Lawdog: The Life and Times of Hayden Tilden

by J. Lee Butts

  “I know you to be John Baxter Pole,” yelled Bix. “Put your pistol aside, John. I have men behind you, and if you continue on this course it might cost you your life.”

  I heard a heated discussion among the men under the wagon. Two of them acknowledged that the voice in the trees did, in fact, belong to Bixley Conner. One turned around just in time to stare up the double-barreled muzzle of my twelve-gauge.

  He meekly dropped his pistol and shouted to his friends, “The marshals has got us, boys. Best give ’em up.”

  We rounded them all up pretty quick after that. Johnny Peterman shackled the whole bunch to a long center chain fastened to a steel pin on the side of the wagon. But the contrariety between the two groups became so heated, he had to separate them and put five on one side of the wagon and five on the other.

  Bix beamed with pride at the peaceful outcome. “Once me and Quinten got into the trees and closed in on them boys hiding in there, they gave it up mighty fast. I think they’d seen all the gunfightin’ they wanted for one day.”

  One of the whiskey runners, a sixteen-year-old boy named Shelby Cooper, told me the whole tale. “Me, John Pole, and Ruben Duckworth slept in the wagon. Papa and my brother, Clevis, were curled up underneath. Then this gang showed up—nine of ’em. They didn’t see nobody but Papa and Clevis and figured they outnumbered us so bad we’d just give it up. We threw the wagon tarp back and killed four of ’em faster’n they could spit. Them left living headed for the trees.”

  “You also managed to kill six good horses in the bloody process,” noted Quinten Moon.

  The boy just laughed at him. “Yessir, we did make one hellacious, bloody mess. But, by Godfrey, we’re still alive, ain’t we?”

  Bix fined the group all the cash they possessed for the various offenses he figured they’d committed. Altogether the ten living men and four dead ones had almost two hundred dollars on them. It amounted to about forty dollars for each of us.

  The fines, mileage, and other compensation made Johnny Peterman happier than I’d seen him to that point. “This just might be the best week I’ve had since I started this dance two years ago. Maybe I can buy my wife a new dress when we get back.”

  Moon slapped me on the back and grinned. “You might be our good luck charm this trip, Hayden.”

  After Bix searched the bodies, he made the prisoners bury them. Late that afternoon, we headed southwest along the Kaimichi River toward a well-known watering hole Bix called Stark’s Station. Our captives rattled along behind the wagon. Some of them had murder to answer for, and the others were thieves who’d witnessed the fracas. Bix figured he’d let the lawyers back in Fort Smith sort it all out.

  Stark’s rugged palace of swill squatted about fifty yards west of a sparkling stream named Sunfish Creek that emptied into the Kaimichi. The long, low log structure looked like someone chopped it out of a little mound of earth, threw some logs in the hole, then covered it all back up.

  Bix stopped our party a good distance from the house for a discussion of what might await us inside the makeshift saloon.

  “We’re all familiar with this joint, Hayden. It belongs to Jamie Stark. She married a Choctaw named Benjamin One Elk Stark and started living out here about five years ago.” He looped several sets of shackles over his shoulder, thumbed through his warrants, and pulled one to the top of the pile.

  Handsome Harry rolled the cylinder of his belly gun as he walked up. “Yeah, she sells whiskey to anyone who wants to stop by and runs card games and such, too. We usually waltz in and fine her ten or twenty dollars, break a few bottles, and leave.”

  “I hope it goes that way today,” added Bix. “But I overheard one of our whiskey runners tell his friend that Dave Crowder may be visiting. I’m a lot more concerned with that than any introducin’ Jamie’s doing. So keep your wits about you. Johnny and Quinten will stay with the wagon. I want you and Harry with me. Bring the shotguns.”

  The three of us walked the last hundred yards so as not to arouse the inhabitants before we got there. Bix went in first. I followed Harry.

  It took a bit for my eyes to adjust to the poor light inside that dungeonlike tavern. The single room was about thirty-five feet long and twenty feet deep. A makeshift bar, comprised of nothing more than some coarse planks sitting on barrel tops, took up the entire left end of the building. Rough chairs and tables sat in random spots around the rest of the open space. A large fireplace in the back wall overflowed with barely lit logs that popped and sputtered.

  A tall, thin woman who had a face like a starving barn owl stumbled from behind the counter. She smoked a cigar about the size of an axe handle and greeted Bix like they were old friends.

  “Why, it’s Marshal Bixley Conner. Come on in here, Bix. Sit by the fire and warm your big ole self up some.” She smelled like a wet horse, and her hair appeared to be falling out by the handful. “You boys want a cup of hot coffee?”

  Bix said, “No, thanks, Jamie, we’re here on business. We don’t have time to socialize.”

  “Well, who’re you lawdogs a-sniffin’ around after this time?” She swayed to a stop so close to Bix her cigar dribbled ashes on his shirt. Didn’t take a genius to tell she hated us for being there, but at least she acted friendly enough on the surface.

  He grasped the woman by the arm and guided her to the far end of the bar. They spoke in tones so low I couldn’t hear what they were saying. I eased down along the bark-covered wall to the other end of the building and took up residence in a corner near a table where five hard-looking men played poker. None of them even noticed me. They directed their collective attention at Harry Tate, who leaned against the doorjamb as though to block any prospect for a running escape.

  Kept my shotgun nestled tight against my leg and made no display of it when I finally settled in the corner. But I noticed some uneasy movement at the table and eased the hammers back on both barrels just in case things started to get out of hand.

  Bix glanced over in the direction of the table while Jamie Stark whispered in his ear. He smiled, nodded at the witch, and started toward the five card players. He stopped behind the biggest, ugliest man in the poker klatch.

  “I have a warrant for you, Dave. Judge Parker has requested your presence in his court. You’ll have to come with us.” He dropped the paper on the table in front of the man, then moved away.

  The burly brute, who had a face that looked like a map for the M.K.&T. Railroad, snatched the document off the table and said, “I doan thank I’ll be going with you boys today.” He dropped the warrant into a cuspidor on the floor and leaned back in his chair. He seemed totally confident in his decision.

  Bix, who had drawn his pistols and held them behind his back, asked real friendly, “And why would you presume to think something like that, Dave?”

  The big gambler motioned across the table toward a dark-skinned young man sitting there with his back to the wall. “Well, I want you do-right boys to meet a new and very close personal acquaintance of mine. This here is Mr. John Wesley Hardin.”

  I’d never heard of John Wesley Hardin at the time, but the name had a noticeable effect on Bix and Handsome Harry.

  “That’s a bald-faced lie. Rangers threw Hardin in jail down in Texas,” Harry called from the doorway.

  Bix took a couple more steps away from the table. Harry moved from the light into a corner by the doorjamb. The Greener rested across his left arm.

  No doubt about it, that young fellow was the best-dressed man in the room, even better than Handsome Harry Tate. Under his gray suit coat, I could see ivory-handled pistols in leather holsters strapped high on his hips. He stood and, with an insolent sneer, pulled his coat back and pushed the pistols forward with the heels of his hands. The entire room held its breath. I could see that some of the other card players were shocked by the turn of events and wanted nothing to do with the episode unfolding.

  You could’ve bobtailed the tension in that room with a pickled pig’s foot from the jar on the bar. I k
ept waiting for something to happen, but Hardin just stood there and smiled. He still hadn’t noticed me hiding in my corner.

  Bix made this tiny little motion with the pistol in his left hand. That’s all I needed to make my move. I brought the shotgun up and leveled it in the young gambler’s direction.

  Licked my lips and swallowed hard. My finger trembled on the trigger. As quiet and slow as I could, I said, “Our business isn’t with you, Mr. Hardin. We have no warrants or posters for your capture. We know of no reason to keep you from your travels. Now, I don’t want to kill you, but if you so much as blink I’ll cut you in half and destroy at least three of your friends.”

  I admit it was bold talk and a mighty nervy bluff from a week-old deputy marshal who didn’t have any idea what he was doing. But it worked.

  Everyone at that table seemed to relax at the same time—almost like the wind taken from a sailing ship. Hardin held his hands out and turned the palms up. The other men put their hands next to their cards and didn’t move.

  “Walk around the table on the side away from me. I’ll guide you from the building, sir. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you as you continue on with your business.”

  Bix Conner looked stunned. I could tell Harry Tate wanted to laugh, but he realized they still had to take Dangerous Dave into custody.

  As I put the shotgun muzzle to the neck of my new ward and pushed him toward the door, Bix brought his pistols out of hiding and snapped, “Stand up, Dave. It’s time to go.” The hammers coming back on Harry’s shotgun sounded like popcorn cooking. The infamous Dangerous Dave Crowder raised his hands. Bix pushed Crowder’s arms down and slapped shackles on him.

  Soon as we stepped out the door, I took possession of my young gambler’s pistols.

  “Which is your animal?” I asked.

  He indicated a roan mare tied in front of the house. “Mr. Hardin, there’s a wagon to your right about a hundred yards away. I’ll lead the horse while you walk in front of me. Don’t forget what I told you inside.”

  He didn’t say anything till I stopped him and Quinten took charge of his guns. As soon as he realized the finality of his position, his arrogant manner changed dramatically. He motioned for me to follow and led me a few feet away from the wagon.

  “I am not John Wesley Hardin, sir. My true name is Noah Burns. I’m from Austin and have been told I bear a striking resemblance to the gunman. The marshal by the door hit the nail on the head. Mr. Hardin now resides in prison just outside the capitol.”

  I said, “Why would you tell such a tale and challenge a deputy U.S. marshal in so thoughtless a manner? Bix Conner would’ve shot you before you got one of those big pistols clear of its holster.”

  “The hard cases all over the Nations fear Hardin. They all know him as a man killer. I’ve used his reputation to get their confidence so I could take their money in poker. You can brand me for a card cheat, to be sure, but I’m not John Wesley Hardin.”

  He began to shake. The muscles in his face twitched. Terror had him in a mean grip. I felt sorry for the man. His cowardice overcame him while I watched. It’s a sad thing to see a man lose his dignity like that.

  “Get on your horse, Mr. Burns. As I said before, we have no reason to detain you. Get away from this place.” I unloaded his pistols and pushed them into his war bag. “If I were you I’d think twice before I used the Hardin ruse again, sir. And remember this as you ride away: I’m an expert shot at up to five hundred yards with the rifle hanging on that chestnut mare. If I see you turn back, I’ll assume you lied to me and that you intend more mischief. I won’t hesitate to shoot you off this horse.”

  “You’ll never see me again, Marshal.” He nodded his thanks, put the spur to his animal, and shot away from Stark’s Station like big yellow dogs from Arkansas were snapping at his heels.

  Ole Bix levied his usual fines and broke a few bottles, and we turned the wagon back toward Fort Smith with Dangerous Dave Crowder and two of his poker pals in tow. Somewhere along the trail back to civilization, Crowder managed to spread the story of how I’d thrown down on Texas’ most deadly killer and then run the man out of the Territories.

  That incident got quite a bit of space in an 1878 issue of the Fort Smith Elevator. Fortunately or not, the report made no mention of the man’s true identity. Everyone who read that article believed I’d done exactly what Dangerous Dave claimed when he told the world about it. I never made much of an effort to set the record straight. Far as I was concerned an intimidating reputation wouldn’t hurt when bad men had to be confronted.

  Actually, no one ever bothered to ask me about what really happened. By the time the tale hit the streets, Judge Parker and Marshal Upham had me back in the Nations again. Reporters worked pretty much the same way then as they do now. They would hear a story and if an editor thought it’d sell papers then that’s what ended up getting printed. No one wanted to read that I’d caught a gambler named Noah Burns who couldn’t have hit a barn door from ten feet with those big pistols of his. They wanted to believe Dangerous Dave’s fairy tale about how I’d thrown down on the infamous John Wesley Hardin and then put him on a horse back to Texas.

  That counterfeit killer started the Hayden Tilden “famous marshal” ball rolling, but Morgan Bryce turned out to be the real reason for any reputation that followed me back into Fort Smith after my first time out. Guess I’d have been well known for the John Wesley incident from then on, but ole Morgan was waiting for us on the road back to Fort Smith. And once the news of our meeting got spread around, lawless men all over the Territories started to think twice when they heard Hayden Tilden wanted them.

  4

  “ON A STROLL TO SUNDAY SCHOOL”

  “I DON’T REALLY know a thing about anyone named Morgan Bryce.” Franklin J. snatched the pad off the table, rubbed around on the page with his eraser, and started writing again.

  Carlton coughed, snorted, and pushed himself further down in the cushion of his chair like an old dog trying to get his bed in just the right order before lying down. General Black Jack Pershing rubbed against my leg, hopped up in my lap, and immediately fell into a purring snooze.

  “Well, Junior, if you and I sat down today and made up a list with all the names of the most infamous men in the Territories, Morgan Bryce’s would occupy a spot near the top.”

  “How much do you remember about the man?”

  “Good God, son, I remember almost everything about the man. Some claimed he rode with Quantrill during the rebellion. Others said he liked to keep company with the James boys when they needed an extra gun and conducted their business outside the confines of Missouri. Harry Tate said citizens claimed to have seen him with Frank and Jesse anytime they were spotted here in Arkansas.”

  “Did you believe all those stories?”

  “I didn’t hear any of them until after we’d met. I had no reason to disbelieve them.”

  “Can you recall any more of his background? I’ll have to check it all out, of course, but I’ll take any information you can give me now.”

  “You can find most of what I’m about to say in the transcripts of his trial in Fort Smith. According to his neighbors down in southeast Arkansas, his career in crime started right after the Civil War ended. He hated the carpetbaggers who moved into the state, and most believed he helped in the murder of a detachment of Negro soldiers outside the little settlement of Macedonia in ’sixty-eight. Bryce family members buried the bodies and hid the horses. Union Army questioned people for a year and couldn’t prove any of their suspicions. Mainly because Bryce’s family threatened to kill anyone who talked.”

  “Why did witnesses come forward at his trial in Fort Smith?”

  “More than ten years had passed, and most of his relatives had either died or departed for more lucrative areas of the country. Can’t blame anyone for that. Arkansas might be the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen, but poor doesn’t even come close to describing how bad off its people are.”

  “
So, no one found out about the soldiers. Then what?”

  “He went north and botched the robbery of a bank in the little Missouri township of Elk Creek. Stormed into the place under the false impression that Wells Fargo funds, being transferred from one part of the state to another, resided in their vault.”

  “False impression?”

  “Couldn’t have been more wrong. Anyway, he went flying into the bank in May of ’seventy and demanded all the money. Waved a shotgun around and carried several pistols and knives. Teller gave him everything in his till but couldn’t persuade Bryce that no more could be had.”

  “What do you mean by couldn’t persuade him no more could be had?”

  “Bryce didn’t believe him. Shot that teller DRT—dead right there. Five people saw it. Then he lit in on the bank manager. Gunfire brought a seventy-year-old man who acted as town marshal running for the bank. He got there just as Bryce killed the manager.”

  “Killed two people for no reason?”

  “Yep and when he realized no one else in the establishment could throw money his direction, he started his escape. The town marshal, who spent most of his official time locking up a single drunk every Saturday night, called for the thief to stop and throw his weapons aside. Bryce pitched the shotgun at the old man, whipped out his pistols, and put four bullets in him. In the short space of five minutes, he’d managed to kill three people and all for less than a hundred dollars.”

  “And these murders marked the beginning of his career?”

  “You bet. He ran for the Territories and raided back and forth into Arkansas, Texas, and Missouri for years. Same as thousands of others like him. Rumors had him spotted as far north as Ogallala and as far east as Memphis. He robbed small local banks, mainly. Usually managed to kill someone in the process. Over the years, Judge Parker issued numerous warrants in his name for robbery, murder, rape, forgery, mayhem, and inciting to riot—just to name a few.”

  “Parker’s corps of marshals couldn’t find him?”