by J. Lee Butts
Ambushed
The Continued
Adventures of
Hayden Tilden
J. Lee Butts
Beyond the Page
Publishing
Ambushed
J. Lee Butts
Beyond the Page Books
are published by
Beyond the Page Publishing
www.beyondthepagepub.com
Copyright © 2006, 2014 by J. Lee Butts
ISBN: 978-1-937349-90-5
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For Carol,
whose courage over the past year still amazes me . . .
Samantha and Kim,
couldn’t have done it without them . . .
and
Matt McKinley,
in the sure and certain belief that
full recovery is only a matter of time.
SURROUNDED
Hot lead bored through the smoke-laden air like angry hornets and fell around us like blistering hailstones. Heard Carlton let out a sickly-sounding grunt as he grabbed at his side and went down on one knee. Dodged from side to side as I ran for the shelter of the ranch’s wooden well housing. Dove for safety. Hit the ground hard at the same time Carlton stumbled up and landed beside me.
Grabbed the front of his shirt and rudely jerked him toward me. Snatched the tail out of his pants and eyeballed the wound. He had a nasty-looking black-rimmed hole in the fleshy part of his right side, inch or so above the waist of his pants. Wound oozed dark blood that had already soaked his shirt. Fortunately, in spite of all the liquid he was leaking, the crevice didn’t appear to have done any real serious permanent damage.
A wall of heavy-caliber bullets splintered boards, sent dust flying, and made vicious splattering noises on every side of our shelter. Well bucket flew to pieces and landed on top of our heads in a shower of rendered wood and clanging metal bands. Blasting bordered on the thunderous . . .
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Special thanks to my Internet group known affectionately as The Campfire. A list of their names would include some of the best writers of Westerns living today. Their knowledge and advice has proved invaluable over the years. When I can’t find the answers anywhere else, they are an absolute fount of information and encouragement. And when it comes to the DFW Writer’s Workshop, well, there just aren’t enough words to express my gratitude.
“Think of yourself that every day is your last; the hour to which you do not look forward will come as a welcome surprise.”
—Horace, Epistles, I, iv, 14.
“. . . the death of a dear friend would go near to make a man look sad.”
—A Midsummer Night’s Dream
Act V, Scene 1, 295.
“In answer to a question as to what sort of death was best, a sudden death.”
Plutarch, Lives, Caesar
Sec. 32.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
LAST NIGHT CHIEF Nurse Leona Wildbank tucked me into my bed, here at the Rolling Hills Home for the Aged, and said, “Don’t let me come back in here and find you smoking one of those nasty cigars you favor, Hayden Tilden. Can’t imagine anything worse than having you go to sleep and setting yourself on fire, old man.”
Said, “For crying out loud, woman, you won’t let me drink, ain’t a warm female left alive that’ll have anything to do with a man my age, and now I cain’t even have a decent smoke? Being almost ninety years old sure as hell ain’t turned out the unbridled fun it’s cracked up to be—far as I’m concerned.”
She finished snatchin’ at my sheets, then headed for the door, but stopped on her way out, turned, and shook an accusatory finger at me. “You heard what I said. Either you behave, or I’ll take those stinking stogies away from you altogether. Won’t even let you smoke ’em on the sun porch.”
Once she’d closed the door and got pretty well out of earshot, I said, “Get the hell out of my room, woman.”
General Black Jack Pershing must’ve snuck in at some point in my disagreement with that mule-headed gal. He jumped up on my bed and curled his yellow-striped, fuzzy self on my stomach, and immediately went to sleep. I stroked the purring beast for a spell. Must’ve dozed off myself. Ghost of Captain H. J. Merchant wandered smack into the middle of my nightly dreams.
Last time I saw Henry Merchant amongst the living, we’d eaten a right pleasant lunch at the Pine Cone Café over on Rogers Avenue in Fort Smith. By then, both of us were retired from federal service, and I had taken up a town marshal’s badge down in Texas. Everyone who mattered always agreed that when it came to Hanging Judge Isaac Parker’s corps of dedicated deputies, Captain Merchant had no peer.
Over a steaming cup of freshly ground, first-rate, up-and-at-’em juice, we got each other apprised of the present pretty quick. Conversation drifted off into the past before I could stop it. Didn’t take long for me to figure out that my old friend wasn’t doing well with his newfound retired-lawdog leisure. Man was steeped in the long ago and the far away and, sadly, couldn’t seem to tear himself out of it.
“You know,” he said, in a voice raspy from tobacco smoke, “I was one of Judge Parker’s men for more’n twenty year.” Could tell from the wistful tone he pined for a return to the work.
Saluted him with my coffee cup and took a long sip. Then, I said, “Yes, Cap’n, I knew that.”
He stared into the dark liquid sitting on the table in front of him, as though looking for something he might have missed. “Back during them bloody days, Hayden, I managed to maintain a hard-won reputation as a good man to ride beside in the Nations—dependable—stalwart.”
“Never knew anyone to say otherwise, Cap’n. Everyone agreed you were a damned fine deputy U.S. marshal, trail mate, and one hell of a leader.” The truth’s the truth. No point in not acknowledging it when the opportunity comes along. Merchant was always one of the best. Didn’t hurt me, even a little bit, to admit it.
He gifted me with a weak smile, then raised his
own mug, as though offering a toast. “Nice of you to say so, Hayden. Coming from a man of your dedication, skill, and reputation, that means a lot to me.”
“You know, Cap’n, the time you caught Martin Joshua might well develop into an oft-repeated legend before we’re completely over and done with this life. Between his capture and the business with them snakes afterward, it’s still one my favorite tales of your amazing exploits.”
He cast a tired glance through the café’s thick plate-glass window. Spent about five seconds examining the bustling street outside. “Yeah. Evil son of a bitch killed Bubba Stone, raped and murdered the boy’s sixteen-year-old bride of ten days, and dumped both their poor broken bodies into a hell-deep crevice inside a cave up in the Arbuckle Mountains.”
“Horrible damned shame,” I said.
“Surely was. Poor kids had gone on their wedding trip at them waterfalls over that way. Took some serious detectin’, but I finally ran ole Martin to ground in Muskogee. Cowardly bastard tried to hide under a pile of wet clothes in a Chinese laundry.”
“Heard you beat him within an inch of his worthless life that day.”
A halfhearted grin flitted across his thin, cracked lips. He rubbed at the stubble on an unshaven chin. “Tried my level best to kill the useless piece of human trash. Did all the damage I could with a pistol barrel. Whipped his ass like the gutless, slinkin’ yellow dog he was.”
“Every marshal in the Nations breathed a sigh of relief when word came around as how you’d caught him.”
He picked at a ragged fingernail for a second, and looked lost. “Must have mislaid my temper for a few minutes when I wrapped my fingers around his scrawny neck. Guess maybe I shouldn’t have let my personal feelings get the best of me the way I did. Trouble was, I knew those kids. Attended their nuptials with my wife. Both of ’em had a bright future and long, productive lives ahead.”
I knew exactly how he felt. Vengeance is a hard thing to put aside, though. Could testify from personal experience that when the blood gets up, there are times when it’s mighty hard to shove it down. Killing men gets to be right easy, when you’ve been at it long enough. Especially when you manage to catch one who’s responsible for brutally murdering two fine young people you counted as friends.
“Wouldn’t beat on myself too bad for whompin’ upside ole Martin’s head, Cap’n. Had it been my lot to take the man down, he would have come back to civilization wrapped in his saddle blanket, suitable for quick burial. Hell, me, Billy Bird, or Carlton J. Cecil would have shot him deader’n a fence post right where we caught him. Them Chinky fellers would’ve been rewashin’ their laundry because of the blood he leaked on it.”
My table partner poured himself another beaker of belly wash and stirred in a spoon of sugar. “Well, it’s nice of you to say it. Damn, you know I still have nightmares ’bout them snakes, Hayden. Brought ole Martin in and the prosecuting attorney said, ‘Merchant, we need the bones of Joshua’s victims to make this case stick.’ Hell, I was a lot younger then. Eyeball-deep in piss and vinegar, hopped up on my hind legs and said, ‘I’ll sure as hell get ’em for you, sir.’”
“Tell me, Cap’n, is it true that your partner, Spenser Taggert, volunteered to go down in the hole first?”
He actually chuckled at the memory. “Yeah. Me and Elwood Parker looped a rope around ole Spense. We musta played out about sixty feet of hemp lowerin’ the bug-eyed boy into that pitch-black pit. He carried a kerosene lantern in one hand, a pistol in the other. Soon’s the poor joker’s feet hit the bottom of that stony cut, man went to hollerin’, ‘Christ Almighty, pull me up! Pull me up, now! Be quick about it, boys!’”
“Scared him some, huh?”
Merchant slapped the top of the table, threw his head back, and laughed out loud for the first and only instance. “We got Spenser back to the surface in record time. Man’s eyes were as big as dinner plates. He ripped that rope from around his body and could barely talk. Stammered, ‘Pit’s full of the biggest damned rattlers I done ever seen, Cap. I sure as hell ain’t a-goin’ back down there.’ Well, we had to have whatever was left of them skeletons. So I wrapped my arms, legs, and neck with some of the burlap bags we’d brought for the bones, and went down myself.”
“It was a damned risky move, Cap’n. Only man I ever knew who survived a rattler’s bite was Curtis No-Nose Bales. Sliced off his own beak with a bowie knife ’bout a second after the snake bit him. Poor son of a bitch bent down to pick up something shiny beside a fallen log next to a creek off the Wildhorse River. Big ole snake was hid under the log. Just never know, do we. Man looked right scary without a snout, but by God, he lived where most folks would have surly died a horrible death.”
“Well, Taggert didn’t miss the mark by much when he said that ugly chasm in the earth’s hide was full of them deadly buggers. Worst of it was the beady-eyed rattlin’ bastards had wadded themselves into, and around, those kids’ bony remains like ribbons in a virgin’s hair. So dark down there the lantern must’a blinded ’em some, leastways at first. Biggest one in the bunch struck at me, and missed. Blew his head completely off, just in nick of time. Thing still ended up coiled around my arm and neck—all seven feet of him. Shot two more of ’em to pieces as well.”
“Gives me the willies just thinkin’ ’bout it, Cap’n. God Almighty, I hate snakes.”
“Worst of it was all that blastin’, guess maybe it was the third or forth shot, concussion blew my light out. Them was the longest two minutes, or so, of my life. Thought I never was gonna get that lantern lit again. Was shakin’ so bad, bet I broke half-a-dozen lucifers.”
He stopped, looked thoughtful for a spell. Fiddled with his coffee cup some more. Kind of twirled it around in the saucer—two or three times. His chin quivered.
Mighty hard on the man when he finally said, “But you know, Tilden, I managed somehow to pick up all of it. Every bone, every shred of rotting clothing. Still had that big ole headless rattler wrapped around my arm and neck when I got back to the top. Poor Spenser almost passed out.”
“Fine work, Cap’n. Mighty fine work.”
“Yeah. And when Parker’s prosecutor dumped those pitiful bags out on a table in front of the jury at Martin Joshua’s trial, only thing you could hear for five minutes was people weeping.”
“Didn’t take those good folks long to render a verdict, from what I remember,” I said.
“Twenty minutes. Judge sentenced the evil son of a bitch to hang. His departure from this world would’ve happened a lot damned quicker, too, but for the efforts of some mighty slick lawyers.”
“Damned lawyers kept many a bad man at his chosen profession even after good people like us did the right thing. Whether they were horse thieves or murderers, some of ’em still managed to get off.”
“Belly-slinkers kept that murderous skunk alive for almost a year, appealing the outcome of his day in court. But the end time finally came for him, in spite of all their slimy ways.”
“Yes, indeed. I remember when his time came.”
“I was out in the Nations. Heard as how the date had been finalized. Made a special trip back to Fort Smith. Couldn’t really afford it, but I purchased me a ticket on the M. K. & T. just so I could bear witness to his departure. Got here just in time to see ole Maledon drop the Gates of Hell’s twelve-man trap on the murderin’ scum.”
“Actually got to see Joshua swing, huh?”
“His sorry neck cracked like a rotten cottonwood limb. Watched him mess his pants, and then waited till they cut him down. Walked the corpse to the cemetery. Stayed till they’d covered him over. May well have been the most satisfying day of my entire career with Judge Parker.”
“Always was a pleasure to observe a real bad man’s sweet departure and subsequent meeting with Satan.”
“No, Hayden. The real pleasure with Joshua came after the diggers left. Sat by his final resting place, took my time, and drank me a celebratory bottle of ten-year-old Scotch whiskey. Then, I pissed on his fresh-dug grav
e before going home to the pleasures afforded by my own dear wife and sweet children.”
For the first time since we’d met that day, he got a satisfied, almost beatific, look on his face. We sipped at our cups, recalled more fond memories of friends we’d lost, men we’d killed, deeds—good and bad, and history long forgotten but by a few of us who still lived. I shook his once-powerful hand when we parted. Felt a deep sadness as I watched him amble away. Never saw Henry Merchant alive again, after that morning.
Heard from mutual friends, some years later, that good and decent man sat down at his kitchen table one cold winter night, put the barrel of a loaded .45 in his mouth, and blew the top of his head, and most of his brain, onto a spot over the cookstove. Deputy I know told me that all manner of skull bone and head-filler dripped down on the hot iron below and still sizzled, when he arrived to investigate. Said the room smelled like hog brains and scrambled eggs cooking.
Poor Merchant’s wife was awakened by the shot and found him. Must have been mighty hard on the woman, and his boatload of grown children. Damned sad end to such a fine fellow. Suppose he must have gone insane. That’s the only reason I could come up with for an act of such obvious desperation. But who can know another man’s heart—or mind? I often think of our chance meeting and the pleasant recollections of our fiery pasts.
Hell, I always come back to that meeting with Cap’n Merchant when I seek to justify my encounter with Maynard Dawson, Charlie Storms, and a host of others. Up till Charlie Storms, my personal vengeance had been relegated to the murderous Saginaw Bob Magruder. And even though I had Magruder dead to rights, and under the gun, I managed to hold off on killing the man. Brought ole Bob back to swing on Mr. Maledon’s Gates of Hell gallows. So I completely understood Merchant’s pleasure at watching a heartless killer shit his pants for a crowd of onlookers that usually numbered in the thousands. Thought it the right thing to do, at the time, and still do.
But with Charlie Storms, my God, even Satan couldn’t possibly have figured out a worse death than I got in mind for that murderous villian before our final bloody dance eventually played out. Storms was one of the worst of the worst. A hell-bred murderer of men, women, and children from the day his momma pushed him into an unsuspecting world.