Bad Blood: Lucius Dodge and the Redlands War (Lucius Dodge Westerns Book 2)

by J. Lee Butts

  Boz faked a painful wince, then pointed at our captive. "Jackass ridin' the mule is a prisoner in transit to Fort Worth. Name's Toefield. Don't let him get started complaining. Man has the power to melt your ears with all his bellyaching and whining. Sheriff in San Augustine done went and lost both of his 'cause of Toefield."

  Thorn grinned. "You can put a stop to such as that with a rifle barrel. Seen you do it before."

  "He's already applied the rifle barrel remedy," I said. "Toefield hasn't uttered a word since we left San Augustine. Been right peaceful."

  An arm the size of a tree trunk swept around Boz's shoulders. "Hell, you ain't changed a bit, old friend. Shackle that piece of scum to the iron ring hanging out of that oak over yonder, Boz, and come on inside. We'll uncork a bottle. Talk about old times. Figure out why you've turned up in my tiny-assed corner of Texas heaven."

  The inside of Thorn's house appeared as neatly kept as the outside. Might not have been a woman about, but you couldn't tell it from the clean, and carefully arranged, interior of the rough log building.

  Our host seated us at a store-bought table, brought out a jug of locally cooked corn squeezings, poured each of us a large tin cup, and surprised me when he took one out to Toefield. Laughed when he came back and said our chastised prisoner almost cried over his display of kindness.

  Took the two old amigos about half an hour to relive their Rangering days. They told hair-raising tales of fighting Comanches, and stories of bad men, bad women, and bad places. Laughed heartily at good times gone, and almost wept at the mention of close friends killed in the line of duty.

  Eventually, the conversation got around to the question I knew had nibbled at the edges of Thorn's mind since the second he recognized Boz in front of his home. "What's up, boys? Don't get many visitors out this way. Figure you must have something other than good times gone, dead compadres, and discussin' the merits of the foggy past in mind."

  Boz went through all the reasons we'd made our trip, including the possible disappearance of Captain Culpepper's niece. Then added, "Figured you likely had as much, or more, knowledge of the Tingwell-Pitt situation in Iron Bluff as anyone in these parts, and just might be bored enough of putterin' around this place to come along with us. Three men are always better'n two, no matter how you slice it. And when I'm about to step in a cow pie the size of this one, I want men I can trust beside me."

  "Well, I ain't so sure of that'n, Boz. Hell, if I had a partner what carried as many pistols as young Lucius Dodge here, don't think I'd be afraid of anything. How many of them '73 Colt poppers you got, son? Counted three on your person so far, plus that meat cleaver of a bowie."

  "One on each hip. One behind. Carry four black-powder Dragoons in the pommel holsters on Grizz. Plus a Winchester model '76 and a twelve-gauge coach gun. Got a little boot knife down here, and a four-shot derringer in my shirt pocket. That's all."

  "That's all, huh? Should be enough for just about any kind of skirmish in these parts, and you're very likely gonna need the whole pile of 'em. Jesus, I feel for your poor horse. Hellacious load of iron he's carrying."

  "Don't worry yourself, Rip. My blue roan is more than up to the task."

  Things got quiet for a spell. Thorn caressed his flowing beard and looked thoughtful. "The Tingwells and Pitts are moving closer to all-out war with every day that passes, Boz. Friend of mine lives in Lone Pine. I get a report from him almost every week. He's plenty worried. Last missive I received mentioned a possible move to some other part of the state. Think his exact words were 'somewhere a long ways from here.' Not sure where he'd go, but I wouldn't be surprised to discover he'd already skedaddled."

  I leaned into the conversation and asked, "What's he so afraid of, Rip?"

  "Well, in the beginning, it was only the kids that were scrapping around. You know, school fights and such. Then a couple of 'em got dead. After Albert Pitt unexpectedly and mournfully drowned, his pappy, Romulus, went out and hired a McLennan County gunfighter name of Nick Fox. I heard Bull Tingwell almost had a stroke when he found out what Romulus did. So he scouted around and employed a murderous gunman from down Gonzales way."

  "Fox was bad enough. Who'd Tingwell hire?" Boz sounded like a man looking up from the bottom of his own grave.

  Thorn's gaze dropped to his empty cup. He scratched his head, sighed, and said, "You ain't gonna like this at all, Boz."

  "Damn, Rip. Go ahead. Gimme the whole badger—teeth, claws, hair, eyeballs, and all. I want the entire ugly beast. We've been friends for long enough that you know I hate to be teased like this."

  The big man blurted, "John Roman Hatch, Boz. Old Man Tingwell's got John Roman Hatch ridin' by his side. And both families have even gone so far as to take on four or five minor belligerent types for the coming fight. Way I've got it figured, one of these days, someone's gonna shuffle the cards, the joker will get turned up, and when it does the Angelina will instantly become the bloodiest river in the Redlands."

  Boz closed his eyes. "Sweet Jesus. This trip is rapidly turning into a nightmare. Reckon it'd be all right for us to wish we was somewhere else too. Anywheres else but the place we now find ourselves." He absentmindedly pulled one of his pistols and rolled the cylinder around with his thumb. I heard him barely breathe, "Sweet Jesus. John Roman Hatch."

  I moved even closer to Rip and whispered, "Tell me about Hatch. Who is he?"

  Thorn threw me a sheepish grin. "South Texas pistolero. Got his start killin' cattle thieves for some of the larger landholders down that way during the Yankee Reconstruction. Worked for them bastards in the state police for a spell too. Graduated to general murder of anyone what crossed his gore-soaked path, and other forms of bloody mayhem over the years. Not a man to be trifled with, Lucius."

  "Any way to recognize Hatch, should I run on him and neither of you boys is around?" I asked.

  Rip said, "Cain't miss him. Fancy dresser. Given to blood-red silk vests, black hats trimmed in silver. Favors them knee-high cavalry boots. Keeps 'em polished up like black bone. Likes them big ole Mexican spurs too. Rowels the size of ten-dollar gold pieces."

  Boz shook his head like a man amazed. "He once shot a feller in a Mexican cantina just for having one eye. Hatch said anyone that ugly didn't deserve to live. Course Nick Fox ain't no slouch in the killing business either."

  Rip pushed his chair back on two legs, sipped at the cup, then said, "I've heard tell he'll kill a feller just to see the look of surprise on the man's face as his limp body drops into the dust. Least them's the stories I've heard."

  Boz said, "Wonder if Wag knew about this. Can't believe the man would send us over here knowing what you just told me, Rip. Good God Almighty, a pair of killers like the ones you just mentioned, along with their cohorts, could be a handful for a whole company of Rangers."

  Thorn threw his head back and laughed. "Hell, Boz. You know the old sayin' well as I do. Don't need but one Ranger, no matter what the situation. Tribe of wild Indians killin' folks in obscene ways, send a Ranger. Riots in the streets, send a Ranger. Armies of gunfighters in Iron Bluff, send Ranger Randall Bozworth Tatum. He'll get the job done. Whatever you want, friends and neighbors. Ole Boz can do it. If Boz cain't, who in hell can?"

  I said, "Ain't there any law in Iron Bluff?"

  "Sure. They's town marshals in Iron Bluff and Lone Pine both. Lone Pine's got a damned good 'un. He keeps his tiny piece of heaven reined in pretty tight. Gunmen from both camps tend to stay away from Frank Tuttle's town. Rumors are Romulus Pitt owns the one in Iron Bluff. Couldn't testify to that myself, but I have my suspicions."

  "You gonna go with us, Rip?" Boz's question kinda brought Thorn up short.

  His huge paw enveloped the tin cup as he drained the fiery contents. Wiped a dripping chin and snapped, "Hell, yes, I'm goin' with you. Wouldn't miss this dance for a bucketful of newly minted gold coin. Be real interestin' to see how John Roman Hatch reacts when he realizes the Texas Rangers are after his worthless, murderin' hide. Real interestin'. Besid
es, you boys get kilt, who else besides me gonna burry you. Gonna have to go along just to make sure I don't have to dig two graves."

  "Good to hear it, old friend. Cap'n Culpepper sent papers and a badge for you just to take care of the legalities. Got 'em outside in my pouch."

  Two days later, the four of us moseyed along the wagon road about half a mile from Lone Pine. Trees grew right up to the edge of the rutted path. In some places limbs, heavy with leaves and badly in need of water, drooped almost to the ground under the weight of rapidly browning greenery. Made seeing more than a hundred yards ahead almost impossible.

  Our mule, and one of Rip's, plodded behind. Toefield couldn't have been happier. A kindhearted Ripley Thorn had provided the murdering slug with his own horse to ride. Suppose a couple of raps on the noggin, and a compliant animal, settled pretty much all his problems on this earth, 'cause we didn't hear another word of complaint out of the man. He got so quiet for a spell, set me to thinking Boz might have hit him a little harder than I thought. Maybe knocked something loose in his thinker box. Boz loved the peace and quiet.

  We'd stopped in the middle of the road for a quick drag on our canteens when this towheaded kid, who looked about twelve or thirteen years old, ran up and squeaked, "Don't go into town, fellers. Some bad fellers just shot Marshal Tuttle in front of the bank. Poor man's a-layin' on the boardwalk, all bloody and dying. Them killers is inside the bank now robbin' hell out of everyone." Tried to stop him, but he'd heeled it for the safety of the sheltering woods before I could open my mouth.

  Boz didn't waste any time deciding what to do. "Rip, you stay here with Toefield and the animals. Me and Lucius will see to this."

  Thorn pulled his pistol and said, "Damned if you're leaving me behind with a pair of mules and a shackled killer. I'm a-going along. Kid said they's bad fellers done the killin'. Sounds like more'n one to me. You might need my help. Besides, done told you I want to be in on the whole shooting match. Only way to make sure you boys stay alive."

  Boz blinked about twice and redirected his attention at Toefield. "Remember what I said to you in San Augustine about doing a rabbit on me?"

  Toefield scrunched down in the saddle like he'd been slapped across the mouth. "Yessir. Ain't about to forget anytime soon."

  "What'd I say?"

  "Said you'd kill the hell out of me."

  "Good answer, Jack. Gonna leave you here with the mules. Soon as we're out of sight, you follow us on into town. You run, and I'll keep my promise. Understand?"

  "Yessir. Be a-following right along with the mules, Mr. Tatum, suh."

  We put the spur to our animals and, in a few minutes, pulled up beside a sign on the edge of town. Carved into a rough pine plank mounted on a heavy post was LONE PINE-POP. 237. Third line read, LEAVE YOUR GUNS WITH THE MARSHAL.

  Whole community didn't amount to much more'n a wide spot in the road. Nothing but a church, saloon, bank, general store, small hotel, livery, barbershop, and not much else. Typical, back in them days, for a small town that'd probably be gone in a dozen years or less. All the buildings were arranged, hit and miss, on either side of the wagon road that split the village in half.

  Draped half on and half off the boardwalk, right in front of the bank's door, a nicely dressed gentleman oozed his life into the hard-packed red soil. Rip said, "That's Frank Tuttle all right. Probably the nattiest man in these parts. Looks pretty well played out from here."

  We could hear yelling behind the heavy glass that made up most of the entire front of the building. Other than Tut-tle's leaking body, the rest of the village's only thoroughfare appeared deserted. Cautious citizens peeked from curtained windows opposite the action, but didn't appear willing to get drawn into whatever atrocity might be taking place in their bank.

  When I mentioned a decided lack of involvement by locals, Rip said, "Frank Tuttle had 'em under a pretty heavy thumb. Man didn't allow no guns in town. He posted signs about checking your firearms on damn near every flat surface you can see. Be willing to bet most of their weapons are locked in a cell down at the jail."

  We dismounted. Me and Boz pulled our shotguns and checked the loads. I fished more shells from my saddle pouch. Handed Boz about half a dozen, in case he needed them.

  Dropped the last round in our leader's hand just as Rip said, "How you boys wanna handle this mess?"

  Boz snapped his big popper shut. "I'll go round back. There's gotta be a door somewhere. You two wait out front till you hear me yellin'. Come in double quick. We get 'em going in more'n one direction at a time and, maybe, we can stop this with no bloodshed. If they decide to fight, try not to kill any civilians."

  Rip chuckled. "Yeah. Guess it wouldn't look very good to rub out a passel of natives our first day in town."

  "You really think this jumped-up plan is gonna work, Boz? At least one of 'em got smart enough to pull the shades. We don't have the slightest inkling where any of the thieving bastards are," I said.

  Tatum stared at me like I'd lost my mind. "It'll work, Lucius. Don't care how bad a man might think he is, you get him starin' at the wrong end of a shotgun and he'll start gettin' religion right quick. Just do as I do when we get inside. Bet they'll give it up in less than a minute. But if they start anything wayward, kill 'em."

  Still had my doubts. "Not sure 'bout this one, Boz. You know I'm the gamest puppy in the pit. So you lead on, big dog, but if any of these knot heads get to looking real stupid, or real serious, the nearest undertaker's gonna need a dustpan and a broom to pick them up."

  He threw me an understanding grin, and darted around the nearest corner. Rip and I did our best Comanche tiptoe over to the heavy, glass-paned front door and waited. Had to step over Marshal Tuttle's blood-soaked body. Reached down and turned him over. Man surprised both of us when he moaned.

  Rip pulled the wounded lawdog's suit coat aside, and lifted the edges of the shirt underneath. "Jesus, cain't believe he's still alive. Hole is mighty close to his heart. Looks like the slug missed any ribs, and came out his back. If this tough ole bird can hang on a bit longer, we just might be lookin' at a miracle, Lucius."

  Lowered shades kept those inside from seeing us sneak up and flatten out against the door. Rip tried the knob. Shook his head. Locked. Sweat pooled up like a deep-water lake under my arms and ran into the top of my pants. Pulled my bandanna and dabbed at a dripping forehead. Even had to wipe the stock of the shotgun to get it dried off. Sun bored through my hat like a carpenter's auger.

  About a minute after getting settled, we heard one hell of a wood-rending commotion and an uncommon amount of yelling. Rip hit the front door like a bull with a Roman candle up its ass. Big man knocked the heavy panel completely off the hinges. Oak splinters and glass shards flew around us like sweets from a busted piñata. For them folks inside, the scene must have looked like the door exploded.

  I went in, snugged up behind my human battering ram. Almost stumbled over a woman and two fellers stretched out on the floor. Deposit slips, sheets of writing paper, and all manner of other debris floated on the air we'd stirred up with our door-busting entrance. Before you could say, "Hands up," we'd thrown down on some of the most surprised bank robbers who ever lived.

  Boz couldn't have been any cooler than a skunk basking in December's icy moonlight. He had all three of those amateur stickup artists under the gun. They'd ganged up in front of the gold-accented safe, back behind a waist-high counter. From the looks of things, those poor stupid boys had spent most of their time since the robbery began trying to figure out how they might force the big beast open. Problem had proved an insurmountable mental exercise for the dim-witted bunch.

  Heard one of them mutter, "Good God, they's Rangers."

  Dumb son of a bitch who acted as their leader did have some monumental huevos on him, though. He looked us up and down, studied the open end of Boz's big blaster for a second or so, and snapped, "You Rangers throw them shotguns away, or I'll kill this banker man we done got down here on the floor, sure as chickens has f
eathers."

  Chuckle that sounded like a bear growling kinda rumbled up from somewhere way down in Rip Thorn's chest right before he snarled, "Go ahead. None of us know 'im. We's gonna shoot bloody hell out of you boys anyhow, just for the by-God fun of it."

  Place got real quiet. I could hear heavy breathing from the frightened patrons on their bellies behind me. My ears opened up bigger than the wheels on a chuck wagon. Bank clock ticked like someone beating on a metal washboard with a water dipper. Thieves got to sucking air so hard you'd a-thought they'd just run a footrace.

  Poor banker man on the floor moaned, "Oh, God, please don't kill me. Told you, I'm just a teller. The owner's in San Augustine. Won't be back till later this afternoon. He's the only one with the combination."

  Thief I had covered swung his pistol around from Boz, and zeroed in on me. When he cocked the damned thing, it sounded like someone rolled an anvil across the floor. Hard to believe the man did something so deadly stupid. Silly bastard couldn't have been ten feet away when I pulled the trigger and blasted him out of both boots. Concussion from the explosion deafened everyone in the building for about ten seconds. Fog bank of gun smoke rolled over the counter and made it right difficult to see too.

  Dead man's partners in crime got a serious case of instant heartfelt religion. The newly converted threw their pistols all the way across the room, and hollered, "Sweet Jesus," and, "Oh, my God, you kilt poor Harold," and, "He wouldna harmed a fly," and, "God Almighty, please don't be a-killin' us too."

  Citizens laid out on the floor hopped up and headed for the door. Woman hit the boardwalk first. She went to screaming like a sawmill whistle at lunch. Kept the screeching up all the way across the street, and into the sheltering arms of concerned folks hiding in the local mercantile.

  Boz hopped over the counter, grabbed the thieving idiots still standing, and pushed them up against the wall. He slapped all over both men looking for more weapons, but didn't find a one.

  Rip glanced at me like I'd just appeared out of thin air. "By God, Dodge, thought you was just yammerin' outside when you said what you did. Hell, I was a-trying to skeer these ole boys a bit. Figured we could talk 'em into givin' up. Didn't have any real intention of shootin' anyone."