by J. Lee Butts
He forced a sheepish grin and muttered, "Damn, that was close."
Rip jerked the jail door open and said, "I thought you said that Fox feller was a bad 'un."
Boz fell into one of the chairs on the boardwalk. "He is. Real bad. Just as bad as his reputation. But I'd bet my next month's pay, most of them he's killed died in the dark and had holes in their backs. Sometimes if you challenge a killer like Fox with the truth, it rattles him right down to the ground. Merely took a chance, Rip. Seems to have worked."
I flopped into the battered seat beside Boz. Stretched my legs out and rolled a smoke. Not a sound from the town. No dogs barking, no chickens clucking, no kids running around, nothing.
I said, "Damn, it's quiet. Almost like we're the only living souls within a hundred miles, ain't it?"
Boz glanced from one end of the street to the other. "Folks are scared. They realize we've stirred up a hornet's nest and are afraid they might get stung. Bet it's gonna be hard to pry anything useful out of them from now on. Wish we'd asked a few questions about Wag's niece before Pitt and his gang of cutthroats blew into town. Just didn't think of it."
I wanted to make him feel a little better. "Forgot to tell you 'bout it, but yesterday at the café I talked with a lady named Neeva Skaggs who remembered the day Ruby Black passed through town. She told me the girl got off the westbound stage when it stopped so passengers could have a bite to eat at Mae's place."
"Mae Mitchell saw Ruby?"
"Must have. Mrs. Skaggs said the girl was there for at least an hour. If she's as much a looker as Wag claimed, I don't see how Mae could have missed her."
We left Rip with the prisoners and hoofed it over to the Excelsior as quick as we could. Desk clerk was the only person I saw in the hotel lobby. No customers at all in Mae's place. Followed Boz as he strolled through the dining room and into the kitchen. Cookstove compounded the already stifling heat in the place. Smell of baking pies wafted up and tickled my nose with cinnamon, sugar, and bubbling apples. Mrs. Mitchell sat at a table near the only window in the room. I couldn't spot a drop of sweat on the lady. Amazing.
Boz removed his hat and said, "Mornin', Mrs. Mitchell. Could we have a word with you?"
The smile that greeted us began to fade as she realized Boz's unexpected appearance didn't involve a social call. She said, "Of course you can, Ranger Tatum." I felt certain her forced reserve was for my benefit.
Boz glanced through the window and said, "How 'bout we go outside and sit on your bench there in the shade. Might not be much cooler, but it's hotter'n hell's front doorknob in here."
He escorted Mrs. Mitchell to the coarse brush arbor some sixty feet behind the hotel. She seated herself on a crude loveseat. Primly smoothed her apron-covered dress with both hands, and waited. Shriveling leaves from distressed vines covered the unpainted latticework overhead.
Thought Boz would sit next to his new lady friend, but he didn't. We stood with our hats in our hands as he said, "Want you to cast your memory back a spell, ma'am. More'n a month ago. Young lady named Ruby Black got off the westbound stage and had a meal in your café. Well-dressed, in her early twenties, reddest hair you've probably ever seen. Blue eyes. A real clock-stopper that every man around would have noticed. Hope you can recall her."
Lady brightened up immediately. "Of course I remember her. A real beauty. Not just physically either. Most pleasant young woman I've had in my place in a long while. Gracious and extremely well-mannered."
"Did she say anything unusual you might bring to mind?" I asked.
"No, nothing unusual." She stopped, lapsed into thought for a second, and said, "But I did find her choice of male company a bit odd."
Boz perked up. "What do you mean by odd, Mae?"
"Well, she came in on the arm of Morgan Tingwell. Not what I'd call the most desirable of escorts for a young woman of her obvious quality. If I remember correctly, they weren't what you'd call an item, but had simply kept company on the same stage all the way from New Orleans."
I jumped at that one. "Did Tingwell say or do anything you remember?"
Mrs. Mitchell scratched her head and looked pensive for a moment before she answered. "Young man didn't talk much. He appeared absolutely smitten with the girl, though. Couldn't take his eyes off her. Overly protective, I thought. Morgan got testy when other men made it a point to stop at their table to supposedly speak with him, but smiled and tipped their hats to the girl. His behavior made patrons sitting near them a bit uncomfortable. I recall that Neeva Skaggs and her husband got so uneasy they left before finishing their meal. Not like Otto Skaggs at all."
"Did you notice any tension between the young couple, other than the Tingwell boy's petulance at having other men notice and acknowledge Miss Black?" I heard a more pronounced concern in Boz's voice when he asked that question.
"No. But I must admit she made little, if any, attempt to return his obvious efforts at flirtation. She merely seemed like a courteous young woman having a bit of fun at the expense of an overly amorous young man. Not sure he possessed enough in the way of worldliness to understand exactly what was going on."
Sounded like we'd pretty much wrung that rag out. I said, "Did she leave on the stage?"
"Couldn't say. I have to assume so. They left the café together. I've not seen either of them since that night. Course Morgan Tingwell doesn't get down this direction very often anyway. Only reason I recognized him was because a friend pointed the boy out on one of my visits to Iron Bluff. His family is well known there—especially his brother Hardy. Folks up that way have developed something along the lines of morbid fear when it comes to Hardy. Many say he's a dangerous man to get crosswise of."
We thanked Mrs. Mitchell for all the information. Boz kind of motioned me away. I made my excuses, and headed back to the jail. He stayed for almost an hour longer. Don't think he got much in the way of additional enlightenment on the subject.
Didn't matter anyway. Soon as he walked in the door of the jail, he said, "Well, boys, looks like we're gonna have to get over to Iron Bluff and visit the Tingwell family tomorrow. Hoped we could put it off till everything settled down a bit, but I want to talk to Morgan as soon as possible."
"What about the prisoners?" Rip asked.
"I've made arrangements for Mrs. Mitchell to feed them twice a day. Any problems at the jail and she's to send word to us as quickly as possible."
"Really think that'll work, Boz?" I asked.
"Should," he said. "Near as I can tell, it's only ten miles to Iron Bluff. The Tingwell ranch is about five miles on the other side of town."
Rip chuckled, then said, "Personally, I don't really give a damn if poor luck should befall these snakes."
Boz kept going like he hadn't even heard Rip's comment. "Good rider should be able to find us in less than two hours no matter what happens. Besides, I've already warned these bastards of the consequences if they try to get away. Don't think Toefield would leave his cell even if we opened the door and told him he could go."
"Sounds good. When do we leave?" I asked.
"Tomorrow morning. We'll try to time it so we catch them at their noon meal. Always puts folks into a lather if you show up unexpected when they're about to eat. I want to throw a real surprise into this Tingwell bunch. Get a good night's sleep. We'll go in armed to the teeth and lookin' meaner'n hell."
5
"MEANEST SONS OF BITCHES
I DONE EVER RUN UP AGAINST"
IRON BLUFF LOOKED enough like Lone Pine to make them almost indistinguishable from one another. Have to admit, though, the bustling village did seem busier. Lot more by way of foot traffic in and around the local stores and shops.
Town marshal resided in what appeared a much nicer combination living quarters and jail than Lone Pine's. Whole shebang was a fine-looking red-stone building. Stood right next to a watering hole named the Fin and Feather. Saloon's façade was painted forest green trimmed in red. Heavy, double-thick glass window sported the name in fancy gold-leaf
lettering. Looked more like an Austin gentlemen's club than a saloon. Discreetly tucked in a lower corner of the pane, in much smaller script, you could read ROMULUS PITT-OWNER.
Directly across the street squatted a second liquor emporium of considerably lesser size and elegance. The Matador didn't look to have ever been touched by a paintbrush. Sign in front was fashioned from a rough plank by an unknown person of little ability who'd burned the name in with a branding iron. Several flea-bitten dogs lounged on the boardwalk in front of the place, and a number of rough-looking cowboys occupied chairs propped against the wall. Several of the waddies whittled at pine pickets and watched our every move as we passed.
I had suggested earlier that we ride around the town to try and keep from stirring anything up, but Boz wouldn't hear of it. He snapped, "Hell with these sons of bitches. If Ole Man Pitt's badge-carryin' bulldog, or any of these other brush-poppers, wants part of me, just let him say the wrong thing. Ain't a city marshal or leather-burner in Texas gonna tell Rangers where to go or how to conduct our business. We're here on assignment from the commanding officer of Company B and can do whatever the hell's necessary, as far as we can see it." Thus ended that conversation.
Ambled through the settlement loaded for bear and looking like a tiny army of the extremely pissed off. Boz didn't even try to avoid Pitt's version of the law. Rode right up to the front door of the man's office and called him out. Tall, nice-looking gent sporting a handlebar mustache and iron-gray hair came to the door. He wiped shaving soap from his face and neck with a much-used towel. Didn't hesitate or look the least bit intimidated.
Iron Bluff's marshal stepped up to the edge of his porch and said, "Do something for you fellers?" About then, I guess, he realized who we were. "Oh, you're the Rangers Mr. Pitt said might be stopping in. Why don't you boys climb down and come inside. I got a fresh pot of coffee from the Fin and Feather just a few minutes ago."
Boz threw me a quick glance and winked. Then turned back to Iron Bluff's lawman. "Name's Boz Tatum. Heavily armed feller on my right is Lucius Dodge. This 'un here is Rip Thorn. Stopped by to let you know we'll be prowlin' around these parts until such time as several problems that are of interest to our superiors are resolved. Wondered if you had any problem with that, Marshal . . . uh-h-h . . . sorry I didn't get your name."
"Bronson Stonehill. Pleased to make your acquaintance Ranger Tatum, Dodge, Thorn. And no, I don't have any problem with investigations you might need to conduct while visiting in my jurisdiction. See no reason you shouldn't do as you deem fit."
He sounded reasonable enough to me. So I took it on myself and said, "We do appreciate it, Marshal Stonehill."
Think I might have been a bit premature in my assessment. Soon as the words got out of my mouth, he draped the towel over his shoulder and said, "Long as you keep me informed of all your actions beforehand." He put particular emphasis on the word beforehand.
Boz didn't miss a beat. "Can't guarantee anything even vaguely resembling such a request, sir. We tend to move about at our own leisure, and don't feel compelled to inform anyone of our intentions. Think you'd agree that sometimes such courtesies aren't possible."
Stonehill kind of swelled up. Put his hands on his hips and frowned. "Don't think you understand, Ranger Tatum. I'm not requesting anything. I'm telling you that's the way it's gotta be, if you want to function around my town."
Rip and I both glanced at Boz. Don't know about Rip, but I could tell our friend was spoiling for a fight, and teetered right on the verge of jumping off his horse and kicking the stump juice out of Iron Bluff's smart-mouthed law-enforcement officer. Muscles in his jaw tightened up. Squint got so tight I couldn't see his eyes.
Still and all, Boz maintained what sounded like an even temper and said, "As I understand it, you're Iron Bluff's town marshal. Ain't that so, Mr.Stonehill?"
Freshly shaved gent looked confused for a second or so before he said, "Yes. That's correct."
"Well, I hate to be the one to inform you of this, ole son, but your jurisdiction ends at the town limits. Ours covers the entire state of Texas and any goddamned where else we feel compelled to go. So don't be making demands on us that you have no legal backing for."
Stonehill's face reddened. He blinked real fast, several times, and his right hand dropped to a spot on his hip where a pistol should have resided. Big artery on the side of his neck bulged out. Honest-to-God, you could see the blood pulsing through it. Thought for a minute his head might explode.
After ten or fifteen seconds of hard staring, he said, "Mr. Pitt warned me you would be trouble, Tatum. Mentioned you were pretty full of yourself. I can see now he didn't miss the mark much in that assessment."
"Well, that's a gunnysack full of horseshit, sir. I'm simply a man with a job to do. Long as you stay out of my way—and don't try to get quarrelsome with me—we'll get along just fine. Came by this morning to let you know we're on our way out to the Tingwell ranch to speak with one of the sons. Young feller named Morgan."
"I'd be careful of that bunch, Mr. Tatum. Especially since a newly hired gunhand was brought in to run with John Roman Hatch. His name's Casper Longstreet. He can be deadly." Stonehill smiled like he took great pleasure in telling us the bad news.
Rip perked up and asked, "What's this Longstreet feller look like, Marshal?"
Stonehill threw his head back and laughed. Then he said, "If you meet a feller that looks like he died about a week ago, you will have found him. Might as well get yourselves prepared. Ain't gonna be a pleasant sight. No, gents, it sure as hell ain't."
Iron Bluff's marshal turned and started back for his door, but stopped and faced us again as if he'd forgotten something. "If you don't run into him at the ranch, just come on back to town and visit the Matador. Sit around a spell. Cut the dust with a few drinks. Sooner or later, Casper will show up. Have a pleasant trip, Rangers. Say hello to Hatch and Longstreet for me when you meet them." We could hear him indulging in a fit of derisive laughter once he got back inside his jail.
Didn't have any trouble finding the Tingwell place. Only had to ask one old-timer for directions. He'd staked out a shady spot under a live oak near the center of town. Site sheltered the geezer from a blazing sun that bored holes in high gauzy clouds like bullets going through bedsheets.
Boz asked which way we needed to go. Ancient codger lifted a withered arm and said, around the stem of his corncob pipe, "Jist foller this here road on north, young feller. You'll come on a split 'bout five or eight mile outside town. One branch goes east to the Pitt ranch, t'other heads west for the Tingwells' spread. Signs on each path make it right clear where you'll end up. Course, they's also pert clear you ain't wanted. Personally feel it'd be in yore best interest to stay clear."
Rip leaned down and handed the old man a maduro panatela by way of thanks. Codger saluted us with the cigar by tapping the brim of his hat. Rip said, "They really that unfriendly, pops?"
Our guide gave his ragged beard a sagelike scratch. "Well, sonny, next month'll be my eighty-seventh birthday, near as I can figure. Been around the tree once or twice. Fought in the big war. Attended a rodeo or two. Even traveled to New-goddamned-York. Seen The Naked Lady herself, Adah Isaacs Menken, ride on stage unclothed in Mazeppa. Thought I knowed, or had met, all kinds. But them Tingwells is about the meanest sons of bitches I done ever run up against. Even their women are a sight. Wouldn't touch one of them dirty-legged females with a stick of firewood. Careful out there, boys. Ain't nobody safe around that bunch."
We followed the antique gomer's directions exactly. Less than an hour later, we reined up outside a heavy wooden gate that bore all the earmarks of having been constructed by someone who had less knowledge of carpentry than a flying squirrel.
Rip got down and shoved it open. As we passed through he said, "The house don't look too bad from here, but if this piece of woodworking is any indication of what lies ahead, I hate to imagine what these folk must live in."
Sweet Jesus, but the Tingwell dwelli
ng turned out worse than we could have imagined. As we made our way across the two hundred yards of rolling pastureland between the fence and their rough residence, Boz said, "Looks like they picked up driftwood from the river and just stacked it up, willy-nilly, for the past decade."
Rip grunted his agreement, then added, "Resembles a gigantic pile of deer antlers with a stovepipe stickin' out of the roof, don't it? My God, it's huge. Bet this place has more'n a dozen rooms."
All along the fence line, which ran on either side of the rough road from the monstrous gate to the house, laid an astonishing collection of trash. Wagon parts, pieces of old harness, stacks of paper tied in rotting twine, rusted farm implements of every imaginable kind, pieces of a busted-up Butterfield stagecoach, pots, pans, and even broken tableware rested amidst weeds three feet high. Some of the stuff seemed to be arranged in stacks to resemble the shapes of men and imaginary creatures.
Boz muttered, "You ever seen anything to match this?"
Shook my head and said, "Not me."
We'd barely pulled our mounts to a stop in front of the place when the plank door popped open. Four armed men jumped into the dusty, chicken-filled yard, and spread out in a single line. Pullets squawked and ran in every direction.
Boz got his wish. We had even surprised their pack of mangy ill-fed dogs. Must have been a dozen of them sleeping beneath what resembled a porch, until the racket generated by all those folks flying out of their nightmarish house woke them up. Set off a hellacious racket of howling, barking, and snapping that went on till one of the men kicked and prodded the pack back to their filthy den.
Line of bodies parted, and a stocky-built, square-headed elderly man pushed his way to the front. He dressed himself in red wool pants, green shirt, and a bright yellow beaver top hat that must have been forty years old.
