Ambushed: The Continued Adventures of Hayden Tilden (Hayden Tilden Westerns Book 4)

by J. Lee Butts

  Didn’t mean to be heard, but it slipped out anyway. “And every one of them just itchin’ to kill any lawman available. You might be right, Hamish. May well develop into an extra-hairy situation, boys. Best get up on our toes right now and stay that way.”

  “Yew know, Tilden, I’ve haird some fairly credible tales that Rufus Doome and his insane brother, Jethro, might be prowlin’ around these parts. Best be a-prayin’ that Dawson and the Doome boys don’t manage to throw in together. Such an ugly development could well put us in an absolutely untenable situation.”

  Hamish Armstrong couldn’t have come up with any more potent figures of death and destruction if he’d sat around and thought on the subject for days. The very mention of Rufus and Jethro Doome had the power to send the worst of the worst scurrying into their holes like rats running for the dark when surprised by lamplight. Soon as the names passed his lips, I detected a fleeting look of stunned pain on the face of Pinky Coody.

  Crazy Snake pulled an already soaked bandanna from around his sweaty neck and wrung the liquid out before replacing it. “Well,” he said, “sounds as though we’ve got more’n one yellow jacket nest in the outhouse. Best get primed and ready.”

  Everyone pulled weapons and checked loads. Hamish, Coody, and I went for our scatterguns. Primed both barrels with buckshot, and rested them across our saddles. No way to know that Death awaited us at Boiling Springs, or that we were headed right into his open, slobbering maw.

  7

  “GONNA BE LOOKIN’ UP

  FROM THE BOTTOM OF

  AN OPEN GRAVE . . .”

  CRAZY SNAKE HANDED me his long glass. “Wouldn’t know any of ’em by sight myself. But I’d bet that’s our bunch down there, all right. Only problem is there’s at least four more than we’ve been following. So far, I’ve counted nine. There could well be more.”

  Hamish cut loose with a massive wad of reddish-brown tobacco juice spittle that splattered on the hard-baked soil beneath his animal’s feet. “Aye. Evil bastards do attract other evil bastards. ’Tis my considered opinion, gleaned from a lifetime of warld travel, they be much like carrion birds—solitary for the most part, they only come together when death and destruction is in the air.”

  Less than half a mile away, and below us, a stand of seventy-foot-tall cottonwoods teemed with heavily armed men. Located along the banks of one of Boiling Springs’s most active small lakes, the Dawson gang lounged in the grass, cooked, smoked, and milled about like a group of church deacons out for an afternoon’s fellowship.

  I collapsed the telescope and handed it back to Snake.

  “Well, what do you think, Marshal Tilden? How do you want to approach this?” he asked. “We know they’re bad men. Rank evil to the bone and certain to fight.”

  Hamish snapped, “If yew’re about seekin’ council on the subject, Hayden, I’m a-castin’ me vote for ridin’ down there all guns a-blazin’. Kill as many as we can. Let whatever God those bastards worship sort out them as can save their own worthless hides.”

  “You sure about that?” I asked.

  The giant Englishman grunted and snorted in disgust, “What’s to be sure about? We’ve got ’em by the short and curlies. Stupid bleedin’ yahoos have not a clue we’re even about. We can ride in and take ’em before they know what hoppened.”

  Pinky leveled things out a bit when he said, “What about Evelyn Kill Deer? If the child is still alive, and they’ve got her, she might end up gettin’ dead real quick if we ride in there all guns a-blazin’, Hamish.”

  “He’s got a point,” I said.

  “Aye, but it’s a chance we’re farced to take, me buckos. We can’t be a-sittin’ up here in the tall and uncut a-chewin’ our ragged fingernails over that poor child’s fate. God only knows what harrors those brigands have already put her through.”

  Crazy Snake pulled his rifle and levered a shell into the chamber. “He’s right, Tilden. Quicker we put an end to this, the better for the child, if she’s alive, and us.”

  “Question is, do we try to sneak up and catch them off guard, or mosey up as close as we can, then charge in on them all guns a-blazing?” Once posed, I searched each face for a response to my question.

  Pinky answered for all of them. He cocked both barrels on his shotgun and said, “Let’s play it exactly the way you said. Mosey up as close as we can. Maybe they’ll give in without a fight. Never can tell. If not, we’ll charge the camp. Kill as many as we can.”

  We spread ourselves out so there was at least an eight-to-ten-yard space separating each horse. Brittle, waist-high grass brushed against our animals’ bellies as we approached. Nothing seemed amiss, at least not at first.

  It was the kind of thing we’d all done before. But for some unknowable reason, about a hundred yards or so from the camp, a sneaking suspicion that something just wasn’t up to snuff hit me again. An icy chill ran down my spine accompanied by a river of sweat. And once, when I got a good view into the camp, could swear to Jesus I saw Death, his very own self, grinning and waving for me to come closer.

  Couldn’t have been fifteen seconds after my creeping premonition of doom that every man in the bandit campsite hopped up with a rifle in his hands and went to blasting. A fiery curtain of hot lead.sliced though the prairie grass like a sharpened sickle. Whooping, hollering, and blasting away, like the slobbering inmates from a stone-walled asylum, the Dawson gang laid down an absolutely withering wall of gunfire unlike anything I’d encountered in years.

  A blue whistler carved a burning path along the side of my neck at about the same time Crazy Snake’s horse squealed and went to ground heavy on my right. I pulled Gunpowder down on his side and got up on my knees to return some of the lead sizzling around us, but the outlaw assault was nothing short of death-dealing. Ammo went through Winchester rifles as fast as they would work the levers. Roar from their direction had all the tempo and speed of a well-cranked Gatling gun.

  Off to my left, I heard Hamish yelp at least twice, but I couldn’t see him or Pinky. Killers in the trees kept up their yelling and hollering like they’d just won big bets on a fixed horse race.

  Over the din of gunfire, screaming, shouting, kicked-up dust, and the sounds of wounded and dying animals, I heard one of them ambushing snakes call out, “We knew you was a-coming, you badge-carryin’ bastards.”

  Another cut loose with: “We done got you lawdogs this time, didn’t we. Made you pay. Made you pay good.”

  And from another: “Gonna all be lookin’ up from the bottom of an open grave in a few minutes, boys.”

  Bullets hissed through the grass all around me. Don’t know how Gunpowder kept from getting hit. I tried to return fire. Set off both barrels of my big Greener. Second time I rose up on my knees, another round peeled the hat off my head and carved a burning crease over my ear, four or five inches long. Nasty wound leaked like someone had hit me with a double-bit ax. Between it and the gash on my neck, my shoulder and right side were saturated with free-flowing blood that caked into an ugly brown mess in a matter of seconds.

  The assault finally let up a bit and, in a minute or so of quiet, I could hear Hamish moaning. ’Bout then Crazy Snake crashed through the grass and fell down beside me.

  He popped up on his knees and fired several shots. Got the impression the man was trying to protect me. “You in a bad way, Tilden?” he yelled and fired again.

  “Not really.”

  “Wouldn’t know it by looking. My God, man, you’ve got blood all over you. What about Hamish and Pinky?”

  “Not sure about Pinky, but I think Hamish got hit in the first volley. He sure don’t sound good.”

  I turned to speak to Snake directly just as a heavy slug went in one side of his skull and blew a huge chunk of bone, brain matter, and blood out the other side in a rainbow of gore. A puzzled look washed over his face; a faint smile flickered across blood-speckled lips. He went totally limp and rolled over on his side like a sack full of horseshoe nails.

  To this ver
y instant, I’m not sure I’d ever been so stunned by a single turn of events. A good man I’d grown to like in a very short time lay dead beside me with most of his brains in a bloody puddle nearby on the ground. Pieces of him were splashed all over me and parts of my horse. So far as I knew, Hamish and Pinky could have been dead as well—victims of another well-planned and brilliantly executed trap. For the first time in my life, I felt consumed with an overwhelming, uncontrollable rage. Not for certain sure, but think I went to screaming myself.

  The shotgun cracked open. Took all my concentration, and most of my reserve strength, to shove two new rounds in and snap it shut. Grabbed Crazy Snake’s rifle and stood. Cut loose with both barrels of buckshot as soon as I could see over the grass. Riddled two of the killers less than fifty feet away who’d evidently thought the fighting was over. My unsteady aim proved a little high and both men went down in a spray of bloody mist when the loads caught them full in their faces. Pitched the boomer aside and went to work with the rifle as I advanced on the trees, one stumbling step at a time.

  Glimpsed four or five men on horses speed away from the trees in the opposite direction. They left two behind who couldn’t get mounted in all the death and confusion. I stopped long enough to take careful aim and dropped one of them just as he got his foot in a stirrup and tried to mount his skittish animal.

  Second drygulchin’ backshooter surprised me when he pulled a pair of pistols and started my direction, firing as he came. But he was too far away to do himself any good. Let him close the gap by about ten steps, levered a shell into the Winchester, then blasted him out of his boots. Son of a bitch hit the ground like a bag of rocks, snapped back up to a sitting position, and fired several more times. The one I put between his eyes took all the starch out of his arms. Stopped his clock till the Second Coming.

  Took two, maybe three, more steps and all the energy drained completely out of my legs. Went down like a felled tree. An oppressive, silent, black hole opened up at my feet and swallowed me like the whale took Jonah.

  Not sure how long I was out. Some little while later, opened my eyes and couldn’t see anything but white puffy clouds and crystal blue sky. Heard something stir beside me, and turned my head a bit to see Pinky Coody sitting cross-legged beside me. He was covered in streaks of blood, dirt, spent gunpowder, and sweat. A pistol rested loosely in each hand, and he appeared to have been crying.

  Surprised him when I moaned and tried to rise up. “Sweet Jesus,” he yelped. “Damnation, Marshal, I done went and thought you was for sure dead as well.”

  Managed to roll onto one elbow. Took a few seconds before my head cleared enough for me to say, “Did they get Hamish, Pinky?”

  His chin dropped to his chest. “Guess he was the biggest target them bastards had. Man must have close to a dozen holes in his chest. He was dead afore he hit the ground.”

  “Crazy Snake went down right in front of me.”

  “Yeah. I found him, then you. God Almighty, Marshal, you’re such a mess and warn’t movin’ none. I just assumed you was a goner, and that them murderin’ skunks had kilt everyone ’cept me.” He dragged the sleeve of a ruined shirt across his bloodied brow.

  “I think they knew we were comin’, Pinky. Laid for us, and nearly killed our whole posse. Can’t believe I got suckered a second time. Told myself this would never happen again. Guess the two of us should count ourselves lucky to be alive. What about the horses?”

  “Only one that survived was yours. He ain’t got a scratch on him, near as I was able to tell. Lot of blood, but I couldn’t find no wounds. Guess the blood was yours.”

  “Or maybe Crazy Snake’s. He was right beside Gunpowder when he got hit. Round up all the canteens and get Gunpowder over here. There’s a water bottle strapped on his rump. Go up on the ridge and fetch the pack animals down. We always carry a box of medicines, and such, on one of them. Need to get ourselves cleaned up some; then we’ll go see how much damage our side managed to inflict.”

  “Hell, didn’t do none I could boast of. Took everything I had at hand just to keep them killers away from me, once my hoss went down. And when the shootin’ finally stopped, kept findin’ bodies. First Hamish, then Crazy Snake. Thought for certain sure they’d kilt you as well. Jesus, Marshal Tilden, couldn’t even begin to figure how I was a-gonna explain this calamity to Judge Parker and the chief marshal back in Fort Smith.”

  “Don’t worry, Pinky. I’ll take care of that. Just get the pack animals down here.”

  He brought me all the canteens he could locate first; then, it took him every bit of half an hour to get back with our pack animals. By then, I’d managed to tidy myself up some. Cleansed my wounds with water and carbolic. Carbolic burned like hellfire and brimstone. Stuff really got my attention when I dabbed some into the nasty gash on my scalp. Pulled a clean shirt out of my saddlebag. Had to throw the blood-soaked one away.

  Gore, splattered from head to foot on Pinky, turned out to be from his horse. Poor sad beast got hit in the head and flung the stuff all over him as it went down.

  Once we’d got scrubbed up some, I checked on Hamish. Man couldn’t have been any deader. Counted eight holes in his chest. Near as I could tell, he never even got off a shot in his own defense. Mighty sad end for a feller who’d traveled the world and fought in countries I’d never heard of before meeting him.

  Finally, we eased into the stand of cottonwoods armed to the teeth and ready to kill anything that moved. Of the four men I’d managed to put holes in, all were stone-cold dead, except the yahoo that went down as he tried to get mounted. My staggering aim had been off a mite and I’d caught the poor fool low in the gut. Wadded into a knot over the hole in his belly, he was still alive and suffered mightily because of it.

  Knelt beside him and poured some water over his twitching lips till his eyes fluttered open. “Wake up. Ain’t gonna let you die yet, you son of a bitch. I want to talk to you some before you shake hands with Satan.”

  He licked the drops away. “Oh, God,” he moaned, “it hurts. Hurts somethin’ wicked, mister.”

  “You should’ve thought about such a possibility before you started shooting at a deputy U.S. marshal.”

  “Dawson said you wuz bounty men out to kill all of us. Then when the blastin’ started, he and his men went to yellin’ ’bout lawdogs, Judge Parker’s men, and such. Some of us didn’t know you wuz law till then.”

  “Well, he got part of it right. We would’ve killed all of you we could. As it worked out, had to settle for just three. Four when you’re gone.”

  He made a weak motion for more water. I let him have one swallow. He smacked his lips and seemed better, but his speech started to hesitate and slur. “Them sorry bastards ran . . . on us. Left . . . us fight their battle. Got me and my . . . pards kilt.”

  “That they did. Can you tell me your name and the names of your friends?”

  Men can last a long time when gut-shot. Almost all I’ve ever seen died anyway, but, my God, they can cling hard to a fleeting life. Way I had it figured, he was pretty close to shaking hands with Jesus, and identifying the other dead men would help me considerable.

  “Name’s Elmer . . . Elmer LaGrone. Them three . . . other fellers was Jimmy Martin, Leroy Ply, and Ford Fargo. We weren’t . . . bad boys. Just misguided. Led astray by rotten liquor and evil companions. Fell in . . . with the wrong crowd. Ended up getting kilt because . . . of it.”

  His eyes closed and I punched him on the shoulder. “You know anything about a man named Rufus Doome or his brother Jethro?”

  A strange, puzzled look flitted across his twisted face. Could barely hear him when he said, “Heard of ’em. Never met ’em. Don’t know ’em.”

  His eyes closed again and, for a spell, I thought he’d passed on for heavenly judgment and a hell-sent finding of guilt. But he came around again and howled with pain like a kicked dog. After about five minutes of the agonizing racket, Pinky couldn’t stand it anymore. He got up and wandered off deeper into the trees.
My only remaining partner hadn’t been gone more than a minute when I heard a sound from the direction he’d taken that put me in mind of a strangled cat.

  Hit my feet running and found him standing over the body of a small girl. “It’s the Kill Deer child,” he whimpered. “Sweet Merciful Father, look what them animals went and done to her, Marshal Tilden.”

  There’s no way to adequately describe the horror that poor youngster must have endured—not sure I would, even if I could. Pinky got to heaving and had to stagger from the scene. He made it to a tree, a few feet away, and almost fell down puking. Sight damned near made me sick as well, but I kept the bile down long enough to run back to the pack animals, grab a blanket, and wrap that poor little broken, abused body in it.

  Stomped back over to the gut-shot blackguard, grabbed him by the neck, and said, “Who killed the child? You tell me who killed the little girl, and I’ll help you on to glory. Clam up on me, you son of a bitch, and I swear to Jesus I’ll pile these other bodies all around your sorry ass and ride away. Stinging bugs, maggots, and animals will be on you in a matter of minutes. Wolves will pull you apart limb from limb while you’re still alive.”

  Wild, bloodshot eyes stared into mine. “Coyle . . . and Storms . . . done it,” he stuttered. “No one else . . . wanted any part of what they done. It were awful to hear. Feller named Crow Dog even tried . . . to stop ’em. Storms threatened to kill him, too.”

  He passed out on me again, so I slapped his face till he woke up again. “You’re sure about the girl’s death? Mo Coyle and Charlie Storms killed her.”