by J. Lee Butts
“Look, I’ve got enough problems as it is, Deputy U.S. Marshal Tilden. I ain’t got time to be a-playin’ wet nurse to three stump-jumpin’ badge toters from Arkansas. Just what in the hell is it you’re here for, anyway?”
Felt like he’d slapped me in the face and left a stinging handprint. Suppose I might have sounded a bit more than peevish when I snapped, “Well, sir, I was about to get to that when you saw fit to so rudely interrupt me.”
Farmer’s neck colored up a bit this side of purple, so fast I couldn’t believe it. About a heartbeat and a half later, his face looked like someone had the man down on the floor strangling the hell out of him. Could tell he wasn’t a feller accustomed to being crossed by anyone.
Popped out of his chair like he had coiled-steel springs attached to his butt and growled, “I don’t have to put up with no sassy-mouthed road trash from Arkansas shit heels like you, Deputy Marshal Tilden.”
Felt Carlton J. Cecil ease up at my elbow. Turned and noticed itchy fingers caressing the butts of his pistols, and that Nate already had the two checker-playing deputies under the gun. My good friend’s lips peeled back on his teeth like a hungry wolf about to feed on a downed longhorn steer. Barely heard him when he snarled, “You’d best sit your more-than-arrogant ass back down in that chair and listen to what Hayden has to say, you stupid son of a bitch.”
“W-w-w-what’d you say?” Farmer stuttered.
Carl leaned closer. “We’re deputy U.S. marshals in possession of warrants issued by Judge Isaac C. Parker of the Western District Court of Arkansas. They’re for dangerous men we believe are in your town. And unless you’d like me to climb over there and kick your ass till that glob of puss you call a nose bleeds, I’d suggest you get to treatin’ this man a hell of a lot nicer.”
“Why, y-y-you mouthy piece of trail trash,” the surprised town marshal sputtered.
Carlton shut him down again when he leaned almost eyeball-to-eyeball with the big tub of guts and whispered, “Wouldn’t want to embarrass you in front of your men, Mr. Farmer, but if you don’t take a seat, and shut the hell up, I’m gonna whip you like a tied yard dog, in just about two seconds.”
The stunned lawman glanced nervously at me, shook his cigar in Carl’s face, and said, “You need to put your attack animal on a tight leash, Marshal Tilden. This man’s damned dangerous.”
Nodded my sympathetic and understanding agreement. Tried mightily to sound diplomatic when I replied, “Yes, he is, sir. An extremely dangerous man. And not one to be trifled with, by any stretch of the imagination. Problem you have is that my good friend here’s only about half as bad as me, Mr. Farmer.” Unfortunately, it came out cold as ice and menacingly threatening.
Farmer’s eyes got the size of saucers as he stumbled a full step backward and flopped into the safety of his chair. He grabbed his papers and officiously went to shuffling them again.
“Well,” he muttered, “guess maybe I might have been a bit hasty, and unprofessional, in my initial attitude, sir. I do apologize. How can the Fort Worth City Police Force be of service to you?”
“You’ve got a gang of exceedingly dangerous men in your fine city, Marshal. Reports from reliable sources in the Nations lead us to believe that Maynard Dawson, Charlie Storms, and Cotton Rix are hiding somewhere in, or around, your town. Even worse, they could well be in the company of Rufus and Jethro Doome. If such proves the case, you’re gonna need our help and, perhaps, that of a company of Texas Rangers to keep brutal murder from becoming an everyday, commonplace event.”
Farmer sneered. “I don’t think, by God, me or my men will have any problem dealing with a bunch of ignorant, murderin’, stump jumpers fresh out of the Nations.”
I glanced at Carl. He shrugged as if to say, “What’s the use? The man’s an idiot on top of bein’ a jackass. Let’s go find a room, a bath, and something to eat.”
Turned back to Farmer. “Well, if these men kill anyone in your town, you’ll know it. Their methods are barbaric in the extreme.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“I’d rather not say right now, Mr. Farmer. Feel it best not to advertise their nefarious and lethal methods. But trust me, sir, won’t be any doubt about one of their killings when you see it.”
Shook the bigheaded lawman’s reluctant hand, and apologized for any misunderstanding. Tried to make it clear we’d work hard to stay out of his way. But let him know, in crystal-clear terms, that we intended on doing our jobs, whatever that might entail. Then, we headed for the street.
Carlton climbed back on his horse and said, “Damn, Hayden, you shoulda let me kick his more-than-stupid ass. Woulda been my pleasure to stomp a bloody ditch in his worthless hide, then stomp it dry.”
Tried to calm Carl down as we headed for the El Paso Hotel. Figured I’d spring for all three of us a decent room while we were in town. The El Paso was a splendid and impressive joint. We heard later as how most folks considered it the best hotel in town. Got ourselves a skin-scorching bath and, soon as we could, headed straight for the White Elephant Saloon.
Luke Short’s establishment was everything Nate had hoped it’d be. Handbill, posted next to the open door, advertised the bustling saloon and restaurant as open day and night, and proudly boasted of having the finest wines, liquors, and cigars.
I clapped the bug-eyed boy on the back as we strolled past a carpet-covered stairway, leading to the second-floor gambling rooms. Carl couldn’t help but laugh at our new partner as we made our way over to the famed solid-mahogany, mirrored-back bar.
“Hot diggity damn,” Nate mumbled in amazement, “cut-glass chandeliers. Never seen nothin’ like this in Arkansas, Hayden.”
Stood my friends to a drink just before a stunning dark-haired, ruby-lipped young woman, dressed like she was on her way to a Chicago opera house, touched my elbow and said, “Would you gentlemen care to dine with us this evening?”
Bold as brass, Carlton snatched his hat off and said, “That we would, miss.”
“Well, then, please follow me. You may bring your glasses along, if you’d like.” She smiled, turned, motioned us toward the dining area, got us settled, and saw to our every need for the next three hours. That was some of the best money I’ve ever spent. Worth every penny just to watch Nate and Carlton try to eat a raw oyster.
After a belly-buster of a meal, we took a brief tour of the gaming area. Joint had a table at the top of the stairs stacked almost a foot deep in gold coins. Have to admit, everything about the White Elephant was damned impressive. Total package put the Emerald, and all those other places down by the train tracks, to head-hanging, dirt-floor shame.
Suppose our stay in Fort Worth might have proved right pleasant had it not been for what happened that first night we were in town, out behind one of Hell’s Half Acre’s most active and violent dance halls. Repulsive, murderous horror of that bloody night would be whispered about over fences, clotheslines, and behind the cupped hands of decent folk—for years to come.
14
“HE SAYS SOMEBODY NAILED THE POOR GIRL UP THERE.”
AS IS THE case with all men who spend too much time drinking the night before, the morning after we arrived in Fort Worth came up like thunder before a Kansas cyclone. Dreadful day started before good light with a constant, irritating pounding located somewhere inside my skull, just behind eyes that didn’t want to open. Then, Carlton shook me awake.
My bleary-eyed friend swayed beside the bed like a willow tree in a stiff breeze, and scratched at his crotch. Every red hair on his head stood straight out, as though he’d been frightened near to death by something so horrible as to border on the unbelievable. Overall image made him appear as though he’d been shot from a cannon—backward—through a knothole.
He rubbed at his canker-clogged eyes, yawned, and said, “One of Farmer’s idiot deputies is at the door. Says their esteemed marshal needs us soon as we can get dressed.”
Nate rolled out of the pallet he’d made on the floor and mumbled,
“What the hell for? Jesus, what time is it? Sun ain’t even up good yet. God, my head hurts.”
Carl went to work pulling his pants on. “Idiot deputy says the marshal’s got something he urgently wants us to see.”
After we’d stumbled into our clothes, and got armed to the teeth, Farmer’s tight-lipped, jumpy subordinate introduced himself as Herman Blodgett. He refused to say why we’d been summoned. Led us on a brisk walk to a hellacious rough-looking dance hall, named Smiley’s Terpsi-chorean Delights, located at the corner of Thirteenth and Rusk Streets.
Rank odors of spilled whiskey, vomit, and human waste proved enough for bandanna-covered noses. The constant movement of people and animals around the building had chewed the discarded paper, broken bottles, and littered area fronting the building into a difficult-to-negotiate morass, where at least two unconscious drunks still wallowed about in the muck and mire.
“Marshal’s a-waitin’ round back,” Blodgett said, and pointed along a narrow alleyway between the disreputable building and a crudely erected picket fence.
We waded through more piled-up trash and empty whiskey bottles to a deep, grassless, open area. Situated a bit over midway through the dusty space, between the back door and the fence, stood an enormous four-holer outhouse.
“Jesus,” Carl muttered, “you mean to tell me the son of a bitch got us out of our beds, at the crack of dawn, to look at a Fort Worth shit house?”
Farmer, who quietly talked with a knot of other men gathered at one end of the outbuilding, glanced up, spotted us, and hurried over. Man sported heavy bags under his eyes, appeared not have slept since we last saw him. He extended a trembling hand and said, “Glad you and your associates could come, Marshal Tilden. I do appreciate your quick response to my request. Hope you can forgive my inattention yesterday. Had my mind on other matters, at the time. That’s no good excuse for poor behavior.”
Shook his hand and said, “Quite all right, Marshal Farmer. How can we be of assistance, sir?”
He gently pulled me toward him, placed an overly familiar arm around my shoulders, and guided me to the area where everyone’s attention seemed to be focused. “Need you to tell me what you think about this,” he said, and turned me toward the farthest side wall of the odiferous building.
Carlton followed and stopped by my side, pulled his hat off, and said, “Good God Almighty. Sure hate to see a sight like this.”
Nate almost bumped into Carl. A grunt of disgust involuntarily popped from the boy’s lips, as though he’d been struck in the chest by a heavy blow.
Marshal Farmer let his arm drop like a man too tired to hold it up any longer. “Ever come across anything to match such as you see here?” he asked.
The nude, and much-abused, corpse of an obviously young woman hung from the wall. Blond braids, tied to a nail several inches above her head, caused lifeless, open eyes to unnervingly stare right into the stunned face of anyone standing where Farmer had placed us. A sizable, dark, dried puddle of crusted blood, below the poor girl’s feet, framed a stack of innards carelessly ripped from her body.
Nate turned away and wiped at a damp brow with his bandanna. “Where’s her hands?” he asked, as though to himself. When no one answered, he snatched his hat off, stumbled to a spot next to the dance hall’s back door, leaned against the board-and-batten wall, and refused to spend any more time gawking at the despoiled corpse.
Let out a breath that felt like it came from the soles of my feet, then said, “Yeah. We’ve seen as much, or maybe worse, out in the Nations.”
Farmer’s chin dropped to his chest. He swayed back and forth like a tired bear. “This is what you were trying to warn me about yesterday, ain’t it?”
“Yes. Unfortunately, it is.”
“And you’ve seen worse? Jesus, how much worse can it get?”
Didn’t have a chance to answer him that time. Carlton snapped, “Damned right we’ve seen as much before. And this atrocity just might not have happened if you’d of listened to us yesterday.”
Carlton may as well have used an open palm and slapped the distraught marshal’s face, right in front of the man’s unbelieving wife, all his friends, and employees.
I placed a quieting hand on my angry partner’s shoulder. “Wouldn’t have mattered what we did, Carl. No one could’ve prevented this from happening. You know as well as I do, determined murderers can’t be stopped. Once they take it in mind to kill someone, we can’t prevent it. No one can. Want to blame someone, might as well say it’s our fault for not taking care of Dawson and Storms, out in the Nations, when we had the opportunity. Hell, I had two chances myself—failed both times.”
Farmer wiped sweaty, still-trembling hands on his pants legs, and talked to the ground. “Doc Fowler acts as our coroner. He says somebody nailed the poor girl up there. Hard to tell from here. Figure it musta took more’n one man to do it, though. Ain’t no way a single feller could hold her up, do the nailin’ at the same time.”
Carl shook his head in disgust. “Anyone know who she was?” he asked.
Farmer waved absently at the corpse. “Deputy of mine says he thinks maybe her name was Molly. Could well occur that we’ll never be able to get a complete identification. These girls come and go so much, we ain’t got no dependable way to keep track of ’em.”
“Sounds like a sad, anonymous way to live,” I mumbled.
“Yes, it is. I’ve already seen more’n a dozen suicides by soiled doves over the past six months. Most depressing part of this job is knowin’ young women kill themselves with such frequency. Could be two dozen dead, for all we’re able to determine. Sometimes, it’s almost impossible to settle on what actually kills ’em. But, more often than not, laudanum usually plays a deadly part.”
Carlton shook his head. “Well, shouldn’t have no problem figurin’ out what caused this ’un. Looks to me like the bastards gutted her, almost took her head off.”
“Who found the body?” I asked.
Marshal pointed to a bareheaded feller, who sat on the dance hall’s back step, with his head resting in his hands. Appeared as though the poor man might have been crying.
“His name’s Winston Pratt. Most folks call him Bug. Don’t know why. He works here every night trying to stay ahead of the broken bottles and vomit. Sweeps out, mops the floor, and picks up as much trash as he can every morning. Told me he got here a little earlier than usual today.”
Carl scratched his neck and posed the most obvious question of the morning. “You, or any of your boys, really quiz him closely yet?”
Farmer shook his head. “Man’s been so upset he could barely talk at all. Cain’t say as I blame him much. This killin’ has distressed everyone here, this morning. Hell, I thought I’d seen about the worst men could do, but this is one helluva lot worse than the rancher who put his bucket down the well and pulled up a skunk.”
Carl signaled me with an almost undetectable motion of his finger. Fort Worth’s marshal followed as we strolled over to where Winston Pratt was sitting. Poor boy’s head popped up. He shot us a look like a caged rat when Carl touched him on a trembling upper arm. Long, stringy, unwashed hair flipped about on his shoulders as his uneasy glance darted from one of us to the other. Scrawny, and obviously underfed, the panicked boy didn’t appear to have yet made it out of his teens. Look in his eyes indicated to me that he was absolutely terrified.
“Swear ’fore Jesus, gents. Ain’t had nothing to do with that poor girl’s unfortunate ruination,” he whimpered. “She was like that when I found her. Never seen a body so badly mistreated in all my born days. Never even heard tell of anything to match it.”
Fort Worth’s marshal sympathetically patted Pratt’s quaking shoulder. “Did you see anyone else this mornin’, Bug?”
A look of total confusion quickly spread across Pratt’s grit-streaked face. “You mean back here with that poor girl?”
“Anywhere. Out front. Here in back. Around the girl’s body. Did you see anyone else this morning?”
>
“Pair of drunks in the street, but that ain’t unusual. Probably still out there. Weren’t no one back here, as I could tell. It were so dark I almost didn’t see her myself. Had to drag ’at ’ere barrel over yonder out for haulin’ away later today. Gate in the fence is just behind the outhouse, you know.”
“When did you first notice her?” Carl asked.
“Walked right up on the body ’fore I realized what it was. Had to bring out a lantern to make sure. Scared me damned near to death when I could really see her. Got chicken flesh on my arms, right this second. Jesus, I still cain’t believe she’s gone.”
Last thing he said lit a spark in me. “Did you know the dead woman?”
“Yes, sir, I most certainly did. She’s been working here in the hall, little over a month now. Came from New Orleans. Name was Molly LeBeau—leastways, that’s what she claimed. Fancied herself some kind of high-tone Frenchified gal. Course her real name coulda been Matilda Smith, or Jones, or Brown for all I know.”
Carl rolled a cigarette and handed it to Pratt. As he put fire to it for the still-shaking boy, he said, “Did she have any friends?”
Bug pulled in a lung of smoke and appeared to relax a bit. “Think I heard once as how she had a room over in Lulu Porter’s boardin’house, at Tenth and Rusk, on occasion. Worked there, too, you know. Sometimes ran with a razor-carryin’ whore named Lucy Love. That Lucy’s one more scary female. Cut you up, like a trussed chicken, in a heartbeat.”
“Do you think Lucy Love could have done this killing, Bug?” Farmer asked.
“No. Course not. Didn’t mean anything like that. Just that I seen her slice up a feller, right here at Smiley’s, less than a month ago. Cut a cowboy so bad everyone thought he’d surely pass. Heard many a hair-raisin’ tale ’bout that gal. Oh, I can tell you one thing that might be helpful. Both of ’em sometimes worked days at the Two Minnies Saloon, over on Ninth and Calhoun. Might well find Lucy there later this morning.”
“And you didn’t see anyone else? Maybe you passed someone on the street you didn’t recognize on your way to work? Strangers, dressed and armed in a rougher-than-usual fashion?” I asked.