by J. Lee Butts
“You’re probably right about all that. But you needn’t stay up nights in a state of sleepless worry. Boz and I won’t let the town ignore the law. Won’t be any lynch mobs around these parts, long as we have anything to say about it, Miss Nightshade.”
She pushed sweaty hair from her eyes. Then said, “Can we make a deal? I’ll call you Lucius, and you can call me Nance. Reckon that’d work?”
“Fine by me.”
“Good. Glad that’s settled.” Her head dropped and, for several seconds, she thought about what she said next. “Tom Runyon and his bunch killed those men, Lucius. And the treacherous scum left the responsibility for the crime right on our front doorstep.”
Then the look she threw me hardened. She put her hands on her hips, stepped to within a foot of my face, and said, “Sometimes you can’t control people if they get crazy enough. I’ve seen as much before. It’s the exact reason why we came to Texas in the first place. Us Nightshades had to leave our home in Alabama after my oldest brother, Ethan, got strung up for a crime he didn’t commit. Nothing more than a sad story about a bunch of screaming drunks out for blood. And the opportunity to punish a family of blue-bellied Northern sympathizers they all wanted dead anyway.”
Tried to be reassuring. Don’t think I succeeded. “Believe me on this one. No need to trouble yourself any further, Nance. You can hang up the fiddle, ’cause we’ve jailed the two most vocal troublemakers, and the rest of ’em called it a day and went home. But that don’t mean you shouldn’t expect a visit from Boz and me. Go back to the ranch and get your family prepared. Tell them to stay away from town for a spell—leastways till we can go over the scene of the killings and maybe straighten this mess out. Good chance we can avoid additional trouble, if you’ll do that.”
She nailed me to the ground in a steely-eyed gaze punctuated by a single tear that dropped from the corner of her eye. “Hope you’re right, Lucius. Anyone bring this fight out to my brother, and I can guarantee there’ll be killings for damned sure. Don’t know what kind of luck I’ll have keeping Jack at home. As you well know, he tends to do as he pleases. But I’ll try.”
She didn’t wait for me to respond that time. Simply turned, jumped onto a wiry mustang’s naked back, and edged her way along the building to the street. She stopped at the alley’s entrance, checked for movement in both directions, and silently slipped into the evening’s rapidly dimming light
I followed and watched as she eased down the street to Walnut Creek like a ghost. Lost sight of her when she disappeared into the open maw of the covered bridge. Didn’t hear a sound after the darkened, cavelike entrance enveloped her.
Thought, at the time, my companions and I’d done a damned fine job. But as Crow Foot always liked to say, “A man should never count his chickens until after Sunday dinner. And if that ain’t a fact, may a wild steer hook my gizzard.” Or maybe he said something equally as convoluted and I just can’t recall the exact wording.
Anyhow, little more than a week later, I would look back on my astonishing level of inexperience and optimism about such matters, and swear I would never let myself be fooled in such a manner again, even if I lived to be a thousand years old.
Crow Foot was right in his rustic assessment of the situation. But what he should have said was, “When it rains, you’ll get wet if you stand out in the middle of the road.” Or maybe something equally as tortuous for me to figure out. All I know, for certain, is no matter how bad you think things are going, any given situation can get a hell of a lot worse so fast, it’ll make your eyeballs spin in their sockets like pinwheel fireworks on a holiday.
15
“. . . HE’S AN UGLY SON OF A BITCH, AND COMIN’ FAST.”
NEWLY APPOINTED HIGH Sheriff Crow Foot Stickles got downright officious about Judas Tierney and Frank Miller. Insisted those bellyaching boys stay in his jail overnight. Finally agreed to turn them loose after he and Boz talked their lawless behavior over. But if Boz thought he’d had the final word on the matter, he couldn’t have been any further off the mark. Crow Foot let the rabble-rousers out of their cell, and then held what he called an “oh-fishal” hearing right there in the office.
He slapped each man with a ten-dollar fine for disorderly conduct. My God, you can’t imagine the whining and moaning. Course neither one of them had any money—leastways that’s what they claimed. Boz told them they could pay the penalty out at a dollar a week. Said they should thank whatever god they prayed to that Crow Foot hadn’t charged them with inciting to riot. That one would’ve cost them fifty apiece and as much as a year behind bars down in the state penitentiary at Huntsville.
Crow Foot put them back on the street with one final piece of advice. “Don’t let me catch you sons of bitches a-causin’ trouble in my town again.”
God Almighty, you would of thought the town’s newest citizen had helped establish Sweetwater—a founding father or something, no less. Didn’t matter, though. No one in, or around, town ever saw either man after Crow Foot turned them loose. Leastways us badge-toting boys didn’t.
Morning after we confronted the mob, Boz started our investigation of the murders. Moses Hand turned into an invaluable plus for our side. Man knew Parker County, and the surrounding area, like the lines in the palms of his hands, and he surprised everyone by being an uncommonly good tracker.
We all made the trip out to the spot where the killings took place. Moses immediately found blood sign leading away from the scene. He said, “Be a-looking like maybe them stagecoach fellers musta put a blue whistler in one of the thieves. Could explain why the driver and guard went and got shot up like they did.”
After we’d been on the trail for near half a day, Boz got on a thinking rip and decided he didn’t want to leave the town completely unprotected. He sent Crow Foot back to Sweetwater. My ancient compadre didn’t like the idea of not being in on any foreseeable action. Man loved the smell of spent black powder and the prospect of a good fight, but understood the necessity of having someone around to act as defender of the town.
Turned out Nance Nightshade told me the honest-to-God truth. Followed the four killers away from the murder scene. They headed north for the Red River, and tried to use Denton Creek to cover their escape. Moses was too smart for them, by a damned sight. I do believe the man could have tracked a granddaddy longlegs over a bed of river rocks. We ran hard for two days. Crossed the Red a bit east of Wichita Falls.
About noon on the second day past the Red, we reined up on the banks of a creek that emptied into the Cache River. Watered the horses, drank what we needed, and filled our canteens. Boz and Mose talked the situation over and agreed our prey was headed for the Wildhorse country.
Moses said, “These boys done be a-thinkin’ that if’n they can make the Wildhorse River, won’t nobody be takin’ time enough to follow. Rough country for sure. Be hard to find ’em once they hide ‘mongst all them timbered-up cuts and hidden breaks.”
Boz scratched a grizzled chin. “Hard, you say? Reckon you can keep up with ’em? Stay on their tails in all this stuff?”
Our ebony-colored friend grinned and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of a tattered shirt. “Don’t you be a-worrin’ any, Ranger Tatum. Long as they keep the one a-leakin’ his life all over the place with ’em, followin’ this bunch’ll be easy. But I don’t think he’s gonna last much longer. We be findin’ them, whatever they does. And from the look of things, I’d say sometime tomorrow afternoon. Seems as like they’s mighty proud of theyselves. Be a-thinkin’ they done got away with murder and robbery. ‘Pears to me, these bad boys done slowed their pace considerable. We should be about to surprise them faster’n you can beat a bull to a hole in the fence.”
He took out ahead of Boz and me a piece, and I guess it couldn’t have been more than an hour later when we ran across the barely living person of Jesse Dodd. Poor son of a bitch looked a whole bunch different from the day I’d first seen him at the Nightshade ranch. He was slumped against the trunk of a blackjack oak. A
crusted stain started on the left side of his shirt, just above his pants, and cascaded down into a dripping boot. Someone had tied his animal’s reins to a bush nearby—a cocked pistol lay beside him. Don’t think he could have lifted the weapon and fired at anyone even if he’d wanted.
When Boz and me arrived on the scene, Mose had kneeled beside the wounded bandit, and held a canteen to the dying brigand’s cracked lips. Water trickled down ashen cheeks streaked with dirt, sweat, and blood. The wounded man moaned, and his eyes opened about the time we bent over him to see what, if anything, could be done.
Took near everything ole Jesse had left when he said, “Damnation, but I sure as hell hate to die in the company of a bunch of egg-sucking lawdogs.”
His eyes closed, and he made that gurgling, chest-rumbling kind of sound that doesn’t leave much doubt a man’s time on this earth is almost over. He weakly covered the hole in his side with a blood-caked hand. His eyes popped open again, and wandered from one face to an other like he’d just woke up in a brand-new world. Out of nowhere he seemed to regain substantial strength. Made a move as if he might try to stand, but didn’t. Fumbled around for his pistol. Mose pushed the weapon away with the toe of his boot. Only thing I’ve ever seen that can sustain a man in such a manner is hatred deep enough to keep him going—even when he’s already in Hell, and just don’t know he’s dead.
“Can you tell us what happened when you boys robbed Mr. Baynes’ stage, Jesse?” Boz squatted, and took a small pad of paper along with a stubby pencil from his pocket.
The ready-for-the-grave outlaw’s gaze rubbered around for several seconds, and finally landed on the toes of his own boots. Must have steadied him up a bit—same as any common drunk who concentrates on a single spot to keep him upright. “We stopped that there Jacksboro coach. Looked to me like the robbin’ was a-goin’ right well, at first. Got them boys down. Thought we had ’em disarmed. Shotgun feller come up with an old Colt pocket pistol from somewheres.”
His eyes snapped shut like God had slammed a door to the real world, and he drifted off into death’s approaching haze. We all figured he might not come back that time. But he did, and went at the tale again. You’d of thought he never stopped. “Couldn’t have been more’n three feet from the man when he shot me—twice. Latigo slapped the gun out’n the bold bastard’s hand and whacked him on the head with a rifle barrel. Snake River Tom went crazy. Made both of them Baynes fellers kneel down in the ditch beside the front wheel of the coach. Shot ’em deader’n hell. All for nothin’. Express box was emptier’n a gourd. What a waste. Never meant for no one to get kilt. ’Specially me.”
Moment or two of silence passed. Jesse’s half-opened eyes glazed over. Tears ran down both cheeks. He started breathing hard. Got a beached-fish look and sound about him. Man couldn’t have been more than twenty years old, and then, for just a second or so, he looked like a scared child. He turned to Moses Hand. Reached out and grabbed our surprised friend by the arm.
Between gasps for breath the fading bandit said, “Kentucky’s . . . mighty cold . . . in the winter, Mother. Think maybe . . . I’ll go to Texas . . . someday. Hear tell . . . sun shines . . . more there.” He shuddered and gasped, “Cain’t . . . get warm. Cold done gone . . . all the way through my bones.”
He drifted off again, but came back for one final run at the world. “Tell Papa . . . mare’s ready. Foal cain’t wait. . . . It’s a-comin’ . . . right damned now.” Thought his time was finally over, but then he sat bolt upright and grabbed Mose by the arm again. “Sorry . . . Mother. Tell Mary Margaret . . . I’m sorry.” Then he stared at something over my shoulder and clear as a bell said, “My God, but he is an ugly son of a bitch and coming fast.” Then all the air went out of him. Poor bastard flopped back against the tree slack-jawed, eyes wide open.
Boz slapped a quirt against his leg. “Damn, boys. ’Bout to think the poor son of bitch might’ve made some kind of bargain with the devil, and wasn’t never gonna die.” He snatched the dead robber’s gun off the ground, untied the abandoned horse, and climbed aboard his own. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Being the least experienced member of the group, I asked what I thought was a pertinent question. “Ain’t we gonna bury him?”
Mose stepped into a stirrup and settled into his saddle. “You want him buried, Lucius, then go ahead. Bury him. Far as I’m concerned, God will take care of what’s left here today.”
Boz turned and called over his shoulder as he moved on up the trail, “We’ll pile some rocks on him when we come back this way—if there’s anything left. Right now, we’ve got more important irons in the fire. They’s still three of them killers ahead, and I want ’em dead, or captured, ‘fore nightfall.”
Managed to catch up with that particular band of sorry outlaws exactly the way Moses Hand said we would. Got to them before they made the tree line at the foothills of the Arbuckle Mountains. But I have to admit they didn’t respond the way we’d have liked.
Being old hands at horseback gunfights with the Comanche, Boz and me hoped they’d turn, charge us, and make it easier to take some of them down. Instead, soon as the one riding drag spotted our posse, the whole bunch ran to beat hell for a stack of rocks some of the Nation’s locals called Pinnacle Mountain.
We had a spot, just west of Lampasas, everyone in my part of the country knew as the Haystack. The two of them looked amazingly similar, if you ask me. Neither amounted to much in the way of a mountain, compared to those out West. But, if you closed one eye, and squinted real hard with the other, I suppose you might induce yourself to believe the Pinnacle’s rudely heaped pile of granite amounted to something like the rocky crags of Montana, Wyoming, or Colorado.
I could tell those boys had been chased and forced to fight before. All three could pitch storms of lead over their shoulders, on a horse stretched out to its absolute limit. We followed them over rolling grasslands for several miles. Dust and black powder smoke made seeing them mighty difficult the closer we got. More than once, I thought my shots seemed to have found a home, but the blasting didn’t slow the objects of our chase down any.
’Bout forty or fifty yards from solid cover they jumped off their horses. Tom Runyon and Latigo Cooley handed their reins off to Leo Kershaw. Then they kneeled and laid down a fiery wall of lead, while their compadre pulled the animals toward a cut in the base of the hill.
To this very moment, I feel pretty sure if Leo had managed to make the rocks, we would have had a hell of a time rooting them out. But, thank God, he didn’t. Two brigands offering him cover jumped up and started hoofing it behind Kershaw, just as Moses Hand pulled off a minor wonder of a rifle shot. That rainbow miracle upended the fleeing Leo like a biscuit tin used for target practice. Big chunk of whistling lead hit him in the head and sent him rolling like a Chinese tumbler in a traveling circus.
When his skull exploded, and he went to flying ass over teakettle, them other two got a dose of newfound religion. With bullets peppering everything in their immediate vicinity, Runyon and Cooley stopped and looked right thoughtful. Didn’t take more than a second, or so, for them to come to the only decision available. They threw down their weapons, and commenced to hollering about how they’d done gone and give up. Totally unexpected occurrence. I felt certain them boys would fight to the finish. Go down bloody. Punched full of holes. But I suppose seeing a friend’s brains get splattered all over heaven and earth can bring about a serious change of heart, no matter the circumstance.
Said more than a few prayers on my walk to take them killers into custody. Thanked a merciful God the chase turned out so good for our side. Course being jerked up short didn’t keep the murdering survivors from damn near yammering us to death, soon as we got within earshot.
Runyon quaked like a leaf in a thunderstorm and yelped, “You didn’t have to go and kill Leo, for Christ’s sake. Man was almost sixty year old. Had a bunch of grandkids. Led a hard life. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
Boz pitched me his rifle,
and started searching Runyon for more weapons. He snapped, “If this back-shooting weasel moves without my permission, Lucius, show him how it feels to be his brain-busted friend over there.”
Tatum took three pistols and a seven-inch bowie off Snake River Tom. Then, when I thought the dance was all over, Boz found a lethal, palm-sized derringer in one of the outlaw’s boots. Dangled it in Tom’s face like it was a piece of deadly jewelry on a braided gold chain. “Never can be too cautious, Lucius. Just imagine what might have happened on the way back to Sweetwater, if I hadn’t found this miniature popper.”
Runyon sounded almost pathetic when he said, “Well, you cain’t be too cautious out here in the wild places, Ranger. Only carried that’un for snakes, and such.”
Moses Hand laughed out loud. He had already searched Latigo and put the man under the gun, but couldn’t help himself. “You must be a-runnin’ up on some damned small snakes, Mr. Runyon. Mayhap they be Arkansas snakes, or some kind of midget Louisiana wigglers. Or, mayhap one ’dem northern Montana snakes. Belly crawlers don’t get very big up there in the cold. Sho’ nuff ain’t no full-bore Texas diamondbacks. Seen one ’dem beasts out west of Fort Worth, a spell back, what could stand up like a man, take that little pistol away from you, and spank yo’ butt with it.”
Well, that one set all us lawmen to giggling. Runyon obviously didn’t like being the object of our humor. Murderous brigand got right indignant. “I’ll tell you sons of bitches somethin’. Damned good thing you boys managed to sneak up on us so’s we didn’t have no chance to give you what fer. Hadn’t surprised us so bad, we’d of made you wish you’d never seen me, Latigo, and Kershaw.”