by J. Lee Butts
“Well, they’re gonna have to wait a bit, Bone. I do have my priorities, you know. Got to kill you first.”
“Now, now, now. You don’t mean that, Lucius. You saw it all. I didn’t have anything to do with shooting your kinfolk.
Never even fired my weapon, in spite of the fact that damned near all you Dodge boys poured plenty of lead my direction. If’n Denton had kept his mouth shut, nothing would’ve happened. Whole affair seems like an unavoidable altercation, between men who hated each other, that ended in the accidental departure of members of your family. Sad, sad event, I must admit. But not much I could’ve done to stop it.”
“You shouldn’t have been there to begin with, Bone. That thought ever cross your blood-saturated mind? Pa had already turned you down at least twice that I’m aware of. Fact is, you shouldn’t have ever been born. Think maybe God made a mistake letting you come into this world, and I’m here today to rectify that heavenly error. You’re just gonna have to consider the upcoming events as a matter of blessed intervention. ’Cause, you see, I’m about to send you back to hell where you belong.”
He looked up at me and sneered. The man appeared absolutely certain of his position. “Well, you’ll have to kill me in cold blood, boy, ’cause I ain’t about to fight you.”
Shot him in the left elbow. Must’ve hurt like the dickens. He fell out of his chair, and flopped around on the porch like a beached fish. Squalled and bellowed so loud, I was afraid some of them cowboys out on the range might hear him. Got tired of listening, after a minute or two. Grabbed him by the collar, stood him next to a porch pillar, and stuffed his pistol back into its holster. Backed off about four steps and let him know how the cow ate the cabbage.
“Here’s how this dance works, Bone. You’ll draw that pistol, and I’ll kill you. Or, you can stand there, all weepy and red-eyed, not do anything to protect yourself, and I’ll kill you. However you want to do the deed’s fine with me. But the undeniable truth is, when I walk away from your porch this morning, anyone finding you boys will swear on his mother’s grave you had every chance in the world to defend yourselves, and just couldn’t manage it.”
“Damned if I’ll draw on a snot-nosed whelp like you,” he squawked.
Shot him in the leg, that time. God Almighty, you’d have thought I chopped his foot off with a log-splitting maul. He yelped, and cussed me, my family, even my dogs, from the beginning of time, on into the distant future. Made spit-slinging, detailed allusions about the legitimacy of my birth, and cast ugly aspersions on the reputation of my mother. Course none of his slanderous behavior did a thing toward helping his situation.
He finally settled down a bit, but kept yammering at me. Guess he thought more bullshit might do him some good. “Dammit, Lucius, ain’t no reason to do this. You cain’t just kill a man a piece at a time.”
“Pull that pistol, and I can guarantee all your earthly suffering will come to an abrupt, and much-desired, halt. Keep talking, and you’re gonna end up praying for a Comanche war party to show up and save your sorry ass.”
By that point, the wretched son of Satan must have figured he didn’t have anything to lose, and, by God, he was right. Sent his hand diving for the Colt. My shot hit him under the eye, ’bout the time he cleared leather. Bullets sometimes do strange things when they strike bone. The one I put in ole Slayton ricocheted around in his skull a bit, shot out through the top of his head, along with a sizable chunk of brain matter, and lodged in the ceiling of his porch. He pitched over onto a plate piled with bacon, and blasted a hole in the table on his way down. Rolled onto his back and stared up at me with glassy eyes. Looked right surprised.
Pretty sure he was still in there when I bent over and said, “No doubt in my mind, Saint Peter’s gonna turn you around at the Pearly Gates, so you and Satan can get to know each other better. Have fun shoveling coal from now till the Second Coming, you murdering son of a bitch.”
’Bout then, Bone’s Chinese cook came flying out of the kitchen with a meat cleaver in his hand. Pulled up short when I pointed the rifle at him. He glanced around at the havoc I’d wrought, smiled, and said, “Very, very good. Very bad men, these ones. So happy them dead.” He buried his cleaver in the top of the table, snatched off a greasy apron, waved, and vanished as suddenly as he’d shown up.
Got back to Grizz as soon as I could, and kicked for Fort Worth. Wanted to put them other murderers on the path to perdition. Offered up hourly prayers I’d get the chance, before someone else messed around and beat me to it.
3
“TAKE YORE PICK—
GUNS, KNIVES, OR FISTS.”
ME AND GRIZZ covered a hundred and twenty miles in record time. Hit the south end of Fort Worth, and that area known as Hell’s Half Acre, just before noon the second day of the chase. Kinda snuck in behind a herd of bawling longhorns from San Antonio, and rode through a gauntlet of streetwalking whores. Been in town a time or two trailing cattle myself, so I knew the drill, but had no need of their services.
One right nice-looking but well-used gal grabbed onto my cinch strap and said, “How ’bout it, cowboy? I’ll do anything you can think of fer a dollar. Got a crib not far from here. You can ride the tiger all night long for three. Stop this horse, and we’ll do the big wiggle right here in the street, if’n you’d like. That’ll only cost you fifty cents.”
As I pulled away, she kept her pitch going till her pleas gradually bled into the general noise and hubbub of a street what looked like an anthill stomped on by a couple of mean-assed kids, with nothing much to amuse them. Last thing I heard from the aggressive girl was, “You’ll regret it. You ain’t never had any as good as mine, you stingy cow-wrangling son of a bitch.”
A dance hall, or liquor emporium of some sort, occupied a treeless site on every block along Rusk Street. Whole parade of animals and men kept moving north toward the stockyards. Moved over to Main and the Uptown area. Found The White Elephant Saloon and Restaurant, W.H. Ward, Proprietor. Appeared to me the biggest, brassiest, busiest spot on the heaving thoroughfare. First place I stopped. Being a country boy, figured if a joint got my attention, probably had the same effect on Whitey and Erasmus. Seemed as good a place to look for the killers as any, to me.
Pulled Pa’s Henry and stepped inside. Moved directly to the wall. Learned that trick from an old cowboy named Crow Foot Stickles. He’d worked for almost every well-known cattle operation in Texas, at one time or another. Claimed to have ridden with Chisholm, Charlie Goodnight, and once spent time chasing cows on the famed Frying Pan Ranch for several years, before he headed south and hired on with my father at Las Tres Colinas.
Studied staying alive at that old man’s gimpy knee. I felt anyone who’d managed to live as long as he had must have something useful to offer on the subject. He would sit by our bunkhouse stove at night, cut off a chunk of plug tobacco, stuff the wad into his mouth with the blade of his knife, and get right philosophical.
“If’n you don’t wanna end it all belly-up with your toes in the air, boy, you gotta be smarter’n the dumb bastard wantin’ to take yore life,” he would say. Made right good sense to me.
Crow Foot could set a spittoon to ringing like a cathedral bell. He’d lean back, look thoughtful, and rattle off another pearl of wisdom like, “Whatever you do, don’t let ’em git behind you, boy. Back-shooting bastards are a-hidin’ behind every bush and tree, these days. Ain’t been no honor amongst men since the great war of Yankee aggression. If you think any of these gun-totin’ snakes will give you a chance in a fair fight, you’ve got another think a-coming. That ole horse shit ’bout meetin’ yer enemy in the street, afacin’ him like a man, is nothin’ but dime-novel bilge. There’s scum-suckin’ gun hounds out and about, what’ll kill you for the coppers on a dead man’s eyes.”
He’d wipe dribbles off his mouth with the sleeve of a rough linsey-woolsey shirt, and do his grinning imitation of a possum in a melon patch. “Always shoot first. Go to court afterwards. Ain’t no jury in Texas gonna con
vict a man fer defendin’ hisself. And, hell, even if’n that other sumbitch is just a-scratchin’ his nose, you can always claim he was areachin’ and a-grabbin’, and you didn’t have no choice but to plug him afore he plugged you.” A man could live a long time on Crow Foot’s kind of advice.
I’d barely managed to get comfortable in the White Elephant when a disagreement at one of the tables caused everyone in the raucous establishment to tense up and get real quiet. Feller about the size of a Butterfield stagecoach, covered in hair and sweaty buckskins, grabbed a chair and flung the thing backward. I had to step out of the way to keep from getting knocked down.
He quaked like a man in the throws of malaria and yelped, “Stand up, Tatum. I’m gonna kick your sorry ass from here to sundown. Ain’t no man in Texas got enough grit to be puttin’ family members of mine in jail on trumped-up, bullshit charges, like them you Rangers done slapped on little brother Jacob, and not expect to suffer some fer it. Come on, Boz, get yer dead ass out’n that there chair.”
Man at the table didn’t move, except to thump ashes from a smoldering panatela into a brass spittoon snugged up against the leg of his chair. He pushed a Mexican palm-leaf hat to the back of his head and grinned. “You need to calm down, Peaches. Everyone in Posey, Texas, knows your jackass-stupid brother murdered Harvey Monday, then set out on a horse-stealing and stage-robbing rip the likes of which most folks hadn’t seen since the days of Sam Bass and his bunch.”
Near as I could figure, the whole country had heard of Ranger Randall Bozworth Tatum. He’d jerked many an evil man up by the roots. Had his share of enemies because of it. Got to admit he looked the part. Tall, lanky, ’bout thirty-five years old. Face covered with long mustaches and side-whiskers. Pistols and knives hung off each hip. Short-barreled gun across his back, and an under-the-arm hideout thing peeked from beneath a rough leather vest. Appeared way more than capable to me. Messing with a man like Tatum was the dimwitted equivalent of teasing a rattlesnake with your nose.
But, as is the case with many a drunken disagreement, the Ranger’s reputation didn’t seem to have any effect on his tormentor. “That’s a pack of black damnable lies, Boz, and you know it. And don’t call me Peaches, damn you. Only my friends is allowed to call me Peaches. Don’t consider Texas Ranger Randall Bozworth Tatum one of my boon companions.”
“Whatever you say, Peaches, but of your other names which do you prefer—Hubert or Gladstone?”
“Damn you, Tatum, don’t change the subject. I come in here to cut you up, shoot holes in yer worthless hide, or kick hell out of you. Take yer pick—guns, knives, or fists. Tomahawks, axes, or fence posts. Don’t matter a damn what you choose to me. Ain’t nothing I can think of gonna give me more personal pleasure than tying your ears in a bow knot. ’Cept maybe pulling yer nose back across yer eyebrows, and attaching it to yer head with some of ’at ’ere strangy hair of yer’n. Bad-assed gunfighter reputation of yer’n don’t mean spit to me.”
Most of the drunken bystanders had drawn away from the noisy antagonists, and staked out spots against the walls all around the room. Easier to prop themselves up that way. Got right crowded in front of my hidey-hole next to the door. Didn’t seem to me that many of the spectators wanted to contribute to whatever bloodletting might occur, but, at the same time, none of the giggling tipplers appeared ready to jump in and stop the squabble either. Near as I could determine, no one had given up whatever he was drinking when the dispute commenced, and some sniggering, from behind the buckskinned, hairy gentleman, seemed to add to his considerable agitation.
“You self-righteous badge-toters done be-smirched the good name of McCabe, and I’m a-gonna put a stop to such slanders,” snorted the quaking, sweat-stained colossus.
The Ranger threw his head back, laughed out loud, resettled his hat, and said, “Besmirched? Did I hear you right? Did you say besmirched? Where in the hell did you learn a three-dollar word like besmirched, Peaches? I know, for a fact, you’ve never bothered with much in the way of formal schooling. Hell, when you, Jacob, and I were still kids back in Posey, took everything your poor sainted mother could do to keep you McCabe boys out of jail. If memory serves, you outlaws burned Ole Man Wattle’s barn before either of you managed to get past your tenth birthday. Been a downhill slide for Jacob ever since, and he bit off way too much of the plug when he busted a cap on Harvey. Best schoolmaster Posey ever had. You can’t shoot a man like him on the front porch of the schoolhouse, while he’s ringing the bell for classes to commence, for God’s sake.”
Peaches McCabe slammed his ragged felt hat on the floor, and kicked it. “Who done seen Jake do that? Show me the lyin’ stack of horseshit what says he seen my little brother shoot Ole Man Monday.”
Texas Ranger Randall Bozworth Tatum dropped his friendly smile and tickled the grips of his Colt. “I saw it, Peaches. And so did half the kids in Harvey’s classes. Delivered my younger brother for lessons that morning as Jake rode up and shot Harvey deader than Davey Crockett. Personally chased the murderin’ skunk all the way to Tuskahoma in the Indian Nations. Found him in the company of other evil men, and brought him back to face the consequences of his deeds. He’ll hang sure as death, taxes, and Texas. And if that’s not the way of it, you can take a piss in your own hat.”
“He won’t swing if’n you cain’t testify agin’ him, Boz. If’n you’re dead, that’ll take care of the whole sit-chi-ation, won’t it?”
“Well, Peaches, I don’t intend on dying in your foreseeable, or my immediate, future.”
Barely heard him when Tatum’s surly antagonist hissed, “Guess I’ll jest have to kill you today then, won’t I, Boz? And right now seems like as good a time as any to start this fandango.”
A greasy hand darted for the pistol jammed behind his thick leather belt. Before the slobbering creature touched those oiled walnut grips, Ranger Tatum had his weapon out and blasted a crater, the size of a summer squash, in the big man’s right foot. Peaches McCabe made Slayton Bone sound like a deaf-mute. Never heard such hollering in my entire life. Man had feet like canoes, and I suppose having a cavern punched through one of them ugly boats must have really hurt.
Hell of a show followed. Peaches grabbed his mangled foot with one hand. A geyser of blood squirted between his fingers. He kinda half-fell, half-stumbled, and half-jumped at the seated lawman. Grabbed the collar of Tatum’s bib-front shirt with his free hand, and pitched the startled man across the room like a little girl’s raggedy corn-shuck doll. Screamed and hollered like a wounded bear the whole time. Tatum feller landed all crooked, and made a kind of sickening crunch of a sound when he ricocheted off the foot rail under the bar.
Heard one of the booze hounds next to me mutter, “Jest ’bout time fer ole Boz to get a serious comeuppance. Smort sumbitch been needing a good ass-kickin’ fer years. Glad I’m here to witness the deed. Hope it gets a sight bloodier ’fore it’s over by God.”
Bouncing off the bar didn’t seem to have much negative effect on the object of everyone’s attention, though. Tatum popped up like something on a piece of coiled steel spring and snapped off another shot that hit the big man in his good foot. God Almighty, I don’t know how my mother, more than a hundred miles away, kept from hearing him holler. But, Sweet Jesus, it didn’t even slow ole Peaches down. Foot-shot beast stumbled forward on unbending legs that seemed to be made from aged ivory. Massive arms outstretched, he dropped on the Ranger with a resounding thump that rippled through the floor all the way over to where I stood.
They grappled around a bit, and somehow McCabe managed to slap the pistol out of Tatum’s grip. Bone-handled Colt came sliding across the blood-drenched floor and spun to a stop right at my feet. I grabbed the .45 ’fore anyone else could get hold of it. Mighty fine example of a custom-made firearm. Figured Tatum might want the handgun back when the fracas ended. Course that all depended on whether or not Peaches McCabe squished him as if he’d stepped on a south Texas dung beetle.
With both of the clawing cussing com
batants down, folks in the crowd got considerable braver. They ganged up around the bone-crunching, spit-slinging, and bloodletting like it was a church social, or something, and Grandma’s yellow cake was about to be served. Crowd kind of elbowed me aside, and I couldn’t see much of anything except a lot of rolling around, grunting, and such, for a minute or so.
The twisting and screaming went on till the mob got restless, and started yelling the most scornful kinds of things at poor stupid Peaches for not being able to put an end to it. Then, after the bloody warriors had flopped around and destroyed a table and several chairs, the big man managed to get on top of the Ranger, and proceeded to pound the hell out of him. The mob heartily approved the possibility of a bare-knuckled killing. Didn’t appear anyone intended on stopping it.
Got me to thinking as how the brutal murder of a Texas Ranger of Boz Tatum’s well-known fame was beyond the pale. So, I stepped up and took the situation in hand. Pushed my way through the seething, drunken multitude. Laid the barrel of the Henry across Peaches McCabe’s massive noggin like I was chopping wood. Crowd sucked back like waves on a beach, and let out a single shocked gasp as his scalp split open, sagged into his eyes, and exposed a sizable span of pale, grayish-white skull beneath.
His head bobbled around on his neck for a second. Then he looked up at me kind of skronkey-eyed and slobbered, “Who’n the hell ’er yew?” So I whacked him again. Blood and gobs of gory hair splattered everybody in the front row of gawkers. Sissy-looking feller—probably a drummer of some kind—got hit right in the middle of his vested chest with a sizable chunk of the stuff and went to puking in the manner of a two-year-old with the colic. Must have eaten some tamales and chili, because he christened about a dozen pairs of boots in every direction. His friends grabbed their noses and stumbled away. Been my experience over the years that grown men can watch fellers beat each other to death with railroaders’ sledgehammers, and not even blink. But, Good God, you let someone go to puking and it’ll clear out a slaughterhouse faster’n a family of skunks at a prayer meeting.
