Gun Work: The Further Exploits of Hayden Tilden

by J. Lee Butts

  “Suppose so. Sure. Just give me a second or two while I work on collecting my scattered thoughts.”

  Tilden stared into the distance. Appeared almost as though he fell into a trance. After about a minute, the old man seemed to relax from head to toe. No more than ten seconds later he turned, locked me in one of his squint-eyed, thousand-yard stares, and started the tale.

  “See, me and Carlton J. Cecil were on our way back to Fort Smith. Herding half a dozen prisoners at the time. If my cankered memory still serves, had a child rapist, pair of whiskey-peddling sons of bitches, feller who murdered his parents over two dollars and an apple pie, guy we caught trying to pass some of the worst counterfeit money I’ve ever seen, and a doubled-up evil skunk named Potsy Tally.”

  “Tally the worst of them?”

  “Oh, yeah. Worst by far. In that bunch anyway. See, he had three brothers that made him look like a Baptist Sunday school teacher’s grandmother.”

  “The brothers known for violent behavior?”

  “Well, if cutting a feller’s head and private parts clean off with a dull handsaw qualifies as violent behavior, guess you could say as how them boys could have easily been certified as a pretty vicious bunch. ’Course when they went and beat the same man’s brains out with the pointy end of a claw hammer, well, that’s the part that kind of sealed their reputations with me.”

  “Jesus. They sawed a man’s privates off with a handsaw? Beat his head in with a claw hammer? Makes me squirm all over just thinking about such a horror.”

  “Ain’t that the truth. But let’s be sure and get it straight. Didn’t say they beat his head in. Said they beat his brains out. There’s a hell of a difference.”

  “Yes. Suppose you’re right. Got any idea why they did it?”

  “Said as how they didn’t like him.”

  “Didn’t like him? That was it?”

  “Seemed like enough for them boys. Maybe if they’d of liked him just a little bit more, would of only sawed his nuts off.”

  “Jesus. Look, as I understand the situation, you arrived in Wagon Wheel while searching for the Tally boys. And then what happened?”

  “Well, let me see, now. Right nice little town, as I recall. Primitive, but nice enough for that part of the Nations. ’Bout forty miles southwest of Tishomingo. Heart of the Chickasaws’ territory. Bad men liked the area. Really rugged. Damned rough, I guess you could say. Anyway, had our prisoners headed for Tishomingo so we could lock ’em up in the jail them Chickasaws built into their brand-new, solid-brick courthouse. Figured on letting some of those Chickasaw light-horse lawmen watch our pack of skunks whilst me and Carl took a break. Once we’d rested up, planned to point our band north, then head on out to Fort Smith.”

  “What, in particular, drew you to Wagon Wheel? You could’ve stopped just about anywhere else along the way.”

  “True, but me and Carl both had an axle dragging. We’d chased Potsy Tally for so long, once we finally caught up with the low-life piece of seeping scum, the pursuit had pert near wore us both slap out. Remember Carlton saying as how his dauber was a dragging in the dirt.”

  “You were tired and the town of Wagon Wheel proved the nearest place to rest up.”

  “Ain’t easy chasing skunks like Potsy while you’re toting five other stripe-backed stink sprayers around, too. Remember Carlton saying he felt like he’d just pumped a railroader’s hand car all the way to Yuma, Arizona. Besides, it’s tougher than eating boiled boot heels when you’re trying to control six men that know they’re gonna hang by the neck until dead, dead, dead, soon as they get back to civilization. Threats and violence tend to be the order of the day.”

  “Carlton complained a lot.”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “According to you, that is.”

  “How else?”

  “As I understand it, during that period in the Nations, towns like Wagon Wheel rarely had a jail. What’d you do with the prisoners once you arrived?”

  “Carl chained the whole bunch of them to a big ole cottonwood tree right in the middle of the puny town’s central square.”

  “All of them? All six?”

  “Well, all of them except Tally. That man couldn’t get along with anybody. Just look him in the eye, and he’d jump on you like ugly on an armadillo. Didn’t take much to figure as how he’d end up stringing barbed wire in Hell, sooner or later. Son of a bitch fought with the other prisoners so much we decided to split him out from the rest of them.”

  “So, what’d you do with him?”

  “Who?”

  “Tally. Remember. You said you didn’t chain him to the tree.”

  “Oh, yeah, well, Carlton shackled his sorry behind to the hitch rack in the street outside a café. Nice joint. Checkered curtains on the windows. Remember as how the joint had a sign over the door proclaimed it as EARLINE’S CAFÉ. Ain’t that amazing? Had forgot the name of the place till just now.”

  “Glad it came to you when it did.”

  “Yeah. And that Earline was a good-looking woman. Being as how that was a year or two before either of us would’ve got ourselves hitched, me and Carl both took special note of the lady while sitting at the table next to the front window.”

  “You were seated near the café’s front window?”

  “Uh-huh. Don’t want to hear ’bout Earline?”

  “Not right now.”

  “I see. Yeah, sitting by the window. Needed a spot where we could watch our prisoners. Given the least chance, them sneaky sons a bitches could get away from you quicker than a body could spit.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, hell, yeah. Caught an ole boy named Hollis Whiteside over in the Sans Bois Mountains once. Bigger than a skint moose. Slipped his manacles. Jumped me and Carl in the middle of the night on our trip back to Fort Smith. Happened about ten or fifteen miles outside Eufala in the Creek Nation.”

  “Did he run?”

  “Run? Hell, no. Told you. He went and jumped us. Beat the unmerciful bejabbers out of both of us. Was well on the way to killing the pair of us. Had a choke hold on me. Had a foot in the middle of Carl’s chest. But then, about the time I was ready to pass over to Glory, a God-sent miracle occurred.”

  “A miracle? A real, honest-to-goodness miracle?”

  “Yeah. See, somehow, that little redheaded scamp Carlton managed to get a bone-gripped bowie knife of his loose from one of his boots. Ran eight inches of Damascus steel all the way through the foot that Whiteside wasn’t using to try and push Carl’s breastbone through his spine and into the ground beneath.”

  “Sweet Mary.”

  “Yeah. Was kind of funny though. Once Carl was able to poke through Hollis’s foot, oversized bastard yelped like a stomped-on tomcat. Grabbed at the knife’s hilt, went to hoppin’ ’round like one of them whirling dervishes. Clumsy son of a bitch fell down right in the middle of our campfire. Rolled back and forth in the flames like some kind of complete idiot. Sparks went to flying ever which a-way. His clothes went to blazing. Watched in pure, dumbfounded amazement. Got to thinking as how, maybe, he was trying to cook his stupid self, or something. That’s when Carl shot him.”

  “Shot him?”

  “Four times.”

  “Four times?”

  “You know, said the exact same thing myself. Said, ‘Damn, Carl, did you have to shoot the ignorant bastard four times?’ Carl was reloading when he said, ‘Damn right. Wanted to make sure the big son of a bitch was good and dead. Might shoot him again, just for the hell of it, by God.’”

  “Let’s get back to the men you had chained to the tree and hitch rail in Wagon Wheel.”

  “Oh, yeah. Well, we weren’t torturing them or anything like that, Junior. As a matter of pure fact, first thing we did was make arrangements for all those boys to get something to eat. And that was before we even bothered with our own hunger. Soon as they got served, that’s when we strolled on into Earline’s and ordered up some grub for ourselves. So hungry we finished off a damned fi
ne feed in record time.”

  “Feeling better by then, I take it.”

  “Yep. Feeling right peppy when we stepped outside to have a smoke before we headed our prisoners on their way toward Tishomingo. About then, five men came storming up directly across Wagon Wheel’s only thoroughfare. They were slinging dirt clods and dust here and yonder. Whooping, hollering, and yelping like a bunch of kicked dogs. Made a hell of a racket.”

  “Did you recognize any of them?”

  “ ’Course I did. Three of them were Potsy’s more-than-worthless brothers. Butch, Leroy, and Clem. Knew all those boys on sight. But I couldn’t put a name to either of the other two scruffy-looking skunks.”

  “Sounds like a bad situation that was about to get worse.”

  “Well, just could’ve been. But only if me and Carl had forgot to carry our scatterguns along with us when we went inside Earline’s place to eat.”

  “So, you had your shotguns in hand?”

  “Yep. Pockets filled with shells, too.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “Ah, yeah. Now try to picture this, Junior. We took our stand right behind where ole Potsy was chained up, on the boardwalk outside Earline’s front door. Those bastards twirled their mounts around, then jumped off them. Spread out in a shoulder-to-shoulder line and hoofed it our direction before a body even had a chance to think twice.”

  “You could tell they meant business.”

  “No doubt in my mind what they intended. Bet they weren’t twenty feet away when Butch, oldest and meanest of them Tally boys, went to reaching and grabbing for iron. He managed to get one pistol loose. Sent a blue whistler our direction that knocked my hat off. Brand-new Stetson. Hadn’t got a month’s worth of wear out of it. ’Course, rest of that bunch of churnheads took his lead and grabbed for their weapons as well.”

  “Which one of you lawmen returned fire first?”

  “Not sure. Think it might have been Carlton.”

  “Carlton?”

  “Yeah. Man never was much for messing around when it came to killing bad men. He’d drop the hammer on one of them faster than lickety-split.”

  “So you think Carl fired first?”

  “Was a long time ago, Junior, but seems like Carl touched off both barrels of that ten-gauge blaster of his and took out the whole right side of ole Butch’s line of would-be killers. Knocked down a couple or three of them boys as was already firing at us. Half an eye blink later, I cut loose. My God, sounded like the thunderous wrath of God had come down on that street. Sweet merciful Jesus, we dropped a curtain of buckshot on them ole boys that would’ve killed an entire company of Yankee cavalry.”

  “Was my understanding this was a gunfight. Your rendition makes it sound like something closer to an execution.”

  “Well, don’t go and get all misty-eyed and feeling sorry for them bastards, Junior. They started the whole dance and were as game as it gets. Sons a bitches went down shooting. Three of them ended up on their knees after our initial volley. They peppered the whole front of Earline’s place with pistol fire. Hot lead, splintered wood, and broken glass filled the air all around me and Carl like buzzing bees.”

  “Any place to hide?”

  “Not much of one. Ended up rolling around on our bellies and backs behind a water trough next to the hitch rail. Those three remaining shooters did their level best to turn that trough into a screen door. Bullets pounded those water-soaked boards like someone had taken to beating on them with a ball-peen hammer. Have to admit, caught in that hailstorm of lead proved one of the very few times I actually got to wondering about my safety and future prospects of staying alive.”

  “What about Potsy Tally?”

  “Ah. Sad tale there. Genuinely pitiful situation. Man came to a bad end. Real bad. See, unfortunately for ole Potsy, his chains didn’t give him enough room to maneuver his way to safety.”

  “Don’t tell me.”

  “Glanced over at the man just about the time a stray whistler, fired by one of his very own compadres, caught him in the right temple. Hell, could have been one of his own brothers killed the man, for all I know.”

  “God Almighty.”

  “Yeah. Big ole forty-five slug blew the poor sucker’s head completely apart. Splattered most of his pea-sized brain all over Earline’s boardwalk and café doors. Man’s exploding skull bore a striking resemblance to a watermelon being blown up. Hair, skull bone, and brain matter sprayed all over creation. Can’t imagine how it happened, but one of ole Potsy’s eyeballs popped loose and hit me square in the chest. And, hell, I was stretched out on my back ten or fifteen feet away.”

  “Good God.”

  “Carlton saw what happened. Picked the eyeball off my chest. Held it up and yelled, ‘Reckon he can still see us?’ Then he turned the horrid thing around so it was looking at him, said, ‘Can you see me, Potsy?’ Then, you ain’t gonna believe this, Carl laid that ghastly thing up on the edge of the water trough. Turned it around so it was looking toward the street at its friends. Then, Carlton went and busted out laughing, lying on his back in the dirt, right there in the middle of that hellish scene, laughing like a madman.”

  “That’s just awful.”

  “Well, Junior, it’s been my experience that people often do strange things when Death’s lurking around looking for his next victim. Ain’t any worse than when Carl shot Jackson Boosher.”

  “Hate to ask. What was so awful about shooting Jackson Boosher?”

  “Caught up with ole Jackson in an outhouse. ’Course he was kind of preoccupied what with reading the Montgomery Ward catalogue and doing his business. Anyway, Carl riddled the place with a load of buckshot. Kicked the door down and Jackson was still sitting on the crapper when he died. Catalogue was opened to the women’s corset section.”

  “Good God. Don’t try to sidetrack me with something worse than flying eyeballs. Now, what’d you do about the men in Wagon Wheel who were still alive and shooting at you?”

  “Rolled around behind that water trough, till we got our shotguns reloaded. Waited till some of the general blasting coming from the street calmed down a bit. Figured as how most of them ole boys was dead or dying. But just to make sure, we jumped up and hit them with four more barrels of hot lead.”

  “Four more barrels of ten-gauge buckshot?”

  “Was a sight to behold, Junior. My God but the street around them poor bastards exploded in a cloud of flying dirt, rendered flesh, shredded clothing, and roiling clouds of spent, acrid-tasting gunpowder. Veritable cyclone of man-killing lead went through that crew of would-be bad men like a red-hot hay sickle. Our blasting hit them straight on. Storm of lead caused a vaporous spray of pinkish-red blood in the air. Looked like pink steam wafting off a fresh-stoked Baldwin engine—”

  At this point one of the nurses, a striking, black-haired, blue-eyed young woman named Heddy McDonald, sashayed up and interrupted our conversation. She insisted that Tilden accompany her to his midday meal. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. Think he was inclined to resist. But she tempted him with one of his favorite desserts—lime jello spiked with fruit salad and extra bits of banana and pineapple. Man’s a born-again sucker for the stuff.

  Tilden winked, ponderously hoisted himself out of his favorite chair, and shuffled away. I watched as he and the girl headed down the hall toward the cafeteria, arm in arm, like a pair of lovers. General Black Jack Pershing, the persnickety cat, appeared out of somewhere unknowable and trailed behind. At the dining hall’s door, Tilden turned, big toothy grin on his weathered face, and waved.

  Must admit I do spend way too much time worrying about the old marshal. He’s as fine a gentleman as I’ve ever had the good fortune to call a friend. Know that sooner or later his age will catch up with him.

  Additionally, I fear that, despite his gallant bluster, the old man’s nights are likely filled with a legion of vengeance-seeking, bloodthirsty ghosts. Would bet the family manse, along with whatever in the way of inheritance might be forthco
ming, that those phantoms come riding out of the gray-black miasma of his epic past right up to the old man’s bedside every night. Not sure I would have anything like the will necessary to deal with such a frightening and terrifying possibility. Seriously doubt few men live, in these days of automobiles and worsted wool suits, who would, either.

  Over the past two years or so I have heard him recite numerous tales of his violent and tumultuous past. Suppose it’s a good thing Chief Nurse Leona Wildbank took the old man’s pistols away from him. God help the ghost who approaches Hayden Tilden if he has a weapon in his hand.

  Notes taken by my hand,

  Franklin J. Lightfoot Jr.

  1

  “THE KNIFE, THURM. GIVE ME THE KNIFE.”

  AIN’T SURE EXACTLY when it went and happened, but I’ve done got so old it feels like I’m living on borrowed time and three of my payments, to the God that allows it, are way past due. If Carlton J. Cecil was still full of beans and kicking, he’d probably say something like, “Yeah, the Dead Sea wasn’t even sick when Hayden Tilden got born. Man came into this world ten years before them gals found Moses floating down the Nile in a wicker basket. Yep, best thing you can say ’bout the man is that the spring’s done gone out of his chicken.”

  Given as how I’m undeniably facing the very real prospect of shambling into the first year of my tenth decade pretty quick, seems I can’t get through a week without some idiot asking me what I’ve learned over such a long, tumultuous, and blood-drenched life. Well, since random busybodies seem so interested, here are a few thoughts I’ve had on that particular subject.

  Ain’t gonna offer up any guarantees that my fractured ruminations on longevity will help anyone all that much, but what follows is a bit of heartrending wisdom I wish had come to me a lot earlier than it did. Pay attention, buckaroos and buckarettes, because this is the important part of my message. Here goes—no matter how hard a man tries he can never escape his past.

  Given that the modern mind can’t remember anything longer than a few seconds, feel this bit of wisdom is so profound it bears repeating. So, for the benefit of those so dumb they think the Mexican border ought to pay rent, I’ll phrase it in a manner where even they can’t miss the meaning. No matter how hard you try, friends and neighbors, you’ll never get free of what you’ve done.