Nate Coffin's Revenge

by J. Lee Butts

  “Well, then, that decides it,” Boz said. “You bastards keep your hands in the air. Get to hoofin’ it for the juzgado. Any treachery, and I will kill all of you.”

  Harkey might have been a skunk, but he knew the local marshal for what he was. We left our newly found informant sitting on the boardwalk outside the jail. Boz shook a finger in Harkey’s face and said, “Don’t you rabbit on me. Swear to God, I’ll run you to ground and make you wish your mother never delivered you into this life.”

  Harkey got all wounded, hurt, and indignant. “Jesus, Ranger. My momma didn’t raise no broke-brained idiots. Swear I’ll be waitin’ right here like a milk-raised hound dog when you come back out.”

  A barrel-bellied Barton Pitt met us and our angry gang of captives inside the door of his lockup. He immediately went into long-winded and strenuous objections at Coffin’s men being incarcerated in his wretched hoosegow.

  Once the jumpy star wearer realized we intended to force the issue over his heated protests, he held his hands out and waved at us like a troubled old maid. “Cain’t do ’er, gents. Cain’t let you house these fellers in my jail. Hell, might as well cut my own throat, right here, right now. You’re bound to be aware of the precarious nature of my position. What with Nate Coffin bein’ so close and all.”

  Boz ended the conversation when he laid his shotgun on the trembling man’s shoulder and said, “Hand me the key, you useless gob of guts, and get the hell out of my way.”

  Poor marshal got a horror-stricken look on his ruddy, swollen face like he’d just been confronted by the very real possibility of his own mortality. “Jesus Christ, Rangers, please,” he whined.

  As we pushed our prisoners past him, and into his empty cells, he moaned, “Coffin will find out about this. He’ll come blowin’ into town, kill me deader than a rotten fence post, and turn all these men loose ’fore the sun goes down.”

  Paperbacked, and full of bright-yellow mustard, the lawman’s cowardly attitude hit me the exact wrong way. Had heard a similar bellyaching complaint in Willow Junction. “Good God Almighty,” I shot back. “Ain’t no wonder blood letters and badmen run rampant in west Texas. Everyone wearin’ a badge out this way is as scared as a jackrabbit in a coyote’s hip pocket. Enough to make real men sick to our stomachs.”

  Boz slammed the last iron-barred cell door closed, and turned the key with a resounding and authoritative metallic click. Swung around on Pitt and threw the keys back at him. “Don’t be worryin’ about Coffin, Marshal. You’ve got a much closer and more immediate concern. If I come back here and these men have somehow managed to escape, or got sprung by friends, or called to Heaven by golden-winged angelic messengers fresh from the throne of the living God, you’ll have to answer to me.”

  Just to put some final emphasis on the point, I slapped the agitated lawman on the back and added, “Best do what the man says, Mr. Pitt. Nate Coffin is so sweet he’d cause a cavity in an elephant’s tusk compared to Boz Tatum.” Pitt threw me back the look of a man about to have a killer stroke.

  Out on the boardwalk, Harkey hopped up and grinned like an escaped lunatic. “You fellers all ready to go?”

  Boz shouldered his shotgun, scratched his chin, and looked thoughtful. He pulled me away from the cooperative outlaw and almost whispered, “Let’s gather our animals up, Lucius. But before we head for the Coffin stronghold, think it best we enlist a bit of death-dealing assistance.”

  “Death-dealing assistance? What have you got in mind, Boz?”

  “Old and dear friend of mine lives a piece west of town. He could well be the decidin’ factor in any action we take.”

  “Wouldn’t mind havin’ another gun along for the ride, that’s for certain sure.”

  “Not to put too fine an edge on the situation, Lucius, but the truth is I don’t necessarily have what you could call anything like complete trust in this snake Harkey. One or the other of us will probably have to keep an eye on him, lest he double-cross us right into an early grave.”

  “Don’t worry, Boz,” I said, “I’ll watch him.”

  We started back toward the cantina to pick up our animals, and motioned for Harkey to follow. I slapped Boz on the back and said, “Is there any part of Texas where you don’t have friends?”

  “Not as I’m aware of. My dear ole white-haired, sainted pappy always told me as how it pays not to burn your bridges behind you as you ride through the difficult trials and tribulations of this life. Thus far, that ill-educated horse raiser has proven out as absolutely correct. Nothing to match havin’ friends you can call on in times of dire need. Right now, we require the assistance of a big gun. And I just happen to know where to find the biggest of ’em all, retired Ranger Ox Turnbow.”

  “Jesus, Boz, you know the one and only Ox Turnbow?”

  “Not only do I know him, but the old bandit owes me big-time. And if memory serves, he’s less than ten miles from where we’re standin’ right this minute.”

  13

  “GUNSMOKE AND BLOOD, BY GOD . . .”

  WE POINTED OUR animals north and west toward the Nueces River. Harkey trailed behind like a whipped dog. Maybe five miles out of town, Boz turned us back south, along a narrow track that led into the rough-and-tumble of low mesquite-littered bluffs, grass-covered hills, and rocky ravines.

  Hadn’t gone all that far when we came on a rude wooden sign with lettering burned into it with a hot running iron. Rough marker warned wayward travelers that YORE ON OX TURNBOW’S LAND—GO BACK OR GIT KILT DEAD.

  Pointed message got my undivided attention. Said, “Reckon your former amigo would shoot us, Boz?”

  “Could easily happen. Ox always has been just about two shades meaner’n horned Satan hisself. But I doubt he’d plug an old compadre.” He thought on my question a second or so longer, and then added, “Just to be on the safe side of the question, we’ll tie us a piece of white rag to our rifle barrels. Hold ’em skyward, butts against our saddles. Don’t think he’d shoot anyone under a white flag. Hope not leastways.”

  Harsh path eventually narrowed down between scrub-infested, steep-walled bluffs to a point where the trail got tight for any more than two animals to pass abreast. Sheer, natural barriers on either side quickly added to the cramped and uncomfortable feelings that already plagued my overactive and fevered mind.

  Boz led the way, and reined up of a sudden. Couldn’t see around him to what had hindered our progress. But then I heard him say, “Damnation, Ox. You wouldn’t go and plug an old friend, now would you?”

  A voice, some distance ahead, that sounded like a rusted crosscut saw going through a rotten tree, called out, “Well, kiss my saddle-calloused, leathery old ass. If it ain’t the real, live, and original Randall Bozworth Tatum, I’ll eat a week-dead armadiller. Come on in, you ugly son of a bitch.”

  He must have motioned for us to follow. Boz waved me and Harkey ahead. As we moved forward, the course finally opened out on a sweeping, treeless vista that appeared to run onto the ends of the earth—or at least that part of west Texas a bit before you get to the Rio Grande and the wilds of northern Mexico.

  Our slow-moving party passed grazing cattle, horses, and a number of well-kept outlying corrals. Greeted by a pack of barking dogs, we finally arrived in front of a comfortable-looking combination adobe, slate, and stone house, located within walking distance of a handy creek. Sheltered under the only real trees in sight, Turnbow’s rugged homestead was, beyond doubt, the solitary residence for at least twenty miles in any given direction. Lonely site finalized my impression that the man loved his privacy.

  Mounted into the side of a low, south-facing hill, the isolated ranch’s central building looked to have been painstakingly constructed almost exclusively from materials found cropping up from the unforgiving soil all around the semi-arid location. Feller leading us reined up out front, and stepped down from a long-legged blood bay mare.

  All I can say on the subject of his appearance is that Ox Turnbow looked absolutely nothing like his
brutish moniker would lead a reasonable, thinking man to believe he might. Maybe five foot seven or eight, lean as a chewed leather thong, and weathered to the color of aged copper, he waved us off our animals, grabbed Boz soon as he could, and hugged him like a long-lost brother.

  Famed gunman pushed away, slapped Boz’s shoulder, and said, “Just be damned. If they’s one man I never expected to see in these wild and woolly parts, it’d have to be you, old friend. Figure they’s gotta be a reason, though. Dangerous man killer like you didn’t just show up on my doorstep by accident, did you, Tatum?”

  Boz smiled and said, “Always get right to the point, don’t you, Ox?”

  Wiry rancher showed a mouthful of pearly whites and shook his head. “No need to go a-beatin’ ’round the bush, is they? Life’s way too short, don’t you think?”

  Our urgent reason for being in such a remote location got put to the side just a bit longer when Boz turned and motioned my direction. “This here’s my Ranger partner, Lucius Dodge, Ox. Want you two to shake hands, and be good friends.”

  Legendary former Ranger removed a skintight, leather glove and extended a work-roughened hand that jutted from a fringed shirt. Grip like iron bands surrounded my fingers and, right nigh, turned my knuckles into dust. My discomfort caused a subtle, toothy grin that crinkled the skin at the corner of chapped lips set in his weather-bronzed face.

  “Most pleased to make your acquaintance, Lucius Dodge. Any friend of this old bandit is damned sure a friend of mine. Wasn’t for Tatum here, I’d of been dead at least a dozen times. Man saved me from a sulfurous hell, and eternity carryin’ a pitchfork, on more occasions than I care to remember.”

  Boz toed the dirt and got all humble. Snatched his hat off and slapped it against his leg. “Well, now, I’d have to declare as how we’ve likely worked out about even in the life-saving business. But you do owe me a big’un for that time over in Cuero. Remember that little dustup?”

  Turnbow ducked his head for a second. His weather-scarred hand darted to Boz’s shoulder. “Won’t never forget Cuero, Boz. Never. Weren’t for you, Felthus Boggs mighta blowed my head clean off. Why don’t you boys turn your animals out in the corral and come on inside? Personally guarantee it’s much cooler. We’ll have a snort and recall old times.”

  Boz put Harkey to taking care of our animals. Squirrelly little thug liked doing chores not one little bit, but wasn’t allowed no hell of a lot of choice in the matter.

  We stepped inside Turnbow’s stone house to discover a single, high-ceilinged room made possible by a dirt floor dug out to a bit over two feet below ground level. The central room, the largest open area, was arranged around a fireplace fully capable of roasting an entire steer. Individual corners served as concealable sleeping and dining areas. All the walls and posts sported decorations that ranged from animal skulls to every kind of firearm imaginable.

  Amazed, Boz said, “Damn, but you were right, Ox. It is one helluva lot cooler in here. Wouldn’t have believed it from what I seen outside.”

  Could easily spot the old Ranger’s pride in his home as it danced in his steel-gray eyes. He grinned and waved around the room. “Dug in and built ’er tighter’n the bark on a bois d’arc tree. She’s cool in the summer and right toasty in the winter. Cain’t beat it for comfort or security.”

  “Mighty fine,” I said.

  “You boys take a seat there at the table. Built it myself. Chairs made mostly out of horns I found out in the brush, or bobbed off’n meaner members of my own herds. Cushions is skins of ’n deer, antelope, and buffeler what I kilt over the years. Brought all the cut lumber you can see out from the only sawmill in Uvalde. Took me near five years to finish this place. ”

  Boz said, “Thought you had a woman, Ox. Mexican gal named Lolita, if memory serves.”

  Turnbow shook his head and stared at the floor. “Yeah, well, she passed two years back. Died in childbirth.”

  Could see he’d stepped into a painful area, so Boz said, “Sorry to hear that, old friend. Know you came out this way and built your place with her in mind.”

  Our host threw his hat into an empty chair and shrugged. “Know how it is, Boz. Life’s mighty cheap out here in the big cold and lonely. ’Specially hard on womenfolk.”

  He rummaged in a glass-fronted cabinet on one side of the fireplace and returned with a nice-sized corked jug. Dropped the heavy container on the table with a resounding thump, and flopped into the skin-covered chair beside me. Soon, tin cups brimmed with powerful, tongue-scorching home brew.

  On the second pass at Turnbow’s bonded-in-the-barn brand of tarantula juice, Boz moved the conversation away from Lolita Turnbow’s untimely departure and got us down to the deadly business behind our visit.

  With his half-empty cup, my amigo pointed to a massive weapon hanging over the mantelpiece. “See you’ve still got that big, ole beast killer of a rifle, Ox.”

  Turnbow threw his hat on the table. “The Sharps? Hell, yes, I’ve still got ’er. Never give Matilda up. When the goin’ got tough, that ole gal saved my bacon, more times than I care to think on, from starvation, poverty, and bloodthirsty Injuns.”

  Boz took another sip of liquid fire, leaned across the table, and looked deadly serious. “You still hit a gnat’s ass from a quarter mile away with ’er?”

  Turnbow scratched a stubble-covered chin, wagged his head from side to side, then said, “Figured if I got a bit of ole tangle-leg down your gullet, Tatum, the reason for this uncommon visit would finally come out. What you got in mind, amigo?”

  “Would have told you without the lubricating effects of anything like this here gut-warmin’ batch of homemade espiritus fermenti, pard. But today you’re right on target. This ain’t no tea-cake-and-doily social call. Tell our friend why we’re here, Lucius.”

  Kept the ugly tale as brief as I could. Tried to get all the essentials in. Did dwell, a bit, on the parts about the uncalled-for death of Dianna’s innocent young son and how she’d been taken. Turnbow appeared to get more agitated with each and every lawless revelation. Appeared to me as though the abuse of women, in any form or manner, had the power to really light a fire under the man.

  Eventually he held a hand up as though to stop me. Shook his head in disgust and said, “Hell, boys, I’ve been lookin’ for an excuse to rid the world of that lawless bastard’s shadow for years. When first I moved to these parts, Coffin and some of his crew tried to run me off. Took more’n a head or two of my stock over the years, and he’s murdered some of my men in the past. Kilt a few of his’n in return, though. Put out word as how if anything else wayward happened on my spread again, or to any of my vaqueros, I’d be after him personal.”

  “Must’ve had the desired effect,” I said.

  “Well, Lucius, ain’t had no trouble with Nate since. Nowadays, him and his boys take heed to the sign you seen on your way in. All of ’em know beyond any doubt I will kill ’em deader’n hell on an outhouse door if they even so much as show their ugly faces around my spread.”

  Boz sounded amused when he said, “Just knowin’ you’re here keeps ’em away?”

  “Well, yeah. And the fact that I done already went and pulled almost half a dozen of ’em up by the roots over the years. Sons of bitches are fully aware they’d best not be pesterin’ me or mine. Matilda’ll come down from her perch and Coffin men’ll start dyin’ ’fore they even know what hit ’em. All they’ll hear is a whistling buzz and, ’fore they can spit, Jesus’ll be sayin’ howdy.”

  Suppose my friends could hear the emotion in my voice when I got down to brass tacks and said, “We ain’t got much time to debate this, fellers. Gotta come up with a workable plan real quick—tonight if at all possible. Longer we dally, the more chance for Coffin to do what he’s threatened and send Dianna farther south.”

  “Harkey allows as how he can find Nate’s stronghold. Says he’ll lead us there,” Boz added.

  Turnbow took a heavy dollop from his cup. Wiped away the residue on the sleeve of his shir
t. “No real problem findin’ Coffin. Don’t need no half-assed badman like Harkey for that.”

  Surprised me a bit. “That a fact?”

  “Ain’t foolin’ with you, Lucius. Anyone with the grit can just head south and east of here, about forty mile, and turn for the Nueces. Coffin’s snake den is damned near exactly midway between Uvalde and Carrizo Springs, hard by the river. No fences, no walls. Cain’t miss ’im ’less you’re blinder’n a snubbin’ post. Ain’t no fortress or nothin’.”

  “Now that’s a surprise,” I offered. “Figured on a fortified stronghold of some kind. Thought sure we’d end up using dynamite to get inside.”

  “Oh, hell, no. Nothing like that. The wall around Coffin’s place is nothin’ more’n a determined force of armed and vicious men. He usually has twenty or more hired killers about. Hell, anybody with nerve enough can ride right up to the front porch and say howdy. ’Course that all depends on whether Nate’s feelin’ charitable, keeps his gun thugs leashed, and lets you live that long.”

  “You believe they’d go and murder a badge-wearin’ Ranger bold enough to ride right up to the front door, Ox?” I asked.

  Boz looked anxious and puzzled. “What ’er you gettin’ at, Lucius.”

  “What if I confront Coffin with the absolute error of his wicked ways. Propose that he turn Dianna over to me, or die if he don’t. If Ox is as good with that Sharps as you’ve both led me to believe, you boys could hide somewhere nearby, cover me when I ride in, and kill anyone who gets feisty during the negotiations.”

  Boz gave his head a determined shake. “Don’t care for such hastily thought-out plans one little bit, Lucius. Far as I’m concerned, you goin’ in alone is way too dangerous a prospect to consider.”

  “Now, wait a minute, Tatum.” Turnbow stood, moved to his mantel, and lifted the heavy Sharps from its deer-horn cradles. He turned, made his way back to the still-warm chair, resumed his seat, and caressed the weapon as though it were a living thing. “The boy just might have a workable idea goin’ here, Boz. Could be the ticket, you know.”