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

by J. Lee Butts

  A stunned Dorsey turned just in time to see his bumbling brother flung sidewise by a death-dealing curtain of rifle and pistol bullets. The mortally wounded Millard staggered several steps and fired both his hand cannons into the muddy bog at his feet, before he collapsed into a bloody, lifeless heap.

  Remaining of the Cobb brothers squealed like a baby pig caught under a gate. He struggled mightily to keep himself upright, turned back our direction, and sent more lead from a blazing weapon in each hand. Appeared to have put several shots into the fleeing herd, as he thrashed about in the mud.

  ’Bout then, I spotted Carlton out of the corner of my eye again. He stood in front of the scorched stump he’d used for cover. Shook his head like a man who was having trouble believing what his own eyes showed him. Couldn’t have been more than a second’s worth of decision making involved in what happened next. Carlton levered a shell into his Winchester, took careful aim, and sent Dorsey Cobb to Hell’s front doorstep in a heartbeat with a well-placed shot to the thinker box. Bullet obliterated ole Dorsey’s right eye and sent a gob of brain matter, bone, and blood as big as my fist squirting into the air behind him like a South American jungle parrot taking flight.

  Poor skull-shot churn head, who didn’t realize he was dead yet, snapped stiff in the knees, caved in at the chest, and went down like a rotted telegraph pole. Of a sudden, the confused and gory scene got quieter than daybreak on Easter Sunday. Got so peaceful I detected a soft breeze blowing across the river from Texas that whispered in the cottonwoods along the creek bank. Thought I could even hear the barely detectable, sluggish movement of the river.

  Holstered one of my persuaders and reloaded the other, as Caleb spurred his horse up beside me and dismounted. I climbed off Gunpowder and, together, we surveyed the mess left behind by all the shouting, shooting, killing, and dying.

  “Damn, Hayden,” Caleb said. I detected the sound of deep regret in the man’s voice. He slapped his reins against his leg. “Sure do hate that them three horses had to pay such a high price in this Pecos promenade.”

  “You can blame the unfortunate deaths of at least two of them on the Cobb brothers. You see where Dozier went?”

  Masters snatched his hat off, made a sweeping gesture toward the Nations, and with considerable disgust in his voice said, “Snaky son of a bitch slipped away from me again. Can’t hardly believe it. Guess I’ll have to spend some time sortin’ out all these tracks till I find which way he went. Be on his sorry ass like prickly heat soon’s we get these other fellers planted.”

  Carlton and Nate ambled up. Both men shoved fresh rounds into their rifles. Nate said, “Don’t worry ’bout these boys, Caleb. Since I killed one, and all of us probably have a round in the other’n, we’ll plant ’em. That is, if you want to go ahead and get on after Dozier, ’fore the slippery skunk puts too much distance between the two of you.”

  Masters slapped his hat back on his head, nodded like he agreed but was reluctant to leave, and jumped into the saddle. “I’m much obliged, fellers. Owe you one. Ever need another gun, be sure and look me up.” He gave us a military-type farewell salute, and kicked north.

  Carl shot a quick glance at the two bodies. “Sure do get tired of diggin’ holes for worthless, no-account sons of bitches.”

  Nate grinned and flicked a bead of sweat from his brow. “The Nations is chocked full of sons of bitches, Carl. Personally, I’d a lot rather bury them, as have it the other way around.”

  “Well,” I said, “let’s get at it. We’ll scratch a couple of shallow graves out for these boys, quick as we can, and head south. Fort Worth and the Maynard Dawson bunch are waitin’. Real good chance the blood-letting we just witnessed ain’t nothing compared to what’s in store for us in Hell’s Half Acre.”

  13

  “I’M GONNA WHIP YOU LIKE A TIED YARD DOG . . .”

  ONCE YOU CROSS over into the great Lone Star State at Red River Station, when making your way out of the Nations, finding Fort Worth’s pretty much a snap. Hadn’t given it a great deal of thought till after we got into Texas pretty deep, but I’d never visited the busy cow town before and, as it turned out, neither had Carlton or Nate.

  Just kept our horses pointed south on the pounded-to-dust old Chisholm Trail. At the river crossings, that famed passage usually measured a hundred to two hundred yards across, and in the countryside could easily spread out for more than a mile. Easy as it proved to follow, we still, somehow, managed to miss the bustling town by about two miles toward the east, anyway. But as soon as we hit the Texas and Pacific Railroad, and turned west, finding the rough cattle town was as easy as shooting fish in a rain barrel.

  Arrived in front of the T & P Depot and headed north on Main Street. Carlton allowed as how if them Fort Worth folks named the dusty, horse-apple-littered thoroughfare Main Street, they must have had a good reason for it.

  My parched trail mates quickly expressed a desire to stop and order up some liquid refreshment, being as how they’d spent so much time in the wilds without partaking.

  Carlton said, “How ’bout a beaker of the old espiritus ferminti, Hayden? Sure could use somethin’ to cut this lung-cloggin’ Texas dust.”

  We passed on one joint with a sign out front that deemed it the Palace. Rough tavern didn’t look much like any palace we’d ever seen. Finally decided to tie up and ask directions at a watering hole as crowded as a Baptist tent revival called the Emerald Saloon. Busy booze emporium was three blocks further up the heavily traveled street from the so-called Palace.

  Main reason we stopped at that particular cow country oasis was because Nate spotted a sign out front touting the coldest beer in Fort Worth. Appeared to me the owners had opened the establishment as near the depot as possible in order to take advantage of arriving or departing travelers desperate for a drink.

  Dismounted and carried our long guns with us. Guess we caused something of a stir. Strolled in all covered in trail dust, decorated with heavy silver badges, and bristling with all manner of weapons.

  Cool, dark, and peaceful, the fancied-up cantina sported a solid mahogany bar that ran all the way across the far end of the room, and an impressive mirrored back bar. The Emerald turned out to be a right nice joint.

  Smiling bartender sported an astonishing head of greased black hair, wore a garter on his sleeves, and looked like you could roller skate on him. He flashed a sparkling gold tooth at us and said, “Step right up, gents. Welcome to the Emerald. Name’s Corky Tull. You fellers sure as hell don’t look like cowboys.”

  Nate grinned as we bellied up to the spotless, highly polished bar and found a comfortable spot on the rail for our hot, booted feet. He said, “How can you tell we ain’t cowboys, Corky?”

  Whiskey slinger ran a finger under his waxed mustache. “Them badges yore wearin’ is somethin’ of a tell, as my gamblin’ compadres would say. Besides, ain’t ever seen no Texas waddies in the Emerald carryin’ so many heavy gauge blasters at one time. Goodness gracious, fellers, just how many are you totin’ there? I count at least three pistols and a rifle on each of you.”

  “Well, Corky, in our line of business it’s always a good idea to be prepared,” Carl said, as he propped his long guns against the bar.

  I laid my .45-70 and Greener in front of me. Said, “That sign out front for real and true, Mr. Tull? You actually have ice-cold beer for sale in this stellar-looking concern?”

  “Absolutely true statement of fact, sir.” Corky Tull’s grin got even bigger as he drew mugs of the coldest brew that ever tickled my parched tonsils. “First one’s on the house, gents, and it’s my pleasure to serve you,” he said, as he refilled those quickly drained beakers. About a minute after our second round arrived, the three of us stood at Corky Tull’s squeaky clean bar all smiles, with big foamy mustaches over our lips.

  Our host wiped in front of me with a wet rag. “Thought you boys might be Texas Rangers, at first. But you ain’t quite as rough-lookin’ as most of the Rangers who come in here? So, I’m gue
ssin’ you ain’t Rangers.”

  “No, sir,” I said. “We’re deputy U.S. marshals with the Western District Court of Arkansas, His Honor Judge Isaac C. Parker presiding, out of Fort Smith.”

  He never stopped smiling. “Well, I’ll just be certainly damned. You boys work for the famed Hanging Judge Parker. Kinda out of your normal jurisdiction, aren’t you, fellers?”

  Carlton took another big gulp from his glass, wiped his mouth on an already wet sleeve, and said, “That we are, Corky. And we need to talk with your local lawman. Reckon you could send us in the Fort Worth town marshal’s direction?”

  Smile slowly bled from Tull’s beaming countenance, and the gold tooth went into eclipse. “All you gotta do is go back outside. Follow the trolley tracks north. Stay the course for another three quarters of a mile, or so. You’ll be able to see the Tarrant County Courthouse at the end of Main, on the bluff overlooin’ the Trinity River. Strange-lookin’ building. Kinda like the hub of a wagon wheel with some broken spokes still attached.”

  Nate thumped his mug back onto the bar and said, “Marshal’s office in the courthouse?”

  Tull flashed another twinkling smile. “Nope. Just gettin’ you goin’ in the right direction, as it were. When you get to Second Street, turn right, and go one block to Rusk. City jail and Marshal Sam Farmer’s office is on the corner of Second and Rusk, right across from City Hall. Cain’t miss it. But should you get lost, and I cain’t imagine such an outcome for fellers that made it all the way to the Emerald Saloon from the wilds of Arkansas, just stop and ask anyone. They’ll be more than happy to point you in the right direction.”

  Carlton leaned on his elbows, stroked his beer-dampened chin, and in a conspiratorial tone said, “Get the impression you don’t particularly care for Marshal Farmer, Corky. What’s the problem?”

  Tull didn’t miss a beat. “Upstanding citizens of Fort Worth voted him into office over my friend Long Haired Jim Courtright. Now I’ll admit ole Jim might’ve been a bit on the drunken, belligerent side, at times, near the end of his tenure. And he never was able to stop all the stage robberies out west of town. But I always felt safer, on the streets with a proven gunhand running things, than I do now. Besides, them stage robberies is still goin’ on.”

  Nate chuckled and assumed a low-talking stance almost exactly like Carlton’s. “Don’t appear to be much of a problem for you to voice your opinion on the subject,” he offered.

  Tull broke into a smile again. “Hell, I ain’t afraid of Sam Farmer. Neither’s any of the other bartenders, saloon owners, or sportin’ men in town. Now if’n I was tryin’ to make a living playin’ poker, or run a keno game, I might be some worried ’bout the old strong-armed shakedown. That particular legalistic inconvenience tends to come, and go, round these parts. Right now, the marshal’s office is on an enforcement-of-all-city-ordinances rip, no matter how obscure. Been hell-on-wheels for businessmen in the Acre for weeks.”

  “Anything in particular inspire the problem?” I asked.

  “City council cut the marshal’s salary from sixty dollars a month to fifty. Said he showed no inclination to do his job properly. Caused one cyclonic stir, all over town. Farmer’s had a burr under his saddle ever since. If you’re going down to talk with the man, be careful. He probably ain’t gonna like having outside law enforcement types snoopin’ round. Might get to thinkin’ as how you were sent for, if you get my drift.”

  Thumped my empty glass onto the bar. “We’ll keep your very astute advice in mind, Mr. Tull. How much do I owe you for the beer?”

  “Nickel a glass. Fifteen cents total.”

  Pitched him a silver dollar. “Keep the change,” I said. “Valuable information and friendly reception are well worth the money.”

  As we started for the door, Tull called out, “Come again anytime, gents. Been a spell since I rated a tip this size on three glasses of beer.”

  We got mounted and headed north. Fort Worth bustled with people, wagons, and animals. Main Street was near a hundred feet wide and level, but that’s about the only good thing you could say about it. As Carlton noted, the grimy, rutted thoroughfare had the very real potential of turning into a muddy bog with about a teacup of water.

  Construction of almost every residential building on either side of the street tended to be from yellow, rough-cut, sap-bleeding pine, and of a type often referred to as shotgun houses back then. Seemed like each and every one of those dwellings had a number of women lounging around outside in various states of dress, undress, and lack of dress.

  Half-a-dozen ole gals waved and beckoned us for what I knew had to be a bit of the old slap and tickle. Couple of them even ran over and grabbed at our legs. Heard one hard-looking, brassy blonde tell Carlton, “Git off that damned stinky horse, honey. You can ride me right here in the road fer fifty cents.”

  Nate shook his head and mumbled, “My sweet Lord Almighty. Ain’t this somethin’? Whores is bold in Fort Smith boardin’houses, but ain’t nothin’ like these.”

  Larger structures, like saloons, dance halls, and hotels, all sported fancied-up, painted false fronts, and hitch rails. Sizable uncluttered spaces, between the individual businesses and better-known landmarks sought out by travelers, were covered with lumber yards, cotton yards, stockyards, and wagon yards. Lack of cheek-by-jowl clutter found in most towns, and a total absence of anything like a tree, tended to give the entire rambunctious place a definite wide-open, Wild West feel about it.

  We moseyed on up the street through swirling clouds of Texas topsoil, past the Headlight Bar, Texas Wagon Yard, City Wagon Yard, and the Mansion Hotel, before coming on a substantial-looking, solid brick inn that took up most of the corner of Third and Main. Place was named the El Paso. Directly across Third Street stood the most famous saloon in Fort Worth. Nate and Carlton looked like a pair of ten-year-old kids turned loose at a county fair with twenty dollars in their pockets and eyes a lot bigger than their stomachs.

  Carlton got a toothy grin on his face and said, “Damned if that ain’t the White Elephant, boys. I’ve heard many a story of the place. Folks who’ve been inside say Luke Short done by-God created the finest gambling establishment west of New Orleans. Reckon we could stop in for a spell, ’fore we head home to Fort Smith, Hayden? Sure wouldn’t want to go all the way back to the wilds of uncivilized Arkansas ’thout at least easin’ into the premier saloon in all of Texas for a drink.”

  Nate swept his well-used, Montana-peaked hat off a sweaty head and slapped it against the leg of shotgun chaps. “Hell, yes, Hayden. We gotta stop at the White Elephant, long as we’re in town. Cain’t go back home and tell our friends we came all this way and didn’t see the Elephant.”

  I waved them into silence. “Ease up, fellers. I’m sure you’ll have more than enough time for a drink at Short’s world-famous fifty-foot bar before we have to point ’em back to Arkansas again. Don’t imagine this dance is gonna be over in a day or two. Figure we’ll be in town at least two weeks. Maybe even as much as a month, if things don’t go well.”

  Turned ’em right on Second Street, just past a joint all covered with paper handbills called the Theatre Comique. Sure enough, we found City Hall, and the jail, right where Corky Tull said they’d be.

  Tied our animals out front of Marshal Sam Farmer’s one-story lockup. Nothing real special about the building, far as I could tell. Appeared to have been recently built. Lumber still smelled, and looked, freshly cut. Other than the heavy iron bars on the windows, the rugged building appeared about like every other board-and-batten shack we’d passed along the way, except it was at least two or three times larger.

  Carlton adjusted his weapons as we clomped up onto the boardwalk. “Damn,” he muttered, “but I do hate dealin’ with belligerent town lawmen. Most of ’em ain’t nothin’ more’n drunks, thugs, or gunmen themselves. Usually just about smart enough to screw up a two-hearse funeral procession.”

  Pushed the door open. As Cecil was about to pass me, I clapped him on the back, m
uttered, “Well, try to behave, Carl. Don’t start anything if you can keep from it. Want to maintain as much in the way of goodwill with this man as possible. But if he turns out a problem, we’ll just tell him how the cow ate the cabbage, be on our way, and do as we please.”

  Office, just inside the double-thick door, fronted a cell block that appeared fully capable of holding no fewer than a hundred, maybe more, of the drunk, belligerent, crazy, and unruly. Pair of bored-to-tears-looking city policemen lounged in cane-backed chairs and shoved checkers around on a homemade board, at a table squeezed into one corner.

  Oversized oak desk that appeared totally out of place sat right in the middle of the room and dominated everything else there. Deadly variety of weapons filled a gun rack on the wall. A clean-shaven, florid-faced gent in a suit coat, high-collared white shirt, and string tie sat behind the desk and busied himself with a stack of official-looking papers.

  He barely glanced up from his scribblings and dismis-sively snapped, “What the hell you mangy bastards want?”

  Can’t say as how I liked Farmer’s quarrelsome, introductory manner in the least. But I bit my lip, made every effort to remain civil. Went on ahead and explained who we were, as quickly as I could. Presented the surly lawman with our bona fides to prove what I’d said.

  Before I could get it out of my mouth why three deputy U.S. marshals from Arkansas had deigned to bother his magisterial greatness, the man assumed a bored-slap-to-tears look, leaned back in a chair that complained bitterly under his abundant bulk, and fired up a fine-looking cheroot. He thumped the match into a spittoon next to the desk, and absentmindedly picked a piece of tobacco off his lip while I talked.

  Didn’t even manage to get finished when he waved the cigar at me, and set in on us like he’d just found something warm and squishy that stunk on the bottom of his highly polished boot.