by J. Lee Butts
Nigh on exactly six miles up that primitive, rutted pathway, we stopped atop a rocky hillock where the road gently curved to the east. Off to the west, the trees thinned out, almost like a picture frame, and exposed grassy, wide-open spaces that appeared to go on forever.
Few hundred yards from the road, dead center of a plot of about ten acres of sun-blasted, knee-high grass, sat a ramshackle, dog-run house. Exterior board-and-batten siding of the dwelling had weathered to a misty silver gray color. Six-foot-deep covered veranda shaded a sprung-out sofa that sprouted its innards like growing flowers. Broken-down couch sat on the side of the porch farthest from that portion of the house used as a kitchen.
Number of windswept, paint-blistered outbuildings located in the fields around and behind the Slate family’s home leaned from west to east as though on the verge of falling down. A worse-for-wear barn that had once sported a coat of bright red paint was now faded to rust. Several empty rail corrals flanked the main house on three sides. Except for the reclining figure of an ancient, white-haired man seated on one end of the porch, seemed to me that passing travelers might think the place vacant, deserted, perhaps even haunted by the ghosts of those no longer amongst the living.
Barely heard him when Carl muttered, “Looks like these folks had a right active horse operation here at some point. Shame to see it in such a state of disrepair.” His comments sounded almost like he was thinking out loud.
Nate hooked one leg over the saddle horn, then put flame to a fresh-rolled smoke. He picked a stray sprig of tobacco from the tip of his tongue before saying, “Kinda eerie, ain’t it? Ole man’s a-sittin’ right there on the porch just like the fat boy back in town said. Reckon he’s dead, wind-dried, and folks have been ridin’ by for years a-wavin’ at a corpse?”
Slapped my leg with my hat, then stuffed it back on my drenched head. “One way to find out,” I said.
Tapped Gunpowder’s sides with both spurs and eased onto the overgrown trail that led from the road up to the house. Nate and Carl followed. Three of us rode right up to the rickety porch.
Tall, antique gentleman, wearing a sweat-stained tan Stetson and frayed woolen pants held up with red-striped suspenders over his patched long johns, clambered from the comfort of a run-down rocker. Sunbaked face behind a ragged, white beard blessed him with the kind of physical appearance you’d expect most Texans had in mind when they hit their knees at night and spoke with God. Had a Winchester propped against the wall next to his chair.
Old feller left a pile of wood shavings at his feet from the pine picket in his hand, and strode to the edge of the decrepit veranda. Mexican rowels of the silver spurs attached to his battered stovepipe boots jingled and chinked. He pitched the picket into the yard, then leaned a bony shoulder against one wobbly porch pillar. Light breeze played with the snowy hair that trickled from under his well-worn hat and onto his shoulders.
Yeller dog, size of a small pony, hopped off his end of the couch. Gigantic skillet licker eased up beside the old man, grunted out a less than enthusiastic growl, then flopped down at the gent’s feet as though he’d been poleaxed. Biscuit eater lolled his massive head off the edge of the porch and stared at us sidewise as though hardly interested in the fresh smells his twitching nose detected.
Tipped my hat and said, “Afternoon, sir.”
Godlike figure flashed a cautious, toothy grin from behind a droopy, pure-white moustache and shot me a curt nod. Deep, rhythmic voice that added to the divine image rolled up from his chest when he said, “You boys lost or somethin’?” Man even sounded like he might have just stepped down from the Pearly Gates for a brief, earthly visit.
Carl crossed his reins, laid them over his mount’s neck. Went to rummaging around in a vest pocket for tobacco and papers. “We ain’t lost, but you might help us out a bit. Your name Slate, by any chance?” he said.
Old gent ceremoniously folded a glistening barlow knife and slipped it into the top of one boot. Jammed both hands into his pants’ pockets, then kinda hiked his britches up. “’S right, mister. I’m Josiah Slate. Exactly what is it I can do for you young fellers?”
Rummaged through my sheaf of papers and found Judge Parker’s letter of introduction. Leaned over as far as I could and tried to hand him the document. “We’re deputy U.S. marshals working out of the federal court in Fort Smith, Arkansas, Mr. Slate. My name’s Hayden Tilden. These fellers are my colleagues in arms, Carlton Cecil and Nate Swords. We’re here on official business.”
One of the hidden hands came out of his pocket and waved the letter away. “Cain’t read for spit, sonny. Leastways, not well ’nuff to understand what you’re tryin’ to give me. Eyesight just ain’t what it used to be, you know. You say it’s so, I’ll believe you. O-fficial business, huh? Seems to me as how you boys are jus’ about a hoot and a holler and a right far piece down the road from Arkansas. What kinda o-fficial business you got with Josiah Slate all the way out here on the Brazos?”
Put my fancy authorizations away again and gazed into sky-blue eyes. “Hate to be the one to tell you this, Mr. Slate, but we’re lookin’ for your son, John Henry.”
No trace of surprise in the man’s creased, weathered face or eyes. “What’s he done now?”
“He done murder, sir. Three times,” Carl said. “One of ’em was a deputy U.S. marshal, just like us.”
Slate grunted, stared at the toes of his used-up boots for a second, then kicked at a rusted nail peeking from the board beneath his feet. “Cain’t say as how I’m all that surprised. John Henry’s always been a wild ’un.”
Came as something of a surprise. “That a fact,” I said.
“Yep. Lost any ability to control the boy when he was still just a nubbin. Ran off ’bout a week after he turned fifteen. Only came back to visit a time or two over the years. Hell on wheels with the local law. Real problem from beginning to end. Some say he’d done a killin’ or two afore now. Sent his mother to an early grave. Woman died of sadness and worry. Thought a time or two I might have to take care of him myself. But, you know, in spite of his rowdy, wicked ways, he growed up and turned into the kinda feller women love and men admire.”
Nate grinned and said, “Sounds like John Henry all right.”
The old man flashed a sad grin. “’Course, he seemed to go downhill mighty quick after them Boston boys went and kilt his brother. Think maybe Alonso was the only person John Henry ever really cared anything about a’tall. Only one he ever bothered to listen to. Sure’s hell didn’t pay me no never mind.”
I said, “Your son told me about the circumstances of his brother’s unfortunate demise.”
Corners of Josiah Slate’s eyes crinkled. “That a fact. Well, he musta liked you a bunch, young feller. Don’t think I can call to mind anyone else he ever confided in about the murder of my oldest boy and his family. Really find it somewhat odd that he unburdened his heart to a stranger on that particular subject. Never even bothered to talk to me about Alonso’s passing. Leastways, not till he decided to go on his killin’ quest.”
Nate pushed his hat off his head and let it dangle down his back on a leather thong. He pulled a bandanna and wiped a river of salty liquid from his drenched hair. “Say he got kinda wild after leavin’ home at such an early age, Mr. Slate?”
“Well, took a few years for him to grow into it but, yeah, he finally got big enough to start drinkin’, gamblin’, carousin’ with loose women, gunfightin’, and such. Hung ’round with some mighty bad company down in Waco. Came close to a stretch at Huntsville time or two.”
“He favor any Waco spot in particular?” I said.
“Can’t say for certain sure, but I heard from those as knew that John Henry spent wholesale lots of his life over the past few years in a joint called Pinky’s Ten Spot Saloon. Evidently, the boy has a way with cards—or so the story goes. Seems he and that snake Pinky Falcone got to be good friends. And another tale that got back to me was all ’bout how he took a shine to a woman of questionable virtue what work
ed at Pinky’s, name of Laticia Gallagher. Some have said the gal mighta been the cause of a rift ’tween him and Falcone.”
“You sure ’bout all that, sir?” Carl said.
“Well, to be absolutely truthful, wouldn’t wanna put my hand on the Bible, testify in court to the truth of it. Never had an opportunity to meet the gal, but I heard plenty a stories ’bout her and him and ole Pinky. Seems that gal got John Henry in plenty of trouble over the years. Then, oh, musta been almost a year ago, he came by late one afternoon. Said he’d prayed on it a mite. Made up his mind to kill the men who’d murdered Alonso. Said he might not come back. Then he just disappeared. Ain’t seen the boy since. Your visit today is the first I’ve even heard from ’im since he left. ’Course ain’t nothin’ unusual ’bout that. Didn’t see him a helluva lot ’fore he left.”
After several seconds of awkward silence, Carlton said, “Wouldn’t mind if we kinda took a look around, would you, sir?”
The elder Slate’s leather-brown face crinkled into a pained, sardonic grin. “Hell, no. Go on an’ look all you want. Won’t find nothin’ ’round here ’cept unused, rotted-down buildin’s, barn full of field mice, empty corrals, and me. ’Course, if’n you do run upon John Henry, best be fast.”
Carl stepped off his animal, threw the reins over a wobbly hitch rail, then slapped Nate on the leg and motioned for him to follow. They pulled short-barreled shotguns and, like men on a Sunday morning stroll to church, headed around back of the house toward the barn and other outbuildings.
Called out after them, “I’ll stay here till you boys finish up.” For almost a minute, I could hear them talking back and forth to each other, and one time Nate cut loose with a hearty laugh.
Our host motioned toward an empty rocker near his favorite nesting spot on the porch and said, “Might as well climb down and sit a spell, Marshal Tilden. Lotta corners, crannies, and holes to look into for anyone what might be ahidin’ back there. Figure your friends’ll be a spell ’fore they get done.”
Took considerable, pain-drenched effort, but I managed to scramble off Gunpowder and limp up onto the man’s decaying porch. Got seated, swept my hat off, leaned back, and came nigh on to drifting off to sleep. Fact is, I must’ve napped a second or two. Compared to a saddle, the worn-to-fuzz cane-strip seat of that old rocker felt mighty good on my achin’ behind.
Not sure how long we sat there. Felt a tug at my sleeve. Glanced over at Josiah. He held a dented tin cup my direction and nodded. “Buttermilk,” he said. “Get it from a widder lady what lives on up the river a piece. Tall, stringy, long-legged gal. Nigh on seventy year old, but still has hair the color of hay. Eyes like chunks of turquoise. Think maybe she took a cotton to me some years back. ’Round the time John Henry’s momma passed away, as I remember.”
Took a sip from the cup. Wonderful stuff. “It’s cold,” I said.
He nipped at his own beaker, nodded, then grinned. “Yeah. Keep a big ole earthen jug of the stuff on a rope down in my well. Built this house around the well. Figured as how that way I wouldn’t have to go outside for water. Made sense back in the days when we was still fightin’ them murderous Comanches. And, a course, made life a bit easier in the winter, too.”
“Guess you haven’t seen any wild Indians ’round these parts in quite a spell.”
“No. They’re all gone now. But I’ll tell you, Marshal, back in the days when ’em red devils used to raid all the ranches ’round here, that boy a mine was the damnedest Indian fighter ever lived. Sons a bitches feared John Henry from the time he got any size a’tall to ’im. Not sure where he learned shootin’ and killin’ way he did. Know I didn’t teach it to ’im. Boy’s been dangerous since his tenth birthday. Takin’ him into custody ain’t gonna be no Sunday afternoon picnic for you lawdogs. He ain’t gonna go easy. Maybe not a’tall. You know that, don’t you?”
“Oh, I’ve seen your son at work in a gunfight. No doubt in my mind we’ll have a tough time with ’im. Just hopin’ when we do find ’im, he’ll decide to give it up and lay down his weapons.” The lie on my lips burned so much, I had to take another swig from the cup to put out the fire.
The old man sipped at his mug again, then wiped frothy lips on a dirty sleeve. “Well, you just keep on a-hopin’ there, Marshal Tilden. ’Course if’n you want my advice, I’d say once he finds out you boys is here, you’d best be lookin’ for him to send some of his Reservation friends out to try and reason with you ’fore he does any face-to-face talkin’—if’n you get my drift.”
“Reservation friends?”
“Oh, yeah. He’s got lots of ’em. And they ain’t the kind of folks you’re gonna like dealin’ with neither. Rougher’n petrified corncobs, ever one of ’em. And Pinky Falcone’s the worst of the bunch.”
About then, Carlton and Nate came back from their raid on the chicken coops and barn. Carl made a beeline for his horse. Slid the shotgun back into its bindings. “Nothing to see, Hayden. Might as well get on back to town. Maybe we can have a talk with that Pinky feller. Could be he’s seen John Henry.”
Sat my cup on the porch beside the chair. Mr. Slate stood when I did. Watched me hobble down the steps and struggle onto Gunpowder. Tipped my hat, and was about to pull away when the old man said, “You ain’t come right out and said as much, Marshal Tilden. But I get the impression you boys ain’t here just because of the Boston boys. Whatever happened didn’t really involve them, did it?”
Rested my hands on the saddle horn and stared at my fingernails. Finally looked up again. Found myself locked into Josiah Slate’s powerful, crystalline gaze. “Truth is, I killed the Boston boys. John Henry just happened to be there when it happened. No, we’re here for the murder of a young woman John Henry kept company with, her lover, and a deputy U.S. marshal who died when he tried to stop your son as he ran from the scene.”
Slate’s chin fell to his chest as though I’d slapped him. Barely heard it when he said, “Good Lord in Heaven. Always felt as how the boy’d come to a bad end, but never believed anyone woulda had the need to tell me a tale like that ’un. Kilt a woman, you say? Damnation.”
Pulled at Gunpowder’s reins, started away from Slate’s porch. He brought a hand up and motioned for me to hold my place. Lifted his hat and scratched. Socked the battered felt back onto his head, then said, “Bit of advice before you leave. Best be careful around Pinky Falcone, Marshal Tilden. Man’s a cold-eyed killer. Cut your throat for the buttons on your vest. Carries a big ole bone-handled bowie in a scabbard at his waist. That ’un’s just for show. Watch out for the piece of steel he hides in his boot. Longer, thinner, and sharper. Know for certain he’s deadly with that blade. Hear tell, he favors gettin’ up close to a man. Likes to watch the light of life go out in an opponent’s eyes once he’s done his deadly business.”
“Damned good thing to know,” Carlton said.
Tipped my hat and put the spur to Gunpowder’s sides again. Cannot recall a time when I felt as awful as I did the afternoon we rode away from Josiah Slate’s rambling, wobbly front porch. Couldn’t help but like the old man. Had traits that reminded me of my own father. Liked his son about as much as any man I’d ever known. But the die was cast. Nothing I could do to change the future. And the future, so far as I knew it, was already written in blood. Only question open for me to puzzle over at the time was whose blood would end up being spilled. Made my head hurt just thinking about how the deadly dance would all turn out.
18
“. . . GONNA BLAST ’IM RIGHT WHERE HE STANDS.”
COULDN’T HAVE TAKEN more than ten minutes to find Pinky’s Ten Spot Saloon once we got back to Waco. Joint was one of the biggest combinations of gambling hall, billiards parlor, dance hall, and booze dispensary on the busy town’s most hectic thoroughfare. Falcone’s substantial building took up three stories. Appeared every bit of thirty feet across the front. Enormous set of curtain-less windows flanked bloodred batwing doors on the ground level. Massive chunks of cleaned and polished glass offered passer
sby an inviting glimpse at the liquor, gambling of every conceivable type, and female glories to be had by simply entering.
Cowboys, whiskey drummers, gamblers, traveling salesmen of every stripe, along with painted women who hung on any available man’s willing neck, flowed in and out of the tavern in a seemingly endless parade of people. Level of riotous noise from all the whooping, hollering, music from a three-piece band, pushing, shoving, fighting, and general tumult going on inside the place simply added to the hubbub and uproar already happening out on the busy street.
Had to look a spell to find someplace to hitch our animals. Ended up several doors down from the Ten Spot out front of a watering hole named the Texas Club. Huge sign, which covered the entire front of that particular building above its colonial-style veranda, declared the rough-hewn spot as WACO’S HEADQUARTERS FOR FULLY MATURED REIMPORTED STRAIGHT WHISKEY. A second posting, nailed above the establishment’s door facing, declared that they sold ICE COLD BEER ON DRAUGHT.
Sun hung low in the sky by that point. Didn’t feel all that good about leaving our heavily loaded mounts on a street filled with every kind of reprobate I’d ever seen. So we left Nate to watch over our animals and goods. Could see Carl’s mouth water as we stepped up onto the boardwalk, passed the Texas Club’s entrance, and headed for the Ten Spot.
Had to walk past the Gem Lunch Counter, Red Onion Saloon, the Eldorado, the Alhambra, and Buster Smeed’s Arcade and Billiards Hall to get back to Pinky Falcone’s gambling and whiskey-slinging establishment. Didn’t appear to me that any of the booze halls, eating joints, or places that very obviously catered to a man’s more carnal needs suffered from anything even vaguely resembling lack of business.
