by J. Lee Butts
Came to the conclusion there's just nothing like the constant and enthusiastic companionship of a talented woman to make a man feel good. I didn't care if the gal continued to pursue her chosen trade—long as I didn't have to know about it and she didn't use my bed. Hell, had no plans to marry up and make her an honest woman. Besides, I'm still not sure till this very moment that such a possibility actually exists for working girls.
Five months into my Kansas raid, perhaps the oddest event of my entire blood-letting career occurred. A broad-shouldered, rough-hewn cattleman strolled up to me at the bar in Varieties, held out his ham-sized hand, and said, "Name's Titus Butcher, Mr. Gault."
Shook his paw with as much enthusiasm as I could muster. "Glad to make your acquaintance. Appears you've got something on your mind, Mr. Butcher."
"That I do, sir. Arrived in town two days ago with a herd I pushed up from near Corpus Christi." Surprised hell out of me when Butcher suddenly teared up. He jerked a bandanna from his pocket and blew a bulbous nose before continuing. "Three weeks into the Nations, a murderous thug hired especially for this trip by my foreman shot my son to death and ran like a chicken-killin' coyote. My boy was an exceptional young man, only fifteen years old, and did nothing to deserve such a useless death at the hands of a professional killer."
Didn't know the man, or the dead lad, so it took some doing, but I tried to act sympathetic. "Sorry to hear such a sad tale, sir. Heartbreaking when anyone that young meets his Maker. Excuse me for possibly intruding on your obvious grief, but what does your son's passing have to do with me?"
"Story goin' 'round these parts leads me to believe Eli Gault is a deadly adversary when it comes to gunplay. Hear tell you killed more'n a dozen men on the way up from Texas. I'd like to hire you to find the man who murdered my son. Pay is damned good, Mr. Gault."
"Want me to bring your son's murderer to you for arrest by local law enforcement and suitable hanging?"
Butcher was mighty emphatic when he said, "Don't want him brought in. I want him dead, dead, dead, and from what I've been given to understand, you're the one man in Dodge who can satisfy my request." He threw down a full shot of gator sweat, then fixed me in a hard gaze.
Most logical question I could've asked came up next. "Why don't you go after him yourself?"
No hesitation. He came back with, "I raise cattle for a living, Mr. Gault. Only experience I have with guns involves gettin' rid of varmints. This particular pest carries a reputation for deadly use of firearms and a total lack of conscience. No false pride at stake by admitting that I'm no match for him."
"What makes you think I'm a match for him?"
"Reputation, sir. Been hearing about you since before I left home. Eli Gault's growing legend has spread from the piney woods of the great Lone Star State, west to San Antone and beyond. When Brady Pike murdered Titus Junior, I knew beyond any doubt you'd be the man to seek out. Fortunate for me you're still in Dodge."
Figured humble and law-abiding was the best tack with Butcher. I'd tried to keep out of trouble's way since arriving in the cattle capital of the West. So I said, "Can't just go around killing anyone handy, you know—even if the pay is good and the potential victim as guilty as mark-ed Cain."
He leaned forward, fished a star-shaped deputy sheriff's badge, and some official-looking pieces of paper from his jacket pocket. Laid the pile on the bar. Pushed it all my direction. Anxious cowman lowered his voice to a whisper. "I've had financial consultations with representatives of the local constabulary. What you have here is an official deputy's commission, letters of introduction to any trail bosses you might encounter who could assist when necessary, and a legal warrant for Pike's arrest—which I fully expect you to ignore. All you have to do is find Pike. Kill him at your convenience. Nothing will come back to you as a result of his departure from the living."
Somewhat surprised by the thoroughness of his preparations, I said, "And exactly how much are you offering for this job?"
"I'll pay you two thousand dollars in gold—upon proof of Pike's untimely death."
"How do you expect me to prove I've dispatched the right man? You want me to bring his body back?"
"Return of the corpse isn't necessary. Pike wears a unique pair of solid silver spurs. Had 'em specially made in San Antone when we passed through. Murderous bastard won't turn 'em loose, 'less he was as dead as a beaver hat. Bring those spurs to me—and the money's yours."
"Got any idea where he went?"
"I know exactly where he is right this very minute. Worthless scum is drinking, whoring, and taking his leisure at the Blue Bottle Saloon, less than sixty miles from here in Coldwater. He and two of his friends arrived there over a week ago and haven't yet departed."
"How did you come by such information?"
"Friend of mine stopped over in Coldwater for a bit of fun and relaxation 'bout a week ago. Spotted Pike, Paxton Jefferies, and a three-fingered killer named Spider Clegg, having lunch together at a table in the front window of the Blue Bottle. I have no reason to believe they've left as yet. Near as I've been able to tell, Pike's making no effort to hide. Appears right proud of his killings. Has no worries about arrest or retaliation. My hope is that you'll bring about a change in his attitude."
"Mighty tough trio you've named off. I've only been in Dodge a short time, and have heard bloody tales about Pike's two friends ever since I hit town. Rumors going around would lead any reasonable man to some mighty apprehensive feelings about approaching Jefferies and Clegg."
"No doubt about it, Mr. Gault. They're a murderous, evil bunch. Personally have little doubt them boys are probably in league with Satan himself. Question is, will you take the job and do what I've asked?"
I thought Butcher's proposal over for about fifteen seconds. Stood at the bar, twirled my beaker of tarantula juice in a circle, and had to admit the proposition bore a number of fascinating aspects. Hell, at least half a dozen counties in Texas had warrants and posters out on me for a variety of murders. I'd killed the hell out of five thieving bastards in the Nations, and while only three other living men could testify to the event, all of Dodge still buzzed with the tale. Then, out of nowhere, Titus Butcher shows up and offers me a deputy sheriff's commission and badge. I'd be a lawman, for Christ's sake. The entire crazy-quilt state of affairs fired me up in a way I would never have believed possible.
Grabbed the badge and pile of paper from the bar and said, "I'm your man, Mr. Butcher."
Cowman's chin dropped to his chest. When his mist-filled eyes met mine again, he mumbled, "Thank you, sir. You'll never know how much I appreciate your decision."
"You'll appreciate it to the tune of a thousand dollars up front, with the rest payable when I return carrying Brady Pike's spurs."
Ole Titus didn't hesitate for a second. Dropped a heavy leather bag of gold double eagles on the bar, shook my hand, slapped me on the shoulder, and started to walk away. He turned and said, "I'm on the third floor. Room 303. Be looking forward to good news."
Next morning, I pinned on my shiny new badge, saddled up, and headed out on the sixty-mile ride to Coldwater.
When I arrived there, two days later, got the impression that the dusty Kansas town had all the appearance of an older, poorer, and more decrepit version of Dodge. Rough-cut board-and-batten buildings sprang from the rolling, grass-covered plains and, from a distance, presented the peculiar appearance of piles of buffalo bones bleaching in the sun. A single, dusty, near-deserted street passed through the jumbled collection of structures. Tied my animal to a hitch rack in front of the Blue Bottle Saloon and strolled inside.
Thick-necked, muscular, mustached bartender who sported a head that appeared to have survived an aborted scalping threw a ragged towel over his shoulder when I entered and said, "Welcome, first drink's on the house. What's your pleasure, sir?"
I ordered a better label of whiskey. He surprised me by serving it up. Nervous man snatched several sneaky peeks at the badge on my chest as he poured the drink.
Took the first sip of his liquor before I asked, "Would you know a gent named Brady Pike on sight?"
He blinked like I'd slapped him, and hesitated before saying, "Mr. Pike and some of his friends arrived in town several weeks ago. They take lunch here every day. Usually sit at the table over by the window." He threw a nervous glance at the loud-ticking clock that hung on the wall over his back bar. Turned to me and said, "They should arrive in another hour or so."
I pointed to the table in the corner most distant from the entrance. In a voice that sounded colder than winter in the Dakotas, I said, "Would prefer you not announce my presence, or that I asked for Pike, when he enters. Soon as he and his compadres take their seats, want you to bring a clean glass to that table." He nodded. I took the bottle, ambled to the corner, and took a seat with my back to the wall.
Spent most of the next two hours watching half a dozen flies on the floor wrestle with a chunk of what looked like a piece of pig gristle, and trying my best to stay awake. Insect food war was interrupted a number of times by entering customers. One feller looked enough like a gunman to divert my attention from the wrestling bugs for quite a spell. But he took his liquor at the bar, and left as soon as he'd finished a single glass.
Just before one o'clock, I noticed a hand on top of the batwing doors. Two of the fingers had gone missing. Spider Clegg pushed his way inside and glanced around the room as though checking its contents for possible threat. He shoved his Boss of the Plains hat off, and let it hang down his back from a leather cinch strap. The double-row ammunition belt around his waist bristled with several pistols and knives. He mopped a sweaty brow, turned, and motioned to someone on the boardwalk.
A pair of equally heavily armed men stepped inside, and repeated the same cautious routine before sliding along the wall to the only table near the Blue Bottle's huge front window. I could hear the soft, musical jingle of well-made spurs as they took their seats.
The bartender flung the towel over his shoulder and sprinted to the gunmen's favorite eating spot when one of them motioned for him to approach. After a discussion I couldn't hear, he returned to the bar, got a clean glass, and headed for my table.
Whiskey slinger placed the tumbler near my bottle and whispered, "The feller facing the window is Brady Pike. Be careful of the man on his right. Pax Jefferies is a killer." Then he hoofed it to the back room to get whatever Pike and his friends had ordered to eat.
I'd already removed the badge. Had it stored in my vest pocket. Could tell, by what I had observed, that hiding the star was most probably a sound decision. Waited until food and a steaming pot of coffee were placed on their table before I stood. Pike poured three cups and sat the pot near his right hand. Slipped up near him and Clegg before any of them even realized they had company.
Jefferies saw me first. Alarmed, he jerked his gaze my direction as he said, "What the hell you want, you sneaky son of a bitch?"
Clegg's head snapped around. "Goddamn, Pike, I didn't even see him. Where'd you come from, mister?"
Pike dismissively glanced my way and sipped at his cup before he spoke. "Aw, hell, boys, don't think you need to worry none. This gent ain't gonna be a problem, are you, mister?"
My first shot went through the left side of Pike's head and splattered all manner of brain, bone, and blood in Jefferies's face. Poor gore-covered bastard was so shocked, I doubt he had time to think about the slug that punched a hole in his heart, blew through his spine, and lodged in the windowsill behind him, along with a gob of his insides.
A screaming Spider Clegg jumped out of his chair and hoofed it for the door. Blue whistler from my weak-side pistol hit him in back of the head. Knocked his flopping body to the boardwalk outside. I stepped to the door, glanced down, and discovered the bullet had departed through his mouth and taken most of his teeth with it. A gory pile of ivories lay on the bloody boards about a foot from where his head rested. He kept twitching like a dying rattlesnake, so I blasted him again. Got the sorry skunk behind the right ear that time. Second hole in ole Spider's already empty noggin stopped all that flopping around pretty damned quick.
Bent over the body, pulled Clegg's pistol, and dropped it in the bloody puddle near his hand. Quickly slipped back in the saloon and did the same with the other two as well. Placed Jefferies's pistol on the floor beside his chair, then wrapped Pike's still-warm fingers around the butt of his weapon, and laid it in his lap next to the coffee cup. Looked damned good when I finished.
Crazy-eyed bartender stormed to my side and appeared to go bug nutty. I couldn't understand a word he said for about a minute. Everything came out of his mouth in a jumble of incoherent phrases. A flurry of gestures seemed to make even less sense than what he said. 'Bout the time I got both my pistols reloaded, he managed to utter something understandable. "Jesus H. Christ, mister. You kilt all three of 'em so fast, I couldn't even see how you did it."
"Yeah, well, had to do 'em quick as I could. No need giving boys like these any kind of a chance. Might well have meant my death if I had. Started to shoot them from over in the corner, but felt I might miss from that distance. Had to get up close to do this job right."
He mopped at his brow with the bar rag. "But why? Why'd you kill 'em like that? Why not just arrest 'em and take 'em to jail?"
"I've been in jail. Didn't care for it. Don't think this crew would've liked it much either. They're a whole lot better off dead. So's the rest of the world." Stunned barkeep stumbled to the doors of his back room and disappeared.
Pike's head lolled on his neck stalk like a watermelon on a peach tree limb. Blood dripped from the hole I'd put in him, and collected in an ever-growing pool under his straight-backed chair. Grabbed his seat by one of its slats and pulled him away from the meal he'd not yet started. A half-full coffee cup dangled from his dead finger.
I snatched one of his booted feet up and dropped it on the table. Sure enough, he sported the most astonishing set of spurs on anybody in Kansas, or the world for all I knew. Sparkling rowels were as big around as two silver dollars. Best leatherwork I'd ever seen. Altogether, they were mighty impressive.
Once I'd retrieved everything needed to satisfy Titus Butcher's requirements, I headed for the door, only to be stopped by Coldwater's poor idiot of a town marshal. Silly son of a bitch didn't have any more sense about him than the near frantic bartender.
He gingerly stepped over Clegg's still-leaking carcass and said, "Good God Almighty. We ain't had this many killin's on a single day in more'n five years." He threw a sweaty glance at the bodies still sitting at the table. Ripped his hat off, and rubbed a shaking arm across his dripping face. "Sweet merciful heavens. Look at this mess." Then he turned puzzled eyes on me. "What in the blue-eyed hell's goin' on here, mister?"
By the time he got around to me, I'd put my badge back on and retrieved Butcher's warrant from my coat pocket. Handed the document to the astonished marshal, pointed at Pike's body, and said, "Dead man still trying to drink his coffee was wanted for the murder of a fifteen-year-old boy named Titus Butcher Junior. He balked at being arrested and taken back to Dodge for trial. Tried to pull on me. Found it necessary to kill him. Couldn't be avoided."
Coldwater's dazed marshal gaped at all the bodies again. "What about the other two?"
"Silly bastards attempted to aid their murderous friend. Piss-poor decision to draw on a man who's already armed and smoking." Reached over and placed a quieting hand on the marshal's still-quaking shoulder, smiled, and said, "Guess there just ain't no accounting for unbridled stupidity, is there?"
He shot the kind of look at me that implied I'd lost my mind. I reached down and snatched the warrant from his rubbery fingers. Folded it back up as I started for the door. Didn't get very far when he called out, "Where the hell you think you're goin', mister?"
Turned to see the man's once-nervous, agitated gaze had hardened dramatically. "Back to Dodge," I said.
His right hand came up on the grips of the pistol on his hip. "Not today, you ain't
. There'll be a coroner's inquest quick as I can get everyone together. In the meantime, you'll have to sit in my jail till everything shakes out."
Pulled the papers out my pocket again and held them up for him to see. "You saw this warrant. That man was a cold-blooded murderer. He killed an unarmed boy. These other two attempted to aid him in my murder."
His grip tightened on the pistol butt. "All of that might well prove true, mister. But like I said, that's for the coroner's inquest to determine. Hell, anyone can show up wearin' a badge and claimin' whatever they want. But in my town, we'll wait for the coroner's findings just to make sure."
Now, I want what I'm about to say to be as crystal clear as a jug of stump-holler white lightning. I'd had no earthly intention of killing Coldwater's amazingly stupid town marshal when I arrived there. Didn't know the man, and wanted nothing more than to perform the job Titus Butcher had hired me to do and be on my way.
But when the law-bringing son of a bitch went to pull a pistol on me, I simply had no choice. Blasted the silly jackass into the next week before he could get his weapon leveled up on my guts. Big chunk of lead hit the stupid gomer dead center, and pitched him backward like a rag doll. He landed on top of the table where the rapidly cooling corpses of Pike and Jefferies still sat. Can't say as how I actually regretted what he forced me to do. Except to mention that his unexpected passing sure threw a kink in my plans. Forced me into a run for my horse and a race with a local posse back to Dodge.
Coldwater's irate citizens couldn't have been more'n an hour or so behind when I hit town like I had a Fourth of July whizbang tied to my ass. Hoofed it to Butcher's room. Banged on his door. Wanted to pick up the rest of my pay. Get the hell out of Dodge in a hurry.
When he finally let me in, and I dropped Brady Pike's spurs on his bed, ole Titus wept like a baby. Shook my hand so hard, I thought he'd rip my arm from its socket. Didn't even have to ask for the money. He pressed another sack of coins into my hand, and hugged me like a long-lost son.