Written in Blood: The Further Exploits of Hayden Tilden (Hayden Tilden Westerns Book 5)

by J. Lee Butts

  Written in Blood

  The Further Exploits

  of Hayden Tilden

  J. Lee Butts

  Beyond the Page

  Publishing

  Written in Blood

  J. Lee Butts

  Beyond the Page Books

  are published by

  Beyond the Page Publishing

  www.beyondthepagepub.com

  Copyright © 2009, 2014 by J. Lee Butts

  ISBN: 978-1-937349-92-9

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now know or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

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  For my dear wife Carol:

  She’s still on the horse with me;

  and

  Red Shuttleworth,

  my good friend and self-professed biggest fan.

  EX-LAWMAN

  Could tell Carlton was getting hotter by the second when he said, “No point talkin’ ’bout this . . . Gotta come on back to Fort Smith with us.”

  John Henry shook his shaggy, unkempt head. A sharp edge crept into his voice. “Ain’t gonna happen, boys. Might as well make up your minds to it. Y’all made the trip down here to Texas for nothin’. Ain’t goin’ back to sit in the dungeon under Fort Smith’s courthouse, then get my neck snapped by one of Maledon’s pieces of oiled Kentucky hemp.”

  “Put your weapons aside, John, and come along with us,” I said. “God as my witness, I’ll personally go to Judge Parker and plead for your life. All of us will. Guarantee it.”

  Tinge of deadly finality in his voice when our previous friend said, “Not today, Tilden . . .”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Should I live to be a hundred, I’ll never be able to thank Kimberly Lionetti enough for her untiring efforts on my behalf. Every writer needs someone like her on their side. Special thanks, once again, to Linda McKinley. Don’t know what I’d do without her advice, friendship, and wondrous skills as a reader and editor. And a special bow to my buddy Red Shuttleworth for providing me with the idea for this tale.

  “It is a good thing to escape from death, but it is not great pleasure to bring death to a friend.”

  —Sophocles, Antigone

  “. . . the death of a dear friend, would go near to make a man look sad.”

  —Shakespeare, A Midsummer

  Night’s Dream

  “A friend is long sought, hardly found, and with difficulty kept.”

  —St. Jerome, Letter 1

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  EPILOGUE

  PROLOGUE

  MIDDLE OF LAST week, spring finally arrived at the Rolling Hills Home for the Aged here in Little Rock. Season came in real wet this time around. When the sun managed to slice through rain-saturated clouds and show its fiery face, my Lord, but the result was something glorious to behold. Turned every growing thing available for view so green, came nigh on to bringing pain to a body’s eyes just to take a squint-eyed peek.

  Big ole bush of pink azaleas bloomed right under the window of my room. Flowers smell mighty good on a cool night breeze. Put me in mind of a patch of the shrubs my wife Elizabeth once planted all around the front porch of our place on the bluff overlooking the Arkansas River north of Fort Smith. Beautiful gal of mine sure worked hard keeping those flowers alive.

  Rolling Hills’ chief nurse, the redoubtable Leona Wildbank, loves this time a year almost as much as all the ole broke-down folks living here. Hell, she’s happier than a two-tailed puppy to see winter take a hike. Strapping female likes to count the noses of all us shambling old geezers what made it through the icy fingers of winter one more time.

  Big ole raw-boned gal just can’t wait to have the other staff members under her iron-fisted command sock all the aged gomers as can’t perambulate any longer into a wheelchair and roll them out onto the sunporch. Ceiling fans and potted plants make the spot a right pleasant place to hang out, leastways until full-bore, blazing summertime comes along. July in this part of the country gets hotter than a jug full of red ants. Blistering heat has an inclination to send everybody back inside on the prowl for a shadier, cooler spot.

  ’Course I don’t need no wheelchair yet. Still shuffle around pretty good for a man that’s damn near ninety years old. Most folks my age, and loads a lot younger, are already in the ground, or slumped in a chair somewhere slobbering on themselves and pissing their pants.

  Somehow the Good Lord helps keep me cranking along. And since I’m gifted with something akin to reasonable health and mobility, me and my twenty-five-pound, yellow-striped tomcat, General Black Jack Pershing, make it a point to get ourselves out of bed bright and early. That way we can beat all the other old farts to our preferred corner spot in the solarium. Have our lunch out there amongst the plants. Sometimes we even dawdle around till the sun starts going down.

  My very own personal caretaker, little gal named Heddy McDonald, came cruising by looking for us late one afternoon of recent. She works the second shift. Girl bears a striking resemblance to that astonishingly beautiful movie star of a similar name—Hedy Lamarr. And she looks damned fine in one a them white nurse’s getups. Swear ’fore Jesus, she’s got a caboose that I could spend days just a-watchin’ move away from me. Gal stirs feelings in my pants young folks claim us old men ain’t supposed to even have. Sweet mother of pearl, but that’s a bunch a bilious hooey. Shit, might be older’n rocks layin’ on the bottom of the Red River, but I ain’t dead—leastways not yet, by God.

  Anyhow, Heddy found me and the cat in our favorite, overstuffed, corner chair trying to sneak a smoke after all the other old codgers give it up and got their leathery old asses wheeled back to their individual cells. Hell, they’d already damn near ruined the day with their endless coughing, hacking, wheezing, farting, bellyaching, and complaining anyway. Truth be told, me and Black Jack weren’t all that pained to see the whole bunch of them vacate the premises.

  My friend Franklin J. Lightfoot Jr., staff writer at the Arkansas Gazette, who went and ma
de me semifamous with his article named LAWDOG, had recently passed through for a visit. Brought me a Cuban cigar called a corona gorda. Big sucker looked like a stick of honest-to-God, country-stuffed bologna—kind you can’t even buy anymore.

  Took a spell of huffing and puffing to get the beast lit, but damn that big booger sure tasted good. Was right in the middle of enjoying the hell out of Lightfoot’s gift when Heddy breezed up.

  ‘Course she went and did her indignant nurse’s dance soon as she spotted the stogie. Hovered over me, shook a scarlet-nailed finger in my face, and hissed, “Mr. Tilden, you know full well that if Mrs. Wildbank catches you with that awful, stinky thing hangin’ out of your mouth, she’ll have a blue-eyed hissy fit right here. Put a mound of bumps on your head and probably mine as well.”

  Black Jack rolled over in my lap and showed me his furry belly. Scratched him while I took another satisfying drag on my see-gar. Blew out a blue-gray ring the size of a wagon wheel, then said, “Come on now, Heddy, you know damn well that a good see-gar’s the only vice I’m still able to indulge in. Poor older-than-dirt women in this asylum for the decrepit won’t have nothin’ to do with a man. Sure as hell cain’t interest none of the gals your age in a little of the old slap and tickle.”

  Rared back on her heels and squinted at me like she might slap my face. “Your opinions on see-gars and Rolling Hills’ female residents just don’t matter one whit,” she snapped, and then snatched that sweet-smelling, half-finished stogie out of my mouth. Damn near cried when she stubbed it out in the damp soil of a potted palm I’d tried my best to hide behind.

  “Aw, jeeze, girl, now why’d you go and do that?” I groaned. “That was an honest-to-God Cuban see-gar, for cryin’ out loud. You got any idea how good Cuban see-gars are? They’re rolled on the sweaty, silken thighs of beautiful Cuban senoritas. Makes my mouth water just thinking about how one a them beauties comes to life.”

  Made a hurried attempt to fish whatever remained of the stogie from the soggy dirt. Figured I might be able to indulge some other time, but she placed an authoritative hand on my shoulder, squeezed, and said, “Stop worrying about that stinky thing and listen, please.”

  Leaned back in my chair, but kept a covetous eye on the plant. Said, “I’m listenin’. Honest.”

  “I’m going out of town for a few days and won’t be back until next Monday at the very earliest.”

  Glanced up at the raven-haired beauty. Really touched my shriveled-up, leathery ole heart when I realized she truly looked a mite concerned. “Now why would you want to go and do a thing like that?” I asked. “Much as decrepit ole fogies like me need your God-given talents and kind attention. Bet the ranch they’s gonna be a lot a whinin’ and bitchin’ while you’re gone.”

  She gave her neck a coquettish twist and gifted me with an appreciative smile. “Most kind of you, Mr. Tilden. But, truth be told, my husband’s mother passed away yesterday. We’ve got to drive over to Hot Springs for the funeral tomorrow. Visit with the bereaved family for a day or two. Not exactly the way I’d like to spend time in Hot Springs, but the trip can’t be avoided.”

  Reached out and took her beautiful little hand in mine. Girl’s paw was like a block of ice. “Oh. Well, I’m right sorry to hear the sad news, darlin’. Right sorry indeed.”

  Odd thing happened to her smile. Corners of her ruby-colored lips kind of twisted down at the corners and she stared off into the distance as though distracted for a moment. “Well, no need to get yourself all that concerned. Couldn’t stand the hateful ole bat myself. Just being in the same room with her was usually more than I could take. She had a way of setting my teeth on edge every time we got within a hundred feet of one another.”

  “Uh-huh,” I grunted, then let go of the cute little gal’s paw and went back to scratching the cat. “Mothers-in-law can sometimes have that effect. ’Course I never had to suffer with the problem myself. But, if my former lawdog memory serves, it’s still against the law to kill ’em, I suspect.”

  She jammed her fists against a pair of shapely hips. “Yes, still can’t kill ’em. And yes, they can be a royal pain in the rump. But I didn’t hunt you up this afternoon to talk about my recently departed mother-in-law.”

  “Well, ain’t no point tellin’ me ’bout Jo Ellen House neither, if that’s what you ferreted me out for, girl. Hell, I heard them snake-bellied, body-stealin’ sons a bitches come gather her poor, ole, limp corpse up last night.”

  “Oh, Jesus.”

  “Yeah. Uh-huh. Know you caretakin’-type folks try and hustle all the dead ones out late of a night so as no one gets upset ’bout their passin’ and all. But, Hell’s bells, Heddy, I don’t sleep well, and you know better’n anybody around this haven for used-up, antique people that my hearing is sharper now than it was sixty year ago.”

  She patted my arm. “You heard everything, I take it?”

  “Why, hell, yes. Jo Ellen was serving out her final days in the room right next to mine. Just biding her time and waitin’ for God to show up. Always been real quiet over in her direction. ’Sides, ever time that pair of four-eyed trolls in the squeaky white shoes show up, I know some poor soul’s done gone to meet his or her Maker. Them body-snatchin’ hobgoblins try to be quiet, but I can always hear ’em scurryin’ around like sneaky cockroaches when someone passes on to their long-awaited, heavenly re-ward.”

  “You didn’t get out of the bed and look, did you?”

  “’Course I did. I’m a former lawman. My life’s always been lookin’. Sniffin’ out whatever’n hell’s goin’ on. What’d you expect? Ghoulish, dead-eyed bastards had Jo Ellen on one a them wobble-wheeled gurneys what makes a helluva racket. Damned thing sounds like somebody’s beatin’ hell outta the floor with the big end of a snooker stick.”

  “God Almighty. I had hoped you’d be asleep.”

  “Yeah, well, just keep on hoping. Jo Ellen ’uz all wrapped up in a sheet like one of them Egyptian mummies. Only thing I could see when I took a peek through a crack in my partially open door was the poor woman’s wrinkled, bloodless face. But I have to admit, she looked right peaceful. Pale, but peaceful. Had a smile on her lips. Almost like she’d been kissed by an angel or somethin’.”

  Heddy smiled. Reached down and patted the back of my hand. “How poetic, Mr. Tilden. Kissed by an angel. Quite accurate actually.”

  “Yeah. But after I dropped off to sleep and woke up a time or two, went to thinkin’ as how maybe I’d gone and dreamed it all. Us old buggers have strange dreams, you know, girl.”

  “I’ve heard as much from you on a number of occasions before, Mr. Tilden.”

  “Yeah, well, some of us even see ghosts now and again—more and more often for me lately. I’ve had visits recently from folks been dead nigh on fifty year. Got to figurin’ as how maybe what I’d seen was just a buncha ghosts messin’ around in the hall. But when I walked by Jo Ellen’s empty room this mornin’, knew for certain as how what I’d observed weren’t no nighttime vision of unearthly doin’s. No, sir. Poor ole gal had died sure ’nuff.”

  “Dear God. Well, I’m truly sorry you had to see Mrs. House taken away like that. Even so, informing you about the poor lady’s passing is not what I came for either.”

  She turned and made a come-on-over-here motion with one hand. Young feller dressed in one a them baggy, puke-green, hospital worker’s outfits strolled up. He nodded and flashed a mouth crammed full of the finest-looking teeth I’d ever seen. God as my witness, that boy had the kind of choppers made it look like he could bite a chunk out of a blacksmith’s favorite anvil and spit horseshoe nails.

  But, Lord, Lord, Lord, that wasn’t the half of it. Sweet bleeding Jesus, damned near fell outta my chair when I gave him a second eyeballin’. Kid looked so much like John Henry Slate, I could barely catch my breath for what seemed like a dragging eternity. For several seconds there, that fresh-faced youngster actually scared the bejabberous hell out of me.

  Honest to God, that boy stirred me up to the point w
here I went to grabbing at my hip for one of the Colt pistols I hadn’t carried in more than twenty year. Way I figure it, if’n I’d a had a gun at that exact moment, would’ve drilled him right on the spot sure as little white mushrooms grow on big steaming piles of horse manure. Good thing Heddy’d gone and confiscated my cigar, too, or I’d a probably choked slap to death on the ax-handle-sized son of a bitch.

  Heddy, being a perceptive young woman, quickly detected the stricken, somewhat panicked look on my face. She bent over, patted my wrist again, slapped me on the back a time or two like she thought maybe I might be choking, and then said, “You okay, Mr. Tilden?”

  Nodded, then kinda grunted, “Yeah. Yeah, darlin’. I guess so. Just got somethin’ of a surprise when this young feller showed up. Bears a right striking resemblance to a man I knew back when I ’uz chasin’ thieves and killers out in the Indian country for Hanging Judge Isaac Parker.”

  She waved at the boy as though presenting something akin to royalty and said, “Well, Mr. Tilden, this is Royce Turberville. Royce is a recent honor graduate from the University of Arkansas Nursing School in Fayetteville. The Rolling Hills family of caregivers considers itself most fortunate to have acquired his educated, professional, and very knowledgeable services. He’ll attend to all my patients while I’m gone for the next few days.” She shook her finger at me again. “Want you to be a good boy while I’m gone. If you’re not, I’ll certainly hear about it.”

  Pinched the bridge of my nose, clenched my eyes shut, and groaned. “Heddy,” I said, “this is still the year of Our Lord 1948, ain’t it?”

  Of a sudden, seemed like she’d somehow moved way off and was hovering over me like one of them eggbeater flying machines that can go straight up. But I heard her say, “Why, yes, Hayden, and Mr. Truman is still President of the United States.”

  Snuck a corner-of-the-eye glance at the handsome, grinning Turberville kid again. Same rugged, broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped shape. Same square-jawed, open, friendly face. Same mane of long, fine, wavy black hair. Something distinctly Indian ’bout the boy. Swear ’fore Jesus, smoldering hazel eyes blinked at me just like John Henry’s had back in 1882, or ’83, maybe ’84, or whenever in the hell it was we first met. Memory ain’t worth spit sometimes when it comes to details of the long ago and far away.