by J. Lee Butts
“Yah, suh, Mistuh Boz. I knows them men. Familiar enough wid the both of ’em to know who they wuz soon as I seen ’em pop up in my spyglass. Been face-to-face with that Atwood more’n once. Still have a crystal clear memory of how Murdock got that nasty scar on his butt-ugly face. Swear ’fore Jesus, the man ain’t changed much since last I seen him. He’s still uglier’n a sack full of bullfrogs’ assholes. Sorry, for the language, Miss Clementine. Jus’ the man’s a bad ’un, you know.”
I shrugged, stroked the yellowed-ivory grips of the pistol lying across my belly. I said, “To this day, still avow as how I whacked Murdock hard enough to kill him. Laid the whole side of his head open when I clubbed the bastard. Man’s face opened up from his hatband to his chin. But Lord a mercy, that murderous slug’s head was harder than a frozen turtle shell. Thought sure I’d gone and broke the barrel on a spanking new Colt Peacemaker. Gun never did shoot worth spit after that particular incident. Finally had to give up on it.”
“Uh-huh. Yah, suh. Well, there you go. That’s it. Jus’ the way I remember it happenin’. Pitt Murdock. That be the man, right enough.”
Boz swayed back and forth like a two-hundred-year-old live oak in a cyclone. He said, “Sweet Jesus, Lucius, that’s goin’ on five, maybe six year ago, ain’t it? Was the time we caught up with Pitt and that bunch of killers he used to ride with from over in Fort Stockton. They ’uz runnin’ from the murder of that luckless clerk he shot in the head when they tried to rob the Buckhorn Bank and Trust up in San Angelo.”
“Yes,” I said. “Lot of water’s passed under the bridge. Give or take a few months, your memory of the events sounds about right.”
“Never forget the clerk,” Boz said. “That bastard Murdock blew the whole top of the man’s head off with a single blast from a shotgun. He did the sorry deed right in the middle of a bank filled to overflowing with end-of-the-month customers. Just because the poor teller didn’t move fast enough to suit ’em ole boys that was a robbin’ ’im.”
“Terrible killing,” I agreed.
Boz dug at his ear with one finger, then stared at the digit’s tip as though he expected to find something sparkling and precious. “Poor dead feller’s name was Chidester, as I remember. Yeah, Hiram Chidester.”
“Lef’ four or five chil’ren and a grievin’ wife,” Glorious Johnson muttered. “That ’un were a right sad case, right sad.”
Boz sucked at his teeth, spit, then said, “Damn right. And that smarter’n hell Austin lawyer got him off with twenty-five years to life for the deed. He’s supposed to still be servin’ hard time over in the Huntsville State Penitentiary, ain’t he, Lucius? Choppin’ cotton, splitin’ wood, breakin’ rocks, pickin’ peas. What the hell’s an evil, man-killing bastard like Pitt Murdock doin’ runnin’ loose way out here in this neck of the woods? And a keepin’ company with scum like Tanner Atwood, to boot?”
“Swear fo’ Jesus, Mistuh Boz, I done thought as how the man ’uz dead and in the ground,” Glo offered. “Pert sure I heard more’n a few folks tellin’ tales as how one of them other convicts tried to cut Murdock’s head off with a knife he’d done fashioned out of a sharpened soup spoon. Dem folks claimed as how Murdock died a horrible death. Made me right grateful to hear such.”
“Yeah, I heard that story, too,” Boz said.
Glo’s head bobbed up and down. “Gotta tell ya, come as quite a shock when a man what’s s’posed to be dead went and popped up in my long glass the way he done—ignert, ugly head still sittin’ on his worthless shoulders and all. Uh-huh, tell you fo’ true, I done went to breathin’ hard. Came right near passin’ out, most like the fat woman what tried to run a foot race on the Fourth of July.”
Chewed at my bottom lip and stared off into the emptiness of the western distance. After near a minute of silent thought, pretty sure it sounded as if I’d stepped out of my body and become possessed when I said, “Guess we’d best get after them fellers, quick as we can, boys. When men like Murdock and Atwood go to work killing people, they’re not the type that’s inclined to stop till most of a guiltless world’s ankle deep in blood and bullet-riddled bodies.”
“But, but, wait now, Mistuh Dodge. Ain’t had a chance to tell you everthang. No, suh. No, suh. See, that ain’t the whole of it.”
Well, that sure enough snapped my head up. Must have looked like a man who’d been slapped with an open palm. Flush-faced I said, “What? What the hell else is there, Glo? What more could there be?”
“Well, cain’t be sayin’ fo’ absolute certain on this here part, but I be thinkin’ them other three travelin’ with Murdock’s them Pickett boys.”
I couldn’t help but let a groan slip out. “Roscoe, Priest, and Cullen?”
“Yah, suh. Dem’s the ones, all right.”
In the manner of a still-smoking cannon being realigned for its next shot, Boz’s head swiveled around on its stalk-like neck. His narrow-eyed, squinty gaze fell directly onto Clementine Webb. He sounded like a man amazed, when he said, “Who on earth are you, girl? Why would a pack of murderous animals such as them Glo just named want to kill off your entire family?”
Clementine Webb ducked back beneath my sheltering arm. She latched onto to the bullet-laden pistol belt around my waist with one hand and held tight. Peeked up at me with wide, watery eyes.
Tail still wagging, Bear followed, flopped down at the girl’s feet, and stared up at her. He pawed at her leg and groaned in an obvious effort at regaining her attention.
I pulled Clementine around by one arm, then gently held the girl in place with a hand on each shoulder and said, “Perhaps the better question just might be, who on earth was your father, girl?”
13
“I’LL NOT HAVE YOU RIDE OFF AND LEAVE ME.”
CLEMENTINE WEBB DREW into herself. The girl seemed to shrink and tried to pull away from me. She shook her head as if dumbfounded by an unfathomable question. Her trembling lips parted several times. She tried to speak, but nothing came out. On the third or fourth attempt the clearly agitated girl finally sputtered, “Whawha-what do you mean?”
“Who was your father, Clem?” I repeated. “What was his name?”
“Webb, of course. Just like mine. What else would it be?”
“No, his given name. What was his given name?”
“Nathan. Nathan. Nathan Hawthorne Webb.”
I bent closer. My gaze narrowed. “From Austin? Your father, the man Boz and I buried just a few hours ago, was none other than Nathan H. Webb of Austin?”
The girl humped up at me a bit when she said, “Yes. Yes, Nathan Webb was my father.”
Boz pushed his hat onto one side of a sweat-drenched head. He scratched at a spot above his ear. A look of puzzled consternation and confusion crept onto his craggy, weather-beaten face. “Nathan Webb? We don’t know anybody named Nathan Webb, or Nathan H. Webb, or whatever’n hell she just said. Do we, Lucius?”
Let my hands fall away from Clementine’s shoulders. Suddenly felt tired, stumbled back a step, then straightened up and said, “We might, Boz. Yes, indeed. We just might. Leastways, I now have a pretty good idea who the man once was before we found him this morning.”
“Who? Who do we be knowin’ name a Nathan Webb, Mistuh Dodge? I doan be rememberin’ no one like that,” Glo said.
“Minor Texas politician. One of the lesser lights in the great Lone Star State’s political heavens. Senator, as I recall. You boys rarely bother to read those newspapers friends of mine have sent me from Austin. Otherwise you might’ve seen the name,” I said. “If a stretched-to-the-limits memory still serves, this child’s father was the elected representative of the good folks down around Uvalde. That right, Clem?”
“Yes. My father is ...” She stumbled for a second, appeared confused, then quickly regained her shaky composure and continued, “. . . Was, he was, a Texas state senator. We live—or did live—in Uvalde during those times when Papa doesn’t—didn’t—have to be in Austin on the business of the people. We have a house at N
umber Twenty-three Pecos Boulevard.”
Boz moved closer to me and the girl. “What were y’all doin’ way and the heck over here on the backside of nowhere Texas, so far away from home, child?”
“Camping.”
Pretty sure Boz had already deduced as much himself, but he still sounded mildly incredulous when he shook his head, frowned, and grumped, “Camping?”
Finally, given something she could grab hold of to occupy her scattered mind, Clementine Webb appeared to grow stronger, more tenacious and controlled with our pointed questioning. A distinct, huffy resoluteness tinged her voice when she replied, “Yes. Camping. A week or so ago Papa rushed home early from his office. Said he’d decided to take us all camping. Said he needed a few days away from the cares and worries of civilization and the burdens of political responsibility. Said what we all needed was a family trip. There was nothing wrong with that.”
It sounded like an echo when Boz mumbled, “A family trip?”
Clementine’s voice became icier. “Exactly as I said, Mr. Tatum. So, he and my mother packed a few necessities into the wagon. The whole event seemed a bit hurried, now that I come to think on it. At any rate, we struck out the next morning and, three days later, arrived here by the river. My mother deemed it a lovely, inviting spot.”
“No doubt ’bout that, missy,” Glo mumbled.
Boz shook his head. “A lovely, inviting spot,” he muttered.
“Not sure why, but I got the impression she and my father might have visited this particular spot before. In any case, we’ve been camped right here ever since.” Clementine’s voice faded as she scratched the dog’s fly-notched ears and added, “And we were having a right wonderful time—a right wonderful time. Until this morning.”
I stepped away from the dewy-eyed, flush-cheeked child, turned and gazed up at thick, roiling, puffy-white clouds, threw one arm across my chest and rested the other atop it. Striking a thoughtful pose, I tapped my chin with one finger.
To no one in particular, but loud enough for Boz to hear, I said, “Then, out of the clear blue, some of the worst men in all of Hell and the great state of Texas showed up and killed everyone. Entire family. All of them but this one child. Why? Why would men like Murdock, Atwood, and the Pickett brothers follow the upstanding family of an innocuous Uvalde politician all the way down here to our front doorstep, commit such an odious act, then beat a hot path for Del Rio? Now, there’s a puzzler. A real, blood-soaked puzzler.”
I came out of my self-imposed cave of deep thought when Boz made an all-inclusive sweeping motion with one arm and said, “Well, by God, don’t matter one whit to me why murderin’ skunks like Murdock, Atwood, and them sorrier’n hell Pickett boys showed up here on the banks of Devils River. Only thing as matters to me is what they went and done, Lucius. And what they done was murder five people, mostly children, on land we’re responsible for. Far as I’m concerned, we need to be hot on their trail right damned quick and put this sorry deed to right. Hang the men who had a hand in this mess, or kill ’em all. Quicker the better, by God.”
Glo stood, snatched up his long-barreled Greener, and laid it in the crook of one arm. “You know me, Mistuh Dodge. I’ll ride five hundred miles outta my way to avoid any kinda gunfight. But in this instance, Mistuh Boz is right. Men as would kill innocent women and chil’ren need sendin’ to the good Lord for His heavenly judgment. Figure if we hit the trail, right quick-like, probably catch Murdock and that bunch with ’im whilst they’s still eatin’ and drinkin’ and womanizin’ at Mendoza’s. Then, we can send ’em on their way so’s Jesus can usher them on to Hell, where they can shake hands with the Devil hisself.”
I shot a resolute gaze back and forth from one grim face to the other. “What about Clementine?” I said.
Boz waved the question away as he said, “Guess we probably need to take her on back to the ranch. Leave her with Paco. Figure he can take care of ’er till we can get back.”
Glorious Johnson shook his head. “No. Cain’t do that, Mistuh Boz. Gonna use up a buncha valuable time makin’ a trip all the way back down to the ranch. Then we be havin’ to come back out here ’fore we actually gets started after them sorry killers.”
Boz slapped the oiled, walnut grips of the glistening pistol strapped high on his hip. “Well, we damn sure cain’t let this here little-bitty girl ride along with us, Glo.”
It surprised the heck out of all three of us when Clementine Webb snapped, “Don’t you dare talk about me like I’m not here.” Looking angry enough to bite the head off a ball-peen hammer, another round of tears piled up in the girl’s eyes and, one at a time, streamed down reddened cheeks. “I’ll not have you ride off and leave me. No, by jiminy, that’s not about to happen.”
“Well, what would you have us do, little missy?” Boz said.
An uncomfortable silence fell over the scene. Got so quiet the whispery rustle of cottonwood leaves on the near-undetectable west Texas breezes became readily apparent. An attentive listener could have easily perceived the sound of water in Devils River as it trickled past and headed south for the Rio Grande.
Me, Boz, and Glo locked our gazes on Clementine Webb and waited. For some seconds the girl appeared incapable of bringing her wounded gaze off the ground. Bear sat up, nuzzled her hand, and leaned against the girl’s leg when she scratched his ragged ears. The three of us couldn’t do much but fidget and paw at the ground with the toes of our boots.
Finally, Clem cut a nervous glance at her family’s piteous gravesite. Stooped and a bit defeated-looking, of a sudden she came erect. She snapped her shoulders back in the manner of a young soldier recently called to action by the sound of trumpets, drums, and the possibility of quick death.
The gal wiped leaky eyes on the back of her arm, pointed at the grave, then said, “You’re not leaving me behind, and there’s the reason why. I’ll be going along with you to find the men who did this.”
Be willing to bet that less than half a heartbeat had passed when I snapped, “Now wait a minute, Clem. I ...”
So quick I could hardly fathom how it happened, Clementine Webb was standing on the toes of my boots, her trembling finger almost pressed against the end of my nose. “You can’t leave me here, and I won’t let you take me to your ranch so Paco, whoever in the wide, wide world that is, can take care of me. If there’s one thing I don’t need right now, it’s a Mexican caretaker.”
“We only have three horses, Clem,” Boz offered.
“I’ll ride behind Mr. Dodge,” she snapped without taking her eyes off me. “What little I weigh, it’ll do until we get to Carta Blanca. I can buy a horse there.”
“Look, don’t mean to sound cruel or insensitive, Clem,” I said, “but where would you get the money for a horse? Boz and me went over the wagon pretty close, child. Didn’t find anything of real value. Nothing but blood-soaked clothes, bedding, and maybe enough food for about another week out here in the wild places. Figure if there was any money at all Murdock and his bunch probably took it.”
The feisty girl turned on her heel and marched to the bullet-splintered wagon. She appeared to give no thought to the action when she began jerking at the length of rope that lashed the water barrel to the wagon bed. The leaky, dripping vessel sat atop a small platform between the front and rear wheels.
With forearms resting on the grips of the brace of pistols strapped high on his hips, Boz shook his head and called out, “What’re you doing, child?”
’Course she ignored him. Continued to wrestle with the rope until it was completely loosened. Then she climbed onto the wagon’s back wheel and, holding on to one of the wooden bows that normally kept the canvas top in place, kicked the barrel until it tipped over and dropped onto the ground.
The wooden container landed with a resounding splat and burst open. Splintered staves and water flew in all directions. Clem hopped down, scratched around in the wreckage, and fished out a wallet-shaped package. She strolled back over and offered it to me.
; “What’s this, Clem?” I said.
“Open it. See for yourself.”
With some understandable hesitation, I took the parcel. The bundle was tightly wrapped in oilcloth, like a primitive, waterproof birthday present. I pulled my bowie, sliced through a thin strip of rawhide tied around the whole shebang, and clawed the wrapper away to find a leather wallet inside. As I fingered at the contents, my eyes most surely grew wider.
“Good God, Clem,” I said. “There’s probably five thousand dollars in here, maybe ten.”
Hands clasped behind her back, the Webb girl stared at the ground. She shuffled her feet, shrugged, and said, “Really didn’t have any idea how much was there, Ranger Dodge. By accident, I caught Papa hiding it before we left home. He made me swear not to tell anyone. Said the money was for emergencies. Have to admit, never expected an emergency like this one, but here it is. Appears to me I could easily afford to buy a horse.”
I shook the sheaf of bills in Clementine Webb’s face and said, “This don’t change a thing, girl. You can’t go with us. Such an endeavor is just too dangerous. Don’t you understand?”
Something in her eyes had definitely changed when she raised her head and focused in on me again. A hard, calculating glare pegged me to the ground. Then, fisted hands on her narrow hips, she snarled, “Then I’ll pay you to find the men who murdered my family. A thousand dollars each. But only if you take me along on the hunt. You run Murdock, Atwood, and the Pickett brothers to ground and kill them all, like you promised earlier, and I’ll pay you each a thousand dollars in good Yankee cash.”
Clementine Webb’s astonishing proposal fell on me and my friends like a thunderclap. Glorious Johnson stood with his eyes closed and appeared as though counting on his fingers. Boz Tatum’s mouth hung open like the unlashed boot on the back of a Concord coach. My loot-heavy hand dangled in the air as if suspended from a string.
