by J. Lee Butts
Slapped the reins against Gunpowder’s rump, headed him down the rugged slope of the weed-choked bank. Over my shoulder, I said, “Well, boys, let’s get on across so we can hurry up and dry out a bit. Make certain our weapons are dry, loaded, and working on the other side. Sure as hell wouldn’t wanna show up in a rat’s nest like Beehive Creek unprepared.”
Took nigh on half a day of rough travel over grassy, scrub-covered country to close in on our objective. The coarse camp’s crude hodgepodge of tents and temporary structures squatted along a rutted, dirt track that couldn’t be described as a street in the most liberal interpretation of the word. Rough-and-tumble conglomeration of rickety, tin-roofed, board-and-batten, clapboard shacks raggedy tents, false-fronted buildings, and even an actual house or two appeared somewhat less transitory than I could recall from past visits.
The fleeting nature of the rugged village just seemed to me as fairly typical of such quickly established hangouts catering almost exclusively to bandits, card-bending gamblers, rustlers, killers, pickpockets, footpads, and other desperate men on the run from society’s hard-handed reach. Any concentration of such stellar citizens also just naturally attracted its share of gunmen, pimps, whores, strong-arm robbers, bootleggers, and other such parasites.
The undeniable fact that liquor sales were strictly prohibited in the Indian Nations didn’t prevent anyone who wanted a nip from finding exactly what they desired. Half a dozen or so dance halls and gambling joints haphazardly erected here and there along the dirt track catered to those who supposedly brought along their own bottle, jug, or other container of alcoholic brew.
While everyone, including and especially, Judge Isaac C. Parker, decried the act of “introducing spirits” to the Indians, the sad truth remained that catching the scum responsible for the unconscionable act of selling or transporting scamper juice of any kind bordered on the well-nigh impossible. Overlapping jurisdictions between the U.S. Marshals Service and the various law enforcement arms of the Indian Nations tended to water down our effectiveness in such efforts. Even so, nothing stopped us from fining the hell out of violators, or arresting them if the opportunity arose.
We stepped off our animals beneath a gigantic pecan tree on the woodsy fringes of the lethargic rivulet that provided the rough collection of shelters with its colorful name. Carlton immediately pulled his short-barreled shotgun from its bindings.
“Ain’t gonna take no chances, fellers,” he said. “I’m loadin’ this big-bored blaster up with the heaviest shot I’ve got. Get into a spittin’ contest in this hellhole, I intend on cuttin’ through all the horseshit like a hot sickle through dry grass.”
Reached back and dragged my scattergun down as well. “I’m with you, Carl. Mighty dangerous territory we’ve stepped into here. Place just about like this one down in the Kiamichi Mountains, twenty or so miles from La Flore, is where Deputy Marshal Quincy Broadhurst got caught short and ended up dead.”
Nate looked surprised. “Damn. Hadn’t heard that one. What the hell happened?”
“Buster Perkins shot him in the back when Quincy attempted to cuff Buster’s amigo Jefferson Krum. Quincy was trying to get Krum ready for the trip back to Fort Smith and a guaranteed date with hangman George Maledon, a length of oiled Kentucky hemp, and the Gates of Hell gallows.”
“Guess a man just cain’t be too careful,” Nate muttered.
“Ain’t that the truth,” Carlton said. “Quincy evidently didn’t think Buster had murderous intent in him. ’Course his judgment proved a mite faulty. That single lapse of common sense got the man killed deader’n a rotten fence post.”
Nate took the hint. Pretty quick, all three of us had a big boomer draped across one of our arms. ’Course we checked over all our various hip pistols and hideout guns as well. As Handsome Harry Tate always liked to say, “A body can never be too careful when you’re about to walk into an undeniably dangerous place.”
Led our horses along the makeshift thoroughfare toward the largest and busiest-looking establishment we could see. Sign hanging over the bright red swinging doors, which looked as though someone who’d just put an opium pipe aside had painted it, proclaimed the joint as the Enterprise Social Club. Single-pane, double-hung windows decorated the walls on either side of the batwing doors. Neither window appeared to be level or plumb. Came nigh on to making a body walk funny just to look at them.
Surprised me that not many of the local riffraff appeared in evidence at the time. But those soiled doves, cardsharps, dice-shaving craps-shooting gamblers, gun hounds, and just plain no-accounts who did happen to be on the street as we passed turned and stared as though they’d spotted a trio of walking carriers of some deadly disease.
Typical of the reception us men who rode for Parker had grown to expect and accept, several gawkers shook bottles of bootleg scamper juice our direction. Let us know exactly where we could go and what we could jam up our backsides as we picked our way toward the Enterprise’s front entrance. To our complete surprise, though, some of those folks actually seemed glad to see us.
Guess Carlton didn’t evaluate the situation the same way I did. Out of the corner of his mouth, he snarled, “Keep an unblinkin’ eye on ’em, fellers. Ain’t a damned one of these wicked bitches, or sons a bitches, who wouldn’t give ever-thang they’ve got to see some of us badge-totin’ boys cut down like rabid dogs.”
We draped our animals’ reins over a rickety hitch rail out front of a rough-looking tent café right next to the Enterprise. Smell of frying beef, baking biscuits, and cooked potatoes wafted from the joint’s wide-open flap. Didn’t seem to be anyone inside eating.
No alleyways between the buildings or tents. Every business was pressed cheek by jowl to the next one on both sides of the near nonexistent street. Some of the concerns in evidence, other than dance halls and gambling joints, included a barbershop, a small grocery and mercantile, and a traveling blacksmith operation.
Glanced over at Nate as we stepped onto the Enterprise Social Club’s covered veranda. Porch had a crazy lean to it. Whole shebang was constructed of rough-cut pine boards. Timber still leaked gooey, fragrant sap. Most all of the poorly put-up buildings had only been in place a short time. Got me to thinking as how Beehive Creek might be in the midst of a half-assed attempt to go from a coarse, temporary camp devoted to loose women, gambling, and illegal liquor to something along the lines of a semipermanent settlement.
Said, “Watch our backs, Nate. Carl and I’ll stroll inside first. See what we can find out. You hear anything as sounds uncommon, come a-runnin’.”
To say the Enterprise Social Club didn’t amount to much would be giving the place a good bit more in the way of praise than it deserved. Step or two inside the fancy set of swinging doors exposed the iniquitous hangout’s true identity. Appearance of permanence proved little more than four inches thick. Back side of the recently constructed front facade amounted to nothing more than a flapping, flimsy, roof-and-wall affair made of canvas.
Pair of two-by-twelve boards atop some empty whiskey barrels on the right side served as something roughly akin to a bar. No liquor in evidence, though. Several battered, circular tables, each surrounded by four or five empty kegs used as chairs, were scattered around the open floor. An ancient upright piano, peppered with numerous bullet holes, stood forlornly abandoned in one corner. Appeared as how someone might have attacked the instrument with an ax as well. Here and yonder, brass spittoons sprouted from the floor like tarnished, blossoming mushrooms.
Only nod toward anything like decorative embellishment amounted to a single framed painting of a nude woman on the back wall. Her ruby-lipped smile invited the passing viewer to crawl onto the couch where she reclined in a most sexually fetching, come-hither manner.
Wizened, stoop-shouldered, sweaty feller wearing a greasy, off-white shirt, faded red garters on his arms, and a bowler hat hopped up from the only occupied table. He sidled over to the far end of the makeshift bar and, right careful-like, placed both hands in front of him as t
hough to indicate he was unarmed. One of his eyes was swelled shut. His lower lip sported a deep, scabbed-over crease that a nervous tongue kept going at.
The three other men at the table turned their cards down, then shifted around on their rough seats as if to get a better view of us. Couple of those boys looked like someone might’ve thumped them pretty good, too. Tension in the room shot up to a lethal level—leastways on mine and Carl’s part.
Caught sight of Carl from the corner of my eye as he moved to a spot along the canvas wall on my left. Jingle of his spurs was the only sound I could hear in a place that seemed to be holding its collective breath. Once he’d got himself settled, Carl nodded to let me know he was ready for just about anything without having to look back my way for directions or approval.
Turned back to the feller in the bowler hat, but before I had a chance to get a word out, he said, “Surprised us, gents. Usually get at least a few minutes’ warning when you Fort Smith lawdogs are about to pay us a visit. Got a fair chain of folks for miles around who usually set up the alarm ’fore your kind can go more’n a few feet. Surprised you managed to get in here without everyone in Beehive Creek knowin’ you ’uz a-comin’.”
“Sorry, but we didn’t feel the need to announce our arrival,” I said. “You own this establishment, mister?”
For about a second he looked confused. “Why, no. No, I don’t. The Enterprise belongs to Mr. Harold McCormick. And to tell the absolute truth, I’m pert sure he’d be damned glad to see you boys if’n he had the wherewithal to be glad about much of anything right now. All I can say personally is thank God you’re here. Have to admit I didn’t believe I’d ever find myself sayin’ such a thing to any lawdog, but there she is.”
To say I was stunned doesn’t come close to how much he’d flabbergasted me.
Fellers at the poker table all nodded. Then one of them smiled and said, “Yep. We’re all damned glad to see you law-bringin’ boys.”
4
“. . . SCREAMIN’ LIKE A GUT-SHOT PANTHER. . .”
SHOT A PUZZLED, suspicious, sidelong glance over at Carlton. He appeared about as shocked as me. Given the circumstances of our being where we found ourselves, and the fact that most of the riffraff who haunt places like Beehive Creek had no use for any lawman—Indian or white—I found myself at a complete loss for words for damn near half a minute.
Mr. Bowler Hat must’ve perceived my confusion. He bobbled his head up and down. Thought for a second he might break into some kind of demented dance. He gestured toward his friends at the poker table. “My friend’s right, fellers. Just ask anyone in the Enterprise. Hell, yes. Tellin’ the absolute truth. We’re all gladder’n hell you boys showed up. ’Specially after last night’s dose of unbridled savagery. Swear ’fore bleedin’ Jesus, previous evenin’s doin’s set a whole new standard of violence—even for a place as lawless as Beehive Creek.”
“Well, what the hell happened? Might as well spit it all out, mister. ’Pears you just might be wearin’ some of the aftereffects of whatever you’re alluding to—what with that damned fine shiner and busted lip you’re a-sportin’ and all,” Carl said.
Feller slipped his bowler hat off to reveal a gashed bump the size of a goose egg on the side of his head that had obviously not scabbed over very well. Looked to me like someone had hit him in the head with a horseshoe hammer, then sliced the bump open with a razor.
He gingerly fingered the bump, then looked at me and said, “’Bout three yesterday afternoon ever one a the businesses you seen when you rode in here was doin’ a thrivin’ trade. Beehive Creek was a-blowin’ and a-goin’. Then a buncha fellers rode up a-shootin’ at anythang movin’ and raisin’ almighty hell. They stormed into the Enterprise. Went to beatin’ the stuffin’s outta anyone they could lay a fist on. Mr. McCormick tried to stop ’em. Hell, he’s a rough ole bird. Tougher’n a sow’s snout. Well, two of ’em jumped on ’im. He held his own, till the third one stepped in. ’Tween the three of ’em, they beat hell out of the poor man. Once they got ’im down, one of ’em shot ’im.”
Felt like somebody’d slapped me in the face. Spite of that feeling, I relaxed a bit and leaned against the makeshift bar. “You know any of the men who attacked your boss?”
“Oh, I’d seen a couple of ’em in here a time or two. Didn’t know but one by name. Big ole boy who answered to the handle of One Cut Petey Mason. I heard him call the jackass what seemed to be their leader Zeke. Leastways, that’s what it sounded like. But hell, that didn’t occur until several hours after they arrived. By then, they’d beat the bejabberous hell outta me and boxed my ears till they rang like church bells. My hearin’ warn’t workin’ so well after they done that.”
He jabbed a finger into one ear and kind of jiggled it around, then added, “Still ringing some.”
Feller at the poker table, the one who sported a handlebar moustache that drooped down onto his shirtfront, perked up and said, “Oscar’s right. I knew that ’un named Zeke Blackheart. Kiowa breed. Angriest, most dangerous son of a bitch on the planet when he’s drinkin’, and mean as a teased diamondback. That gang a his ’un was the drunkest buncha bastards I ever seen. Damned wonder Blackheart didn’t let them boys a his do fer us all. But, thank God, guess they took what they wanted. Headed on out. Damned good thing, too. Personally, I was glad to see ’em go ’fore somebody else got shot.”
“You say they took something and left. What’d they take?” Carl said.
Mr. Handlebar Moustache shook his head. Tapped a nervous finger on the table. “Took Rachael. That’s what they took. Snatched the poor girl up and left.”
For a second or so, my trail-weary brain didn’t quite grasp what he’d said. “Rachael? They took Rachael. That what you said, mister?”
Moustache, whose position at the card table had kept me from seeing anything but his profile, turned just enough to reveal an ugly, scabbed-over gash down the side of his face. Could tell right then he was having trouble talking. “Yeah. Five of ’em gathered up all the liquor McCormick had on the shelves. Every bottle he owned. Then they grabbed Rachael and stormed outta here. Rachael Little Feather’s the gal Mack had workin’ the tables. ’Course, she did a bit of business on the side as well—if you get my drift. We all got to thinkin’ as how she and McCormick mighta been married so’s he could claim to be in the Nations all legal-like. She’d only been around for a short time. They never said for sure one way or t’other, but that’s what we all got to figurin’.”
“When? What time was it when the Blackheart bunch thundered out of here?” I said.
Feller with the slashed face scratched his stubble-covered chin. “Oh, musta been sometime ’tween ten and eleven last night. Ain’t that about right, Oscar?”
Mr. Bowler Hat bobbled his head in agreement. “Yep. Think McCormick mighta died right then and there if’n them boys hadn’t vacated the premises when they did. He’d been laid out in the floor a-bleedin’ like a stuck pig for nigh on three hours when Blackheart and One Cut Petey herded Rachael and the rest of that buncha cutthroats back out into the street.”
“Didn’t leave quiet, I’d bet,” Carl said.
“Oh, hell, no. They went to firin’ off their pistols at everythang and sundry again. People was a-squealin’. Runnin’ in ever direction tryin’ to find someplace safe to hunker down. Heard Rachael a-screamin’ like a gut-shot panther, too. Feel right bad ’bout it, but warn’t nothing any of us could do for her.”
Moustache said, “Once them bastards got mounted, they hoo-rahed the camp pretty good. Look close, Marshals, and you can probably find bullet holes in every wall facing the street. Tell you what, I’ve been all over the West. Mining camps, railroad camps, cattle towns, railheads, worst of ’em a body can imagine. Ain’t never seen nothin’ like what happened here last night. Surprisin’ to me as how them boys didn’t manage to kill nobody ’cause they sure ’nuff gave it one helluva try.”
Laid the shotgun over my arm in an effort to let all the cardplaying deacons in t
he Enterprise know I figured they were telling me the truth. Said, “Where’s the McCormick feller you boys keep talkin’ ’bout?”
Oscar hooked a thumb toward a slit in the back wall of canvas, then said, “He lives back yonder. Has a bed and stuff. We laid ’im out on his cot as best we could. Been checkin’ on him ever since Doc patched him up. Ain’t lookin’ good, I can tell you that for damned sure. Man makes it through the night, he’ll be luckier’n the guy who got gold in change ever time he spent Confederate money.”
Carlton let out a snort of disbelief. “Sounds mighty cosmopolitan, by God. Mean to tell us that Beehive Creek has an honest-to-God, for-real sawbones in residence? Find that right hard to believe myself.”
Oscar toed at the dust-covered plank floor. He acted like an embarrassed kid who’d been caught taking a peek down his sister’s cotton knickers. “Well, he ain’t exactly a fer-real medical doctor or nothin’. Leastways, I don’t think he is. Served the South right well as a battlefield stretcher bearer, from what I understand. Were a damned fine vet once, too. Then the drink got ’im. Fell on hard times. Ended up in Beehive Creek. Actually, fixed Mr. McCormick up pretty good. Better’n anybody else ’round here coulda done.”
Flicked the barrel of my shotgun at Oscar, then said, “Show me.” Shot my partner a quick glance. “Keep your eyes open, Carl. Gonna check on the McCormick feller. See how he’s doin’.”
Followed Oscar through the flapped opening in the back corner of the tent. Rough-cut doorway in the cloth led to a freestanding, makeshift shacklike affair—a single room of about ten by ten. No windows at all. Plank door hung from leather hinges. Damn near passed out when Oscar jerked the complaining door open. Smell of festering, puss-oozing flesh and imminent death was enough to take paint off a New Hampshire barn.
Jerked a faded blue bandanna out of my pocket. Held it over my nose and mouth, then stepped into the dark, dank, foul-smelling room. Nothing much there but an empty, upturned shipping crate with an idle kerosene lamp atop it. Nearby, a sagging military-surplus cot took up most of the tiny space. A battered steamer trunk occupied a spot of honor at the foot of the folding bed.
