by J. Lee Butts
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Epigraph
Chapter 1 - “WHO CARES ’BOUT DIRTY-LEGGED WHORES?”
Chapter 2 - “. . . THERE’S GONNA BE HELL TO PAY . . .”
Chapter 3 - “I AIN’T NEVER KILT NO WOMAN.”
Chapter 4 - “. . . THEY MEAN TO KILL THE BOTH OF US.”
Chapter 5 - “AMAZING WHAT TWO GALLONS OF COAL OIL CAN DO.”
Chapter 6 - “YOU BEEN SEEIN’ SPIRITS, MRS. SAVAGE?”
Chapter 7 - “BULLET NEARLY TOOK HIS HEAD OFF.”
Chapter 8 - “BOTH OF YOU’LL BE BARKIN’ IN HELL . . .”
Chapter 9 - “. . . MAN’S KNOWN AS A COLD-BLOODED KILLER . . .”
Chapter 10 - “. . . I DONE BEEN SHOT BLIND.”
Chapter 11 - “. . . AIN’T WORTH A BUCKET OF COLD SNAKE PISS . . .”
Chapter 12 - “FOR GOD’S SAKE! DON’T SHOOT NO MORE.”
Chapter 13 - “GUNSMOKE AND BLOOD, BY GOD . . .”
Chapter 14 - “. . . YOU’RE GONNA SUFFER THE TORTURES OF THE DAMNED . . .”
Chapter 15 - “. . . COULD BE CARRYIN’ FIVE PISTOLS AND PRIMED TO DO MURDER.”
Chapter 16 - “. . . THERE’S GONNA BE HELL TO PAY.”
Chapter 17 - “I INTEND TO KILL YOU EXTREMELY DEAD.”
EPILOGUE
TASTE OF BLOOD
I took a few more steps in the thief’s direction. Was about to unload on him from both smoke wagons when a third brigand jumped through the bank’s open doors. Ripped off a shot that knocked my hat into the air. Hot lead burned a deep crease just above my ear.
Of a sudden, most of the color went out of the world. Felt like I’d been hit in the head with a long-handled shovel. Grabbed at the bloody crease, went to my knees, and rolled onto my back. Both shooters had me in their sights by then. Hot slugs pounded the ground all around me while I rolled in the dirt. Remember thinking as how they’d have the range soon enough.
My eyes didn’t want to work right. Everything I could still see turned a murky mix of red, gray, and black. Held my blood-covered hand up in front of my face, but couldn’t count the fingers. Could hear people yelling, but the words didn’t make no sense. Got this taste in my mouth like I’d been sucking on a copper penny freshly dug up after years in the ground.
Then, as God is my witness, just before much-desired unconsciousness reached up and jerked me into a sticky, red pit, a black-haired angel, dressed in white, appeared by my side.
Praise for the novels of
J. LEE BUTTS
“A writer who can tell a great adventure story with authority and wit.” —John S. McCord, author of the Baynes Clan novels
“Lawdog has it all. I couldn’t put it down.” —Jack Ballas
“J. Lee Butts keeps his readers on the edge of their seats.”
—True West
Berkley titles by J. Lee Butts
NATE COFFIN’S REVENGE
AMBUSHED
BAD BLOOD
A BAD DAY TO DIE
BROTHERHOOD OF BLOOD
HELL IN THE NATIONS
LAWDOG
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
NATE COFFIN’S REVENGE
A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley edition / October 2007
Copyright © 2007 by J. Lee Butts.
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For Carol
I’m constantly humbled by her strength, fortitude,
and ever-present good cheer.
and
The Entire Membership of the DFW Writers’ Workshop
Their depth of knowledge, continued help,
and matchless support have sustained me
from the beginning.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Special thanks to my friend and agent, Kimberly Lionetti, for her limitless patience and understanding of a rapidly aging old grump. My gratitude to Berkley Editor, Samantha Mandor, for her amazing ability to respond to my every request. And finally a tip of the Stetson to my good buddy, Red Shuttleworth, a great poet of the West, who always manages to pick my sagging spirits up with a simple phone call.
“Bad men live that they may eat and drink, whereas good men eat and drink that they may live.”
—Plutarch, How a Young Man Ought to Hear Poems
“I have found power in the mysteries of thought, exaltation in the chanting of the Muses; I have been versed in the reasonings of men; but Fate is stronger than anything I have known.”
—Euripides, Alcetis, 1.962
PROLOGUE
Lucius Dodge’s Sulphur River ranch near Domino, Texas, November 1948
Got right chilly last night. Bit unusual for Texas this time of year. Put me in mind of a frost-covered outhouse seat in Montana. Lord have mercy, but I do hate the cold.
Horse killer of a Blue Norther swept in so fast three days ago, some animals died in mid-stride, front half frothy and the back half frozen. Icy winds hit my ancient, decrepit body like a sledgehammer. Forced me to give up agreeable evenings on the screened-in back porch wh
ere I like to sit and contemplate the tumultuous events of my past.
Leaves shriveled up and fell off the trees more than a month ago. Starkly naked limbs click and clack against each other in the wind like bones dancing in a graveyard. Grass withered, turned into an ugly brown carpet that crunches when I hobble out to the barn to check on my animals. Sun done went and hid its face behind thick, dark clouds—most days anyway. Everything in nature just kind of drew up into itself—like me.
Been forced to hibernate here in the house next to my stoked-up tin stove. Damned thing actually glows when encouraged in just the right fashion. Going through firewood like popped corn. As is the case with most old men who live alone, got nothing to do during such times ’cept ruminate and remember.
Don’t know about nobody else, but I’ve always liked hot weather. Full-bore summertime’s exactly my cup of tea. Hotter than hell under a frying pan’s the way my old friend Hayden Tilden used to describe my preference for sizzling days and blazing sunshine.
Think about ole Tilden often lately. He once told me as how—sometimes at night—a particularly vivid nightmare could snatch him out of a sound sleep like a magician he once saw what jerked a white rabbit from the bottom of a stovepipe hat. Often as not, said he’d snap awake and see Death slouched at the foot of his hospital bed tapping flesh-less, bony fingers against a sharpened, ebony-handled scythe. Said the gruesome vision’s silver blade glistened in the moonlight with the bloody remnants of countless unsuspecting souls snatched to the other side by the grinning bastard. Sends shivers through my ancient leather-tough heart just thinking about that ghostly phantom and his single-minded mission to relieve me of my earthly spirit.
Have come to believe that perhaps such fantastic images are just typical of creeping old age and the inevitable rendezvous we all have with God’s grim servant. Must confess I’ve not seen the skeletal apparition inside my bedroom— leastways not yet. But you know, must admit that a time or two of late, I have spotted that sneaky thief of spirits as he darted amongst the trees between my house and the river, or hid in my stand of huckleberry bushes and spied on me.
Seems to me as how ole Bony Fingers was always around somewhere back when me and Boz Tatum chased badmen all over Hell and Texas during my stint as a Ranger. Know for damned sure I saw him the day we caught up with Dolphus Twiggens out on the Wichita, not far from the Indian Nations, back in ’80, or maybe ’82. Being as how I’ve never told anyone this particular tale before, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t repeat what you’re about to hear.
Day it happened, Boz sat a fine sorrel horse named Sunset and pointed to grayish-white wafts of smoke that drifted from a rough cabin’s chimney. Sagging live oaks, sad in their silence, hid most of a board-and-batten shack sheltered in a cup of grassy earth. Front porch looked rotted, and a pair of run-out broomtails drooped from fatigue in the ramshackle corral, a few paces from one end of the broken-down hovel.
My friend glanced at me, smiled, and said, “Bet you a frosty beer at the White Elephant Saloon we’ve done went and found the crazy bastard’s hidey-hole.”
Pulled my belly gun, flipped the loading gate open, and rolled the cylinder past each chamber. Everything looked in order. Said, “Ain’t bettin’ with you this time, Boz. When last we went out, I ended up owin’ you for more beer than I could drink up in a month of Sundays. Hell, you got a week’s worth of free liquor off me with that rainbow of a rifle shot when you killed Albert Scruggs.”
He stifled a low chuckle and checked over his own weapons. “Well, damn, Lucius, you just ain’t no fun a-tall. Noticed as how you been grumpier’n a sixty-year-old bachelor the closer we’ve got to cornerin’ Dolphus.”
“Could be,” I said. “Been thinkin’ on how we’ve never run too many others to ground as deadly as this man-killin’ son of a bitch.”
My blue roan, Grizz, shifted and stamped a white-socked foot. Shook his head, then grunted. Always believed that animal had the power of second sight. Most folks gave that notion little credit, but Grizz somehow seemed to know when trouble loomed ahead. Had got to a point where I trusted his equine judgment, but must admit it bothered me some the way he acted. Just never knew what to expect when he got jumpy as a bit-up bull in fly time.
Boz holstered the last of three pistols he carried on his belt, slid his shotgun out of its bindings, breeched the big popper, and examined both heavy loads. “True enough,” he said. “Don’t recall ever havin’ to take a man down what kilt four people with a double-bit ax.” He snapped the weapon shut with a loud metallic pop and laid it across his saddle for death-dealing handiness.
“Talked with Hardy Forrest ’fore we rode out of Fort Worth, Boz. He’s the Ranger what found them poor boys. Said it was the worst mess he’d ever seen in all his days of investigatin’ murders.” Followed my partner’s lead and checked my sawed-off blaster as well.
“Yeah. I spoke with Hardy too. Man told me as how it looked like someone slaughtered half a dozen hogs in that shack. Even found bloody flesh, teeth, hair, and an eyeball or three stuck on the ceiling. Glad I didn’t have to see any of it.”
My friend’s rendition of Ranger Forrest’s assessment of Dolphus Twiggens’s murderous efforts drew a cold, wordless shroud over our conversation. Noticed hardened lines at the corners of Boz’s eyes. Detected an involuntary twitch near the edge of a cracked lip.
He lifted his animal’s reins, gently brought Mexican spurs against its flanks, and said, “Well, let’s ease on down and corral the evil son of a bitch. Gonna give me more’n a little pleasure watchin’ him hang for what he went and done.”
“Think he’ll fight, Boz?”
He shook his head and urged Sunset forward. “Doubt it, but ain’t no way to know for certain sure. Near as I’ve been able to tell, the man never hurt a fly up till the day he chopped up all them poor folks. Personally, never even knew of him to carry a gun. But you cain’t ever tell what any man’s gonna do when confronted with the possibility of his own mortality at the end of a rope. Guess we’ll damned sure see how dangerous ole Twiggens is in a few minutes.”
We moseyed down the gentle, grass-covered slope, and drew our animals up near one end of the cabin’s dilapidated porch. Stopped behind a stack of firewood decorated with a heavy growth of thick moss. Got settled and Boz yelled out, “Dolphus Twiggens. This is Ranger Boz Tatum. You know why I’m here. Bring your murderous self outside—right now.”
Something huge and heavy moved behind the shack’s thin walls. Door cracked open on dried-out leather hinges that complained under the weight of unpainted wood. Brought my shotgun up and propped the butt against an aching leg. Thickly bearded man, the size of a Concord coach, stepped onto the creaking plank porch and turned, kind of sideways, toward us—half in and half out of the entryway. Whole building appeared to tip up and sag his direction.
Under my breath, and out of the corner of my mouth, I whispered, “Sweet jumpin’ Jesus, Boz. That’s the biggest human being I’ve ever seen. No one bothered to mention ole Dolphus might have some grizzly bear in his family tree.”
“He’s a big ’un all right. Must be a six-and-a-half-footer. Bet he weighs upward of three hundred pounds. But far as I’ve ever heard, big ole boy’s sweet-natured as a well-fed house cat—long as he ain’t had nothin’ to drink.”
Creature on the porch eyeballed us for a spell before he finally spoke. Dark, bushy brows knotted over a flat nose when he growled, “Ain’t goin’ back with you ’uns, Ranger Tatum. Them folks in town will hang me fer what I went and done. Sure as death, taxes, and Texas.”
My partner shook his head. Sounded almost sympathetic when he said, “You gotta come with us, Dolphus. No way around it. We’ll take you to Fort Worth. See you get a fair trial. Can’t promise what’ll happen after that.”
Twiggens’s fur-covered chin dropped to his slab-sized chest. He swayed back and forth like some kind of massive puppy dog, puzzled over a newly discovered scorpion.
Surprised the hell out of me when Boz s
aid, “Will you let us come a bit closer? Never cared to spend my time yellin’ at anyone.”
Twiggens pawed the tangled mess of hair on his head, then scratched at the front of a ragged shirt. “Don’t make me no difference where ’bouts you sit, Tatum. Come on over, if’n that’s what you boys want.”
Boz clucked at Sunset, urged the hay burner around the pile of stove wood and up to the edge of the porch. I followed, but immediately felt uneasy about the less than ten feet that separated us from the object of our nearly two-week search. Didn’t appear to matter how we approached. The bulky giant kept his right side turned away from us, and kind of danced, from foot to foot, in a childlike fidget.
“Ain’t goin’ back. Don’t matter what you say. Done made up my mind. Them fellers I kilt deserved what they got. Wouldn’t’ve chopped ’em up lessen they went and done something what warranted it. Bastards cheated me.”
Thought to continue my partner’s method and reason with the murderous skunk. “We don’t care why you killed ’em. You can tell your story to Judge Pedigrew in Fort Worth, Twiggens. He’s a good man and puts on a fair trial,” I said.
My partner raised a quieting hand as if to motion me into silence. Given the gift of time and hindsight, guess I should have kept my mouth shut. What little I could see of Twiggens’s face behind his shovel-sized beard flushed up. Deep-set eyes almost crossed and went all wild-looking.
“Done tole you more’n once, goddammit. I ain’t a-goin’ back, by God,” the creature growled. “You fellers both deef, stupid, or somethin’?”