by J. Lee Butts
Squint-eyed, I nodded. No point debating the brutal truth of the situation. I turned my back to the wagon and its contents and stared at the river.
Remember thinking, sweet Jesus give me strength in this time of unparalleled horror and uncommon butchery.
9
“SNAPPING AND BITING LIKE A RABID DOG.”
BOZ AND ME stood barefoot in the lazy, fetid trickle of Devils River. Pants legs rolled up to bone-white knees, both of us sloshed water over forearms soaked all the way to the elbows with dried gore. Burial of the five bullet-shattered bodies had proven more difficult and taken longer than either of us had anticipated.
Rather than attempting to dig individual holes in the sunbaked, near impenetrable earth, we’d been forced to scratch out a single, shallow grave barely large enough to accommodate the entire massacred clan. The excavation took two hours of backbreaking, debilitating labor. We spelled each other in that grueling effort, using the only shovel to be found amidst the blood-soaked wreckage left behind by merciless killers.
Worst part of the nightmarish enterprise was carrying, or dragging, the still-seeping corpses of the children and their parents for placement inside the crude riverbank tomb. During the grisly interment, it took the total of our concentrated, gulping effort to keep Paco Matehuala’s early morning coffee and breakfast tacos from coming back up in a rush of bitter, pukey, stomach-churning bile.
The gruesome task proved especially problematic during that period when we worked to cover the pathetic bodies of the dead kids with several blood-encrusted, rigid, scab-like blankets retrieved from the wagon. When finally satisfied with our best possible efforts, we threw dirt over the sad corpses like reluctant family members forced into a surprising and deplorable undertaking. Finished off the soul-wrenching job with a layer of all the rocks we could retrieve within fifty feet of the rude burying. Then we decorated the grave with as many blooming cactus plants as I could wrench from the clutches of a reluctant, covetous earth.
Sweat drenched and soaked in gore, Boz had squatted at the foot of the completed tomb. Crestfallen, my friend scratched in the loose dirt with a cottonwood twig and wiped leaky eyes on a filthy shirt-sleeve. He shook his shaggy head and muttered, “They murdered the children. And just a bit earlier this mornin’ we ’uz rememberin’ ole Jasper Pike and how he’d done as much for his own pitiful family.”
“I know, Boz.” What else could I say?
“Musta been some kinda omen, Lucius. Swear it’s enough to make a body wanna puke up his socks. My, oh, my. What’s this ole world a-comin’ to?”
He repeated himself over and over, as though his brain had locked on this single notion. His thoughts appeared focused like a fifty-ton Baldwin locomotive headed in a preordained direction that had no way of diverting itself from the narrow track.
Once finished with our fractional Devils River wash, I pulled dust-covered boots onto still-wet feet. Stamped into them, then set to toweling off with my shirt. Slid the damp garment over a sopping, drippy head and turned to find Boz staring at me with all the baggy-eyed gravity and tremulous intensity of an abandoned, starving bloodhound.
“You are gonna read over these folks, ain’t you, Lucius? Maybe say some good words for ’em?”
I tucked a sodden shirttail inside the waist of my pants, then pulled up my blue-and-yellow-striped suspenders. Slipped into my vest before I said, “Didn’t think to bring a Bible along, Boz. Must admit, had not the slightest inkling we’d find one dead body when we set out this morning, much less five of them. And the kids, sweet merciful Jesus, the kids. Just wrings a body’s heart so hard makes you want to commence blubbering and never stop. Can’t imagine the kind of men as could commit such an act. Just can’t imagine.”
Tatum kicked in the dirt with the heel of his boot and jerked a disconsolate thumb toward the mounded, rock-strewn, blossom-littered burial site. “Well, puttin’ them cactus flowers on their final restin’ place was a fine, thoughtful gesture. Must admit, rough as it is, the gravesite does look right nice. Glad you thought to add the flowers.”
I nodded.
“Still and all, feel as how these pitiful folks deserve to have their pathways to Heaven greased, just the least bit, with some high-soundin’ words, Lucius. Even if we don’t happen to have a Bible along with us. ’Specially them three buttons, you know. Hell, I trust your memory. Willin’ to bet these folks would appreciate whatever you can do for ’em by way of talkin’ with God. Figure anything you’d care to offer up’s better’n nothing at all.”
I cast a corner-of-the-eye glance at the graves. Let my chin rest on the damp upper part of my shirt for some seconds, then swept my hat up from the sandy riverbank. I nodded and, followed by the closest friend I had in the world, we ambled back to a spot near the foot of the mass grave.
With broad-brimmed hats lodged in a spot of honor over our hearts, I cleared an emotion-parched throat. After a bit of pinch-browed hesitation and thought, I began—slowly, reverently. As reverently as I knew how.
“Our most gracious heavenly Father,” I said, “neither Boz nor I knew these traveling unfortunates. Pretty good chance we may not ever know who they were. Sure enough didn’t find much in the wagon to identify any of them. But that don’t matter. Can’t begin to imagine what they did to deserve such an unspeakable departure from this earthly life. Especially the children. Whole dance is sad beyond our meager ability to understand. But, as a poet of some note once wrote many years ago, ‘To every man upon this earth death cometh soon or late.’ Sad but true, what that feller said applies to innocent kids as well.”
I hesitated for a second, gulped, then scratched at an unwilling throat. Kind of lost my train of thought there for a right uncomfortable stretch. Twirled my sweat-stained Stetson around in both hands, by the brim, while I searched for the right words.
I coughed a time or two then added, “That stealthy ole Thief of Souls has most certainly passed our way today. Sent this poor man and his innocent family beyond any earthly aid we might have rendered. Genuinely regret as how our arrival on the scene didn’t occur early enough to prevent such a terrible outcome, Lord. Sincerely pray the entire family was delivered into the safety and comfort of Your divine care and affection. Now, my friend and I come to You in humble supplication and ask that You gather their sad spirits to Your righteous bosom and see to their heavenly comfort for the rest of eternity. We appeal for that eventuality in the name of the only Son You sent to cleanse us all of our earthly sins and pave our way into Your presence. Amen.”
Still felt right uncomfortable. I shifted, back and forth, then stuffed my hat on a soggy head. Turned Tatum’s direction, seeking something of a complimentary reaction from my longtime compadre by way of acknowledgment for my prayerful efforts. The expected nod and grin of approval he usually provided proved nowhere in evidence.
Openmouthed, unspeaking, and flush-faced, Boz pointed a shaky finger toward the knife-edged ridge of sloped, lifeless dirt some sixty or so yards away. The shallow bowl’s steep rim almost completely encircled that riverbank hollow of lush greenery, violent death, and freshly departed souls where we stood and gazed up slack-jawed.
Staring down on us from the forty-foot-high crest of crumbling earth stood a girl—fifteen, maybe sixteen years old. Hell, what little I knew of young girls at the time, she could’ve been a lot older or a lot younger.
Gal swayed like a creekside weeping willow in the hot breezes that hissed over the sun-scorched earth beneath her feet. Wisps of shoulder-length, straw-colored hair fluttered across a pretty, grime-smeared face. Her flowered cotton dress flapped around equally filth-encrusted legs.
Under my breath, I mumbled, “Lord above, Boz. Looks as if she’s trying to chew a thumbnail all the way up to her elbow. Snapping and biting like a rabid dog. Spitting out the bits.”
His flabbergasted gaze locked on the ghostly, ethereal apparition, Tatum shook as though in the throes of malaria and muttered, “Sweet merciful Jesus, how’s this possible?”
Air rushed from between clenched teeth when I hissed, “Looks most like the child’s been living underground. Killers had to have missed her. She escaped. Found a hidey-hole somewhere close, I’d be willing to wager.” Pretty sure I might’ve sounded as if I was questioning my own reasoning.
Boz moved to take a step in the specter’s direction only to witness the girl turn and vanish from view. By unspoken agreement, we heeled it for a steep, slanted wash nearby. The craggy, earthen cut was the only ascending access within close proximity that led to the crest of the dirt bluff.
I managed to scramble to the sheer bank’s disintegrating summit a few steps ahead of Boz. A quick survey of the rough, table-like expanse of Turkey Mesa, as it spread away from the river, revealed that the child had scampered near a hundred yards, stopped, then stared back at us again.
Boz huffed and puffed his way to a spot beside me. Wheezing from the unexpected exertion, he sucked air like a winded racehorse. He waved and, between gasping breaths, called out, “You come on back now, girl. Won’t harm you. We’re here to help.” He got no response.
I shrugged, then said, “We’d best go round her up, Boz.”
Soon as we started her direction again, the urchin bolted like a frightened deer. For half an hour the fleeing child scuttled over the rock-strewn, rattlesnake-, cactus-, and scorpion-littered landscape with us clumsily clambering along behind. The chase finally brought us to the entrance of an ugly, deep, funnel-like gash in the earth’s hoary hide. An abbreviated, canyon-like wound that our prey had no chance of escaping.
At the bottom of the narrow ravine, the cornered waif wedged her back against the fissure’s farthest and highest wall. Arms flung wide against her earthen prison, she crawfished from side to side in agitated terror. Let out a piteous howl, like some kind of wounded, terrified animal.
Eyes the size of ten-dollar gold pieces and panic-deepened to a shade of blue near those of a pharmacist’s cobalt-colored drug bottles, she glared up at Boz and me from the floor of her dusty refuge. The angry, defiant, and sullen look etched into her panicky visage appeared fully capable of wringing tears from a Civil War veteran’s glass eye.
Of a sudden, the girl seemed to mine the depths of some unseen inner strength and assumed the stance of an ancient, witchy crone. She made strange, incomprehensible sounds and gestures at us. Things that didn’t sound of this earth came from her mouth. Then, in a voice sheathed in ice and death, she growled, “Come down here, and I’ll kill both you sons a bitches.”
My God, but her surprising, raspy warning sent icy shivers up and down my sweaty spine.
10
“MY DADDY DIDN’T RAISE ANY COWARDS . . .”
I MOTIONED FOR my out-of-breath partner to stay put. Then, one careful, hesitant step at a time, I advanced on the agitated child. Held my hands out, palms upturned in supplication. And, in the manner one might use when speaking to a frightened animal, said, “No need to be scared, girl. Not gonna hurt you. Swear, we’re not gonna hurt you.”
The troubled youngster flashed a bug-eyed, brittle gaze at me that was filled with needle-pointed daggers. A tormented groan reverberated in her narrow, heaving, child’s chest. From somewhere amidst the folds and pleats of her tattered, print dress, she produced a glistening, heavy-bladed butcher’s knife. The wooden-gripped weapon’s curved, razor-sharp edge gleamed in the advancing sunlight that sloshed into the narrow pit from above.
Cracked, chapped lips peeled away from the trembling gal’s teeth in a snarling scowl. As though speaking from the bottom of an empty rain barrel, she growled, “Don’t you come any closer, mister. Not another step. Get near enough, swear I’ll cut your heart out, if I get the chance. I swear before sainted Jesus, I will. I’ll do it. I will. I will kill you graveyard dead.”
In spite of all efforts to the contrary, I couldn’t help but smile. Drew to a rocking halt, leaned back on my heels, and cocked my head to one side. “Now, now, no need for that, miss,” I said. “Can promise you, Boz Tatum yonder and me are friends. Could well be the best friends you’ve got right at this unfortunate juncture. Rest assured we have no intention of doing you any harm.”
For a single, bullet-fast instant, unanswerable questions appeared to flit around behind her confused, darting, trapped-animal’s gaze. One cheek twitched when she snapped back, “You expect me to believe that load of horse manure, mister? After you and your gang rode up from the river in the early morning dark and. ...” A racking sob shook her from head to foot before she gasped, “And murdered my parents.”
Hands in the classic gesture of surrender, I said, “No one here had anything to do with your family’s terrible passing, miss. Before God, I swear it. Me and Boz live not far down the river. We run a little bit of a horse-raising operation, for the immediate time being anyways. All the shooting woke us before the sun got up good. Came on quick as we could. Deeply regret as how we didn’t make the trip as fast as we probably should’ve. Just had no idea of the urgency.”
Face covered in a layer of sweat, muddied with the powdery red dust of west Texas, she gritted her teeth so hard it sounded like a squirrel breaking walnuts. She sliced the knife back and forth through the sultry air. A single, enormous tear formed in the corner of one eye. The salty pearl bled onto her twitchy cheek and carved a tiny gully through the dirt down to the edge of a grime-caked jaw. Jewel-like droplet hung there for a second, then fell onto her heaving breast.
“How do I know you’re telling me the truth?” she yelped. “I got away during all the confusion. Went back when I thought you and your men had finally ridden away.”
Shook my head. “Wasn’t me or Boz,” I said. “Can’t say it enough. We had nothing to do with what happened earlier this morning.”
“Well, say what you will, I saw what evil men did to my parents. Oh, God, all that shooting scared me so ...” A racking sob sawed its way through the girl’s body. She rubbed bitter tears on the upper part of a dirty arm. “So much noise and confusion. I ran. Couldn’t stay. Ran until I found this spot to hide myself in.”
“You don’t have to run, or hide, anymore, child,” I said. “We’re not here to hurt you.”
Her face twisted into a mask of deeper fear and pain. “I’m still not sure what happened to my little brothers. Don’t know exactly what has become of them.” Then as though speaking to someone not there, she mumbled, “I suppose it’s likely they died in just as dreadful a manner as my poor mother and father.”
Not much I could’ve added to her brutal assessment. So I just kept silent and waited.
Then, of a sudden, she crow-hopped sidewise, stumbled, but regained her footing. She waved the knife at me again. The haggard look of stark terror and puzzlement on her pretty face intensified as she said, “For all I know, you could just be spinning a windy whizzer, mister. Just so I’ll give up my only weapon. Only thing I’ve got to protect myself. Perhaps my only salvation.”
In a voice tinged with sadness and understanding, Boz called out from his spot at the mouth of the ravine, “Oh, no, child. The man’s tellin’ the truth. My friend Lucius Dodge don’t lie. Honestly, we come here to help.”
The panicked girl’s nervous eyeballing flicked from one of us to the other. Then, she growled like a kicked dog.
“Broke our hearts when we found your ill-fated kin,” Boz continued. “ ’Specially them poor buttons. Took us the most part of the mornin’ to make sure they was all properly cared for. Even put God on notice as how their immortal souls ’uz comin’ his direction. Now, why don’t you lay that big ole gut cutter aside, come on back to the ranch with us?”
I took a hesitant step or two toward the tormented child’s defensive position. Drew to a halt just a few feet away from her. Offered an open-palmed hand and then said, “Believe me, you’re safe now, darlin’. Truly, there’s no need for the knife. Why don’t you go on ahead and give it to me?”
The wary waif’s darting, sapphire gaze sizzled as it flitted from one of our faces to the other. “I
’m not your darlin’, mister. I don’t even know you. Either of you,” she sneered. “My daddy didn’t raise any cowards, fools, or shirkers. So, I think I’ll just keep the knife, ’less you’d like to go on ahead and try to take it away from me.”
Another short-lived smile flickered across my parted lips. I took half a step backward. Hands raised in submission, I feigned shock and fear. “Well, no, miss. Don’t think I’d want to attempt disarming a determined young woman like you,” I said. Then, I tapped the side of my head with one finger. Thought of something I should have known to ask at the very outset. Said, “My friend, Boz, there, has already told you my name. Got any problem with telling me yours, miss? Do have a name, don’t you, child?”
As if I had somehow reached across six feet of open space and slapped her, the straw-haired youngster’s head snapped backward and bumped against the dirt wall at her back. Appeared to me that the thought of sharing her name with strangers—strangers who might have had a hand in murdering her luckless family—had not occurred to the feisty youngster.
“Uh, well, uh. Why don’t you go on ahead and tell me yours again?” she demanded.
In as soothing a voice as I had ever heard my rough-and-ready partner use, Boz came nigh on to whispering when he eased up a step or so behind me and said, “We can do that, missy. If it’ll make you more comfortable, we can sure ’nuff do ’er. Like I done said before, this here’s Lucius Dodge. Man’s famed near and far as a fearless enforcer of the law and protector of women and the downtrodden. My name’s Boz Tatum. Me’n Lucius been friends for almost as many years as you’ve been alive. Now, how ’bout you? What’s your handle? Your name, that is.”
