Nate Coffin's Revenge

by J. Lee Butts

“They’s two bad ’uns down here—John King Fisher and Nate Coffin. Be a right serious job of head scratchin’ to figure out which one’s the dead-level worst.”

  “Appears the trail of them that took Dianna leads straight into town, ’less we’ve missed the mark.”

  “Yep. Why don’t we mosey on in and rattle some cages?”

  “Smoky Tiner mentioned a place called Los Lobos. Find it, we’ll probably find him.”

  “Hell, I know that low-life, cow-country oasis. We’ll ride right up to it.”

  “What’s your thinkin’ on this deal, Boz? Should we go in as Rangers, or remove these badges and sneak in on the sly?”

  He threw his head back and chuckled. “Just be damned if I’ll take my badge off. Want each and every badman in town to know the Texas Rangers have arrived, that we’re mad as hell and on the prod, and that their lives ain’t worth a bucket of cold snake piss if they cross us.”

  “Glad to hear that, Boz. Far as I’m concerned, any man who’d steal a woman for sale into the life of a Mexican whore don’t need to live any longer than it’ll take to burn the gunpowder to kill ’im.” Urged Grizz forward, and over my shoulder added, “And any of them as would help in the effort ain’t no better.”

  Followed the dusty Main Street west through town. Pulled up at the first plaza we reached. Tied our animals on the northeast corner in front of a sizable building project. Sign out front informed those as could read that the city planned on a brand-new opera house once all the hammering, sawing, and such got done.

  We pulled shotguns and bandoliers of shells before heading across a tree-shaded square decorated with multicolored streamers, huge batches of bright red hanging chili peppers, and piñatas shaped like a variety of animals.

  Every ten or fifteen feet, a smiling, sarape-wearing peon stood behind a rough-wheeled cart set up to sell tacos, tamales, spicy smoked meat on a stick, or sweets. Overwhelming smell of cooked goods permeated the dense, smoke-filled air, and caused my empty stomach to rumble.

  “Must be havin’ some sort of celebration.” I said.

  Boz let out a derisive snort. “Mexicans always celebratin’ somethin’. Ain’t seen one of ’em yet wouldn’t do damned near anything for the least excuse to have a party.”

  We strolled around a fountain where a number of the food sellers, and their customers, suspiciously eyeballed our arrival. Kids and dogs skittered away as we heeled it toward the Los Lobos Cantina and Saloon.

  Drew up in the street out front of the rough-looking watering hole, and checked the loads in our big blasters. Then, Boz gave the hooves on several of the horses tied to hitching posts a good going-over.

  He slapped the last one on the rump, nodded, and said, “Whoever rode these animals are the ones we want. Paint horse has missing nails in its right rear shoe. Been seein’ it on the trail all the way here.”

  “Well, my good friend, let’s step inside and see if we can’t stir this wasp’s nest up a little. Rattle some cages. Get some attention.”

  “Anyone goes for a gun, Lucius, don’t hesitate. Put ’em down quick, and don’t bother tryin’ to spare whoever might get in the way. Four barrels of buckshot should take care of damned near anything we find in this scorpion’s nest.”

  “You needn’t worry yourself about me, my friend. Anyone makes a move, it’ll be his last.”

  We pushed through the scruffy cantina’s batwings shoulder to shoulder. Felt like walking into a cave full of rattlesnakes. Grinning Death eased in behind us and took a place at my elbow.

  12

  “FOR GOD’S SAKE! DON’T SHOOT NO MORE.”

  MAGNIFIED BY AN oppressive afternoon’s withering heat, the heavy odors of spilt liquor, sweat, vomit, and burning tobacco rolled over us in an odiferous wave that sought an easy outlet through the watering hole’s still-swinging doors.

  Music, laughter, and general gaiety we’d heard from the street evaporated like spit on a red-hot stove lid. Pair of guitar pickers and a tambourine shaker, in a back corner, had access to a side door, and vanished as sure as fog in the sunshine. Nervous group of local tipplers, who appeared desperate for an exit, carefully pushed each other past me and Boz on their way out the front.

  For several seconds, everyone still inside froze in place like animals trapped by a larger and more deadly predator. General merriment and former sense of drunken celebration quickly gave way to instant, air-thickening tension. You’d of thought they surely spied black-robed Death himself, and realized He had accompanied us inside with the intent of sizing up every man with a drink in his hand for a narrow hole in the ground.

  Glanced over at the rough-cut, single-plank serving bar that rested on several wooden barrels and ran along most of the right side of an oblong room, about twenty feet across and thirty feet deep. Variety of colorfully labeled bottles, filled with amber and clear liquids, sat on a second plank-and-barrel affair used as the back bar.

  Large mirror with a ragged crack, which slashed its way from corner to corner, covered part of the never-been-painted, water-stained wall behind the store of liquor supplies. Wall decorations consisted of Mexican vaquero trappings—hats, spurs, whips, and such—that hung from various nails and wooden pegs around the coarse, dirt-floored liquor emporium.

  Skinny, humpbacked, hatchet-faced drink slinger threw a nasty towel over his shoulder. Studied his newest patrons like he’d found a big ole dog deposit in the middle of his floor.

  Barely heard him mutter, “Help you gents?” Then he reconsidered, and gingerly backed into the farthest corner away from us and whatever action might be about to occur.

  Half a dozen hard-eyed pistoleros loafed at tables arranged in a row on our left that started at the front of the room and headed to the back, where the itinerant band had been set up.

  Boz whispered, “You take the first table and the feller against the wall at the middle one. I’ll take the back table and the gunny out front at the middle one.”

  Barely breathed, “Gotcha,” as we moved one final step closer to the primary objects of our sharply focused attention.

  All the gunmen appeared to have been cut from the same piece of coarse cloth. Dressed in rough canvas pants, covered with weathered leather chaps, most sported short-tailed, open, waist-length Mexican jackets. All wore faded cotton shirts beneath. Each man had a wide-brimmed sombrero pushed back on his shoulders and held in place by a leather thong. Except for a garish variety of still-bright colors in their choice of bandannas, a casual observer would have found himself hard pressed not to describe the bunch as looking like a pack of evil brothers.

  Pair of scraggly-haired, snaggle-toothed women, in bosom-revealing party dresses that’d seen better days, scurried for the corner behind the bar and cowered in a spot of safety with their surly employer.

  Feller who sported a deep, bone-white scar that ran from his hatband to his stubble-covered chin sat facing us at the middle table, and pitched poker chips into a building pot. With an air of practiced disgust, he laid a fistful of well-used pasteboards aside. Then, he plucked a smoldering, hand-rolled cigarette from between chapped lips, and assumed the manner of one bored all to hell and gone.

  He flipped the smoking butt our direction. As it rolled against the toe of Boz’s boot, Scar Face sneered, “What you stinkin’ gringo law bring-gairs want in heer? Thees a private fandango. You sabe, es stupidos.”

  Boz ignored the wiseacre; didn’t hesitate for a second. “We want all the men who rode in on the horses out front.”

  “And the americana you boys took from a Willow Junction hotel, against her will, a few days back. We’re prepared to kill every one you sons of bitches to get her back,” I added.

  Hombre at the farthest table cast a sneaky glance our direction. One eye was covered with a greasy, crusted, black leather patch, and he sported a gold tooth the size of my thumb in front of a wickedly grinning mouth. “You pendejos know where you are? Thees place, thees town, thees whole part of Tejas belongs to his eminence Señor Nate Coffin. We
can keel you both like cucarachas. No harm weel come to us. You sabe, mis amigos?” Then, he grinned at the man across the table and, under his breath, said something that sounded kind of like “hijos de putas.”

  Boz brought his shotgun to bear on the big talker and said, “Boys, you’re not talkin’ to a pair of no-authority town lawdogs. You’re talkin’ to the great State of Texas in the persons of Rangers Randall Bozworth Tatum and Lucius ‘By God’ Dodge. Followed a group of woman-stealin’ sons of bitches right to the tables where you’re sittin’. Want the lady back. Give ’er up, or die in your chairs.”

  Gringo rider, decked out in various remnants of a Yankee cavalry uniform, and who sat at the table nearest me, chimed in. “The hell with the great State of Texas and all the badge-totin’ sons of Confederates like you in it. Best take your search elsewhere, Rangers.” He spit the word “Rangers” out like he’d somehow got a chunk of horse flop in his mouth. “Don’t let them batwings hit you boys in yer slow-movin’ dumb asses on the way back to the street.”

  A wave of uneasy laughter rolled from table to table at the poorly thought-out gibe. The bartender and his cadre of fallen women ducked down to the point where all I could see was their wide, unblinking eyes over the edge of the bar.

  Bold son of a bitch closest to the wall, at the center table, opened the ball. Didn’t recognize him till he raised his head and I could see beneath the brim of his enormous palm-leaf sombrero. Smoky Tiner turned out to be one of those fellers who just couldn’t buy a break.

  Stupid bastard popped up like a branded bullfrog, kicked his chair aside, and then went for a big Remington pistol tucked behind a red sash around his skinny waist.

  Yelped, “By God I kilt ole Pinky Jiles, and now Ranger Lucius Dodge is mine, boys.”

  Whipped that Remington from under his sarape and fired a thunderous shot that came near on to taking my head clean off. Thumb-sized piece of burning hot lead singed the collar of my shirt and knocked a chunk of splintered wood out of the door frame around the batwings. Any man with half a brain should know it’s a hell of a bad move to miss a man pointing a shotgun your direction.

  Bet from where I stood there was no more than twelve or fifteen feet between us. Can’t till this very instant imagine how ole Smoky managed not to put one in my brain box. Have to credit God with glancing my way that fateful day.

  Dropped the hammer on one barrel of buckshot that hit the stupid son of a bitch like a clenched fist. Concussion from the blast sent everyone scurrying for safety. Pressed their noses into the dirt, spittle, and puke decorating the saloon’s filthy floor. Tightly bunched wad of shot knocked Tiner backward. Splattered gouts of blood, bone, and bits of clothing all over a three-foot-round chunk in the wall.

  Spent black powder spooled across the room in a dense cloud, and almost hid my view of the slow-moving lowlife as he slid to the floor in a growing pool of his own gore. Mouthy murderer’s broken corpse rolled under the table and flopped like a chicken that’d just had its neck wrung for Sunday supper. Flying blood and mess from his loosened bowels sprayed everything that couldn’t move or get out of the way.

  ’Bout a dozen pieces of stray lead had peppered both the evil skunks sitting at the front table before they could dive out of the muzzle blast’s path. Went to howling like whipped dogs. Hopped up and started slapping at spots in their clothing that sent out wispy strands of gray smoke, along with minor spurts of bright red blood here and there.

  Through the bluish-gray fog I’d put into the dense overheated air, Mr. Eye Patch, trembling hands held high over his head, yelped, “Por Dios! No shoot no more. No need for thees, Rangers. No one ees draw-ing on you hombres. Es mi promesa, amigos.”

  We forced all them polecats left alive against the back wall. Boz provided cover while I did everything possible to disarm the snaky crew of kidnappers and killers. Took near twenty weapons off five men, not including all the knives.

  One runty little gringo feller had six Colt pistols and one of those big ole French Le Mats on him. That’s a hell of a heavy load to tote around. Man packed so much death-dealing iron, it’s a wonder he didn’t have debilitating back problems, or at least a case of painful kidney stones.

  Pitched his last shooter aside and said, “Damn. Can’t even begin to imagine how a squirt like you manages to stand upright and walk with a load like this.”

  He sneered, “Gimme my guns back and I’ll show you Ranger scum just how tough a man I really am, by God.”

  Made him madder when I grinned real big and said, “Not today. Maybe another time.”

  Finally got the whole crew against the wall and facing us again. Boz waved his weapon back and forth, and snapped, “Little gunfire and death don’t change nothing. Still need an answer to the same question. Where’s the woman you boys brought to town?”

  Couldn’t help but chime in, “And unless you want to end up like the leaky Mr. Tiner over there, somebody had best get to talkin’ and right damned quick.”

  Second or so passed with no response. Breeched my shotgun, pulled out the spent shell casing, and pitched it toward Eye Patch. Big piece of brass rolled across the floor till it hit the heel of his boot and clinked off the rowel of a silver spur.

  Replaced the exhausted round with a fresh load. Snapped the weapon shut, cocked both hammers, and brought the muzzle up. Pointed the sawed-off weapon at a bone-thin wretch in the middle of the line. He flashed a mouthful of tobacco-rotted teeth from a grinning, pockmarked face that resembled the surface of a full moon in October.

  Ugly wretch went to hopping from foot to foot. Yelped, “D-d-don’t get all t-t-twitchy-fingered on me there, Ranger. Ain’t no call to shoot. Swear ’fore Jesus, I’ll tell you whatever you want.”

  From the corner of his mouth, Eye Patch muttered, “Cerra la boca, Harkey.”

  Got to give ole ugly-mouthed Harkey credit. He didn’t let what was said intimidate him much. “You go to hell, Martinez. You wanna die, go right on ahead. Lead on. Sure these fellers will help you along the way to a handshaking acquaintance with Satan and eternal damnation. Just like they done for Smoky yonder. Think I’ll stick around the livin’ a bit longer.”

  Boz bored in on the talker. “Here’s your chance for a little in the way of redemption, Harkey. For the third and last time, where’s the woman?”

  “Ain’t for certain sure, and that’s the God’s truth, Ranger. No one here could testify to her present location with any real confidence. We turned the lady over to Nate Coffin. Right in this very spot. Ain’t a man here that don’t know that.”

  I took an angry step his direction and snapped, “Had she come to any harm from you or your sorry compadres’ efforts?”

  “Not from me, and not as I could see. Coffin made it crystal clear when he sent us out that he wanted the woman totally unharmed. In pristine condition, as it were. Leastways, that’s what he said, pristine. Ain’t exactly sure what ’at ’ere word means.”

  “Where is she now?” Boz asked.

  “Nate told us as how he was a-takin’ her down to his ranch between here and Carrizo Springs. Had mentioned in the past as how he figured to use her for a spell, and then send her across the border. His place ain’t that far from here. Just head south a bit over twenty miles. Cain’t miss the turn to the east. Got a sign right out on the road. It’s called Rancho Paraíso. Toward the Nueces. Take you there, if ’n you want.”

  Martinez’s English cleared up considerable when he turned to our informant and very distinctly said, “Your life ain’t worth a bag of week-old Oklahoma chicken shit, Harkey.” Came to me that the man’s show of broken Mexican speaking was just that—show.

  Boz motioned for Harkey to step out. Snaggle-toothed outlaw appeared much relieved. “Won’t regret it, fellers. Swear you won’t regret it,” he said as he hustled over and took a spot behind us.

  “What are we gonna do with the rest of ’em, Boz?”

  “Townhall Plaza is the next one up the street. Got a serviceable jail there, if memory serves
. We’ll lock ’em up. Maybe come back and get ’em later. Maybe just leave ’em there to rot.”

  Harkey coughed and kind of waved like he wanted Boz’s attention. “Nate Coffin owns everything around these parts, Ranger. Includin’ Marshal Barton Pitt. You lock these here fellers up in Pitt’s jail, they won’t be there when you come back five minutes later. Probably be out lookin’ to kill you boys.”

  “Don’t like to admit it, but he’s got a point, Boz,” I said.

  Tatum shook his head and gazed at the floor for a second. Then, he snapped a glance my way and said, “Main reason for keeping these snakes alive would be the open charges in Salt Valley concerning the murder of Deputy Jiles. But the very dead feller under the table yonder just confessed to that ’un. Guess we’ll just have to kill ’em where they stand.”

  Gunny dressed in the Yankee cavalry duds flinched like he’d been slapped in the face with a dead skunk. “Now, wait just a damned minute here. You cain’t just go and execute us like unarmed dogs. By God, that ain’t nowhere close to bein’ lawful, right, or proper.”

  Boz threw his head back and let out a devilish cackle that made my skin crawl. Then, he nailed all those no-accounts to the wall with a fierce stare. “As of this instant, I’m all the law you boys might ever get a chance to see in this part of Texas—arresting officer, judge, jury, and executioner. And given the reasons behind us havin’ this conversation in the first place, killin’ you fellers would seem the easiest solution to a real prickly problem.”

  Former soldier must have had some lawyer in him. Said, “What if we promise to ride like hell out of Uvalde. Not come back. Get as far away from here as possible. Swear ’fore Jesus you let me go, I’ll never come back this way long as I live.”

  Almost in unison Scar Face, Eye Patch, and the other one said, “Sí, senor. Leave plenty pronto. No come back.”

  Boz glanced my direction again. I shrugged. “Still think it best that we lock ’em up. Wouldn’t trust anything this bunch promises. If Marshal Pitt turns ’em out, we’ll just lock him up in his own jail. Besides, it’s gonna make one helluva mess if we kill ’em all here.”