by J. Lee Butts
My little scratch didn’t amount to much, so I told Billy, “We’ll hook up some of Two Hatchets’s horses to his spring wagon, load Carl inside, and you can take him back to Fort Smith.”
“Me? Why me?” Billy grumped.
“Because I’m the only other one who could do it, and I’m not going to Fort Smith,” Snake said. “Ain’t that right, Marshal Tilden?”
Put my hand on Billy’s shoulder. “He’s right. Carl needs you to get him back home as quick as you can. It’s a big responsibility. He’ll be trusting you with his life. I’m gonna keep after the Dawson bunch. Try to kill as many more of them as I can.”
“What about the girl?” he asked.
“Take her to Fort Smith with you. She can’t stay here, can’t go with me, and I have no idea what else we could do with her. She could very well have family around these parts, but right now, I think she’d be better served with some time around more civilized folk.”
I’ve always felt it was the prospect of more time on the trail with Moonlight Two Hatchets that swayed Billy to my way of thinking. Had we not found the beautiful girl on the trail, he would most likely have insisted that Carl make out the best way he could, while we continued the hunt. As it was, Billy set out for Fort Smith less than an hour later with Carl in back of the wagon and the girl seated beside him.
“I’ll get ’em to civilization as quick as I can, and ride like hell to catch up with you,” he said as I shook his hand.
“Just make sure Carlton gets to a doctor. Drop the girl off with Elizabeth. You’ll probably find her at the store. Rest up before you try to make the ride back.”
Patted Carl on the shoulder and said, “Take care, old friend. I’ll see you in Fort Smith when we’ve erased as many of these killers as we can from the face of the earth.”
He clasped my hand. “Be careful, Hayden. If they’ll ambush you once, they’ll do it again, or worse.” With that, they were gone.
A wounded Watt Sims trailed along behind on foot, his hands tied to the back of the wagon with a twenty-foot length of rope. Man feigned a total lack of understanding as to why we wouldn’t let him have a horse. But since Billy had to make the trip alone, I just didn’t trust the outlaw on an animal. Figured he’d try to escape the first chance he got.
As the wagon disappeared, Crazy Snake turned to me and, in a way that gave me the feeling he could read my mind, said, “You don’t have any intention of bringing Dawson and Storms back alive, do you, Marshal Tilden?”
“No. I intend to kill all of those left in this bunch as soon as we can catch up with ’em.”
He pulled the war ax and ran a calloused thumb along its razor-sharp head. “Ah, now this is beginning to sound more and more like my kind of manhunt.”
6
“. . . MOST HEINOUS MURDERS I’VE EVER RUN ACROSS.”
SAMUEL CRAZY SNAKE turned out to be a first-rate tracker and right fine company. He did one hell of a job dogging the Dawson gang’s trail north along the banks of the Canadian. The slow-moving river cut through low, rolling, grass-covered hills. Hundreds of tree-lined creeks offered a multitude of steep cuts, sheltered embankments, cliffs, overhangs, heavily wooded ravines, and other such physical features of the landscape as hiding places. The entire area was ideally suited for another surprise attack.
None of the harsh landscape slowed us down too much, at first. We pushed hard for hours. But then, at times, the dense undergrowth slowed us to a walk. As the sun began to set, Snake knelt over the track and said, “We’re a lot closer than these fellers expected us to be, Marshal Tilden. They waited around for the remnants of the crew that ambushed us to catch up. The delay has put ’em in something of a bind.”
“You reckon they could be hurrying to meet someone else? Maybe pick up a few more guns?”
“Could be, I suppose. No way to tell from the tracks. But I doubt it.”
I tried to penetrate the darkening trees, but couldn’t. “You reckon they might lay for us again?”
“Maybe, but I don’t think so. They’re in too big a hurry to get away right now. Doubt they’d stop and ambush us again. No need to worry ourselves about that right now.”
“Are they running as hard as it appears to me?”
“No doubt about it, they’ve put a lot of pressure on their animals ever since escaping from the Two Hatchetses’ ranch.” He pointed up the steep embankment of a barely trickling stream that ran into the river. “Spurred the poor beasts till they’ve just about worn them out. Can see where booted men ran alongside the horses up into those trees.”
“How much longer before we catch ’em?”
He scratched his chin and stared into the woods. “If our luck holds, and they keep this up, we should be on ’em like ugly on an armadillo by late tomorrow, or early the next day. They’re gonna have to stop soon. Animals are about played out for the day and need to be rested. Besides, it’s gonna be dark soon. We might as well make camp here. Good water, good shelter, everything a man could ask for.”
“Sounds like a fine idea to me. ’Bout wore down to the proverbial nub myself. We can put the boulders under those trees to our backs, picket the horses behind them, and build a fire between us and the water. Should be right comfortable for the night and provide plenty of cover if we need it.”
My new traveling partner proved a right fine camp cook, in addition to all his other fine attributes. He combined the best of several different types of cooking—Indian and white. Some of the victuals I couldn’t have identified on a bet, but all of them went down easy and settled comfortably on the stomach. Not sure what he did to the coffee, but it was far better than Carlton’s ever thought about being.
Once we’d settled in for the night, I managed to gently turn the conversation to an account of his momentous life. He exhibited no reluctance to talk about the events surrounding his past existence, and spoke freely of life occurrences I had only heard about.
He stirred the coals of our fire with a stick and said, “My father was the great Comanche warrior Bloody Wolf. Mother was a captive white woman from East Texas. She was so young when taken, she claimed to have forgotten her name. Only thing she ever told me as a child is that her family lived in Texas, on the Red River near Louisiana. My history is very similar to that of the great Comanche Chief Quanah Parker’s. His mother was white as well.”
“I must admit to very little knowledge of the Comanche. Came to this job as a recently relocated Kentucky farm boy and have done no study on the matter.”
He smiled. Flickering light from the flames danced across his face. “Not unusual, Tilden. Most whites harbor no love for the Comanche. At any rate, I was amongst Quanah’s Kwahadies, who came in to Fort Sill with him in June of 1875. I was twenty-two at the time. First twelve years of my life I grew up wild, free, and wonderfully happy. Then, Bloody Wolf got killed in one of the last great Comanche raids made against the whites. Soon as my mother heard the news of Bloody Wolf’s death, she grabbed me up and walked all the way to San Augustine, Texas. Next five years were awful.”
“Why’d she go to San Augustine?”
“Was where most of her white relatives still resided. Her claims of not remembering any white background proved false. The effort didn’t help us much.”
“How’s that?”
“Took three months afoot to get there from the Nations. Persecution along the way proved very difficult. But once we arrived at her former home, I’m not really sure who treated us the worst, her family, or the other whites who claimed to be good Christian folk.”
“In what way?”
“Well, my white grandfather never forgave her for bearing me. According to him, she should have killed herself rather than abide the physical attentions of a heathen husband. Only shining light in the whole five years we stayed around that evil old man was the school I attended at the Methodist church. Have to admit there were some right fine people there. Learned everything I could. Soaked up all the white man’s knowledge available like a wad of raw cotton.”
>
“You only stayed five years?”
“Yes. My mother died. She called me aside one day and told me she wouldn’t be around much longer. Said that once she’d passed, I should pack a bag and go back to the Comanche. Felt I’d be better off with them than the whites. Told me where to look, and who to ask for once I’d found them. Week later, she was gone. Woman just laid down, closed her eyes, and died. Of a broken heart, I think.”
“So, you went back to the Comanche?”
“Yes. Walked away from her deathbed and didn’t stop walking until I found Quanah and the Kwahadies.”
“Have you been happier since leaving the whites?”
“Oh, I suppose. To be truthful, I’ve never felt altogether comfortable in either camp. And there are others around like me. I’ve always thought the spilt we feel in our hearts is what leads half-breeds to often take the wrong trail. Anger, confusion, and drink cause many to go bad simply because they just don’t have any idea what else to do.”
“If you’re at loose ends right now, I can introduce you to Judge Parker. Man of your skills and personal integrity would make a good deputy marshal.”
He threw his head back. “Ha, now there’s an image for the ages. Sam Crazy Snake a lawman. That, as my white grandfather liked to say, would be a real knee-slapper.”
“Might as well be one right now. You’re doing the law’s work by traveling with me as my posse. When this is over, you’ll be owed wages for your services.”
What I said must have set him to thinking. For about a minute, the tale of his life ceased. Then he said, “Well, I’d not thought of it exactly like that. Just felt I was helping out a bit. But I suppose you’re right.”
“Of course I am.”
“It pleases me that you have shown such trust in Sam Crazy Snake, Marshal Tilden. Most of Parker’s white law-bringers would not have dared trek into the wilds alone with me.”
“Oh, I had my reservations, at first. But I want to stop Dawson and Storms before they do too much more damage. After Carlton got hurt, and I lost Billy because of it, you’re pretty much a God-sent miracle, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Well, you needn’t fear anything from most of the peace-loving Indians in the Nations, Tilden. Every one of them knows you’re the blood brother of Daniel Old Bear. Should any harm come to Long Gun Tilden, Old Bear’s revenge would be swift and bloody.”
“Long Gun Tilden? Never heard that one before.”
“I knew who you were as soon as I saw that Winchester rifle of yours. Extra-long octagon barrel, flip-up target sights, case-hardened receiver, checkered pistol grip, beautiful weapon. Only one like it I’ve ever seen or heard of. You, and it, are much feared out here in the Nations, Marshal.”
Sound of shod horses coming our direction on the gravel riverbank interrupted our talk. The impossible-to-see threat sent both of us scurrying for safety behind the rocks at our backs. Riders reined up in the fog-laced dark and gloom just outside the light ring of our fire.
“Ah-lo, the camp, me boyos,” someone yelled from the shadows. The heavy accent that sounded like a combination of English, Irish, and Texican, plus a thunderous voice, sounded familiar.
“Hello, yourself,” I replied.
“Me name’s Hamish Armstrong. I be wanderin’ if we might share yer fire for the night?”
“Deputy Marshal Hamish Armstrong of Judge Isaac Parker’s marshal service?” I called back.
“Aye, ’tis right you are, me bucko. And who might you be, sar?”
“It’s Hayden Tilden, Hamish. Come on in.”
“Yew wouldn’t be about shootin’ me now, would you, Tilden?”
“Swear you’re safe, Hamish. My partner and I’ll hold our fire until I can recognize you.”
A massive, mustachioed, bearlike figure that bristled with pistols and knives loomed up on us from the dark and squatted beside our fire. He waved an enormous paw at the pot on the coals. “Would ye be mindin’ if I partake of a beaker of your cawfee, Marshal Tilden?”
Crazy Snake pitched him a tin cup. “Help yourself, Marshal Armstrong. Think you’ll find it right tasty.”
A second man, one I didn’t recognize, strolled up to a spot behind Hamish and stopped. Armstrong hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “This hair’s me posse man, Pinky Coody.”
Coody touched the brim of his peaked cavalry-style hat in greeting as he stepped into the glowing circle of our firelight. Slight of build and clean-shaven, except for an equal number of deadly weapons, he gave the appearance of the exact opposite of his monstrous, hairy companion.
The smaller of our visitors moved to an open spot near the fire, dropped blankets and saddle rolls, and flopped down like a man tired to the bone. Crazy Snake poured a cup of his fine go juice and handed it to our exhausted guest, who sat up, nodded his thanks, and took the brew.
I resumed the comfort of my leafy-soft bedroll. Let both our callers get some of the warm liquid down before saying, “A bit out of your normal range, aren’t you, Hamish? Thought you usually spent most of your time up in the Cherokee Nation and over in the Outlet.”
“Aye, truly and well spoken, me friend. But we’re in parsuit of a heartless killer named Morton Coyle, called Mo by his few disreputable friends. Evil blackguard broke into the home of a Cherokee feller named Thomas Kill Deer. Mardered Kill Deer and then had his way with the mun’s wife. Took averythin’ he could get his hands on, including the mun’s ten-year-old daughter and an extremely valuable blooded harse. We’ve been on his trail for more’n three weeks now. He linked up with some others a few days back. Evil buggers have been on a killing rip the likes of which I’ve never witnessed.”
Snake said, “They’ve got a child with them? Now that’s a wrinkle I hadn’t detected. Be willing to bet you’ve been coming across burned-out homes and graves.”
“Aye. All too horribly true. Number of dead so far is vartually appalling. Pinky’s been right careful on the track. Haven’t discovered the girl’s body along the way. Must assume she’s still with him.”
The presence of a child in the midst of the insanity we’d seen so far complicated the proceedings and spurred my desire to catch up with Dawson and Storms that much more quickly.
Said, “Well, I think maybe we should join forces, Hamish. Coyle is travelin’ with Maynard Dawson, Cotton Rix, Mica Crow Dog, and Buck Crowder. We’ve been on ’em for some time now. They’ve left a string of bodies that started with a rancher named Tom Black.”
“Heard about that ’un some weeks back now. Mardered the poor man and several members of his unfortunate family, if memory serves.”
Armstrong trudged over to his pile of bedding and began arranging it for a night’s rest. “Yes,” I said, “and a number of others since. You’ve not heard the worst of it. Somewhere along the way, Dawson and a hard case named Charlie Storms threw in together. According to testimony from a captive, who’s now on his way back to Fort Smith, they’re committing some of the most heinous murders I’ve ever run across.”
“Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph. What do ye mean by heinous? How might that be?”
“They’re crucifying folk, before they set them on fire.”
“Crewsifoyin’ ’em. Sweet Jaysus. Never heard of such cruelty in all me barn days.” He thought that over for a few seconds before adding, “Well, might have to take that ’un back now, yew know. Seen some right awful things while in Her Majesty’s service. Especially in the interior of Africa. Yea, it’s the God’s truth. Some people work real hard at killing their fellow man. Yew’re sure about this, Tilden? Ye’ve seen as much with yer own eyes?”
“I’ve seen it. So has Snake, Billy, and Carlton.”
Pinky Coody spoke for the first time. The man’s froglike voice belied his miniature size. “Way I wuz a-readin’ the signs, we cain’t be very fer behind them fellers. Figured a day or two more to catch ’em.”
Hamish threw a few drops of the liquid remaining in his cup on the fire and then pawed around in his bedding. “Well, me bo
yos, best we settle down for a good night’s rest. Long day ahead of us tomorrow, and bad men at the end of it.”
Coody and Crazy Snake took turns running the track for the next two days. Hamish and I laid back and tended the pack animals. Trek sped up dramatically when we broke out of the Canadian’s tangled bottom thickets just north of Red Rock Canyon. Trail struck out almost true northwest and headed for an area none of us wanted to go.
Our estimates of how fast we could catch up with the murderous bandits proved totally false. Took a spell, but we finally realized our quarry was running at night while we slept. Crazy Snake was the one who finally figured it out. By then, the pack of desperados had put another two whole days between us and them. It was a bitter realization.
We’d all pulled up on one of the low, grass-covered, rolling hills that ran like an endless ocean of seared wheat before us when Hamish said, “Jaysus, Tilden. Would they be goin’ to Boilin’ Springs, do you think?”
“Sure looks that way. And the way they’re running now, I don’t think we can catch ’em before they get there.”
Coody said, “Boilin’ Springs? Is that like them hot springs in Arkansas? Sure would be fine to slip in and take a skin-searin’ bath. Got so much dirt on me right now, figure I could raise a right fine crop of snap beans and okra on the back of my nasty neck.”
“I’m afraid they aren’t like the hot-water springs in Arkansas, Mr. Coody,” I said. “Boiling Springs is one of the best sources of naturally fed, fresh springwater for miles around this part of the country. Named the place for the way the surface looks when the water is most active. Water appears to be boiling, but it’s really only the churning caused by below-surface inflow.”
Crazy Snake said, “Streams, ponds, and such from now till we get there are frequently contaminated with gypsum. Men can’t drink it. Animals won’t go near it. We’re gonna have to stop at the first fresh water we can find and fill every canteen and pouch we have. Gonna take plenty of liquid for us and the horses in this heat.”
Hamish dipped into a bag of chewing tobacco and stuffed a wad into his mouth. Around the egg-sized gob, he said, “But that ain’t the warst of it, Pinky. Bad men from all over the Nations head for Boilin’ Springs when they’re on the run and intent on seekin’ the distant safety of the Outlet. No more lawless spot in the world than the Outlet. When that newspaper bucko wrote as how there’s no Gawd west of Fort Smith, he was a-talkin’ about the Outlet. Could very well be hawndreds of brigands at the springs when we arrive.”