by J. Lee Butts
Pulled and cocked a pistol. Gently urged Grizz down the hill. Over my shoulder, said, “Stay here with the mule while I give the place a good going-over. Shouldn’t take long. Wait till I call you in.”
Heard no objections from Dianna, and when I glanced back that way, she still sat her buckskin and hadn’t moved. Almost made it to the silent hut’s front door before I spotted what appeared to be a man’s body stretched on the floor inside.
Pulled up, stepped down, and let my reins drop to the ground. Patted Grizz’s neck and whispered, “Stand, Grizz, stand.” Animal nibbled at my hand and snorted. Knew he wouldn’t move, no matter what transpired.
Kept the pistol pointed at the house and, with my free hand, loosened the bindings on my short-barreled shotgun. Pulled the big popper and snapped it open with my left hand. Both barrels were primed. Snapped it shut, and headed for the door. Felt considerable better once I had the big blaster in hand.
Do not to this very day know exactly why, but there’s just something spine-chilling about approaching the scene of a freshly discovered and brutal murder. Had been in such a state of belligerence the day I burst into Dianna’s house, those feelings had somehow managed to go right over my head at the time. But as I approached the half-built, cotton-covered house on Indian Creek, an uncomfortable feeling of sinister forces, perhaps lurking nearby, came over me in an unsettling wave of apprehension.
Carefully eased my way to the open door. Based on what I could see, the dead feller couldn’t have been any more than twenty-five or thirty years old. Obvious to me his killers had surprised hell out of him with a bullet to the eye when he opened the door. Powder burns on one whole cheek of a contorted face led me to believe that whoever fired the fatal shot must have been right on top of him. Looked like they’d shoved the muzzle right into his eye. Jesus, what a bloody mess.
Stepped over the corpse. Did a quick, nerve-rattled inspection of the single twelve-by-twenty-foot room. Littered floor and overturned, broken furniture presented the image of a formerly well-kept home where not a single item now resided in its intended place. Only good thing I could say about the scene was that no other dead folk appeared in evidence.
Noise from behind got my attention. Jumped and brought the shotgun around only to find Dianna standing in the doorway. Girl held her cocked pistol ready for action, and shook her head in disgust.
“Thought I told you to wait up on the hill,” I said. “Could’ve shot you dead, girl. Shouldn’t sneak up on an agitated man like that.”
“I did exactly as you told me, but felt I’d waited long enough. Thought came to me that, perhaps, you might need some help. Of course I can now see that you don’t. Have you found the woman yet?”
“Woman? What woman is that? What makes you think there’s a woman?”
“Better take a good look, Ranger Dodge. Dead or alive, there must be a woman around somewhere.”
“How can you tell?”
Sounded a bit frustrated with me when she snapped, “Furnishings, curtains on the windows, broom by the door, place is spotless, except for the overturned furniture and such. Haven’t known a man yet who didn’t live like a hibernating bear when left to his own devices.”
“Now that’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?”
“Most of you hairy-legged types should take up residence in caves alongside some other of God’s beasts. The men we’re after came, killed the husband”—she pointed at the stiff with her pistol—“ransacked the house, and took the woman. Either that, or we’ll find her body somewhere nearby. Then, they wisely ran like God was after them.”
Already had most of Dianna’s rendition of the available facts figured out for myself. Pleased me some, though, that she’d come to much the same conclusions. Really quite impressive for a female, once I’d thought it over a bit.
We headed outside and searched every nook and cranny, and under all the rocks within a hundred yards of the spooky place. Couldn’t find a single trace of a woman—other than an extra set of tracks mixed in with those we’d followed all the way from Salt Valley. Had intended to leave the dead feller where he fell, but Dianna wouldn’t hear of it.
“I will not depart this place and continue our pursuit until that poor unfortunate man is buried. It’s the only proper thing to do, Mr. Dodge.”
She rummaged around in all the disorder and came up with a family Bible. Flipped through the pages and said, “Appears from this that the dead man’s name was Luther Wainwright. Hails from over near Mexia. Took a lady named MaryLou Bookbinder of Nacogdoches as his bride a mere six months past. Absolutely shameful good folk like these should suffer at the hands of the animals we’re after. Poor man deserves whatever we can supply in the way of a Christian burial, however paltry.”
Damned if she didn’t head outside, locate a shovel, and go to digging the hole her very own self. Well, she’d shamed me as much as necessary. I stripped off my pistol belt and hat, gently took the spade from her, and finished off the rough grave myself.
Not enough time to put poor Mr. Wainwright down as deep as we probably should have. Found a stack of sizable rocks at the end of the house near the corral. Looked as though they’d been intended for use around his unfinished fireplace. Piled most of them on the grave. Figured he wouldn’t be building a cozy fire anytime soon. By then, the sun had made it right low in the sky.
“We could stay here for the night,” I said, and wiped the grit and sweat from my face on my sleeve.
“No, I’ll not tarry where this poor man died. We’ll move on a bit farther. There’s still a bit of light left.”
“You afraid of ghosts by any chance, Dianna?”
Hadn’t noticed before, but hot tears rolled down both her cheeks as she turned away from me. “I’m not afraid of them, but prefer not to have any contact with the spirits of those who’ve passed at this particular place and time.”
“Spirits? You been seein’ spirits, Mrs. Savage?”
“Unfortunately, yes. That’s precisely why I burned my house, Mr. Dodge. I saw William the night after we buried him. He came to the foot of my bed. Swear I felt him touch my foot. He told me that Heaven was a beautiful place. Said everything was all right, and that I must not worry about him. I must admit to being profoundly affected by that vision, Lucius. As a consequence, I’ll not stay in the unfortunate Mr. Wainwright’s sad home tonight.”
Not much of a way to reason with such feelings, so I let it go and pointed us south again. We arrived on the banks of the Llano before hard dark set in. Camped in a sheltered spot, next to the river, surrounded by a stand of beautiful live oaks.
Felt we’d best not light a fire given our possible proximity to the killers we chased. The inconvenience mattered little, as the weather smiled on us, and we had a good moon as well. Made a meal of jerky, cold biscuits, and a jar of homemade muscadine jam I had bought from the general mercantile in Salt Valley.
Dianna leaned across her saddle and watched with some curiosity as I scraped up a final tasty morsel of the preserves with my knife. Surprised me when she said, “My husband had a weakness for sweets. I’ve come to the belief that most men harbor the same soft spot. Haven’t met one yet who didn’t exhibit an unbridled appetite for sugar. Those who can’t get it any other way resort to the debilitating rigors of liquor.”
“Well, now, you know, that could be true. Hadn’t thought on it much myself. Some men are given to excess drink. Some eat too much, others chase loose women of every shape, size, and disposition. I love sugar in virtually all its forms. Especially partial to jams and jellies slathered on a good biscuit. These sourdough bullets of yours are right tasty, Mrs. Savage. Perhaps the combination reminds me of my mother and a pleasantly countrified childhood on the family ranch near Lampasas.”
Must have hit a number of soft spots concerning her murdered spouse. She turned away for a spell, then out of the clear blue said, “We met in New Orleans. Mr. Savage used to herd cattle up from Corpus Christi along the Gulf Coast. Extremely dangerous bu
siness then, and now. After a number of years at such hazardous work, he wanted to settle down. Have children. Live to a ripe and satisfied old age. That’s why we moved to San Augustine and, less than a year later, to what we’d hoped was the even tamer clime of Shelbyville. Fooled us. Seems bad people do, in fact, inhabit even the most docile-appearing corners of the earth.”
“You’ve described almost every living man’s hopes for the future. Suppose we’d all like as much, Dianna. Just that sometimes life has ways of not working out how we wanted—or even halfway expected. Know mine hasn’t. Had my druthers, I’d still be working cattle on Pa’s ranch over on the Colorado, and he’d be alive and bouncing chubby-cheeked grandkids on his bony knees. But a land-greedy killer named Slayton Bone changed all that.”
Even in the semidarkness, I could see her eyes sparkle under the moon’s caressing glow. “You’ve hit upon the single most powerful thing the two of us have in common, Mr. Dodge. Family and loved ones dead at the hands of evil men.”
Must admit she surprised me with the depth and power of her feelings. “Please forgive my insensitivity for resurrecting bad memories so close to your recent loss,” I said.
“Oh, don’t feel obligated to tiptoe around the obvious. Life does go on. Death is the one constant all of us must live with every day. While I grieve over the violent departures of my husband and son, the realization that such events are nothing more than part of God’s great plan is also ever with me.”
“Nonetheless, I could have been more thoughtful.”
“No, you’re about as considerate as any man I’ve met in years, Ranger Dodge.” She rolled into her bed, and thus ended the conversation.
We caught up with them killers two days later near a stack of enormous boulders called Enchanted Rock. They had slowed down even more than I expected. Fairly certain at the time that the captive woman had probably caused it.
Bunch couldn’t have been any more than a quarter of a mile away when I checked their progress through my long glass. We’d stopped on a low, mesquite-covered hill. Thought for a second I detected part of the reason for our luck.
“Think one of their horses might have gone lame,” I mumbled. “Most likely picked up one of these mesquite thorns somehow. Then again, could be they’re about to pull up for a spell of takin’ turns abusin’ MaryLou Wainwright.”
Dianna shook her head like a tired dog, then stared at gloved hands. “God Almighty, give me strength. Mr. Dodge, it just doesn’t matter one way or the other why we’ve caught up with the murderous skunks. Any help the Good Lord, or Providence, sees fit to provide is just fine. I’ll pray for the unfortunate Mrs. Wainwright’s speedy deliverance through any kind of earthly intervention, and supply it myself given the chance.”
“Well, the whole crew is a-draggin’ pretty good. Looks like they’re gonna have to stop right soon. Bet next month’s near-to-nothin’ Ranger pay they’re searchin’ for an out-of-the-way ranch so they can break in, eat, misuse the poor lady, and perhaps steal another mount. Hell, they could even be lookin’ for another woman, for all we know, right now.”
She leaned over, grabbed my sleeve, and said, “Are you absolutely certain these are the men who killed my son, Mr. Dodge?”
Question surprised me a bit. “Well, have to admit as how I didn’t see ’em do the infamous deed, but these are the same men we tracked from the house you burned to the ground, and the scene of Luther Wainwright’s brutal murder. There’s four of ’em—one obviously a woman. Would be willing to bet everything I’ve got they’re the men we want. Never been wrong about anything like this before, Mrs. Savage.”
She slid her model ’73 Winchester out and levered a shell into the chamber. “Can we run ’em to ground before it gets dark?”
Thought on that one a spell before I volunteered, “We’ll let ’em get to the other side of that rise they’re on. Then we’ll really burn saddle leather. Shouldn’t be able to see or hear us coming. Be on their backs so fast, they’ll never know what hit ’em.” She nodded her approval.
We sat our horses and waited for the killing to start.
7
“BULLET NEARLY TOOK HIS HEAD OFF.”
PLAYED OUR DEADLY hand exactly the way I described it for Dianna. Soon as our murderous quarry vanished from sight, we put the spurs to our animals and headed out like a pair of six-legged bobcats. That gal rode a horse with all the abandon of a painted Comanche on a kill-all-the-white-devils raiding party. She stayed ahead of me the entire way.
Finally dropped the reins on the mule and set my chaps to flapping. Hit the crest of the rise a few lengths behind Dianna, and damn near rode over those surprised boys. They’d pulled up in a flat, grassy, open area in the trail to cuss and confer with the man whose horse limped.
Killers’ thunderstruck captive sat on a rock nearby. Couldn’t attest, then or now, as to whether she saw or heard one thing that happened when we burst in on the trailside confab. Only know the much-abused lady never moved a muscle, nor appeared to blink an unseeing eye.
Dianna got to them boys first. Kicked her cayuse into a dead run and darted right through the middle of their hastily called prayer meeting. Before any of the faithful could fill their blood-soaked hands, she stood in her stirrups and shot two of them. Had turned and headed for the third man when he threw up his hands, fell on terrified knees, and went to begging for mercy.
Astounded is the only word powerful enough to describe how I felt at that moment. Always believed hitting anything from horseback at a dead run rated as a damned good trick, but that angry black-haired gal had just managed the feat twice in a matter of seconds. Grieving lady was a helluva lot more of an Indian fighter than I would ever have been inclined to believe. One thing I know for damned certain. Just ain’t nothing like watching an accomplished practitioner of the man-killing trade work, and, by God, Dianna Savage was beyond good at the craft. Couldn’t do anything but shake my head in stunned amazement.
Reined Grizz to a jumping stop, and hopped down. Disarmed both them ole boys she’d plugged. Wild-eyed gal’s blood was still high and running hot. She fogged up from the other direction and jumped off her snorting animal like a south Texas brush popper about to brand a sharp-hoofed, uncooperative calf.
Gal continued to surprise me with her capability for brutality. She stomped over to the feller who’d recently got religion, and whacked him a good ’un across his yammering noggin with her rifle barrel. Sounded like someone dropped a basket full of eggs. Opened up a gash six inches long right in the middle of his scalp. Poor son of a gun yelped, rolled onto his side, and flopped like a beached fish.
Then, as God is my witness, she turned, threw a hate-filled glance at the men she’d just put life-stealing holes in, and snarled, “Are both those child-killing sons of Satan finished?”
Pointed at one of the men she’d managed to hit and said, “Well, this ’un here’s bought a hole in the ground for good and certain. You got him in the neck. Shot through and through. Bullet nearly took his head off. Gonna bleed out right where he hit the ground.”
Never missed a beat when she snapped, “Good.”
“But your aim must have failed a mite on this other one. Punched a hole in him right under the heart—that is, if he’s got one. He’s still twitchin’ some. Figure he’ll be gone soon, though. Then again, you never know. Seen men shot as bad or worse who survived and lived on.”
Think she said, “Good,” again, but have to admit I didn’t exactly hear her final assessment of the matter. Vengeance-minded girl’s bloodthirsty attention had swung back to the feller with the split scalp. He sat up, rubbed at the spot where Dianna had bounced her weapon off his head, found blood, and went to grousing about getting whacked with a rifle barrel. Watched as she strode to his side and prodded him up with the same instrument she’d used on his newly damaged and freely bleeding brain box.
“Move your more than sorry self over there with your worthless friends,” she ordered, and jabbed him hard in the ribs.
He yelped and struggled almost erect on wobbly legs. Started hobbling my direction. Guess the poor, stupid goober didn’t move fast enough to suit her. She kicked his narrow behind so hard, I thought her boot would come out his mouth. He whooped like a surprised dog and fell to his knees again. Went to hollerin’ about how he’d never seen any “decent” lady act in such a brutal, inhuman, and unchristian manner.
My God, but that was the wrong thing to say to a woman on a mission like Dianna. All I could do was stand back in amazement. My best plan of action seemed to be to stay out of her hair. Let the situation play out however it would.
So red-faced I thought her head might explode, she clomped right up to him, leaned to within inches of his face, and snapped, “You killed my beautiful baby, you sorry cur. His name was William Tyler Savage, after his father. Then, more recently, as you attempted to escape that killing, you murdered a poor innocent man who never did you any harm. And from all visible evidence, have reduced his innocent wife to witless insensibility. In a few minutes I will arrange for you to shake hands with Satan. Before you go, though, you’re gonna tell us everything you ever knew about who sent you to Salt Valley to perform cowardly murder on a woman and small child.”
As though struck by lightning, the good-for-nothing skunk seemed to finally grasp an inkling of the actual depth of his predicament. “God Almighty,” he squeaked, “you’re the woman what kilt Reuben Coffin?”
Dianna’s voice sounded like a knife tip dragged across flint. “Thought me dead, I suspect. Figured you’d sent me to Jesus, just like that poor woman’s husband. Well, you were wrong, dead wrong, you gutless wretch. I’ll give you enough time to make your peace with God; then I’m inclined to kill you deader than Davy Crockett.”
In a pose of trembling supplication, our only living killer slobbered, “Swear ’fore all the saints in God’s blue heaven, lady, I never fired a single shot at your house. It were mostly them boys you done kilt—Fez and Jethro Parker yonder. Both of ’em heartless bastards, if ’n there ever lived men you could call such.” He pointed a shaking finger at his shot-to-hell friends. “That ’un with the hole in his neck was Fez. Think your partner done allowed as how Jethro might still be living.”