by J. Lee Butts
“Where’d you learn how to ‘tune the trigger’?”
“Aw, back in ’seventy-four, ’bout a year after Colt first started sellin’ these Peacemaker guns, a feller callin’ himself a factory salesman showed up at Reed’s. Had a company gunsmith with him. He tuned both my pistols while I watched. I’ve done the same for several of the other marshals since. You’ll be surprised at the difference this’ll make in the action.”
An hour later, he handed the gun back. “I unloaded it so you can practice your draw. Since you carry the gun across your belly, the move to it’s different than mine. Your hand has to start out closer to the weapon. Personally believe a holster should be up high on your hip, the way I wear it. Just makes carryin’ the thing while ridin’ or pullin’ it a whole bunch easier. But every man has to do what’s most comfortable.”
For the next few days, he made me practice drawing the gun and snapping off rounds as we rode along. I moved my holster to my right hip and tried to get everything arranged exactly the way he had his. Never matched his speed, but after so much practice I came close. He advised me on my grip and how to point and squeeze, rather than try to aim every shot.
“Usually the only time you’re gonna fire one of these things is when you’re so close to the feller shootin’ back you could probably spit on him. In Black Oak we couldn’ta been more’n ten feet from those old boys.” He snatched his pistol from its holster, gave it a fancy spin, and dropped it back. “I ain’t ever seen a serious pistol fight yet where the opponents were more’n eight or ten feet away from each other. My personal rule is, don’t git in a rush, but git ’em out fast and blast away. If you keep your head, and you’re worth anything at all as a shot, you can just about bet you’ll hit what you’re pointin’ at.”
“Don’t think I’ll ever be able to match that shot you put in Jug Dudley, Billy. Which leads me to a question I need to ask. Why’d you bust him out the way you did?” We’d stopped on the trail, and he had me shooting at twigs and rocks he placed at various distances.
“He made a move for his gun.”
“I could see him too. Didn’t see his hand move.”
“He made the move with his eyes. First move’s always there. Once you’ve seen it, you’ll recognize it from then on. Some ole pistoleros would argue with me ’bout that, but I’m pert sure they’re wrong. If I hadn’t popped Dudley when I did, he’da killed Handsome Harry—and maybe you.” He tugged at my sleeve to correct the direction my pistol was pointed.
The man’s affection for his revolvers bordered on obsession. He spent lavish amounts of time fussing with them. When I questioned him about it, he said, “You have to take care of ’em. Clean ’em. I’ve always felt they’re kinda like a woman. Take good care of ’em, and they’ll never let you down. I know how you feel about that Winchester, and that’s fine, but you can’t tote that big sucker with you everywhere. You need something easier to carry, something more personal. When you get to where you feel like you’re caressing the grips when you pull a pistol, you’ll know what I mean.”
Swore to myself I’d become just as accomplished with a handgun as the rifle. No way to deny it, Billy’s shot to the brain of Jug Dudley so impressed me with its speed and accuracy I decided I had to become as good—if not better. Figured such skill could only help when Saginaw Bob finally got lined up in my sights.
Five days out I realized Billy hadn’t bothered to look at the Judge’s map of the Nations. ’Course, I’d told him where we were headed. He seemed unconcerned. “Ever been to Kingfisher Creek, Billy?”
“Oh, yeah, several times. Old hands like Bix and Travis used to call it ‘Thieves’ Paradise,’ but it’s as far from ‘Paradise’ as a pig is from feathers. Harry and me visited the place ’bout six months ago. Good ways out, but it ain’t hard to find.”
The lush timber just west of the Arkansas gave way to a region of stunted trees and much flattened land. That became even more barren the farther west we went. During the day, the wind never stopped blowing, which prompted Billy to observe, “Think the good Lord created this place one afternoon when he was pissed about something. Wildest and worst come here when they’ve sinned beyond savin’. It’s the closest spot to perdition I’ve ever been or ever want to see. Keep ’em loaded, and be watchful, Hayden. There are evil men behind every rock out here.”
Our eighth night on the trail, we bedded down without a fire. ’Bout the time my head hit the saddle, thought I heard gunshots north of our camp in almost exactly the spot Judge Parker had marked on his map. Climbed the highest tree I could find and saw light in the distance. Kept thinking, tomorrow, we’ll catch you tomorrow—or we’ll kill you.
Next day, we staked our horses to scrub bushes under an outcropping of rock. Snaked our way to the top of a runty hill overlooking a rough camp almost half a mile away. Several slapdash buildings dotted a low, greasy spot next to the creek. Buck and battened walls had aged to a muddy gray color, and the roofs on some of the unoccupied ones appeared to have caved in.
“Them shacks seem to have just growed up like weeds, don’t they.” Billy squinted through his long glass. “Most of ’em ain’t much more’n lean-tos. Don’t know ’bout you, but it ain’t my idea of anything like ‘Paradise.’”
Watched that camp all day. Watched and waited. Felt it best to keep an eye on them and take in as much information as we could before doing anything else. We were downwind of them. The place smelled mighty bad even as far away as our hiding spot. By the time we got back to our horses we’d learned a good deal.
“Well,” said Billy, “there are at least six of ’em. Maybe seven. Comanche Jack’s there for sure. I recognized that coat soon’s he came outside. Already knew Springer McKlugg and Rhoney Oldman. They’re the two sleeping in that lean-to nearest the creek. Think that great big feller, with the ragged hat sportin’ the red plume, was Schmoker Pratt. Him and Jack staked out the biggest of them lean-tos, the one in the middle.”
“What about the two others?” I asked.
“Didn’t recognize them or that skinny one that kept shufflin’ back and forth from shack to shack. But I’d bet my saddle, anyone travelin’ with this bunch sure ain’t teachin’ Sunday school in their spare time.”
We decided our chances of nabbing any of the gang away from camp bordered on remote to impossible, and catching them each at separate times was virtually unthinkable.
Billy came up with the best plan. “We’ll wait till ’bout three in the morning and try to take ’em by surprise. Go in with shotguns. Lot easier to hit ’em in the dark with one of these nasty short-barreled poppers.” He breeched that twelve-gauge of his, pulled each shell out, examined it briefly, and dropped it back. Snapped the gun closed as if he thought the discussion was over.
Figuring out how to arm ourselves was one thing, but it was left for me to bring up the tougher decision. “Billy, do we try and catch them, or do we just kill them?”
He didn’t have any more problems with his conscience at Kingfisher Creek than he had at Black Oak. “Any one of those men down there would slit your belly open, pull out your guts, and set them on fire ’fore your living eyes. They ain’t carryin’ them big ole coffin-gripped bowie knives for nothin’. Our posters say alive or dead. Accordin’ to you, the Judge said caught or killed. Money’s the same either way. It’s as clear as I need to see it. I say we kill ’em. Personally like this kind dead, else they might do for us on the trail back. From what we saw this morning, they’ll all be so drunk tonight they’ll never know what hit ’em.”
After seeing my own family murdered, killing three of the men responsible, and shooting that cowboy in Black Oak, I didn’t have much trouble going along with Billy on the thing.
Been thinking about what I’d do ever since we crossed the Arkansas. Judge Parker made it pretty clear to me that he didn’t care one way or the other. Far as I was concerned, Duer, Pratt, McKlugg, Oldman, and anyone else at Kingfisher Creek would never get another chance to chop up living people with a
double-bit axe if we put an end to them right then and there.
’Bout three the next morning, we crept into camp. They didn’t have any dogs, and no one stood guard. Full moon made everything pretty easy to see. Whole place smelled of bad whiskey, dead animals, and outhouse leavings.
Billy whispered, “Anyone this nasty don’t deserve to live. Sons of bitches shouldn’t be breathin’ the same air as decent folks.”
We just waltzed in like Saturday night at a barn dance. Went straight to the shack where we’d seen Commanche Jack and Schmoker Pratt that afternoon. Billy slipped inside. I stood guard. Knew any gunfire would rouse the others.
For about ten or fifteen seconds didn’t hear anything. Then, two deafening blasts lit the inside of that mud-roofed shack like Fourth of July whizbangs. I knelt beside the doorway in a shadow cast by the crumbling roof. Pulled the shotgun tight to my shoulder.
Three or four murky figures stumbled into the darkness jerking at their pants. One of ’em said, “Come on, boys, that there shootin’ sounded like it were right here in camp.”
One of his friends had a plan. “Best check on Jack and Schmoker.”
In the dark, those boys limped toward me mumbling, cussing, and waving their guns. Waited till they were so close I couldn’t miss—maybe twenty, twenty-five feet away. Closed my eyes for about a second. Kept me from going blind from the muzzle flash. Opened up on them with both barrels. Twelve-gauge sprayed a pattern of buckshot that cut through them like weeds under a scythe. Blast stopped all movement in the open space in front of the lean-to. For a while it was so quiet you could hear crickets shushing each other.
“Everything safe with you, Hayden?” Billy stepped out of the lean-to, breeched his shotgun, and dropped new shells into the chamber.
“Fine, just fine, Billy.”
He snapped the gun closed and started for the men I’d blasted. “Looks like you sent these ole boys to the devil’s doorstep.” He pushed at the bodies with the barrel of his shotgun and rolled one over with his foot. “Hope you nasty sons-a-bitches enjoy your new home in Hades. Say hello to Satan for me.”
We dragged the men he’d killed from the shack to the spot where my three dead ones lay. Billy searched each man, but their ragged clothing contained no money and little else of any value. He’d just finished on the last one when we heard noise near the stock pen. Before we could get there, the sound of a horse running hard for the Canadian sailed back to us from the dark.
Billy cocked his ear toward the retreating thump of the hoofbeats. “Must be the sixth one. That skinny one I didn’t recognize. From the sound of it, he’s travelin’ light. Stupid jug-head’s goin’ straight back the direction we came. He’ll be easy to catch. I’d be willing to bet we have him by tomorrow night.”
Two hours later the sun came up, and we identified the bodies of Schmoker Pratt, Comanche Jack Duer, Springer McKlugg, Rohney Oldman, and a well-known rapist and killer called Stinky Jack Kegley. Anyone who’d ever been within ten feet of the man knew how he got his nickname.
Slathered ink on the hand of each corpse and pressed it to the back of his poster the way Judge Parker told me. Below every inky picture I wrote, This is the hand of and then the man’s name.
Billy scratched his chin and watched in silence, until I’d pressed the inked palm of each man to his poster. “New one on me, Hayden. Never seen or heard of such a thing.”
“The Judge told me how to do it. It’s all we need to prove our claim when we get back to Fort Smith.”
Soon as I got those men identified, Billy scrounged up every piece of rope he could find in the camp and hung the bodies from several trees along the river. Above the head of each man he tacked a copy of his poster. Schmoker Pratt got strung up last. In bold letters on the back of his poster Billy wrote, SHOT AND HANGED—MURDERER, THIEF, CHILD KILLER.
I argued for burying them, but gave in when he said, “This’ll be a warnin’ to those like ’em. Good many of their kind stop here one time or another. Word’ll get around. The bad ’uns will find out who did this too. Just hearin’ the name Hayden Tilden in about six months is gonna make some of them ole boys mess their pants like bad kids eatin’ green apples.”
Soon as Pratt got swinging pretty good, we opened the corral and turned their horses out. Wanted to take the animals and sell them, but knew they’d slow us down on our run for the one who got away.
Then, we rode like devils all day long. Let Billy run the trail. He went at the job like a banshee on a horse. Early the next afternoon, we spotted our rider through my long glass. He’d slowed to a walk.
Billy squirmed in his saddle and held the glass to his eye for a long time. “You know, Hayden, we work it just right, we’ll be able to catch or kill the last of Schmoker’s bunch ’fore dark. World’ll be a safer place when they’ve all been sent to a festerin’ perdition.”
So we made one more sprint toward our unsuspecting prey just about the time he tried a new dash for freedom. Rider was around three hundred yards away, running across a nice flat spot that gave me a good target. Called Billy to a stop and jumped off Thunder with the Winchester in my hand. Flipped the rear sight up and adjusted the peep to what looked like the right distance. Squinted through the hole and squeezed off my shot.
Report from the rifle raced behind the bullet and just about the time it got to the outlaw he turned and looked back at us as his horse stumbled and fell. Rider went headfirst into a clump of thick brush.
Billy took his hat off and slapped it against his leg. “I do declare that was the most amazin’ rifle shot I’ve ever seen.” He sat in the saddle, stared, and shook his head in disbelief.
“Don’t be making too much out of it, Billy. Shot at the man, not the horse.”
Didn’t have any trouble finding the horse. Rider took a bit more effort, but we finally spotted him still tangled up in the briars and bushes. We dragged him, scratched and bleeding from numerous cuts, out of the brambles. His hat fell off when Billy shoved him to the ground.
“Whoa, now. What’ve we got here?” Billy stumbled back like a man who’d put his bucket down a well and come up with a skunk.
The girl pushed thick black hair out of her eyes. A sugar-loaf sombrero had hidden the ebony cascade that now flowed down her back.
Billy jerked his hat off and stood shaking his head. “Don’t know what I expected, but, my God, she sure ain’t it.”
The girl crawfished along the ground until a sizable rock got in her way. She pulled herself up on it and sat with her face in her hands. “Could I have some water? I haven’t had a drink since yesterday.” She sounded done in. Her voice had no strength. Its raspy quality made her hard to understand.
I gave her one of my canteens. She pulled down more than half of it in one gulp, and then spent the rest washing her face. Billy brought some whiskey and rags from his war bag, and pretty soon I realized that our stray just might be quite a looker under all that dirt and blood.
He kept dousing pieces of cloth with the liquor then handing them to her. Didn’t take long before most of her cuts were clean.
“Can you tell us your name, miss?” he asked.
“Talbot. My name’s Missy Talbot.”
Didn’t particularly want to ask the next question, but had too. “Why were you in the company of such worthless men as Schmoker Pratt, Comanche Jack, and the like?”
“Who are you, sir, and why did you shoot my horse?” Some metal crept back into her voice. She sat up straight and gave me a hard look. Her eyes gleamed like casehardened steel. Pale blue. She never blinked.
“Deputy U.S. Marshals Hayden Tilden and Billy Bird at your service, Miss Talbot.” We both nodded and touched the brims of our hats. “You left a bunch of bad men back there. I’m sorry, but I must ask you again, how did you come to be in their company?”
Her shoulders sagged. Then the story started—slow and painful at first, faster as she went. “Think it was three weeks ago. Maybe longer, maybe not.” She shook her head, ran her fingers
through the inky colored hair. Pulled at the twigs and briars in it. “The man I worked for, me, and two of his other girls, were traveling south along the trail from Dodge City. Herby, that’s the man I worked for, liked to winter in Dallas. Had a good season in Dodge, and got started a bit late this year.” She bent over with her elbows on her knees and stared at the ground. Didn’t speak for several seconds. Then she sat up and stared directly into my eyes. “Herby was trying to get us across the Canadian River when this huge, nasty man with a red plume in his hat flagged us down.” Her eyes went vacant and her voice became more distant. “He killed them all. It happened so fast I couldn’t believe it. Would’ve killed me too, but his gun misfired. He said it was a sign and he didn’t like to go against signs. So, he stole what he wanted from my dead friends, then took me back to that pigsty on the creek. We were alone for the first day or so. Then the others came. They took turns going at me. I actually thought it would never end. Even planned to kill myself. They were such animals. Last night something woke everyone up. I heard shots. Seemed like they all vanished. So I stole a horse—and ran.”
Her flat tone carried almost no emotion, but she kept clenching and unclenching her fists. And as I watched, a single huge tear formed in her left eye and rolled down her cheek. That drop of water was a messenger who came as a warning of something horrible to follow. When it touched her lips, she began to sob. Her head fell, and she cradled it in her hands again. Her body shook, and the horrors of her capture escaped in torrents of tears.
Billy recoiled like a puppy that had just discovered a porcupine. His understanding of women appeared nonexistent and of crying women, he knew even less.
