by J. Lee Butts
“Well, he was still breathin’ and complainin’ when I disarmed him. But I ain’t gonna offer up no guarantees as to how long he’ll be that way. Could get the call from Satan just any second now.”
John Henry let me use his shotgun as a crutch so I could shamble over to where Zeke Blackheart was sitting. He’d hit the ground just like he’d chosen to take a seat right there in the middle of the thoroughfare. Took some painful doing, but I managed to get myself down to his level. No doubt about it, the man was close on to being blown to pieces. Looked like he’d caught both barrels of heavy-gauge shot from John Henry’s big blaster. Amazes me to this very instant that he was still breathing. And, hell, that he could even talk.
Gazed at his pockmarked, grizzled face and growled, “Guess your thievin’ and murderin’ days are over, Zeke. Way I’ve got it figured, Ole Scratch is stokin’ up the furnaces of Hell ’specially for your arrival on his front doorstep. ’Pears the Devil’s playground is your next stop.”
Blackheart had both hands clamped over his dripping guts. Reminded me of the kid we’d found out on the trail—Milt Glass. Swear ’fore Jesus, the angry skunk glared at me like he would’ve ripped my heart out and eaten it raw if he could’ve managed it.
Behind me, I heard John Henry say, “No need to worry yourself, Tilden. I kicked all his weapons away ’fore I came over to dispatch ole Black Jack and check on you.”
“You got tobacco, Tilden?” Blackheart grunted from between cracked, trembling lips.
Fiddled around in my vest pocket and pulled out a panatela. “You know who I am, outlaw?”
The twisted-faced half-breed let out an exasperated, liquid groan. “’Course I know who you are. Every badman in the Nations has heard of you, lawdog. You’re the man who brought Saginaw Bob Magruder, the Crooke brothers, and a damned lot of others to book.”
“Well, at least the parts about Magruder and the Crooke boys are true.”
He moaned as sweat dripped from his chin. “Hear tell you watched Magruder hang. Feller I met tole me as how lightning fell from heaven and struck the gallows at the exact moment ole Bob hit the end of Maledon’s famous piece of oiled Kentucky hemp.”
“Was quite a scene,” I said. Bit the pointy end off the panatela, then leaned over and shoved it into the wounded brigand’s mouth. “Sure you can smoke?”
Clenched a set of perfect teeth around the cigar, then groaned, “You light it, I’ll smoke it.”
He sucked hard on the stogie, then coughed. Kept the cigar from falling into the dirt with those blindingly white choppers. And between the two of us, we finally got that see-gar stoked to life. “Damn. That’s mighty fine,” he said, and blew a wheezy, coughing, bluish gray cloud toward heaven. “Gonna miss a good smoke once I’m cookin’ in Hell’s fiery pit.”
Ran a hand down my side. Noticed my pants leg was soaked through with blood that oozed from the wound in my hip. Pressed hard on the hole in my britches where the bullet had entered, then said, “What started you on this path, Zeke? Know you had a few problems here and there. Read reports that told as how you’d been accused of stealing some horses and such. Bit of drunkenness once in a while. Some introducin’ here and there. No existing record of any real serious problems with the law till you just seemed to go slap crazy and start killin’ folks.”
He threw a blank, rubbery, dark-eyed stare my direction and shook his head. Let his gaze ricochet around the street from one body to the next. “You fellers sure ’nuff shot hell outta all my boys, lawdog.” He glanced over at John Henry. “’Specially you, you badge-totin’ son of a bitch. Kilt some damned good men today. Snuffed Jackson Bowlegs. ’Pears as how you got the Boston boys, Tilden. Hell, they hadn’t been with me but about a week.”
John Henry hooked a thumb toward the bunch I’d put down. “That Bowlegs over there with the Boston brothers?”
A shudder of life-sapping pain behind beads of hot sweat shot across Blackheart’s drenched, glistening face. He jerked his head up and down in a barely perceptible nod. “Yeah, and that’n over yonder way, closest to the spot where you was hid out, is One Cut Petey Mason. Angry little bastard could carve up a human body like no man I’ve ever known before. Looks like you killed him deader’n a bucket a rocks, mister.”
Decided not to let Blackheart slip over to the other side without him hearing a bit of hard-handed truth about his murderous behavior. Said, “You brought the bloody hand of a vengeful God down on them and yourself, Zeke. Every corpse you can see is lying here because of you.”
Something in his coal-black eyes flickered back to angry life. Knew beyond any doubt he would’ve killed me in a heartbeat—if he could’ve pulled it off.
A spittle-laced trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth and stained the teeth biting at the panatela. “Were all dead men years ago, Tilden. Just markin’ time till some white feller, like you, decided to kill us.”
“That’s total bullshit, Zeke, and you know it. Hell, you’re half white yourself.”
He nodded, then grimaced as though a foot-long bowie knife had been shoved into his guts. From the side of his mouth not occupied by the cigar, he grunted, “Yeah, and I woulda murdered the white half myself if I coulda figured out how to do the deed and still be alive so’s I could send more whites to their particular spot in a festerin’ Hell.”
Of a sudden, I got real light-headed. Turned just a mite to look over at John Henry. Whole world set to spinning like a kid’s top. As if from a great distance, and like he spoke from the bottom of a barrel, I heard him say, “You okay, Tilden?”
Then a flame-rimmed, inky hole seemed to open up in the earth right at my feet. Everything went darker than a barrelful of black cats on a moonless night. I dove into that unfathomable pit headfirst as if my wife, Elizabeth, was waiting for me.
Not exactly sure how long I stayed out. Next time I opened my eyes, Carlton was staring down at me and wiping my forehead with a damp piece of rag. “Well, well, well. Guess ole Black Jack didn’t manage to kill you after all, Tilden,” he said.
Appeared as how Carl was perched on the edge of a gigantic box, and I’d somehow got down in the bottom of the thing. Reached up and took the rag out of my friend’s hand. Ran it around to the back of my sweaty, dirt-encrusted neck. “How long you been here?”
“Me’n Nate rode in right after you passed out. Got here just in time to see ole Blackheart breathe his last.”
“Still got bodies all over the street?”
He swept his hat off, wiped his face on the sleeve of his shirt, and gazed off to a spot I couldn’t see. “Naw. We’ve pretty much got everything tidied up. All the dead ’uns is propped up atop some boards on what’s left of the porch in front of Gluck’s store. Helluva sight. Got Zeke Blackheart, then Jackson Bowlegs. Next to Bowlegs is One Cut Petey Mason. Then there’s ole Black Jack and the Boston brothers. Even got their weapons laid out with ’em. Nate found a feller out on the edge of town who owns a damned fine team of mules. Got him to drag Black Jack Morris’s horse out in the street with the rest of the dead animals.”
“Well, thank God. Hope that Gluck feller’s feelin’ a bit better about his situation.”
“Yeah, maybe. But you know, Hayden, he bitched and moaned the whole time we was movin’ outta his store the animal you went an’ shot. Feller with the mules was good enough to agree to drag all the poor dead beasts off later on today. Guess you could say Gluck’s makin’ the best of a bad situation, though. He’s chargin’ folks fifty cents just to wander by on the boardwalk and take a look at all the dead men. No fee for lookin’ at the animals. He even came up with a big ole box camera from somewheres. If you’ve got a dollar, you can have your picture took standin’ next to them dead fellers.”
“How long I been out, Carl?”
“Coupla hours. Nigh on to three actually. Lost a right bit of blood there, amigo. Good thing we got you patched up when we did, or you just mighta bled slap to death.”
Glanced around at the box I was lying in and,
for some reason, couldn’t get my mind around where I’d ended up. “This a coffin? Looks almost like you boys were gettin’ me ready to bury.”
Carl let out a snorting chuckle. “Aw, hell, we decided not to plant you till you’d been good and dead for at least a day or so. Put you in this here wagon so’s you couldn’t move around much, and figured as how we’d have you already loaded up to transport your lazy ass back to Fort Smith. No doc around these parts, but the local vet said you didn’t need to be ridin’ no horse for a spell.”
“Vet take the bullet out?”
Carl shook his head. “Naw. He said it appeared to be in somethin’ of a delicate spot. Not exactly sure what he meant by that, but he did mention arteries, veins, stuff like that. Figured it’d be best if we just left it alone.”
I fingered around on the patch of bandages, then said, “What all did the vet do?”
Carl leaned over and patted me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. I watched him close while he worked. Cleaned you up real good with carbolic. Sewed the hole up. Said your only problem now is just makin’ sure you don’t fester. Get a dose of the blood poisonin’ or somethin’. Likely we’ll have to change the dressing at least once a day, but my money says you’ll make it home to Elizabeth okay. Gonna be some uncomfortable by tomorrow mornin’, though.”
“Where’s Nate and John Henry?”
“They’re gettin’ them boys as you and Slate didn’t kill ready for the trip back to Fort Smith.”
“How many?”
“There’s four.”
“Know any of ’em?”
“Well, we’ve got Jasper Day. Had him in jail once before for stealin’ a horse over near Okmulgee. Cherokee feller named Crawford Starr as well. ’Pears this might be Crawford’s first, and last, encounter with the law.”
“That’s only two.”
“Then there’s Orville Willie. Sent him up to the Detroit Correctional Facility for introducin’ liquor to the Indians at least twice. Figure he’s the one what knew the best places for this bunch to get their jig juice along the trail. Oh, other’n is a Choctaw kid, Marcus Swan. Cain’t be more’n fourteen, fifteen years old, but he’s already a killer.”
“Any of ’em hurt very bad?”
“Not as bad as you. Swan looks to be the worst off. He caught a stray rifle slug in the meatier part of one leg. Rest of ’em just got peppered pretty good with shotgun pellets. They’re a mite uncomfortable, but won’t die till we can hang ’em.”
“Guess a dose of shotgun balls is about all it takes to snatch the starch out of most of their kind. Up till they rode into Vamoose, don’t think anyone else had even tried to resist their brutish ways.”
“Naw. They might not a-done much of the shootin’ and killin’, but every one of ’em boys was an active party, in one way or another, to the murders the whole bunch committed. Anyway, near as we can tell, all of ’em ’cept Swan can still sit a horse. He might have to ride in the wagon with you.”
“Won’t bother me any, Carl.”
“Well, we all talked it over some and figured to get headed on back toward Fort Smith quick as we can. There’s some unrest amongst Vamoose’s citizenry. ’Pears as how maybe one or two of the gang mighta got away. Not sure who they was, or even if it’s true, but we coulda missed at least one of ’em.”
“No point worryin’ ’bout that now.”
“Nope, but there’s more’n a few of the local citizens kinda pissed at the way the whole dance played out, and they’re afraid anybody as mighta survived could be comin’ back with revenge in their ungrateful hearts. Number of the townies is sayin’ you boys handled the situation badly. Scared hell outta some folks. Damn near destroyed a valuable, prominent business establishment.”
“Well, they’ll just have to suck it up and come to the realization that it couldn’t be helped. We didn’t start the fight. Deadly dance just kinda happened. Developed on its own because of the gang’s tactics when they entered town.”
Guess I must’ve gone unconscious again right after that. Woke up, and the wagon rocked and swayed beneath me. Someone had moved me around so I was lookin’ at the driver’s back. Couldn’t see his face, but knew it was Nate. Wounded feller I took as Marcus Swan sat in the wagon bed up next to the driver’s seat. Spent most of his time moaning and crying out for his mother.
Trip from Vamoose to my house out on the Arkansas, near Van Buren, took about three days. Most tortuous three days of my life, as I recall. Honest to Christ, after just a few hours of riding in that wagon, trip got me to thinking I’d never get home.
Made Carl, John Henry, and Nate get me up and out of that contraption as often as possible, but the existing roads in the Nations in them bygone days were usually little more than a set of rough, deep ruts between one town and the other. In most cases, nothing like an actual thorough-fare existed at all. Several times I had to make them pull up and redress the extra hole in my ass. Did that right up until we stopped over for the night in a place the locals called the Devil’s Den. You know, sure enough, ole Scratch had his pitchfork out and was waiting for us.
13
“. . . I’M STABBED. STABBED THROUGH THE HEART.”
TO THIS VERY instant, I could not tell anyone who asked how the Devil’s Den got its name. Mystery might still be hiding somewhere amongst the cobwebs of my ancient, cankered-up brain, but I can’t find it anymore. Doesn’t matter, though. It’s enough you understand that I never cared for the spot, and seldom stopped there. Not exactly sure why, but it seemed that every time I rode up to the place, the hair on back of my neck prickled. Carl and Nate harbored no such misgivings and overrode my feeble objections. John Henry didn’t appear to care one way or the other.
Place is on the Choctaw side of the Canadian’s rough banks—a good fifty-to-sixty-mile ride west of Fort Smith. Sheltered bend of the slow-moving river is protected from the weather by a towering set of rough sandstone bluffs that jut out over a series of hidden caves carved eons ago by the flowing water.
Back when I rode for Judge Parker, the riverbank was thick with pin oak, blackjack oak, weeping willow, and cot-tonwood that grew as thick as chiggers right down to the water’s edge. A body could barely make it through the trees along the shallow stream anywhere, except at the Devil’s Den. It was a pleasant-enough-looking plot where someone, years before, had cleared the ground and built an almost Edenlike retreat for weary travelers to stop over for the night, rest up, and get renewed.
An abandoned one-room log cabin, and several out-buildings located there, had been used, at one time or another, by nigh on all of Judge Parker’s deputy marshals for as many years as any of us could remember. By the time we arrived there, with the living remnants of Blackheart’s gang in tow, I’d become somewhat feverish. Didn’t even realize that Carl and Nate had moved me from the wagon to a more comfortable spot on the shack’s dilapidated front porch. Must’ve slept right up till John Henry Slate woke me with a cup of fresh-brewed coffee and one of Carl’s famous campfire biscuits. He used to stuff those heavenly lumps of doughy ambrosia with a handful of crisp-fried bacon. Aroma made my mouth water like a starving dog’s.
John Henry helped me get propped up against the cabin’s rude, bark-covered, outside wall. Sat with his back against a porch pillar, then handed me a steaming tin cup of stump juice.
I took a nibbling sip from the hot liquid, then said, “Sun’s gonna be goin’ down soon. You boys got our prisoners all taken care of?”
Slate ripped a splinter of wood from one of the porch’s hand-hewn floorboards. Used it to pick at his teeth. With the sliver dangling from the corner of his mouth, he said, “Nothin’ to worry yourself over, Tilden. Them friends of yours know their jobs. They’ve already chained the wounded feller—name’s Swan, I believe—to his dry-gulchin’ amigos. If them boys try to run, they’ll have to drag that hurt one along like a hundred-and-fifty-pound sodbuster plow. We’ve got ’em staked to a tree over yonder, next to the river.”
“Not gonna leave ’em
out there, I hope.”
“Carlton says he’ll bring ’em up to the cabin for the night. Gonna cuff hisself to one end of the chain. Nate to the other. I’ll be inside with ’em as well. That way we should all get a good night’s sleep.”
Took another sip of John Henry’s beaker of belly-wash, then said, “Sounds good, but do me a favor. Try not to sleep any more’n you have to. These boys are headed for the hangman, sure as the knob on Satan’s front gate glows from Hell’s eternal fires. Nothin’ like confronting the distinct probability of messin’ your pants danglin’ from the end of a rope, in front of a crowd of thousands, to get you motivated. Any one of ’em spots even a half-assed chance, he’ll kill all of us deader’n Andy by-God Jackson ’fore we can make our way back to the safety of Fort Smith.”
Not sure how much of an impact my little oration had on John Henry. He nodded. Acted like he heard me. I gave the same speech to Carl just before it got real good and dark. Carl did the same head-bobbing routine, then grunted and took another bite out of his biscuit and bacon.
Later on, I watched as Carl locked himself to one end of the chain of prisoners. Nate did the same with the other end. Whole crew marched right past me as they clinked and jingled into the cabin for our night at the Devil’s Den.
John Henry was the last man through the door. He carried a kerosene lantern, which he placed on the floor, just inside the doorway, and allowed it to burn. Flickering glow from the lamp danced through the gaping portal, across the plank porch, and down the steps, before it faded into the all-enveloping darkness. At some point during the night, or early hours of the morning, the lamp burned out.
Tried my best to sleep beneath a cover of mosquito netting. Kept a cocked pistol close at hand. Must admit, I felt a strong need to be prepared for anything wayward that might occur. Still not sure why, but there was just something about the Devil’s Den that gave me a case of the creeping willies.
Can’t even begin to know how long I rolled around in fits of tortured wakefulness. Had some terrible nightmares when I did manage to catch a few winks. Was rudely snatched back to total awareness by the most horrible screaming I’d ever heard in my entire adult life. No doubt in my mind that men were dead, or dying, not ten feet from where I lay.
