by J. Lee Butts
At night, he made me take my weapons down to their essential parts. Had to oil and clean every spring, screw, and individual piece. Afterward, he always inspected them. Said he learned the necessity of such discipline riding with Quantrill and the James boys up in Missouri during the War of Yankee Aggression.
We arrived in Nacogdoches after a week on the trail. Cutter had a serious thirst by then, and decided we should take our leisure in the Boar's Breath Saloon, a watering hole he favored above several lesser places along the town's main thoroughfare.
"Cooler in here," he said as we dismounted. "Big room has higher ceilings and a Mexican feller who hand-cranks some fans that are all hooked together with leather straps. Downright homey for fellers like us."
He pushed through a set of ornately carved batwings. I followed him inside. Headed for a table in a corner as far from the entrance as you could get without sitting in the alley. He said, "Never sit near the front of a place like this. Try to find a spot as close to the back door as you can. That way you can see who's comin' at you and, if necessary, make a quick exit."
"Why not sit up front?"
He glanced over and eyeballed me like I was a small child and said, "Too easy for someone to fire from the street before you can see 'em. Hell, I had a friend who was playin' poker at the second table of the Bull's Head down in Gonzales. Feller he'd exchanged words with at some point stood behind the batwings and shot him from outside on the boardwalk. Bastard used a long-barreled shotgun. Blew my compadre's whole head off. Nothing left but the stalk of bone holding it up. You just never know, Eli. Always best to play safe."
A hard-looking woman who must've fancied herself quite the beauty strolled over to our table and said, "You boys drinkin' or lookin' for female companionship this fine summer day?"
She leaned over and gave us a long view down the front of her shabby, spangle-covered blue dress. Rough ole gal had some nice ones on her. Didn't mind showing them off either. Got the impression she'd worked in far nicer joints than the Boar's Breath.
Cutter's tone remained pleasant but firm when he said, "We're drinkin' right now, darlin'. Perhaps the other at some later time."
Gal frowned and headed for the bar. "Suit yourself, cowboy." She brought a bottle, two glasses, and some cigars back to the table, glanced at me, winked, and said, "You've never had any as good as mine, mister. I might be occupied later. Sure you don't want to ride the tiger right now?"
I said, "No, thank you, miss. I'll sit with my friend for a spell."
As saloons go, the Boar's Breath wasn't bad. Not as nice as some in Waco, but not a dump either. We nursed the bottle along, puffed on our cigars, and were having a right pleasant, relaxing afternoon until a feller who looked like a bad dream come to life stepped inside. I'd noticed the odd-looking gomer as he peeked over the batwings before making his dramatic entrance.
Started to mention his presence to Cutter, but he pulled his hat down and said, "I seen 'im. Bounty-huntin' bastard named Spook McCain."
"Is he after you?" I asked.
"Damned if I know. Could be. They's posters out on me all over the state. Depending on where you're from, I'm worth a thousand dollars in Comanche County, or five thousand down in Bexar."
Spook McCain took one step inside the saloon and stopped. Dressed from head to foot in black, he also wore a silver-studded pistol belt and hatband to set off the dark nature of his attire. A matched brace of bone-handled Colts was worn backward under a long frock coat. The contrary arrangement of his weapons reminded me of an illustration I'd seen on the cover of a penny dreadful that purported to be the actual person of Wild Bill Hickok. Boys in school in La Honda handed that book around until it fell apart.
Room fell silent as McCain took two more steps in our direction. Heard the pleasantly musical ring of his solid silver spurs. He stopped again, planted his feet, and pushed his coattails backward. A steely-eyed gaze landed on Cutter and me.
Made ever so slight a move to stand, but Cutter leaned back in his chair and hissed, "Hold still, son. Don't move. Let me handle this." His right hand went to the grip of his belly gun. Opened my jacket, and leaned on the table where I could get at my shoulder rig.
As the bounty hunter, who bore the appearance of a dead undertaker, strode across the barroom of the Boar's Breath, tipplers scurried to the door like whipped dogs. A handful headed for the corners and appeared willing to suffer whatever by way of flying lead might befall them just so they could bear witness to the proceedings.
By the time McCain had jingled his way over to within a few steps of our table, I had my shoulder-holstered hideout in hand and was ready to shoot hell out of the cadaverous-looking bastard if he made the wrong move.
In a voice that sounded like the man gargled horseshoe nails every morning upon arising, McCain said, "They's some irate rich folks down San Antone way will pay a heap of gold coin for your hide, Sharpe."
Cutter grinned and said, "So I hear."
"You done went and killed a state senator. A true hero of the Republic. Old bastard fought at San Jacinto with Houston. Man cain't do crimes of such depravity and git away with 'em, 'less someone like me comes lookin' for him."
"That a fact," my friend replied.
"Natural goddamned fact. One of them kinda facts you can only find in books writ by fellers with college edications."
Cutter really opened the box when he said, "You intend on taking me back to San Antone, Spook?" He didn't wait for a reply. "Think you're good enough to get out of here alive?"
The cadaver's eyes blinked real fast several times before he said, "Hell, Sharpe, I been quicker'n you for more years than this pup with you has been alive."
Well, he'd brought me into the conversation, so I snapped, "Don't bet your life on it, you ugly bag of pustulous shit. I think between the two of us, we can kill you dead times four. When the smoke clears, folk here'bouts will be able to use your sorry ass as a boat anchor. Decision you have today is whether you think it's possible to git back to the boardwalk alive."
A crooked, rotten-toothed smile creaked across McCain's face. "Spunky little shit, ain't you, boy. Gonna take great pleasure killin' hell outta both of you."
Must admit while I had a serious eyeball on Spook McCain's every move, or at least I thought I did, both the man's hands filled with pistols like blue-spiked lightning during a cyclone. Guess he must have thought he could kill me and Cutter at the same time. He had a small problem, though. Cutter Sharpe was just about a shade-and-a-half faster.
First shot fired came from Cutter. Blast from his pistol shocked the hell out of me. Confined space of the bar made his pistol sound like a cannon going off. I'd only heard a weapon fired inside a building once before. Damn near deafened me in my left ear. Cutter's slug hit McCain in his upper left chest and knocked him slightly sideways. Caused his aim to fail. McCain's first shot was directed at me, and sent a heavy block of burning lead so close to my ear, I thought for a second I heard angels singing.
I got my hideout up and into action just as Spook fired a second round, which smacked the tabletop and ricocheted into the ceiling. Thumbed off four shots in response, while Cutter kept pumping lead in the ugly killer's direction. Between the two of us, we hit McCain at least four times. Under the circumstances, it should be understandable that some of our shots went wild. Midway through all the gun smoke and thunderation, a feller in one of the corners yelped like a kicked dog and hit the batwings running.
As quickly, and as brutally, as the action began, it ended. Spook McCain staggered sideways a few steps, dropped one of his pistols, and slumped onto a table near the front window. He rolled onto his back, somehow got himself erect, and stumbled for the door. His gun went off one more time and blew a hole in the floor beside his foot. He made a grab for the top of the batwing, missed, and fell face-forward onto the boardwalk.
Cutter holstered his weapon and said, "Didn't think the son of a bitch was ever gonna die."
"He could still be alive," I said.
<
br /> "Sweet Jesus, I hope not. Be something of a novelty if he was to stand up and start walking again. Maybe you should go over and put one in his brainpan—just to be sure he's dead."
Hell, I was stunned. "You want me to walk over there and shoot him again?"
He laughed, stood, and said, "Hell, boy, don't you know when someone is kidding? Come on, Eli. Let's get the hell out of here. Don't know what kind of law's working the town these days."
We headed for the street. Had to step over Spook McCain's oozing corpse. Several of our slugs went all the way through the man's body. Saw at least two nasty holes in back of his long black coat.
Thought we'd made our escape, but I'd just put my foot in the stirrup when someone behind us said, "Hold up there, boys. We need to talk a spell." Dropped my reins, turned, and saw an impressive-looking gentleman wearing a badge. His double-barreled coach gun was menacingly pointed in our direction. Men armed in an equally deadly manner stood on either side of Nacogdoches's town marshal.
Heard Cutter hiss, "Shit. Hoped we'd make it to the woods. This ain't good by a damn sight. Whatever you do, don't tell 'em your real name, Eli." And that's how I became even better known to the misinformed as Henry Moon, and some folks mistook Cutter Sharpe for a feller he called Jackson Pike.
6
"Move and I'll put one in your brain."
I'd never been in a real jail before, but must admit that John Pinckney Young had a right nice one—much nicer than La Honda's chicken coop. Should also confess that deep down, I actually liked being in jail. As you can imagine, the experience had a certain familiarity about it. At least for the first few days.
Thought that odd circumstance over at some length, and decided as how people tend to be comfortable with what they know. Came to the conclusion that being the only son of Joshua Gault was as close as a body could get to a seventeen-year term down at the Huntsville State Penitentiary.
Marshal Young put Cutter and me in separate cells. Said we might be there a spell before the circuit judge came through. Floors got swept every day. Young made us prisoners do the job, but they did get swept. Our bedding tended to be clean and lacking in the insect neighbors usually found in such places. Food was so tasty, I looked forward to the meals. Deputy named Jonas Horn told me a local lady cooked the stuff. Best I'd had since leaving the Hickerson household. Only thing could have made my stay any more enjoyable would have been Charlotte's passionate company every night.
Young even expressed some degree of understanding about our predicament. Day he locked us up, the man stood outside our cells and said, "Hell, fellers, I do appreciate why you killed him. McCain was known all over this part of Texas as a dangerous man. Type who'd shoot you dead if money could be made by your dying. But I can't have bloody shoot-outs that result in dead bodies and wounded folk right in the middle of town. Personally, I have no doubt Judge Grimsley will find that your actions were self-defense. Until then, just relax and enjoy your stay."
If my memory hasn't failed me completely, I think we'd been locked up for about a week when I let Cutter know that the marshal and his men had failed to find the four-shot derringer hidden in my boot. Happened one night after my fourth or fifth run-in with one of Marshal Young's deputies. Cutter's eyes lit up like I'd just handed him a five-pound sack full of high-grade California gold dust.
"You mean to tell me you've had that weapon all this time and are just now telling me?" he hissed between the bars.
Didn't have a good excuse for my oversight. So I just said, "Yeah. Figured we might want to let the situation calm down a bit before trying anything. Didn't count on circumstances like what's been going on, though. That's understandable, ain't it, Cutter?"
"Might be understandable, but you shoulda told me so I could have decided what to do and made plans to accomplish our deliverance from this god-awful place."
That's just about exactly what I expected him to say, and the very reason why I'd kept the tiny gun's existence a secret. Hell, we had three squares a day coming, didn't have to do nothing but sweep our cells out and make our cots in the morning. Then we could lounge around, sleep, whittle, play checkers, read, or do any damned thing we wanted. It bordered on paradise.
The marshal and most of his deputies were nice folks. They treated us extremely well—except for one of them. Feller named Clinton Turnbow worked nights and, for reasons known only to God and Clinton, the man hated me from the first moment we set eyes on each other.
He always relieved the day deputy at about five o'clock in the afternoon. Left me to myself early on. Then, first time nobody was around, he started ragging on my locked-up ass. Loved to pick at me. Always throwing something awful into my cell. Hadn't been there but two or three days when he jammed his arm through the bars and dumped a big pile of horse apples all over my clean floor. Good God, they smelled somethin' awful. To my thinking, seemed as though he'd been aging them meadow muffins till someone like me showed up to torment.
Cutter yelled, "You stupid son of a bitch. Get that shit outta here. Odifirizes the whole damned jail."
Turnbow slammed the door that separated the cell block from the sheriff's office. Through the slot used by the jailers to look in on us, he said, "You want them smelly fritters gone, pick 'em up and dump 'em out the window. Or you can just let 'em lay there and stink." Then he went to laughing like an inmate at some insane asylum.
We searched our cells and Cutter came up with a piece of newspaper he found under his mattress. I busted a chunk of wood off my bunk and managed to scrape most of the foul-smelling stuff up and dump it outside. But, hell, the pungent aroma lingered.
Badge-wearing son of a bitch woke me up again about two hours later. He'd placed a bucket full of water and a mop inside my cell. Said, "Git your lazy ass outta bed and clean that stink up. Would't want the sheriff to think you had to do your business on the floor now, would we?"
Laid in my bunk and said, "Clean it up yourself. You did it."
He glared at me between the bars. Jammed his key into the lock and said, "If I have to come in there, boy, I'll kick your ass so hard, you'll have to unbutton your shirt every time you go to the shit house. Whuppin's gonna commence at the count of three. Once I turn this key, it'll be too late. Serious ass kicking will definitely follow."
Cutter sat up and said, "Leave the boy alone."
Turnbow didn't even look my compadre's direction when he said, "Go back to sleep, Pike, or you just might be in for the same treatment."
My friend got the deputy's attention when he snapped back, "Come in my cell, you stupid son of a bitch, and you'll be ready for a cold slab down at the undertaker's tomorrow mornin'. Just bring that key on over here, open my cell door, and see what happens."
A mocking chuckle escaped Turnbow's throat. "Be careful, old man. I just might take you up on that invitation. You mighta been somebody 'fore we throwed you in that cell, but now you're just another raggedy-assed, cellar-dwelling piece of sorry trash, unfit to live amongst decent folk." Then he turned back to me and started counting. "One."
I waited till "two" passed his lips before I dragged out of bed and went to mopping. Got everything scrubbed down and smelling good in less than ten minutes. He made me back away from the door before he opened it and reached inside for his bucket. He swung the mop around on his way out. Handle whacked me upside the head. Raised a goose-egg-sized knot over my eyebrow. Could hear him laughing behind the safety of the office door.
Was nursing my aching head when Cutter said, "Watch him, Eli. Bullies like Turnbow can make your life miserable. They'll hurt you if you ain't paying attention. But don't worry, son, his time is coming. I'll see to it."
Well, I kept my eye on the tormenting bastard, but for four nights in a row, he seemed to think of a new form of hell to dump on me. Last time he pulled one of his pranks was when I showed Cutter the derringer.
Snapped awake soaking wet at about two in the morning of our seventh day in captivity. Turabow stood outside my cell door, laughing like some
thing crazed. He held a wooden bucket by his side and said, "Took me a week to save all that piss up. Hope you like it, you son of a bitch."
Whatever he threw on me sure enough smelled bad, but I'm not certain the liquid was exactly what he claimed. 'Course it could have been. Knowing the wicked turn of the man's mind, anything was possible.
Cutter hopped off his bed, and painted the air blue with a stream of curses that would have sent any decent woman to the safety of a fluttering fan and a hasty exit. Turnbow stomped out, laughing again.
Soon as I told Cutter about the derringer, and we'd talked it over, he said, "Give it to me, Eli."
Looking back on the whole situation, I'd probably have been better served by not mentioning the weapon to a man like Cutter. Don't think I would have used it the way he intended, but then you just never know how things will work out when someone starts in with the kind of torturous behavior Turnbow enjoyed.
Handed my friend the derringer through the bars between our cells. That's when he admonished me again for not keeping him informed that I had the gun.
He checked the loads. Even took each shell out and looked it over to make sure there was nothing amiss. Then he said, "Here's what we'll do. Next time that son of a bitch comes in to check on us, you call him over to your door. Since he'll have to walk right past me, we'll have him in a corner where there won't be any place for the bastard to run or hide. After that, leave it to me."
Didn't have long to wait. Turnbow had a habit of looking in on us at least once every hour. But he enjoyed persecuting me so much that he'd be in about every ten minutes most nights. He'd stroll in and spit at me, stand by the door and curse me, or talk in the foulest terms about my mama. Hell, just anything to make me miserable and leave the impression that something worse lay in the future.