by J. Lee Butts
I got another fleeting glance of Cutner’s wide open eyes. As though surprised down to the soles of his bare, bloody feet, he said, “Lucius. Lucius. You’re Lucius ‘By God’ Dodge?”
“That’s me,” I said.
“And that ’un yonder’s Boz Tatum?”
Soon as the breathy question slipped his lips, I knew we’d finally got his undivided attention.
Boz flashed a toothy grin, then said, “That’s us in the flesh, you worthless piece of trail dung.”
A sound of reckless unease tinged Cutner’s voice when he snapped back, “I’ve heard of you—both of you. But it don’t matter none. Hell, don’t matter a single whit. ’Cause I already owe you bastards for the fist-sized wad of wood splinters stickin’ outta my damaged, bony ass right now. Shit, these things hurt like burnin’ perdition. Prolly won’t be able to sit a horse for a month. Gonna make you pay for puttin’ all these sticker’s in me ’fore the day’s out, by God.”
I flipped the barrel of my pistol at Boz. He nodded, and we both took a pair of bold-as-brass steps Cutner’s direction. The thug scrunched as far down behind Clementine’s slender, limp body as he could. He moved his arm from around her fragile, teenager’s neck, then used it to quickly encircle her boyish chest. The cowardly skunk raised her up like a human shield, then peeked over one of her skinny shoulders.
“Best stop right where you are, boys,” he sang out and seemed to push his pistol’s muzzle against the girl’s skull with added force. “Make another move my direction and this here li’l gal’s gonna be huggin’ Jesus, the rest of the heavenly host, and swappin’ spit with real, honest-to-God angels.”
“Give us the girl, and maybe we’ll let you live a little longer,” I said.
With his forehead pressed aginst Clem’s spine, Cutner spoke into the girl’s back when he hissed, “She’s mine, by God. Girl’s mine. She was give to me. Ain’t give’n ’er up. Gonna do as I please with this here little bit of split tail, till I get tired of it, then I’ll probably kill ’er and go on to the next ’un. And ain’t nothin’ either of you can do about it.”
Cutner didn’t have to prod Boz any farther. He holstered his weak-side pistol and turned sidewise, like a New Orleans duelist. He brought the freed hand up to support the polished walnut butt of the pistol in his right. Went as rigid as one of those bronze statues they keep in them museums back East.
Sounded like a crosscut saw ripping through oak boards when he snarled, “I’m ready when you are, Lucius. You call it and we’ll bring this shindig to an end.”
“You’ve got ’im, Boz?” I said.
“You bet. I’ve got ’im dead to rights. Now have Eagle ‘Mad Dog’ Cutner’s head bone sitting atop my front sight as we speak. No job a’tall to empty his pea-sized brain out onto the floor. So, you just give me the word, I’ll let ’er rip. Blow all the rusted-up filler in his malignant thinker box from here to kingdom come.”
Now, Boz and I’d confronted similar situations any number of times in the past. We pretty much knew what to expect from a skunk like ole Mad Dog. And Cutner didn’t disappoint. Did exactly what both of us figured he would. Silly idiot scrunched farther down behind Clementine—as far as he could—then raised the girl up a bit higher to protect his worthless, empty noggin.
Unfortunately, for him at least, he’d gone and made a serious error in judgment. Went and exposed his dangling manhood in the process of trying to conceal himself behind the girl’s limp, blood-smeared torso.
I knew without even having to think about it, Boz Tatum had already spotted the same thing I had. I sliced a quick, corner-of-the-eye glance my partner’s direction. Could tell by the faint grin etched across his thin, chapped lips that he’d already picked his target and was happier than a fat armadillo chewing on a big ole nest of yellow jacket larvae.
Couldn’t help but grin myself when I said, “You’ve got one more chance here, you back-shootin’ bastard. Gonna say it one more time. Let us have the girl. Give her over right this very second or suffer the consequences. And trust me when I tell you, Cutner, you ain’t gonna like the consequences of holding on to her.”
I couldn’t see any of his face at all when Cutner went to cackling like something crazed. Idiot still thought he had the upper hand. Between gasps for air, he huffed, “Screw you law-bringin’ bastards and the horses you rode up on.”
I turned to my compadre. Said, “He’s all yours, Boz. Do whatever it takes.”
I saw the muzzle of my running buddy’s pistol drop about two inches. Then, an instant later, a thumping, ear-shattering explosion lit the murky room like a Fourth of July whizbang at midnight. A thumb-sized, 255-grain chunk of forty-five caliber lead turned Eagle ‘Mad Dog’ Cutner’s family jewels into nothing more than a cloud of bloody, mist-like memories.
Amidst an instant, wavelike cloud of dust, raised by the pistol’s head-ringing blast, Cutner let out a single, ear-shattering shriek. Honest to sweet Mary, screech he let out sounded like a stagecoach ran over a mountain lion right in front of me. No doubt about it, Boz’s well-placed shot did the trick, and then some.
Cutner turned his pistol loose like it was a fresh-forged horseshoe. The still-cocked weapon skittered across the packed-dirt floor and ricocheted off the stone wall. He dropped Clem, then grabbed at his blood-gushing crotch with both hands. Went down on both knees then rolled onto one side. Hit his unprotected shoulder like a felled tree. Set to whooping, hollering, and thrashing around in the dirt as if Boz’s shot had cut his head off.
I holstered my pistols, jumped across the ten or so feet that separated us, and snatched Clem away, while Boz snatched Cutner’s pistol up off the floor. He shoved the short-barreled blaster behind his own cartridge belt. A beaming grin painted across his face, he stood over a freshly neutered Eagle “Mad Dog” Cutner and watched as the man rolled around on the floor, slinging blood every which direction.
Quick as I could, I carried Clem to the ramshackle piece of a bed. Laid her out atop a blanket that was horrifyingly smeared in what I figured had to be her own blood.
I covered the girl up best I could manage, with anything I could lay a hand on. Pressed two fingers against her gore-caked neck in an effort to find something akin to a pulse. Bent over and listened for breathing, then put an ear against her chest. I could barely hear her heartbeat ’cause of all the yelling and hollering Cutner was doing.
“She’s still with us,” I said more to myself than to anyone in particular. “Think if we can get her awake, cleaned up, and moving around, she just might make it. Gotta get on it fast as we can, though.”
Boz eased up beside me. He jammed a fresh shell into the empty chamber of his pistol. Slapped the loading gate closed, then shoved the gun into his hip holster. Thumbs hooked over a hand-tooled Mexican cartridge belt, he rocked back on his heels and frowned. “Hard thing to think, but given the way the poor child looks, be nothin’ short of a miracle if she lives another ten minutes, you ask me, Lucius.”
From outside, I heard Glo call out, “How is it in there with you, Mistuh Boz? Mistuh Dodge? You gennemens okay? Y’all still be alive and kickin’?”
I turned and yelled, “We’re fine and dandy, Glo. Still breathin’. Still kickin’. Need you to run back to the horses. Get the blanket tied behind my saddle. Also all our canteens and my saddlebags. Bring everything inside here quick as you can.”
Hadn’t quite finished my instructions, when I spotted him standing in the blasted doorway. Thought for a second or so the man would break down weeping when he said, “Sweet merciful Jesus, Mistuh Dodge. What’d that animal go and do to the poor chile? Top of everthang else she’s done suffered, what’d he go and do?”
I stood beside the shaky piece of a bed and gazed down into Clementine Webb’s scabrous, splotched face. Took the whole of my self-control to keep from breaking down like the girl’s very own father. “Sweet Jesus, don’t know for sure, Glo. Doubt we’ll ever know all of it for certain. Whatever he did, we need to get her warm and cleaned o
ff right quick-like. Want her outta here and shaped up as best we can manage ’fore she manages to regain some semblance of consciousness—if she ever does.”
“Goin’ for the blankets, water, and sech right now, Mistuh Dodge. Back fast as these ole legs and the good Lord’ll let me.”
Glo’s words were still hanging in the air when I heard Eagle Cutner moan. He sounded most like a man being tortured by a band of Satan’s red-eyed imps.
I stomped my way across the room and tried my dead level best to put my booted foot completely up his no-account backside. Guess I must’ve kicked the unmitigated hell out of him four or five times. Would’ve probably kicked him slap to death, but then Boz slid up from behind, grabbed me around the shoulders, and dragged me back a few steps.
Arms still locked around me in a viselike grip, mouth right next to my ear, Boz hissed, “He’s still alive, Lucius. Son of a bitch is still alive. Doubt he’ll die from losing them there gonads of his’n. And we don’t wanna kill ’im completely dead just yet.”
Still mad enough to eat raw bees, I grunted and tried to wrench myself from his grip.
“Think, now, ole friend,” he hissed into my ear. “Wanna get at the head of this beast, we’ve still gotta find out where that stink sprayer Ax Webb went. Keep on kickin’ ole Eagle and he just might give up the ghost.”
Can’t remember a time when I’ve let my emotions get hold of me to the point where I seemed to lose all reason like I did that day. But, my glorious God, appeared as how Eagle Cutner had gone and done deplorable things to Clementine Webb, and I wasn’t in anything like a forgiving mood. Felt like my head might explode if I couldn’t stomp a bloody ditch in his sorry hide, then stomp it dry.
Boz didn’t turn me loose until I’d relaxed a mite. Got to admit, it took an almighty heap of self-control to keep from finishing the job I’d started. I clomped a path all the way around that big ole room a time or two. Kicked at every piece of broken-down furniture handy. Was trying like the dickens to shake off the urge to go back over and put the boot to Eagle Cutner till I’d stomped him slap to death. Pretty sure, at the time, the simple act of killin’ the bee-Jesus out of him would’ve made me feel one hell of a bunch better about the whole situation.
After about two or three minutes of fuming like a forest fire on the verge of bursting loose and flarin’ up like Hell’s lowest circle, I finally calmed down enough to go over and squat down beside the castrated son of a bitch.
He was still rolling around in his own filth. Man had both blood-soaked hands clamped between his legs and had descended to the point of whimpering like a hurt dog. Was enough to make me want to puke up my balbriggans, socks, boots, and silver-mounted spurs. Sweet Jesus, he was pathetic.
Arms crossed over his chest, Boz slouched against one end of the rotting fireplace mantel and watched. After a few seconds of contemplation, he set to rolling himself a ciga-reet.
As I recall it, Boz’d already started on his smoke by the time I grabbed the sniveling stack of walking scum at my feet and snatched him onto his nekkid back. Knees hiked up against his heaving chest, Cutner fingered at the still-bleeding ribbon of flesh between his legs, whimpered and mewled. Just typical. Cowardly bastard’s real self had popped out with the loss of his manhood. And he couldn’t hide it any longer.
24
“GO ON AND KILL ME.”
NOW, I HAVE to confess, I might’ve gone and slapped the blue-eyed hell out of Eagle Cutner a time or two, maybe three, that fateful afternoon. As I now recollect the events of that day, my open palm across his cheeks did tend to make loud cracking sounds. Pretty sure I left a goodly share of red welts that looked like my fingers on his surprised countenance.
Once I’d finally got his undivided attention, I grabbed the sorry bastard by the throat and said, “You’ve gotta clear your mind, Eagle. Whatever there is left of it. Gotta perk up. Pay attention. You’n me, and ole Boz Tatum here have unfinished business to discuss.”
Cutner groaned, then made the kind of pitiable sounds that would normally have had the power to pull tears out a glass eye, but not that day. From behind his own set of piss-yellow orbs, he whimpered, “Ain’t g-got nothin’ to say to either of you star-carryin’ b-bastards. Skunk ugly a-assholes done turned me into a geldin’. One pistol shot. Damnation. One shot. Cain’t b-believe it. Went from bein’ a rooster to a hen in a s-single heartbeat.”
“Best shot I’ve made in years,” Boz said, then let out a self-satisfied chuckle.
“Ain’t nothin’ no more—not even a m-man. W-Why didn’t you just go on ahead and put one in my skull bone, like you said you’s gonna do? Just get it over with and k-kill me. Go on and kill me. Kill me now. I’m ready to go. Ready to meet Jesus.”
Boz took a lung-filling drag off his hand-rolled, picked a sprig of tobacco off his bottom lip. He glared at the offending morsel, then said, “Well, we can still do that, but I don’t think Jesus would wanna talk to a walkin’ pile of murderous, hammered manure like you, Eagle.”
Cutner groaned and rolled back and forth in the dirt like a fresh slab of country bacon frying in a hot skillet.
I said, “ ’Course, unless you bleed out while you’re rollin’ around down there in the mud, the blood, and what used to be your tiny hoo-hahs, you’ll most likely live through this little setback. So, why don’t you just buck up, you mangy pile of chicken shit? Rancher castrates a bull, animal don’t even act like he feels it.”
Cutner twisted back onto one side. He moaned again. “Well, by God, I ain’t no bull. An’ I fer sure felt this ’un.”
Then, good Lord as my witness, the quivering skin sack puked all over hell and yonder. Let loose with a real gusher. Something that looked like half a gallon of bunk-house chili. Then he rolled onto his back again, coughed, and geysered the awful stuff a good three feet in the air. Nasty-smelling crap rained down all over him. Covered his chest, face, and damn near everything else. I had to jump out of the way to keep from getting hit myself. My God, having to witness such behavior’s enough to put a man off his feed for a solid week.
“Aw-w goddamn,” Cutner snarled. “A little setb-back, huh, Dodge? That’s what you’ve decided to call this horrible thang you bastards have gone and done to me? Shit a-runnin’. Had my pistol, I’d give you two a real setb-back.”
The smoldering quirley dangling from the corner of his mouth, Boz grinned and said, “Well, you could be deader’n Crockett and Travis right now, by God. If Lucius had given me the word, ’bout two seconds earlier, what little there is of your more-than-worthles brain would be decorating that wall yonder instead of your tiny set of huevos.”
Behind me, I heard Glo at the door. “I’s back, Mistuh Dodge. Got all them thangs as you wanted me to bring.”
Didn’t take my narrowed gaze off our bleeding, puking prisoner. “You go on ahead and see if you can get Clem cleaned up some, Glo. Boz and I are still a bit occupied with Mr. Cutner.”
Could tell from Glo’s voice my instructions distressed him some. “But, Mistuh Boz, maybe it’d be best if’n you . . .”
Still squatting beside Cutner, I twisted around so Glo could see my face. “It’s okay. You go ahead and clean her face, neck, arms, and legs, as best you can. Check over all those spots for cuts, bullet wounds, and such. Me’n Boz’ll do whatever else we can when we’re finished here.”
With a dumbfounded look on his face, Glo nodded. “Yes, suh. Do what I can. But you know I . . .”
“Telling you it’s all right. Trust me. No need to worry yourself. Go on ahead and clean up what you can get at. We’ll be over to help you with her shortly.”
“Yes, suh. I’m a-goin’, I’m a-goin’,” he said and shuffled his way toward the bed as though it might contain a horror story beyond his ability to grasp.
I turned back to Cutner and put a serious eyeballing on him. “Here’s the deal, Eagle, you tell me where Axel Webb is, and I won’t kill you. Swear it on my dear ole sainted grandma.”
Sounded as though he might be weak
ening, when Cutner mewled, “Aw, hell, if’n you don’t d-do fer me, Ax sure ’nuff will when he finds out as how I done went and betrayed him. Pair of you fellers might want me to wake up shovelin’ coal in the Devil’s f-favorite furnace, but I know for sure Ax would send me there and not even bat an eye.”
“Well, trust me when I tell you that I’m not gonna kill you today. And I won’t let Boz kill you, either. Or Glorious Johnson, yonder. You cough up the information I need, and we’ll leave you a pistol with one pristine, brain-ready bullet in it. Then we’ll hit the trail runnin’ and let you figure out how best to write the end of your own sorry story. Ax Webb don’t need to have any hand in that.”
“Awww, sweet, merciful Jaysus,” Cutner moaned. “Why’ve I always been so put-upon? Go to my grave not bein’ able to understand why I’ve had to deal with meddlin’, badge-totin’ assholes like you three bastards all my natural l-life, Dodge. Sweet glorious God, save me from lawmen.”
“Sweet dancin’ Christ,” Boz mumbled. “Ain’t nothin’ about your life’s been natural, Eagle. Been rapin’ and killin’ folks all over Texas, Oklahoma, Arizona, and New Mexico for years. ’Bout time the law caught up with you and put a stop to all the mayhem you’re responsible for.”
“Besides, Ax Webb is responsible for the deaths of a boatload of people out on the Devils River,” I said. “You’re gonna tell us where he went. One way or the other.”
Cutner crawfished to the stone house’s back wall. He left a trail of blood in the dirt as he elbowed his way to a sitting position. Groaned like a dying calf, then said, “Don’t know nothing ’bout no killin’s out on Devils River. Didn’t have nothin’ to do with any killin’s done there.”
’Course, he was right about that. Said, “We know you weren’t there when Senator Webb and his family were murdered. Otherwise you’d already be dead.”
