by J. Lee Butts
“Aw, hell, Martha Frances, I love a good musical, drama, or comedy. I can even sit through one of them silly-assed things what has so-called monsters in ’em, and that’s a fact. But singing cowboys, horses smarter’n most of the old fogies here at Rolling Hills, pistols that shoot twenty-five times, and fringed shirts with big yeller flowers stitched all over ’em just ain’t anything close to what I can recall of the West I lived in.”
She batted those bluey-greeny peepers at me and cooed, “Trust me, you’ll like this one. Guarantee it. Story of a man you might have known at some point.”
“Who? Who could I have possibly known that those Hollywood types would make a movie about him?”
“Gentleman named Wyatt Earp, as I recall.”
Bet I hadn’t heard that name in more’n fifty years. Stopped again. Must’ve looked something along the lines of shocked and amazed. “Wyatt Earp? You sure about this, girl? No doubt. Somebody’s gone and made an actual motion picture show about Wyatt Earp?”
Have to admit that, deep down, I felt more than a twinge of jealousy knowing that Earp had managed to pull off such a feat. You might remember that my prolific biographer, Franklin J. Lightfoot, and me took a trip out to the land of fruits and nuts once ourselves. Thought we’d sold some of them movie-making weiners on the idea of cranking out a picture show about me.
Appears that what they paid us some pretty good money for was what they call an “option.” Never claimed any skill as a lawyer, so near as I’ve been able to figure it, an “option” ain’t nothing more than a half-assed promise to think about doing something, someday, maybe, perhaps. Whole experience was a real disappointment. And yet, a taciturn Wyatt Earp had pulled it off. Just thinking about it made me want to gag.
Well, Martha latched onto my arm even harder, gave me a mighty tug. Kept me moving toward the dayroom, as she said, “I put in a personal request for this very motion picture more than a month ago, just especially so you could see it, Hayden Tilden. Had begun to think Elton wouldn’t have any luck getting a copy for us, but he did. Well, surprised me when I found out that Elton had proven a man of his word. He managed to ferret one out, and tonight you get to see it.”
Two hours later we sat in the darkest corner of the sunporch and sipped on a couple of frosty RC Colas Martha Frances had cadged for us from somewhere. Couldn’t really see her face when she patted my hand and said, “Well, I’m waiting. Are you ever going to tell me what you thought of this evening’s entertainment?”
Coughed, squirmed in my seat, then said, “Lot better than them damned singing cowboy oaters, that’s for sure. Liked that part where Earp kilt all them Clantons. Sorry, murdering bastards. Got no use for back-shooting scum like them boys.”
Sounded a bit piqued when she said, “Well, I thought it very romantic.”
Fished a panatela out of my jacket pocket, stoked it to life, then blew an invisible smoke ring at the ceiling. “That’s the problem, darlin’. You could call the West of my experience a lot of things, but romantic sure as hell ain’t one of them.”
“You mean the events depicted in the movie didn’t happen.”
“Oh, I suppose some of them actually happened, but not like what you saw tonight.”
Could hear the growing indignity in her voice when she said, “Well, Mr. Smarty-Pants Know-It-All, name me one thing you saw that wasn’t true.”
Grinned to myself. Of course she couldn’t see me. “That’s an easy one. Fact is, nobody ever shot Doc Holliday dead at the O.K. Corral, like they done in tonight’s piece of well-made, but highly fictionalized, entertainment.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, it is very much so, Martye.”
“And you know this for a fact?”
“Absolutely. Truth is, the man died of the consumption six years after the gunfight. Croaked in a sanatorium in Glen-wood Springs, Colorado. Passed over, lying in bed with his boots off. Rumor has it he raised his head up right at the end, stared at his nekkid feet, and said, ‘This is funny.’ Top of that, while ole Doc might have, at some point, known a Mexican gal named Chihuahua, truth is when the real tale took place he was keeping company with a soiled dove everybody knew as Big Nose Kate.”
Could feel Martha Frances kind of huff and puff a bit before she snapped, “Just a bit of writer’s license, that’s all. Still say I liked the romance.”
“More like misplaced obsession, you ask me.”
“Obsession? What obsession are you talking about, Hayden?”
Should’ve tiptoed around that one a bit, but didn’t. “Well, in that piece of imaginary illusion we just witnessed, Clementine was obsessed with Doc. Chihuahua was obsessed with Doc. Doc was obsessed with dying. Wyatt was obsessed with Clementine. Just a big ole circle of romantically misplaced obsessive behavior, you ask me. Except for ole man Clanton. But come to think on it, he was obsessed with Wyatt, too. But I don’t think his feelings involved romance of any kind. ’Course I could be wrong ’bout that. Did sometimes get lonely out there on the trail.”
“Why, you’re kidding, of course?”
“ ’Course.”
“And you never saw a similar kind of conduct during your days as a deputy U.S. marshal riding the rough country of the Indian Nations, I suppose.”
Near a minute of silence slipped between us. Puffed on my cigar a time or two before I said, “Guess you could say I saw a bit of it, a time or two. ’Course, them as I’m aware of almost always led to murder.”
Martha Frances grabbed my knee like a starving hawk grabbing a ground squirrel. Could feel those bloodred talons biting into my leg. “Tell me, Hayden Tilden. You’ve been somewhat reticent with many parts of your past. Open with some, I must admit, but restrained with others. Now, tell me what you know of obsession.”
Had the distinct feeling she didn’t, for a second anyhow, realize what she was asking. “Sure you want to hear it? It’s a tale of murder, betrayal, and blood. Not the kind of thing most ladies of good character want to know about. And it’s all true. Not a single word of romantic fiction involved.”
Her grip on my knee tightened. “Well, go ahead. Tell me a story of obsession, murder, blood, and betrayal.”
Leaned back into my chair. Screwed myself deeper into the cushions. Took another puff from the panatela, then said, “All right. Best strap in though, darlin’. Got the feelin’ you just might not like the ending to this tale.”
3
“HOBBLED AROUND LIKE A ONE-LEGGED CRIPPLE.”
LETHAL DOSE OF gun smoke and quick death I’ll talk about tonight started when Nate Swords and me drew our mounts to a halt atop a tree-shaded knoll outside the barely existent town of Lone Pine—over in the Chickasaw Nation. Rugged, primitive village occupied a grassy cup of land along the foothills of the Arbuckle Mountains out in the Wildhorse River country. Place was rougher than a box of petrified corncobs. Raw-edged, remote, and given to entertaining desperate men. Men who were often on the run.
Entire settlement didn’t amount to much more than half a dozen canvas-roofed, board-and-batten shacks and a few raggedy-looking tents. Handmade signs decorated a few of the buildings, but most had no identifiers on them at all. Whole shebang was strung out in a straight line, right in front of us, along the far side of a rutted thoroughfare that ran up from the river and headed northwest toward Chickasha.
Way me and Nate figured it, the rugged community had but one purpose in existing. No doubt in our minds that the denizens of Lone Pine worked like sweaty field hands to introduce every form of strong spirits, rotgut whiskey, jig juice, ole skull popper, or hundred-fifty-proof coffin paint imaginable to the Nations’ constantly shifting population of Indian and white, thieves and killers. And perhaps, depending on availability, they sometimes provided female companionship for them fellers as might have the wherewithal to pay for it.
Nate hiked a leg over his saddle horn. Pulled the makings and set to building himself a hand-rolled. As he worked tobacco and paper, he said, “Hope the sons a bitches are dow
n there, Hayden. Don’t know ’bout you, but I’m tired of chasin’ the murderous skunks. We’ve been on the track now for nigh on three weeks. Been hot on their worthless tails all the way from Van Buren, to McAlester’s Store, to here. Got blisters on my rump the size of a crop of coconuts.”
Couldn’t help but smile. Had come to recognize that when Nate went to getting himself prepared for the possibility of dodging blue whistlers, he just might go on a comical rip on any subject he could bring to mind. Swept my Stetson off. Pulled a bandanna and wiped out the inside of the hat, then let it hang down my back on a leather thong.
“What in the wide, wide world do you know about coconuts, Nate?” I said.
“Well, by God, know I like ’em fried. Yessir, just ain’t nothin’ I can think of matches the culinary goodness of a fried coconut.”
“Fried? Coconuts? Sweet Jesus. Just where in the Sam Hill did you ever even so much as see a coconut, anyway?”
Man didn’t miss a beat. He was on one of his yarn-spinning rolls and ran with it. Flashed a crooked grin my way, from beneath a straw-colored moustache, then laid the freshly rolled cigarette between his lips. He fired the smoke to life, flicked a smoldering match aside, then said, “Found ’em in the produce section of your wife’s grocery store and mercantile in Fort Smith. Right next to them little yeller things called lee-mons. Yessir, bought me a couple a fryin’-sized coconuts not more’n a week ’fore we started on this raid.”
“That a fact?”
“Damned sure is. Know you think I’m just tellin’ a tall one, but you can check with your missus when we get back to town. Seen her that day. Waved, said howdy, exchanged pleasantries, by God.”
“Which of Elizabeth’s mercantile operations are you talking about?”
“She got more’n one?”
“Most like half a dozen, when last I counted.”
“Well, place I’m talkin’ ’bout’s the bustlin’ enterprise located on the corner of Towson and Rogers. Brick front. Substantial-looking. Feller might mistake it for a bank, he ain’t paying strict attention.”
“Ah. Yes. Elizabeth’s largest and, perhaps, best-stocked emporium. Inherited it from her father when he passed on. Well, and you claim to have fried the aforementioned coconuts. That’s what you said, isn’t it?”
Fleeting bit of playful confusion crinkled around the corner’s of Nate’s slate-gray eyes. Looked right thoughtful when he leaned an elbow onto his knee, then hooked a thumb over the grip of one of the Colt pistols he carried strapped high on his hip in the old-fashioned, butts forward, Wild Bill Hickok manner.
“You bet. Fried them little boogers to mouthwaterin’ crispiness,” he said, after less than five seconds of thought.
“Now, I want to get this straight. No confusion. You’re telling me that you fried a coconut?”
“Bet your boots, Deputy Marshal Tilden. You ain’t never had a fried coconut, don’t know what you’re missin’.”
In a move to keep from laughing out loud, maybe even gasping for breath to the point of falling off Gunpowder’s broad, muscular back and perhaps breaking my neck in the tumble, pulled my long glass, then snapped it out to the third segment. Scanned everything I could lay an eye on in the disreputable burg not five hundred yards away. In spite of myself, though, let a snicker slip out while eyeballing the place.
Under my breath, said, “Fried coconuts. Sweet merciful Jesus, save me.”
“Well, I did, by God,” Nate chirped.
Squinted into the end of the glass, said, “That before or after you removed the hairy, outer shell?”
“Uh, after, a course. Cain’t go fryin’ no coconut with the hairy shell still on it. Any cook worth spit knows that. Leastways, that’s what my sainted, white-haired ole mama and grandma taught me.”
“What kind of grease you use?”
“Bacon grease, of course. Best kind. Gotta be fresh though. Nothing rancid. ’S why I always brown up a big ole slab a maple-flavored goodness ’fore I start in on fryin’ my coconuts.”
“Ah, of course. And what other dishes did you have with your fried coconuts, might I be so bold as to inquire?” Let the glass down and laid it across my thigh. Turned to watch Nate in the hope I could get his story to show some cracks.
Self-satisfied smile creased his handsome face. Then, like a man reciting the constituents of a complex chemical experiment, he said, “Cornbread, black-eyed peas, and collard greens.”
“Cornbread, black-eyed peas, collard greens, and a fried coconut? That’s one hell of a meal. And that’s your story, is it?”
Swords swelled up in his saddle. His back stiffened and he got right regal when he said, “Damned right, and I’m stickin’ to it. ’Course, I forgot to mention the smashed taters.”
“Smashed taters?”
“Yep. Mama always said as how you don’t never serve fried coconuts ’thout some smashed taters to kinda take some of the tart of’n ’em.”
“Tart? Coconuts?”
“Absolutely. ’S why I stopped boilin’ ’em. Couldn’t get the tart out of ’em.”
Had to strain quite a bit to keep from busting a gut. Didn’t want to offend Nate. Snapped the glass down to its shortest length. Shoved it back into the battered, army-surplus, leather carrying case, and dropped it into my saddlebag. Gritted my teeth and went to checking the loads in my pistols.
Nate took the hint and set to scrutinizing his weapons, too.
Flipped the loading gate open on my belly gun, rolled the cylinder around. Stared at each shell as it passed, then said, “Don’t care for boiled coconuts with your collard greens, huh?”
“Hate ’em. Damned things make me colicky, if’n I eat ’em boiled. Gut gets to hurtin’ so bad I sometimes cry like a baby. Boil ’em and they leave you with a definite aftertaste, too. Sticks with a body for hours. Kinda like a mouthful of prairie bitterweed. Enough to make a starvin’, Texas long-horn steer spit it out.”
“Aftertaste. Kind of like bitterweed.”
“Yep.”
“Must really like them fried then?”
“Only thing’s better, you ask me, is fried armadiller.”
“Fried armadillo. Sweet Jesus.”
Man grinned like a raccoon trying to wash a loaf of fresh-baked bread in a fast running creek. “Tasty. Ain’t kiddin’ a bit, Tilden. Really tasty. Fry up some coconuts along with an armadiller, and you’ve got yourself one helluva meal, my friend.”
Returned the last of my three pistols to the holster at my back. Slipped the Winchester out of the boot. Jacked a shell into the breech, then laid it across my saddle just behind the horn.
Touched Gunpowder’s side with a spur, started easing down the knoll. Nate followed. When he got up close I said,
“Three droopy-looking nags tied at the hitch racks outside that false-front building in the middle, yonder—one with the sign over the door proclaiming it as BLACK’S. Bet a year’s pay those animals belong to the boys we’re looking for, Nate.”
Out of the corner of my eye, saw him stand in his stirrups and rub his back. Settled in and said, “Sure as hell hope so. Horse of mine’s about to wear me down to a nub.”
“Bring these boys to book, we’ll drag them over to Tishomingo. Lock them up in the Chickasaws’ brand-new combination courthouse and jail.”
“Works for me.”
“And you know, I’ve been thinking, Nate. We get these ole boys back to Fort Smith, you’re gonna have to invite Elizabeth and me over for one of those coconut and armadillo sit-downs.”
“Sounds good, if these three bastards are willing to go back. But if’n they ain’t, we get finished sending the egg-suckin’ sons a bitches to Satan, Tilden, we’ll for sure ’nuff do ’er. Might even cook up a couple a opossums for you, too. Only bake a opossum on extra special occasions, you know.”
“Baked opossums? You’re for sure kidding now, right?”
“Oh, no. Nice fat opossum’s tastiest of the three of ’em, you ask me. Makes my mouth water just thinkin’ ’b
out cookin’ up a juicy opossum. Good piece of opossum haunch is a meal fit fer a king, by God.”
He went silent after that. Seriousness of the situation pimpled to a puss-filled head closer we got to our destination. Quickly put a damper on our ricochet into jocularity, fried coconuts, and downright silliness.
Headed straight for the centermost structure in Lone Pine. Hadn’t gone far when I detected the tinny sound of music wafting from the rickety building’s front entrance.
Drew our mounts to a stop on the far side of a muddy, rutted trace that ran a meandering course up from the river into a stand of trees off to the north. Couldn’t have stepped down much more than sixty feet from the front entrance of an illegal whiskey-vending operation that sounded like it was chugging along full tilt. Position gave us a far better ear on the rinky-tink piano melody coming from inside.
Tied the animals to a spindly cottonwood. Only living tree within a hundred feet located on our side of the rudimentary thoroughfare.
Thumbed the hammer back on the Winchester. Made sure the hammer thongs on all my pistols were hanging loose, then glanced over at Nate and asked, “Should we call them out, or go inside and brace them where they sit?”
My hard-eyed partner rested his short-barreled ten gauge on one shoulder, scrunched his face up, then said, “Let’s go in and surprise ’em. Stupid bastards can’t possibly know they’re about to take a fall. Desperate as these boys are, we call ’em out, announce our presence, bet they’ll hide next to the doorway and go to blastin’ at us right where we stand.” He glanced around, then added, “And there sure as hell ain’t no place to hide out here in the street. ’Cept maybe behind the horses.”
Said, “Sounds good to me. Get up close to them, maybe they’ll think twice about being foolish enough to draw down on us.”
Then, we headed for the bloodred batwing doors of Black’s.
Bit to my left and half a step behind me, Nate said, “Get a chance, Tilden, I’m gonna cook you up some of my world-famous snappin’ turtle stew. Throw in a couple a catfish heads, few raw turnips, some alligator meat, and, boy howdee, you got a real lip smacker goin’.”
