“Just based on what you and Dan have told me about that place we’re lookin’ for, I expect we oughta be gettin’ pretty close,” Possum said as they sat by the fire. “Any of this country look familiar to you?” he asked Emma.
“I don’t know,” she answered, hesitating to hazard a guess. “When Dan and I left, it was the first time I had been more’n two or three miles outta Butcher Bottom since I was a little girl. Anyway, you said this was the Wichita River. Butcher Bottom is on the Brazos.”
“That’s a fact,” Possum said, “I think it’s the North Wichita to be exact, but we oughta strike the place where it meets with the south fork of the river pretty soon, and that ain’t very far from the Brazos.”
The night passed peacefully enough, and they were on the move early the next morning on a course Possum figured would lead them closer to the confluence of the two forks of the Wichita, and consequently, closer to the Brazos. He guessed that river to be east of the Wichita, running north and south. His plan was to strike the Brazos and search up and down it until they found Butcher Bottom. When he told his traveling companions that, Emma apologized again for not knowing how to get home. “Ain’t your fault,” Possum said. “We’ll find it and get you there safely.” He looked at Perley and winked, figuring Perley was as anxious to get this mission over with as he was.
“This country all looks the same to me,” Emma said, “but this trail we’ve been following does look kinda familiar.” She paused to remember, then said, “If we come to one place I remember, then I’ll know it for sure, and it would lead us right to Butcher Bottom.”
CHAPTER 3
“What can I do for you?” Joe Holden asked the sullen brute standing just inside the door of his store. Tall, heavyset, with a face as hard as granite, the stranger paused at the door only long enough to look the room over. His eyes lingered only a moment on the two men seated at a table, drinking whiskey, before he stepped over to the counter. There were no horses tied at the hitching rail, so he was mildly surprised to see there were customers.
“What are they drinkin’?” Jack Pitt asked. When told they were drinking pure corn whiskey, he said, “I’ll take some of that.” He didn’t ask the price.
“You talkin’ a shot, or you want a jar?” Holden asked.
“Gimme a jar. A pint’ll take the chill off my throat.” Holden reached under the counter and came up with a canning jar full of corn whiskey. He screwed the top off and pushed the jar over before the stranger, who took a long drink from it. Satisfied, he reached into a vest pocket and produced a roll of cash money and paid for his drink.
Impressed by the size of the roll of bills, Holden became immediately cordial. “Never seen you in the store before,” he started. “I believe I’da remembered if you had. My name’s Joe Holden. This here store is my place. I can fit you with most-bout anything you’re wantin’. You just passin’ through, or you lookin’ to find work at the Lazy-S?”
Pitt didn’t offer his name but answered Holden’s question with one of his own. “You know where Butcher Bottom is?”
“Can’t say as I do,” Holden answered. “I’ve heard tell of it, but I don’t know where it is. Ain’t nobody from there ever come into my store that I know of.”
Pitt scowled his disappointment. He had heard Dan Slocum telling Possum Smith that his wife was from a little settlement called Butcher Bottom. So when he went looking for Possum after he shot Dan, and found him gone, he searched every little road south of Dodge City, looking for the one Dan had been living on. He found a cabin and shed like the one Dan had described. It was empty, and there were wagon tracks leading out to the road. They had to be left by Dan’s widow, and from the hoofprints around the place, he had a pretty good idea that Possum had gone with her. It was a sizable gamble on his part, thinking Possum and the widow had headed to Texas, where the woman was from. But the payoff was more than twenty-two thousand dollars, if his hunch was right, so it was worth the gamble. He took another pull from the whiskey jar and asked, “You got anything to eat?”
“Sure do,” Holden replied. “Mammy’s just about done fixin’ supper. That’s what them boys over there are waitin’ on. Set yourself down at the table and it ought’n be more’n a minute or two now.”
Pitt paid him the twenty-five cents he asked for the supper, then went over to the table and sat down. The two men seated there stared openly at him, and he glared back in their direction. He had already noticed the bandaged shoulder and arm in a sling on one of the men—it was pretty obvious—but then he noticed the other one had a bound leg. “What the hell happened to you two?” Pitt asked bluntly, only mildly curious.
“We run into a gunslinger back down the creek a-ways,” Cal Hackett answered. “Got the jump on us when we weren’t expectin’ it. He killed my brother, Zeb, and put a bullet in me and Peewee.”
“Ha,” Pitt snorted, “one man?”
“Yeah,” Peewee spoke up. “It was one man done the shootin’, but he had another man and a woman with him. Like Cal said, he got the jump on us.”
“It’s gonna be different next time,” Cal declared. “I’m goin’ after him, soon as this wound heals up a little.”
Cal’s boast never registered in Pitt’s mind. His thoughts had been stopped when he heard there was a man and a woman with the gunslinger. He looked straight at Peewee. “The man and woman with him,” he demanded, “was he an old gray-headed man? And did the woman have a baby?”
“That’s right!” Peewee exclaimed. “Did you run into ’em, too?”
Pitt didn’t answer his question. “They was in a wagon, right?” Peewee nodded, so Pitt asked, “Where did this happen? Where did you boys get shot?”
“Down Smoky Creek,” Peewee answered.
“How far?”
“From here,” Cal replied, “about six miles.” Peewee nodded in agreement.
This news was quickening Pitt’s anxiety by the second. He started to get up and leave right away, but Mammy came in with a tray holding three plates of food. The aroma of ham and beans served to remind him that he hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast, so he decided to stay long enough to eat. As he destroyed the plate of food before him, he gave more thought to the existence of the gunman who had shot his two supper companions. “This feller that did the shootin’,” he asked, “was he with the man and woman in the wagon?” He could picture someone with the same idea he had. Maybe he found out about the money Emma and Possum had between them and had the same thing in mind that he did.
“Well, he sure acted like it,” Peewee answered, “and they sure jumped to do everythin’ he told ’em to. The old feller helped him load our brother’s body and get us on our horses.”
The picture was clear in Pitt’s mind now. Possum and Emma had made a deal with a hired gun to protect them. Either that, or maybe some gunslinger happened to find out they were carrying a fortune in stolen money, and he was thinking he was going to get it for himself. Whichever, there was little doubt that he had to move fast to catch up with them, or he was going to lose out altogether. With that thought to motivate him, he shoveled his supper in his mouth, the last spoonful when he was already on his feet. His only parting words were, “Upstream, or downstream?” At this point, he couldn’t afford to go in the wrong direction.
Astonished by the strange man’s reactions, Peewee replied, “Downstream.” Pitt was already at the door when he heard it. Riding a blue roan that was already tired, he pushed the horse hard, afraid that some gunman was trying to move in on money that, in Pitt’s twisted mind, rightfully belonged to him.
Behind him, the two Hackett brothers exchanged dumbfounded expressions. “What do you reckon was wrong with him?” Joe Holden asked, having come from the kitchen to see Pitt just as he rushed out the door. He looked at Peewee and Cal to see if they showed any signs of bolting for the door as well. It wouldn’t be the first time Mammy’s cooking had started a stampede for the outhouse, but they seemed serene enough, apparently as surprised as he was.
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“I don’t know,” Peewee answered, “but he sure seemed in a hurry to find the spot where we got shot. Them folks are likely long gone by now.”
“Maybe he’s lookin’ for that feller that shot us, for some reason,” Cal said. “Maybe that feller’s got a reward out for him, or somethin’.” He reached up and tenderly rubbed the bandage on his right shoulder. “I got a claim on that feller first and I aim to collect on it as soon as this wound heals up.” He looked at Holden and shook his head. “I can’t do nothin’ with my left hand.”
Holden stood there, considering the stranger’s odd behavior for a few seconds before returning his attention to Cal and Peewee. “When you fellers finish your supper, I’d appreciate it if you’d move your horses before that body starts gettin’ ripe.” When they had first arrived to get Mammy to work on their wounds, they had tied their horses out front. Holden didn’t notice the dead man lying across one of the saddles until after they had been in the store for a couple of hours. When he saw the corpse, he didn’t think it looked good for business, so he had asked them to move their horses around behind the store.
“We’ll move ’em,” Cal said. “We’re kinda handicapped with my shoulder shot up and Peewee’s leg—hard to dig a decent grave—but we need to get our brother in the ground. Don’t suppose you’ve got anybody that could give us some help with that?”
“Nope,” Holden replied. “You could ask Ned, down at the barn, but I doubt he would. He’s by himself till his boy gets back from huntin’.” When Peewee asked when that might be, Holden told him probably two or three days.
The Hackett brothers were faced with a problem. They had agreed to a deal to trade Zeb’s horse and saddle for a couple of .44 pistols and ammunition to replace those lost in the confrontation with Perley Gates. Holden agreed to the deal, only if there was no corpse included. Cal looked at his brother and shook his head. “Ain’t nothin’ to say for it, we’ve gotta have the guns.” When Peewee nodded solemnly, Cal looked at Holden again. “We’ll take care of it right now, soon as we get through eatin’, then we’ll finish our deal.”
“We’d best not wait too long,” Peewee said. “It’ll be dark before much longer.” That caused him to think of something else. “I expect it’ll be pretty close to dark by the time that feller finds that campin’ spot where we got shot.” They lingered at the table a little while longer until they had finished all the coffee Mammy was willing to bring them, then they went to tend to their brother’s corpse.
With help from a crutch that Ned had made, Peewee hobbled out to his horse, and with Cal’s help, he managed to climb up into the saddle. “I can’t dig no grave standin’ on one leg,” he complained to Cal.
“Well, I sure as hell can’t dig one with one hand,” Cal said. “We ain’t got much choice.” He managed to pull himself up into his saddle. “Zeb’s gonna have to feed the buzzards, I reckon, but we’ll find him a spot away from here.” He turned his horse and started back the way they had come. Peewee followed, holding the reins of Zeb’s horse. They had ridden for no more than half a mile when Cal announced, “That looks like a good spot over yonder by that big oak tree. It’s far enough up from the trail so anybody won’t likely see him.”
They rode up the bank of the creek to the big oak Cal had designated, then went through the cumbersome process of dismounting. Once that was done, they faced the problem of two cripples trying to lift a heavy body from a horse. It turned out to be simpler than they had anticipated, however, for Cal grabbed Zeb’s boots with his good hand and yanked them up violently. Zeb’s body, already in a high degree of rigor mortis, rolled easily off the saddle and landed on the ground. “He’s already bent pretty much like he would be if he was settin’ down,” Peewee observed, “so why don’t we just set him up against the tree? It’ll be like he was settin’ there watchin’ folks ride by on the trail.”
“I think you’re right,” Cal said. So they undertook the part of the plan that would prove to be more difficult than removing Zeb from his horse—handicapped as they were. Cursing the wounds that hampered them in their task, they managed by a foot or two at a time, to drag the stiff carcass up to the oak tree. Once they reached the tree, they found that Zeb was reluctant to sit upright against the trunk, preferring to keel over to land on his side on the ground. To contribute to the distasteful part of the farewell, Zeb began to impart a rather putrid odor, which encouraged a need for haste. Determined to leave their late brother with some degree of dignity, however, they didn’t abandon him until they had fashioned a prop in the form of a short limb up under his armpit, wedged against a root of the oak. It held him upright, seeming to be sitting with his back against the tree. As quickly as that was accomplished, they backed a safe distance away from the putrefying corpse to say their final farewells, satisfied that Zeb would have done as much for them, had the roles been reversed. “Let’s get back to Holden’s and get our guns,” Cal said.
* * *
Six miles downstream from Holden’s Store, Jack Pitt kicked the cold ashes of a campfire with the toe of his boot. “As cold as these ashes are, they didn’t hang around long after that fellow did the shootin’,” he mumbled. There was plenty of other evidence that confirmed their story. Tracks of a wagon were prominent, even in the fading light, as were hoofprints of several horses. How many, he couldn’t tell, nor did he care. He was sure this was the party the Hackett brothers had described for him. He was also reasonably convinced that it was Possum Smith and Dan Slocum’s widow. The only question mark in his mind was the gunman riding with them. Thinking of the two men he had met at Holden’s Store, he was not convinced that they were much of a test, so he wasn’t sure the gunman was as fast as they said. And he couldn’t be much of a shooter, judging by the inaccuracy of his shots. Shooting at three men, at point-blank range, so they said, he killed only one of them. The other two were hit by what appeared to be wild shots, one in the shoulder, the other in the leg. Then he let them get away. When I catch up with them, he thought, I’ll take care of him first. The only uncertainty in his mind was how much farther was this place they’re running to. It would be so much easier if he could catch up with them before they made it to Butcher Bottom. And depending how much farther it was, he could still catch them, since he could move so much faster than the wagon they were driving. He kicked violently at the cold ashes then, his frustration overcoming him. “It’s gettin’ too damn dark to follow their tracks. I’ll have to wait till mornin’.” Had he known the progress of those he pursued, he might have been more encouraged.
* * *
“I’m thinkin’ we shoulda done come to this place by now,” Possum thought aloud when they approached a small stream. They had already struck the south fork of the Wichita and should have reached the wagon road Emma said she might remember that would lead directly east to the Brazos River at the place she knew as Butcher Bottom. “Are you sure you can recognize that road?” Possum asked her.
“I know I can,” she replied. She told him about her husband telling her she could say good-bye to Butcher Bottom forever when they drove past a certain tree on their way north. She was sure she would have remembered that road, for there was an old wagon wheel leaning against one lone pine tree marking the entrance to it.
“We musta passed it back yonder a-ways,” Possum said. “There was two or three trails we struck between the North Wichita and the South Wichita. It mighta looked different comin’ instead of goin’.”
“But what about the pine tree and the wagon wheel?” Emma insisted.
“I don’t know, Emma, but I’m pretty sure we’ve come too far south,” Possum replied.
Perley listened to their discussion for a while before suggesting the obvious. “Accordin’ to what you’ve said before, Butcher Bottom is actually on the Brazos, and the Brazos is to the east. And if you’re sure we’ve come too far south, why don’t we head east till we strike the Brazos, then follow it north till we reach Butcher Bottom?” He nodded toward the stream before them
. “From the way that water’s flowin’, I expect it might drain into the Brazos.”
Possum hesitated a moment, feeling a little foolish that he hadn’t thought to do that sooner. His original plan had been to simply follow the Brazos River until he came to Butcher Bottom. But he had forgotten that when Emma started looking for her wagon wheel against the pine tree. “That’s what I was fixin’ to say,” he lied. “So that’s what I think we oughta do.”
“That sounds like a good idea to me, too,” Emma said, although still a little upset, thinking that she had not been able to lead them to Butcher Bottom when so close to it. Even perturbed by those thoughts, she could not help a feeling of depression to think that she was so close to her prior life. This might be a bigger mistake than she had first thought.
* * *
“Well, look what we got here,” Ace Barnett said. “Wonder where they think they’re goin’?”
“What is it?” Bob Rance asked when he pulled his horse up beside him. Ace pointed to the rider and wagon following the stream below the ridge, some fifty yards away. “We’d best see where they’re goin’,” he said and wheeled his horse on a line to cut them off.
When Perley spotted the two riders angling to cut them off, he turned and signaled Possum, who, in turn, signaled that he saw them, too. Then he reined Buck back to a walk to let Possum catch up. In a few minutes, the two riders intercepted them. “Where are you folks headin’?” Rance asked as he and Ace pulled up before the wagon.
Perley answered. “We’re hopin’ to get to Butcher Bottom.”
“You’re a little south of Butcher Bottom,” Rance said. “This here is Lazy-S range, and you folks outta know you ain’t welcome here.”
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