by J. Lee Butts
McCormick lay draped over the cot like a human blanket. His bootless feet dangled off one end. Would’ve touched the filthy floor had it not been for the trunk.
Dying man groaned when he heard the noise we made on entering. His head swiveled our direction. Swollen, bloodshot eyes blinked as he tried mightily to discern who had entered his hellish digs.
I stepped up close enough to the stinking bed to see that the unfortunate, badly wounded man appeared to have been shot at least twice. Either wound had the potential for threatening the poor man’s dwindling life. Worst of it was a hole in the chest just under his heart. Amazed me all to hell and gone that the poor goober had managed to stay alive.
McCormick tried to say something, but didn’t do any good at it. Couldn’t seem to get his mouth around the right words. Made a come-to-me motion with the fingers of a hand he obviously couldn’t move.
Oscar hustled forward. Pulled a bucket of water from under the cot. Dipped his employer out some of the liquid, and held it to the fading man’s cracked lips. “This feller’s a deputy U.S. marshal, Mack,” he said. “Been tellin’ him all ’bout what happened here last night. Done tole him as how you got shot.”
Watched as Oscar leaned closer to McCormick, nodded, then glanced back at me. “He says you gotta go after Rachael.” McCormick kept whispering. Oscar leaned down. Listened again. Unintelligible words came between gurgling, blood-soaked breaths. “Says the girl don’t deserve misuse by a gang of cutthroats like them as took her.” Oscar shook his head, then stood.
“That it?” I said from behind my bandanna.
He pitched the dipper back into the bucket, then snatched his hat off. “Guess it’ll have to be. He’s deader’n Andy by-God Jackson. Last little bit of talkin’ musta took everthang he had left.”
Flicked one more quick glance at the dead man, then hustled on back to the somewhat more fragrant climes of the Enterprise’s open barroom. Stopped just long enough to ask Oscar, “What’s the girl look like? Can you describe her for me?”
He held the bowler hat up and scratched his head with the same hand. Shrugged as though I’d asked him to tell me the distance to the moon—in inches.
“Come on, Oscar. The girl worked here. Might’ve been McCormick’s wife, according to what you boys said earlier. She’s only been gone since last night. Surely you remember what she looked like.”
“Naw. Not really. Kinda commonplace, if you know what I mean. McCormick took pity on the pathetic creature. Hell, she was just kinda like a stray cat, Deputy.”
“Had pointy ears and a long tail?”
“Oh, hell, no. That’s not what I meant. Gal just warn’t very memorable. Mousy. All-over mousy. Mousy brown hair. Dull mousy eyes. Virtually no figure as I could detect. Besides, all them Indian gals look the same. Can’t for the life a me understand what that gang a idgets wanted with ’er. Mean, hell, they’s lot better-lookin’ whores a-hangin’ ’round in every crack and cranny of this place.”
Wanted to slap all his teeth out, but restrained myself. Said, “Did anyone bother to notice which way Blackheart and his boys went when they left?”
“Oh, hell, yeah. Headed due west, sure as shootin’. Ridin’ fast as good horses could run. But I’d bet they won’t get real far.”
“Why’s that?”
“Carried off every bottle a nose paint McCormick had in stock. Hell, you can see we ain’t got nothin’ left on our shelves. Sons a bitches took every drop of ours and all they could carry from everyone else in town what had any. Bet by now they’re so drunk cain’t none of ’em get it up enough to pump poor, mousy little Rachael—even if’n they might want to get a little.”
Well, that was enough for me. Had heard all I ever wanted to from Oscar and his bowler hat. Stomped toward the door and motioned for Carl to follow. We made it out to the boardwalk and gathered up Nate.
“What happened, Hayden?” Nate said as he trailed us to our mounts.
“We’re headin’ west. We’ll get as far away from here as we can before dark. Then find us a safe place to bed down. Gotta make sure we’re forted up good just in case any of these skunks decide to track us down in the dark and cut our throats.”
“We find out which way the Blackheart bunch went?”
“West. Went west, Nate. And from what I’ve just heard, should be real easy to cut their trail. They’re draggin’ a woman along with ’em now. I’m hopin’ maybe she’ll slow ’em down some. Figure they’ll be stoppin’ every so often to take turns havin’ a go at her. That is, if they aren’t all too drunk to perform.”
Got mounted as quick as we could. In less than an hour, we’d urged our mounts far enough into the rolling, grass-and-scrub-brush-covered countryside that we didn’t have to keep looking back to see whether anyone had followed. Didn’t take long to realize our quarry had turned south and appeared to be headed in the general direction of Dripping Springs.
Nate took the point. Hour or so before dark, he came hightailing it back up to me and Carl. Snatched his animal to a hopping stop right beside me. Jerked his hat off, then rubbed a sweat-drenched face on the sleeve of his shirt. He shook his head, fixed me with a piercing stare, then said, “Not gonna believe what I found ’bout a mile up ahead.”
Felt like God had my heart in a tight-fisted grip when I said, “The girl? They killed the girl and left her somewhere up ahead on the trail?”
Swords grimaced, then slapped his hat back on. “Nope, but this might qualify as something worse.”
Carl said. “Worse. How could killin’ an innocent woman not be any worse than what you found?”
Nate raised one arm and pointed down the gentle slope of a grass-covered hill we’d figured would lead us to a convenient creek and campsite. Could see the tops of several cottonwoods in the deep cut where we’d planned on spending the night.
“Just follow me, boys. And get yourselves prepared. What’s a-waitin’ for us down there is a real stomach churner. So to speak.” He threw a tight-lipped, ironic grin my direction, then muttered, “Yeah, so to speak.”
5
“GUTTED ME LIKE A BEACHED SUNFISH . . .”
COULD HEAR SOMEONE crying and moaning near a hundred feet before we got down to the creek bank. Sounded almost like a hurt dog. We headed our animals down through the tall grass, into a jagged cut in the earth created by a nameless, shallow stream that rippled over a bed of water-polished rocks.
Carl spotted the damaged boy first. He pointed along a meandering trail of blood and drag marks in the sand to the kid’s nest, then shook his head in disbelief. God Almighty, but there just ain’t much in this world that can prepare a human being for what we found. Worst days of Mr. Lincoln’s War of Yankee Aggression against the South might qualify, I suppose. But being as how I was too young to fight at Gettysburg, or any of them other unearthly hellholes, what we found on that unnamed brook in the Nations appeared about as awful as anything I could have ever imagined. Hated to admit it, but Nate was right. Scene was enough to turn a body’s stomach. Immediate taste of coppery flavored bile crept up on the back of my throat.
Fine-looking young feller had settled into a crumpled, sitting position. Could barely make him out, semi-hidden inside a sheltering cavity formed by the massive ground-surface roots of a cottonwood tree hugging the rugged creek bank just a few feet from the undulating water. So quiet you could hear dried leaves clinging to the branches overhead as they whispered their love for the sky on a slight, sultry breeze.
Bed of crackling, wind-desiccated foliage beneath the youngster was drenched in gouts of thick, dried gore. He’d smeared blood on his face as he’d swiped at bugs, or tried to wipe sweat away from his eyes. His appearance would’ve led even the most inexperienced observer to think someone had attacked the kid with a well-honed bowie knife the size of a Kansas City butcher’s meat cleaver. No way to determine, from a distance, where he’d actually been cut first, but sweet, merciful Jesus, that didn’t matter.
We drew our animals to a halt some d
istance from the boy’s sheltering tree. The wide, flat, sandy spot appeared to have been used as a campsite by passing travelers for eons. From all outward evidence, the Blackheart gang had camped there for at least a few hours at some point before we showed up. But they’d deserted the camp in a mighty big hurry. Left the poor gutted boy to the whims of nature, or perhaps the kindness of any shocked passerby who happened to have the piss-poor luck to chance his way.
Far as Carl or I could determine, from undisturbed sign left in the soft soil and sand by Blackheart and his bunch, the feller denned up next to the tree had received a mortal wound near the abandoned camp’s ancient fire site. Then he’d stumbled, dropped to his knees, and somehow dragged his pitiable, dying ass to the place where he’d finally snuggled down between the tree’s roots.
Stepped off my mount and strolled up for a closer look. Maybe three or four feet away, I squatted, picked up a twig, and scratched around in the sand. Poor little feller, who couldn’t have yet seen sixteen years, still struggled with both blood-saturated hands to stop his oozing innards from dribbling out onto his lap and thence onto the ground. Took everything I could do to keep what I’d eaten that day tamped down so it wouldn’t come up in a gush of odiferous puke.
Trickling rivulets of bright red, along with bubble-shaped lumps of grayish purple gut, oozed from between his grasping fingers. The blood had quickly coagulated into a thick, gooey, blackish brown coating on everything from his breastbone to his knees. The barely stanched flow of his leaking life had already soaked the front of a black, frayed, hand-me-down suit jacket, the tail of a chambray shirt that’d pretty much been rendered to shreds, and a pair of oft-patched sailcloth pants. Whole damnable mess crawled and seethed with a living carpet of bluebottle flies, shiny black beetles of various sorts, and other bugs I couldn’t begin to name.
Obvious to me that the butchered-up feller’d bought the ranch. He just hadn’t realized his chips had already been cashed in, or given up on his young life yet. Nothing short of amazing to me that he’d lived long enough for us to find him still amongst the living. Always did surpass all my imaginings, and surprised hell out me, when it came to realizing how long people could cling to a rapidly dwindling hold on this world despite wounds that would normally kill a full-grown buffalo.
Hard to look at him, but I locked my gaze on him and said, “What’s your name, son?”
Spasm of terrified agony pulled his cracked lips away from gritted teeth. Kid had a damned fine-looking set of choppers. Red-flecked steam of liquid leaked from one corner of his mouth, along with a froth of thick, yellow spittle. He blinked coal-black, swollen, bloodshot eyes at me, and attempted to bury himself deeper into the perceived safety of his hidey-hole. A flash of face-twisting, lip-biting pain caused a sharp, ragged intake of air.
Not even sure he could see me when, in a terror-laced, agony-thickened voice, the unfortunate boy gasped, “Glass. Name’s Milt Glass.”
“Cherokee?”
“Yeah.” He grimaced, turned his head away, and coughed. His grasp on the gob of exposed, seeping innards tightened. “Aw, God. It hurts . . . Really hurts. Not . . . sure I can . . . stand it much longer, mister. Tryin’ to decide . . . to die or not for hours.” An enormous tear formed in the corner of one eye, ran down a filth-spattered cheek, and dropped onto his nasty shoulder.
Carl quietly eased up on one side of me, Nate on the other. Nate couldn’t even talk. He took one fleeting glance, made a gagging noise, then couldn’t do anything but shake his head between the times he stared at the tree tops or toed at the dirt beneath his feet.
Heard Carl mutter, “Jesus,” under his breath. Then, to take his mind off the horror of it all, I suppose, he scratched a lucifer to life on the buckle of his pistol belt. Fired up a hand-rolled cigarette, then flicked the smoking match toward the creek.
Coffin nail dangled from Carl’s lips when he squinted and said, “What in the blue-eyed hell happened to you, Milt?”
Kid tried to look up, find whoever had made the inquiry, but couldn’t get his head back far enough to see Carl’s face. “One Cut Petey Mason. That’s . . . what happened to me, mister.”
“One Cut Petey sliced your belly open?” I said.
“Yeah. Gutted me . . . like a . . . beached sunfish from outta that creek yonder.”
Carl was talking to the ground when he muttered, “Reckon that’s why they call him One Cut Petey?”
“Took three . . . four swipes . . . to put me down,” Glass said, a tinge of bold and angry pride in his shaky voice. “Carved . . . me up pretty good. Doncha think?”
Turned to Swords. Figured if he had something to occupy his mind, maybe the situation wouldn’t be so hard to handle. Said, “Do me a favor, Nate. Get your notebook and a pencil. Think we should record everything this youngster says. If he lives long enough, we’ll have him sign it. Even if he don’t, a written account of a man’s deathbed testimony will prove mighty powerful evidence in court. ’Specially when three deputy U.S. marshals can swear to its authenticity.”
Heard Carl mumble, “That is, if we ever get any of ’em whiskey-vicious sons a bitches to court alive.”
Nate disappeared for maybe a minute ’fore he came running back. He kneeled down in the sand, licked the tip of his stubby piece of pencil, then said, “Okay, Hayden. Guess I’m as ready as I’m likely to get.”
“Write down as much as you can remember of what you heard earlier,” I said. “Then we’ll get on with some more questions.”
Carl leaned over, tapped me on the shoulder, and whispered, “Think we should give this kid some water? Ain’t exactly a penetratin’ stomach wound. Looks to me like One Cut Petey sliced him across the belly several times with somethin’ razor sharp. Opened the kid up like pullin’ on a loose thread.”
“Can’t see any reason why we shouldn’t give the boy a drink,” I offered under my breath. “Doubt he’s gonna last a whole lot longer anyhow. Ain’t gonna matter much if he has a bit of liquid in him or not. Could well ease the pain of his passing a mite. If such a thing is even possible.”
Carlton retrieved a full canteen from our pack animal. He knelt down beside the slashed-open boy. Dribbled some of the fluid onto the youngster’s swollen lips. Barely heard it when the mortally wounded youth said, “Good. Oh, that’s . . . really . . . good.”
Nate went back to staring at the treetops when he said, “One Cut Petey a friend of yours, Milt?”
Glass coughed. Jerky, convulsive motion of his body caused the kid to cry out as though he’d been cut open a second or third time. He was steadily losing the battle to hold his guts behind the open wound. Looked to me like having one finger out of place would sure enough lead to all his intestines flopping out into his lap.
Beads of sweat popped up on Milt Glass’s dirt-smeared brow. They melded together, formed a tiny brook, then coursed down his fuzz-covered cheek and dripped from a tremulous chin. In spite of all his concentrated efforts, couple of chunks of gut the size of doughnuts popped from between twitching fingers.
Nate abandoned his scribbling long enough to cover his mouth with a bandanna and make a half-assed retching sound. Then he turned completely around and squatted with his back to the bloody scene. Must admit I couldn’t blame him much for not wanting to look at what One Cut Petey had left of Milt Glass.
Finally, the butchered boy managed to say, “Never . . . even met . . . Petey . . . till I fell in with Zeke, Jackson, and Crawford Starr. They ’uz all friends. Hell, ’uz only a week ago. Didn’t . . . know any of ’em . . .’fore then.” Burst of talk appeared to take everything out of the boy. His head lolled to one side. Thought for a second he’d gone and passed to the other side right before my eyes.
Whacked him on the foot with my tree twig. Have to admit it surprised me some when he came back around. Thought for sure he’d already woke up shoveling coal in the furnaces of Hell. Anyhow, got him blinking at me and I said, “One Cut. You were tellin’ me about One Cut Petey Mason.”
Glas
s groaned. Cast a baleful look down at his leaking guts. “Petey joined up a few hours . . . after I threw in with ’em. Zeke brought him . . . into camp over on the Verdigris . . . week or so ago. Never found . . . how . . . they knew each other.”
Nate stayed in place, but still tried his level best to avoid looking at the outlaw’s exposed bowels. Over his shoulder, he said, “What’d you two get to fightin’ over that he done all this damage to you?”
“That Indian gal. Took from . . . saloon keeper . . . down on Beehive Creek.”
Carl perked up when he heard about the girl. “He try to kill her or something, Glass?”
“Or something . . . guess you could say. Humped her ever hour or so. Went to carvin’ on her . . . with that big ole bowie knife he carries.” The lethally wounded boy coughed. “Water . . . more water. Please.”
Carl trickled a few more drops onto Glass’s swollen tongue and bruised lips. Boy turned his head away. For almost a minute didn’t utter another word. Then, as though he’d simply rested up for a final run at life, he said, “Tried to stop him. Hell, he and them others . . . had already had their way with her . . . till it was makin’ me sick. Shit. Didn’t feel what he’d . . . done to me at first.” Of a sudden, he stopped. His eyes rolled into the back of his head. “Damn . . . sure ’nuff cold today,” he mumbled. “Freezin’. Slap freezin’.” He groaned, let out a long, sad breath. His eyes snapped wide open like a paper window shade. Relaxed all over. Just went slap limper than a wrung-out bar towel.
Blood-encrusted hands dropped away from the massive wound across his belly. All the viscera he’d been trying to hold back came flooding out like those from a freshly slaughtered steer. Nate must’ve seen what happened out of the corner of one eye. He gagged, and jumped away from the horrific scene. Staggered to a spot behind a sizable stand of huckleberry bushes. Could hear him retch like there wasn’t nothing left to puke up.
