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

by J. Lee Butts

  Know now my words must have sounded harsh, but as I pushed open the little gate in the counter and stepped into the private area to keep our prisoners covered, I snapped, "Best understand right now, I don't make idle threats, Rip. Boz knows that better than anyone in Texas. You'll notice he didn't even flinch when I popped that chucklehead. Dumb bastard forfeited his life soon as he pointed his pistol my direction and cocked it."

  Rip pushed past me, and toed at the dead man's crumpled corpse. "Christ, you damn near blew this ole boy in half."

  Took a few minutes before a formally dressed gent showed up. He pushed his way through a small knot of town folk who stood in the street and whispered behind their hands.

  The gaunt gentleman strode to the back of the bank. Hesitantly moved toward the dead outlaw and, in an odd disembodied voice, said, "My name is Gibbs Melton, Rangers. Town barber, dentist, and leader of the local religious community. I usually take care of the dead, when necessary."

  Boz shook the man's extended hand, but looked a mite uncomfortable. "You got a doctor around these parts, Mr. Melton? Your marshal is still alive. Shot through and through, but perhaps savable." He pointed at my bloody handiwork and added, "This poor bastard here's deader'n Santa Anna. Marshal Tuttle might benefit a good deal more from your attention."

  Lone Pine's barber/undertaker/soul-saver glanced over his shoulder toward the fractured door. "We've already moved Frank to the jail. Several of the town's concerned ladies are attending his wounds as we speak. Not really much we can do, except try to stop the bleeding and hope for the best. He's strong as an ox. We'll all beseech the Lord for his life."

  Rip said, "May take considerable prayin' for the Lord to repair holes the size of them two, Reverend Melton. I like Frank as much as anyone, but he'd lost a bucket of blood by the time we got here."

  "The Lord sees over of those who deserve it, sir. I'm sure there's plenty of room in the grand scheme of things to insure Marshal Tuttle's survival. In the meantime, this poor wretch needs to be placed in a coffin for burial. Hot as it is today, he'll ripen up in a matter of hours. Some of my congregation will attend to the cleansing of blood and innards from the wall and floor. Smell from such a mess tends to get rank pretty quick." He turned on his booted heel and glided away from us like a ghost.

  Boz muttered, "You ever seen anything like him, Lucius? I've known more'n my share of undertakers and funeral directors. But by God, that 'un's the creepiest man I've ever met. Makes my skin pimple and crawl like a plucked chicken's. Should anything wayward happen while we're here, don't let him touch me. Jesus, get a case of the icy shivers just thinking 'bout it."

  4

  ". . . ARMED TO THE TEETH,

  AND LOOKIN' MEANER'N HELL"

  MARSHAL TUTTLE DIDN'T spend much time suffering in his jail. One of the ladies nursing the wounded lawman offered her bed in what we thought a right kindly gesture. Later, we discovered she and the marshal had recently struck up a close personal relationship that seemed to meet with the approval of everyone who attended their church.

  Me, Boz, and Rip moved all our traps into Tuttle's newly abandoned lockup. Toefield raised holy hell when we tried to put him in with our surviving would-be bank robbers.

  "I ain't no run-of-the-mill, sorry-assed criminal. I'm a murderer. Kilt four men on the same night. It ain't right to wedge a man of my lofty importance in with scruffy rabble like these bastards."

  Rip leaned on the cell door and laughed. "You mean to tell me you're offended by the company of bank robbers?"

  "These shit heels didn't rob no bank. Tried, but didn't succeed. They ain't no better'n watermelon-stealin' kids, far as I'm concerned. I'm a real honest-to-God man-killer, and should have my own cell. You got three empty, 'cept that'n with the checked guns in it. Ain't no point puttin' us in the one."

  Hard to believe, but he sounded almost reasonable. Boz nodded his approval. Me and Rip took all the checked smoke wagons out of the barred compartment farthest from the door of the office and stacked them behind the marshal's desk. Wanted all that firepower as far away from the prisoners as possible. Moving the weapons left an empty cell between Toefield and the failed thieves. Appeared those boys were as glad to get rid of him as he was to leave.

  Rip said, "Feisty little murderer's mighty pleased about having his own spot. Settlin' down like he's just moved into a house that rivals the palace where them kings and queens of England live."

  Once we'd staked out our own individual spots, Boz had me bring those boys in one at a time for questioning. Seated the first feller in front of the marshal's desk and went at him pretty hot and heavy.

  Boz got the first question. "What's your name, mister?"

  Man looked a bit reluctant to turn loose of any information for a second or so. Rip punched him on the shoulder and said, "Ranger Tatum asked you a question. Cough it up, boy. What's your name?"

  Prisoner hung his head and mumbled, "Orvis Tate."

  Boz snickered. "Well I'll just be damned. Tell me, Orvis. How'd a west Texas badman like you get all the way over here in the Redlands? Perhaps more important than that, why are you here? I can't imagine why you rode all the way from El Paso just to rob a two-bit bank in Lone Pine."

  "You heard of this feller, Boz?" I asked.

  "Yeah, heard a story or two about him. Hard to believe the dung heap in front of me is the same killer and thief, though."

  Tate looked like Boz'd hurt his feelings. "Ain't no call to be insulting, Ranger."

  Rip almost fell off the edge of the desk laughing. Recovered himself and snapped, "What the hell would you know about being insulted? You're under arrest for attempted bank robbery and murder of a town marshal. That last charge could very well turn into real murder if Tuttle dies. Then you're a dead man for sure. The good folks of Lone Pine will put you on trial. Hang you the next day. And you're sittin' here all insulted. Christ Almighty, what's the world comin' to?"

  Boz crossed his arms and rested them on top of the desk. "Let's try again. Make it easy this time, Orvis. Why are you here?"

  Tate shook his head like a tired dog. "Been down on our luck for a spell. Heard tell a couple of rich ranchers up in Iron Bluff was hirin' guns. Being as we was gettin' pretty hard up, me'n Harold McCormick decided we'd ride over this way. See if 'n we could get some work."

  Boz perked up again. "The dead man was Harold McCormick?"

  "Yessir. That he was."

  My partner shot me a concerned look and said, "Well, I did have some reservations about you cuttin' down on that ole boy when you did it, Lucius. But if he really was McCormick, you probably did all three of us a favor by blasting him when you did. Between the two of 'em, Mr. Tate here ain't nowhere near the badman his friend was."

  Rip grinned and said, "Be careful, Boz. You're gettin' insultin' again."

  "Who'd you expect to hire on with, Orvis?" I asked.

  "Didn't matter to us. We usually go with whoever pays the most. Friend of mine, name of Alvin Clements, rides for Romulus Pitt. But I didn't care one way or t'other. Just needed some coin comin' my way."

  Boz kicked back in his chair, ran sweaty fingers through his hair, and moaned. "Just keeps gettin' worse. Alvin Clements is a real bloodcurdling story from down near Cuero. Got started on the owlhoot trail by killing his parents and grandparents the same day. Been murderin' folks by the wagon load ever since."

  Rip said, "You keep some pretty sorry company, Orvis. Kind of men who can get you killed, or hung, real easy. But I suppose you already knew that."

  "Either of the families, Tingwell or Pitt, aware you were on the way?" I asked.

  "Both of 'em. Planned on somethin' like a biddin' war for our services when we arrived. Just stopped here long enough to get a little travelin' money. Way our luck's been runnin', though, don't surprise me much that you bastards interrupted a perfectly good bank robbery, and kilt poor Harold. Figure a hangin' has to be the next stop in my cow-shit future."

  Boz motioned for me to take our prisoner back to his cell
. As Tate stood, my friend said, "You're real close, Orvis. Tuttle passes on to the Great Beyond and you'll swing sure as Pontius Pilate's stoking fires in the bowels of hell."

  We brought Tate's only living running buddy, Gaston Perkins, out and talked with him as well. But he didn't have much to add to the tale we'd already heard.

  Spent the last few hours before dark visiting with citizens, shopkeepers, bartenders, and such. Asked a few inoffensive questions, but decided to wait a day or so before really bearing down on anyone. Me and Boz figured it might be a good idea to kind of ingratiate ourselves with the locals before saying anything that might turn them against us.

  Found a right nice café in the six-room Excelsior Hotel. Place named Mae's. Spirited Irish lady, Molly Mae Mitchell, ran it. Woman could do wonders with a piece of beefsteak. For reasons beyond my understanding, she took an instant liking to Boz. Actually more than a liking. Woman was at least fifteen years younger than my partner, a damn sight better-looking, and still had the freckle-faced appearance of a girl. Hard not to notice how she rubbed up against ole Boz when serving our food, or how the brown-eyed lady couldn't seem to get enough of his company anytime she came to our table.

  Even Rip spotted it. "Think she's yours for the takin', Boz. Woman can barely keep herself under control. Yes, indeedy. Miss Molly Mae's about as antsy as it gets. Way I hear it, her dearly de-parted husband has been de-parted for more'n a year now. You don't watch yourself, old friend, she's gonna land in your pants like a pair of store-bought drawers."

  Boz acted embarrassed, and shamed, all to hell and gone. Found out a few days later, he'd been sneaking over to visit with the affectionate lady anytime he could steal a few minutes away from us.

  Townsfolk warmed up right quick like. Tuttle managed to stay alive, but didn't look to be good for much of anything for at least six months or so. Citizens appeared mighty thankful a jailhouse full of heavily armed Rangers had presented themselves. Guess they felt safer having us around. That is, till the day Romulus Pitt showed up.

  We'd barely got breakfast to the prisoners and fed ourselves when Rip said, "You hear that? Horses comin'. Lots of 'em."

  Ominous rumble from north of town thundered our direction; then rolled up and rattled the front door like some monstrous, growling animal.

  Must have been a dozen horsed men milling around for a minute or so before we heard someone yell, "You Rangers get out here. We've got palavering to do." Considerable belligerence couched in those instructions.

  Rip stayed inside with his shotgun at the ready. Me and Boz armed ourselves with everything we had. By the time we hit the boardwalk, I was carrying damned near anything that'd shoot, stab, or beat the hell out of anyone or anything as the situation presented itself.

  All those horses had finally calmed a bit, and most of the nervous movement stopped. Boz eased up to the edge of the walk not more than two or three steps from our pack of visitors. I signaled Rip of my intentions, then crawfished to a spot where I could get a better view of what appeared destined to cook up into an extremely volatile situation. Way we'd spread out, at least one of us could see damn near whatever those riders might try.

  Boz surveyed the testy-looking crew and said, "Well, we're here. You gonna say something or just sit on your lathered-up animals and sweat?"

  Man who appeared about the way you'd figure God must look on a good day snatched his slouch hat off. He wiped the saturated band, and his flowing mane of white hair, with a bandanna the size of a pillow slip. Didn't look at us at first. Stared at the inside of the well-used head cover while he talked.

  "Name's Romulus Pitt, gents. All these men ride for me. Hear tell you strolled into town and, in a matter of minutes, managed to save the bank, Marshal Tuttle, and several mistreated citizens. Mighty fine day's work."

  Boz said, "We do appreciate the compliment, sir. Feel it's our job to help out when we can."

  "Did you know those boys you've got in your lockup work for me?"

  "Not according to Orvis Tate. He says they'd not decided on an employer. Wanted to test the waters and see who'd come up with the most money." Boz looked pleased when the old man glanced up and glared back at him.

  Just to remind the belligerent bunch my partner wasn't alone, I said, "They're gonna be employed by the state of Texas after their trials. Be breaking rocks down at the state penitentiary for a spell, I imagine."

  Pitt slapped the battered hat back on his head. "Also hear tell you've been asking discreet questions about me and my family." Old bastard sneered like he'd just sucked on a less-than-ripe persimmon.

  "Could be," Boz said.

  "Well, I rode over from Iron Bluff this morning to tell you that me and my sons, here on either side of me, don't appreciate it one damned bit. We want it stopped."

  Not much difficulty telling which of the Pitt bunch his sons were. They looked like younger versions of the old man. Almost like twins. Except that one of them was blond and clean-shaven—the other just a bit darker and sporting a handlebar mustache. Figured the dark one was Eli. He appeared a little older and had a meaner look around the eyes.

  Saw Boz's upper lip peel back from his teeth like a dog about to take a plug out of an offensive hand near his food. He snarled, "Well, sir, I don't personally give a good goddamn what you want. We're Texas Rangers on the business of the state and will ask whatever questions, seek out anyone we decide to speak with, go where we want, and do anything necessary to get the information we require. Far as me and my partners are concerned, you Pitts can take your wants and go straight to hell with them."

  Romulus Pitt was obviously not accustomed to having anyone speak to him in such a manner. In spite of the morning heat, you could see the color rise from the collar of his shirt. Thought his ears would burst into flame right before my very eyes. Same reaction was duplicated on the faces of the whelps at his side.

  Got to admit, though, he kept himself under control as he turned in the saddle and said, "Perhaps you should meet one of my men, Ranger." He motioned to someone behind him I couldn't see. A man, dressed in black from head to foot, urged a long-legged stallion the same color to a spot between Pitt and one of his sons. He reined up, leaned forward on his saddle horn, and put on quite a display of arrogant insolence. Pistoleer packed a pair of bone-handled Colts mounted high on his waist and backward in the Hickok style.

  Pitt made an offhanded motion toward his gunman and snapped, "This here's Nick Fox. You might've heard of him."

  Boz turned slightly sideways to the group and leveled his shotgun on Pitt. Appeared to me, if he dropped a hammer on the man, he'd get Fox too. Already had mine on the dark-haired son, and some of his cohorts on the old man's right side. Figured Rip had those on the left all measured up for a coffin as well.

  Fox straightened when he saw Boz's move. Barrels of that coach gun must have looked as big a pair of Mexican sombreros. He said, "Me'n Boz have already met, Mr. Pitt." It came out kind of strangled. Like he had a cockle-bur stuck in his craw. "How you doin' these days, Boz?"

  "Just fine, Nick. Been killing any children lately? Had an opportunity to run down any old ladies in the streets this morning?"

  Angry frown creased the gunman's forehead. He snorted, "Careful, Boz. You're right on the edge of stepping in places I don't let most men go."

  Got to admit, when it came to a face-down, Ranger Boz Tatum was a man you wanted on your side. Completely fearless. He didn't even hesitate when he came back all friendly like with, "Well, Nick my boy, wouldn't want to stay on the wrong side of a treacherous edge. Think I'll just jump over with both feet. Have you told your employer here how such a dangerous reputation has managed to attach itself to your evil hide?"

  Man in black snarled, "Done told you, Tatum, you're steppin' onto treacherous ground."

  Boz thumbed the hammers on the shotgun. Even those in back of the Pitt party came to attention when they snapped. He kept talking like he hadn't heard a word Fox said. "Mr.Pitt, you might be interested in this tale. 'Bout six
years ago, your employee here started his life of crime by attempting to rob a bank in the south Texas town of Agua Caliente. Had about the same amount of luck as them boys we jailed yesterday. Got no money, but ran a poor woman down in the street when he attempted to get away. Killed her. Spent three years in prison for involuntary manslaughter."

  Fox's right hand moved, ever so slightly, toward his pistol. Boz said, "You touch that gun, Nick, and you'll force me to send for Mr.Melton, the town undertaker. He'll have to dig graves for you and two or three others on either side of you." Fox looked flustered, and slowly placed the hand back on his saddle horn.

  Boz brightened up and continued his tale almost like he was telling a favorite joke. "Well, ever since Agua Caliente, Nick's gone and killed more'n a dozen people. At least that's the widely held belief. Law hasn't been able to definitely prove any of them—yet. Truth is, Mr. Pitt, your man's something of a sneak. Personally don't believe he's got nerve enough to do any killing in the light, and facing his intended victim. So if you came here this morning on a mission designed to intimidate the Texas Rangers with a back-shooting weasel, you'd best give your tactics a little more thought."

  Ole Man Pitt looked downright chastised for about a second. Then he roared, "You bastards do as you wish here in Lone Pine, but stay away from Iron Bluff. You come to my town and there'll be hell to pay. And I'll be the one collecting."

  He started to back his horse away. As he did, Boz shouted, "We come and go as we please, Mr. Pitt. Inform your town marshal he can expect a visit no later than day after tomorrow. We're here to prevent what looks like coming warfare. Believe me when I tell you, sir, we'll do whatever it takes."

  The blond kid stood in his stirrups and hocked a nasty gob of spittle at Boz. Big wad of stuff landed on the step just below Boz's feet. Then all three of the Pitts twirled their mounts in tight circles and galloped back the way they'd come. Rest of the gang followed. All but Fox. He made a show of slowly backing his tall black horse away in a kind of gunman's retreat. Soon as he turned the animal and kicked for Iron Bluff, Boz blew out a long-winded sigh and eased the hammers down of his shotgun. Slumped at the shoulders like he'd been chopping wood all day.