mama Nightshade went nuttier than a box of soft-shell pecans before our very eyes. God Almighty, don’t take but about a minute’s worth of her to help you understand why the rest of them are buggier’n a blanket full of dog ticks.”
Boz got his wish. He sprung for steaks, and all the trimmings, at the Texas Star late that afternoon. We’d each just managed to slice into individual slabs of beef the size of a wagon wheel when a delegation of nigh on twenty of Sweetwater’s leading citizens showed up, and noisily gathered around our table.
Burton Hickerson led a solid-looking group that included the owners of Bashwell’s and Bruce Brother’s. I didn’t recognize everyone in the assemblage, but if anybody who could claim to be somebody in Sweetwater didn’t attend the meeting, I couldn’t have told you who that might have been.
Most surprising member of the hastily convened congregation, though, was Shorty Small. For some reason, it never occurred to me that the owner of the Nightshade gang’s favorite hangout might have more than a bit of incentive to want them out of his hair.
Burton stepped forward with his hat in his hand and spoke directly to Boz. “My friends, neighbors, and business associates were wondering why you didn’t arrest anyone during your trip out to Little Agnes Creek, Ranger.”
Boz ran a finger around in his mouth, and took a swallow of his beer. “Well, Burton, being as how no one could positively identify those who fired into the church, and being as how the Nightshades denied it, and being as how they have friends out there who support their story, wasn’t much we could do other’n what we did. Warned ’em we’d be watching their every move, and made certain they knew dire consequences would follow if any more violent behavior befell citizens hereabouts. Think our words of warning got their attention. Can’t imagine you folks will have to sit up nights worrying about much of a response from them, for a spell.”
Josiah Bruce pushed his way to Burton’s side. “You boys haven’t been around these parts long enough to make such an assessment. We have. Seen it all before. The Nightshades will pull a trick like shooting holes in the church house, run to the safety of their stronghold, deny they had a hand in the lawlessness, and wait. Usually only takes a few days before they show up in town again, looking to punish us for daring to raise objections to their behavior.”
Shorty Small chimed in like a man pained by the fact that he even had to speak. “Josiah is right as rain on this one, boys. Inside a week, them evil sons of bitches, and their angry women, will show up in my place for a daylong session of drinkin’, cussin’, hell-raisin’, and general belligerence. No doubt I’ll make plenty of money, ’cause they always pay in gold coin for their pleasures. But I’m not sure the abuse is worth it. Ain’t been a time yet they didn’t threaten to kill me, at some point during one of their visits. They revel in their outlaw behavior, and don’t have one whit of conscience talkin’ ’bout it when the only person listening would be easy to find and rub out.”
Boz must have decided he wouldn’t get to finish his meal for a spell. He tossed his napkin onto the table, twisted around in his chair, and locked eyes with the whole bunch of them. “Look, fellers, whatever might have occurred with Jack, Nance, and the rest of ’em don’t mean anymore’n a paper bag full of east Texas goat shit as far as I’m concerned. They’ve been warned by Randall Bozworth Tatum, and the great state of Texas, to be on their best behavior. Trust me when I tell you if a single event occurs in Parker County that can attach itself to the Nightshade family, we’ll be on them like ugly on an armadillo.”
I barely heard him speak, but Hornus Bashwell sure got my attention when he said, “You might well have put the fear of God in them, Ranger. But then again, you could just be fooling yourself. We know those people. And if you think they’re done with us for not inviting them to the wedding, reception, and dancin’ afterward, you’ve got another think a-coming. They’ll definitely be paying the town a call soon, and if what you’ve said about your discussion with that bunch of renegades is accurate, you can bet the ranch they’ll be madder’n a gunnysack of teased rattlesnakes. Personally, I don’t want to be around for that next visit. It’s gonna be hell on wheels, boys.”
14
“THESE MEN HAVE BLOOD IN THEIR EYES.”
HORNUS BASHWELL’S VISIONARY proclamation came true exactly six days after we laid it on the line for the Nightshade clan. Unfortunately, Boz, Crow Foot, and me weren’t in town when it all came down like thunderation on those poor folks.
Early that morning a feller named Webster Wilhoit, from the tiny community of Jeeter, out on Denton Creek about ten miles north of Sweetwater, led us on a wild-goose chase for a band of outlaws he claimed had stolen some of his horses. Turned out, all we had was his word on the matter and no evidence he ever owned any horses.
Crow Foot saw through the ruse within an hour of our arrival at the lying sl
ug’s watch-pocket-sized ranch. Wilhoit’s claims of theft had their basis in a personal dispute that’d been bubbling around for some years. Not all that much different from what we were confronted with in Sweetwater. Most obvious dissimilarity I could note, after we’d done all the investigating we needed to do, was that the folks in Jeeter might not have liked each other much, but they hadn’t descended to Sweetwater’s level of murder and mayhem—yet. We figured such behavior couldn’t be far behind, because Jeeter had even less in the way of law enforcement available than Sweetwater, before our arrival on the scene.
Being sidetracked like that made Boz madder’n a two-tailed scorpion. He griped all the way back to the office. “Damned amazing how these grudge-carrying snakes come out from under every rock within miles when they hear there’s a Ranger somewhere nearby. Hell, I should have known better soon as Wilhoit rode up. Every stump-jumping yokel with a gripe against one of his neighbors can’t stand it unless he can spend time bending some agreeable lawman’s ear with a load of personal bitterness and irate bullshit.”
We’d been out fumbling around in the briars and brambles on our snipe hunt a good part of the morning when we finally owned up to the error of our ways, and headed back to Sweetwater. Could hear the uproar before we got to Walnut Creek. When we popped out on the other side of the covered bridge, the ruckus sounded like all the ranch-raised folk in Parker County had trekked in from the countryside, and were madder than hell on a pitchfork. Passing stranger might have thought a town full of drunken preachers had found red-horned Satan camped out in their backyards.
Made our way up Main Street and passed several groups of heavily armed men. Every saloon had its own gathering of the obviously agitated, belligerent, and soon-to-be-sloppy knee-walking drunk. Members of each crowd turned and eyeballed us as if our small posse intruded on a private get-together. Shouting from so many people, and general noise contributed by their various animals, made it difficult to determine what all the activity was about. Good deal of the riffraff’s open anger seemed pointed our direction, which only confused us further.
Crow Foot turned to me and hollered, “What in the hell do you reckon happened, Lucius? Ain’t seen this many people in town since I got here.”
Could tell Boz didn’t care much for what he saw either. “This ain’t good, boys. These men have blood in their eyes. Can’t imagine what’s got ’em this riled up.”
Someone in the swarm of citizens camped out front of the Texas Star yelled, “’Bout, by God, time you lawmen came back. Where the hell you been? Whole town coulda done got murdered in their beds by now.”
Sizable gathering took up most of the street in front of Hickerson’s Store. Burton stood on the boardwalk and tried to quiet a seething pack of about twenty-five or thirty angry men who waved their guns and seemed intent on shouting him down.
Every time Hickerson moved more than a few steps, his slow-witted helper, Lenny Milsap, swept the vacant spot left behind. Boy looked happier than a two-tailed puppy in a box full of brothers and sisters. Ain’t nothing like a bit of responsibility to make a man feel wanted.
Boz rode through the middle of the mob, and dismounted at the hitch rail. He grabbed the frantic storekeeper by the arm and hustled him inside. Crow Foot and me hotfooted it behind them as fast as we could leg it. Boz didn’t stop pushing Burton until they’d arrived in the private room at the back of the busy mercantile.
You could hear the concern in his voice when Boz said, “What the hell’s going on here, Burton? Looks like every cow-chasin’ horse wrangler in the county’s done gone and got hisself pissed off, drunk, and armed up for a fight.”
The flustered merchant looked like a man in the midst of a deep personal crisis. A series of raw emotions danced across his face. He flopped into a chair behind his dinner table, and held his head in shaking hands for damned near a minute before he finally looked up again. “It’s bad, Ranger. Real bad. The town’s leading citizens have lobbied Cyrus Baynes for almost two years to get added on as a regular daily stop for his stage line between Fort Worth and Jacksboro. As you well know, they only visit town once every other week now. The contract would amount to a financial boon for the town by way of perhaps twenty men employed at a Baynes layover, the sale of horses and feed, food and lodging for travelers, and maybe even a new hotel or bank. Hell, the economic benefits for our area are virtually limitless, and that doesn’t even bring a sorely needed connection to the outside world into consideration.”
Boz got impatient. “You can give the ‘ain’t Sweetwater a great place to open a business’ speech a rest, Burton. Get to the point. My hair’s turnin’ gray.”
Hickerson slapped the tabletop. Got all red in the face. “Well, dammit, Ranger Tatum, the point is, someone stopped Baynes’s noon stage on its way to Jacksboro, and killed the driver and express agent. All happened about a mile north of town. Moses Hand found those poor boys shot to Jesus. Killers made ’em kneel down next to the front wheel on the driver’s side of the coach. Moses said it appeared they’d been executed. After a personal examination of the bloody scene, I tend to agree with him. Those men didn’t have no more chance than butterflies in a cyclone. Shot like dogs. Some folks, here in town, claim they heard the gunfire. Can’t testify to that myself, but those assertions came from reliable people. ’Bout two hours ago, me and a posse of Sweetwater’s founders located the empty strongbox on the side of the road less than a hundred yards from the scene of the murders.”
I said, “He’s right, Boz. Sounds about as bad as it gets to me.”
Hickerson kept going like he didn’t even hear me. “Jesus, boys, we’ve had three killings in a matter of weeks. That’s more dead people in a shorter span of time than any other instance I can remember since 1852 when me, Bashwell, and the Bruce brothers established the town.”
Crow Foot asked the most obvious question. “You folks got any idea who did it?”
Hickerson shot him a mocking look, and contemptuously snorted. “Hell, yes. We have more than a good idea. Who do you think did it, Sheriff Stickles? Want to place any bets? You think maybe Euless Whitecotton got out of his sickbed and did it? Get you damned good odds on anyone other than that bunch out on Little Agnes Creek.”
“You sound pretty well persuaded the Nightshades did these killings?” Boz sounded tired.
Grabbed my Ranger friend by the sleeve and pulled him over to a corner. Crow Foot followed. “We need to find Moses Hand, Boz. Whoever that might be. Got to hear this tale directly from him. Looks to me like the spark has already been set to Sweetwater’s fuse, and there’s gonna be a lynching, unless we do something damned decisive to stop it.”
Crow Foot nodded, but surprised me when he said, “Why would we want to stop it? Let ’em hang the bastards—Nightshades or not. Save us the trouble of lockin’ ’em up, then dragging the whole crew all the way over to the county seat for a trial. Mad as these people is, they just might turn on us, if’n we don’t handle the situation, and pretty speedy.”
Not sure he meant to, but my old friend managed to light a fire under me as well. “Damn, Crow Foot, I can’t believe you’d even entertain such an idea.”
Boz snapped a glance back at Mr. Hickerson. “Where’s Moses Hand? We need to talk with him.”
“Well, Mose likes his privacy, Ranger Tatum. Lives about three miles north of town on Denton Creek. That’s why he was the one who came upon the killings like he did. He was on his way to town at the time. Comes in once a week and stocks up on necessities here in my store. Been ranching out that way since before Sweetwater came into existence.”
Burton was a likable enough sort. He just couldn’t get to the point without making a speech. That time I interrupted him. “We’ve got to talk with Hand sometime today, Burton. Don’t require a personal history right now.”
A brief look of disappointment, at not being able to finish his lecture, flickered in the man’s eyes. “Well, as luck would have it, think he’s in the Taxas Star. Unless he’s decided to have
nothing more to do with what’s going on in the street, and headed for the ranch. Not much chance he’ll take part in any of the rash behavior you see building outside.” He stopped for a second, then got downright serious. “But if I were you boys, I’d be careful how I approached the man.”
Struck me as an odd thing to say. “What does that mean?” I asked.
“Mose is the kind who doesn’t like to be crept up on, surprised, or brought to anger. Best tread softly, gentlemen. Been a number of cattle thieves around these parts who found out it didn’t pay to borrow cows from Moses Hand. He’s a dead shot with a Winchester or Colt, and dangerous even when unarmed.”
Thought came to me that we had a more immediate problem than some powwow with a rancher named for one of the King James Bible’s major characters. “Look, boys, we’ve got a street full of folks outside who’ll shortly have enough whiskey-powered steam built up to do something reckless of the oak-tree justice variety. Think we’d best nip this whole situation in the bud right now, and talk with Moses Hand later.”
Everyone nodded his agreement. Boz scratched his chin. “Gonna have to take action right quicklike. Might have to use some force. Fact is, I think we should probably grab up the most vocal rabble-rousers we can find, throw them in the calaboose, and sort the whole mess out tomorrow.”
Burton Hickerson made a motion at Boz like a kid in school trying to get the teacher’s attention. He’d obviously had second thoughts about something. “Talk to Mose first, Ranger Tatum. Get him to help. Everyone in these parts knows the man. Most are afraid of him. If he steps in, folks with as little as a shot glass of sober brain cells will cut and run.”
Sounded like more than a good idea. So we left Hickerson with his thoughts, and hit the street again. Milling crowd had stirred up a curtain of gritty dust laced with the odors of sweat, cheap whiskey, and even cheaper audacity. Men darted between the gathered groups in an effort to miss as little of the inflammatory speechifying as possible. One or two fellers led most of the rabble-rousing, and seemed well on the way to getting the crowd more excited by the minute.