by J. Lee Butts
Took us a bit to dig a suitable hole in that piece of rough, isolated soil. The thing I remember most was how red that dirt was—red to the orange side. And so dark my good friend Harry Tate’s life bled into it almost unnoticed. We put him in the ground under the oak where he drew his last breath, and laid him out so he rested with that clump of yellow wildflowers at his feet.
Once we got him properly covered, I picked out a passage of Shakespeare for him. Hamlet, Act One, Scene Three. And although it was a father’s advice to his son as he left home for the first time, I felt it described my feelings for Harry better than anything else I could have found—even if I’d spent years in the search.
“As Polonius said to his son Laertes upon his departure for college, ‘Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel.’” Afraid that was all I could get out. Just couldn’t read anymore. Wanted to, but couldn’t do it.
And even now, with more than half a century past that grisly day behind me, I can close my eyes and describe every rock, blade of grass, and the leaves that decorated all the trees around us. I remember how Lucius stood with his hat in his hand, bent slightly at the waist and staring at the grave like a man who understood an anonymous spot like Harry’s very likely awaited him in some barren godforsaken piece of unexplored country where no one knew him or cared when he’d left this life.
Can still see Old Bear as he held his arms aloft and sang a painfully beautiful song I couldn’t understand to a cloud-covered piece of heaven that suddenly opened up and drenched us with tears.
And perhaps oddest of all, a stocky Indian man appeared behind Old Bear. He was a head and a half shorter than his companion, wore a dark blue shirt, wheat-colored vest, a breechcloth over leather leggings, and moccasins. His braided hair hung in tails down each side of his head. He’d tied them off with blood-red ribbons. The only other flash to the man was some silver hoop-shaped earrings that sparkled when the light hit them.
Both of them sang totally different songs, which seemed to blend together in one sad, sonorous series of notes that climbed the limbs of the surrounding trees and floated to the weeping clouds like gifts offered up as bribes in an effort to get the Great Spirit to give our friend back to us. But if I’ve learned only one thing in this life, it’s that you can’t bribe God. Indian or not, the dead are simply dead, and the grief of every person in the world never brought anyone back from the other side.
Guess I’d been standing there for fifteen or twenty minutes when Lucius leaned over and said, “What do you want to do now, Hayden? You’ve just got an ice-water-clear lesson on how dangerous Brutus Sneed is. He won’t let us bring him back alive, if we can catch him. But you name it, and we’ll do it together. I’ll walk into hell’s vestibule with you, and we’ll kill the devil together.” It sounded like something Harry or Billy would have said. You can’t buy trail mates like that. Not with all of Croesus’ gold. Only hardship and death guarantee such friends.
My response must have barely come out as not much more than a whisper. “Well, then, we’ll ride these sons of bitches into the ground, kill ‘both, and anyone else who happens to be with them.”
After I inked all the dead men’s hands and pressed them to the backs of John Doe warrants for identification, he had to run to catch up with me as I jumped on Gunpowder and kicked him away from that gory scene. He yelled something about burying the six dead outlaws. I hollered back they could rot where they fell as far as I was concerned. He shook his head, leaped into the saddle, and followed. Sometimes the best thing to do with death and loss is simply get away from it, as quick as you can.
Old Bear and his friend were already ahead of us scouting the trail behind Caesar. Couldn’t help but think that maybe if Bear had been with me, Harry wouldn’t have died the way he did. Guess Bear must have felt some guilt himself, because he went at the job like some kind of possessed fiend. We had a hell of a time keeping up. The trail went west and a bit north into the foothills of the Arbuckle Mountains. Stayed with it the first day till dark set in and we couldn’t see much of anything. Old Bear and his friend lit pine-knot torches and tried to keep going, but things got to the point where even they had to wait for the light to come back.
That night we sat around a cold camp. I needed something to move my mind away from what had happened to Harry, and took it as my first opportunity to find out what I could about our newest addition. Think, with some good reason, it had begun to seem to me as though everywhere Old Bear went, I ended up with another orphan following me around. First there was Caesar, then Daniel Old Bear, and now a real honest-to-God Indian for crying out loud.
“Who’s our new friend, Daniel?” Tended to call him by his Christian name when I wanted him to really pay attention.
Couldn’t see all of his face in the moonlight, but I would have bet money he smiled as he chewed his beef jerky and said, “An old Kiowa friend. Name is Charlie Three Bones. Got word two moons back. Charlie needed help. Had to go check on him.”
“What kind of aid and comfort could a Kiowa named Charlie Three Bones need that would put you on the trail to lend a hand? I’ve never heard you mention the man by name before.”
“Back when the Cheyenne took me from my white family, started out living with them. Then, for a while, I went with some Cherokee people. Eventually spent a good deal of time with Kiowa folks. That’s where I met Charlie. He loved to roam the world before the government got him. Being cooped up in the Territories has been hard on ole Charlie. Man used to be a soldier. Wore the red sash of the Kaitsenko—the Society of the Ten Bravest. Been struggling with his loss of freedom ever since the government first moved his people. Guess it got the best of him. Started drinking. Whiskey no good for Indians like Charlie. His friends were mighty concerned. Sent me word to come quick as double-greased lightning. Had to make a fast trip over to the Wichita Mountains and see for myself. Figured I’d bring him with me to keep him away from the jug. He’s a good man, Hayden, and when we catch up with them fellers who killed Handsome Harry, we might need him. We’re headed right into Charlie’s regular stomping grounds. By tomorrow morning he’ll recognize every blade of grass we step over.”
He leaned into his bedding. I took the hint and left him to his own thoughts. Lucius stirred in his spot, sat up, and pawed around under his blanket. When he finally found what he was after, he cursed the offense to his comfort and flung it into the darkness.
“You know anything about Brutus Sneed, Tilden?” He slapped at his blanket, rearranged his saddle, then fell back into his newly made bed.
“Never heard of the man before you called him out today.”
“Well, he’s a bad ’un. First time I ran across him was five years ago down on the Clear Fork of the Trinity ’bout sixty miles west of Fort Worth. He and some of his friends were borrowing cattle and horses from everyone in north Texas. Sylvis Bond and me caught the thieving bastard in the act of changing brands on some stock he and his friends had appropriated. They didn’t stay caught long, though. Before we could put the shackles on ’em, Brutus came up with a .32- caliber Colt’s pocket gun. Guess Sylvis must have missed it when he searched the man. Sneed put at least three slugs in Sylvis and got away, while I tried to keep my friend from dying by plugging up the holes in his leg with my fingers.”
It all sounded so familiar. Lawmen all over the West who managed to survive for more’n a few months on the job could probably have told similar stories. So many of us died back then—so many good men taken away.
“Did your friend make it?”
“He made it, but he never walked the same way after that little skirmish. One of Sneed’s slugs caught him in his upper left thigh and blew a hell of a hole in the meaty part of his leg. Feared for a while we might have to take it off him.”
“You’ve evidently run across Sneed more than once.”
“Yep. And every time it came out bad. Like this last one with Harry. Sneed’s always managed to weasel out of whatev
er trap we put down for him. Hell, one time me’n a posse set up in the trees along the north side of Little Mary’s Creek. He and his brother, Conner, came riding up on the south side. We poured the lead to ’em. Conner got hit right off and went down pretty quick. Somebody managed to lodge at least one in Brutus. That put him afoot. But, hell, he pulled his rifle and went to pumpin’ blue whistlers into those trees so fast, my posse panicked and ran like scalded dogs. Then he picked Conner up, threw him on a horse, jumped up behind, and lit out like lightning. Found Conner on the trail a day or so later. He’d been shot through at least five times. Don’t know how he made it as far as he did. Didn’t matter anyhow. Brutus got away again. Hadn’t heard anything from him in better than a year. Hoped maybe someone had sent him to the fiery pit where he belongs. Guess we’ll have to do that tomorrow, Tilden. But be aware, the man is slippery, dangerous, and will kill us all if we give him a chance.”
Let that one lay there for a minute before I said, “Don’t worry, Lucius. He’s not gonna live too much longer, if I have anything to say about it. He might not have been the one that killed Handsome Harry, but he caused it, and I aim to see him dead for it before the sun goes down tomorrow.”
The Ranger from Texas pulled his hat down over his face. It muffled his voice, but I heard him say, “Good. Glad you see it my way.”
6
“BEEN A BANE TO MY EXISTENCE”
DANIEL OLD BEAR probably should have been declared a prophet. Next morning, about twenty miles south of a hole in the ground people call Purdy these days, we came upon a Chickasaw feller and his family in a spring wagon. Old Bear and Charlie Three Bones talked with the jittery Indian. His wife sat next to him on the seat, but kept her head down and wouldn’t look at us. Several ragged children hid behind their fidgety father and peeked over his shoulder. He spoke hardly any English. Old Bear had to translate.
“His name is Matthew Broken Hand. Says men came to his house—this morning—early. Three men. They took over. Forced him and his family out. Barricaded themselves inside. Seemed ready for a fight. Says the men had lots of guns and sacks of cartridges.” He turned to me. “You want to ask him anything, Tilden?”
“Is he sure about how many men there were?”
“Already questioned him over that piece of information. Twice. Says he’s deadly certain. There’s three of ‘now.”
“Where’d the third one come from?” Lucius sounded some perturbed as he pulled one of his cigars from the pocket of shirt and fired it up.
Old Bear shrugged. “Don’t know. Could’ve met along the trail. Likely came across him up ahead of us somewhere. Could be they were waiting on this third man when you boys ran into them back where Harry bought it. We’ll probably find our new man’s tracks between here and the house. Broken Hand says his place is about ten miles north of here. In a little valley. Says he chopped out just enough trees for the house.”
We hadn’t managed to go but about another mile when Charlie Three Bones located the spot where the third man’s tracks crossed the other two. The Kiowa warrior slipped off his horse. He studied the sign left by the passing killers, then pointed off in the distance.
Old Bear acted as his friend’s interpreter. “Big man. Riding a mule. Huge animal. Stopped here. Man spit a lot of tobacco juice all over. Talked with the men we’ve been following. They rode off that way.” The right arm of Charlie Three Bones came up again. He and Old Bear pointed in the general direction of where we were already headed.
Lucius made a moaning sound, pushed his hat back on his head, and ran his hand from his forehead to his chin several times.
“What’s the matter?” I figured if he had more bad news, we might as well get it all out in the open.
“Well, there’s no way to be certain, but Brutus has a friend who sometimes travels with him. Rides a mule. Sure as hell don’t need to hear he was anywhere around right now.”
Old Bear reined up beside us. “Big man? Weighs two hundred fifty or three hundred pounds? Maybe more? Walks funny? Feet all turned in?” He held his hands out, palms down, and turned the tips of his fingers inward. “What you call pigeon-toed.”
Lucius slapped his leg with the leather quirt hanging from his wrist. “Sweet Jesus. Sure ’nuff sounds like him. Dynamite Dave McNutt.”
“Good God, Lucius, how many more of these Texas bandits do you think we’ll run across out here before this all shakes out?” I stood in the stirrups to emphasize how irritating the whole thing had become.
He looked puzzled for a moment, then grinned and said, “Damn, Hayden, I didn’t bring ’em.” He sucked a piece of tobacco from his teeth and spat it between Hateful’s ears. The horse snapped its head around and tried to bite him on the leg just above his boot top. “The only one I suspected might be around these parts was W. J. McCabe. But I’ll tell you this, if Dynamite Dave is with Brutus, we’ve got a whole new snake to stomp and he’s mean as hell on a pitchfork.” He scratched another lucifer on the butt of his belly gun and tried to puff his dead smoke back to life.
Have to admit here I’ve always hated the nicknames some of those viciously evil sons of bitches often gave themselves. Most of the time the name was just another way to intimidate folks. But, hell, those florid monikers were often accurate in their symbolic assessment of the no-account’s personality—peculiar or otherwise. If people called some homicidal brute Black Bart, Mysterious Tom, Deadeye Dick, or anything else angry and descriptive, most times they had a good reason for it. But it didn’t make their extravagant handles any easier to stomach. Just seemed like self-serving bilge to me. Especially when you found out later those ole boys’ real names were Bob Johnson, Mortimer Thomas, or Richard Fudge. Now we had the prospects of meeting up with Dynamite Dave. Didn’t sound like a good time at an afternoon church social to me.
Went to sleep that night listening to Old Bear and Charlie Three Bones whisper back and forth to one another. Couldn’t understand what was said, but figured Daniel wanted to keep his friend’s mind occupied so he wouldn’t get to thinking about the jug again.
Early the next morning, we pushed deeper into the thickening forest. By the time we finally got to Matthew Broken Hand’s house, the trees had closed in on us so tight, Old Bear and Charlie Three Bones made it pretty clear they had the distinct feeling of being hemmed in and weren’t at all comfortable with the situation.
But then we hit this spot in the woods where it all opened up. Broken Hand had taken down every tree on something like three or four acres of land and built his house right in the middle of the cleared field—a two-story rough plank structure that looked to be an earnest effort to copy the houses of white people somewhere out on the East Coast. Rarely saw a house sitting on piers out in the Nations, but the four corners and middle of his rested on what appeared to be carefully selected flat rocks as good as, or maybe better than, any made of brick back in Fort Smith.
As you viewed the house from the front, a rail corral stood to the right, or east side, with a shelter built against that end of the house to protect his animals from bad weather. On the other side and slightly behind the rough building, chickens clucked and complained in their wire-wrapped shelter. An outbuilding stood some distance back of the place in a spot so far away from the house it almost hid itself in the dense woods.
Old Bear said something to Charlie Three Bones and both men laughed behind their hands. Lucius wanted to know what was so funny. “I just pointed out that when the weather gets real bad, there must be a lot of business done between the back door of the house and the outbuilding. Charlie Three Bones noted as how Matthew Broken Hand might well be the only Indian feller in the Nations with a real honest-to-God outhouse.” It always proved a marvel to me how he could swing back and forth from a fractured, halting form of English to the expression of complex thoughts you wouldn’t have believed him capable of putting across. He might have dressed like a refugee from several of the Plains tribes, but beneath the aboriginal exterior resided a mind sharper than the busines
s end of a Mexican hornet.
We sat back in the darkness of the tree line and gave the whole place a good looking-over. Old Bear came up with something I never would have thought of.
“Broken Hand must have made one of those trips to Washington. Probably owns a blue and gold ribbon with a brass medal with the Great White Father’s face on it. His house sure doesn’t look like anything else you can find most Indian folk living in around here. ’Cept maybe Quanah Parker’s place over in the Comanche Nation.”
Lucius smiled, sucked at something between his front teeth, and pulled his rifle from the scabbard. “Yep, be willing to bet he worked a year sawing logs into all those boards, and here we are about to shoot the everlasting hell out of the place.”
I didn’t want a repeat of Drinkwater’s Store, so we talked it over and decided to surround the rough dwelling and get in as close as we could before making our presence known. A dry creek bed twelve or fifteen feet across and six feet deep, with a rough bridge over it, slashed from one corner of the plot to the other about sixty feet from Broken Hand’s front door. Stumps still jutted out of the ground everywhere. We actually had plenty of cover.
Old Bear talked it over with Charlie Three Bones so there wouldn’t be any misunderstandings. The rugged-looking Kiowa brave nodded like he understood, took his rifle, and headed for the west side. Lucius circled around to the back. Old Bear to the east. I elected to move in on them from the front again, and set up in the creek near the far end of the rickety bridge.
The dusty creek bed was deep enough for me to stand upright and have my head above the banks so I could see almost everything around the house. Waited for my posse to get situated before I opened up the discussion. A few seconds before calling out to the house, I remember thinking that Carlton’s wagon full of dynamite and that cannon sure would’ve been nice to have along for the dance.
Had barely managed to stand completely upright so I could yell out when a skinny runt carrying a galvanized bucket full of some kind of slops stepped onto the front porch and tossed the contents into the rough yard. He must have seen something. Maybe he spotted my hat sticking up over the ditch bank, or maybe he had a second sense of some kind about those things. Anyway, he stood there holding the bucket in both hands for a second or so like he was sniffing the air. Then he dropped it and went for his gun. Hell, he didn’t give me much of a chance to think it over, and I couldn’t waste any time. In about a split second I figured he was as good a way as any to start the ball rolling. Jerked the Winchester up and blew him back into the open doorway.
