by J. Lee Butts
Few minutes later, Nate sucked a swallow or two of water from his canteen while we all stood in a circle under a spot of shade offered by the tree. He said, “You know, I’ve butchered hogs. Cattle. Animals of all sorts for something to eat. Kilt my share of men, too. But boys, there’s just something ’bout seein’ a human being sliced open like that sets my stomach to churnin’ like the wheel on a Mississippi riverboat. Don’t think I coulda kept an anvil down—even if I coulda swallowed one.”
Carl took a swig from his canteen, spat it out, then wiped damp lips on the sleeve of his shirt. “Know what you mean, Nate. I ’uz havin’ lunch in a restaurant a block off the railroad tracks in little Arkansas town of Pine Bluff few years back. Finished my meal. Headed outside to pick my teeth. Standin’ there rubbin’ my belly and feelin’ mighty good ’bout everthang. Noticed the switch engine a-creepin’ through town off to my left. Then, as though time somehow slowed down to a crawl, seen this old man comin’ my way on t’other side of the tracks. Heard the whistle on the engine blast four, five, maybe six times. Engineer sure set the thing to hootin’.”
“Aw, Jesus,” Nate groaned. He toed at the ground, then wagged his head back and forth. “Aw, shit, think I see where this tale’s a-goin’ already.”
“Yeah. Poor, old coot musta been deafer’n a rotten hoe handle. People yelled and hollered at him. Whistle kept screechin’. He never even so much as looked up. Stumbled onto the tracks just in time to get hit by the switch. Damned engine was barely moving. ’Course it knocked him down. Engineer got the thing stopped ’fore it rolled completely over the ole feller. Kinda got halfway on top of him.”
Nate stared at the treetops again. Shook his head and mumbled, “God Almighty.”
Carl was locked into this tale. Wouldn’t have quit if a cyclone had blown over, sucked all of us up into the heavens, and dumped us somewhere in Kansas. “Crowd stood around for near an hour. Cussed and discussed what to do ’bout the whole situation. Engine sat there on top a the dead man. Finally, somebody went and made a decision.”
“What the hell was there to decide?” Nate grumped.
“Guess they figured it’d take too long to get a crane on site to lift the load off the poor dead bastard. So they just backed ’er up. Big ole cast-iron wheel rolled off his belly. Guts went everwheres. Made a helluva mess.” He turned, cast a sad-eyed gaze over at Milt Glass again, then added, “But, shit, bad as that death was, it weren’t nothin’ compared to this boogered-up glance into the fiery pit.”
Only had one shovel between us, so we took turns digging a grave for Milt Glass. Figured we’d put him under the cottonwood tree. Soft soil of the creek bank made the job fairly easy, but it was hotter’n a fresh-forged horseshoe. Helped some that he’d passed so late in the day. Got downright dark ’fore we finally got him under the dirt. Piled as many big rocks on his poor dead ass as we could so the coyotes and such wouldn’t dig him up.
Then we all stripped off and sat in the creek. Passed a cake of lye soap around for nigh on to an hour. Soaked ourselves till we’d got all pucker-skinned like we were a thousand years old. Slept like a dead man that night.
Woke up to the aroma of Carl’s damned fine cooking. He’d fried up some fatback bacon and half a dozen hen apples. Even had Dutch oven biscuits goin’. Don’t, to this very moment, know where those eggs came from. Man did have the talents of a superior scavenger, though. When Nate and I couldn’t have found food of any kind in a fully stocked emporium, Carl had the ability to cadge vitals in places that hadn’t seen a living human being since the beginnings of time. Amazing and incredibly important talent.
Time the sun got up good, we were running hot on the Blackheart gang’s trail again. Whippin’ along pretty good till we ran across an affront against nature of such unmitigated evil none of us could believe what we’d laid eyes on. In truth, though, we smelled the poor bastard ’fore we actually caught sight of him.
Swear ’fore Jesus, just ain’t nothing in all of nature like the repellent fragrance of burnt hair and blistered-to-a-state-of-crackling human skin. Whiff of that particular bouquet has the uncommon power to send any feeling man’s stomach into churning flip-flops. Bring up a good breakfast faster than bad news travels at a church picnic.
Drew our tired animals up in a grassy, pastoral field near a stand of trees nestled down at the bottom of a shallow ravine. Spot was typical of the wind-and-water-eroded, rolling, scrub-covered landscape for miles in any direction, not far from a branch of the Deep Fork of the Canadian River.
Stood on the edge of a charred, circular site the size of two, maybe three, Concord coaches. Slapped Gunpowder’s reins against my leather-gloved palm. Blackened grass no longer smoldered. Concentrated flames appeared to have burned themselves out some hours before we arrived. Hushed, smoky haze had settled over the entire area. Made the centermost section of the spot somewhat difficult to see.
Nate pointed toward the dead center of the ring of burnt grass. Odd, flame-blackened lump moved. Limblike appendage appeared to wave at us. “Sweet, merciful Jesus, Hayden,” he said. “I do believe that’s a man.”
Carlton shook his head, then covered the bottom half of his face with one hand. “Sure as hell don’t smell like a man,” he said, and blinked back tears.
6
“PLEASE, JUST PULL YOUR PISTOL AND SHOOT ME.”
CARL AND I dismounted out along the edge of the flame-blistered patch of what had once been knee-deep big bluestem grass. Held our reins out for Nate, but had to wait for him to take them. He’d fished a bandanna from his pocket, and was tying it over a flushed face. Once he’d finished, the boy looked like a Texas brush popper riding drag on a cattle drive to one of the Kansas railheads, or a Cherokee Outlet stickup artist.
“Ain’t no smell on earth as bad as burnt people,” he said through the cloth. “Only ten years old when I helped bury six of my cousins what perished in a house fire. Near as could be determined, one a them kids got up durin’ the night. Dumped kerosene on a dwindlin’ fire. Damned stove exploded. Burnt ’em all up just like Satan had decided to cook ’em for breakfast. Smell from those bodies still lingers around inside my nose. Get anywhere close to another burned human being, and the whole horrid mess comes right back to the surface in a rush of pukey bile I have a helluva time holdin’ down.”
Pulled the canteen loose from my saddle horn, then said, “Try not to think on it. And while you’re doin’ that, keep a keen eye out. Sons a bitches responsible for this atrocity could still be skulkin’ around anywhere. Be mighty easy to hide in that patch of trees yonder. See any movement over there, just go on ahead and start blastin’.”
“You know, Hayden, if this is another one of Blackheart’s gang we’ve run across, I think we should just pitch camp somewheres, sit back, and wait,” Carl said.
“Wait for what?” I said.
“Wait for ’em to kill each other off to the point where there ain’t but one of ’em left. Then we can scoop him up. Take ’im back to Fort Smith and let Maledon hang ’im.”
Nate kept pawing at his nose. Looked like he might be about to heave his socks up. He coughed, then slipped his Winchester from its boot. Hung back with the animals as Carl and I turned and headed for the poor burnt-crisp feller stretched out dead center of the scorched spot. Black clouds of ash puffed up around our feet as we trudged toward the still-waving body.
Incredible stench of flame-broiled flesh got worse as we got closer. By the time we’d stepped right up next to the poor soul, I had to pull my own bandanna out. Carl took one glance, then turned away. Acted like he was checking the toes of his own boots, the backs of his hands, or the surrounding area for anyone who might have laid in wait to ambush us.
Knelt down beside the flame-charred feller. Not much in the way of clothing left. Most of the unfortunate soul’s garments had completely burned away. Fire left little more than flaked scraps of ashy material here and there, the remnants of a set of leather suspenders, and the cooked vestiges of a pistol belt a
long with an empty holster. Every exposed area of skin had coiled into flaky curlicues of brittle, crispy flesh—almost like deep-fried pork skins. Appeared someone had most likely taken his boots before they set him ablaze.
At first I felt sure the ill-fated man had probably died before we got to him. But as I gazed at the body in absolute revulsion, a shallow, ragged gasp escaped what little was left of a set of swollen, blistered-black lips. Held my canteen over the charred face and dribbled water into his open mouth. Few drops at a time. Took a while before the barbecued man finally responded to the moisture.
Of a sudden, eyes missing brows and lashes popped open; then he shuddered all over as though freezing to death. An agonized, tortured, soul-rending moan, unlike anything I’d ever heard before, rumbled up from inside his charred chest. Made sharp-pointed chill bumps run from my neck all the way down my sweaty back.
“Can you speak, mister?” I said.
Ragged, muffled, and strained but still intelligible, he said, “Please. Kill me, friend. Use your pistol. Get me over to the other side.”
His request stunned me. Fact that he could even speak stunned me. Took a second to collect my thoughts before I said, “My partner and I are deputy U.S. marshals, mister. Sure you’ll want us to notify family members of your misfortune. Can you tell us your name?”
Even though his face was cooked beyond anything like recognition—all the hair had burned away along with most of his ears and nose and lips—I could tell how hard he strained to speak. Have to say, it proved nothing short of amazing that what he had to tell me came out so clear and strong from such a badly devastated body.
Man croaked some, as though recovering from a severe cold. But the voice was friendly, like we’d met at church of a Sunday morning and decided to stand beneath the oak tree outside the front door and exchange our feelings about local politics, crop futures, our kids, our wives, or our faith in a forgiving God.
“Name’s Bosephus Harvey,” he gasped. “Own a small horse ranch, seven, eight miles . . . north. Hundred yards or so off the Deep Fork of the Canadian.”
Trickled more water across nonexistent lips. So much of his face had vaporized that the lack of lips, nose, and ears gave him a flame-kissed, monstrously grinning, skull-like appearance.
“What were you doin’ out here, Mr. Harvey?”
Without moving his head, he cut murky gray, unseeing eyes in the direction of my voice. “On my way to a settlement named Boggs, ’bout thirty miles south of here on the Deep Fork.”
“Ah. We’re familiar with the place.”
“Thought to check on any strays as I rode along. Ran across a group of men camped on this very spot. Yesterday—I think—late yesterday. Been layin’ here all night.” He stopped speaking. Those milky, clouded eyes shifted in their fire-blasted sockets. “Right sure I’m blind, Deputy. Can’t see nothin’ much now but some hazy movement. Bastards poured so much bonded-in-the-barn jig juice on my head the blaze burnt my eyes away.”
“Want us to prop you up?”
“No. No. Sweet Jesus, don’t touch me. Please, don’t touch me. Pain’s already unbearable. Touch me and I might not be able to finish what I must tell you.”
“You know any of the men who did this to you by any chance, Mr. Harvey?”
He made an attempt to swallow, but couldn’t. Went to gagging. I dripped more liquid into his opened mouth. A tongue, swollen to the size of a housewife’s pot-holding rag, swabbed its way across his exposed upper teeth.
He gasped, then said, “Never seen any of ’em before. Stumbled over their campfire purely by accident. Tried my best to be neighborly and back away, till I noticed a couple of ’em goin’ at some poor, hysterical woman. She started screamin’ bloody murder . . .’bout a minute after I drew up.”
“You should’ve run right that instant.”
“Know that now. Can’t call time back. Whole crew drunk and belligerent. God couldn’ta made friends with ’em boys. Shoot any one of ’em in the head and he’d have to sober up ’fore he could die.” Man went to puffin’ like he was drownin’, let out a wheezin’, crouping, blood-soaked cough.
Hoped to get his mind off his situation and back on the Blackheart bunch when I said, “Did the men you met up with do this to you for no reason?”
Finally got his coughing spell under control, then growled, “No reason. None as I can figure. One they called Zeke jerked me off my horse. Hit me with his pistol barrel. Riffled through my pockets. Found a couple a dollars and my tobacco pouch. Made ’im madder’n a rained-on rooster. Doused me in whiskey. Set me aflame. Rest of ’em laughed the whole time I burned.”
Carl muttered, “Jesus.”
“Kept sloshing more liquor on me. Oddest thing, even while I was blazin’, couldn’t do nothin’ but stumble around grabbin’ at ’em. But they wouldn’t stop. Never quit their insane hootin’ and hollerin’. Not till I fell down and couldn’t move no more.” Harvey choked, gagged, then went silent.
For some seconds, he didn’t say anything more. Then I realized he appeared as though locked in a desperate attempt to close his eyes. Quick as I could, pulled my own bandanna. Saturated the cloth with water, wrung the chunk of rag out, then carefully laid it over his flame-blasted face.
Through the material, he said, “Thank you, sir. The sunlight hurts my eyes. Can’t see mucha nothin’, but it still hurts.”
Figured no reason existed to dance around the truth any longer. Said, “Don’t appear as how you’re gonna last too much longer, Mr. Harvey.”
“Believe you’re right, Deputy. Sincerely hope not. You just can’t imagine the pain.”
“No, sir. No, I’m absolutely certain I can’t. Not sure anyone could.”
Carl turned his back, kicked at the dirt, refused to look at the man any longer.
“You know, Deputy, something I heard many a dyin’ man say durin’ the war’s turned out to be true,” Harvey added, then groaned. “God puts enough hurt on a body and you start to ignore it like a dyin’ dog. All I want right now is to pass on to my final, heavenly reward. Want all my trials, all my sufferin’ to end, this very minute if possible. You can help me along that path, Deputy. Please, just pull your pistol and shoot me.”
“Sorry, but I can’t be responsible for your death. None of us can help you onto the final path to God’s glorious presence by such an act. Gonna be ruthlessly blunt and truthful with you, sir. From all outward appearances, only the Lord God Almighty can help you now.”
A tired, ragged, gurgling breath surged through the bandanna at a spot where the holes that had once been his nose and mouth were located. “Well, then,” he gasped. “You must take my body home to my family, sir. Not much out of your way. Just follow the river north. Can’t miss the place. My wife, Millicent Yellow Hawk, please tell her that my final thoughts were of her and the children. Promise a dying man you’ll do that for me, Deputy.”
Found it difficult to speak for several seconds. Finally managed to force out, “We’ll see to your family, sir. You have my oath on it.”
Heard Carl stir behind me. Sounded almost as though he’d let a stifled sob get loose. Understood exactly how he felt. My good and faithful friend was tougher than the calluses on a barfly’s elbows. We’d seen a boatload of dead or dying folks in just as bad, or worse, condition, but Bosephus Harvey was the first we’d ever come across who’d been burned alive and could still speak with such clarity and authority. Man’s calm, reasoned acceptance of his plight had a powerful effect. Had it not been for his appalling appearance, a person wouldn’t have known how bad off he really was—leastways, not by the sound of his voice.
The damp bandanna puffed up and down over the gaping wound that was now his mouth as he said, “Please, leave me alone for a few minutes. When you come back I’ll have made my peace with God.” After a long pause he added, “And won’t be here any longer.”
“You sure about that, Mr. Harvey? My friend and I can stay here with you. A man should have someone by his side when he goes
out. Assure you it won’t be a problem.”
“No. No. Leave me with my God. Just a few minutes, I beg you. When you return, I’ll be gone. Just make sure my body gets back to my family.”
Trickled some more water on the piece of rag over his face. “Thank you, sir. And I’ll thank you for seeing to my family ahead of time. Now leave me, please.”
Touched the back of his cooked hand with one finger, then stood and strode away without looking back. Carl ran a shirtsleeve under his nose as he trudged along beside me.
Nate stepped off his horse as we marched up. “Even from over here,” he said, “that feller’s plight don’t look good a’tall.”
Carl looked away, then stared at his feet. “Ain’t nowheres near good, that’s for damned certain. Poor man sent us away so he could get right with God and die. ’Pears he’s made up his mind not to live any longer. Can’t blame him much, though. Don’t know ’bout anyone else, but I’d sure ’nuff hate to live another thirty years after bein’ burnt up like that.”
A confused look flashed across Nate Swords’ face. He flicked a glance in the direction of Harvey’s resting place. “Man just decided not to live no more? That what I just heard you boys say?”
“Sure appears so,” I said. “I’ve heard of such before. Just ain’t never seen it happen. Thought dyin’ whenever you wanted was just an old wives’ tale. Still don’t believe in it myself. But we’ll give him the time he asked for anyway, then see to his comfort once he realizes the end ain’t comin’.”
“What about Blackheart and his bunch?” Nate said.
“Yeah, what about ’em?” Carl said. “Hell, Hayden, you and I’ve seen the most awful kinda evil shit men can do. Waded through a river of blood chasin’ them Crooke boys along a trail of astonishing insanity and murder. Swear ’fore Jesus, I thought that was as bad as men could get. Couldn’t see how we’d ever be faced with anything worse. Then came Charlie Storms and the Doome brothers. Now this. Christ, still find it hard to believe men can do such things, but it looks like the name Blackheart is destined for a level of infamy impossible for most sane folks to conjure up in a nightmare.”
