by J. Lee Butts
“Less than a month ago, you would have fought me yourself. Probably gone down shootin’, Nance.”
“True enough. But the day we buried Titus something came over me. Jack, and the rest of ’em, drank, ranted and raved about how Pa’d been foully murdered. But I knew the truth. Cap’n Whitecotton wouldn’t have hurt a fly—lest he was pushed into it. Stood beside Pa’s grave and, for the first time in my life, realized how desolate I really felt. Worst of it was when I finally recognized that the man I shoveled dirt on carried full responsibility for my family’s disastrous behavior. I want out of this state of affairs alive, Lucius. Want to take the two youngest with me. But I can’t do that right now.”
No way not to be touched by the girl’s wobbly dilemma. “Nance, do your best to keep Jack and Chalky out of town. They show up unbidden anytime soon, and there’s no way to predict what’ll happen. Can tell you certain that if you folks rode in for a visit today, wouldn’t be any riding out. Lot of fair-minded, decent people looking for blood over Ezra McKee’s killing. One more dumb mistake, no matter how trifling, could spark a fuse Boz, Crow Foot, Moses, and me couldn’t keep from running to powder.”
She pushed her hat to the back of her head and wiped a beaded lip with a faded bandanna. “Can’t promise anything, but I’ll do what I’m able. Jack gets the smallest notion into his head to visit Shorty Small’s and there won’t be any stopping him. God only knows what might happen. He’s always been a hothead. And, if you put a thimble of any kind of coffin paint in the man, he can get out of control in a heartbeat.”
“Handle your situation here however you can, Nance. I’ll do as much as possible for you in town.” Took my leave at that point. Looked back several times. She didn’t move as long as I could still see her. Couldn’t put a finger to it, but an uneasy sense of approaching calamity settled on me during my ride to Sweetwater. Just one of those things where you feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, and you don’t understand why, till a spell later.
Next morning, over biscuits and bacon, Boz kind of surprised us when he said, “Think I’ll take a ride to Weather-ford and roundup a justice of the peace. Convene us an inquest into the murders we’ve had around here lately. Need to get all this down official and properlike. Want you boys to keep a tight lid on this bubbling jug till I get back. Shouldn’t take more’n two or three days.”
He headed out before noon. Must admit I didn’t feel comfortable without him around. Still considered my level of experience and ability to cope with more tragedy as sorely lacking, no matter how Boz felt.
His absence didn’t seem to bother Crow Foot and Mose, though. They got along well for men of such dissimilar backgrounds, and obviously enjoyed their newly established relationship. Our greenhorn sheriff and his even newer deputy spent most of the next three days at a battered checkerboard Mose dredged up from somewhere. Left me to sit in the shade and contemplate nightly dreams of a lethal future.
Visited with Martye several times. She recovered well and, on the third day, I took her home in Mr. Hickerson’s buggy. Poor girl’s mother looked about as desperate as any living person I’d ever seen. No way to comfort her. Life on the frontier was hell on women, no matter how you cut it. Even worse for one burdened with three kids who’d just buried her husband. Couldn’t picture how she would manage to survive.
Moon disappeared, and a storm blew through the night before Boz got back. Pitchfork lightning stabbed at the tortured earth for hours. Vague, unsettling nightmares woke me twice. The kind of visions you can’t describe, but jerk you to a sitting position in your bed, while chicken flesh ripples up and down your back. No way to know then, but I’m fairly certain now what I felt was Satan’s fiery breath.
For some unsettling reason Marie Hickerson’s words came back to me, over and over. The day we arrived she’d said, “The Devil is coming to Sweetwater and won’t be satisfied until he’s collected many an unsuspecting soul. Take my word on this, there’s a bloody time ahead.” Woman should have been a mystic seer in a traveling carnival. But “bloody” don’t come close to describing what happened next.
17
“. . . KILLED EACH OTHER IN AN ACT OF MUTUAL BELLIGERENCE.”
CROW FOOT, MOSE, and me kept the lid screwed down tight as we could. Visited the saloons and talked with those willing to pause and listen. Told the angriest and most vocal where Boz went, and what he had planned. We thought our forthrightness about the matter had a calming effect on most of Sweetwater’s openly belligerent citizens. Fooled me into believing they’d given up their anger for a spell, and perhaps some did.
Four days after we’d watched him amble off for Weatherford, Boz moseyed back across Walnut Creek in the company of a black-draped, stern-faced, runtified wart of a man riding the tallest dun horse I’d ever seen. Hideous little troll appeared a shade on the elderly side, and gave me reason to think he might need a ladder to get his creaking bones off that oversized beast.
As they made their way up the street toward us, I heard Mose mutter, “Looks like a dead rabbit riding an old ugly elephant, if’n anyone should ask me.”
After he lit, shook hands all around, and stretched a bit, Boz turned to his pint-sized ferret of a companion, placed a familiar hand on the man’s shoulder, and said, “Got lucky. Chief justice of the peace for Parker County had a full plate and couldn’t make it. But I found us an honest-to-goodness former member of the bar. Like you boys to meet retired, but still active, Judge Solomon Pitts. He agreed to stroll over and conduct a full, and legally binding, inquest into Sweetwater’s recent series of unfortunate killings.”
The scrawny judge didn’t offer to shake any of our hands. Clawlike fingers jerked a spotless hankie from his sleeve, and he went to dabbing at a soggy nose. Watery eyes scrunched up, and our Biblically named adjudicator sneezed like a ten-year-old girl. He nervously fidgeted with every button on his vest, toyed with a gold chain across his gaunt belly, and, in a high-pitched, tinkling, sissified voice squeaked, “Give ’em the summonses, Tatum, and let’s get on with this. I want to be back in civilization ’fore the end of next week.”
Over a scrawny shoulder, Pitts cast a sneering glance at the Texas Star. “We’ll set up in that place over yonder. Tell the owner I want the use of his establishment beginning three days from now. That should give you and your men sufficient time to serve everyone on the witness list I had you compose, Tatum. Better for me if you boys can get the deed done by tomorrow afternoon. No bigger than this cow patty of a town is, shouldn’t take that long.”
He glared a path past us and carried his bedroll into the jail. Picked a spot in the only clean corner, then confiscated the table and one of our chairs. Solomon Pitts had everything set out like a visiting potentate in less than ten minutes.
Boz put us to hustling. For the next day and a half, we rode all over hell and half of Parker County. Most folks just nodded when we slapped them with a summons. Fact is, the only objection I heard came from Jack Nightshade. We threw so much paper at Nance’s brother, and his family, it must have looked like a blue norther of printed law blowing across Little Agnes Creek. One of those storms that come on so fast the front half of your horse is covered in sweat and the back half is frozen.
Titus’s oldest son stood on his porch with a fistful of the writs in his hand and snapped, “This is bullshit. You can’t make us show up for no damned inquest. We ain’t done nothing illegal.”
Crowfoot, Mose, and me sat on our animals, behind Boz, with rifles and shotguns cocked. Boz said, “That’s for the court, in the person of Judge Solomon Pitts, to decide, Jack. And yes, I can make you appear. You ignore that document, and I’ll have every Ranger in north Texas here in a week to pull this house down—plank by plank. Then, we’ll drag you to town by the scruff of the neck, along with your dear ole white-haired momma, all the rest of your family, and any friends around as well. By the way, where’s Chalky and them gun hounds of his?”
Jack got surly again and went to lying. “They left
after that last visit Dodge paid us. Ain’t seen ’em around in two or three days. Maybe they’ll be back. Maybe they won’t.”
“Don’t have no paper for him or his questionable sidekicks, not right now anyways. But if he shows up, bring him to town with you tomorrow. Tell him if he don’t come in, I’ll have the judge issue a warrant. We’ll arrest him and drag him back.”
Dusky Nightshade snatched the court order from her son’s hand. Nance tried to stop her, but couldn’t. The old lady jerked the pipe from her crusty lip and growled, “Getting mighty damned high-handed here, ain’t you, Ranger Tatum? Feeling right powerful, I’d guess. Probably spread tales around town this afternoon as how you done got the Nightshades buffaloed with bona-fide legalities and such.”
Sounded to me like Boz’d hit the end of his string with the Nightshade tribe’s antagonism when he snapped, “No longer’n I’ve been in Sweetwater, this family has had some involvement in at least two killings. While there’s probably not much way to prove any of the sordid rumors about what you do out here in your own home, or regulate who you folks associate with, we can control your behavior when you’re in town. Now, you’ve got the o-fficial word from Judge Pitts. Near as I can tell, he’s not the forgiving, forgetting type. You ain’t in town tomorrow at one o’clock, and I can personally guarantee you’ll regret that mistake till Hell freezes over.”
Well, they came all right, in force—the whole ornery bunch. Roared over Walnut Creek, stormed up to the Texas Star, and elbowed their way to the best seats in Nate Macray’s packed booze emporium. Forced everyone else off the front row and set up camp right in Judge Pitts’s prunnified, pinched face. One of the most blatant acts of defiance I’ve ever witnessed before—or since. Got to thinking and figured their aggressive appearance was the first time I’d seen the whole clan lined up in a single row. Looked like a pew full of angry, heavily armed Baptist deacons and their kids.
Boz had Mose and me posted up front so we could eyeball the crowd. Mose pointed out, and named off, the whole bunch. “Course you know Titus’s missus, Dusky. Then, by age, they’s Jack, Nance, and Arch. They’s the three oldest. Of them younger ones, Caroline and Martha is fourteen and fifteen, I ’spect. Judith’s maybe thirteen. Jesse and his twin sister Analisa, they’s the youngest. Cain’t have managed but ten or eleven so far. Rumor’s been goin’ around for years of an older brother. But I ain’t never seen ’im. Youngest of ’em ain’t been caught stealin’ or nothin’ yet. They does go about carrying weapons, and I’ve seen ’em in Shorty Small’s place with Titus ’fore he passed.”
Chalky Snow and his boys came in as well, but kept to a corner as far away from the action as possible. The packed saloon might’ve held a hundred people, if everyone stood nose to nose and didn’t move much. Chairs were arranged so the cow-country tavern took on the look of something like a courtroom. But they reduced the dusty bar’s capacity to a body or two over forty. Really aggressive souls, who could elbow their way into leftover space, scrunched up, gawked, and filled the room to sweaty, wringing wet capacity.
Outside, the host of staring louts gaped through the Star’s beveled glass window. Heated debates over violated “rights” resulted when belligerent yahoos in the street couldn’t obtain an adequate point of observation. Several scraps broke out between them as had the choice viewing spots and others who wanted one so they could bear witness to the historical proceedings and brag on the episode afterward.
Didn’t take but about ten minutes for the smells of sweat, tobacco, whiskey, and dung-covered boots to damn near overpower everyone inside. Judge hadn’t been hammering at the problem but little over an hour, when several men had to carry their womenfolk out. Vacated chairs didn’t stay empty more than a few seconds.
Pitts whipped through witnesses like a sharp scythe through dry buffalo grass. Stunned everyone with how rapidly the proceedings progressed. He suffered absolutely no foolishness, and could question, and dismiss, those testifying so fast the seat of the witness chair never had a chance to cool off. Started the proceedings at one in the afternoon. By five, he was finished.
Martye McKee testified last. Girl wept through most of the description of her father’s brutal murder. Soon as she’d vacated the witness stand, the judge took a twenty-minute break, wrote everything up, then reconvened. Gaveled the room into somber-faced silence and announced his authoritative findings.
“As to the matter of the shooting of Titus Nightshade, it is my judgment that Captain Euless Whitecotten acted in defense of his own person and is held blameless in the matter.”
Whole Nightshade tribe, except for Nance, jumped to its collective feet and set to screaming and cussing at the top of their lungs. Dusky Nightshade used the kind of language I’d never heard come out of a woman’s mouth.
Judge Pitts rapped on his table so hard people in Fort Worth must have heard him. All us lawmen surrounded the irate family and forced them back into their chairs. Nance’s chin rested on her chest. Girl appeared worn to a frazzle, and wearily shook her head.
Pitts yelled, “Any other such outburst and I’ll clear this courtroom like a bolt of double-geared lightning.” He pointed at Jack with his gavel and snorted, “You Nightshades park your butts in a chair—and stay there. Jump in my face again, and I’ll have the whole damned bunch of you jailed.” Threw a snarling glare around the room, jerked a pistol from his belt, dropped the six-shot authority on the table, and went back to reading. “As to the murder of the Baynes Company’s driver and Wells Fargo agent, I find sufficient evidence for Thomas Alfred Runyon and Ernest Poorman, alias Latigo Cooley, to be bound over for trial. I hereby instruct the sheriff of Sweetwater to deliver them to the jail in Weatherford for judgment and sentencing at the county court’s earliest convenience.”
No one much cared what happened to Snake River Tom and Latigo, not even the Nightshades. Rumble of nodded agreement swept through the crowd. Pitts waited for the yammering to quiet again before he continued. Everyone in attendance knew the most important announcement of the day waited a few gulping breaths away.
“In the matter of the death of Mr. Ezra McKee, I find that while Jack Nightshade should have known better, his actions were not sufficient grounds for Mr. McKee to react in the manner he did. Appears to me, from all available testimony, that Ezra Mckee and Roscoe Slidell killed each other in an act of mutual belligerence. And, further, that Sheriff Stickles killed one Jeff Proctor in an act of self-defense. This hearing stands adjourned.”
Everyone in the room, except the Nightshades, was stunned. Martye McKee and her mother looked like someone had slapped their faces with a wet cow flop. Solomon Pitts hopped up, hastily shuffled all his papers into a single pile, and stuffed them inside a battered leather case.
During the aftermath of anger, noise, and confusion, guess I was the only one who noticed something important. Jack Nightshade stepped to the judge’s table, held out his hand, and pressed a small bag into Pitts’ talonlike fingers. Didn’t take more that a fleeting second. Ole Solomon flashed a thin-lipped grin, then dashed for the door, while the hoots and jeers of Sweetwater’s most vocal citizens peppered the snaky bastard’s bony backside.
Jack, and his still-fuming family and friends, pushed their way to the street and hustled over to Shorty Small’s joint. Boz watched them go, shook his head, and mumbled, “Guess they’re gonna celebrate. Don’t see how this could’ve come out any better for ’em. Damnation. I thought sure Judge Pitts would hold their feet to the fire over Ezra McKee. Just cain’t fathom it.”
We stood on the Texas Star’s step and watched as the packed town gathered into various vocal groups to discuss the events of the day. Some shouted curses as the Nightshades hustled past.
I leaned over and whispered in Boz’s ear, “How tough you think it’d be to bribe a judge?”
He winked, grinned, and said, “Oh, not very. Long as you have the money, and nerve enough to broach the subject. Why do you ask?”
“No reason. Just wondered. But I’ll t
ell you this, Boz, bet Judge Solomon Pitts is going back to Weatherford with more money in his pocket than he had when he arrived.”
Tatum scratched his chin and mumbled, “Could be, Lucius, could very likely be.”
All four of us lawmen armed up with everything we had, and took posts on the boardwalk outside Shorty Small’s place. Crowds of locals milled around in the streets and acted like they wanted to take some action on their own, but didn’t. The Nightshades kept their drinking to a minimum, then headed back for Little Agnes Creek around eight, but not before Jack had one final word with Boz on the matter. With the entire clan behind him, he pulled up in front of us and drunkenly leaned over his saddle horn.
“Law says this is over, Tatum. You, and the rest of your badge-totin’ bastards, ain’t got no more business on Little Agnes Creek, as far as I’m concerned. You come out our way actin’ all high-and-mighty again, and the Nightshades will be talking back with lead. You can take that promise to the Texas State Bank in Fort Worth, Ranger.”
He wheeled his mount around in a tight circle, and the whole band plowed through town leading a pack of barking dogs and squealing kids. Tribe thundered across Walnut Creek Bridge like bloody-eyed Comanches on a raid. Last face I saw was Nance’s. She looked tired, confused, and angry.
Next morning, Boz pulled me aside and said, “The judge wants to head back to the county seat today. Insists I accompany him, and that Crow Foot bring Snake River Tom and Latigo along. Tried to get him to reconsider my presence, but he’s afraid of retaliation from unknown Sweetwater citizens displeased with his findings. Looks like I’m gonna have to leave you and Mose alone for a few days, Lucius. Reckon you can take care of things hereabouts?”
