by J. Lee Butts
He stood in front of his angry family with his fists on his hips and yelped, "Did you ill-mannered bastards not see the signs on the road warnin' unwanted folk to keep out? This here is private property. We don't be entertainin' no visitors."
Boz leaned slightly forward and crossed his arms on the horn of his saddle. "We saw your signs, Mr. Tingwell. Such advice doesn't apply to us."
The elder Tingwell torqued his head to one side, bugged an unblinking eye at us, and snapped, "Is that a natural-born fact, my bucko. And who do you think you are to ignore such warnings, and then be bold enough to tell me you don't have to be a-payin' heed to our warnin's? Think you're Sam Houston, or some other such Texican royalty?"
I edged Grizz a step closer and stopped him right beside Boz. Said, "No, sir, but we're close enough."
"Damned if you are," Tingwell snapped.
Boz held a calming hand my direction. "My impetuous young friend's way of trying to tell you we're Texas Rangers here on official business."
Kid missing several teeth in front sidled up next to the old man and slobbered, "We 'uns don't be givin' a tinker's damn 'bout no goddamned Rangers—Texas or otherwise. Turn them animals around and head back the way you come."
Guess Boz held no desire to debate the question of our authority. His voice dropped to the cold-as-a-well-rope-in-Montana level when he said, "Best tell your family to put their guns away, sir. If your firearms ain't outta my face in exactly one minute, there'll be so many dead Tingwells in front of this rat's nest, it'll take somebody a week to bury all of 'em."
Different one of the boys said, "Let's jist shoot the hell out of 'em, Pap. We'll burry 'em in the river."
Old man snapped back with, "Shut yer mouth, Morgan. Don't think this man is bluffin'." So, there it was. Hardy had to be the one missing his teeth. No wonder people feared the boy. He appeared possessed of a mean streak that probably went all the way to the bone.
While not near as repulsive, or as much of a dental oddity as his brother, Morgan wouldn't have been considered anything like a catch for the loneliest spinster north of the Rio Grande. I couldn't imagine a woman of Ruby Black's description having anything to do with him. You could've raised a crop of corn under his fingernails.
The Tingwell family's leader was having second thoughts. Worry lines creased his forehead, and a river of sweat poured from under his ancient hat.
Boz bored in on him. 'Trust my words on this matter, sir. You aren't ready for the kind of gunfight about to occur here if you don't do exactly as I say. Even if we lose, an entire company of Rangers will show up within a few weeks, wipe out what's left of your clan, and erase this place from the face of the earth. You've got fifteen seconds."
Pap Tingwell thought it over for about another second and barked, "Put yer guns away, boys. We'll talk with these bastards and see what they's about."
Some confusion prevailed for a spell. Pap got right irritated with. the brood's inability to carry out his shouted wishes. Considerable yelling and swearing prevailed until they had all disarmed. He sent most of the litter back inside, but kept his two remaining sons with him.
Once the arsenal had finally disappeared, and things had calmed down a bit, the old man said, "There you are, Ranger. Satisfied is yah?"
Boz motioned us down, and we climbed off our animals. He walked straight up to Bull Tingwell. Handed the old man and both the sons a cigar. They looked shocked to their boot soles for a few seconds. Once everyone got lit up and puffing, the situation loosened up dramatically.
Pap took a deep drag on what was probably the best tobacco he had smoked in years and puffed gunmetal gray rings at the sky. As they floated away he said, "Official business, is it? What kind of official business would you law-bringers be havin' with the likes of us?"
Boz turned to me and said, "Tell him why we're here, Lucius."
"We're looking for a missing girl, Mr. Tingwell. Her name is Ruby Black. Red hair, blue eyes, extremely beautiful young woman. Well educated. Trained for the teaching profession."
Tingwell almost choked on his smoke. Both of his boys got real twitchy. Snaggle-toothed one, that I figured had to be Hardy, threw his head back, sneered, and said, "Why would you think we'd know anything about such a woman?"
Rip hadn't said much all day. He surprised us when he boomed out, "Because your brother, Morgan here, was the last person to be seen with her." All three Tingwell heads snapped Rip's direction. The way they reacted, you'd have thought he dropped a diamondbacked rattler in their pants.
The old man tried to cover it up. "Well, sorry to say we can't be a-helpin' ye, Rangers. Cain't say as how my son done seen that woman since the stage dropped him off in Iron Bluff."
Morgan looked like a weasel with its foot caught in a steel trap. I pressed the issue. "That a fact, Morgan? You've not seen Miss Black since the time your father just described?"
Man barely found the ability to breathe, "No. No. I ain't seen that gal since."
We knew he was lying. Hell, all of them had lied. All of a sudden, the old man got hot again. "Yep, there's the problem. You badge-wearin' bastards work for Pitt, don't you. This is nothin' more'n a ruse to get us off the land so's he can take it from us. Well, by Godfrey, it ain't a-gonna be workin'. No, by God, not for a second it ain't."
Rip snorted, "Jesus, old man, are you crazier than a shit-house rat on top of everything else? We don't work for Pitt any more than you do."
Hardy spit all over himself when he yelled, "You ass-kissers go back to Pitt and tell him he's got a killin' comin', and damned soon. We're gonna have our revenge for them rubbin' Buster out. Sure as tamales make farts."
"We thought maybe Albert Pitt's death paid that debt off," Boz said.
The Tingwells all shouted simultaneously, "We didn't kill Albert Pitt."
Bull Tingwell seethed like a man about to explode. "Dumb bastard must've fell off his horse and drowned. His corpse didn't have a mark on it made by my family." Tobacco juice dribbled from the corner of his mouth and dropped onto his puke green shirt. Rest of the group got agitated again as he shouted, "But by God, the next time we meet them bastards they's gonna be killings. It's a garun-teed lock-nutted cinch."
Boz couldn't let that one pass. "Careful, old man. You're about to let your mouth get ahead of your brain."
"Not likely, Ranger. I done got us two men ain't afraid of the Pitts, God, Texas Rangers, nor anything else living. Figure if Pitt can have two killers walking the streets of Iron Bluff, so can I. You're damned lucky John Roman Hatch and Casper Longstreet ain't here this fine mornin'. You'd be dead as Julius Caesar by now."
Boz turned to me. "We're not gettin' anywhere here. Let's saddle up and give Mr. Tingwell and his family time to talk all this over for a spell. We'll come back again later. There's time a-plenty." Then he turned to ole Bull again, smiled, and said, "We'll be back, Mr. Tingwell. Soon."
Left them standing there jabbering and yelling like wild people. Once we'd passed through their gate Rip said, "You fellers did notice how they reacted to questions about the girl, didn't you?"
"Yeah, we saw it, Rip," I said, 'They're hiding something. Wouldn't surprise me a bit if Miss Ruby Black ain't locked up somewhere in that dreadful house of theirs. You think we can get a court order and search the place, Boz?"
Boz reined up and gave the problem some thought for a few seconds. "Normally I wouldn't even bother. But we've got a touchy situation at hand here. They'll probably fight if we just try to march in."
"What about the court order?" I said again.
"Pretty certain we're not gonna get one around here. But we just might find a friendly judge willing to help us out in Shelbyville. Rip, I want you to burn leather that way. See if you can get an audience with Judge Stanley Cooper. Tell him I sent you and what's going on here. Pretty certain he'll send you back with exactly what we need. Shouldn't take but two or three days at most. Best get moving right now. No need wastin' time."
Rip didn't hesitate. Yelled over his shoulder a
s he whipped his animal away from us, "I'll be back quick as I can."
Boz pulled his hat off, and wiped his face with a wet bandanna. "You know, Lucius, we're sitting on a powder keg that has at least a dozen fuses runnin' to it." He looked tired when he said, "God above, I hope we make it out of this one alive. Keep 'em loaded and close at hand. I think things are about to really heat up around Iron Bluff."
I said, "Damn, Boz it's scorching enough for me right now."
"I know. But once the killing gets started, our situation's gonna get hotter by a damn sight—as blisterin' as forty acres of Satan's playground."
6
"FELT COMPELLED TO KILL
HIM AFORE HE KILT ME"
TOOK OUR TIME getting back to town. Boz tended to think better in the saddle. So we just kind of ambled along while he mulled the situation over. Got back to Iron Bluff and had barely tied our animals to the hitch rack in front of the jail when all hell broke loose.
A man dressed in a white shirt, sleeve garters, and apron of a shopkeeper hoofed it up to us and said, "Gentlemen, my name is Breedlove. Horace Breedlove. Own the mercantile across the street, there on the other side of the Matador."
We tipped our hats and said, "Howdy."
Breedlove didn't stop. Pointed to the Matador and said, "Casper Longstreet came in this morning just after eleven o'clock. Customers have told me he's bragging as how he intends to kill someone from the Pitt clan before the day is out. Fin and Feather filled up with Pitt riders 'bout half an hour ago. Didn't take long for them to hear about Longstreet's threat."
Held my hand up to slow Horace down. Man talked so fast I had trouble understanding him at times. "Been any trouble yet, Mr. Breedlove?" I asked.
He nervously fingered the hem of his apron. "No. Not so far. But both camps have been drinking for a couple of hours. Trouble's coming. You can feel it. There's blood in the air."
"Where's Marshal Stonehill?"
Breedlove got even more nervous when I asked that question. "Have no idea, Ranger. But it ain't uncommon for him to disappear anytime one of the Tingwells' pair of gunfighters shows up in town. Fact is, he almost always has 'business' somewhere else if anything threatening occurs. Ole Man Pitt may own the marshal, but Stonehill looks out for himself. Sorry state of affairs for the good people of Iron Bluff when they can't trust the town's keeper of the peace to protect them."
Boz scratched his chin and looked thoughtful. I could hear the tough whiskers rasp against the ends of calloused fingers. "Well," he said, "Lucius and I'll stroll over to the Matador and have a talk with Mr. Longstreet. See if we can't snuff this out before something wayward occurs."
"You sure about that, Boz?"
"Yeah, Lucius. Knew a nose-to-nose dustup like this was coming sooner or later. Might as well put a stopper in it now. Get your shotgun. Stay behind me. Cover my back. I'll talk to Longstreet."
Never have liked walking into potential gunfire. I'd managed to survive flying lead on numerous occasions, including scores of fights with Comanche raiders, and killed my share of those who'd stepped over the line. Didn't have a bit of trouble rubbing out anyone who threatened me—or mine. Especially belly-slinking, bank-robbing snakes like Harold McCormick and his ilk.
Men of Longstreet's breed were a totally different bucket of worms. They tended to be calculating, deadly, and often unpredictable. Scores of the unsuspecting had died at the hands of such men for any real, or perceived, provocation, and prosecution was almost impossible. Juries in Texas rarely convicted anyone who entered a plea of self-defense.
Scratching your nose at the wrong time could get a man killed. The defendant would swear before God, and the law, that, "Well, I thought sure enough he was a-reachin' and a-grabbin' fer his hog leg. Only defendin' myself when I wuz forced to shoot the poor bastard eight times with three different guns, Your Honor."
And when the already beaten prosecutor asked, "Did you ever think he might have simply had an itchy nose?" the answer would inevitably be, "Looked like he meant to draw down on me when his hand dropped to his side. Felt compelled to kill him afore he kilt me."
Murderers usually always ended up back on the streets, where they invariably managed to kill someone else within a short time. Then the whole process stared over again with the same appalling outcome. Lot of good Texas folk suffered because their juries were so gutless.
I did as instructed. Followed Boz through the coarse saloon's batwing doors. He stopped just inside to let his eyes adjust to the darker interior. Bar ran along the entire wall on our right and matched the rough exterior. No highly polished mahogany, nothing but planks sitting on top of empty beer barrels. Found it somewhat amazing that the mirror behind the makeshift serving top was a heavy, opulent, oddly shaped piece of glass mounted in an expensive and ornate frame. Appeared to be worth more than the rest of the entire cow-country oasis. Rough-cut board floor had never seen a wood plane, or even a broom, from what I could detect.
No doubt where Casper Longstreet had chosen to sit. All the tables used for poker, dominoes, and such lined the left side of the narrow, oblong room. Three in back were empty but for a single man seated as far from the door as he could get. Almost missed seeing him because he'd pushed his chair into the back corner. Heavy cloud of cigar smoke, mixed with the smells of liquor, full spittoons, and sweat, cooked in the stifling heat and created an eye-watering stench that almost brought me to my knees.
Without hesitation, Boz marched right to Longstreet. I heard the hammers come back on his shotgun, so I cocked mine as well. He didn't slow his long-legged stride till his legs brushed against a chair at the gunman's table.
Longstreet sat with a wide-brimmed straw hat pulled down over his face as though he'd dozed off. He didn't bother to look up until Boz bumped the table with the barrel of the shotgun.
Near as I could tell, the description Marshal Stonehill provided us bordered on the amazingly charitable. Casper Longstreet didn't simply look like a dead man; he looked like a dead man that'd been under ground for about a week and then dug up. His was the kind of face Christian mothers scared their unruly children with in order to enforce behavior when all else failed. Pale as a winter moon. Covered with deep pockmarks. A bad dream come to life.
The corpselike gunfighter slowly removed a hat that appeared sloppily vented with a pocket knife. A spiderweb of thin, white hair lay limply on his ghostly pate like sewing thread draped over a child's coffin.
In a voice that sounded as though it came from a throat seriously damaged by a crosscut saw, he said, "Mighty hot day for the law to be out and about. Didn't realize our fair city had come to the attention of the Texas Rangers. What can I do for you gentlemen?" He shot the word at us like he'd just spit a wad of phlegm the size of a hickory nut out on the top of the table.
Tipplers and gamblers closest to the door ducked their heads and skipped out. Left me with a lot less to worry about.
Boz grinned. "Figured we'd stop by and say hello, Longstreet. Get to know one another. Never hurts to be friendly. Even with skunks like you."
"I thought we had enough law in Iron Bluff. Town can't boast of but about three hundred people living in and around it. Ain't you boys got anything else to do, some other place to visit where you can harass peaceable sorts like me?" You didn't have to be too smart to hear the growing irritation and possible threat in the hired gunman's sand-and-gravel-filled response.
"No intent to harass you, Casper. Merely wanted to let you know we're in town and won't take kindly to gunfights, call-out shootings, or downright murder."
If what Boz said had any impact on the cadaverous killer, I couldn't tell it. He swatted at a bluebottle fly the size of a shot glass, twirled his drink around on the table, and said, "No need to be concerned, Rangers. I simply stopped by today to get out of the blistering sun and have a few drinks."
Heard all I needed when he started lying. I said, "That's not what we've been told. Rumor going around town says you're out to kill anyone handy from the Pitt camp tod
ay. Any truth to the story, or could it be you're simply a loose-mouthed blowhard who got jerked up short before you could act on an ill-considered idea?"
Well, by God, that one lit a fire under ole Casper. He sat bolt upright in his chair. Glared at me like he'd found a pimple on his pockmarked neck that needed to be popped and rendered out.
Ugly son of a bitch snapped, "I've killed more men than you can imagine, for a damned sight less than what you just said to me, boy. Ever rattle off like that at me again and I'll plant you in a heartbeat."
Boz snapped, "Damned nervy for a man with two shotguns loaded with buckshot trained on him, Casper. Besides, I'm not sure you could beat young Lucius in a straight-up gunfight anyway. Take some sincerely offered advice. Be righteously careful while we're visiting. We don't like dead citizens, regardless of how they get that way, but have no problem at all stamping out cockroaches of your sort."
Boz sounded serious as typhus up to that point. But then he got deadly. "Kill anyone and you'll have to deal with us, and I can guar-an-damn-tee you won't like the outcome, gunfighter."
We backed our way out onto the boardwalk, then started toward the jail. Boz stopped in the middle of the street and said, "Might as well have a word with Pitt's bunch at the Fin and Feather while we're at it. Same deal. Stay close and watch my back."
Marched into Romulus Pitt's personal watering hole, directly to the table where Nick Fox held court with at least half-a-dozen other men who bristled with pistols, knives, and all manner of other weaponry. Whole bunch looked madder than a nest of red wasps. Our appearance didn't do much toward leveling their mood out in the least.
Fox took little notice of us until we'd almost walked right up in his lap. Testy killer had removed his sweat-soaked hat and laid it on the table nearby. No hair on his head. Smooth as an ivory cue ball. Figured he probably shaved it every morning. Took everything I could do to keep from laughing. Knew if I did, lead would fly for sure.
