Written in Blood: The Further Exploits of Hayden Tilden (Hayden Tilden Westerns Book 5)

by J. Lee Butts

  Took about five seconds for my eyes to adjust to the subdued inner lighting of the saloon. For some reason, the joint’s usual crowd hadn’t appeared that day. Place was damn near empty. Few gamblers here and there, along with one or two scantily dressed women prancing about. But Falcone’s corner poker table was jammed full of men who weren’t there for the game. Whole damnable bunch glanced over at us soon as we started moving their direction, then scrambled to their feet. Men and women scattered in front of us. By the time we came to a halt less than ten feet from ole Pinky’s clutch of thugs, Falcone, Burch, and four others had lined up against the back wall like a pack of cornered rats. Entire joint suddenly went so quiet you could hear your own hair grow.

  The fat man stationed himself slightly behind Burch and in the middle of the group. Soon as my spurs stopped ringing, he fidgeted a bit, then waved his monstrous cigar at me and barked, “And just what’n the hell’s this all about?”

  Carlton snapped, “Don’t play the innocent, you fat bucket of pus. You know exactly why we’re here. Won’t be no more ambushin’ deputy U.S. marshals in the streets after we leave here today.”

  A stupid, surprised grin creaked across Falcone’s flabby face. “What ambushing in the streets? Thought I heard shots earlier, but none of us had anything to do with that.”

  Brought my big popper to bear on the group. Leveled it up so as to cut between Burch and his lard-assed boss with one barrel, and still be able to easily move to the others with my second shot. Knew Carlton would do the same. He’d take care of anybody I didn’t put down.

  “Not more’n five minutes ago,” I said, “somebody peppered us with lead just outside Laticia Gallagher’s Yellow Rose.”

  Burch, red-faced and twitching like a man with a belly full of bedsprings, shook his finger at us. “Well, just like Mr. Falcone said, none of us knows the first thing about any of that, you badge-totin’ son of a bitch. So why don’t the two of ya haul yer sorry law-bringin’ asses outta here ’fore I have to kill one or both of ya.”

  Falcone brought one hand up, as though to calm his angry gunny, but he’d waited too long. Burch opened the ball when he let a hand drift too close to one of his pistols and, before you could spit, fate reared its ugly head.

  I dropped the hammer on a single barrel of buckshot. Thunderous explosion sent a wad of heavy-gauge lead that hit Burch dead center of the chest. Mass of pellets picked the man up like a rag doll. Threw him backward into the wall. Blew the poor son of a bitch completely out of one boot. Blood, pieces of rendered cloth, and flesh decorated the wall as he slid to the floor in a bug-eyed, surprised heap.

  Falcone squealed like a stuck pig, then went for his hideout pistol. Hell, seemed like all of them bastards went for their weapons at the same time. That’s when Carlton cut loose. Blasted two of those ole boys to Kingdom Come at the same instant. Nailed them both to the wall right beside their fallen comrade, like the thieves on Golgotha.

  My second blast caught Falcone in his ample guts. Near deafening discharge drove that big ole belt knife he carried into his belly like a hot railroad spike. Man screeched like a wildcat, then wobbled around the room grabbing at his belly in a futile effort to keep his innards from spilling out at his feet. Sorry son of a bitch screamed till my eyes watered; then he went down like a felled cottonwood. Floor shook when he hit. Worthless skunk rolled onto his back. Gushed blood and viscera for three feet around.

  As Carlton blasted a third gunman down, I took two quick steps to my right, dropped to one knee, and reloaded fast as I could. Knew Carl was probably doing the exact same thing, but the cloud of spent black powder settled so thick I couldn’t see him for almost five seconds.

  Once the acrid, roiling haze finally abated a mite, watched Falcone’s last henchman throw himself to the floor, clasp trembling hands together over his head, as if in prayer, and go to crying like a little girl. “Sweet Jesus, don’t shoot no more,” he moaned. “Ain’t done nothing fer you boys to kill me like some kinda yeller dog. Swear it on the sainted Mother of the crucified Christ.”

  Carl moved in and went to kicking pistols here and there. Guess we’d been making sure those fellers were all disarmed for a couple of minutes when Dud Tater and several of Waco’s other deputies came sneaking in. Whole bunch of them were wide-eyed. More than amazed at the devastation we’d wrought. Told Tater I’d write up a report on the event soon as I had a chance. Not sure the man even heard me. Swear ’fore Jesus, the poor bastard acted like he’d been put into some kind of hypnotic trance. Just went around the room shaking his head at the carnage.

  One of his cohorts pulled at my sleeve and said, “Wouldn’t worry ’bout no report, Marshal Tilden. Vigilance Committee, City Council, Marshal Spenser, town folk, hell, all ’em gonna be tickled slap silly when they find out what you just done.”

  Said, “Well, that’s something of a relief. Wouldn’t want Waco’s local lawmen after me for this mess.”

  He dismissed my concerns with a shake of the head, then said, “Bet you can’t find a single person within a hundred miles who won’t congratulate you and say thanks. In fact, let me be the first.” He shook my hand, pointed toward the door, then added, “We’ll take care of this mess. Scrape what’s left of these skunks up. See to their buryin’. Probably best you fellers get on outta here while the gettin’s good.”

  Well, we headed for the boardwalk. Had just stepped into the street when Nate reined his animal up beside us. We were still in the clutches of anxiety, mind-altering tension, and bloodlust when he said, “What the hell happened?”

  Carl propped his shotgun on one shoulder, then grunted, “Not much. Just some unfinished business in Pinky Falcone’s joint. Don’t think he’ll be any problem for us from now on.”

  Nate stared at the crowd milling around the Ten Spot’s front entrance. “Well,” he said, “I ’uz just comin’ to get you boys.”

  Leaned against his mount and pulled a piece of unfinished panatela from my vest pocket. “Why, what’s up?” I asked around the stogie as I put fire to the tobacco.

  “I ’uz sittin’ over yonder watchin’ Falcone’s place like you told me to do, when I seen John Henry Slate ride up ’bout an hour or so ago. He got all the way up to the saloon’s door, but musta seen somethin’ over the batwings he didn’t like. Retreated right quick. Climbed back on a bay gelding and headed north. Followed him out to his pap’s place. Just now got back to town.”

  Raced Carl to the stable. Got our hammerheads out and got mounted quick as we could. Kicked out of town as if all the demons of a sulfurous Hell chased us. Scorched leaves off the trees. Left grass smoking along the ditches on either side of the dirt roadway. In less time than it’d take to sing a couple of Baptist hymns on Sunday, we drew up out front of Josiah Slate’s homestead.

  Old man and the dog didn’t appear to have moved since our last visit. Climbed down, pulled all the heavy artillery, and eased our way toward the porch. Guess the three of us couldn’t have been more than ten, fifteen feet away when John Henry stepped out of the kitchen and moved to the center of the rickety veranda. Had some difficulty recognizing him at first. Man looked like he’d been jerked through a knothole backward. Appeared completely run ragged to me—dirty, unshaven, and wild-eyed. Had a Colt pistol in each hand. Unexpected development stopped us dead in our tracks.

  Gazed up into my former friend’s tired but still smiling face. Said, “Got here pretty quick, John Henry. Must’ve been a helluva ride.”

  “Damn near wore three horses right down to the nub, Tilden. Almost killed one of ’em. Got blisters on my backside big as onions.”

  “Hate to hear that. Sure you’ll heal up just fine in the cell in Fort Smith we’ve got waitin’ for you.”

  His gaze darted from Nate to Carl; then he threw me a quizzical look. No nerves in his voice at all when he said, “Thought sure you’d give this crusade up after them associates of mine pitched a bit of lead in you boys’ direction, Tilden. Told ’em not to hurt any of you—’less it jus
t couldn’t be avoided. Only wanted to put some of the old fear of shakin’ hands with Jesus in you if possible. But, with men like you fellers, guess I shoulda known better.”

  Glanced over at Carl from the corner of one eye. Could tell he was trying to puzzle it all out. Hint of irritation in his voice when he said, “You’re the one who sent people to dry-gulch us?”

  John Henry’s grin got toothier. “Well, not dry-gulch. That’s a bit harsh, Carl. Just shoot at you some. Had hopes such an action would send you boys a-hotfootin’ it on back to Fort Smith. Wanted you to get to figurin’ as how maybe you’d done bit off more’n you could chew. ’Sides, we’re friends. Didn’t really want anybody to get hurt.”

  Could tell Carlton was getting hotter by the second when he said, “No point talkin’ ’bout this. Our friendship came to an end on the banks of the Arkansas when you kilt DuVall Petrie. Gotta come on back to Fort Smith with us.”

  John Henry shook his shaggy, unkempt head. A sharp edge crept into his voice. “Ain’t gonna happen, boys. Might as well make up your minds to it. Y’all made the trip down here to Texas for nothin’. Ain’t goin’ back to sit in the dungeon under Fort Smith’s courthouse, then get my neck snapped by one of Maledon’s pieces of oiled Kentucky hemp.”

  “You done went and killed three people,” Nate said. “One of ’em a deputy marshal. You gotta go back.”

  Could see the tension growing in John Henry’s neck and arms when he said, “Now, you know the one thing I do regret about all this is having to shoot that poor feller what caught me down by the river. Just doin’ his job and all, I realize that.”

  “Put your weapons aside, John, and come along with us,” I said. “God as my witness, I’ll personally go to Judge Parker and plead for your life. All of us will. Guarantee it.”

  Tinge of deadly finality in his voice when our previous friend said, “Not today, Tilden.”

  Of a sudden, silent as death himself, Josiah Slate came out of his rocking chair, rifle in hand, then thumbed the hammer back. “Put them pistols down, son,” he said. “Been enough blood by your hand already. Cain’t have the deaths of these boys on my head as well.”

  John Henry coughed up a sneering snicker, but didn’t even bother to cast the most fleeting glance in his father’s direction. “What in the hell’s gone and got into you, old man? Sit your narrow ass back down in that chair. I’ll take care of this business.”

  “Think you’ve done took care of way more’n enough over the years, son. Time to pay the piper for all your evil ways. Done got away with plenty up till today. But this is where your sinful road ends—right here, right now. Cain’t go an’ kill three more people, right on my doorstep, and figure to get away with such an act. God won’t allow it. Neither will I.”

  And then, sweet Jesus, he fired a single shot that hit his wayward son in the left temple and came out the right. The .44-40 slug pushed hair, bone, and brains through an exit wound the size of a child’s fist. Seemed as though God jerked all the bones out of John Henry’s body at the exact same instant. Vaporous spray of crimson still hung in the air when his lifeless corpse dropped, face-first, onto the rotting steps of his father’s ghost-filled house.

  Act stunned all of us to the point of immobility. Shocked me right down to the soles of my boots. Glanced over at Carl. He’d dropped the shotgun to his side. Started talking to himself as though he’d lost his mind or something.

  Sound of that blast was still hanging in the air when old Mr. Slate carefully propped his rifle back against the wall, then moved to his son’s still warm body. As though so tired he could barely keep moving, he flopped into a sitting position on the steps next to the corpse. Patted John Henry’s shoulder. Went to talking to him like he was still a small child. “’S all my fault,” he mumbled. “Should’na let you leave home the way you done, boy. Headstrong on your part, weak-willed on mine.”

  Made to take a step his direction, but the emotion of the scene overtook me. I couldn’t move.

  Man started to weep. Tears rolled down his cheeks and dropped onto his son’s back. “Shoulda been a better father. Wished a thousand times over I’d a gone to Waco. Dragged you back home. But that’s all in the past. Just couldn’t be havin’ you murder fine young men like these right here on my very doorstep. No, sir, world’s done had enough. Just cain’t be a-havin’ no more of your evil doin’s.”

  Don’t think the astonishment had yet hit me, even when we set to digging John Henry’s grave. Buried him next to his mother in a family plot on a hill not far from the house. Iron fence circled nigh on a dozen graves. Josiah must’ve spent a lot of time there. Not a single blade of grass grew on those graves. Carl said something about me reading over the man, but, hell, I could not think of a single thing that fit the circumstances.

  Had just got the body covered up when Josiah stared at the fresh mound of dirt and muttered, “Sometimes it’s damned hard to be a father.”

  Watched as the old fellow stumbled back toward the house and resumed his seat on the porch—totally, and forever, alone. Knew when we rode away, bony-fingered death would come for him as well, and it wouldn’t be long before that sad event occurred.

  EPILOGUE

  I’VE WORKED REAL hard over nearly sixty years trying not to think about the sad and singular events surrounding John Henry Slate’s unfortunate passing. Had even fooled myself into believing that I’d managed to erase the whole ugly mess from an aged mind. Then, just be damned, Royce Turberville showed up at Rolling Hills with a face on him that brought it all back to me in a tidal wave of confusion and guilt.

  ’Course, I fully realize as how I’d sent more than my share of men to Satan prior to watching my friend die on his father’s front steps. Dispatched a damned gang of those evil sons of bitches with no more thought than if I’d casually squashed a cadre of dung beetles under my boot heel. And, yes, I personally ushered a bunch more to the other side afterward.

  Thing that really gets my goat, all these years later, Lord God help me, is that I went down to Texas with every intention of killing John Henry myself. That’s what Judge Parker paid me to do, and I was good at the work. But you know, good intentions don’t mean spit when you’re standing there with the living man in front of you . . . knowing you’re about to jerk the light of life out of someone you like. The doubtful quality of that life-changing predicament still nags at me. To this very minute, just not sure I could’ve killed the man.

  Even now, sitting here in my barren room, staring out at the moonlit surface of the Arkansas, not entirely dead certain I could even answer that particular question if God showed up right at the foot of my bed and asked it of me His very own self. ’Course I still feel, as a matter of personally held belief, that no one of conscience knows for sure what he’ll do in a life-or-death situation—not until confronted by it.

  And, since I’ve veered onto the subject, might as well admit as how it still rubs my soul the wrong way that John Henry was the direct force behind Carlton and me killing a bunch of innocent fellers in the Ten Spot. Evil as he might have been, Pinky Falcone and his boys went down for something they didn’t do. In an effort to salve my own sense of right and wrong, I’ve laid those deaths at the foot of John Henry’s grave ever since the day he passed over. But, you know, there are times when I feel a profound shame for making a hasty, death-dealing decision that ended with gouts of innocent blood dripping from my hands.

  Perhaps worse than everything else, when I finally got back home, I lied to Elizabeth. Hell, she didn’t see the report I wrote up for Mr. Wilton and Judge Parker. Swore Carlton and Nate to secrecy, so wasn’t any chance of her finding out what actually happened from them. Told her I couldn’t find the man.

  With my arm around her shoulders and a smile on my face, claimed as how, for all I knew, John Henry was still out riding the wide-open spaces of Texas. Free as the wind. Chasing willing women down in Mexico. Playing checkers with friends. Drowning worms in the Nueces or the Rio Grande. At the time, that black-hearte
d deceit seemed the right thing to do. Today, I’m not so sure. ’Cause, you know, I fear that when God’s call finally comes, I’ll get to Heaven’s gate and discover it’s probably the greatest of sins to lie like that to your soul mate.

  Well, damn, I’m tired. Tired right to the bone. Thinking about the past all the time just wears me the hell out these days. About ready to get my ancient old bones into bed. Need to catch a few minutes’ sleep. The real ghosts are gonna start showing up shortly.

  Trust me on this one, friends. Don’t believe all them ignorant jackasses as want to tell you how getting old is about as much fun as chasing armadillos. In my humble opinion, advanced age ain’t worth a damn. You end up with nothing but memories and, sometimes, those memories hurt way more than you ever thought possible.