by J. Lee Butts
For days, the typical street conversation centered on the possibility that bloodthirsty Comanches had escaped the Indian Nations and returned for a final glorious eradication of the invading white devils. After listening to such bilge for almost a week, our luck suddenly, and dramatically, changed for the better.
Had me a comfortable, brocaded chair in the lobby of the hotel, and was reading the latest theory about Molly LeBeau’s and Miss X’s uncommon murders, when Nate slipped up to my side and tapped me on the shoulder. He leaned over and whispered, “Me and Carlton have one of ’em cornered, Hayden.”
Couldn’t believe my ears. “Who? Where? How?”
“Carl’s got Cotton Rix hemmed up in a room at Lottie Belmont’s parlor house down on Eleventh and Rusk. Gotta hurry. Shootin’ had already started when I came looking for you.”
“You should have stayed with Carl, Nate.”
“He wouldn’t let me. Said to get you quick as I could. Said the day he couldn’t take Cotton Rix, he’d give up his guns, start teachin’ Sunday school classes at the nearest Baptist church. Come on, we gotta go. I have my horse. We can ride double.”
Nate’s powerfully built strawberry roan got us the ten city blocks in record time. Heard muffled pistol fire soon as we turned off Main and hit Rusk. People on the street hid themselves behind anything available. We hit the ground running directly across from Lottie Belmont’s place, and headed for the front door of the Red Light Saloon. Had to dodge a pair of dead hay burners, still tied to the hitch rail out front.
Almost ran over one of Farmer’s panic-stricken deputies hidden behind the Red Light’s batwing doors. Man trembled like he was in the throes of malaria and appeared on the verge of losing his last meal.
“Any more of you boys around?” I asked. Didn’t get an answer at first. Had to grab him by the arm and hit him with the same question a second time. “Hey. Pay attention. Are there any more of you city lawmen around?”
He blinked like some of the cogs in his thinker apparatus weren’t engaged. “Well, Herman’s across the street in Lottie’s place. Crazy son of a bitch charged the door, soon as we got here. Too much lead in the air, for my blood.”
“Anyone go for Marshal Farmer?”
“I sent a friend of mine, named John Sturgis, to find him. Sure will be glad when he finally shows up. I say let him go over and straighten it all out, by God.”
Blasting had quieted down when I said, “Well, if he shows up, he can find me across the street.” Slapped Nate on the shoulder. We drew and cocked our pistols, then hoofed it for the wallet-bustin’ bordello’s front door.
Darted through the gate of a whitewashed picket fence that surrounded the only plot of actual grass I’d seen since we arrived in Fort Worth. Brilliant patch of verdant growth looked so out of place, it caused us both to stumble our way onto the colonnaded porch. The well-kept two-story building stood at the end of a row of one-room cribs that ran all the way around the block. Seemed the perfect place to hunt, if you wanted a whore to kill.
We busted through the half-open doorway—ready to deal bloody death and destruction. A thick cloud of spent black powder smoke swirled around us. Spotted Blodgett under a table beside a polished mahogany stairway leading to the second floor. He crawled out, and scrambled behind us as we sidestepped into the parlor on our right.
“Where’s Carlton?” I whispered.
Herman shrugged. “Got me, Marshal Tilden. Somewhere upstairs, I guess. Ain’t wanted to try and climb them steps yet. So much shootin’ goin’ on up there, when I arrived, figured it wasn’t a real healthy move. Bet between the two of ’em, they’ve burned up nigh a hundred rounds.”
Nate pulled at my sleeve. “I know where Rix is. He’s in the room to the left, at the head of the stairs. Carl spotted him out front at the hitch rail. Gunplay started in the street. Then, we chased him up there. He managed to get the door closed and locked before we could catch him. Went to blastin’ soon’s he’d slammed ’er in our faces. Gang of screamin’ women vacated this place—plenty pronto.”
I stepped to the parlor’s ornately decorated doorway and yelled up the stairs. “Carl, how is it with you?”
Heard my friend chuckle. Then he yelled back, “I’m fine as frog hair. Don’t know about ole Cotton, though. Think I mighta put a dent, maybe two, in his sorry hide.”
Muffled voice from a room on the opposite side of the house called out, “Ain’t none of you bastards concerned about my health, I guess.”
“You hurt, Cotton?” I yelled.
“Damned right, I’m hurt. Carlton J. Cecil done burned a bad hole in me. Don’t think I’m too long for this world. Bleedin’ like a stuck hog.”
Turned back to Blodgett. Man looked like a rabbit in a coyote’s back pocket. “You know of any way for Rix to get out of that room, Herman?”
“Think there’s at least one window on his side of the building, but cain’t say for sure. Even if there is, he’s a good twenty feet up. Only surefire method of departure would involve an ability to sprout wings. If the man’s hurt bad as he sounds, be willing to bet he ain’t gonna be doin’ any flying.”
Decided I’d throw caution to the wind and just see how far Rix would go. Yelled, “Wanna give it up, Cotton? You won’t leave this place alive if you don’t.”
“Doubt I’ll leave alive anyway. Don’t matter none. Always wanted to die in a whorehouse.”
In the lengthy silence that followed his weak reply, the settling building creaked, a light breeze rustled the window curtains behind me, and voices from the street got louder. Detected some movement from the outlaw’s hidey-hole above and, from God only knows where, powerful odors of lilac and magnolia pushed the acrid smell of fired pistols aside and wafted up my nose.
Got distracted with my sniffing around and almost missed his agonized plea when Cotton weakly called out, “Come on up, you sons of bitches. Ain’t in no mood to fight no more, and don’t care to die alone.”
Herman Blodgett made it plain he’d rather not gamble on the word of an outlaw. Said he’d wait in the little sitting room till we made sure Rix wasn’t lying. Can’t say as I blamed the man much, but it did reveal a good deal about his lack of willingness when it came to putting his life on the line if the situation at hand called for drastic action.
Nate and me carefully slipped up the stairs and met Carlton as he tiptoed from a room on our right. He nodded, cocked both his pistols, and silently mouthed, “I’ll go in first.” Man had more sand than the banks of the Mississippi River. Made Fort Worth Deputy Marshal Herman Blodgett look like a belly-slinking snake.
We found the wounded brigand behind a bed in the far corner of the cramped room. Man had a massive hole in his side, about two inches above a blood-soaked waistband. Much of his life had already leaked into a pale pea-green rug beneath his rail-thin body.
He’d wallowed around in the pool of sticky stuff to the point where it had painted his vest, canvas breeches, and cartridge belt. Spent brass littered a bloody lap, and the loading gates of both his .45s lay open. Patchy brown crust covered his face, hands, and the walnut grips of the fancy scroll-engraved weapons.
Too weak to lift either of the revolvers, and barely able to speak, he rubbered his slow-blinking eyes around the room till they landed on Carlton’s face. “Think you’ve went and kilt me, Marshal Cecil.” Statement came out slow and painful. “Musta punched a hole in my large gut. Cain’t stop this infernal bleedin’. Hurts like Hell’s own fire.”
Carl leaned over and pitched Cotton’s blood-caked hand cannons aside. Said, “Well, you shoulda stopped when I yelled out to you. Instead, you started runnin’ and shootin’. Great way to get killed, far as I can see. We’ve known each other for years, you skinny son of a bitch. Didn’t you recognize me?”
Rix moaned. Turned his head away in pain, then said, “Course I knew who you wuz. Knew why you wuz after me, too. Always heard you wuz a dangerous man, Marshal Cecil. Never believed a peckerwood-sized little pissant like you’d be the d
eath of me, though.”
I tapped Carl on the shoulder. “Get to the point. I don’t want him dying on us before we can find out what we need to know.”
My partner squatted so Rix didn’t have to strain to see him. “Where’s the Doome brothers, Maynard Dawson, and Charlie Storms, Cotton? We want ’em real bad.”
Rix squirmed like we’d somehow staked him to an anthill. “You know how they is, Carl. Them ole boys will kill me deader’n John Wilkes Booth if I tell you that.”
Nate shook his head and snorted, “You’re probably gonna die anyway, ole son. Best get right with God ’fore you step over the line.”
The wounded outlaw’s eyes closed for a second. Popped open again when he said, “You boys got any whiskey?”
“I’ll send Nate for some soon as you answer Hayden’s questions,” Carl said.
“You lawdogs won’t even give a dyin’ man a drink?”
Tried to sound calm when I offered him a deal. “Tell us where Storms and the Doome boys are, and I promise you can have all the whiskey a man can swill down.”
“Liquor first, or nothin’, Marshal. Ain’t got much time left to bargain with you.” Rix appeared to collapse inward. His eyes snapped shut. I thought, for certain sure, he’d passed.
Carlton pressed a finger against the bloody man’s neck, then smiled. “He’s still alive, Hayden. Satan ain’t got ’im yet, but the flames of Hell are sure ticklin’ his toes.”
I turned to Nate. “Go get a bottle. And hurry. He’s not long for this world, from the look of him.”
“I’ll hoof it over to the Red Light. Shouldn’t take more’n two minutes.”
Swords hustled away. Cotton’s eyes flipped open again at the sound of boots clomping down the stairs. “Goin’ after my whiskey, is he? Better be, or you boys ain’t never gonna get a helpful word out of me.”
Carlton jerked the cover off a feather pillow and ripped a towel-sized piece of cloth from it. He dabbed at the open wound, then pressed Rix’s bloody hand over the crude bandage.
“Hang on, Cotton,” he said. “Won’t take him but a few minutes. Have exactly what you want—real soon.”
Nate made it back faster than I had any right to expect. Boy took the stairs two at a time, and breathlessly passed the Kentucky sour mash over. I wrapped Rix’s obstinate fingers around the amber-colored bottle.
“No glass?” he mumbled. Badly wounded man coughed a gore-soaked laugh out when we all went to rummaging around the room for anything resembling a beaker or a cup. Stream of blood dribbled onto his chin.
“Only kiddin’. Just help me get the bottle up to my mouth. Cain’t seem to lift ’er.”
Carl helped pour the liquid onto the gut-shot killer’s eager lips. Kept it flowing while Rix smacked and slobbered like a kid eating fresh-baked apple pie.
“Damn, that’s good,” he gasped when Carl backed off. “Things I’m gonna miss most, when I pass, are women and whiskey. Had an unquenchable yen for both since the age of eleven.” He lapsed off again and appeared to have fainted.
I pinched a sleeve and shook his arm till he came around. “You got what you wanted, Cotton. Now tell me where the others are.”
Thought maybe he’d backslide on me. Buck up and tell us all to go to Hell or something. Given that he’d most likely taken part in the murders himself, such behavior wouldn’t have come as any surprise. But luckily, I grossly misjudged the man.
“Cabin. Follow the Jacksboro Road. ’Bout two miles out. Near the West Fork of the Trinity. Cain’t miss it.”
Tried to reassure him when I said, “You did the right thing.”
But, true to his outlaw code, he dismissed me with: “Please don’t tell my pards I done went and give ’em up for a bottle of cheap panther sweat.”
Think it surprised all of us some that he turned loose of the information so easily. But his unexpected deed simply went to prove that even thieves and killers can be good for their word, especially if God has an ironclad grip around their hearts and the imps of Hell are rapidly coming into sharp focus.
His blood-scabbed head drooped to one side and clear blue eyes went glassy. Not sure he heard it, but I said, “Wouldn’t worry myself, Cotton. If I have my way, they’ll all be joining you in the fiery pit soon as we can send ’em that direction.”
Carl checked him a final time and shook his head. “He’s gone.”
Physically drained and mute, we stood and stared blankly at the corpse. ’Bout then, Marshal Farmer and Deputy Blodgett fogged up the stairs with guns drawn like they intended on saving us from a surefire trip to an early grave.
Under his breath, I heard Carlton mutter, “God Almighty, but there ain’t nothin’ deadlier’n heavily armed men that are so scared they just might shoot each other, or me, by accident.” The disgust in his voice came out thick as Red River mud.
Took a bit of doing, but we finally got Fort Worth’s brave constabulary calmed down. Managed to move the whole party about halfway down the stairs. Thought all the shouting and turmoil had run its course. Then, Lottie Belmont, lady who owned the place, showed up and the real screaming started.
Sturdy woman stood at the foot of her glass- and splinter-littered staircase and wailed like a calf in a south Texas hailstorm. Language that came out of her mouth was enough to make a sailor, who’d been around the Horn ten times, blush.
“Damnation,” she screamed at the top of her right sizable lungs. “Look what you crazy sons of bitches did to my beautiful house.” She pulled at her short-cropped black hair like someone in torment. “Shot the dog shit out of it’s what you’ve gone and done. How am I ever gonna recover damages on this mess? My God, did you leave anything made of glass in one solid piece? Is there even a single wall you didn’t put a bullet hole in? This’ll upset the hell out of my girls, Sam.”
Farmer tried to shush the moose-sized madam, but she wasn’t having any of it. Didn’t help his cause much when he blurted out, “Well, Lottie, whatever you do, now, don’t go upstairs till we can get the coroner in for a look-see, and then clean the blood and mess up a bit for you.”
Color bubbled up the woman’s thick neck as she swept Farmer aside like a nuisance fly and lumbered her way to a wailing view of the shot-to-pieces second floor. Harried marshal threw up his hands in resignation and slumped along in the beefy madam’s wake. Yelping and bawling sounded like the tortures of the damned. Of a sudden, everything got quiet for about five seconds. Nate, Carlton, and I’d taken up spots near the front door, by then, and I always figured that brief lull in the storm was when Lottie came on Cotton Rix’s bled-out corpse.
Motioned my two friends outside and left Farmer to deal with the unhappy madam, the best way he could. We’d barely made the front gate when the shrieking started anew. Could still hear her yelling from across the street at the Red Light. We pushed our way through a boardwalk crowd of the inebriated, inquisitive, and stupid to the crowded bar, and ordered up a double shot of spider killer each.
Took our tumblers of scamper juice and headed for a corner table near the front window. Sat and put our heads together. Carl got right in my face and whispered, “Gonna let Farmer know what Rix told us?”
“No. What we’re gonna do is finish our drinks and vacate this place as quietly as we can. We’ll go back to the hotel. Make sure we’re loaded for bear, have plenty of ammunition and food, and then we’ll head out the Jacksboro Road as inconspicuously as possible.”
Nate downed his beaker of fiery liquid and brought the heavy glass back to the table with a resounding thump. Wiped his mouth on his sleeve and said, “Sounds good to me. Let’s go gather ’em up.”
Carlton grabbed Nate by the sleeve. “Ain’t gonna be no gatherin’ to it, son. Once we find this bunch, their time on the earth is over. No matter what happens. Even if the whole vicious bunch throws up their hands and begs for mercy, ain’t none of ’em coming back to civilization alive. Get my drift?”
The boy turned to me. “Not a problem, far as I’m concerned. But I want t
o make sure we’re all singing from the same page of the hymnal. That how we’re gonna work it, Hayden?”
Hit him with an icy stare. “I have no intention of trying to make it all the way back to Fort Smith with such killers in tow. Near as I can guesstimate, here, and in the Nations, they’ve murdered almost a dozen people. Half of those unfortunates were women ripped from this life in horrific ways. Carlton’s got his saddle on the right horse. We’ll find ’em and kill ’em. Kill ’em all.”
Couldn’t remember a time in my past when I actually looked forward to personally sending a man on his way to whatever awaited in the next world. But Dawson, the Doome brothers, and Charlie Storms lived the lives of men devoid of any feeling or earthly worth, near as I could tell.
The note for Sam Crazy Snake, Hamish Armstrong, Billy Bird, and all those others who’d died in the Dawson gang’s gory wake, was past due. I intended on being the man who collected that heart-rending debt. Only currency I felt obligated to accept involved a heavy-duty rendering in blood.
And while there have always been those who would like you to believe that revenge is a sentiment best approached from the coldness of reason, don’t believe it. Simply isn’t anything more satisfying, in this life, than personally being responsible for sending a heartless murderer on his way to final judgment, and doing it while madder than fiery Hell set loose on earth.
16
“. . . ROUGH HIDEAWAY ERUPTED IN A THUNDEROUS EXPLOSION.”
WE STOPPED AT Hindershot’s Hardware and Farm Implements on our way out of town. Purchased eighteen sticks of dynamite, and all the rifle and shotgun shells we could carry on three horses. Made the feller behind Hindershot’s counter right happy.
Headed up the Jacksboro Road exactly the way Cotton told us to go. Turned for the Trinity, two miles out. Split up, spread out, and spent three days searching the heavily wooded bottomlands and bluffs for anything that looked remotely like a cabin.
Got discouraged, and had almost arrived at the point of abandoning the hunt. Nate figured as how ole Cotton might have died like a yellow dog with a blatant falsehood on his lips.