by J. Lee Butts
Fox barely glanced at Boz and snorted, "What the hell you want, Tatum? Hoped I might get through the day without having to see you."
Boz grinned and said, "Oops. Guess your day just ain't gonna turn out well at all, Nick."
"Get on with it then, you son of a bitch. What do you want? Know you didn't come into Mr. Pitt's saloon for a drink."
Moved to a spot that kept Boz out of my line of fire in case I had to blast someone at the table. Boz turned slightly to bring Fox under the gun and said, "Hear you boys might be getting ready for a fight with Casper Longstreet. Lucius and I just spoke with that sweet-natured soul. Warned him of how foolish it would be to indulge in such behavior when there are Rangers in town. Me, Lucius, and Rip don't take kindly to gunplay. Forced or otherwise. Be better if you reconsidered any thoughts you might have along those lines."
Man at the table I didn't know said, "You do what you have to do, Ranger Tatum. But know this, if that cadaverous son of a bitch pulls on me, I'll kill him deader than Davy Crockett, sure as I'm sittin' here talkin' to you."
I was standing directly behind the stranger when he popped off. Couldn't see his face. I said, "Who the hell are you, mister?"
He didn't even move. "Name's Alvin Clements. And while you bastards might have the bluff in on some of these other yahoos, don't try it on me. I'd just as soon blast you as anyone else."
Didn't matter that I couldn't see his face. Recognized the name. Another of Pitt's gunmen. Waited a second, and decided we had enough problems with Longstreet and Fox prowling around. So, I whacked Clements on the side of his head with the barrel of my shotgun and knocked his sorry ass about three feet. He bounced off the wall and dropped to his knees; ignoramus made a groggy-headed attempt to get up, so I whacked him again. Came to the conclusion that the Boz Tatum method worked. Clements had nothing more to add to the discussion at hand.
When he finally stopped moving, I looked at Boz and said, "We'll lock him in Marshal Stonehill's jail for a day or two. One less troublesome irritant to worry about."
Thought Boz might fall down laughing. Fox turned livid. Man's face colored up and he drew his right hand toward the edge of the table.
All Boz had to say was, "Wouldn't do that, Nick. Hate to pull this trigger and splatter you, and three or four others, all over hell and yonder. Real messy. Probably take Pitt's bartender and a swamper two, maybe three days to clean all the brains and guts off the wall."
While he made his speech, I searched Clements. Found four pistols, two knives, and a small hatchet. One of the pistols turned out to be a Le Mat black-powder thing popular with soldiers of the South during the Civil War. Big blaster fired nine .42-caliber shots from a regular barrel, and had a special chamber that carried a single round of buckshot. Nasty weapon for sure. But it takes all day to load one of them.
We made four of the cowboys at the table carry Clements over to Marshal Stonehill's jail. They grumbled and complained all the way, but didn't have much choice in the matter. We locked him in the best-looking cell I'd ever seen. Dismissed his friends, and settled in to wait for the marshal to return.
Cleanest, best-appointed marshal's office you could dream up. Leather-covered chairs, heavy mahogany desk, well-stocked gun rack, polished floors, and an overnight living space for the resident lawman that rivaled any ten-dollar-a-night hotel room.
Boz flopped into a chair, propped his feet on Stonehill's desk, and said, "Pitt's lawman lackey won't like this a bit. Bet he'll pop his cork when he gets back and sees who we've locked up."
Found me a comfortable corner and sat on the floor. Laid all my weapons out and rechecked the loads. Glanced up at Boz and said, "You know, we could save ourselves a lot of trouble and lock the marshal up too. I don't care overly much about having the local law sided up with folks who might try to end my life. Situation doesn't give me a real warm and comfortable feeling. Know what I mean?"
"Understand completely, Lucius. I'm afraid we can't just go and throw the town marshal in a cell for no particular reason. He could be a danger to us, true enough. But being dangerous ain't against the law. We've got to find some kind of believable legal reason to lock his sorry self up. Get him off the streets and out of our collective hair."
"You know, the more I think on it, Boz, locking Stonehill away might not be necessary. If he's as big a coward as Horace Breedlove described, maybe he'll just slink out of town when the going gets rough. No doubt in my mind, the worst we'll see here is still down the street and round the corner."
"Don't let Breedlove lead you in the wrong direction. Stonehill might be yellow. Then again, maybe he's just the cautious type. Didn't appear all that skittish when we met him. Could be he's the worst nightmare we could have while we're here. But I've never heard his name mentioned as a man to be wary of."
'Bout then Stonehill pushed the door open and stepped inside. Couldn't see us until his eyes adjusted to the dark room. Jerked back a bit and said, "What the hell are you two doing here?"
Boz said, "Had to find a place of incarceration for a prisoner, Marshal. Being as how you have the only jail in town, we appropriated one of your cells to fulfill the needs of the state."
"Who'd you lock up?" Stonehill snapped.
Wanted to see if I could irritate him some more, so I said, "Alvin Clements."
Iron Bluff's resident enforcer of the law snatched his hat off and threw it on the floor. "What in the hell are you men thinking? Have you lost your pea-sized minds?" He kicked the hat across the room.
Boz waved a reassuring hand Stonehill's direction and said, "Calm down, Marshal. Nothing to get excited about."
Had absolutely no effect. "You can't be so stupid as to not know that Romulus Pitt pays my salary. Hell, almost everyone in Iron Bluff either works for, or is owned by, the man. He won't take this lying down. Bet you every penny I'm carrying in my pocket, before the sun sets, Pitt'll be standing right where I am now demanding I release Clements. What'll you do then?"
Boz pulled a penknife from his vest pocket and ceremoniously made quite a production of cleaning his fingernails. He kept at it for some seconds before finally saying, "Think I'd tell him to go next door to the Fin and Feather, have a drink, and relax a bit. 'Cause I ain't letting Clements go till I get good and ready. Figure ole Alvin needs a bit of seclusion so he can contemplate the future and his place in the universe according to Ranger Boz Tatum."
Stonehill threw up his hands in disgust. "You two nimrods don't have the least understanding of the situation here, do you?"
I glanced up from checking my shotgun and said, "We're getting there. Should have a fair handle on it in another week or so."
"No. You don't. Won't and can't," Stonehill countered. "Pitt and his family hate the Tingwells. Feels they're little better than a pack of rabid, mange-ridden dogs. The Tingwells hate the Pitts. They believe Romulus and his boys are out to destroy them."
"Well, if that's what Bull and his bunch believe, they're probably right," Boz said.
Stonehill nodded. "There you go. These folks are building toward bloodlettin' the likes of which this part of Texas hasn't seen in twenty or thirty years. You men go meddling into the situation, by throwing either of their gunhands in jail for no good reason, and the whole shootin' match could break into open warfare."
Boz nodded his agreement, but said, "I've already come to the conclusion that we can't stop these two packs of angry wolves from tearing each other apart. Do believe, however, that we can slow the inevitable down some."
I jumped in with, "Pitt won't blow a gasket and start killing Tingwells because of what two Rangers did here today. He may rant and rave, but that'll be the end of it."
Stonehill's shoulders drooped. He took on the aspect of a beaten man. "I'm not a bad lawman, boys. Fact is, I'm a pretty damned good one. But I'll be the first to admit I'm no match for Hatch, Longstreet, Fox, or Clements in a stand-up gunfight. I have serious doubts either of you are. Romulus Pitt knows that. He may kill me for what you've done. And then kill
both you as well."
"Relax, Bronson," Boz said. "My partner, Lucius "By God" Dodge, is faster than anyone I've ever seen—except me, of course. And we're both meaner'n rabid coyotes. Ain't that so, Lucius?"
Stonehill stomped across the office, gathered his hat off the floor, and headed for the door. He latched onto the brass knob, turned back to us, and said, "My sister owns a nice spread between here and Lone Pine. Think I'll head over that way for a few days. Sit on her porch and drink cold water from her deep well. Wait till you boys are dead. Then I'll come back."
"You can do that? Just take off without so much as a by-your-leave to your boss?" I asked.
"Mighty nice arrangement you've got here, I'd say. What'll we tell Pitt if he asks of your whereabouts?" Boz seemed mighty pleased with himself. We were about to get rid of another problem without having fired a shot.
"Tell him you don't know. Tell him I'd already been gone a day or so when you set up shop in his jail. Whatever you decide to tell him, I don't want to be around when he kills you boys. Think I can take care of myself, in most situations, but I'd just as soon not have the Texas Rangers snappin' at my heels for the rest of my natural life." The door slammed—and Stonehill vanished.
Boz said, "Well, ain't that a corker. Seems we just inherited us a jail. Damned fine one at that. Bet Romulus Pitt's gonna be madder'n a rained-on rooster when he finds out what just transpired. Course I ain't gonna be the one to tell him. How 'bout you, Lucius? You gonna tattle on Iron Bluff's brave marshal?"
"A man's gotta do whatever he feels is right, Boz. Too bad he didn't have enough spine to act like a real lawman. Should have hooked up with us and done what really is the right thing. Personally, I don't know how Stonehill can look at himself in the shavin' mirror every morning."
We sat around for about an hour patting ourselves on the back about how great everything had turned out. Cooked some coffee and were looking forward to a setting sun and the coolness of evening.
Ragged nasty-looking cloud bank settled over the river and covered the town as well. Got between us and a scorching sun. Temperature must have dropped a whopping two or three degrees. A welcome break for sure. Figured by eight or nine in the evening things might get almost comfortable. Hoped for rain, didn't hold my breath.
Barely got settled good when half-a-dozen pistol shots shattered our misplaced feelings of contentment. Barrage was so close to the jailhouse it almost broke the windows out. Rattled 'em all like a cannon shot on the Fourth of July. Set us to grabbing for our shotguns and scampering for the door.
7
"LET'S HANG THE MURDERIN' BASTARD"
BOZ GRABBED THE brass knob and said, "You take a gander, Lucius. See if you can tell what's happening. Once we've got the lay of it, I'll go out first. We'll head for the wall on the right. Stay behind me and cover my back."
He cracked the door open, and all I could see was a heavy cloud of drifting gun smoke mixed with copper-colored dust carried on a light breeze. Peeked around the corner toward the Fin and Feather. John Roman Hatch, the only hired killer in town who hadn't been on the receiving end of our sharply delivered cautions that afternoon, stood in the street holding a smoking pistol in each hand.
"Think it's Hatch, Boz. Man I can see is wearing a red silk vest and black felt gambler's hat trimmed with hammered silver conchos. Tall black boots just like Rip said."
"Does he seem to have finished his business, Lucius?"
"Doesn't appear that way to me, Boz. Son of a bitch is cocked, primed, and coiled up like a diamondback rattler. Probably end up like the poor goober on the other end of his pistols if we go out now."
"See any victims?"
"Somebody's laying facedown on the walk in front of the saloon. I can't tell who it is, though. Hatch ain't backing off. Man's rooted to a single spot. Looks like he's ready for another killing."
Boz snorted. "Shit, wait till he looks down the wrong end of this ten-gauge monster. Murderin' skunk will get religion right damned quick."
Before I could stop him, my partner pushed me out of the doorway and darted onto the jail's covered porch. The unexpected movement startled Hatch. Don't think he ever really saw Boz—just a blur at the edges of his vision.
Pistolero's right hand swung our way and spit flame and smoke three times, so fast I could barely count them. One shot took a chunk, the size of my hand, out of the door frame. Second snapped Boz's hat off, and the last singed a path up the skin on my friend's left arm, from the knuckles on his hand to his elbow. Don't know to this day what kept him from getting killed.
The thing that amazed me, more than Boz's amazing luck, was how he stood his ground. Man didn't even flinch as blood began to dribble from his dangling arm and pool up at his feet. Any other Ranger in his situation would have sent John Roman Hatch to hell, in several different pieces on an outhouse door. Not Boz.
Roar from his big blaster delivered a wad of hot lead pellets about a yard in front of Hatch's booted feet. Carefully delivered shot kicked a cloud of red dust the size of a horse into the astonished killer's face.
Still holding the coach gun in his good hand, Boz yelled, "Holster your weapons, Hatch. Put 'em away or I'll turn you into something even your mother won't recognize."
I slipped up behind my wounded friend and added two more barrels of heavy-gauge potential death to his argument against further gunfire. Hatch spit an egg-sized ball of phlegm into the hole at his feet, and turned ever so slightly to get a better view of who'd fired at him.
We had to squint, because the afternoon sun sat right on the roof line of the Matador across the street. Made it a bit more difficult to see the Tingwells' hired assassin from where we stood, but not enough to keep him alive if he made the wrong move.
"Sorry about my misplaced response, boys, but you Rangers got no place in this argument. Stay the hell out of it. These two jackasses made a serious error in judgment and paid a lethal price. Long as the rest of Pitt's bunch stay inside and behave, there'll be no more gunplay."
Boz jumped off the porch and took about six steps toward Hatch. Stunned the hell out of me. Happened so fast I could barely keep up with him. "I ain't gonna say this again. Holster your weapons, you son of a bitch, or we'll kill you where you stand." Couldn't have been any doubt, for even the most casual observer, that Boz Tatum was right on the knife's edge of sending John Roman Hatch for the Lord God Almighty's final eternal judgment.
While faster than greased lightning with a brace of Colts, Hatch was also one of the smarter gunfighters I've run across over the years. He looked down three barrels of buckshot and immediately had a soul-saving conversion of Biblical proportions.
"Hold on now. Hardware's going in their holsters. Ain't gonna be no more shooting, long as the rest of Pitt's gang of idiots keep their heads." Unruffled professional killer did a fancy spin with his long-barreled cavalry-model Colts and delivered both to waiting holsters nested high on his hips.
Boz let out a sharp breath of relief and said, "Walk up as close as you can get, Lucius. Keep your gun on him while I try and stem a bit of this bleeding."
I got to within spitting distance of Hatch before he spoke. "Hell, I didn't want to kill these boys. Tied my horse in front of the Matador and had started inside for a drink, when these two waddies went to yelling at me from about where you see 'em now. They called me a low-life, cow-flop-eatin' son of a bitch. Made filthy allusions as to the chastity of my dear sainted mother, and questioned the legitimacy of my birth. Ain't no man living gonna call my mother a whore—and live out the day. Damn sight more'n any Southern gentleman of goodwill should have to put up with."
Boz strolled up and barked, "I'll take them pistols, Hatch." Gunfighter obviously hated such instructions, but how are you gonna argue with a man holding the open end of a shotgun against your guts? John Roman handed his weapons over right gingerly.
Boz said, "I'll lock him up, Lucius. See if you can find any witnesses to this mess."
"What the hell are you talking about? The
re ain't no call to put me in jail. These jackasses started it. Picked the fight, and then pulled on me first."
Boz almost laughed in the man's face. Said, "Damned if I'll take your word on two killings, Hatch. Soon as we've done with our investigation, and maybe an inquest, I don't have any doubt you'll be released to kill some more. But right now, you're gonna sit in a cell for a few days."
Hatch went livid. "The hell you say."
"Yes, by God. The hell I do say."
Then our prisoner picked the wrong time to get belligerent. "I'll just be goddamned if that's so. You try it and there'll be hell to pay, Tatum."
That's when Boz whacked him across the noggin with the barrel of his shotgun. Hatch joined his shadow in the dirt. As Boz breeched the huge weapon and reloaded the spent barrel he said, "Grab one of his feet, Lucius. We'll drag him. Soon as we've got him secured, I'm gonna go looking for a sawbones to fix this crease he put in me. Want you to check around for witnesses."
We dumped Hatch's limp carcass in the cell next to Alvin Clements. Needless to say, Clements protested. "I don't want that sorry piece of festerin' scuz next to me. Ain't no one in East Texas I hate more'n John Roman Hatch. Hell, boys, you're creatin' yourself a real problem by doin' somethin' this stupid."
So, we moved Hatch to the third cell, which put an empty one between them. Clements wasn't a whole bunch happier. He leaned on his barred door and said, "That ain't no better, Boz. I don't want him in here with me."
Boz reached between the bars with his bloody hand, grabbed Clements by the throat, lifted him up on his toes, and snapped, "Shut your mouth, or I'll come in there and shut it for you. I've had a headache ever since we rode into this jerkwater burg. Now I've been shot. Please believe me when I say, you wouldn't like it should I have to kick your bony ass. Besides, there ain't no other place for him right now and you damn well know it." When Boz turned him loose, Clements fell into his cot, but I could tell he didn't like being humiliated again one damned bit.
