Hell in the Nations: The Further Adventures of Hayden Tilden (Hayden Tilden Westerns Book 2)

by J. Lee Butts

  “Don’t you want me?” Hell, boys, the invitation in her voice was unmistakable. Things that had filled my fantasies ever since my spell hiding in the woods and watching her bathe were right there for the taking. But I just couldn’t do it.

  “Oh, hell, girl. Don’t think I’ve ever wanted a woman anywhere near as bad as I do you. But maybe we should wait for a bit. Believe you need some time to think this one through. Tomorrow morning you might look back on what happened here, and decide you made a terrible mistake offering yourself to me like this.”

  That’s what I said, but I remember thinkin’, if my luck held, maybe in a few days she’d make a second pass at it. By then, I should have been able to figure out some way for us to have some privacy. Wondered how that would sound to her. For the most part, women who feel the majority of the earth’s nasty men can only think about one thing are pretty much right.

  She made this noise almost like a tired cat purring, nuzzled up against my shoulder, and fell to sleep so fast I couldn’t believe it. Guess she just needed some assurance everything was all right.

  Next morning, we headed for Big Cougar Bluff as fast as good horses could pull that clumsy tumbleweed wagon and all its attachments. It’d been a hell of a trip up till then. But Jesus Christ Almighty, nothing and nobody could have got me ready for what was waitin’ up ahead. And with God as my witness, any ideas that had entered my poor sorry brain that might have led me to think I had some understanding of women in general, and Judith Karr in particular, were just a few days away from being shaken right down to their roots. ’Fore our Red Rock raid ended, that gal made an impression that has lasted right up till this beautiful late fall morning.

  Carlton had been whackin’ at his tale for quite a spell when he started to sag. ’Bout the time his antique old self got to the part where Judith pulled her magic trick on Wilson Bowlegs, he’d almost done himself in all together. I waved Junior off. Motioned for him not to ask Carl any more questions. We’d been runnin’ buddies long enough for me to recognize when his main spring had about run down. Caught Ruth’s eye as she passed, and waved her over to my chair.

  “Ruthie, I think Mr. Cecil might be gettin’ a mite tired from the day’s storytelling session. Reckon you could wheel him back to his room?”

  She ran her fingers over the few remaining hairs left on his ancient head, leaned over, and almost whispered, “You ready to call it a morning, Mr. Cecil? Bet you’d love to take a little nap about now, wouldn’t you? Got cool, crisp new sheets waiting for you.”

  He eyeballed the front of her heavily starched white uniform, cupped a hand over his right ear, and yelped, “Cat? Haven’t seen Black Jack lately.”

  She bent forward about another foot. Her ruby-colored lips stopped a few inches from a hair-filled left ear. His nose, which was almost buried in her cleavage by then, twitched when it detected the delicate perfume she’d applied there. She didn’t yell, just raised her voice a bit and said, “No, Mr. Cecil, I said you would probably like a little nap about now.”

  His head swiveled toward Junior and me like a rusted weather vane on top of a Kentucky horse barn. Just enough so we could see the snaggle-toothed grin on his face. Then, he leaned back ever so slightly to get a better view of her exposed bosom and growled, “You’re right there, little darlin’.” He waved a bony arm back in our direction. “Have wilted a bit. These jugheads damn near wore me out. Kept forcing whiskey on me and made me spend the whole morning talking about good women, bad men, and evil behavior. Kinda work has a tendency to make me feel like an empty shuck. Guess I’ll have to finish up some other time, boys.” Last few sentences trailed off to a point where I barely heard him.

  Junior stood, and took my old friend’s withered hand as Ruth moved behind Carlton’s chair. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Cecil,” he said, “It’s been quite a ride. Can’t think of a better way to spend a morning. You’ve told us quite a story. Quite a story.”

  Carlton kind of wiggled all over like an old dog when you scratch the right spot on his belly. “Hope you’ll forgive my early leave-taking, Junior. But my constitution just ain’t as well constituted as it used to was. Hell, once you push past ninety, plus a few on top of it, ain’t nothing what it used to be. Life gets to the point where it’s more a problem than you’re actually willing to deal with on some days.” He tried to turn his head again so he could see the sparkling girl behind him. “Ruthie’s usually right. Might be best if I take a break. Maybe after a nap, we can make another run at it.”

  The chair spun around in a tight circle. Couldn’t keep my own eyes off that blond gal’s beautifully rounded hips as she leaned into the load. I’ve often wondered if the day would ever come when a man gets too old to care about such things. Carlton was still a fine judge of females even at his advanced age.

  He dangled a flapping arm over the chair’s side, waved, and called over his shoulder, “Hayden can finish up for me. He’s the only other person alive what still knows it all. You boys take it easy. I’ll see ya’ll in the mornin’. Good Lord willin’ and the creeks don’t rise.” A raspy chuckle filtered back our direction as they disappeared down the hall.

  Junior called it a day too. Said he had another appointment that afternoon anyway, and needed to get moving to make sure he arrived on time. Seems our governor, the former turkey farmer, wanted to talk with him about some of his previous and less-than-flattering columns. He left Black Jack and me sitting on the sun porch—just the two of us again—with the potted plants, and all my thoughts about what we’d talk about when the boy came back.

  Didn’t take dinner with the other prisoners that afternoon. Spent the whole time chewing around at the edges of the past. Hadn’t used up too much space in my brain box over the years with that story Carlton dropped on Junior. He’d told me the whole thing soon’s we got together up on Big Cougar Bluff. We kept it a secret all the years that’d past since that time. Now, pretty soon, everybody who could read an Arkansas newspaper would know about it. God, but life is funny. One day something as important as how a no-account, blood-letting outlaw like Wilson Bowlegs checked out of this world is all you can think about or worry over. Fifty or sixty years later, it just don’t matter. Hell, it didn’t really matter then, but we thought it did.

  Truth of it is that the only thing about life that ever does actually mean a hell of a lot is the people closest to you. You know, we get these teary-eyed do-gooders coming through Rolling Hills about twice a month blubbering about what they can do to help all us “poor neglected old people.” Ain’t much can be done by them—or anyone else. Everyone we ever cared about is gone. The one true thing virtually all the ancient souls in this Greyhound station for the last big trip need more’n anything else is just, very simply, some company. Other people. Folks like Junior. Someone to talk to us. Another living, breathing person who would take a few minutes to listen. People to share our final days amongst the living with.

  That’s why Carlton played such an important part in my life. We were old friends, getting older by the minute—together. We mutually watched and waited for the appearance of the one Carl called the ole bony-fingered dude. Time was running out on us. Carl knew it better’n I did. Bony Fingers had tried to carry him away about once a week for the past four or five years.

  And that’s why I’ll have to admit—it didn’t come as any real great surprise, or shock, when Chief Nurse Leona Wildbank tracked me down while I slept in my favorite chair, and woke me up at about two o’clock that morning.

  “Mr. Tilden,” she whispered, “Mr. Cecil is in a bad way and has asked for you. Could you come with me, please?”

  Woman sounded about as serious as a heart attack. Her face was a mask of pain, and she looked to have been crying. That part surprised the hell out me. Never figured Leona for one who cared much for any of us. I mean, she took good care of everyone, but she just never seemed to care for us. Don’t know whether that’s clear or not, but maybe you get my drift.

  Followed her down the h
all, toddled up to Carl’s room, and waited by the door till she came back, led me inside, and left me standing at the foot of his bed. They had him hooked up to about a dozen different kinds of liquid at the time. A doctor who looked about twelve years old hovered over that old man’s shrunken chest, and delicately shoved a stethoscope from one heaving spot to the next. Carl’s breathing came in short, hoarse gasps.

  Didn’t notice them at first, but several of his favorite nurses stood in the shadows. He’d cheated death so many times before, but I knew this was serious because some of those beautiful young women wept and dabbed at their noses with white tissues. He’d been a constant source of considerable entertainment for them over the past few years. Think a few actually loved the randy old letch.

  After about a minute or so, his teenaged doctor shook his head, hung his stethoscope around his neck, and moved away. Leona motioned for me to come forward. Shuffled up beside the bed and took his wasted hand in mine. Must have stood there for about five minutes, called his name several times, before he finally, and with considerable effort, forced his eyes open. Barely made out what he said. His voice was clear but weak and the words came in spurts.

  “Well, mi amigo viejo, about time . . . to give up . . . my gee-tar. . . . Don’t reckon . . . can hold . . . him off . . . much longer, Hayden. Awful tired . . . you know? Let you . . . talk me . . . out of this . . . last time. But you know . . . kinda tired . . . of fighting him off. Son of a bitch . . . is relentless . . . won’t . . . leave me be. If’n I . . . had my pistols . . . put some holes in . . . his bony ass.” He tried to laugh at his own joke, but went into a racking fit of coughing.

  “Yeah, Carlton, I hear you. Understand completely. We’ve had a helluva ride together. Haven’t we, old man?”

  “Helluva ride. Gonna come back . . . to life . . . because of you . . . Hayden. Everyone’s . . . gonna be famous. . . . People . . . all over . . . gonna know our names. . . .” His eyelids drooped and, for a second, I thought he’d finally bought the ranch for sure, but then they snapped open like the lid on a kid’s jack-in-the-box, and he came back all fierce and new again for a few seconds.

  “Remember what I said from the beginning? Tell it all. Don’t . . . leave . . . nothin’ . . . out. Things we done. Don’t matter . . . who knows . . . now. Long’s you’ve got . . . that pink-faced boy . . . on the hook . . . tell it all. See you on the other side, old man.” He drifted away again for a second or two. Then shocked the hell out of everyone in the room when he tried to sit up. Clear as a dinner bell he yelped, “Elizabeth said to tell you not to worry. Everyone’s waiting for you, and it’s beautiful there.”

  A crooked grin creaked across his face as he eased back onto his pillow. Made motions like he was feeling around on the bed and said, “Where’s my guns? The son of a bitch is coming!” His eyes fixed on mine for another second or so. Then he made that sound. If you’ve ever heard it you know what I mean. From somewhere deep inside his used-up, antiquated carcass, a righteous spirit turned loose and escaped, darted past his lips, flew over my shoulder, and went back to God.

  Couple of the beautiful little girls in that barren room wept like babies. Ain’t ashamed to say I cried too. Thought, it sure would have been nice if he could have had his pistols and saddle there with him when he went out. Course, they wouldn’t have fit in very well with our dying-old-fart décor here at the Rolling Hills Home for the Aged.

  He’d been my oldest and closest friend. And he’d done exactly what I told him to do. He’d stayed alive just long enough to tell Franklin J. Lightfoot Junior his part of our story. Suppose you could say, I kept him alive for a day or two longer than he’d actually planned on being with me to begin with. That didn’t make his departure from this life any easier for me. Hell, I’d known it was coming. But like the man said, “We’re never ready for death when he shows up.” Whether it’s you he’s after, or someone close, we’ve got to be the most ill-prepared inhabitants on the planet when it comes to a showdown with the Maker.

  But Carlton, now there’s a very different tale. He had postponed the eventual at least a dozen times over the past year. His departure didn’t come as any surprise at all to that old man. Personally, I’m pretty sure he might have planned it all that way. Be just like him.

  Next morning Leona helped me make all the arrangements. Carlton didn’t have any living family to take care of such things. Hell, I’d been looking out for him for almost thirty years as it was, and his funeral amounted to nothing more than the logical extension of those responsibilities. Felt like his father, for Christ’s sake, in spite of the fact that he was damn near five years older’n me.

  We had a memorial service at a crematorium out on the west side of town somewhere north of 65th Street. Hadn’t ever been out there before, so I can’t remember the exact location. Me and Lightfoot, Leona, Jerimiah Obediah Samuel Henry Jones, a few others who worked around Rolling Hills, and a whole bunch of pretty little nurses accompanied by very confused-looking husbands were the only folks who attended. Heddy McDonald wept like ole Carlton had been her best friend. Guess you could say he had a right nice send-off for a man who just had one real friend left in the world.

  Lenoa got Rolling Hills’ resident chaplain to do a kind of one-fits-all ceremony that actually worked out considerably better’n I would have ever thought it could. He did this whole song and dance where he compared our lives to taking a trip on a steamship and how all those who’d gone before waited for us on the other side. Seemed totally appropriate to me.

  Don’t know where he got it but, while we stood by Carlton’s rented box and took our last look, Franklin J. Lightfoot Junior pinned a genuine silver-plated deputy U.S. marshal’s badge on our friend’s chest. Damned fine gesture on the boy’s part. My respect for Junior went up about fifty points. Carl would have loved it.

  Couple of days later, back out on the sun porch, Leona strolled up and handed me a highly polished wooden box. Inside I found a cobalt-blue jug that had a silver tag on the side with Carlton’s name, date of birth, and date of death stamped into it.

  In what had to go down as the most respectful voice that big ole gal could muster up, she said, “Mr. Cecil’s mortal remains.”

  Thought seriously ’bout keepin’ them mortal remains with me in my room, then got to figurin’ he wouldn’t have liked that at all. He’d never cared a whole lot for being warehoused in this holding pen for folks who’d been shucked right down to the cob. Decided what he most likely would have absolutely loved would have been for me to chase some of those nurses down the hall, and throw what was left of him on them. But I couldn’t see myself doing anything like that. So I talked Franklin J. Junior into a little road trip. He had a well-kept gray 1937 Chevrolet Coupe. We drove out west of Little Rock to a spot on the Arkansas River named Pinnacle Mountain.

  Folks over there had one of the last remaining ferryboats still operating in the state at the time. Called her the Queen Willowmena. Rode her across the river. I’d found one of Carl’s old hats in his closet. When we got about halfway across, I held the sweat-stained thing by the brim, and Junior dumped the contents of that blue bottle into it. Always thought you ended up with fine ashes when someone got cremated. But that ain’t the case. What came out of his jug was about a double handful of what looked like pieces of chipped-up bone and a rough-edged lump of silver that had once been a deputy U.S. marshal’s badge.

  Lightfoot leaned over and under his breath said, “This is just a mite illegal, Mr. Tilden. Let’s don’t make a big deal out of the thing. Just get him in as quick as you can.”

  Pretty cold that morning, but I moved as far away as I could from the few other passengers on board. Took his old Stetson by the brim, and sent it sailing out over the water. Sun rode the tops of the trees, and threw a red-tinged golden glow over the river’s fast-moving surface. Ole Carl dropped into that frosty stream on a beam of light that shot through the trees and followed him till he disappeared from view.

  Lightfoot stood with
his right arm around my narrow, sagging shoulders. I said, “Don’t know about you, Junior, but I kind of like to think Judith came back just now and got him.”

  He smiled and waved in the direction of our old friend’s watery grave. “Sure enough looked that way to me, Hayden. Sure enough looked that way to me.”

  9

  “LUCIUS BY GOD DODGE”

  GUESS CARLTON’S PASSING had a more profound effect on Junior than I first thought. At least that’s the way it seemed to me at the time. After our ferry ride over at Pinnacle Mountain, he brought me back to the home, and didn’t come around again for more than two weeks. But his seriously shaved face finally meandered in on an ice-cold Monday just after Thanksgiving. Those days General Black Jack Pershing and me had the porch to ourselves, but we were happier’n horned frogs in an anthill because we’d inherited all of Carlton’s former girlfriends. They checked on us constantly, and saw to our every need. Kept us covered up with a nice thick blanket one of the ladies on the second floor left when she cashed out a couple of winters before. Brought us coffee, or Hershey’s hot cocoa, and cat treats anytime we wanted ’em. Hell, we got to thinking life couldn’t get much better’n that.

  “Appreciated the phone call Thanksgiving Day, Junior. Mighty nice of you to keep me in mind.”

  He examined each of the chairs along the wall like an old spinster buying flower seeds at her favorite feed store and mercantile before he found the one he favored. Then, he dragged it over next to me and Black Jack, screwed himself down into it, grinned like he was just tickled plumb to death, draped his heavy coat over still-cold legs, and pulled out the ever-present pad and pencil.

  “Sorry I couldn’t get by in person, Hayden. My wife’s family expects us to show up at their house for holidays. We have to drive down to Shreveport again Christmas Day. They never come up here. Carmen and I’ve been married five years, and my in-laws have never set foot in my house. But by God, if we don’t show up on their doorstep anytime I have a minute off, there’s hell to pay. Besides, I had something special I’ve been working on for you, and had to see to it.”