by J. Lee Butts
Grabbed Boz Tatum under the arm, and dragged him toward the door. Waved the rifle back and forth at the crowd to keep ’em at bay long enough for us to make our exit. Got him to a water trough, next to the boardwalk, and dropped him in headfirst. He came out coughing, spitting, and shaking water out of his hair. Handed him my bandanna so he could wipe his split lip, busted ear, crooked nose, and bloodstained face. Stuffed his pistol back in its holster.
Once he’d recovered a bit, the Ranger gave me a serious eyeballing and said, “Do I know you, son?”
“No, sir. Don’t think we’ve had the pleasure. Name’s Lucius Dodge. My family raises horses and cattle out west of Lampasas, over on the Colorado.”
He brightened up a bit. “Your father Hudson Dodge?”
“Yessir.”
“Well, then, I know your father. Damned fine feller.”
“He’s dead, Mr. Tatum.”
“The hell you say.”
“Murdered on his own front porch by a belly-slinking snake named Whitey Krebbs.”
“Last I heard, that one-eyed son of a weasel had his gun rented out to a hard case named Slayton Bone. Rumor had it he was riding with Bone’s bunch of cutthroats from over at The Roost. Neither of them men to be trifled with.”
“Krebbs and Erasmus Delaquiox murdered Pa and my brother Denton. Bone rode at the head of the gang when they did the sorry deed.”
“Well, by God, we’ll just have to take care of them boys, won’t we?”
“Already brought Bone to book myself. By now Saint Peter should have sent him on the way to his proper place in Hades.”
Tatum hesitated as he squeezed water and blood from my ragged neckerchief. “You killed Slayton Bone, boy?”
“Yes, sir. I did indeed. Along with a couple of his bodyguards that couldn’t get their pistols up fast enough. Would’ve done the same for Whitey and Delaquoix, if they had stayed around. Before ole Slayton caught a sunbeam for the Pearly Gates, he claimed those boys headed for Fort Worth and all the glories available here in Hell’s Half Acre. Said he figured they’d strike out for the Nations after. Gonna find ’em and see to it they all meet back up at Perdition’s front gate as soon as possible.”
Tatum cupped some water down the back of his neck. He flipped his head from side to side. Could hear the bones crack. He chuckled, and threw me a quizzical look. “You’re a hard one to be so young, Lucius Dodge.”
“Eighteen, Mr. Tatum. Been fighting the Comanche since I was nine. Went out on my first horseback chase a few weeks after my eleventh birthday. My brothers and me made them savages pay heavy for the murder of one of our vaqueros. They’d slaughtered a fine feller named Alex Martinez and his entire family of seven. I’ve doled out my share of justice for a spell now. Slayton Bone was easy. Whitey and Erasumus won’t be any different, as far as I’m concerned. They’ll be dead within a few minutes of me finding them. Today, tomorrow, next week, next year, I’ll find ’em sooner or later.”
Texas Ranger Boz Tatum squinted, and looked pensive for a minute. “Well, son, what you need is the blessing of something in the way of law for such endeavors, and I’m just the man who can help you out. Ranger Company B has its base camp set up a bit northeast of here on the Trinity. Man in charge, Captain Horatio Waggoner Culpepper, and I go back more years than either of us would like to remember. We’ve been fighting wild Indians, and bad men, for so long we cain’t do anything else. He tried to ranch a bit. I bought a farm once. As you can see, I’m not farmin’ these days, and Wag ain’t ranchin’.”
It sounded like one hell of a good idea. Figured I might as well have the law on my side when I finally found Whitey and Raz. Far as I could see, Tatum’s offer would make snuffing their lamps all legal and such.
“You can get me an appointment as a Ranger?” I said.
He stood, smiled, and put his arm around my shoulders. “My friend, ain’t no appointment to it. All you gotta do is follow me to camp, sign an oath of allegiance to the state of Texas, and get sworn in. Think I can virtually guarantee you’ll get accepted. Hell, figure I probably owe you my life. If’n ole Peaches could’ve had his way, family or friends would be identifying my corpse right now. Hard to believe you can shoot a man in both feet and still have him beat you to death. But, thank God, you stopped him. So, you come with me, and in a few hours from now Lucius By God Dodge will most assuredly be one of the Great Lone Star State’s finest.”
4
“. . . MEET . . . CAPTAIN HORATIO WAGGONER CULPEPPER.”
MY NEWLY MADE friend and I retrieved our animals and headed north. Stayed on the heavily traveled cow path locals called Rusk Street. For the most part, the better-known boardinghouses in town fronted the dusty, wagon-rutted avenue. Don’t think I saw a single tree in the entire hodgepodge of clapboard buildings.
Boz kept dabbing at his various wounds and bruises as he pointed out what appeared to be the only home in town that had something like grass growing in front of it. The verdant sod certainly drew your attention to the place. He said, “That there’s Little Mary Golden’s whorehouse. Her girls have worked like Mississippi field hands on their yard. Her lovelies have done themselves right proud. Spend just about every waking minute, ’cept when they ain’t entertaining, pulling cockleburs out’n that patch of weeds. Them gals is the first folks to plant real grass around here, as I know of.”
We crossed the Trinity River, and hoofed our way toward the cattle bedding grounds, but turned east after about half a mile, and hit the winding, sluggish stream again. Lots of trees hugged the edges of the slow-moving water—mostly cottonwood, elm, blackjack oak, and post oak. Shade provided sure made life some easier. Sun had got a little past straight up and felt like an auger boring a hole through my palm-leaf sombrero.
We ambled along for a piece, and finally came upon a sizable tent village situated under a sprawling stand of sycamores. Place swarmed with men and beasts. Thought to myself, must be nigh on to a hundred Rangers, twice that many horses, and three times that many dogs. Smell of tobacco in every available form hung in the air. Rough-looking men sat around open fires. Smoke, laden with the aroma of burning meat, wafted through their leafy retreat. Some fellers played their Jew’s harps. Others cleaned weapons or laughed, and seemed mighty pleased with the situation.
Boz led me to an open-sided canvas pavilion under the sheltering limbs of an ancient live oak. Near half-a-dozen capable-looking men occupied seriously abused strap chairs situated around a cavalry officer’s battered field table. And, while most seemed little older than me, the demanding lives they led had already etched hard lines around flinty eyes.
Those five Rangers must have been wearing, or carrying, twenty or thirty guns of just about every sort I’d ever laid eyes on. Looked like each pistol or rifle was matched by an equal number of bowie knives, Arkansas toothpicks, daggers, dirks, stilettos, or steel-headed tomahawks.
When a massive gentleman seated at the head of the group stood, the four others followed suit. The tall man’s attire separated him from the rest of the Rangers by way of its heavy dependence on military-looking flourishes. Polished brass buttons decorated a navy-blue, double-breasted, swallow-tailed coat that looked like something an admiral of the British navy might wear. A carefully knotted ribbon tie at the neck of his frilly-fronted white shirt, along with brightly polished knee-high boots, branded him a dandy of the first order. Up to that point in my life, only place I’d ever seen such a gussied-up hombre was in books my mother made me read, as part of her gallant efforts at my spotty education concerning European history.
Tatum made a halfhearted effort at saluting, then shook hands with the dandy, and motioned for me to come forward. “Want you to meet a dear friend of mine, Wag. This here young feller is Lucius Dodge from down Lampasas way. He just got through saving me from the murderous wrath of Peaches McCabe. Ole Peaches tried to jerk me through a knothole backward for bringing his baby brother in for trial. Might have done the ugly deed, if not for Lucius. He’d like to sign on with
us.” He stopped, leaned closer, and almost whispered, “Told the boy you’d talk with him about the possibilities of becoming a genuine Texas Ranger.” Then he turned, took me by the arm, and said, “Lucius, my boy, step up here and meet my good friend Captain Horatio Waggoner Culpepper. Toughest man in Texas, next to me, of course.”
Culpepper didn’t wait. He grabbed my hand with one the size of a camp skillet and almost reduced my knuckles to powder. Shook it so hard, I thought there for a second my arm might separate from the shoulder and end up a useless dangling appendage, for the rest of my natural life.
A voice that boomed like God Almighty speaking from the gates of Heaven rumbled from somewhere inside the man. Hadn’t heard anything to match him since an itinerant evangelist named the Reverend Ellis P. Thunderation Jones stopped by the ranch and tried to “save” all us Dodges from the evils of sin and the likelihood of eternal damnation. Ole Thunderation possessed the undeniable vocal power to literally scare hell out of a person.
The captain’s words came out as a leisurely, bearlike roar directed at me in particular, and the rest of the camp in general. “Most pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Dodge. As you probably already know, the Frontier Battalion of the Texas Rangers is in desperate need of redoubtable young men such as yourself.”
He dropped my wrung-out hand, placed an arm the size of a tree trunk around my shoulders, and waved in an effort to intimately include the other men at the table in his remarks. “I’m sure you are aware, four years ago the Texas State Legislature changed our direction dramatically. We matured from a voluntary force, whose primary thrust involved the protection of Texas citizens from murderous assaults by the heathenous Comanche, to establishment as a statewide constabulary. All happened on April 10 of ’74. Company B now serves at the pleasure of the governor, and possesses a wide range of civil police powers.”
I got the impression Wag Culpepper could have given Thunderation Jones a run for his money in the pontificating business. He had all the mannerisms of a future politician. Figured him for governor someday, soon as I felt the typhoon from his chest battering the insides of my ears.
He fumbled with some official-looking documents for a moment, then blasted us with, “Before you can be admitted into the finest body of law enforcers in the United Sates, however, I have the crucial responsibility of determining your fitness to serve.”
The statement startled me a bit, given the assurances from Boz that by showing up I faced a mere formality. I blurted out, “What does that mean, Cap’n?”
“Don’t trouble your mind about this, young man. Just a few questions I’m going to let my second in command, Lieutenant Benjamin Franklin Beaumont, ask.” He turned to the man on his right, and rattled the sheath of the papers his direction. “Go ahead, Beau. You’re pretty good at this.” He resumed his seat, and took on the all the aspects of an interested spectator.
Beaumont pushed himself to a somewhat more official-looking position. He crossed his legs, fingered the rowel on a Mexican spur, fixed me in a steely gaze, and said, “Do you own your own horse, Mr. Dodge?”
Seemed a stupid question to me, but when I glanced at Boz Tatum, he smiled and made a motion like he was pushing me forward.
“Yes. Possess a damned fine animal named Grizz. My father gave him to me five years ago.”
Beaumont removed his faded beat-up hat and dropped the shapeless thing over the toe of a well-used boot. He fished out makings for a smoke and poured tobacco on paper. “Under indictment for any kind of criminal activity—including acts such as public lewdness?”
“No, sir, I am not and never have been.” Now, my answer was correct so far as I knew. Figured there wasn’t much point in saying anything about having recently sent Slayton Bone and his boys to meet Jesus. Besides, figured weeks would pass before anyone in Fort Worth, other than Boz, knew about them shuffling off their mortal coils. With no more law than could be had around Lampasas at the time, and Bone’s well-earned reputation as a murdering skunk, I felt the whole episode might best come to light by whatever means fate offered.
Wag Culpepper’s lieutenant didn’t even blink at my answer. Just kept moving forward. “Any possibility you’re a whiskey-swilling drunkard, or suffer from the need to indulge in the mind-robbing evils of opium?”
“Only drink on special occasions, Lieutenant Beaumont. Last one I had was almost two months ago at a celebration of my father’s birthday. I’ve never touched an opium pipe or laudanum bottle, and have no use for those who do.”
“Any known medical problems, or history of soft-headedness in your family? Got any melon-headed, big-eyed crazy folks under the front porch?” He welded me to the spot with his gritty gaze. A sly grin flitted behind a ragged growth of whiskers.
“Well, my only living brother isn’t the brightest burning log on the fire, but he’s not exactly a slobbering idiot either.”
My inquisitor’s smile broadened as he lit his hand-rolled cigarette. Soft blue swirls of smoke wafted from his lips and enveloped most of his head as he said, “Think he’ll do just fine, Cap’n.”
Culpepper’s face lit up like a kid who’d just been handed an apple crate full of puppies. “By Godfrey, knew he would. The formidable Boz Tatum hasn’t brought in a bad one yet.”
He stopped for a moment, and worked pretty hard for several seconds clearing his throat. Then he said, “Private’s pay is forty dollars, in gold coin, a month, Mr. Dodge. Corporals receive the same sum, but promotion to sergeant will get you an extra ten. The state of Texas has seen fit to provide you with a rifle and cartridges.” He motioned at the Henry in my hand with his wad of papers. “Appears as how you have one of your own that is probably as good, or better than those at our disposal. You are required to supply your own pistol. If memory serves, you’re the first man I’ve recruited, in the better part of a year, who came to us wearing three of Mr. Colt’s Peacemaker guns. Horse, saddle, traps, and such are also your responsibility. State does, however, furnish provisions, and we have a damned fine cook right here in camp. He works out of a chuck wagon and kitchen not far from your new pardner’s digs. Don’t have an official badge for you. But Boz can introduce you to a feller who can make one. Carves a right fine Texas star out of anything silver. Some men wear ’em, majority don’t. Most folks know us for Rangers when they see us. But if the choice was mine, I’d have a badge of some kind fashioned, or make a point of visiting Fort Worth to acquire one.”
Then the Ranger captain twisted around in his chair, pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment, and looked tired. “I’ll be the first to admit the state’s remuneration is a pretty paltry amount given the hazards of this work, Lucius. No mistaken beliefs here, son, this is a dangerous profession to make damned little in the way of money. Hopefully the legislature will rectify its shortcomings at some future date. Presently, however, those on the knife’s edge have to do the best we can with what those who think themselves wiser than us are willing to provide.”
Boz clapped me on the shoulder and said, “Captain has eight other new Rangers to be sworn, and will perform the ceremony tomorrow morning. Wants to do as many as he can at the same time.”
Lieutenant Beaumont perked up again. “We’ll get ’er done after breakfast. Probably about nine o’clock. Boz can take care of you till then. Get you a cot, and such. Bet he has plenty of room over in The Viper’s Nest.”
Culpepper hopped up and stabbed his massive hand my direction again. Treated my mangled fingers a bit gentler that time, but pulled me slightly forward as he spoke. “Only require two things from my company of lawmen, Mr. Dodge—loyalty and discipline. We are no longer a loose-knit band of citizen volunteers who come together at the whim of bloody necessity. Ours is now an organization of paid professionals, and I expect my men to conduct themselves as such. Rambunctious, drunken behavior, while on duty, will not be tolerated. During the past month I’ve drummed four men out of the state’s service because of their intoxicated and dishonorable deeds. I have no doubt you
will do your best to respect my desires for maintaining good order. Till tomorrow morning, Ranger Dodge.”
Tatum pulled Culpepper aside. The two of them talked low and fast for several minutes. Once they’d finished, Boz grabbed my elbow, and ushered me back toward the hustle and bustle of the larger encampment. We strolled deeper into the flurry of activity.
By and by, he stopped at the flapped opening of a tent-and-log dwelling that appeared large enough to shelter four to six men. A wooden sign dangled from the leading pole. Scrawled red paint proclaimed the rustic lodging as THE VIPER’S NEST. Trinity River trickled along about twenty-five or thirty paces behind the heavy canvas structure. A stout corral, large enough for several horses, stood over to one side.
Boz blessed the coarse shelter and horse pen with a regal salute, as though his digs rivaled English castles in majesty. “Just turn ole Grizz out, and throw your saddle and such anywhere you like. Last feller who bunked with me got killed over on the Red ’bout a month ago. Wasn’t paying attention, and let his poor stupid self fall into an ambush. Name was Jefferson Gates. Fine feller. Had a Mexican wife and about a dozen kids. Long as I knew the man, though, he tended toward dangerous lapses of judgment. Went out after Dexter Speaks and his bunch of cutthroats. Said he didn’t need any help bringing back scum like them boys. Guess he figured wrong. They lured him into a little box canyon near Spanish Bend, and shot the hell out of him. Heard the body sported twenty-eight bullet holes when some folks traveling between Wichita Falls and the Indian Nations found it.”
