by J. Lee Butts
But the gruesome fact that he personally ended the lives of at least a dozen people wasn’t the most horrible part of his story. Oh, hell, no. It was the way he did it, my friends. The hideous, blood-chilling way he went about his heartless killings. Never saw anything like it before, or since. And neither had anyone else I knew at the time.
What that man did to a human body makes the blood run cold, even on hot summer afternoons like this one today. Still gives me chicken flesh when I think about finding the broken, abused corpses he left behind. Reminds me, in no uncertain terms, that for more years than I’d like to admit, my life’s calling was that of a special, secretly appointed assassin paid to kill men like Maynard Dawson, Charlie Storms, and Cotton Rix without mercy.
And, you know, deep down I genuinely enjoyed the work. Gave me no end of satisfaction to snuff the lamp on men responsible for such wickedness. The hair might stand up on my arms when I think about all those bastards and the crimes they heartlessly committed. But, at the same time, a smile of gloriously righteous satisfaction still spreads over my face when I remember the last light of life passing from their eyes when I put a bullet in their brains.
To my eternal dismay, many God-fearing men would self-righteously condemn me for such feelings. Same fellows would virtuously opine that as soon as good folk decide to use any means necessary to fight iniquitous behavior, their most worthy actions quickly become unrecognizable from the villainy they seek to destroy. The people who believe such bilge are idiots. And, yes, by God, I still smile each and every time I think about killing the hell out of Charlie Storms.
1
“. . . KILL MAYNARD DAWSON ON SIGHT.”
ONE OF THE first things Hanging Judge Isaac C. Parker did upon his ascension to the bench for the Western District Court of Arkansas, which included the bandit-and killer-riddled Indian Nations, was hire two hundred deputy U.S. marshals. After he swore all the new recruits, the judge admonished us to “Bring them in—alive or dead.”
Sixty-five of those marshals gave their lives fighting bad men in the service of that admonition. On a number of occasions, as many as four and six at a time went down when waylayed by those who weren’t fit to shine those brave law-bringers’ boots. Such blood-soaked events followed, one upon another, for the whole twenty-one years Judge Parker held sway over the most lawless region this nation ever had to deal with.
Once heard the judge speak at a church gathering right after a number of his good men died in an ambush. Think he must have awakened in a contemplative mood that morning. During a rambling talk that lapsed into the philosophical, he kind of offhandedly said, “Isn’t it strange how life is very much like a chain, and each event that occurs forms a link that binds us to the future. How one incident seems to lead, inexorably, to the next.”
For some years after that morning’s talk, I often contemplated what he’d said. Upon considerable reflection, I came to believe my own experience might well be the perfect example of what he’d described.
Life as a Kentucky farm boy ended for me when Pa decided to move to Texas so we could live near his brother. That decision led to my family’s utter destruction at the hands of the murderous Magruder gang along the Mississippi in Arkansas. Thence to employment as a deputy marshal by Judge Parker, and my secret arrangement with that grand adjudicator as the man he sent to deal the final fateful blow to those considered beyond the law’s ultimate punishment.
Even my meeting of Elizabeth, and eventual marriage, never would have occurred had it not been for my arrival in Fort Smith. Each and every episode coupled to the last. The progression of life has always seemed interconnected—how else can you explain God’s great plan? Had it not been for the judge, I’d never have realized any of it.
One of the worst links in the chain of my life involved a lethal son of a bitch named Charlie Storms. My nightmarish experience with the man actually started when that red-haired demon with a pistol, Deputy U.S. Marshal Carlton J. Cecil, my friend Deputy Marshal Billy Bird, and me were out in the Nations trying to run Maynard Dawson to ground. Those friends and I formed the core of a secret group of man-killers we named the Brotherhood of Blood. When all else failed, the Brotherhood went out and brought them down. We always left them dead, dead, extremely dead.
Maynard Dawson was a six-and-a-half-foot-tall, one-eyed humpback with a mean streak as wide as the Mississippi River. Evil brute had a record of lawless behavior that ranged from stealing out of the plate at church services as a three-year-old child, to raping his own twelve-year-old sister a few days after he turned fourteen. He’d been in jail more times than a sixty-year-old soiled dove, from Hell’s Half Acre in Fort Worth, has been fined for practicing her chosen profession. But the act that set the Brotherhood on his trail took the proverbial cake.
Carlton, Billy, and me went out looking to kill Dawson after he broke into the home of a rancher named Tom Black. Black ran horses on a nice piece of grassy bottomland a bit south of the Canadian River, not far from the old Chisholm Trail in the Chickasaw Nation. Hear tell he made a right fine living selling and trading with the passing herds on their way north to the Kansas railheads.
Dawson kicked Black’s door down during a thunderous rainstorm punctuated by pitchfork lightning. Caught the rancher by surprise and unarmed. Shot the poor man dead, right in front of his wife and two young children. Then he attacked the wife while the kids looked on in horror. Soon as he’d finished with the unfortunate woman, the pitiless monster went after Black’s thirteen-year-old-daughter.
We knew all this because while he performed unspeakable acts on that poor young girl, her distraught brother escaped the insanity, ran four miles, and reported the whole incident to a stunned neighbor. Only thing the boy couldn’t testify about involved the unutterable way his mother and sister died. I’ll not describe their passing here. Suffice it to say, trail-hardened marshals who investigated the murders wept when they discovered the brutalized bodies.
Two weeks after the slaughter, George Wilton, Judge Parker’s chief bailiff, sent for me. When his note came, I knew my special talents, and perhaps those of the Brotherhood, were about to be put in play and that someone would die as a result—maybe more than one.
He guided me to the chair in his office I’d become very much accustomed to and, in his beautifully fluid Southern accent, said, “Please sit, Marshal Tilden. As you’ve probably surmised, Judge Parker has an assignment for you.”
Squirmed around and made myself comfortable. “Always happy to serve in whatever way I can, Mr. Wilton.”
He took the chair behind his desk, and pushed a thick sheaf of papers across the highly polished mahogany top. “This file will apprise you of the details of the criminal activities of one Maynard Gaston Dawson.”
“I’ve heard of the man. Most recently in connection with a triple murder and brutal double rape. Doubt there’s much in here that can top such heinous activities.”
Wilton’s ebony face sagged. He rubbed at a heavily knitted, rapidly graying brow. And, for the first time since we’d met, the man looked like the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. After some seconds of contemplation, he said, “I wouldn’t be too sure of that, Hayden. The man is a lifelong felonious criminal. Hardly a week of his entire time on this earth has not seen a deed most good people would deem worthy of the noose.”
I couldn’t let that one pass. “Well, how’s he managed to stay alive and runnin’ free to commit such acts for so long?”
My secret tie to Judge Parker sighed, threw his head back, and stared at the ceiling. “Luck, and lenient juries, I suppose, serve to explain such oversight. The man should have been hanged, or killed outright, more than twenty years ago. A goodly number of fine folk would still be alive had either of those happy occurrences taken place. And, given the nature of his crimes, I have no doubt the faithful have hit their knees on numerous occasions and prayed fervently for a man like you to deliver them from the unspeakable evil of his presence on earth.”
I s
huffled through Wilton’s carefully arranged stack of wanted posters, arrest warrants, depositions, testimonials, statements, death certificates, jail records, and other highly official-looking papers. Glanced at each mournful document briefly before saying, “Judge Parker would prefer I not bring this man in for trial, I take it.”
He didn’t hesitate with an answer. “You take it right, sir. To make your instructions as clear as a pitcher of ice-cold springwater, you are hereby instructed to kill Maynard Dawson on sight. The sacred heavenly clock that ticks off his time on this earth has stopped. He just doesn’t know it yet, or that you are the deadly instrument of his departure from the living.”
“Am I correct in surmising that Sam Sixkiller and the men of his Union Agency police force haven’t had any luck catching up with Dawson?”
“Yes, well, Captain Sixkiller and his fine band of men have their hands full at the moment with matters pursuant to criminal activity done by members of the Five Civilized Tribes. As the killer in question and all his victims, except Mr. Black’s wife, were white, Judge Parker deemed it our responsibility to take care of the matter. As a courtesy, we have informed Captain Sixkiller of his decision by telegraph. Your way has been completely cleared for this undertaking.”
“I’ll probably need some assistance.”
He waved his agreement. “Take anyone you’d like. I would imagine that Deputies Cecil and Bird will jump at the chance to assist. As the three of you are well known and much feared in the Nations, I would suspect they are by far you best choices.”
“I’ll see to it, sir.”
With that, he stood and extended a hand. “Judge Parker has complete faith that his wishes in this matter will be fulfilled at your earliest convenience, Marshal Tilden. Godspeed and good luck in your sacred mission.”
Knew the conversation had come to an end. Headed down the hall to the U.S. marshal’s office in search of my friends. Ran into Carlton soon as I stepped across the threshold. Little redheaded peckerwood was in rare form. He had a number of weapons, rags, and various types of cleaning equipment scattered around on a table we used in the marshal’s vestibule.
“What are you doin’ here, Carl? Figured you’d most likely be at home with the lovely Judith. Maybe doin’ a little sparkin’ between trips to the Nations.”
He screwed around in his straight-backed, cane-bottomed chair, held a .45 Colt’s frame and barrel assembly in his hand, and snapped, “Well, you’d be wrong. Woman done went and run me out of the house.”
“Why?”
He dropped the pistol parts on the table, snatched his hat off, and ran oily fingers through sweaty hair. “She’s mad at me, again.”
“Again?”
“Hell, yes, Hayden. Been my experience ever since the day we got hitched that the female of the species tends to stay angry about something as much as eight days out of every ten.”
Tried to sound reasonable when I asked, “What did you do, Carl?”
He stuffed his hat back on and threw me a withering glance. “Just what in hell makes you think I went and done something?”
“Well, Marshal Cecil, it’s been my experience that women seldom get upset with their husbands over nothing. Most times, us hairy-legged types manage to unthinkingly cross over one of the numberless invisible societal or personally held lines they use to gauge our worthiness as men.”
My friend pulled his hat down over his eyes and, though muffled by the battered felt head cover, I heard him mumble, “Oh, sweet Jesus, invisible lines, for Christ’s sake.” He sounded like a man who’d just been told by the Angel at Heaven’s golden gate that he wouldn’t be entering anytime soon.
“Come on, Carl, spit it out. You’ll feel better once you’ve confessed and unburdened your soul.”
He threw his hat on the floor, got all red in the face. “Sometimes you sound just like a Baptist preacher, Tilden. Christ on a crutch, if I’d of knowed a man has to stop being a man once he gets married up, I might not have chosen to do the deed.”
“Still haven’t answered the question, Carl.”
“Well, dammit all, I stopped over at Hattie Ringer’s place last night and had a few beakers of panther sweat with my old friend Sheriff Tater Johnson. Tater was only gonna be in town a few hours. He was passin’ through Fort Smith on his way to St. Louis. Had a prisoner in tow. Hadn’t seen him since he left here more’n five year ago. We had a damned fine sit-down-and-palaver session. Lasted till a few minutes after midnight. That’s it. Swear ’fore Jesus, nothing else happened.”
“How many minutes after midnight, Carl?”
“Aw, hell, forty-five or fifty.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle at his excuse-making. “So, it was after one o’clock in the morning when you managed to drag your seriously lubricated self home?”
His head dropped and he acted like a ten-year-old caught in the act of doing something nasty. “One-fifteen or so, I suppose.”
“Went home drunk, huh?”
“I did not. Like I said, only had a dram or two.”
“Dram or two?”
“Well, maybe three or four. But I was not drunk. I think well lubricated is a good way to phrase it. Happy, friendly, jocular, looking for some fun once I got home. You know what I mean—a little of the old slap and tickle. Felt like maybe we could chase each other around the bed a time or two. But, swear to Jesus, I was not drunk.”
“Jocular? Where on earth did you pick up a three-dollar word like jocular, Carl?”
He glanced up at me and snickered. “Well if you must know, I’ve heard Judge Parker use it in court. He’s real fond of rapping that gavel of his when folks laugh during a trial and snapping, ‘This jocular behavior will not be tolerated in my court! Any further jocularity and I’ll have the room cleared.’” He smiled, snatched his hat off the floor. “Good word, jocular. I like the sound of it.”
Have to admit he managed to bring a smile to my face. “Trust me, Carl. She’ll get over her mad spell. Things are gonna work out just fine.”
“Yeah, well, they’s days when I look to God and beg him to tell me why he let me see her nekkid out there in the Nations, two year ago. That’s what done it, you know. She was takin’ a bath when me and Billy was draggin’ that cannon up to Red Rock Canyon to blow Martin Luther Big Eagle out of his hideout. Think her glisten’ wet body went and made me crazier’n a sun-struck, yeller-bellied lizard.”
“When it comes to certain women, Carl, we’re all crazy as hell whether we’ve seen ’em nekkid or not. Ain’t no vaccination against it either. Just being around the right one has the power to turn us into blatherin’ idiots.”
“Maybe you’re right. Guess I should sneak back home and try to make it up to her somehow. Maybe I’ll take her a sack of lemon drops. Gal has a serious sweet tooth. She really likes lemon drops.”
“Well, get it done. Judge Parker just handed me a job, and I’ll feel a lot better about the whole doo-dah if all the members of the Brotherhood are along for the ride. Need everyone to be sharper than a stropped razor.”
My news perked him up, and the discussion suddenly got serious. “Which evil son of a bitch are we goin’ after this time, Hayden?”
“Maynard Dawson.”
A look of pain quickly rippled across his face and just as quickly disappeared. “Oh, Jesus, he’s a bad ’un. ’Bout as bad as any we’ve ever took down, and he won’t come along easy. Killed a boatload of men and won’t give a single second’s thought to rubbing us out as well.”
Leaned over and whispered, “We’re not bringing him back, Carl. There is no dead-or-alive choice here. His fate is already sealed.”
He stood, looked me in the eye, squinted, and whispered back, “Damned good deal, as far as I’m concerned. Are you still paying the freight on our missions as the Brotherhood?”
“Absolutely. You get the going rate just like we’d brought him in for trial and suitable hanging. Mileage, warrants-served pay, any rewards, and all other monetary compensation is yours and Bi
lly’s to split.”
“Damned fine to hear it, Hayden. We’ll sure as hell need Billy along with us. I’ll go find him. Know he’ll be happy to get out again. Man ain’t had a decent payday in six months. Hear tell he’s been borrowing against his pay from one of them speculatin’ bastards.”
“Outfit some mules for the trip, too. I’ll meet you boys at the ferry landing tomorrow morning.”
“What time you wanna shove off?”
“No rush. Make it around eight. You and Billy should have breakfast with your wives, or loved ones, before we leave. I want to spend a quiet morning with Elizabeth; then we’ll hit the trail.”
“Sounds good to me, Hayden. We’ll be there. Is Old Bear goin’ with us?”
“No. My semi-Indian cohort took off two weeks ago for a visit with some of the Comanche folks he lived with back when they killed his family and stole him away as a child. You know how he is. Might well just appear out of nowhere. Thing that irritates me most is he took my dog with him. Caesar would come in mighty helpful right now, but he’s gone, too.”
“Yeah, too bad. Might could use some of Old Bear’s knife work this time. Never can tell what kind of bloody situation might present itself.”
As I headed for the door, my friend busied himself with reconstructing all his various instruments of destruction. Carl was meticulous about firearms. Man could lay down a wall of pistol fire of such intensity that it tended to frighten the hell out of the opposition, even if he didn’t hit anything. I’d witnessed his and Billy’s skill with firearms many times in the past and trusted both of them with my life.
Knew beyond any doubt that by the time we met at the Arkansas, the next morning, Carl and Billy Bird would both be packing so much iron their poor horses could barely stand. And that between the two of them, they would guarantee Maynard Dawson was nothing more than a walking corpse just waiting for us to show up so we could bury him. A smoldering, pestulous hell awaited that murdering skunk. And the Brotherhood of Blood was just the company of men to send him along the path that would have him shaking hands with Satan’s imps at the earliest possible convenience.